lucky stars

"You might give some serious thought to thanking your lucky stars you're from Texas."

So states the Goode Company Barbeque motto. However, this is only true, I find, if you are actually in Texas. And sometimes not even then. But I'm getting ahead of myself.

This afternoon, I went to a housewarming party at the "new" condo of my dear friend 6'1" and his partner. As I kiss both hello, 6'1" hands me a Warsteiner Dunkel--in honor of the event's Oktoberfest theme--and expresses condolences for the Astros' frustrating loss last night. A woman standing nearby in the kitchen pipes up, "Are you talking about the World Series?" I answer in the affirmative, explaining that Game 2 starts in a few hours. "Are you a baseball fan?" I innocently wonder. "Not really," she replies. "But these teams have caught my attention and made me pay more attention than I might." I ask whom she likes to win the series. The reply: "I'll just be happy if the Astros don't win."

The hell?

I pull my beer, and my smile, a little tighter. "Why don't you like the Astros?"

"'Cause they're from Texas."

It's hard to argue with that. No, wait a minute. It's not. At all. But I simply glower. "I'm from Texas." She at least has the decency to blush. Looking down at her little plastic cup of red wine, she mumbles, "This is why people hate New Yorkers." Actually, I can think of lots of reasons to hate New Yorkers, but the resolute conviction of their state's preeminence to the exclusion of all others? Not so much. I can identify with that. (N.B. I don't actually hate New Yorkers: I've been too in love with too many.)

It turns out, though, that I've played this scene before. I met dogooderlawyer in Austin in March, when our mutual friend llschoolj--my good friend from high school, his good friend from college--invited me to dinner. The two walk into the County Line, and llschoolj leaves us to ourselves while he asks after our table. I introduce myself. "And how are you?" I inquire. Dogooderlawyer looks sideways, shrugging his shoulders as if in physical discomfort. "I fucking hate Texas."

The hell?

Once again, I wade in. Dubiously, I ask, "So, where are you from?" The reply: "I'm from New York. Where the fuck do you think I'm from?" Sigh. Where the fuck, indeed.

While I certainly understand the disenchantment of the blue state masses, I still say, now and forever,

"The stars at night/are big and bright/deep in the heart of Texas!"