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Where are my pants?

How did it get so out of control?

48 hours ago I was sitting at the Driskill drinking a Basil Hayden Manhattan when I got a text message from Raul. "I'm in town for a wedding, let's have lunch". Simple enough. Westivus would start off with a mild Thursday, a Friday night on the town, lunch with Raul Saturday, and then a couple of dinners Sunday & Monday with friends and family.

A simple weekend for an easy 34 years.

Thursday went off without a hitch. Dinner and a couple of drinks.

Then comes Friday. An entirely different kind of monster. A monster that wakes up passed out on the lawn in front of his house kind of monster. Why did I take my boots off?

From what I recall, the night started off fairly plain. JS and I headed to Trudy's on campus for some dinner and drinks. Now, if you haven't been to the Trudy's on campus, allow me to incriminate myself. It is full, and I mean FULL, of beautiful women. I think we decided that the "do-able" percentage was in the high 80's. ***disclaimer below***

We hung out for what seemed like forever in slow motion. The next thing I knew, the booze had me in rare form. I was ready for some fun.


We went back to mi casa and drank a few beers in the back yard. Called a cab and hit up the Driskill Bar. Andrew Three Story added to my buzz with a BH Manhattan straight up. Delicious bourbon.

I'm not sure what exactly happened but I managed to piss off a couple of girls sitting a chair down from us at the bar. I didn't have a seat, and the one in between us hadn't been used in the 10 minutes we got there, so I grabbed it and moved it to my spot beside the taps. I noticed my shoe was untied so I bent down to tie it. Next thing I know she's giving me the shit-eye and taking the chair back. We exchange pleasantries and I mutter "go fuck yourself" under my breath. I'm such a charmer. Don't worry though, I found a short chair and nuzzled up to the bar.

Later in the evening it got pretty crowded. We were talking to a couple chaps from London when they walked in. Up first, a 5 foot nothing brunette with piercing blue eyes. J called dibs. Next up, the 6'2" blonde with a perky nose and just as perky ya-ya's. I didn't mind having to jump on this grenade.

We played it cool not wanting to seem too obvious that the entire bar was looking at them. A seemingly wealthy older gentleman made the first move. We sat back and watched him blow through at least $300 trying to get these young lasses drunk. Easy money.

Towards the better part of midnight, we decided to make our move. With Andrew making up random shots for my birthday, we decided to send a few over. Thanks and well wishes were shouted, shots were downed, and the old guy was pissed. We headed over to their side of the bar and struck up some conversation.

I can't recall much of what was said but I'm sure I was funny. I've never been intimidated by or really attracted to the tall blonde girls. Don't get me wrong, I wouldn't kick her out of bed for eating crackers (you know, crackers make crumbs) but it wasn't the ultimate goal. I was really just wingman for J. He got her number but I think he blew it when he drunk texted at 3am that morning.

I digress.

We left the Driskill, walked around for an hour, and finally caught a cab. J wanted pancakes or something so we went to Kerby Lane "near my house". I quote near my house because that's what I was thinking when I told J we could just have the cab drop us off at Kerby and then walk home.

I ordered but couldn't wait. I was gonna pass out. I ate a bite of sausage and half a biscuit then headed out the door shouting directions to J.

What a shitty walk. I swear I was out there wandering the streets for over an hour. I made it home and ended up passing out on the sidewalk just 20 steps to my bed.

For some reason, I took my boots off.

.......stay tuned for Saturday's adventures with Raul!


***Hey, just because I ordered the steak, doesn't mean I can't look at the menu.***

Westivus O' Westivus

My favorite quote from the 2011 Westivus Celebration Blowout Extravaganza:

"Happy official bday fucker. Thank God it's only once a year....shit" - Text Message from JS.


History of Westivus

You see, for the last several years I've been trying to instill a new holiday into the lives of my friends and family. Slowly but surely it's catching on.

I call this new holiday "Westivus - the 5 day celebration of Wes" Westivus for short.

I'm well aware of how corny and egotistical this sounds, but the truth of the matter goes a little deeper.

