worst. customer. ever.

"I SEE WHAT YOU'RE DOING."

After a few blocks worth of silence, the blonde cougar in the high heels and black cocktail dress sitting in the backseat finally spoke up. Her surgically-altered nose, however, remained buried in her iPhone.

"Excuse me?" I said glancing in the rearview mirror.

"I know you could've turned 2 blocks ago, but...whatever."

I laughed.

"You think I'm going the long way to make a few extra bucks?"

"I know how you guys are," Cougar Woman sniped. "Y'know what, never mind. Whatever. Just get me to the W."

"You guys?" I shot back. It's not often us white males can truly understand how it feels to be under the boot of discrimination and profiling. But when Cougar Woman lumped me in with all the shady cabbies out to take advantage of the tourists and the drunks, my blood began to boil.

I wanted to tell her, "Maybe you shouldn't be so quick to judge, lest someone glance your way and judge you as an aging, bitter shrew who can't face the horror of not being the prettiest, youngest girl in the room anymore."

Instead, I tried to kill her with kindness and reason, if not a touch of disgust.

"Listen, ma'am, don't include me in whatever negative view you have of cab drivers. My integrity's worth more than a couple bucks, trust me."

I scoffed and continued heading down Red River.

"So why didn't you turn back there? Why are we going this way?"

I glanced in the mirror again and thought to myself, "Are you for real, lady?"

"Because," I tried to answer as calmly as possible, "this is the fastest way to get to the W from where I picked you up. Trust me."

"Y'know what, whatever. Don't talk to me. Just get me to the hotel."

I was not gonna let her get out of the cab without hearing my reasons for taking this route. Even if she didn't want to hear it.

"Oh, no, I'm gonna talk to you," I said, half laughing to keep my blood pressure down. "You're gonna hear the truth about the situation. I went this way because about 30 seconds before I picked you up on 5th Street I had just discovered that 4th Street heading west was closed. I ended up getting diverted back up to 5th, which is when I saw you. That's why going down Red River to Cesar Chavez was the best possible way to get to the W."

Cougar Woman finally looked up from her iPhone.

"Why are you arguing with me?" she whined, her voice reeking of contempt. "Just drive. I don't want to talk to you."

"You don't need to talk to me," I answered, not quite ready to give her the satisfaction of silence. "All you have to do is listen. I want you to understand that I was not trying to rip you off. I went the best way possible."

"Really?" Cougar Woman snarked. "How come I just took a cab to where you picked me up and it didn't take nearly as long?"

"Because 4th Street is closed!" I reminded her. "And you were coming from a different direction, down different one-way streets."

"I've lived down here for 12 years," Cougar Woman said looking up from texting. "I know my way around downtown."

"Yeah? Do you drive downtown?"

"No," she said, "I use taxi drivers who know what they're doing."

I shook my head and laughed. My body was consumed with the oddest mix of anger, amusement and pity. In the rearview mirror I noticed Cougar Woman had returned to her precious texting, oblivious to reason and truth.

"Can you please stop talking until we get to the W? I'm done with you."

In the front seat I was sporting a mile-wide smile. This woman's rudeness and vitriol was stunning. I had to let her know.

"Y'know, I've been driving this cab since late May and I've had probably close to 1000 customers...999 of whom have been friendly, generous, kind..."

In the backseat, Cougar Woman was doing her best to act like I didn't exist. Still, I trudged on.

"But you..."

I searched for just the right way to put it.

"...you have been, without a doubt, the nastiest customer I've ever had. In fact, you've been the ONLY nasty customer I've had in all my months of driving."

A charged silence hung in the air. Cougar Woman wasn't going to give me the satisfaction of a response. Meanwhile, the soundtrack to the moment was provided by Cage the Elephant, playing a song that seemed oddly fitting.

There ain't no rest for the wicked
Money don't grow on trees...

"Can we just stop interacting with each other until I have to pay? I'm done dealing with you."

...I got bills to pay, I got mouths to feed
Ain't nothin' in this world for free

I had to get the last word in.

"As long as you realize I wasn't trying to rip you off for an extra dollar or 2 by going a few blocks out of the way."

Cougar Woman exhaled a puff of condescension. And despite my better judgment, I let it get to me. Now it was my turn to snort with derision.

"Are you a happy person?" I asked, turning to face her as we pulled into the W.

"Just take my credit card and stop talking to me," she said reaching into her purse. The woman who had looked so attractive when I first spotted her standing on 5th Street near Trinity had slowly morphed into the homeliest woman in Austin.

I swiped her credit card through my handy machine, handed Cougar Woman back her card and accidentally keyed in "$40.00" when I meant to type in "$4.00." I turned somberly to My Nastiest Customer Yet.

"I need to run your card again. I screwed up."

For the first time all night, Cougar Woman perked up. "Of course you did," she laughed while handing me her AmEx card.

When the screen option asked if she wanted to leave a tip, I didn't bother to ask. But I did get a quick glimpse of her name before I handed Cougar Woman her receipt.

"Happy holidays, Shari!" I shouted as she awkwardly walked off into the night, her bowlegs moving gracelessly towards the stylish W entrance, nearly tripping on a crack in the pavement.

The next day I spent the morning with another customer. Only this one didn't accuse me of trying to rip him off.

Zac just wanted to go disc golfing in Austin. (That's the 13th hole tee-box in today's pic.)

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We're driving to California today for Christmas, so this will probably be our last blog posting for the year. But we'll be checking in on our new Tumblr blog, since we can update that one from our phone. (Loving that app!)

So if you're curious, check us out here: http://austintaxidriverconfessions.tumblr.com/

Happy holidays, y'all!

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backseat bliss

THE RIGHT SONG — WITH JUST THE RIGHT BUZZ AND THE RIGHT collection of friends — has the power to inspire all kinds of things. Angst. Gusto. Big laughs. And 300% tips.

I picked up the 4 guys in this video somewhere over on the "Dirty 6th" stretch of 6th Street one night. It was a month ago, maybe 2. On a Friday night, possibly a Saturday. They may have been visiting an old college friend from Chicago. Or was it Houston?

Maybe one of them will see this thing and clear everything up for me.

What I do recall with utter clarity is dropping the 4 of them off right in front of Kung Fu, a newish hip bar just off West 6th St., as a classic Keith Richards "Sympathy For the Devil" guitar riff announces their arrival.

They seemed pretty happy.

The fare was $6.00 and change. As the happy drunks spilled out of my cab, the guy in the front seat handed me a $16 wad of cash. Another guy drunkenly threw in a $5 bill as I watched the big guy who had just channeled his inner Mick Jagger telling his laughing buddy — "Best fucking cab ride ever!"

Here's a tiny slice of it. You be the judge.

