Just back from a Bohemian beer bust at the Bohemian Hall in Astoria.  Tonight was the Slovak Czech Festival.  Ate some stew, drank part of a beer, listened to the band. My dad would be proud; our family is part Czech, which Dad refers to as Bohunk. I don’t speak a word of it, and have no idea what they were singing about.

In the midst of the New York crowd, the pit boss from Hill Country BBQ in Manhattan saw the Texas t-shirt I was wearing and came over to talk barbecue and small town politics with me. His restaurant is emulating (stealing) the theme of BBQ restaurants just down the street from our Texas farmhouse.

Ya’ never know when you’ll run into a stranger with familiar connections.

It reminds me of shopping at the leather store in Berlin and sizing up this really hot German bear in the next aisle.  After a bit of eye contact I walked over to him and slowly asked if he spoke English.  He looked at me, a bit disappointed I was an American, and then spoke with the thickest Texas accent I’ve ever heard.  He lived in Austin.

These damn Texans are everywhere.

Half a beer is all I can handle.  Going to bed to sleep it off.  Wake me if it starts raining tar balls.