So deeper I shall go.

3 years ago I had to do some soul searching. After several events altered the course of my life I came to the realization that I took a wrong turn. My life had reached the pinnacle of funk and I felt like the world was dragging me down.

After quitting the music biz, breaking up with my girlfriend, and finding out my mother had lung cancer I was in a downward spiral of unhappiness. I had to figure something out.

As a logical man, I presented myself with a question: What makes me truly happy?

It took a while but in the end it was simple: Spending time with my friends and family.

Who would've known.....and why the hell didn't they tell me?

I had to make amends and reconnect. I missed my peeps.


Life makes it difficult to live in the past.

At 30+ years of age, who wants to go out on some random Thursday night, get hammered, and "chase some ass"?(Jason excluded of course). Work, wife, husband, kids, etc. all have a tendency to alter priorities and plans.

I had to find a new approach.

On this day, Wes created Westivus.


The simple truth of Westivus is this: Reconnecting with friends and family.

Whether it be a night of drunken debauchery running around the hallway of a 4 star hotel, chasing a drunk Mexican that just ripped off an EXIT sign, or just a simple dinner with my brother and sister-in-law, reconnect.


I wish there was more too it.

For me, Westivus happens on a daily basis (the peak being on or around the 10th of April of course). A simple text, a call, or a happy hour with a friend keeps the spirit of Westivus alive and well.


Thanks to all who shared in the 5 day celebration of Wes! Next year I might have to cut it back to 3 or 4 days. I'm getting too old for that shit........

......but that's another story.

Wes

Humble Vanity

I wrote a book once.

"The Underwater Airplane" by Wesley Cox

I was probably 6-8 years old. I folded some Big Chief tablet paper in half and stapled a sheet of red construction paper on the front as a cover. I drew a few outlines of my toy airplane on the sheets.

Synopsis: An airplane flies under water, decides to stay for a while, comes back to the surface, and then blows up. The End.

My mom kept it. My masterpiece.


I made C's in all of my high school and college English classes. Apparently, I never could grasp the subject. I can't remember what the problem was. Maybe it was my handwriting. I hated the process of writing.

I didn't care. I was never going to be a writer. I'm too scatter-brained for it.


I set out writing my blog to serve as a reminder to myself. Travel journal per se.

Since it's inception, the encouragement has poured in. I can't believe some of the responses I've gotten.

Without further adieu:

To all that have shown kindness, given compliments, and provided constructive criticism....Thank You!


I'm going to try to find my "voice" in writing. I'll update as much as I can.

I hope you all will join me for the ride!

Cheers to you all!

Wes

Happy Belated!

In celebration of the 175th birthday of Texas, I was on Google looking for "What it means to be a Texan". I found this article from former Houston Oiler Coach, Bum Phillips. I think it just about sums it up........


WHAT IT MEANS TO BE A TEXAN
by Bum Phillips

Dear Friends,

Last year, I wrote a small piece about what it means to me to be a Texan. My friends know it means about damned near everything. Anyway, this fella asked me to reprint what I'd wrote and I didn't have it. So I set out to think about rewriting something. I considered writing about all the great things I love about Texas. There are way too many things to list. I can't even begin to do it justice.

Lemme let you in on my short list.

It starts with The Window at Big Bend, which in and of itself is proof of God. It goes to Lake Sam Rayburn where my Grandad taught me more about life than fishin, and enough about fishin to last a lifetime. I can talk about Tyler, and Longview, and Odessa and Cisco, and Abilene and Poteet and every place in between.

Every little part of Texas feels special. Every person who ever flew the Lone Star thinks of Bandera or Victoria or Manor or wherever they call "home" as the best little part of the best state.

So I got to thinkin about it, and here's what I really want to say.

Last year, I talked about all the great places and great heroes who make Texas what it is. I talked about Willie and Waylon and Michael Dell and Michael DeBakey and my Dad and LBJ and Denton Cooley. I talked about everybody that came to mind. It took me sitting here tonight reading this stack of emails and thinkin about where I've been and what I've done since the last time I wrote on this occasion to remind me what it is about Texas that is really great.