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a new mix

ENOUGH WITH THE NEIL DIAMOND ALREADY!

If you've gone to this site more than once in the last month — and really, why wouldn't you be checking in at least once-a-day? — you're no doubt as tired of "Sweet Caroline" as I am.

Fear not, friends. After an inexcusable 6-week layoff, we've just posted a brand new Bobcab batch of tunes (thanks Playlist.com), a mix inspired by a status update I posted on my Facebook page last month. I posed the question:

What's your go-to karaoke song?

Over the course of a few weeks I got about 2 dozen responses. The new mix you're now hearing (Facebook Karaoke Kab Mix) features my favorite 13 songs offered up by my various FB friends. Songs I could see myself singing at a dimly lit karaoke bar one night in Tokyo if my buzz was sufficient and the company was right. Or maybe it'll happen at a crowded dive in Austin.

Until then....

Over the next several days I'll be posting karaoke kab snippets I shot with my Flip video camera. Featuring a Greek chorus of happy Austin drunks singing various tunes from the Bobcab archives of CD mixes.

Adios, Neil Diamond!

Welcome back, Janis.

And don't forget to spread a little Joy to the World.

More taxi time comin' real soon...

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Today's photo was taken of a house a few blocks from our place in Hyde Park. It's a perfect example of yet another thing I love about Austin: the gardens. And I've seen plenty of them driving my cab around this fine city.

People here take pride in their yards and they're not afraid to do all sorts of unusual, colorful things with their homes.

I'm hoping one day our funky house and work-in-progress yard will be the kind of place a stranger like me might stop to take a picture of.

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P.S. To those of you who've unsuccessfully tried to leave comments, don't give up yet. We're working on figuring out why the hell that keeps happening.

And to those of you who haven't bothered — what are you waiting for?!

What's YOUR go-to karaoke song?

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halloweekend, part deux

THE FIESTY GIRL IN THE DEVIL HORNS WASN'T HAPPY SINGING ALONG to Neil Diamond just once.

"One more time! C'mon, let's hear it again!"

And with that I hit the seek button, returning us to song #13 on the CD mix I made hours before heading off into the Halloween eve night. Before I know it, the ladies you see before you are giddily diving into one more lively round of "Sweet Caroline."

Where it began, I can't begin to know when
But then I know it's growing strong

I went online a few days ago to see what people were calling "the greatest karaoke songs of all-time." I didn't do much digging beyond this list, which led to me adding "Sweet Caroline" (#1 on the list) to today's CD mix. (I still say "Don't Stop Believing," which only comes in at #6 on this dubious list, is the all-time crowd pleaser.)

After the quartet of local co-workers tire of a 3rd round of "Sweet Caroline," I get to find out where these rowdy strangers are from. I soon learn that Devil Woman is from California.

"What part?" I ask, always just a little more excited when I find out a new passenger is from my home state. Maybe I'm waiting for that moment when we discover we've got a friend in common. Or the moment I realize I've pit stopped in their hometown. I've been to or through seemingly every town in California. I'm sure there are a few I've missed. But not many.

"Southern California," she pipes up from the back, just as vague as I usually am when asked what part of California I'm from. I chalk it up to LA guilt.

"Me, too!" I tell her, trying to contain my excitement. "What part?"

"Orange County," she says. "Well, actually, San Dimas."

"San Dimas?!" I cry out, making zero effort to contain my excitement.

Ah, San Dimas. Land of Bill & Ted, Raging Waters and my old friend Sly Mee. Home to Brackett Field airport and Puddingstone Lake, where I learned to water ski as a child. San Dimas. Flanked between La Verne to the east — home to Sister Jeni, my most excellent bro-in-law Warren, and their beautiful boys — and Covina to the west, the town I grew up in and home to my awesome pa and wise stepma Bonita.

"Yeah, I grew up in San Dimas, really," the Devil Woman confirms. "My dad moved us there when I was in 5th grade. Do you know San Dimas?"

"Oh, yes, ma'am. I know it well."

San Dimas. In the back of my cab.

On Halloween. In Austin.

Keepin' it weird.



When these guys first spotted the Bobcab rolling down 5th Street after last call, they figured they could just jump into my empty taxi. The problem was, I was on my way to pick up a new, potentially regular, customer around the corner who'd called for a ride.

After I delivered the news that I wasn't gonna be able to give them a ride, this mad posse of high-end ruffians made faces not unlike the ones they're making in this photo. Only they were sincere.

"C'mon, dude," said the Angry Viking. "I'll pay you double whatever they were gonna pay you. Seriously. Let's go. I'll triple it!"

Unfortunately, I was now stopped at a red light. So I was all but obliged to respond to his tantalizing offer.

"C'mon, man. I gotta pick these people up. They called me 20 minutes ago. How would you feel if you called and expected a ride from me, but I blew you off 'cause I got a better offer? I'm trying to have some integrity doing this job, dude. And it ain't always easy, trust me."

That seemed to calm the Viking down. But the light turned green and I didn't stick around for confirmation. What I did confirm, however, was that the Potentially Regular Customer I was on my way to get was not picking up her phone. After 3 unsuccessful attempts to reach her, I u-turned in a nearby parking lot and set off looking for the Angry Viking and his tribe.

When I spotted them just off of 5th Street on Nueces I pulled over, leaned towards the open passenger window and yelled out, "You guys need a ride!"

And before I knew it, I had a cabload of the happiest angry Vikings and hipster vampires you ever did see. Thanks for selling the menace and terror in the photo, folks!


I picked up these crazy kids thanks to a call I go from dispatch. People often wonder how the hell these strangers end up in my cab. Well, there are pretty much 5 ways in which this could happen:

1) Dispatch. The cell phone I was given by the cab company also receives messages from home base. If you call the cab company looking for a ride, they'll either offer it up to me or one of my fellow cabbies on our company-issued cell phone. Or they'll announce it as an open call over the radio, which turns the whole thing into the cabbie version of Jeopardy! — first cabbie to hit the button on his car radio mic and get through to dispatch wins the ride.

2) Hotels. Most hotels have parking spots reserved for cabs, a.k.a., "cab stands." These are good places to sit around during the day working on my laptop while I wait for a hotel guest to request my services. Some of these places even have free wi-fi.

3) Airport. At Austin's Bergstrom Airport there's a taxi holding area — a lot that holds maybe 100 cabs — not far from the terminals. This is another good place to get work done while waiting for the more lucrative airport fares. It's also a good place to get a glimpse of my fellow Austin cabbies, most of whom appear to be from lands far, far away. (The white cabbie in Austin, as it is in many American cities, is an anomoly. Why is this?)

