Coma Comma Culm

Drinking gin and tonics
Seeing black and red
Your day off was a mess, my dear
And mine was no better....

Because bathrooms must be cleaned
And dishes must be washed
And one must stay in shape
Though I've no idea why

And what are we doing here?

Not in the metaphysical
But in the ugly, physical sense
In this den of finance and corruption
(At least... I feel corrupt)

In a feverish daze
Four left turns to move forward
Our black and red day mutated
By waves of green, turns...

...To a coma of burnt orange and oxford grey

Peacock on the Loose

Month of November, month of reflection. Or, at the least, month without physical writing - the writing that takes place outside of the skull. No blogging, to be sure. Looking at these last few entries, I see an emphasis on the negative, on adversity and the problems in life, especially when contrasted with the bubbling radiance and cheerful serenity of earlier posts. Of course, life consists of both positive and negative elements, and all degrees in between and beyond. And after making these observations, I wonder if it's a sham to even attribute positive and negative qualities to writing. Such are the trappings of this modern era of "blogdom," the form being short, contained bursts of staccato; the death of the novel, short story, literature in general....

So, since literature is simply words on a page or monitor, shall we continue with a discussion of the positive/negative dichotomy in life? In the month of November, I took a new job. At a retail store, selling the doggoned-est mish-mash of random and absurd commodities, all emblazoned with the logo of a particular local organization. Luggage, guitar picks, truck hitch covers, propane tank wraps - you name it! - all decorated with the symbolic creature we know and love in this fine city. (The hitch covers, by the way, sell like hot cakes.) And it's a "not-for-profit" store, meaning all the profit goes back to the organization. Of course, I'm aware of the insanity and paradox in all of this... but I will say, at the moment, I'm relatively content here. Content, mostly because of the people - co-workers, shoppers, and even managers (heresy! blasphemy! disgusting treachery! I know... but I'm a sucker for genuine compassion in a hierarchical world) - and that's a big thing. "Relatively" - and the range of relativity here is far-reaching - because of the aforementioned paradox. Because at this point in my life, it's impossible to be completely content performing an absolutely useless and absurd task - whether it be entering data, serving breakfast to focus groups, or selling shit to people that really don't need it - for eight hours a day, five days a week. But some times, we must compromise....

On a Saturday, after planning some bus routes, and scarfing down leftover Northern Italian polenta (I've started to cook as well, which is a sign of something, though I've yet to figure out what), I headed east. Way east, far east... further than ever before. Almost to the border of Kamchatka. Through cozy neighborhoods, seas of green, ancient waterways, and gingerbread houses... of course, distances and environments tend to get exaggerated when one relies on the bus for transportation. And at some point, I got off, for the second weekend of the East Austin Studio Tour (EAST). With little time for orientation, I headed into the thick of it: the Big Medium studio village. Walking in and out of rooms, eyes perpetually in dart mode, overwhelmed by the sheer amount of beautiful art and ingeniously fused mediums. And that's it: overwhelmed. Too much quantity to get lost in the world of an individual piece, and an ingrained disgust at paying the price listed below any given piece to afford the time to get lost. (Not to mention a lack of resources.)

On to the next. Walk through a vegetally-enhanced village that, only one hour prior, has been traversed by a human-powered viking ship on wheels. (This is not fancy on my part; it actually happened.) To another studio village: Cobra, with the viking ship at the front gate. An inviting open courtyard surrounded by 12 or 15 pre-fab artist studios. And it is a party here, with a DJ posted outside of one studio, disco lights bouncing off the dusk of night, free drinks and not-free food in the courtyard, and the occasional firework display in sky above. Grab a beer and make my rounds, from studio to studio. More beautiful art and clever arrangements, though it seems to have a more commercial feel than Big Medium. This notion, however, could be the influence of the 21st century identical-aluminum-condo settings in which I find myself. In any case, I'm enjoying myself. At some point even, I am lost in the ether. Gone completely. Wonderfully absorbed in vibrant swirls of color... until I see the price tag. Then I notice the frame. Then I notice the snazzily-dressed "art-lovers" on either side of me, drinks in hand, nodding enthusiastically to meaningless descriptions of the artistic process. "This piece has been sold." They all have....

As a coda to this night, I tried to go to another studio - actually to see a documentary, of all things - but couldn't find the street. So I ended up going out to a friend's house for an Ultimate Fighting Championship viewing party. Seeing commercials for UFC, I always thought I would despise it as purely senseless violence. Not the case. Without going fully in the opposite direction, I will say that I appreciated both the technical and artistic aspects of fighting as a sport. From art to sport. Things we watch and things we look at. And things we pay for.

A muse on the positive/negative dichotomy in life has become a polemic against capitalism, especially in the form of commodities created specifically for sale - whether it be merchandise sold to fund an organization or art sold to fund more art. I find this happening often. And just as often, I find myself sounding bitter and cynical, when on the inside, I am not. Some times, I am as cheery and propelled as the peacocks when they escape the yard of the fancy restaurant down my street. But it can be difficult to convey this cheer to others. So, this time, some words from Andy Merrifield's book on Guy Debord:

"...his legacy is surely that he taught us how to follow Hegel's wonderful proclamation: 'to look the negative in the face and live with it'. Living with the negative, Hegel said, is 'the magical power' that gives people Being, that brings meaning and definition to their lives, underwrites life as a voyage, as a quest. It is a weirdly positive force, entering through the back door, or flowing as an undertow. Debord spent a lifetime living with the negative, knowing its magical power. The power he leaves us today is the power to say No: to look the negative in the face and live with it forever. Of course, it may mean living with this negative in vain, never actually winning, never overcoming, never finding positive transcendence. Still, that doesn't prejudice the value of the work, which may indeed be very good. Nor does it preclude that in striving, in battling against the negative, we can discover for ourselves a truly authentic life.”

White Collar Factory Part 2

It's Thursday afternoon, and I've just had a pretty stellar job interview. If not wholly successful, then at least enough to remind me that I can occasionally rise to the occasion. Bought a large sauteed veggie sub, and feeling good. On the bus, before I start reading, I see an attractive young woman wearing a tight green tank top, and am struck with the sorts of thoughts that inspired the advent of the confession in the Catholic Church (these things don't change). Have to savor this vitality, before my night job sucks it out of me. Uhrrrga-blech. Even thinking about it drains a few drops out of me.

Later, at the bus stop by the Walnut Creek Library, I'm eating trail mix and drinking Coke. Sitting near a few raspy-voiced and lively guys, who don't seem to be waiting for any buses, and thinking that if I had rum or whiskey in this here Coke, I could hang out with them all day. I take out a notepad to write down these very thoughts, and one of them asks me what I'm writing. Just some thoughts I had on the bus. He asks me if I'm a writer. I like to write....

He sits down next to me, says that he's a writer, and asks me if I'd like to hear a poem. He explains a bit of his ethnic background, though I can't quite make out what he's saying, and begins to recite a "black poem." It's brutal and touching, affecting me at a level I never expected to reach this afternoon. One of my favorite lines is, "How many more gold medals must we win for this country?" Fist bump. What's more, he augments the recital with gestures, like a noose around the neck, or a pistol fired in the air during "...my 40 acres and a mule." When he's done, I compliment him very sincerely, especially for the "performance aspect." "It's not a performance," says he, "it just comes out naturally." His name is Billy, and he waited tables for 20 years before deciding to become a poet. Waiting tables gave him bad hips and knees. Now he's got less money, but more freedom. Fist bump. He asks me if I want to hear another poem (yes), this one a "gay poem." "Don't worry, that doesn't mean I want to have sex with you." This one is more tender and reflective, but just as affecting. At this point my bus comes. Another fist bump, and Billy has given me even more fortitude with which to enter the factory.