You see, this last month or so I finally went to Europe for the first time. I hadn't ever been, and didn't too much want to. But you know all my damned friends are always talking about "the time they went to Europe." So, I finally went. It was a hell of a trip to be sure. All they did when they saw me was say the same thing, before they'd ever met me. "Hey cowboy, we love Texas." I guess the hat tipped em off.

But let me tell you what, they all came up with a smile on their faces. You know why? They knew for damned sure that I was gonna be nice to em. They knew it cause they knew I was from Texas. They knew something that hadn't even hit me. They knew Texans, even though they'd never met one.

That's when it occurred to me. Do you know what is great about Texas? Do you know why when my friend Beverly and I were trekking across country to see 15 baseball games we got sick and had to come home after 8? Do you know whyevery time I cross the border I say, "Lord, please don't let me die in_____"? Do you know why children in Japan can look at a picture of the great State and know exactly what it is about the same time they can tell a rhombus from a trapezoid?

I can tell you that right quick. You.

The samespirit that made 186 men cross that line in the sand in San Antonio damned near 165 years ago is still in you today. Why else would my friend send me William Barrett Travis' plea for help in an email just a week ago, or why would Charles Stanfield ask me to reprint a Texas Independence column from a year ago? What would make my friend Elizabeth say, "I don't know if I can marry a man who doesn't love Texas like I do?" Why in the hell are 1,000 people coming to my house this weekend to celebrate a holiday for what usedto be a nation that is now a state?

Because the spirit that made that nation is the spirit that burned in every person who founded this great place we call Texas, and they passed it on through blood or sweat to everyone of us.

You see, that spirit that made Texas what it is is alive in all of us, even if we can't stand next to a cannon to prove it, and it's our responsibility to keep that fire burning. Every person who ever put a"Native Texan" or an "I wasn't born in Texas but I got here as fast as I could" sticker on his car understands.

Anyone who ever hung a map of Texas on their wall or flew a Lone Star flag on their porch knows what I mean. My Dad's buddy Bill has an old saying. He says that some people were forged of a hotter fire. Well, that's what it is to be Texan. To be forged of a hotter fire. To know that part of Colorado was Texas. That part of New Mexico was Texas. That part of Oklahoma was Texas. Yep. Talk all you want. Part of what you got was what we gave you. To look at a picture of Idaho or Istanbul and say, "what the Hell is that?" when you know that anyone in Idaho or Istanbul who sees a picture of Texas knows damned good and well what it is. It isn't the shape, it isn't the state, it's the state of mind.

You're what makes Texas. The fact that you would take 15 minutes out of your day to read this, because that's what Texas means to you, that's what makes Texas what it is. The fact that when you see the guy in front of you litter you honk and think, "Sonofabitch. Littering on MY highway."

When was the last time you went to a person's house in New York and you saw a big map of New York on their wall? That was never. When did you ever drive through Oklahoma and see their flag waving on four businesses in a row? Can you even tell me what the flag in Louisiana looks like? I damned sure can't. But I bet my ass you can't drive 20 minutes from your house and not see a business that has a big Texas flag as part of its logo. If you haven't done business with someone called AllTex something or Lone Star somebody or other, or Texas such and such, you hadn't lived here for too long.

When you ask a man from New York what he is, he'll say a stockbroker, or an accountant, or an ad exec. When you ask a woman from California what she is, she'll tell you her last name or her major. Hell either of em might say "I'm a republican," or they might be a democrat. When you ask a Texan what they are, before they say, "I'm a Methodist," or "I'm a lawyer," or "I'm a Smith," they tell you they're a Texan.

I got nothin against all those other places, and Lord knows they've probably got some fine folks, but in your gut you know it just like I do, Texas is just a little different.

So tomorrow when you drive down the road and you see a person broken down on the side of the road, stop and help. When you are in a bar in California, buy a Californian a drink and tell him it's for Texas Independence Day. Remind the person in the cube next to you that he wouldn't be here enjoying this if it weren't for Sam Houston, and if he or she doesn't know the story, tell them.