4) Driving around. Austin isn't like New York City by any stretch of the imagination. There's a fair amount of foot traffic, especially at night from Thursday through Saturday. But it's nothing like Manhattan. So driving around town looking for the random customer flagging you down can feel like a waste of time. Unless it's the weekend and the bars have just closed. Then every drunk in town is clamoring for your services, some not so politely, like a pack of Hispanic immigrants looking for work at a Hollywood Home Depot. It's during these moments that my patience gets supremely tested. Can you say ommmmmm....

5) Regulars. I made some business cards and damn if those suckers haven't been getting me a whole bunch of business. I've got a party busload of very cool, very entertaining regulars and semi-regulars already. Maybe one day I'll have enough regulars so I won't have to do laps around 6th Street at 3 a.m. like a vulture cruising for a desert carcass.

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The couple you see in the above photo were on their way to see a psychedelic band from San Francisco at Mohawk. Apparently the lead singer for Wooden Shjips (yes, that's how it's spelled) reminds folks of Jim Morrison. On the drive to Red River I found out these guys were also huge classic rock fans. I love being reminded that today's college kids are open to embracing Hendrix, Morrison, Joplin and the other greats from 40+ years ago.

"I was just listening to Led Zeppelin today," the Young '70s Girl spoke up from the backseat. "I think 'When the Levee Breaks' is my favorite Zeppelin tune. I just love that song."

Her date and I immediately chimed in with our favorite Zeppelin tunes. I copped to "Over the Hills and Far Away." I think Velvet Shirt Kid said he was partial to "Dancing Days." As the three of us played our favorite Zeppelin tunes in our head, Young '70s Girl broke the silence.

"I have chills right now just thinking about it," she confessed.

Something about Austin and music seems to bring out a lot of those "I have chills right now" moments.


It wouldn't be Halloween without at least 1 encounter with Superman, whose flying powers were apparently on the blink this night. Superman and his buddies — Lara "I Don't Want To Show My Face" Croft and Rafael "I Lost My Tennis Racket Earlier Tonight" Nadel — jumped in my cab at south Congress and Riverside long after last call.

Which led to an interesting only-on-Halloween moment seconds later as we rolled up Riverside Drive towards the highway.

"Hey," I called back to my passengers, "is that Andre Agassi?"

I pointed across the street to a tennis racket-wielding party dude in skin tight tennis duds and a retro Agassi wig, back when Andre rocked the spiked mullet 'do.

"Yo!" I yelled across the street. "Andre! I got Rafael Nadal in the car and he says he could kick your ass!"

Superman and his gang cracked up in the back. Meanwhile, Mullet Agassi was crossing the street, headed our way, oblivious to exactly what I was saying. I soon realize he's thinking I'm offering him a ride in my cab.

"Hey, Andre," I said as he crossed the median, "Rafael Nadal is in here and he'd love to let you share a cab. And for me, personally, it would be an honor to have 2 tennis greats in my cab at the same time. Where you going?"

"South 1st and Oltorf."

"Can't do it," I told him. "I'm taking these guys to the east side."

And with that, I gunned it. Eastbound and down.

"Sorry, Andre!" I yelled out into the night. "I tried! Happy Halloween!"

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COMING SOON: the 3rd and final installment of "halloweekend." Y'all come back now, y'hear.

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halloweekend

SATURDAY NIGHT HAD ALL THE MAKINGS OF AN EXCRUCIATING evening. From the worst downtown gridlock I've yet to see in Austin thanks to Halloween AND the conclusion of the first UT night game of the football season, to the sweet smell of vomit hanging in the air.

But the optimist in me was thinking — "Hot damn, it's Halloween!"

I'm a big fan of Halloween. Not for all the ghosts and goblin business. I'm a fan of the costumes and the candy. I'm a chronic people watcher as it is. But you put an entire city in costume and I can't help but be mesmerized.

And when that city is Austin? Please. The city that embraces the "Keep Austin Weird" mantra was bound to have a top-notch Halloween scene.

That's what Carl and his lady friends had heard, anyway.

Carl is the smiling serial killer in the above photo, surrounded by the zombie family he whacked. This is their first Halloween in America. Carl and his mates are all from Sweden, a country that doesn't celebrate Halloween like us crazy Americans. Carl and his 3 friends are all here on student visas. (Carl is taking classes for his MBA at UT's acclaimed business school.) These 4 friendly foreigners have been regular Bobcab customers since the summertime, when they eagerly explored the 6th Street scene on a semi-regular basis.

By the end of the year they'll all be back home in Sweden. Sucks for me.

Our many trips to assorted bars, restaurants, house parties and dinners with Swedish dignitaries have given me the opportunity to discuss Abba and Swedish politics with Swedes in the know. You haven't lived until you've debated the failure of capitalism and the merits of socialism with a Swedish serial killer — which is how I kicked off my Halloween weekend Saturday night.

"You guys think you'll ever come back here?" I asked the two girls scheduled to leave by the end of the month.

"Oh, yeah."

"We love Austin."

"Of course you do," I add, not the first time I'd heard that one. "Everybody loves Austin."

The voices were coming from the back. In the rearview mirror I only saw zombie eyes illuminated by passing headlights.

"We're gonna go home and get jobs..."

"...and work to save enough money to come back to Austin."

Y'all hurry back.

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I told Carl and his clan of my plan soon after they got into my cab.

"You guys are under no obligation to agree to this, but I'm asking everyone who gets in my taxi this weekend wearing a costume if they'd mind posing for a picture."

Luckily, most people were more than happy to participate. I didn't ask everybody. A few times I either forgot or wasn't feeling the vibe. But here are some of the good people who happily climbed in and out of my cab this weekend and agreed to a quick photo op:


Sure, that's clearly Cruella DeVille and 4 of her 101 dalmations. But the quartet of spotted creatures were traveling sans Cruella when they jumped in my cab at the corner of 6th and Guadalupe.

So of course I thought they were a pack of mad cows.

"Yeah, we've been getting that all night," the UT law student told me. "People think we're the Chic-fil-A cows."

No word on where the hell cross-dressing Cruella was. Oil Can Harry's?


Not sure what the girl on the left is supposed to be. Any guesses? But the girl on the left is clearly — or so she told me — a Q-tip. She was also one of the few ladies in town to avoid the urge to add the sexy/slutty twist to her costume by showing lots of skin.

Kudos to you Q-tip Girl!


I love the glares Alex and his friends are getting from the girls — or is that a guy/girl couple? — on the right. (Click on the photo to see what I'm talking about.) Are they trying to figure out what Alex's costume was?

Yeah, me, too.

"We tried to shave my head into a mullet," explained Alex, another one of my west campus regulars from way back. "But it didn't work out so well."

"Dude, your hair's not long enough for a mullet," I pointed out. "Now I could grow a mullet. And don't think at some point in my life I didn't."

