Texans thrive on blistering, brain-melting weather. I think that's why we vote the way we do. With a few exceptions, Texas is a red state. If you believe what you read, Texans love prisons, Wal-Marts and Shiner Bock, and hate immigrants, poetry, and any beer that is consumed ironically. We also claim to hate the rich, unless they're wearing jeans. Rush Limbaugh's show does well here, as would his drug habit if he'd only give us a chance. Ted Nugent lives - and his four-legged neighbors die - here. All in all, pretty red.

The exceptions are counties like mine. If you get in your spaceship and fly over Texas during an election, you'll notice that Bexar County is a cool blue, while surrounding areas are a terrifying, rage-induced red. (You could also figure this out by looking at an electoral map.) It's kind of like a rash with one tiny, uninfected spot. It's kind of like the one grown-up ride at the kiddie park. It's kind of like the racists and homophobes left the rest of us with our ice cream trucks and lower property taxes. (I had to research that joke. Thankfully, I know an ice cream vendor.)

I guess what I'm saying is, keep getting laid, Bexar County. It scares the squares.

Now, before you get all butt-hurt by this city-boy rambling, keep in mind that not everyone who leaves is a racist. Some people just really like dirt, and want to be surrounded by miles and miles of it. Some people prefer dry grass to gang graffiti. It's the reason I lived in Alpine for a year. (That and the horrible male-to-female ratio at Sul Ross State. I like a challenge.)

I guess what I'm also saying is that Tex-Mex food makes you smarter, and no one does Tex-Mex like San Antonio. In fact, no one else really does Tex-Mex at all. Maybe they think they do, but they're more wrong than American cheese on a crispy taco. I know that correlation is not causation, but I've noticed that in areas where you can't get good enchiladas, people tend to vote against their interests. The number two plate at Don Pedro won't turn you into Stephen Hawking overnight. But over time...

Austin's liberal, too, although I doubt it has anything to do with their food. Unless you count that one pizza place where they make the pie, but you take it home and cook it yourself. That's some working class shit right there. It's not quite up there with owning the means of production, but it will do for now.

Yeah, many San Antonians are fat. And sometimes our restaurants get low health ratings, and every time I roll a tear like someone littered. It's okay. At least we're not sitting around the dinner table saying, "May-un, that Rick Pay-urry's doin' a fine ol' job. Pass me that sour cream and olive boon-way-low." Or whatever they're eating in Dallas.

Here's a game video/Frank Miller tribute set to "Red Void."

At the beginning of the nineties, things looked deceptively good for metal. Metallica had become a household name. Megadeth, Anthrax, Slayer and Pantera were getting mainstream rock airplay. Bands like Faith No More, Alice in Chains and Jane's Addiction were merging metal with other styles. Industrial metal was becoming heavier with Ministry's Psalm 69 and Nine Inch Nails' Broken. Publications like Rip and Metal Edge were in every grocery store. Even Ice-T had a metal band. For a brief moment, it was as if the kid from the “Peace Sells” video, in turning the knob on his father's TV, had turned our knobs, too.

The hated scourge of hair metal was still around, but its star was fading. MTV's Headbanger's Ball was featuring louder, faster, heavier bands. While it wouldn't quite turn Warrant and Firehouse into fringe acts (no pun intended), this technical, stamina-driven music at least proved them poseurs. This kind of metal, an addled nephew of album rock, had always been outsider music, but it now seemed poised to take over everything.

Then, as Anthrax's Scott Ian so eloquently put it, “Nirvana happened.” If you turned on MTV twenty years ago, you heard “Smells Like Teen Spirit.” If you turned on Vh1 two years ago, you might have heard the opening riff to “Smells Like Teen Spirit,” followed by some jokes.

The song's hook was almost alien. Its catchy, four-chord jangle had its origins in punk, sixties pop and even blues, but to most young rock fans, this was the new way. It was like the remote control, Facebook or Top Ramen: you didn't know you wanted it until you had it. Once you had it, though, you needed it.

Although metal fans have been conditioned to hate grunge since its peak, Nirvana's Nevermind was arguably another brief moment when things looked like they would be okay for heavy music. It sounded more punk than anything else, but a healthy love of punk was part of many a metal fan's regular routine. Even the reviled, detested hair bands had been inspired by the New York Dolls and the Sex Pistols. Maybe metal and this nu-punk could live side by side. And maybe your Hypercolor shirt still works.

We all know the aftermath. Nirvana conquered. For a little while there, they lived up to the hype of their name. The more melodic Pearl Jam were even bigger. The new poseurs followed, like an unshaven, beanie-wearing, spin-doctoring infinity loop. Lumberjack shirts were now overpriced, as if there had been an overnight flannel shortage. An unknown comedian named Ben Stiller had a Monkees parody, The Grungees, on his new sketch show. A guy from Boston who sounded an awful lot like Bill Hicks was making jokes about Nirvana songs causing aneurisms.

Metal fans still had their favorite bands, but it would not be a metal world. (The world remains mostly dirt and water, which, objectively speaking, would make it rather grungy.) Worst of all, no one wanted to call Alice in Chains a metal band anymore, even though they had opened the Clash of the Titans tour a mere two years before.

By mid-decade, metal was dead, and glam was deader. Kurt Cobain was deadest, but that didn't matter. The grunge howl became an alternative whimper, which alienated metal fans even further. Some had adapted, running to flannels like Linus to a blanket. It was fashionable. Kids will do that. Ironically, metal's brief flirtation with mainstream success made it every bit as lame as glam in the eyes of the new angry youth. To the young rock fan, Kreator was indistinguishable from Whitesnake.

As a result, legions of metal fans began to sound like old men. A “get off my lawn” mentality set in. Metalheads joke about staying true until they're eating applesauce in leather and studs, but in 1995, that day seemed dangerously close. Unless you knew where to look, metal was nowhere.

Metal would eventually achieve the mainstream success it had courted long ago, although it would suffer through several other permutations. It would be commemorated in exhaustively-researched documentaries like Get Thrashed and Metal: A Headbanger's Journey. Some say it never really died. Like horror films and pro wrestling, metal's popularity tends to wax and wane.

Grunge, by comparison, died quickly. Post-grunge mega-successes like Creed and Matchbox Twenty softened the sound to a dull whine, making Stone Temple Pilots sound like Cannibal Corpse by comparison. It was like metal's commercialization in the eighties, but in half the time. For some reason, it felt longer.

Other than the Soundgarden reunion tour (something the Rolling Stones should find hilarious) and the fact that Pearl Jam kept it together, there are few signs of a grunge resurgence. The two best bands of the movement are still around, and likely count fans of Judas Priest and Slayer among their own.

As for a return of the grunge knock-offs, only time will tell. Fifteen minutes, but time nonetheless.

Note: This article was originally written for publication last year.

Re-uploaded. Larger this time.