Deep In The Heart of Texas

Kenny is an old friend of mine from my days in Richmond Hill, Queens. We played in a band together, hit on each other's girlfriends (literally), had several fallings out and reconciliations, and through it all we remained friends. Anyone whose played in a band will know how hard it is to "remain" friends with your bandmates. Yet, there we were palling around doing what we will with our 20-something lives.

But before this post begins to resemble the sequel to "Brokeback Mountain", I'll say that Kenny is one of the few friends I've had in this life whom I regard as a brother. Even though we didn't spend much time together after I got married in 1990, we still regarded each other as being close friends.

Well, a few months ago he called me to tell me several things:

• after putting 25 years in, he's retiring from the commodities trading business;
  
• he's opening a steak and pasta house;
• he's moving to Boerne, Texas.
  

What the fuck!!!

After we got off the phone that day, I Googled Boerne, Texas to get a sense of just how deep in the heart of Texas this town really was. All I knew was that it was north of San Antonio.
Here's the map:




Don't get me wrong -- I don't regard this as a sad occasion. I see it as another one of life's mile markers where you drop off a passenger whose been riding with you for days. You see, for both of us, a visit is no longer a matter of driving 75 miles for a day-long visit. I can't pack a cooler full of beer and a few steaks and take the family out on a road trip. The man who founded the "bachelor" school was now picking up roots and moving lock, stock, and barrel to some place that up until a few months ago, I had never heard of. Talk about what to say as a goodbye!

Kenny and I stayed on the phone for over an hour, during which time he gave me all the details of the place he planned to open and why he's featuring steak and pasta in his new house. Apparently, a good Italian sauce is so hard to find deep in the heart of Texas that Renee's (that's Kenny's wife) relatives begged him to add it to the menu.

One score and a few years more (1983), I was the front man in Queens (NY)-based band called Erewhon after (I think) a 19th Century novel written by Samuel Butler. My stint in the band didn't last very long. The sad fact of the matter was they needed a singer with the range of John Anderson (of Yes) and mine was somewhere between George Harrison and Glenn Tilbrook. But the keyboard player and I remained very good friends after my departure from the band; we even worked together on writing a few songs in 1984 for which I have fond memories. There were all those Saturday nights at Spirit's Pub, and the times we would cop weed from the Jamaicans on 126th & Jamaica Ave. (no kidding) and drive out to Rockaway Beach or to Dennis's attic apartment to get really stoned. Good times.

I got an e-mail from him the other day to tell me that he's settled into his new life. I am really jealous because there's a huge difference between working for a living and living for one's work. He's now doing the later. Now, I don't mean to disparage the nobility of being a working stiff. I can't help but envy that person who has the nerve and the means to act on very natural desire to give up a safe thing, for a possibly good thing.

Here's the new task for me on life's scavenger hunt list - take a road trip to Boerne, Texas in a bus. Before I leave NY, I'll pick up some of our old friends like Freddy, Mike, both Jimmys (B and K), Irene, Dave, and guitar George. Drive down to Georgia to pick up Dennis and drive I-10 all the way to Boerne where we'll show up at the Tin Roof Steak House and close the place down. I want to ankle up to his bar and puke in his toliet. I want to show Texas how NYers party. But more than anything else, I want to personally wish Kenny and Renee all the best.