"Yeah, well I can't. So..."

"So now what's your costume?"

"Now I'm just going as an idiot."


I picked these fine ladies up on Red River. They'd been unsuccessfully trying to get a cab for a good long time and were resigned to walking back to their hotel when I pulled a u-turn in front of Mohawk to get them.

So they were mighty grateful when I showed up. That's one of the fringe benefits of driving a taxi — making people instantly happy. And the longer they've been waiting for a cab, the happier they are.

That's Rainbow Bright on the left. She and her friend drove out for Halloween, I think from Houston. Or was it San Antonio? Or Dallas? All I know is, Austin is a place where folks from all over Texas show up for Halloween.

And Rainbow Bright's friend?

"You ever watch that game show 'Change of Heart?'" she asked when I inquired about her "costume."

"Yeah, I think so."

"It was only on for a couple seasons," she explained. "But I loved it. So I decided to go as a contestant from 'Change of Heart.' What do you think?"

What do I think? I think an orange top, matching orange pumps and a color xerox do not a costume make.

But who am I to judge? I was wearing a bowling shirt with an embroidered "Bob" on the pocket in a half-hearted attempt at transforming into The Dude from The Big Lebowski.

The Dude abides.



Yes, that's a heaven and hell sandwich — with a Karate Kid filling. I might need to call on the panty-less angel and her posse to be my eyewitnesses in court if a little incident which occurred that night gets twisted into a lie.

Minutes before this photo was snapped I was involved in an "accident." At least, that's what my superiors at the cab company are calling it. Seems ridiculous to call it that when I was parked and the car that hit me traveled about 5 feet before it barreled into my 2 driver's side doors.

Things were crazy busy at the time. It was around 9:30 and I had multiple customers waiting on me. Plus the guy who ran into me was in a BIG hurry. So I wrote down all his info — driver's license, insurance details, etc. — and continued on with my night.

What I didn't do was call the police. Nor did I get on the radio and let the cab company know what happened. I figured I'd take care of everything come Monday.

But Monday the guy who deals with this sort of thing at the cab company was shaking his head.

"How many jobs you had?" he said, looking at me like I was the biggest idiot in Texas. "That's the kinda thing you get fired for around here."

I let him know I'd already spoken with the guy's insurance company. It's an open-and-shut case. The evidence is indisputable. And I've got witnesses — a buxom angel, an almond-eyed devil and the Karate Kid...who, upon closer inspection, might not be much help.

As of today, I still have a job. We'll keep you posted.

More Halloween pics and recollections tomorrow...

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we're not in kansas anymore

I LOVE WATCHING PEOPLE IN THE MIDST OF BEING HAPPY. DON'T GET me wrong, I'm still reeled in by the unspoken suffering on a stranger's face. But I can get seriously mesmerized by witnessing bliss. Things like a kid overcome with laughter, couples clearly in love, glowing pregnant women, giddy drunks singing in a cab — I'm a sucker for all of it.

Even more satisfying than witnessing the bliss, though, is helping to instigate it. Which has been happening with much greater frequency since I've been making these 13-song CD mixes.

A couple weekends ago I picked up a group of friends from Kansas — 4 women near the corner of Congress and 6th — after 3 in the morning on a late Saturday night. The girls needed a ride to an apartment complex not far from our house in Hyde Park, which gave me about 13 minutes to give them a quick California Bob Moves To Texas synopsis before letting them know they were in a magical cab with serious karaoke mojo, thanks to these CDs I've been concocting.

"Well let's see what ya got then, Bob," said Heidi, the husky-voiced gal up front with me. "'Cause you're dealin' with a cab full of Kansas karaoke queens."

"Except for Ellen," a voice called out from the back, sparking a burst of Kansas corn-fed laughter.

"Awww," I said over their spasms of happy, feeling bad for whoever Ellen was.

"No, it's true," piped up the soft-spoken girl directly behind me. "I'm tone deaf. I can't carry a tune to save my life. It's okay though. I accept it."

Her friends kept laughing as everyone agreed Ellen can't sing for shit.

"C'mon, Ellen!" I said, my words getting lost in the laughter that would not die. "There are no bad singers in this car! Everyone's a rock star in karaoke Bobcab!"

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Seconds later I am scrolling through the various CD singalong possibilities. The first several selections — Flight of the Conchords, The Who, Bob Marley, Arcade Fire, The Band, Black Eyed Peas — are met with a mix of groans and tepid enthusiasm. Then the opening guitar notes to one my favorite Dave Matthews tunes enters the scene and the energy in the cab instantly changes. The gals in the back excitedly insist that I stop looking for the perfect song.

We've found a winner.

"Ohmygod, ohmygod," gushes Heidi, holding out her hands like she's Barbra Streisand getting ready to belt out a high note in Vegas. When Dave's falsetto finally arrives, Heidi is all in.

"You've got your ball
You've got your chain
Tied to me tight
Tie me up again..."

And it's not just Heidi. All 4 of them — best friends from college a decade ago — are singing at the top of their lungs. Even Ellen. And, yes, she was right. Despite the high decibels coming from the other 3 songbirds, Ellen's tone deafness is registering loud and clear in my nearby ears. But I have to smile, seeing as how the girl is singing with such unbridled gusto.

"Who's got their claws in you my friend
Into your heart I'll beat again..."

Nobody is singing with more gusto than my co-pilot Heidi. With the extra room the front seat affords her, Heidi is able to accentuate her passionate singing with a series of impressive arm movements and hand gestures. Her earnestly arched eyebrows sell the overwroughtness of it all.

"Sweet like candy to my soul
Sweet you rock and sweet you roll
Lost for you, I'm so lost for you..."

As we roll up Lamar towards Hyde Park, the taxi positively rocks. The Kansas karaoke queens are so into it they're oblivious to the stares at the North Loop red light. The energy inside the Dave-juiced cab continues to build.

"Hike up your skirt a little more
and show the world to me
Hike up your skirt a little more
and show your world to me..."

The quiet crescendo hits hard before Dave's falsetto climax and the ladies bring it home with a double shot of enthusiasm.

"Tied up and twisted
the way I like to be
for you
for me
come crash into me baby
craaaaaaaaash into me..."

As fate would have it, the song ends just as I'm pulling the Bobcab up to Heidi's apartment. The meter is almost at $13. The timing is perfect. So perfect, in fact, that the 4 ladies from Kansas don't want the ride to end.

"Can we just drive around with you until the meter hits $20 bucks?" someone asks before our little rolling karaoke club once again erupts into drunken howls of late night laughter.

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So back out into the Texas night we went.

Luckily the next song on the CD was met with another blast of enthusiasm and the Kansas crew seamlessly segued into Elton Johnsville. The lovely ladies of Lawrence had nearly wrapped up "Tiny Dancer" when Heidi spotted an Asian karaoke bar in an empty strip mall on Burnet Rd. that still looked open.