At the factory, like everywhere else, the malady comes as a result of the prioritization of quantity over quality. Through and through, it's the way the system runs. It's the water we drink, and it doesn't matter where it comes from or how it tastes, as long as it keeps on flowing. We could be eating the delicious donuts that Grammy used to make, but they wouldn't be able to sell as many, and that's the bottom line. That's why the donuts are dry when they reach our mouths.

Several days into the job, I make up my mind to increase my output just enough to get the boss off my back. Just enough so that I don't have to hear about making my "numbers," so that I can blend in to my keyboard, become inanimate, at one with the machine. But of course it doesn't work that way.

By day six, I've gotten pretty quick. It's enough not to get hassled about my numbers, but now I'm told how I rank with other workers' numbers. The fostering of competition is the next stage of management, and it's lethal, because it works. The boss puts the top three numbers up on the dry-erase board, and we all get sucked in. Numbers, numbers, numbers, they chant. In my mind, I really don't care about this competition, but somehow, I work like I do. The result, thus, is the reality of the situation - that I do care about the competition. Competition, especially when encouraged towards a devious end, has a devastating psychological impact.

You know what might even be worse? For security and productivity reasons, we can't have cell phones in the factory, nor are pens and paper easily accessible. I'm writing this in quick and furious scratches on a piece of cardboard I tore off one of the boxes, whenever I think they're not looking. Just steps away from Sade, forced to write in his own blood when they took his parchment away in prison. Billy may spend his afternoon at the bus stop, but at least he's got freedom.

Ah, but this is only eight hours of my daily life. I have sixteen more to... sleep... and commute... and look for a better job. Jello Biafra may have posed the most pertinent question when he asked, "When will you crack?"

White Collar Factory

The same high ceilings and concrete floors. Same dead-eyed vacant stares on the workers' faces, as vacant as the lodgings in recession-era Disneyland. Same idea too, but instead of assembling and producing, they type and scan. Paper and folders everywhere. Here, instead of keeping you on your feet, they keep you in your chair. The manager gives instructions to the supervisors to keep feeding the workers paper and folders: "Your goal is to keep them from leaving their chairs."

The length of breaks, the lack of vending machines, the bathrooms located in the parking lot... ostensibly designed for "security," but the program functions also to provide just enough nourishment and relief - and receive in return a maximum of complacency. Faux friendliness and sanitized humor mask a much deeper inequality. As well, there's no obvious hierarchy of leadership: the managers and supervisors wear the same uniforms, and who knows what power is commanded by the polo shirted-ones, spying quietly from the perimeter?

Because the stakes are lower - the workers don't absolutely depend on this job for their survival, and the manager knows it - the game is more psychological. The manager appeals to the worker's pride, ingrained sense of duty, and desire to be obedient. Sure, it's sad to see the educated young worker move papers and type faster to please his boss; but it becomes disgusting when one considers he's really typing faster to please himself, to feed his own ego.

Two nights in a row I see an ad on TV for Heavy Metal Ballads that almost brings tears to my eyes. Not the music itself, but the nostalgia. Reminds me of county fairs, the acid-washed jeans and leather jackets that my role models wore, and shoot-till-you-win games at amusement parks. The combination of a bittersweet nostalgia for childhood with an awareness of the futility of the eight-hour-days of adulthood makes it difficult to create new memories, to live in the present.

And on the third day, with the rain pouring down, I miss another bus, and almost another meal. Water on the outside of the rain-jacket, sweat on the inside. But then the sun breaks through, shining with a heavenly radiance on Panda Express. And another bus comes. On it, I read about Fourier's utopian future vision of the domestication of the zebra and beaver, and the seas turning to lemonade, and begin to feel an optimistic contentment that will develop throughout the day. Vaneigem says, "The desire for an other life is that life already." The desire and the struggle trump all. If I miss another bus, the factory will not close down. If I run out of time for lunch, Panda Express will not close down. And if it does, I'll find food somewhere. The point is to use the desire and the struggle to turn the seas to lemonade. Everything else will be just fine and dandy.

Earthen Revelation

Earthen, like the soil, the land we inhabit. But perhaps revelation is too strong of a word; what would be a degree less? Comprehension? Moment of awareness? I don't know... I found myself in a creek between South 7th and the railroad tracks, listening to some damn fine folk music, augmented by running water and bullfrogs. How did I get here?

Tania and I took the short scooter ride to Sunrise Market - my new favorite place to buy beer - for a sixer of Victory Prima Pils and an Almond Joy. At S 7th, we climbed over a guard rail and made our way south on the creek. We were followed by cops: "Come back here!" They wanted to know where we were going, and I explained it to them in the most pacifying way I could: we're going to see some friends play some accoustic music. "Oh, is that why all these candles are lit on the creek?" Yeah, to light the way. I don't know what to say... when my friend Phil gets a jaywalking ticket because he looks homeless, and has to pay a $100 "court fee" (as opposed to a $500 fine), what the hell am I supposed to say? We get to where the music is playing, and it takes a while to settle in, because every second we expect the cops to show up and ruin the festive atmosphere.

When they don't, we begin to have a genuinely wonderful time. Music in a creek, with an assembled group of enjoyers, surrounded by lit candles under moonlit sky... but of course! We can hardly believe the cops stay back, and Tania says, "They were actually really cool about it." I realize what this implies: they were cool, for cops. But compared to real people, they were assholes. They yelled at us to turn around and then intimidated us with the idea that we shouldn't be out here. Why shouldn't we be out here? This is public property - let we the public make use of it! I think of this assessment, spoken in 1842, found in "The Coming Insurrection:"

“The life of the police agent is painful; his position in society is as humiliating and despised as crime itself… Shame and infamy encircle him from all sides, society expels him, isolates him as a pariah, society spits out its disdain for the police agent along with his pay, without remorse, without regrets, without pity… The police badge that he carries in his pocket documents his shame.”

1842 becomes 2009. They now have power, a power consolidated by the State and Capital - Phil got a ticket because the area businesses complained of property vandalism and the like. When power consolidates, and resistance hesitates, there is no check and there is no balance.

And yet, we made it to the music. I'm tempted to out and out say, "Fuck the police," but in a way they play the same game we all play. They make a big deal out of this event because someone complains, we tuck tails between legs and sheepishly nod our heads, and everyone moves on. We pass go, collect $200, and spend it on electricity bills. And still... I'm sitting down in a creek and listening to some damn fine folk music. The Prima Pils has a distinctly American taste, but when I burp, I feel I might as well be drinking pilsener in Eastern Europe. I might as well be sitting in a creek in Karlovy Vary and listening to Uz Jsme Doma unplugged. Here as there, creek water runs and bullfrogs croak. The last song ends and then the rain comes down. Dobrou noc and good luck.

And it's merely a convention. The difference between languages, between cultures, is impotent compared to the delivery itself. Not just a language, but how a culture carries itself. So it's no surprise that my night ends, not simply with gumdrops and jellyfish, but with Gummi Lifesavers at 7-11 on South Congress Avenue in Austin, TX. This is where I'm at, where I belong at this moment. And in the parking lot of the all-night diner, three cop cars, perhaps asking for the bravado of a rock thrown deftly through the window.... Everyone belongs somewhere, right now, whether it's crossing an empty street or listening to music in a creek, and why must you tell me where I don't belong?

