Rachael and I are trying to figure out the proper name for our personal biker gang. Open to suggestions. I made my first motorcycle trip into Austin on my Shadow this past Friday. I survived, because I utterly concentrated on the ride every inch of the way..

And it was really keen being able to blow into town on my bike and have Ritual Breakfast with the gang, who are sorta-kinda the Austin equivalent of the Algonquin Roundtable. Caroline, otherwise known as Dorothy Parker, was in fine fettle, giving no hint of the horrors to come later that evening.

I learned a few lessons:

1. I need to get my butt muscles a lot stronger. I’m not sure what the right exercises are for them, but I think I broke my butt this weekend, and I don’t want to do that again.

2. Even if www.weather.com says that there is a 10% chance of rain for the next two days in Austin, that doesn’t mean that it won’t rain like hell repeatedly during that period.

3. Austin has no, repeat no, level, flat surfaces anywhere. I thought I’d gotten pretty good at riding my bike, but the constant 3-D maze that is central Austin was a revelation. My bike fell over in slow motion when I was getting ready to park it behind El Mercado, with me on it, because I hadn’t quite absorbed that lesson the first night. I wasn’t hurt, except for the scarring of my ego.

4. I experienced an almost religious exaltation while rat-racing around town on motorcycles with my daughter. It’s a slightly terrifying, and incredibly exhilarating thing to do together. She’s a much better rider in Austin terrain and traffic than I am, perfectly at home in the topographic fractal chaos. Only yesterday, she was tiny enough that I could hold her in one hand. Now she’s a confident and competent adult, navigating gracefully through her life. My delight at still being allowed to hang out with her knows no bounds. We went all over the damn place, to Fry’s and the movies and Half-Price Books and Book People and a couple of restaurants. She let it slip that she was driving real slow so that I could keep up with her.

Here we are after breakfast bagels at Einstein’s on the Drag this morning:

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Hey, gang! Time for another cute kitty picture! Yay!!

This pic was taken right after their last trip to the doctor, more about which below…..

I’ve raised Li’l Tex and Secret Kitty as non-violently as possible. I’ve never said the words “Bad Kitty!” to either of them. Even when they’ve pissed on my feet before dawn.

None of that rough jousting play, where kittens are taught that it’s all good feline fun to shred the hand and arm that pets you. And maybe the face, too, if you can reach it. (Unlike, say, with Texas, who is the cat that allows She Who Is Awesome to feed him.)

They go into their carrier when it’s time for the vet, and emit only a few quiet protesting mews while on the road, before settling in comfortably to the rhythm of the wheels. The vet handles them meticulously and they never struggle when he’s taking their temperature or giving them the necessary life-preserving shots.

They’re both sweet and mellow and gentle little sociopaths. I pet them as often as they’ll let me, and truly adore them, even if the Toxoplasma is making me do it.

Which is why, two weeks ago, I felt like a bad, abusive parent when I bundled them up, took them in to see Dr. Scarmardo, and had him —-

…Ohhh, I just can’t say it, the monstrous thing that he did to them…

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I don’t know yet whether she’s going to be For the Ages, but I’m really liking what I’ve heard so far from Sharon Jones and the Dap-Kings. From the cuts I’ve heard on her new album, 100 Days 100 Nights, she’s reviving 60’s era soul music beautifully, one song at a time. Here’s the YouTube for the title cut. It swings damn hard, IMHO.

If you click the pic, it’ll take you to another winner, ‘Just Dropped In To See What Condition My Condition Was In.’ I think she does a great job making it her own, and she’s got a smokin’ horn section behind her.

However, if you’re a little hippie freak like me, you know that the definitive version was laid out by… wait for it… Kenny Rogers and the First Edition. Yeah, that Kenny Rogers. The guy whose biggest hit was ‘The Gambler’. He’s a Houston boy, incidentally.

Just so you know, it’s supposed to be an anti-drug song. The song’s writer, Mickey Newbury, missed the mark with that intention.

Listening to this song gives me flashbacks of that late Montrose night on the boundary of downtown Houston, when giant cat robots crept to the edges of nearby skyscrapers, crouched ferally, and began to fire missiles at the sky. The trails were intense, man.

Good times.

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I had a swell blog post planned for this week, but I was thwarted.  Instead of regaling y’all with my fantastic wit, I was spending my Saturday night at the emergency room, which isn’t as much fun as it sounds.

I was prescribed Cipro on Thursday.  Saturday night my shins started itching to beat the band.  A few minutes later I started coughing.  It felt like I had a cat hair caught in my throat — which wouldn’t be all that unlikely at Casa Spector — except the coughing wouldn’t stop.

I called the urgent care nurse and she said to go to the ER.

On the drive to the ER, I keep thinking, “Okay, how long does it take to die from asphyxiation?  Two, maybe three, minutes?  How long before there’s irrepairable brain damage?”  Okay, so perhaps I was getting a little melodramatic.  

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