Forever bonded in karaoke, the girls tried to coax me into parking the Bobcab and joining them. I'd told them earlier that I would come in for a song, back when I was asking everyone in the car what their go-to karaoke song was. (I had confessed to "Hello, I Love You" by The Doors.)

But my inner Jim Morrison was gonna have to wait. It was now close to 4 in the morning and I had a hot Tamale at home waiting for me.

...

that thing

"YOU'RE LUCKY YOU WEREN'T DRIVING 6, 7 YEARS AGO. THEY WERE killing cabbies back then."

I heard this troubling piece of information from a super-sized laid off programmer who barely sqeezed into my back seat on a warm Thursday afternoon. It was my first week on the job and I still wasn't sure how all this was gonna work. (As if I still do.)

"Oh, yeah," Big Man told me, "must've been 8 or 9 of 'em. Killed 'em for the cash. All the cabbies were carrying guns back then."

What, me, worry? That was 6, 7 years ago, right?

A week later the Austin Chronicle welcomed me into the wonderful world of cab driving by publishing a cover story on the local taxi trade. According to the article, thanks to the high weekly fees and long hours cabbies typically work, local drivers are "sharecropping on wheels." One veteran driver called the job particularly dangerous — a notion I hadn't given much thought to.

I am the eternal glass-is-half-full guy, sometimes to a fault.

Which may have been a factor when I pulled over for a young black guy who waved the Bobcab down well past 3 in the morning a couple months ago. Marcus looked into the open passenger window and asked if I minded if he sat up front.

"Come on in."

As he climbed in, he immediately started thanking me for picking him up. His gushing gratitude was disarming, if not slightly alarming.

"I must've had a dozen cabs drive right by me, man," Marcus told me. "Every one of 'em empty too."

I shook my head at the injustice of it all.

"How is that even possible?" I wondered. "They told me when I got this job that we weren't allowed to refuse anyone a ride."

Marcus scoffed.

"Yeah, well..."

"I can't believe they'd keep blowing you off like that," I said, feeling his pain. "Even the black cabbies?"

"Especially the black cabbies," he laughed, even though there was nothing funny about it.

Turned out Marcus — early 20s, perfectly friendly, if not a little beaten down — was a barback at one of the booming booze rooms on 6th Street and lived in one of the many east side apartment complexes off Riverside Drive. A hardworking kid still getting crapped on merely for the color of his skin. In 21st century America. Shameful.

I explained to Marcus that I often fly past people needing a ride, even though my cab is empty. "But it's not because I don't want to pick these people up. It's because I'm on my way to pick up someone who's called for me. Maybe that's what was happening with you."

"At 3:30 in the morning?" Marcus scoffed. "They're all on their way to get someone?"

He shook his head and laughed.

"Yeah. Maybe."

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...

A few weeks later I was confronted again with racism — this time my own. Did it exist within me? And if so, what do I do about it? I've always thought of myself as color blind, accepting of everyone. My view is that every race and religion is comprised of mostly good people, along with a small percentage who screw it up for everyone else. And my positive experience with Marcus reinforced my desire to treat every potential passenger equally.

I refused to refuse anyone a ride.

But when a trio of black dudes flagged me down an hour past last call and asked me to take them to east Austin, I have to admit — my senses went on high alert. According to everyone I've talked to, the east side has traditionally been Austin's version of the other side of the tracks. Where the crime rate is highest and danger lurks when the lights go down. I've been told 12th and Chicon is the last place you want to find yourself with a flat tire at 3 a.m.

So when these guys got in — 2 in the back, 1 up front with me — I can't say I was my usual cool, calm customer. Is it racist to say that I was a little more on edge heading off into the night with these guys than I would have been driving a trio of sorority girls back to west campus at 3 in the morning? Would I have been less tense if they'd been 3 tattooed hipsters from Liberty Bar? Probably. And I'm not proud to admit that.

But that ride to the east side may have changed my perception on this subject forever.

Because whatever tension I was internalizing soon melted thanks to a CD mix I'd just made that day. The 3 black dudes just happened to get in my car right as Lauryn Hill's "Doo Wop (That Thing)" began. And just like THAT...my new passengers perked up. A slight rumbling began. Shoulders started swaying. Heads began bobbing.

"Lookin' back on the boogie
When cats used to harmonize like..."

And that's when the 3 of them jumped in, a glorious spurt of spontaneous harmony:

"Ooooo-ooooo-oooo..."

The next several minutes were devoid of tension, race, age. It was 4 humans grooving in unison to a sweet tune. A moment of pure musical appreciation.

"Guys, you know you better watch out
Some girls, some girls are only about
That thing, that thing, that thiiiiii-iiiiing..."

By the time I dropped them off, we'd also vibed to a little Marvin Gaye ("What's Goin' On") and I was feeling guilty for ever feeling worried about these guys. But they weren't convinced that my West Side White Guy On the East Side Late At Night skepticism was gone.

"Mind if I run in the house and get my money?" the DJ-type dude in the front asked when we pulled up to his place. "I'll even leave these guys in the car until I get back, just in case you're worried that I'm gonna..."

"Nah, man, I'm not worried," I interrupted. "I trust you guys."

"Yeah, well...just in case," he said taking off for the house, leaving his buddies in the back seat. Before my mind could start conjuring up a worst case scenario, he was back. Handing me a $20 bill for my troubles.

"Thanks, man," he said shaking my hand. "I appreciate you trusting us like that."

I thanked him for the generous tip, gave them each one of my cards and drove off into the night. Assuming I'd never see them again.

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...

A couple weeks later I got an afternoon call from one of the guys who'd been in the back seat. He needed a ride from campus over to his cousin's place on the east side.

In the light of day, I found out this kid who'd been groovin' in my backseat during the witching hour a few weeks earlier is a defensive lineman on the Texas football team.

This time our ride to the east side featured the music of conversation. And instead of Lauryn Hill, I rocked out to the story of a big kid from Round Rock with dreams of playing in the NFL.

...

karaoke kabbie

I HAVE YET TO MEET A LATE-NIGHT TAXI PASSENGER WHO DOESN'T become instantly happy, sappy and ready to karaoke upon hearing the opening piano riff from Journey's "Don't Stop Believing" wafting innocently from the BobCab car stereo.

One of the highlights of my first 4 months driving a cab has been the many nights when I've been witness to — and frequent participant in — a series of raucous rounds of drunken group singing. (Don't worry, I'm the smiling guy behind the wheel who isn't drunk.) How many wasted passengers, young and not-so-young alike, have channeled their inner Steve Perry as they wailed earnestly into my nearby welcoming ears?