Over and Back

Conclusion: vacation means people and food. Started right in on Friday at 5:10pm when college friends Emily and Dee-Dee intercepted me at 17th and Congress. I was full from a multicultural lunch tasting on the first floor of my place of employment - Swedish meatballs, Hungarian goulash, Chinese dumplings, Indian fried rice, Texas BBQ, German cake, and on and on - so I gave my lunch sandwich to the girls, and off. An abbreviated beer bar tour punctured by a tour of the capitol. Leisurely expedition of downtown, people in the streets in good cheer, words flowing out of our mouths with ease and excitment, and cicadas on pavement signifying a marriage of nature and urbana. Leisure is the key word.

Realized I haven't left Austin in six months, perhaps the longest I've ever been in one municipality without journey. It's been good, but it's time, time to flutter the wings. I quite like being in airports. A young attractive Asian woman with a walking stick, a financial-looking dude likely off for a weekend of golf... wandering these big open corridors, windows look out on pavement planes and planes, we are jet set. At least in appearance. Could be going anywhere, and I love it.

Mom and Aaron pick me up in Manchester, NH a bit after midnight, to drive to Ocean Park, ME. On Sunday, Buddy and Nate take the train up from Boston, and the Kitchels are driving through. To the beach for catching up, all around. Don't check the email, don't look at the phone. To the Clambake for fried scallops and clams, supplemented by fries and one of my favorite cole-slaws. One of the meals I've been waiting for. "Starry Eyes," by the Austin band Two Hoots and a Holler, pops into my head. When things come together, it's a sensory paradise. And these moments are fleeting, here and now. All I can do is embrace the feelings when they occur, and accept the others when they don't. Aaron, Bud, Nate, and I continue the night with a melange of scotches and gins on the indoor porch - like our grand and great grandparents' generations, methinks - and a hop around the bars of Old Orchard Beach. Quiet night, but it doesn't seem to matter. Good company, starry eyes.

Roll, almost literally, out of bed on Monday morning, for a great breakfast with Mom and the above crew at Josef's. Then we play shuffleboard the only way I really know how: on the ground, with big sticks, perhaps the way Teddy Roosevelt would've done it. Everywhere else it's tables and hands. Bud and Nate back to Boston, and the rest of the day is walking on the beach, intense conversation about purpose in life, and food more food lovely food. Sit out at the beach tables at the Brunswick with homemade Clam chowder under expansive purple sky-come-moonlight, walk the peaceful avenues of Ocean Park with coffee frappe. An interlude to see Taking Woodstock (amusing and decent), and more philosophy with Aaron. Eyelids get very heavy, until cousin Dan arrives (via train) at 1:45am to keep things going. My stomach is worn out and my eyes are sore, but my mind is sharp as a tack.

The days continue like this, food and talk, with people I like. Tuesday is fried scallops and clams for breakfast, corn casserole for lunch (one of my favorites growing up), two lobsters and tons of steamers for dinner - an ambitious and filling meal, and I will carry the memory with me for months, because I must - and a butter crunch frappe for dessert. Jesus buddha, one of the best things I've ever had, and I had forgotten that. Wednesday we meet Susanna in Portsmouth, a "city" of the type that I've been missing - cobble stones and brick buildings and oddly shaped town squares. They weren't as efficient at urban planning when they started this country, and I am thankful for that, y'all. Great meal and brews and good times at the Portsmouth Brewery. Then a nice visit in New London with Marion and Charlie. In Danville, down to Ryan D.'s for beer and wine and tasty garlic-tinged burgers and rice pilaf and chips and catching up out on the patio. So full. I had to burp twice - really, I had to. Aaron and I made a last-minute decision to hit the Packing House around 12:30 for pool and... atmosphere. Thursday breakfast over at the Danville Restaurant - blueberry pancakes and sausage, coffee and water - I will pat myself on the back for getting in so many of my favorite meals this week. Dinner with Dad at Elements - I believe the best I've ever had there - Mongolia-spiced chicken wings, an awesome veggie-cheese strudel, and a delightful bottle of rose. Friday Aaron made baozi, and it was great. People came in and out. Friends and relatives, baozi and coffee. Dad put together a great dinner of shrimp linguini, and later Aaron and I drank some good beers with Andy, Shannon, and Nick, and that was that. Have I said too much? It takes long winds to describe the satiating of great appetites for food and company.

All this time I am living it up and not paying attention to time. Only on Saturday morning, when Mom slicing up onions reminds me of some great turkey sandwiches and subs I've had in past days in New England, only then do I realize that my time has been short, and that I might like to stay a bit longer. But moments come and pass, materialize and succeed one another. Touchdown at the Austin-Bergstrom International Airport brings to mind an evening of six months ago. Convert an almost-wistful historicization into an open-minded, optimistic vigor. I will take the bus back on this overcast night, walk down South 5th to a taco wagon, and wander the streets of South Austin, streets that I miss more than I thought I might. There are streets everywhere, each offering different experiences. The same might be said of food and people.

Four Openings in Two Hours

“The first thing we had to say about painters was not very theoretical, because it was, 'There's a cocktail party tomorrow evening at such and such a gallery in such and such a street.' What painters meant to us was first and foremost a chance to drink and a chance to eat: we tried never to miss an important opening. So the painters' primary function was utilitarian." - Jean-Michel Mension, The Tribe: Contributions to the History of the Situationist International

This is the mindset, this is the idea. Realized there were four different art openings at about the same time and only one bus ride apart. Downtown, and off at a trot, to the Wally Workman Gallery on W 6th. Wonderful. The art is cool - innovative, layered and mixed, broad and detailed - and the food is great. Glass of white, and fill my plate: baked salmon, asparagus with a zesty lemon dip, light pasta and veggies in a creamy sauce, and a mini pizza square topped with peppers and onions and some spice. No irony in going to an art opening and describing the food. A bit hungover from a night of homemade martinis, this feels fine, exquisite. A tour of the gallery... more art, more food. Then off to the #22 bus stop. There is sex in my vision of the streets and galleries, but no psychology, no sociology.

I like the idea of living similarly to the radicals and artists in Paris in the first half of the 20th century - finding food, drink, and entertainment wherever one can; taking from and giving to others strictly on the basis of availability of resources - but some times I feel like I'm paying lip service to the lifestyle and not really living. The romanticization of poverty seems to become the poverty of romance.

And on this bus, the streets of Austin become San Francisco become Taipei become Atlantis.

On my way to opening #2, on the East Side, walking through a park, very sharp stickers (do we call these painful things "thorns" in New England?) in my leg may be a sign... I got off at the wrong stop. Nice walk though, and I'm none too late. In fact, the first one here, other than the employees. I keep assuming that places with "salon" in their names, or like this one, Method.Hair, are witty names for literary salons and art galleries, when they are in fact hair salons. A beer? Yes, thank you. Must stick to it. Since there are only about ten paintings here, and I stay long enough to drink my beer and not seem rude, at the end, I have stared at each of the paintings long enough to feel like I've bought and owned them all for years.

Go to the address on Cesar Chavez that I copied down for opening #3, and it appears that the art is the clown paintings on the front of the Play Land party store. On to #4.

A porch, and it looks like someone's house. Lots of people too, hanging out out front. Birdhouse Gallery. Keep this buzz regulated - through art, through booze, through music - later tonight I'll see Fear and Agent Orange, but now it's the Smiths (the exhibit is called "This Charming Man").

Another stab at #3 proves that the gallery is actually around the corner: Okay Mountain. Here I am truly impressed with the vibrancy of Austin's art scene. Here also another impression makes, that of the inadequacy of art in general: these paintings are amazing, creative and innovative... but they are still only images on a wall. Just started reading Metapolitics, and one of Badiou's starting points has philosophy comprised of four conditions acting as truth procedures: science, love, art, and politics. From the Preface: "Philosophy, which requires the deployment of four conditions, cannot specialize in any one of them." Truth cannot specialize in any one of them. Accordingly, what impresses me most this evening - walking along E 2nd, toward I-35 - is the composition of the pink and orange cloud horizons against the blue sky. This is science and it is love and it is art and it is politics.