When William Barrettt Travis wrote in 1836 that he would never surrender and he would have Victory or Death, what he was really saying was that he and his men were forged of a hotter fire. They weren't your average everyday men. Well, that is what it means to be a Texan. It meant it then, and that's why it means it today. It means just what all those people North of the Red River accuse us of thinking it means. It means there's no mountain that we can't climb. It means that we can swim the Gulf in the winter. It means that Earl Campbell ran harder and Houston is bigger and Dallas is richer and Alpine is hotter and Stevie Ray was smoother and God vacations in Texas. It means that come Hell or high water, when the chips are down and the Good Lord is watching, we're Texans by damned, and just like in 1836, that counts for something.

So for today at least, when your chance comes around, go out and prove it. It's true because we believe it's true. If you are sitting wondering what the Hell I'm talking about, this ain't for you. But if the first thing you are going to do when the Good Lord calls your number is find the men who sat in that tiny mission in San Antonio and shake their hands, then you're the reason I wrote this night, and this is for you.

So until next time you hear from me, God Bless and Happy Texas Independence Day.



Love it!

Happy Birthday Texas!

Parliament Funkadelic, Tate Modern, and a Fat Stack of Cash

Glorious London.

I woke up refreshed and exhilarated. I didn't have anything planned except a trip to the Tate Modern with my new pal Nick. We were set to meet around 3 so I had the whole morning and afternoon to do whatever I wanted.

Spring was in the air. Blue skies, sunshine, 45 degrees, and perfect. I took a walk.

Strolling up the River Thames is like a history lesson. The London Eye, the Aquarium, Big Ben, Parliament, and Westminster Abbey are all stops you can't help but want to see. Check-check-check it out....

I spent a good 2 hours just hanging out trying to get a good picture. Remember, it's February in England. It's supposed to be cold and rainy. Just take a look at the skies. I couldn't believe it.

What to do now? I headed northwest towards Buckingham Palace. I took a stroll in St. James Park enjoying the day.

Buckingham Palace

I grabbed another cappuccino and hopped up on one of the walls at Buckingham Palace and took a quick nap. I woke up around 1:30 and decided to make my way to Hyde Park. I stopped at the Wellington Arch to text Nick to get an ETA when the strangest thing occurred.....

Backstory: I was asked at least 10 times for directions. I guess I look like a local (or just an easy mark).

As I struggle with the piece-of-shit-multi-tap cell phone, an elderly gentleman walks up and asked if I knew where Knightsbridge Road was. That I knew. It was the road we were standing on. He quickly mentioned that he was looking for Harrods, the world famous department store. I had no idea where that was but I told him I had a map.

As I fumbled around with the map, he kept mentioning how nice I was and that he thought I was a local. I laughed and told him I was a Texan. He was from Australia.

Randomly, he says "I'm going to Harrods to buy a couple of cashmere sweaters for a woman I met last night. I just won £4000 at the casino and want to get her something nice" I looked up as he pulled out the fattest stack of cash I've ever seen. Folded over, it was probably 6 inches deep, all £20's, £50's and £100's. He just held it out with a proud grin.

Random.

He asked if I would walk with him towards Harrods. How could I resist. What a story.

He was very talkative. He wanted to know if the £4000 was a good win for Vegas. I kept telling him it was a good win for anywhere. The equivalent of nearly $7000 would make me a happy camper.

How many people live in the US? I say 300 million or so. He says 150 million at the most. "Want to bet £100?" No. I'm not taking this old man's money.

For half a mile we talked about population, the Bush Presidencies, the Australian floods, beer, whiskey, and women.

I left him near Knightsbridge Station and pointed him towards Harrods. I got his name but forgot it. I like to think that somewhere in the world tonight an elderly Australian man is retelling his story about a random Thursday afternoon when a friendly Texan helped him find Harrods. I know I'll be telling the story for years to come.

I took off towards Tate Modern. South side of the Thames across from St. Paul's Cathedral and right next to the Millennium Bridge (aka The Harry Potter Bridge).

