A Man Called Goat

23 Apr

I spent the past week in Austin where, as you can imagine, I encountered many colorful cowboys.  I received two marriage proposals while I was there– the first from a one-legged homeless man, and another from a flirtatious two-stepper who proposed marriage to me and then followed my male friend into the men’s room and asked him if his pubic hair was straight or curly.  But perhaps my favorite of all the Texan characters I met while I was here was a 44-year-old metalhead named Goat.

My friend and I happened upon a bar on Sixth Street that was playing softcore torture porn on their big screen TVs.  We were about to close our tab and journey onward when an assortment of aging metalheads blew into the bar like a warm spring breeze.  We looked at each other and agreed that we needed to stick around for a couple more rounds at this point.  Minutes later, a particularly amusing Metallica fan who had been playing the worst game of pool I’ve ever seen came over to me and introduced himself as “Goat.”  I asked him what happened with his game and he replied in a smooth Southern accent “I lost by sinking the eight ball in the wrong hole.  Although I don’t believe in wrong holes.”  Oh my.  Goat was wearing a red bandana tied around a full head of salt and pepper hair that went down to his waist, a full beard, pants that were tight in the butt and loose in the legs, a red shirt, and the essential denim vest covered in various band buttons.

Goat and his sidekick, Freddie, invited us to play pool with them and Freddie was no better at hitting balls with sticks than Goat was.  Each time it was my turn, Goat would tell me which ball to aim for and from which angle to hit it.  I kindly reminded him that he had lost every game up to this point in record time.  While playing, I learned that Goat was in a metal band called Pain Through Fate.  I looked it up on Facebook and found a photo of the band which depicted five forty-year-olds posing under a ceiling fan in someone’s living room.  The band’s description reads “Conveying the insane fucked up hurdles of life through the intensity of Metal.”  After telling him I live in New York, he informed me that he will be playing a solo show there in the next few weeks at some venue where the opening acts include a girl who covers herself in fake blood and a guy who gets naked onstage and eats cat food.

After losing the most embarrassing game in the history of billiards, I noticed that Freddie had suddenly disappeared into thin air.  Goat made little attempt to locate his comrade, but ample attempts to cop a feel.  It was time for me to depart.

The next day, I was telling the story at my friend’s bar and several of her regulars expressed that they were familiar with Goat.  “Well I guess with a name like ‘Goat,’ you’re bound to have a reputation around town” I said.  “That’s nothin!” a man in a giant lonestar flag shirt bellowed at me, “I also know a Hog, a Catfish, a Lunchbox, and a Juicebox.”

Do I HAVE to go back to New York?


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