Took a wrong turn, and am "forced" to walk along the river. Stop on a dock to see the bats fly out from under Congress Street bridge in front of the pink ovalries in the sky. Momentous and momentum should not be words, because they imply the multiplicity of the moment, when there is really only this moment.
(8/15/09)

Piece of Peace of Pisces

Like a ghost. Gliding around in space with all the pleasures of sense, but none of the hang-ups, the stubbing of toes, or the hitting of head on freezer door. Friday after work - and this is a fitting follow-up to my last post - until the wee hours, was in a state of general serenity. Coked up on serenity, one might say, if that were possible. No explanation really, only the tale:

After hitting the ATM (allowance doled out to myself in sparing and controlled spurts), met Tania, and we went to the Texas State History Museum. Hot evening, but in the shade, few worries. The purpose at this point was free Rudy's BBQ first, and live music second. The little BBQ dogs did not disappoint, and I had seconds, plus some of that Sweet Leaf iced tea - original and peach. Tania, not feeling the meat so much, wanted a supplement, so we wandered over to the Dog and Duck Pub - where I had not been since visiting Austin last February - for some great beer (an experience I don't have as much these days, due to budget restrictions, sticking to PBR and High Life, the occasional Tecate) and falafel plate for her. Spicy too. Too spicy, in fact. But with the beer, the background music, some stimulating conversation, and the cushioned seats at a booth in the center of the room, the serenity seeped in further.

And then back to the museum, no food or iced tea left, and still not feeling the music. No prob; primary goal (to remind you, that was the BBQ) had been achieved. With at least an hour of sunlight left, Tania had an idea. Hit the road. Scooter ride was breezy, smooth, well-paced, and quite in alliance with the atmosphere - wind and air. She took me to Mozart's Cafe, on the lake. One of the most charming places on the lake, and anywhere, really. Sit outside, as sun goes down, gazing at yellow-purple reflections dancing in the ripples of water in front of dense green hills - for a half an hour, I was only eyes, nose, and ears. No body, and no mouth, because why talk at times like these? Other people talk - about school, about food and drink, about art and culture - but it seems to exist in another dimension, a TV I can turn on and off with my consciousness. Bugs flying around become part of the landscape; with the right depth of focus, the bugs in the foreground mingle with the birds flying over the hills in the background, and I can't tell the difference. At any rate, I can't feel them... they don't bite, and thus become part of the painting. And that's that. Bliss.

Must move on, and I hate to say it, but I must get groceries. Get dropped off at the supermarket, and you would think this experience would end the serenity. At times, sure, but there's a certain peaceful awareness in counting tomatoes and choosing Honey Bunches of Oats over H.E.B.'s wholesale muesli concoctions. The walk home, with a full and heavy backpack (including a Steel Reserve twelve-er) and two other bags, all 20 minutes of it, is not serene, per se - I am sweating like a New York Knicks center in the '93 playoffs - but it is part of the night, and somehow, like the ice bag that takes the swelling down, is comforting. In a mind-numbing way. At home, putting groceries away, become embroiled with Tania and Anjela in conversations about lingerie; and the fact that the female sex can multi-task better than their counterparts. But years of interactions with various females leave me at least semi-prepared. Make a turkey-swiss-and-mayo-on-wheat, pop a couple Reserves (at 8.1% ABV, they are fortifying), and sit back. Still... still at peace.

No one else wants to go out, but there's a free punk show at Stubb's that I want to see, so I do. Last #5 leaves my house at 11:30, into the club to see Me Against Everybody - pretty good hardcore, like a cross between Murphy's Law and Black Flag. But getting tired, the serenity seems to be waning. To the street. Up and down 6th street, I transform from a ghost to a fish. Swimming around in a sea of attractive, carefully presented bodies, figurehead cops on bikes, and stumbling frames reaching out for a direction... but in a way, they all become one - part of the sky in my mind that has turned from dreamy ambivalent clouds to bright constellations and raucous shooting stars. Still, it surrounds. Pisces, a fish in the sky. In this state, I decide it best to continue the show.

On a $5 budget, nourishment is difficult. Slices are all $3 or 4$, sausages and dogs up there too. They can charge whatever they want on this street. But finally, my research pays off, spotting a $2 sausage wrap on Red River and 7th. Chow down, lubricated with BBQ sauce, this is my seventh meal (albeit small) of the day. Into the club, and say bartender, do you have anything in the $2 range? A High Life would be great, and here's a dollar for your trouble. Downstairs, the Krum Bums are playing; a great band, by the way, sort of reminds me of the Virus. With the five members on stage seeming to be approaching an ecstatic choir like anthemia, the crowd dancing and singing along, and I - pleasantly full, ears and eyes absorbed, living the High Life - feel still, still, still serene. A different end of the spectrum, to be sure, but the peaceful mind makes no judgments.

Back down 6th, in time to catch the night owl bus, and home. And just like that, it ends. This is how many words it takes to describe an essentially singular feeling, and now I ask, what's the point? Why do I bother? Well... although it can't be recaptured, one must try. And I can't help but to try to express the contents of an existence that, in ceaselessly trying, will not end. Ever.

All the times, after all, all the same

Been reading The Miracle of Mindfulness, by Thich Nhat Hanh, a book about meditation, and Buddhism to an extent, but most importantly, about the idea of living every moment of life with mindfulness - creating a harmony between your mind and body and your environment. (I will say right off that all this stuff is difficult to paraphrase, because it's abstract to begin with. Been having trouble understanding concepts myself, and that's no way to begin explaining things in writing, but... to hell with constraints, ya know?) The primary concept, which I believe is the reason Aaron got the book for me, revolves around the importance of living every moment, period. But beyond that, it gets tricky. I fully support the concept, and it's gotten me re-interested in meditation and other things, but I've got my reservations too.

From my personal standpoint, the live every moment dictum (which, when you break it down, is anything but a dictum - reservation #1) falls into two strains: the Buddhist perspective and the anarchist/situationist perspective (e.g. "Who wants a world in which the guarantee that we shall not die of starvation entails the risk of dying of boredom?" - Vaneigem; "You will end up dying of comfort;" etc.). (Incidentally, Henry Miller probably bridges the gap between the two most completely.) One of the main differences here is that Buddhists like Hanh advocate being mindful during all activities - washing the dishes, drinking tea, working for the man - while the anarchists essentially do as much to discredit or avoid the work aspect as possible.


(I keep typing "meditation" as "mediation," and it's funny, because they are almost opposites - meditation is about direct contact with your environment, and mediation is the intervention between the two. Still, there may be some cautioning irony here....)


It seems to me that most post-industrial jobs, in the form they currently inhabit (in other words, market capitalism), are either directly or indirectly harmful to the well-being of humanity. Directly harmful jobs are those that directly support Capital (retail, marketing, so much else) - which essentially keeps us all enslaved to an immaterial entity (money, credit, etc.) - and those that directly support the State, which regulates Capital and the power of the wealthy elite to the detriment of the rest of us. Indirectly harmful jobs, if they don't contribute directly to these institutions, often contribute to the deterioration of the worker him/herself mentally (through monotony, obedience, stifled creativity, etc.) and/or physically. My current job, an archival one, is a great example: I work for a state-sponsored department, but what we're doing does not support the State or Capital directly, and on the positive side, could theoretically be benefical to the natural environment. However: every day the mind-numbing work deadens me a little inside.


