Beamed Up?

Howdy. As I rubbed the sleep out of my eyes this morning, I noticed that all the angels’ eyes had grown larger and blacker and more slanted. Their faces had turned green. “I must be dreaming!” The thought echoed in my head through the “morning after” fog. How had all of Erin’s angels turned into aliens as I slept? I didn’t remember there being swords on the mantle. In fact, I was pretty sure there wasn’t a fireplace in my room. What was that sound? A hair dryer? “Where the hell am I?”

I had a great time last night. Started by checking out “The Iron Chinchilla” art studio. Steve’s (soon to be “First Officer Steve’s”) Brother-In-Law, Patrick, makes functional art out of metal. The Gallery is full of swirly bedroom and kitchen sets and artsy metal crosses (Patrick says these are their best sellers). I was also impressed by other local artists’ paintings and sculptures displayed throughout the studio.

Seems like people are always told not to pursue careers in art. “Oh, you’re an art major…what do you want to do for a living?” I have tremendous respect for Patrick and his crew for making useful and marketable art. Classy place. www.ironchinchilla.com

Then, we went to Babe’s Chicken. Last time I went to Babe’s, nobody warned me. You see, a trip to Babe’s requires careful preparation. Along with reviewing the moves to “The Hokey Pokey” so you can dance with the hottie waitresses, you don’t want to eat much of anything for lunch. If you do, there’s no way you’ll reap the full benefits of the gigantoid country fried steak. You may be limited to one serving of homemade mashed potatoes and creamed corn. You’ll never even make it to the steamy biscuit topped with fresh Texas honey. Last time, all of this goodness went underappreciated by yours truly. Y’all know I didn’t make that mistake twice.

After dinner, Patrick and Tina introduced me to the music of Rob Lumbard of Des Moines, IA. “You should learn this stuff,” they told me. I’m flattered that they think I’d have a prayer. His guitar playing is very busy and way above my head. He wrote a song about his vasectomy. I’ll get right on it.

So…Turns out, the aliens inhabited Rhonda’s living room. Last night, they were kind enough to let me have the couch. Rhonda hangs out at the coffee shop almost as much as I do. She is a staff writer for the new Fort Worth Tribune, but I think her passion is for science fiction writing. Hence the aliens and swords. As I turned the corner toward consciousness, I remembered that I had gone from Patrick and Tina’s place to the coffee shop. At closing, the coffee shop crowd decided on a move to Rusty’s Pool Hall. Playing billiards (poorly) and drinking (well), left me less than qualified to make the drive back to Arlington at two this morning. That is how this morning found me on Rhonda’s couch. On my much delayed drive to Arlington, the rear view mirror displayed the pattern of the upholstery imprinted on my face.