Ah, Twitter, that useless tool of the instantaneous transmission of ephemeral blather. This morning I noticed that Annele Spector had Tweeted about fitting herself with false eyelashes at the crack of dawn. I assumed she was planning to be in the King William Parade. I replied that I’d appreciate if she’d “blow me a kiss, shoot me the finger, or something” when she passed my house atop her float or pedaling a unicycle or whatever she might be doing.
Ask and you shall receive. I’ll have to check my video footage to see if I captured her mini performance of that kiss followed by a rude gesture as her float went by.
So, don’t be hating on Twitter. It can make wondrous things happen.
The parade was a bit tepid this year. But it’s always a good time.
Afterwards I headed over to the King William Fair. It’s gotten so densely packed with people these last couple of years. And I really wish they’d kick out all those vendors selling those crafty items. You know, clocks made out of driftwood, old tarnished spoons fashioned into wind-chimes, lovingly crafted mesquite walking sticks that must weigh twenty pounds, etc. The food vendors don’t bother me at all. The odors of frying funnel cakes and sausage-on-a-stick help to cut the under-current of tens of thousand sweaty people (one, undeniably, being me).
The kids area was impressive. Just where does one rent a rock-climbing tower?
Back home, my neighbor, Debby, invited me to hang out with her huge extended family who were crammed into our communal driveway. She made sure I loaded up a paper plate with all the fixin’s. (And do I really need that apostrophe? … I mean have you ever heard anyone say “fixings” when speaking of side dishes??)
And then as a nephew was pulling a TV outside so we could all watch the Spurs game, I conveniently recalled that URBAN-15 was setting up, over at the studio, for their annual panoramic photos of their drum and dance ensembles in the costumes they will be wearing for the Flambeaux Parade, later in evening — the event to close out Fiesta.
I grabbed my bike and rode over. The Goldbeck Company is the last word in panorama photography.
Check out E. O. Goldbeck’s Handbook of Texas article:
Goldbeck sets up tiered risers. And it seemed that the larger group shots had already been done. But they were still shooting some of the smaller ensemble groups.
I took a few photos, chatted with some of the ensemble members, and then I decided to bike out to Mission Espada. I had no desire to go home and suffer through a loud beer-fueled driveway of Spurs fans yelling at a TV.
It was a Houston-humid day and maybe that was why I wasn’t too bothered by the strong head wind I was fighting for the ten miles out to Espada. As I was riding down that tree-covered lane beside the refinery, I slowed as three little girls began angling across the street in front of me. The youngest waved to me and pointed to the girl beside her. I slowed to take a closer look at the turtle she held that was the size of a dinner plate. I thought I should tell them to be careful. It looked like a snapping turtle. But they’d find out soon enough.
Out at the low water crossing near Mission Espada the huisache was in full bloom. I’m not sure if these are the same as the desert catclaw, which they resemble. But the huisache is much more fragrant. It smells like mountain laurel blossoms.
The ride back was more pleasant with the wind at my back. I decided to take a break at the park across the river from the ruins of the old Hot Wells resort. No doubt the Spurs were still playing. I flopped onto a shaded picnic bench and took a nap like a common vagrant … who happens to have a mountain bike and an iPhone (my credentials, I suppose, if some hotshot park police were to come up and hassle me: “go sleep it off at the public library, pops”).
Back home the game was ending. But the party was just getting into high gear. I pulled a comfy chair over to my computer, put on my headphones I use for editing video, and surfed over to hulu.com. I browsed through their movie listings and stumbled upon an excellent featurette by a young filmmaker. He’s in his mid-twenties. Cullen Hoback. The movie’s called Freedom State. Check it out:
It’s beautifully shot on digital. Kick-ass art design. Solid acting. However, if you find Wes Anderson manipulative and mawkish, you might not care for it. But I liked it. A wonderful little movie. Quirky, playful, and sweet.
I’m heading off to Dallas for a couple of weeks tomorrow morning. I really should do some laundry. But it’s too late. I’m sure I can find something to wear for tomorrow. But I feel weird packing dirty clothes (true, I won’t be “packing” so much as stuffing into a plastic bag). Of course my sister, who I’ll be staying with, couldn’t care less, but it seems like really poor planning on my part. I’m losing my grip as an upstanding citizen. You know, like that guy sleeping it off in the comfy chair at the public library. And I really need to take a shower, ’cause I suspect that after this long and sweaty day, I’m smelling quite a bit like that hypothetical vagrant fellow.