(Overdramatic? It may seem so, but take a step back and look at what these lives do to us. Children, the gleam will leave the father's eye. It's only blasphemy when you don't really believe it.)


The compromise for me, then, is, until a more clever sounding phrase comes up, the "supplement of creative absentmindedness." Exactly as it sounds: while working in an uninspired and uninspiring environment, your mind is elsewhere - on creative ideas, blissful memories, psychedelic dreams, etc. It's a way to make every moment your own without succumbing to the indoctrination of Capital or the State. With this particular job, it hit me a couple of weeks ago, after a majestic Sunday evening: Phil, Laura, Tania, and I went to Lake Travis for swimming and grilling. Had no charcoal and no utensils, but we collected wood and Phil started a fire, and we were off. Then, as the sun went down, scanning the horizon from inside the lake, a craggy fossilized landscape under purple sky, ghostly trees set up against it like in a Road Runner cartoon, inspiration hit and insulated itself in the cranium. Didn't even feel bad about going to work the next day. In the morning, I read something - might've even been Vaneigem - to stimulate the cranium a bit, and I was off... in the world, in my own world - as opposed to the world dominated by the dollar - where peacocks crow and everyone walks around with big yellow cell phones that are actually rotary phones ripped from the cord. Do the phones actually work, or are we all crazy? It doesn't really matter....

Thinking of a letter Kerouac wrote to Philip Whalen: "I'd be ashamed to confront you and Gary now I've become so decadent and drunk and dontgiveashit. I'm not a Buddhist anymore" (found on Wikipedia). But really, it's selective: why can't we be Buddhists some times and inspired decadents others?

Been working on this entry for a week now, because it seemed fitting to only write it while at work. But today, with every song piping from the muffled radio in the nearby cubicle sounding like "Hold On" by Wilson Phillips, I am done. Sufficiently, creatively, and passionately absentminded.

Like a bowl of Cheerios

Dropped in the bowl, I am a Cheerio;
Milk surrounds and milk is my guts;
Other humans make a meal of cereal;
Dropped in the bowl, we are Cheerios.
Floating around, in existence ethereal;
None in control, we are also nuts.
Dropped in the bowl, I am a Cheerio;
Milk that surrounds me becomes my guts.

Til the end part tres

A brief installment of the continuing journey through the East Side:

The New England Revolution are defending their title in the SuperLiga, a sort of champions league for North American soccer teams, but basically the US and Mexico. Games are broadcast on TV on the Spanish-language Telefutura. Last Wednesday, for a rare opportunity to see my team on TV down here, figured I'd venture to the East Side, where half the bars are Mexican-owned, and you some times have to order tacos in Spanish.

Walked from work at 17th and Congress down to 5th and I-35 to meet Phil. Sort of weakened by a combination of hitting the climax of my cold and walking in semi-oppressive heat (though really, I can't (and rarely do) complain - I wanted the opposite of winter in northeast, and I got it), trudged east of the highway, Phil walking his bike. First, to the bar on the left of Hotel Vegas. Walked in to see a family crowded around a Mexican soap opera. They asked how they could help - basically, a friendly way of wondering what the hell we were looking for - and through a translator, we surfed the channels looking for the game. No luck, and awkward enough that we left straight away, though they were nice. Then - and apparently what I thought was one big bar surrounding Vegas is actually two separate ones - to the bar on the right of the Hotel, "Texas Bar." Another dark interior, more Mexican soaps. But the bartender was totally cool, and found the game right away. The clientele was Phil and I, and about five Mexican women, all dressed up on this Wednesday night, their purses all hung on a peg over the sink next to the bar. They'd go to the sink to get money for a water or Coke. Game started, and the bartender talked to us a bit about the U.S.-Spain match from earlier. Didn't even ask us if we wanted drinks - not cause he was uncooperative, but because he wasn't presumptuous. Seriously, we could've watched the whole game without buying anything; he was happy to sit back and watch the game with us. No forcing us to spend money, no fishing for tips, just at our service. But we got beers, of course, out of courtesy and our own thirsty desire.

Just before the half ended, the Revs, down a man due to a red card, scored. Hell yes. Out to look for food, but no taco wagons open for supper. Something I just don't understand. They're open for breakfast, lunch, and late at night, but not dinner. So, to a convenience store, and back to Texas Bar. Bartender clued us in to a taco wagon that would be open, and erroneously thinking the game hadn't started yet, we went. Phil did well to get the wagon to actually open, and order en espanol, and we got tacos al pastor. Back to the bar, where it turned out the game was almost over anyway, and then Kansas City scored to tie it up. Well... that sucks. But the tacos were muy bueno.

Walking back on 6th Street, west of 35, much more oppressive than the heat. People decked out in designer clothes, cheesy music emanating from silly-named bars, doormen barking out drink specials... some times it just doesn't resonate. A week before saw a Thursday night crew-cut convention (i.e. probably military base leave or what have you) drunkenly tar the streets with dudes alternatively trying to pick fights and hold each other up. These things linger....

Then again, Phil, Laura, and I came back to 6th the following Thursday for our now weekly Jackalope happy hour, and had a marvelous night. Post-Jackalope, wandered over to Beauty Bar, on Laura's inkling, and stumbled upon a graphic design convention party. I asked about drink specials, and bartender replied, "As far as I know, it's open bar." Say no more, my bartender - round of gin and tonics, whiskey and cokes - because I know you ain't making martinis. It's okay, we'll get by, at the open bar everything is tasty....

Then Friday I came back to 6th to see Leftover Crack at Red 7, a club on Red River Street, which as I walked up and down, I realized is a bastion of great clubs hosting great bands on any given night - punk, rock, doo-wop, mash-up, trance, '80s covers - revel in it, it's all in the perspective: 6th street hits me dead wrong some times (but still better to be hit psychogeographically than hit by a drunken soldier who hasn't left the base in months), and some times it gels. As a wise person once said, if you start off a journey in a good frame of mind, you'll end up in a good place.

And in that spirit, the weekend continued: to the library, to the supermarket, to the house with my companeros, and between 2 and 8am: to two different pools, Stacey and Barton Springs, to swim and watch the sun come up with a bottle of Pinot Noir, while avoiding territorial gun nuts ("You wanna get shot?" No, we're just gonna swiftly walk away, thank you) and playing our part in the initiatory acid trips of others. And Sunday, though the US lost to Brazil in the Confederations Cup, the Revs won another SuperLiga match and move on. And I'll move on - to the East Side, to 6th Street, to the library, to the pools (away from the guns), into others' hallucinations, into bed, and out again. All a matter of perspective, you short-haired knuckleheads... I'm on permanent leave.

J'ai besoin d'aide

As the great Canadian punk band SNFU puts it, "Reality is a ride on the bus." It's true that a bus ride is a glimpse into the rainbow of humanity, and the more rides one takes, the more shades one can see. From an afternoon on the job hunt:

Riding the bus in the afternoon
Where are we all going?
With fast food lunches in tow
Pangs for the group of misifts
Rushing to the other curb
Young and old, all tones of skin
With tank tops or hard hats
Or bags too heavy, too bulky to carry
Some even without limbs -
Where are we all going?
If we work, we're in the shit
Whether for Capital or the State
Only the degrees of compliance vary
Others, the "lucky" ones...
Live off the trans fat of the land

Now that I have a job, I see the same people every morning on the #5 bus - something I never experienced with the subway in Boston. (That's not a diss; they're just different.) So I try to make up back stories for these people: the cute strawberry blonde with hip glasses who always looks straight ahead while listening to her Ipod before getting off at 14th and Lavaca, the older woman who often wears a skirt and sneakers and some times talks to other older regulars before getting off at 4th and Congress, the guy with the mutton chops and baseball cap and cargo shorts who some times smells of body odor and often seems to be studying diagrams of a sort and gets on at 8th and Congress... where he gets off, I don't know. I'm off at 18th and Lavaca.