"Strangers waiting, up and down the boulevard
Their shadows searching in the night
Streetlights people, living just to find emotion
Hiding, somewhere in the night..."

Bring it on, I say! With a cranked stereo, midnight lighting and sufficient gusto, nobody's a rotten singer. Everybody's a rock star in BobCab.

Or, at least that's how it's been a time or 13.

Don't believe me?

For the next 13 days I will recount 13 of the most memorable BobCab karaoke rides. As a writer, aspiring world-renowned blogger and collector of stories, this is something I must do. While it's still semi-fresh in my mind.

And if you've been a participant in any of this mayhem, feel free to chime in with your recollections.

What am I saying? Clearly, few, if any, of my regulars, semi-regulars or one-timers have been following this far-from-regular blog of mine — even though the URL is clearly visible on the kickass business cards I hand out to almost everyone who gets in my cab.

Can't say I blame them.

If they're like me, they might check out the blog once or twice, if at all. While rarely, if ever, leaving a comment. Then they'll either forget about it . . . or like it enough to keep coming back — only to lose interest when the blogger doesn't post anything new for long stretches of time.

So I will now attempt to stop being one of those aggravating bloggers who blows off writing anything for weeks on end. I intend to write and post on a regular basis — even if no one's listening.

Sort of like BobCab karaoke. Everyone's so busy belting out the song at the top of their lungs, they're not listening to anyone else singing.

"Don't stop believin'...hold on to that feeliiiiiing..."

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...

COMING TOMORROW: Lauryn Hill and a 3 a.m. trip to the Eastside with 3 black dudes.

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...

P.S. How do you like my new music player? Each of these songs has inspired a memorable BobCab moment or 2. With more to come, no doubt.

...

sweet hospitality

OVER THE YEARS I'VE HAD VARIOUS PEOPLE I'VE JUST MET OFFER TO give me all kinds of cool things. And this isn't the result of me walking around with my hat extended, looking for a handout. We're talking random acts of generosity.

Like the carpenter in Boston — Galway Johnny — who gave me his new acoustic guitar after he learned mine had recently been stolen. Like the mechanic in Oklahoma — Norman John — who insisted on giving me a free tune-up 2 days after my VW bus broke down near the El Reno Federal Penitentiary. Or the portly stranger who handed me a $100 bill after reading my old blog as we sat working on our Apple laptops at a San Antonio coffeehouse.

There've been many more and one day I'd like to jot down as many of these random acts of generosity as I can remember. But until I get around to doing this, my recollection of the most recent example will have to do.

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The day I got my cabbie job, one of the old-timers down at the taxi stand/home office laughed when I told him I was just starting out.

"Good luck," he chortled with a slight shake of the head. "You startin' out at the worst possible time of the year. School gettin' out. Weather gettin' hot. Whole town slow down when it get that kinda hot."

He was right. Making decent money driving a cab in a town that slows down in the summer — a town I just moved to — was not so easy. I'm on the hook for $440 a week in cab fees. Yes, that's $440 per week. Plus gas. Which means I need to earn over $500 bucks behind the wheel before I make a dime for myself.

The guy who trained me claimed he worked banker's hours and averaged $200 a day. Me, I didn't make squat working the day shift. My golden hours have been between 10, 10:30 at night and 3 in the morning. And the $200 days were few and far between.

Consequently, I've been looking forward to the start of football season since the day I got this job. Football season means school is back in session, UT football games and drunk fans at bars needing cab rides home.

Which is exactly what Austin Hank needed on the opening Saturday night of college football season a week and a half ago.

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"Early night, huh?"

I picked Hank up outside Dogwood on West 6th Street. It was a little before midnight and the joint was jumping, the streets were humming and I was trying to make small talk with my new customer.

"I don't need that from you right now," Hank answered defensively from the backseat. I only got a quick glance at him when he got into my cab, but he looked like he could've been a Marine at some point in his life. And I immediately seemed to be pissing him off.

"I just sent another guy home because he was talking shit," Hank said, fighting back a drunken slur.

"I wasn't talking sh-..."

"I just did 8 shots with this asshole," Hank interrupted, "and you know where he is right now?"

"Where?"

"At home," Hank said proudly. "In bed. 'Cause I fucked his shit up. He couldn't keep up with me. That's why I don't need this from you right now."

"I didn't mean anything by it," I said as we rolled down West 6th through the Clarksville neighborhood of Austin. "I was just noting that the place was hopping. So going home at midnight seems a little..."

"I don't need this shit right now from you," Hank snarled again. "I just sent a guy home for talking shit."

I kept my eyes on the road and laughed at the magnitude and absurdity of our booze-induced communication breakdown.

"Dude, trust me, I wasn't giving you shit. I was just pointing out that you were going home earlier than most people. And that's a good thing. You're missing the traffic, the late-night puking, the frustrating attempts to get a cab after last call. Man, checking out early is a wise choice. I admire your decision-making."

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...

I'm not sure if Hank was buying my bullshit. But before long we were talking football, which almost always greases the cabbie conversational wheels. Apparently, Hank had been drinking all day. Watching games at various bars. Getting hammered. When he told me he went to UT in the late '90s, I couldn't help but ask: "So, did you know Ricky Williams?"

Several weeks ago I saw this fascinating documentary on the legendary Longhorn running back. The film followed Williams during the sabbatical he took from football, a personal growth year during which soft-spoken Ricky was going to a holistic cooking school and teaching yoga. And smoking a lotta ganja.

"Ricky used to give us rides home when we'd get drunk on 6th Street!" Hank laughed. Then he made it clear that he's not the type to be impressed with fame and celebrity. Hank just saw the irony of the whole thing. "We'd be too drunk to drive," Hank recalled, "so Ricky would insist on being our designated driver back to campus. Thing is, he was probably high the whole time!"

We had a good laugh over that one. Before long, we were laughing at all kinds of things. Hank told me he had a crazy writer friend at Texas Monthly I had to meet. I apologized for infecting the hometown he loved so much with another Californian. He told me I didn't seem so bad for a guy from L.A.

By the time we got to his house off Bee Caves Road, Hank told me to pull up into his gravel driveway.

"Come inside," he insisted. "I've got something I want to give you."

Worked for me. I had to piss real bad and the stench of gas station mini-mart bathroom urine was getting old.

"Mind if I use your toilet?" I asked approaching the side door Hank had just walked through.

"Down the hall, make a left," Hank called out as he headed towards what I assumed was the kitchen.

It's always a strange feeling when a complete stranger invites you into their home. I always feel honored and humbled — after all, it's a pretty massive show of faith and trust. Then there's the part of me that's a little creeped out as I wonder if I've just walked into the home of a serial killer. But that's just the L.A. guy in me oozing out.