The Tate Modern was interesting. I'm not going to get into details but here are some pictures of my favorites.

Derain: Portrait of Henri Matisse

Monet: Water Lilies

Salvador Dali: Metamorphosis of Narcissus

Picasso: The Three Dancers

There was an exhibit that prohibited photos but I wanted to mention it.

Gabriel Orozco

If you ever have the opportunity to see his work, do it. It's amazing and original. For modern art, it doesn't get any better than this.

Google his name or follow this link to the Tate Modern exhibit.

A couple of my favorites:

So we headed back, had a few beers, ate some good food, had some more booze, and then I headed to bed.

As I said.....Glorious London.

Dempsey & the Fulham Boys

Brighton on my mind, whiskey on my breath, and a watch ticking on my wrist I headed to bed, visions of sugarplums pounding in my head.

Or maybe that’s just the hangover. I needed rest.

It’s safe to say, I slept in. It’s my vacation; I can do whatever I want.

I wasn’t in the mood for a museum or any other tourist trap so I wandered around Soho enjoying the crisp air, cappuccino, and crack(ers).

Nothing to do but smell the roses and wait. Tonight is gonna be a good night.

What: English Premier League Football
Who: Fulham FC vs. Newcastle United
Where: Craven Cottage SW6

Sandi and I hopped on the tube to Putney Bridge amongst the locals with their hidden Strongbows. We were entertained by a young gentleman describing a friend’s dating exploits. “Heya, I’m Georgy, what type of energy enhancing drink do you favor?” and “How’s your Fantasy Football team stacking up” were the two best pick-up lines I’ve ever heard.

We were herded out of the train and down the platform like cattle being led to slaughter. We had no choice but to go with the flow. I couldn’t get my bearing so we just followed the crowd to Craven Cottage. Home of the Fulham FC Whites!

I’ve never been a football (soccer) fan until the past World Cup. Figuring that a billion fans can’t be wrong, I’ve always wanted to get into it. When the trip to London came to fruition, I decided that I had to see an English Premier League match.

Knowing shit about the teams, I did my research. Only two matches that would fit into our schedule. Everton @ Arsenal and Newcastle United @ Fulham.

Even if you don’t know football (soccer), you might have heard of Arsenal. They’re like the St. Louis Cardinals of the EPL. Both led by stars on the way out, new stadiums, lots of league titles, storied coaches, and a large fan base. That means it’s damn near impossible to get tickets.

I moved on to smaller fish.

Fulham Football Club is more like the San Diego Padres. Both have nice stadiums, no titles, and the fans have come to accept that their teams are not going to compete with the best every year. This translated into cheap and easy tickets. Mid-field, 12th row.

I wanted to become a fan. I needed to know what I was rooting for in the stands of old Craven Cottage. I dug deep into the history of Fulham. I memorized the current starting lineup.

That’s when it hit me.

Clint Dempsey. USA Soccer Star. Born and raised in Nacogdoches, Texas. #23

The football gods were talking to me. I had a team to root for!

We settled into our seats under the famed awning watching the warm-ups.

I couldn’t believe how close we were. We could hear the players talking.

Game on.


45+ min of back and forth. Several shots on goal. “Come on Fulham, Come on Fulham”

Halftime: 0-0

2nd half: 67th minute, Damien Duff sprinted past a Newcastle United defender to receive Danny Murphy’s pass, held off the challenge before shooting past the keeper!

1-0 Fulham!

Fulham put the pressure on Newcastle the rest of the evening. 5 shots missed wide and a couple from Dempsey sailed over.

Fulham Wins!

It was amazing.

On this dreary cold evening, chants and cheers filled the riverbank in Southwest London.

We reveled in the win, walking the neighborhood in search of a cab.

Fulham may not have the biggest stadium, the most money, or the greatest team but they have loyal fans and a definite sense of pride in their football club.

Here's a sign posted at every entrance.

I felt protective when I heard a group of Newcastle fans chanting ill will about Fulham.

Watch out for the Craven Park Hooligan!