The ride home is always different. Some times I wait for the 5, some times not. Two days in a row last week, I broke my iron rule of not giving out change (the principle is that if you give it out to everyone, you'll be broke, and it's too complicated to make evaluative decisions on the spot), while waiting at 17th and Guadalupe, because I felt some kind of urge. The first guy, a mid-30s dude with a shaved head and baseball cap, asked for 65 cents. At first, I said I didn't have it, but then I had that strange change of mind. Obviously feeling like he needed to entertain me, he told me about his high school club lacrosse team, who played against other schools, but weren't officially sanctioned, so they could drink and smoke on the sidelines, and host keg parties as fundraisers. Then he told me about going to his senior prom full of 10 beers and codeine (for lacrosse pains), how his date had to drive, and he couldn't remember where he'd made reservations. On Tuesday, the order reversed: a middle aged guy started asking me about this camera he had found, since he wasn't good with electronics. I realized it was, in fact, not a digital camera, and the roll of film had already been shot. We decided he should go develop it and see what was shot. Then talk turned to punk rock, and the old clubs on the strip, shows with the Dead Kennedys and Black Flag, etc. Then he asked me for 56 cents. I only had 55, but he seemed okay with that. Since then, I've either needed to walk further downtown first, or have felt too antisocial to give out change and hear stories, and have been going to other bus stops.

Today I wait at 14th and Guadalupe. Sit down on the grass, let the smell of recently cut green waft into the inviting proboscis. Wait for the #5 to come and end this hell-forsaken work day. Honey, I'm coming home... please have either a fruit and cheese platter or an apple pie waiting for me on the kitchen table. Workeatsleep. Dreams of putting documents in order and endless trips to the copy machine. No time to play. On the contrary, the alarm on my internal clock goes off every day at 6pm - like a foghorn - and the hours between 6 and whenever are quite happy, happy hours. Apple pie is a metaphor, you see. Fruit and cheese platters are not.

Nation of the State

On the U.S.... The state of the nation is that it is a nation of the State, with the State being an essentially non-governed entity that moves through time of its own accord. The State was initially created with a government, by and for the people, but the government no longer runs the State. Granted, the people still elect representatives to this government, but the power of those representatives has been eclipsed by the momentous and independent forward roll of the State in its own dimension. Witness:

1. When Barack Obama was elected President, there was great excitement and "hope." Within days, he began to fulfill one of his campaign promises - presumably one of the reasons for excitement - to close the Guantanamo Bay detention camp in Cuba. Four months later, the U.S. Senate passes an amendment to block the funding of prisoner transferral out of Guantanamo, while congressional leaders the country over use the NIMBY argument to prevent prisoner transferral to any of the "legit" maximum security prisons in their states. The President alone cannot solve our problems. Especially when he or she gets vetoed by the rest of the elected leaders. A president can make things worse on his or her own, but often needs the rest of the State to help him or her make things better.

2. On May 26, Obama nominated Sonia Sotomayor to the U.S. Supreme Court - because of her qualifications, and presumably, to appeal to his growing Hispanic constituency, as she would be the court's first Hispanic Justice. While it may please many Puerto Ricans, this nomination, a politically-savvy apologia, actually obscures the position of other Puerto Ricans who want complete independence from the U.S. They don't want one of their own in the courts, because they don't want the courts at all. For those Puerto Ricans interested in complete freedom from colonialism, this nomination will not help their cause.

3. Last night, unless something catastrophic happened, the Texas Young Professionals hosted a reception at Threadgill's in Austin, at $50 a head, to raise money for the Al Franken Recount Fund. This may seem like satire, but I'm completely serious on all acounts. What the fuck? With all the possible causes that could benefit greatly from fundraising - food banks, natural disaster relief, homelessness, poverty due to war, AIDS research, cancer treatment, MS, equal-opportunity education, recycling, etc., et al - these assholes are wasting their happy hour to send money up north so that other poor suckers can count more ballots? People, this is not reality. This is a cruel masquerade designed to make you sink deeper and further back, into fantasy, months and months after an election, until you find yourself stuck in a sketch on Saturday Night Live in the late 1980s. Here's an idea for a fundraising cause - one that should be supported after the abovementioned causes and many others - but before the Al Franken Recount Fund:

Phil was telling me about a fountain in Spain with a perpetual flow of wine. We were walking around UT the other night at dusk, passing one of the great geyser fountains found on campus, when the setting sun hit just right, and we imagined a magnificent fountain of Pinot grigio, to swim and play in. Please, if nothing else, donate your money to the Bacchanalian Wine Fountain Fund. We'll even set it up in Minnesota, for just one night, and I believe the inhabitants of that state will gain much more in general quality of life than they ever would have by counting pieces of paper one more time.

Ballots or sheep... what's the difference?

On It Omelet

On Movies
Went to Weird Wednesday last week to see Coffy, first time for me. An awesome movie, one of the best blaxploitation films ever (Truck Turner is right up there as well), featuring Pam Grier as a nurse who takes revenge on all those who wronged her sister, mostly via the drug trade. Grier is a remarkable actress with a strong and demanding screen presence, but able to hit a range of emotions (vulnerability, humor, etc.). Director Jack Hill is a genius for a) discovering Grier (she apparently was a secretary at one of Roger Corman's studios, when Hill noticed her and put her in The Big Doll House) and b) producing such clever and poignant celluloid as Coffy. (An early point in the flick which set the mood: Coffy seduces a sleazy pusher, who tells his junky driver to go back to the apartment, and he can have "leftovers." Driver says, "No man, I just wanna get high and watch!") So it's funny, intense, sexy, action-packed, and quite enthralling. But the key is that it's also very subversive. Coffy starts by taking on the drug dealers, but ends up taking on almost everybody, because they're all corrupt. Without spoiling too much, they're all bad tomatoes - the dealers, the cops, the pimps, the politicians, the gangsters - of all races. The message here is that the system itself is at fault, because everyone really only cares about one color: green. I don't know if it's the decade (1970s), the genre, or the studio, but they don't make 'em like this anymore. Now you have Bruce Willis and a bunch of sell-out actors helping NASA stop a meteor, while Will Smith and Martin Lawrence don badges to heroically recover stolen drugs. Dear Michael Bay and the rest of Hollywood, you are the real pushers and pimps. Stop trying to poison my mind by dealing your trash on my streets. Otherwise, Coffy will stab you in the neck with a hairpin, and I will throw a salad on your head.

On Music
To be honest, I forgot what I was going to say here. Should've written it down. Since I know the moment when the thought occurred, I'll have to share that as the next best thing. Chaos in Tejas, an awesome multi-venue punk festival, took place in Austin over the weekend. I bought a ticket way back for the Friday Cock Sparrer show, their first time ever here, and one of only two shows in the U.S. Lots of other folks had the same idea, and it sold out awhile ago. Of course, a large chunk of these folks were skinheads, and knowing this, I was very overly cautious in preparing for the show. No soccer jerseys, no band T-shirts, no trendy jeans... nothing that could potentially provoke anyone. Of course these were ridiculous precautions; I don't even think there was a fight. Sparrer was incredible, playing every song we could've hoped for, and I was pleasantly surprised by the opening band - the Hex Dispensers, a very catchy local group - and the Brutal Knights, an intense, trashy, and rocking band from Toronto. This was where my thought occurred, and the memory of the band is all that remains. Screw. And now I'm done with style, with fashion altogether. Moving on... there was a wild after-party show on the Lamar footbridge. Imagine my surprise to show up (with other Boston visitors) and hear a band (Career Suicide) blasting out from a generator, while hundreds of punks drink beer and run around. At 3:30 in the morning. No cops in sight. I have no idea how this was pulled off, but the night raged on....