I glanced around the bachelor bathroom and noticed framed photos of Hank and what I later learned were his nephews and nieces. Like me, Hank is a single guy. With siblings who have kids. Unlike me, he lives alone.

"You ever see Lonesome Dove?" Hank asked as I walked out of the bathroom, the sound of a flushing toilet trumpeting my return.

"I was JUST talking about Lonesome Dove yesterday with my girlfriend!" I told Hank. "It's her favorite movie of all-time."

"So you've seen it?"

"No! I've never seen it," I said. "I've never read the book either. But my girlfriend keeps telling me I have to see the movie. She was just telling me that yesterday."

"Well, then, here you go," Hank said as he handed me a DVD case featuring the cowboy incarnations of Robert Duvall and Tommy Lee Jones. "Your very own copy of Lonesome Dove."

I was stunned.

"What?...No...You're lending this to me, right? I'll watch it tomorrow and get it back to you."

"No," insisted Hank. "That's for you. I've got 7 copies of it."

I vigorously shook Hank's hand, my face engulfed in a grateful smile.

"See, THIS is the kind of thing that makes Austin such a great place!" I gushed. "It's the people. From what I can tell, you guys are about the friendliest fuckers in America."

We'd come a long way from Hank snarling at me when he got in my cab. All in the space of about 13 minutes.

As I floated back to my cab, Hank had one more thing to tell me.

"If you ever have a son," he said, his slow gait crunching across the gravel driveway, "lock him in a room with that movie. Everything he needs to know about being a man, he can learn it watchin' Lonesome Dove."

Thanks, Hank. We'll let you know how that works out.

I love Austin.

...

cool brees on a hot hump day

JUST BEFORE MIDNIGHT ON ANOTHER STEAMY SUMMER NIGHT. It's Wednesday in Austin and I'm poaching me some free Wi-Fi outside the Hilton Gardens hotel on 5th Street, a Drew Brees heave from I-35.

Speaking of Drew Brees, I had a customer in my taxi last week — a spunky blonde born-and-raised in Austin — who said she made out with Drew Brees back when they were high school classmates.

How does this come up in the course of a 5-minute downtown cab ride, you ask?

Well, when Ms. O said she grew up here in Austin, I immediately asked what high school she went to. Upon learning she was a Westlake High grad, I asked if she knew Drew.

"Knew him?" piped up one of her 2 drunk male cohorts. "Dude, she made out with him. She knew him alright."

"C'mon!" I shot back, calling 'bullshit' without actually coming out and saying it.

"It's true," she confirmed. "I went to a dance with him."

"Really?" I said glancing into the rearview mirror to see if she was the kind of girl a future superstar quarterback might make out with in high school. (She was.) "What was he like? Was he a good guy? He seems like a good guy."

"Oh, he was a great guy," answered Ms. O. "Couldn't have been nicer."

"So...?"

This is where my sense of propriety fails me. Asking too many questions. Crossing the line. Probing too deeply.

What the hell, they were drunk.

"So why didn't it work out?" I continued. "What happened?"

"What happened was we were young, he was nice...but I couldn't get past the birthmark."

With this confession, the cab erupts into a peanut gallery of "C'mon!"..."So shallow!"..."Give the guy a break!"

As billions of football fans around the globe now know, Brees has an impossible-to-miss birthmark — or is it a mole? — shaped like New Jersey running north-south down his cheekbone.

"The guy was a star quarterback in high school," I reminded Ms. O. "You couldn't get past a little thing like a birthmark?"

"Have you seen it?" Ms. O asked. "It's not a little thing. And it had hair growing out of it!"

The cab once again erupted into fits of laughter, friendly derision and good-natured revulsion. As we silently, perhaps unknowingly, took comfort in the fact that even Super Bowl-winning quarterbacks have flaws and don't always get the girl.

...

the day is long

TODAY I TOOK MY FIRST TRIP TO THE TEXAS WINE COUNTRY. I drove a group of 4 women — Duke grads who met 20+ years ago in college — down to Driftwood, where I dropped them off at a couple wineries while I took in the view when I wasn't enjoying the air conditioning in my cab.

One of the women, Julie, is an English teacher at Beverly Hills high school — breeding ground for entitled brats, hard-working immigrants and future superstars like Angelina Jolie and Lenny Kravitz. (Not to mention Pauly Shore and Monica Lewinsky for you fans of the D-listers.) A decade ago Julie was my next door neighbor in LA — our 3-unit building was about 13 yards from the Beverly Hills city line — who once invited me to speak to a couple of her writing classes about this book that I was working on at the time.

Ten years later I'm making $120 bucks for driving Julie and her friends around for the day in Austin. But don't cry for me Angelina. As you'll see if you continue reading these posts, I'm thoroughly enjoying the experience.

In the meantime, you can read about my first night ever in Austin right here.

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friday night lights

THE UNOFFICIAL TOWN SLOGAN HERE IS "KEEP AUSTIN WEIRD." If you've never been here you may be wondering — What does this mean exactly? How can an entire town, the state capital of cowboy Texas no less, be WEIRD? And why are they so damn proud of it?

Hopefully this blog will shed some light on these and other Austin-related questions. Today's example of Weird Austin is the funky trailer in today's photo. This groovy little explosion of the entrepreneurial spirit is one of the many food trailers here in Austin. (For more on the trailer food vibe in town, check out this video I made a couple weeks ago.)


I haven't tasted the goodies at this particular trailer yet, but according to the menu they serve coffee drinks and pastries. But so far it's got my favorite name of all the food trailers. Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to...

Fat Cock.

Keepin' it weird.

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In the two months since I've been on this job I've had at least 13 people invite me in for some post-work refreshments. Oh, and there was that blowjob offer. (No thanks, ma'am. I appreciate the offer though.) Most of the time I politely decline these friendly gestures. But last night I decided to roll with the Austin spirit — these are about the friendliest people in America — and say yes to a friendly young dude who had moved to Austin even more recently than me.

Lee is an Italian kid in his early 20s from New Jersey. Lived there his whole life until 2 months ago. When I found out I was an Austin vet compared to Lee I had to take him up on his offer and find out what brought him here.

"I did a lot of research, dude," Lee said, surrounded by one of the more epic bachelor apartments I'd ever seen. There was single guy shit all over the floor — clothes everywhere, pizza boxes, receipts, magazines, ticket stubs, water bottles. The only pieces of furniture were the new flat screen TV and the table it sat on. And, of course, the Playstation, with various gamer DVDs scattered near the TV. A few feet away was the bed Lee sleeps on — the biggest, baddest inflatable mattress I'd ever seen.

"What do you mean, you did research?" I ask while I peruse his old ticket stubs. Poor guy had to sit through a Knicks game.

