Giant hair jellyfish.

I'm typing next to a pool in Houston. There's a cold beer at my side and unknown bugs buzzing all around. A pizza is on the way.
I lead a charmed life, a fact pointed out by everyone on this trip who isn't leading one quite so charmed.
The rodeo was fantastic. It felt like any community event back east - except people were riding bulls and pretending to shoot small children. Eleni and I wore plaid.
Like I said, fantastic.
Right after the rodeo we said goodbye to Steve -- who provided plenty of journalistic conversation and a glimpse into my job-having future -- and began a 14-hour journey to Houston.
I thought I couldn't sleep in cars. Turns out, I can't sleep in cars without taking Percocet.
During the drive, we saw the Welcome to Texas sign ("Drive Friendly - The Texan Way. Proud Home of President George W. Bush") followed by a Don't Mess with Texas sign.
I messed with Texas. By throwing my Egg McMuffin wrapper on the ground. Can't tell me what to do!
Also saw a Bushland, Cheneyboro and Coulter Lane. A coincidence ... I hope.
We got into town about noon, hours before we expected. Houston is a giant mangle of freeways, stripmalls and sub-divisions. Our friends here -- who sold their souls to the Oil Devil for more money than I'll ever see -- live in such subdivisions. The whole place, or at least the more outlying areas that I've seen, all look the same. Drive for 20 minutes and you'll pass at least 16 Chili's.
It's my hell.
But it didn't matter, as Eleni and her pseudo-boyfriend-thing-guy (that's what they call it these days) were reunited, and I slept.
Luckily, HP is the same in Texas as the Northeast. Daniel Radcliffe is smokin' these days, and no, I'm not afraid to admit sexual attraction to a minor.
Mosquitos are working on making the rest of my trip miserable. Maybe I should have stayed in the pool and braved the floating bits of bread, pediatric pee and the giant hair jellyfish.
Maybe not.
Another friend Steve made it off his oil rig for the night, and we went and hung out at his apartment complex across from a strip mall.
Today we were determined to shoot guns. Because what else do you do in Texas? But the first place we went wouldn't let us first-timers do it without instruction (at $150) and the second -- an outdoor oasis of incredibly loud noises and a big black deaf dog -- didn't rent guns.
So we got drunk instead. My eighth and final roommate from study abroad met us with her boyfriend and we all drank a lot of Jack, tequila and beer. We also made Melinda ride a saddle for her birthday. (For those of you who know our dear Melinda, I do have video.)
We stopped at Gander Mountain, the Toys R Us of hunting, on the way home. That ... may have been a mistake. A clerk at the gun counter told us most of the stuffed animal heads on the wall, including the elephant (but minus its tusks) are real.
There were a lot of stuffed animal heads. And T-shirts with slogans like "Family, Freedom and Firearms. Welcome to my world" with pictures of the bald eagle and the Second Amendment.
Yeah. I was about to steal a Panama hat and thought better of it. They do have many, many guns.
And ... now we're at the pool. For some reason Texas is, as Eleni described it, my white whale. I don't know why, but it's always been this mythical land for me. The anti-Connecticut. Or something.
And with that, the pizza has arrived.