On the beat, on the bus, on the street
Saturday was a wonderful day that included a get-together at ours for Tania's birthday, a walk along the East Side section of the river (a quite amazing post-apocalyptic under-highway-bridge scene transforms quickly into the lush serenity of trees and joggers' footpaths), a playground, the Creekside, and a not-so-cool after hours club. Two very late nights in a row made it difficult to get up on Sunday, but the show must go on. Phil came over for leftover quiche and Mexican coffee, and we're off. Caught up with the #5 bus - bus drivers are really damn cool here; they will actually stop the bus after a stop to wait for you to run and catch up (has happened to me a half a dozen times already), whereas in Boston, if you're not jabbing your foot in the door as it opens, you're done for - and went downtown to the Mohawk for a free show/wedding reception. Caught the second half of the Altars, a good, hard-edged, fast punk band. Out back, and up on a veranda, we dove onto comfortable old (leather?) couches. I bought a Tecate with lime, took some sips, took the tequila out of Phil's bag, and made a poor man's Mexican Iced Tea. Saw the Hex Dispensers again, and they were great again. Out on the relatively barren Sunday afternoon streets, we got a tip about a couple of free shows up on North Loop. Into a Red River bar, we asked the bartender, drinking some scary-looking concoction, for directions. He gave 'em to us, but perhaps we wished he hadn't. We caught a bus up north, walked around, asked more directions from a nice dude on the street, and realized the drunken bartender had steered us well off course. No matter, a good walk. Famished, we arrived at The Parlor. Show was over, but the spectacle was not. Tons of punks hanging out on the street, drinking beers, and chatting it up. Into the convenience store to wait in line and get my supper: a packaged bear claw and a Mickey's tallboy, all for the low price of $2.71. Back to the street to catch up with (for the third day in a row) Sela and Dominick and some of the other folks from Boston. Good good. Into Monkeywrench, the recently discovered anarchist bookstore, for a look-see. As the rain came down, the punks washed away. We bid adieu to Sela and company, and went to the #7 bus stop. Phil played the harmonica while I slurped down a High Life and stared at the post-deluge sky: relatively clear, light blue, with violet ovalries splattering a horizon. And back.
On the bus.

Really deep in the heart

Buddy and Nate came down to visit this past weekend. For three days, we ate nothing but tacos, BBQ, and pizza. A great weekend. Friday was a marathon day that started at the Trailer Park Eatery and ended at Hoboken Pie. (Perhaps the only really inharmonious moment of the weekend revolved around our not seeing eye to eye on the merits of Hoboken slices.) Sunday was the capitol building, UT campus, and a night spent at the Scoot Inn - Skee-ball, Ruby's BBQ, Celtics game, and beer. Saturday... after waiting for the rain to let up, listening to Asia and Boston tapes, a late breakfast at Polvo's (including my horrible idea to have a Blood Mary-with-beer cocktail), a walk and round at Doc's, and some darts, we went deep in the heart of Texas. Really deep. For four hours on Saturday night, in fact, we were submerged. Be still, beating heart. I-183 is the pulmonary vein, Laura and Phil's Jeep the vessel, and the Shining Moon Saloon the left atrium. Thump thump.

The Saloon hangs off the back of a gas station. When we arrive, everything is dark from the outside, except for the "open" sign. Walking in, we beeline for the front, to meet Laura's friend Mindy, who's watching her friend's band, the band we're here to see. Had there not been a band playing, I would've expected the record to skip to a stop, the taps to close, and grim faces pointed in the direction of us, the northern invaders. Soon to find out, I was dead wrong.

I believe the first indication was the bottles of vodka in the middle of every table. The Shining Moon Saloon has no liquor license, so they only serve beer and wine, so people can bring their own liquor. Then they buy cranberry juice at the bar to mix it with. (I'm not sure if this is always the case; Saturday night may have been a special occasion.) But it gets better. We go to the bar to get beers, and hopefully food. Turns out they've stopped serving, but... they have a free "buffet" up near the stage. Hell yes, I'll get some of that. (I would later find out that this was more of a potluck than a buffet, but there was plenty of food, and they seemed happy to share.) First course for me is chicken casserole and two meatballs. This stuff tastes so good, especially free. Wait a while, more food comes, and course number two is beef taco and more meatballs. There are store-bought veggie and dip platters, but they haven't been opened yet. I fully expected to pay a cover, and not only did we not have to, but we got dinner too. Pat the head, rub the tummy.

Another big bonus was the people. Very nice, very cool, very real. One girl even invited us all to hang out at her place after the bar closed. One of the bartenders, a slightly older guy who also turned out to be genial, wore a shirt that read, "The only job I need is a blowjob." We played pool against a couple of guys - one a bit of a shark, but cool about it; the other... he had fallen off a ladder six weeks prior. Had been laid up on the couch, popping pain pills and drinking vodka, and didn't remember much of the past six weeks. This was his first night back out. And he played okay, all things considered. Like a trooper. The shark left lit cigarettes hanging off the pool table between shots. (Another thing: I don't like smoking in bars, or anywhere indoors, because it makes you and your clothes smell bad, it's unhealthy, etc. But I like the fact that everybody was smoking here, since I was under the impression that it's outlawed in Austin.) The band, who I dug, played lots of stuff, not just country, though I was so happy to hear "Help Me Make it Through the Night." Then there was Tripod, who "just can't help it," he likes the ladies. I'll leave it at that. Point being, my preconception of being unwelcome as outsiders, perhaps chased out by shotguns or bowie knives, was turned on its head by a group of people genuinely inviting and cool.

Buddy had the impression that when you come to Texas, if you start singing "Deep in the Heart of Texas" in a public space, everyone will join in. Join in:

The stars at night, are big and bright,
Deep in the heart of Texas
The Shining Moon lights up the Saloon,
Deep in the heart of Texas
Jello-O shots with wine taste so fine....

Til the end part II: 2 Days East

(Part I, the intro to the East Side, is below.)

4/22/09
Went over to Phil and Laura's for some chili. Chili was the reason I left the house, and it was the only plan we had. But the sweet and sour pungency of the Argentinean white wine suggested a further course of events. We came up with three choices: 6th Street (Jackalope (which is very cool), etc.), the Horseshoe Lounge (the closest bar to my place, and they have table-top shuffleboard), or the East Side. Based on recent experience, we had a good feeling - and went with - the East Side.

First to the bar that's housed in the Motel Vegas. In fact, it's the other way around: the huge bar houses and surrounds the little Motel. Phil and I had stopped for a beer and some cards in the outdoor area on the previous Saturday afternoon, and felt right at home. We were talking about renting a room some night for a little party (it would probably cost 50 bucks altogether, based on the exterior; believe me), but then we realized it's probably more of a short-term housing situation. Or a flophouse. Ordered beers in English, and that's as far as the bartender-patron interaction went for us. Cruz Azul was playing Atlante on TV, but I think this is a Guadalajara club bar, so no one gave a shit anyway. Everyone else was playing foosball. We decided to move on.

