I’m in Texas and I feel like I’m trapped in a Beck song; specifically, I feel as if I’m trapped in “Loser” from Beck’s Mellow Gold album.  I’m sure you remember it. It’s Beck’s old song that seemed destined to be a one-hit wonder until it wasn’t. 

Why do I feel trapped in the Beck song? There are a few reasons, most of which are due to creative license. I feel a little bit like a loser now. But please don’t kill me. That might be a bit of an overkill. 

I’m staying at a cheapo motel right now deep in the heart of Texas.The problem is that the cheapo motel isn’t so cheap.  Location, location, location. And the plumbing has not been exactly stellar. A toilet overflowed, the sink clogged, and a plumber was called. The continental breakfast only has dry cereal with no milk. The coffee is muddy. 

And I got lost when I was separated from my friend and her friends here. This was not the exact game-plan for the weekend. My phone was out of commission and I lost my friend at a show. When I tried to find her at pre-designated meeting spots, she wasn’t there and I was not fooled by her doppelgangers with the same-colored hair. 

I decided to walk to the next spot. Two pizza slices later I found myself at a real Texas style-bar. I’m not going to diss Texas fashion, but the women in the bar were very sparkly and had much bigger hair than anyone from Dynasty or Dallas. The men were charming to say the least. I had to warn a group of young guys that I was truthfully not there to satisfy any Cougar fantasies that they may have had. 

Two girls approached me to ask me if I needed new best friends. I told them that I did not need new best friends. I just needed to find my friend. 

I couldn’t find the cool bar where I was supposed to meet my friend. She was nowhere to be found and neither was the napkin with her phone number and the address to the motel. I remembered a few landmarks and started searching for the motel. Unfortunately, the landmark wasn’t as close to the motel it was in my fuzzy memory. I walked too far, couldn’t find it, and ended up at a scary Texas roadside bar. Fortunately, there were not any vampires in attendance. I tried to call a taxi and the room where I was staying. 

My feet hurt from my boots, which, unlike Nancy Sinatra’s boots, were truthfully not made for walking. I started walking again in the general direction of the motel. It took me an hour to walk half a mile because I had to circle in on my destination several times. 

I finally made it “home.”