"I'd lived my whole life in New Jersey," he tells me while simultaneously checking his text messages. "Not that I don't love New Jersey. My family's there, my friends, it's all good. But I'm young. I'm 23 years old. Life's too short. You never know what can happen, so you gotta get it while you can."

"Indeed."

"Actually, dude, the truth is, last year my mom died."

"Aw, man, that sucks. Sorry to hear that."

"Yeah, man, cancer. Totally sucks. AND my grandmother died not long after that. Plus my girlfriend at the time, her grandmother died too. So that was 3 big deaths, right in a row like that. And it just made me think...I gotta get out and live, man. I gotta do some cool shit while I'm young. I wanna experience life. I wanted to live somewhere new, somewhere I've never been before."

"And your research told you Austin was gonna be the best place for you?"

"Yeah. Well...I was looking at Miami. San Diego. But this place...I just kept hearing good things about it. So I moved out here 2 months ago, I got a transfer with my job and it's been great. I don't know of any other place in America that has so many things to do — and the people are cool. Everyone's chill here, y'know? It's got those hardcore hippie types. But even the people who aren't hippies, they're havin' the hippie vibe rub off on 'em."

Lee has short dark hair and is a HUGE Knicks fan. The only thing hippie about him is his fondness for the hippie lettuce. He showed up in Austin not knowing a soul. The day he moved here was the first time he'd ever set foot in Austin.

"So you like it here I take it?" I ask him, pretty certain of his answer. "You feel like you made the right decision?"

He looks around his apartment, the pigsty prince surveying his kingdom — quite possibly the happiest man in town.

"Dude," Lee gushes. "Austin is cool as fuck."

...

mr. cab driver

SO HOW ARE YOU LIKING AUSTIN? What's it like out there? Do you miss California? What the hell are you doing driving a cab?!

People keep asking me these things. So instead of answering these queries each and every time, I figured I'd start yet another blog, this one focused on my new life as a cab driver in Austin. How exactly I came to drive a cab in Austin is a tale I've already told many times to my hundreds of customers over the last 2 months. It goes something like this:

I moved to Texas in March to work on a documentary about a certain iconic rock 'n roll star. (I'm pretty sure I didn't sign a non-disclosure agreement on this, but just in case...) This long-dead, Texas-bred Rock Icon spent some time in Austin — went to UT for a while, made her mark all over town — and I moved to Austin to work on a documentary about her. Back in LA I'd been hired to help the director, whose last documentary got an Oscar nomination, write up a treatment that helped the film get the blessings of the notoriously-hard-to-please family of the long-dead, Texas-bred Rock Icon.

The LA-based producers were going to announce the project at this year's South-by-Southwest film and music festival. Thus my purchase of a one-way ticket to Austin, where I'd be joining my girlfriend, Tamale, who graduated from UT about 15 years ago and had moved back to Texas a year ago. I was told that I was in the budget as the writer and I could expect to participate in the project.

Well, about a week into my stay it became apparent that the project was temporarily on hold. The music rights were more expensive than the producers had anticipated and they needed to work some things out.

Two months later, they still hadn't worked things out.

And I was driving a cab in Austin.

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"Let me ask you something."

I didn't get a good look at him, but I think the guy in the backseat is wearing a T-shirt and a baseball cap. Maybe army fatigues. Within seconds of flagging me down at MLK and Lavaca he tells me he's drunk. Then he tells me he just got back from Iraq about 3 months ago.

"Are you okay talking about it? Do people ask you about it? Do you even want to get into it?

"You know, it's funny you should ask," he says. "I just started talking about it 3 weeks ago. I'm seeing someone for PTSD."

"So how's that going? Is it good? Do you mind me asking you all these questions?"

"Nah, man. It's cool."

"What about your friends? Do they ask you? Do you they want to hear about it?"

"You know what, man? Most people, most of my friends, they'll ask me, 'So . . . did it suck?' And I'm like . . ."

I glance into the mirror. I watch him get a faraway look in his eyes. Trying to think of the words to describe what he's feeling.

"Did it suck? No, you know what sucks? Getting your car towed for parking tickets sucks. Getting your stereo ripped off sucks. Going into a war zone . . . watching people get killed . . . trying not to get killed yourself . . . Does it suck? No. It more than just sucks."

He goes on to tell me his name is Kevin. He's in town from Chicago with his girlfriend and, I think, his aunt. Kevin says he was a sargent — one of the leaders — and did 2 tours in Iraq, where he was combat the whole time. He says he's always been fascinated with social science. "The way governments and countries work," he says as we drive down Guadalupe.

When Kevin went into the Army he says he was a true blue neo-conservative Republican. "I thought I was informed, I studied the issues, I voted for George Bush. Twice. But after what I experienced in Iraq . . ."

Again, he pauses. Looking for the right words? Instinctively scanning the thumbnails of his mind, seeing images he'd rather not look at?

"After what I saw in Iraq, I've done a complete 180."

"But why? What made you change your perspective? Was there one incident that crystalized it for you?"

"No," he tells me. "It was gradual. But I just . . . I started asking myself WHY? Why are we destroying this culture? Why are we losing American lives? For what? It's not making a difference. In Iraq, Afghanistan, it's not helping things dropping bombs and killing people. I saw it with my own 2 eyes. We're spending all this money on destroying things over there. For what? We should be spending that money here, where people are suffering, where people are out of work. We need to use that money here. Not over there. It makes no fucking sense, man!"

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When I drop Kevin off at the Hilton Gardens we end up parked for another 10 minutes, exchanging email addresses with promises to stay in touch. He says he's got several thousand digital pictures he took in Irag of everyday life. The stuff you don't see on the news.

"Man, you gotta share your story," I tell him. "Get it on video."

He seems reluctant. Maybe the pictures will have to do. Or maybe it's just that no one's ever asked. Personally, I'm interested in what makes a person do a complete 180 like that.

"The good thing is," I add, "we're at a point in history where there is no one holding you back from telling your version of the truth. The gatekeepers can't keep you quiet any more. You get a video camera and throw it up on YouTube, and you get enough people telling their glimpses of the truth, that's how things are gonna change. The facts can't be ignored anymore, not if people like you report back on what you see."

"Yeah, you're right."

I'm quite done with him.

"It takes being in the middle of a big story, something that's getting a lot of news coverage, to really understand how the mainstream media gets it so fucking wrong, how the truth gets manipulated and distorted and twisted into lies and half-truths."

I was thinking in my case about my experience helping my friends open and run their medical marijuana dispensary back in LA, the other job I had before I moved out here to Austin.

But that's another story for another day.

More stories from the cab to come.

And hopefully a link to Kevin's Iraq photos.

Time to hit the streets.

It's Friday night in Austin.

...