Tried to go to Rabbit's, but it was closed, at 10:30. The bartender had told me they some times close early on weeknights, but that's pretty early. So let's skip the formalities and just go up to the Long Branch. Took Comal from E. 6th up to 11th, and by god if we didn't go through a whole suburban town on our way. I know from previous experience that E. 12th is a bit sketchy (see my post on "SXSW End", from March), especially at night, but 11th is all picket fences and rose gardens. Felt like I was walking by my grandparents' old house in New Hampshire. At Long Branch, we heard a really good Alice Cooper song ("Desperado," I think), and then Laura played a few. Met the bartender from the Scoot, who I think works every single night in one of the two places. Laura has this thing where she does half shots of tequila ("One shot, two glasses please"), which is a good idea in theory, but can be otherwise in practice. We split a couple of those.

The initial reason we hadn't gone to the Scoot to practice Skee-ball (we would have the following week off, so we needed to stay in shape) was the poetry slam happening there this Wednesday evening - we would've been too much noise. But figuring it must be over now, we made our way down Navasota. We had been feeling athletic and adventurous all evening, so we tried climbing up a signpost somewhere around 9th and Navasota. That's why my arm was all scraped up. Phil actually made it up. Then I got ahead of them, on an embankement, and ambushed Laura, for some reason. Kind of an accident, but that's why I had scratches on my legs. At the Scoot, we were right: poetry was done, we were the only ones inside. So, several rounds of Skee-ball (including a couple going for "hundos" (aiming for the 100 circles)), and Queen on the jukebox.

The requisite stop at Wendy's (Phil and I have gotten into splitting chicken nuggets and cola), and back to theirs for a great, long, and philosophical conversation spurred by an essay Phil had writtten earlier in the day. One of those times I wish I'd taken notes, but forgot. I had a wonderful, long walk home. Put the Ipod on shuffle, and all these great songs triggered random memories. The cloudy sky illuminated by city lights produced a haunting, transparent effect, like a subtle swiss cheese. I can pick my side streets off South Congress, but Annie is the best one to smell the flowers. Honey blossoms in April in Austin - nothing finer. It would only be slight hyperbole to say that I was skipping up to my front door. Feeling stellar.

Epilogue, 4/23/09
Phil and I had decided the night before that if we were both up for it, we'd hit the Java Garden, a $6 Chinese buffet we'd been talking about for a month, off of Riverside, East of their place. I called him at noon, had a banana and coffee, we each went for a run, and then went for it. Four courses did the trick. I told Phil about my Dad's notion that if it takes 20 minutes for the food to reach your brain and tell you you're full, you should pack as much into those 20 minutes as possible. But we were slow, and only got one course in during the initial 20. I developed a new system for Chinese buffets: one crab rangoon with each course. Even dessert. It may not be a good one, but it's a system; order and tradition are important to the gastronome. And we hobbled, slowly, out to the car, with feet dragging and stomachs full and burning. I didn't eat again until 10pm. And that was practically force-feeding.

4/25/09
Had planned to make this a two-day entry, but it's gotten so exceedingly long, that I'll be brief: had heard about an urban/guerrilla art show on E. 3rd (I think) and Chicon, so Tania and I decided to check it out. We met downtown, and were gonna grab a drink first, but just kept walking throughout the streets below E. 6th. There's an awesome mini stage set-up (even with what seem like stripper poles) that's made of all these little mirrors, outside of a gallery on E. 5th. The show we went to ("This is Urban") was pretty cool. Pretty mellow too. I was expecting a bit more of a spectacle/party, to be honest. But beyond the gallery was a softball park, where everyone had gathered, with picnics and beer, to watch a couple of adult-league teams face off. We stayed for awhile, enjoying being spectators in a spectator sport. Then an al pastor taco at Club Primos (there is actually a club, but when you're walking up the street, it looks like the "club" is just the taco wagon out front; I always get funny visions of a disco ball and people dancing shoulder to shoulder inside this little wagon). Then some scouting for future East Side jaunts, and that's it. Back to our home, south of the river. A world away.

Journey, til the end

Austin seems to be emblematic of the development spectre haunting western cities. Cranes loom over the skyline, restaurants and bars appear and disappear overnight, banners with happy faces and catchy names decorate the fences of gutted open spaces to warn of impending condominiums, and construction everywhere. Sixth street is bar after kitschy bar, and the UT campus concentrates Starbucks, fast food, and wing and pizza joints. Condos really are everywhere, even downtown. And it continues to stretch out, to sprawl. In a word - a word that's been kicked around, but serves its purpose - antiseptic.

But this is only half the story, and the other half is why I'm here, now. Sixth street is actually quite fun, and the campus itself is a pleasure to walk through and marvel at the combination of buildings and greenery. South Austin, where I live - especially just south of the river - is funky and pretty. South Congress Ave may be yuppified, but the neighborhoods are full of cacti gardens, stone houses, genuinely inviting coffee shops, and a plethora of taco wagons, including the great Trailer Park Eatery. But the real bastion of the unique and real in Austin, and I didn't realize this until after moving here - through random events, exploration, and word of mouth - is the East Side. Until the bastards come and take it over, the East Side is a testament to the particular, the organic, the different, the free. Here there is no architectural "plan," no compartmentalization, and very little gentrification. That will come - as it always does (42nd street in NYC, Chinatown in Boston, etc.) - but until it does, follow me dear reader, on a journey, an exploration of the unique and the real. It won't last forever, but we will journey - until the end!

After watching the great 12 Angry Men, roommate Tania and I wanted to go see the modern Russian version that just came out, 12. But the cinema is way up north, and she drives a scooter that's really only "made for one and a half people." And highways are out of the question. But we made a valiant effort, really - trying to hit the major roads that might eventually take us to the oasis - until we realized it wasn't to be. So, with ham and cheese sandwiches already made, we decided to go to the East Side.

Parked in a random lot off of E. 6th that happened to be right next to a bar I'd been meaning to check out. Don't even remember the name, but it's a no-frills prole-friendly place, with a spacious back patio. We got some funny looks as we arrived, and I realized that showing up on the back of the scooter driven by a young woman (not to mention my H&M jeans and Hamilton T-shirt) might not endear me to the Budweiser crowd. Tania asked me to carry her bag in (with the sandwiches), and under any other circumstances I would've, but not now, not here. Trust me on this one. So we got our beers and sat at an outside table. Looking out at two big trees surrounding port-a-potties, as the setting sun hits the light side of a church next door, it's quite serene. Then the owner bought another round for the whole house - something I'd only heard about in movies. Never found out why, but it was awesome. We decided it was okay to eat our sandwiches.

On to the next: a bar further east on 6th, with a patio, but no discernible name or sign. I asked the bartender, who was very friendly. "It's called Rabbit's. See that old guy in the chair over there? That's Rabbit. He's owned the place for 40 years." Rabbit waves to us and points to the dance floor (a small space between tables), saying, "Feel free to dance." We sit at an outside table near speakers, pumped from the jukebox, playing everything from the Platters to Quincy Jones. Under Christmas lights, flying ants spin drunkenly in dizzyingly tiny circles on the table-top. I've never seen anything like it before.

Further east on 6th, past Comal, there are condos, and it's too far. South, then west on 5th, past the amazing (and apparently permitted) mural of mushroom men and a Pam Grier-like blaxploitation queen with a shotgun, we arrive at Cafe Mundi. It's free outdoor movie night, but the movie (Orwell Rolls in his Grave) is almost over. No matter - the outside seating area is like a jungle, even better at night. Blue bulb lights illuminate all sorts of plants and bamboo, and in the corner, a circular stone alcove with a ring of columns surrounding. Explore the alley behind the jungle and it looks like a huge mushroom is coming out of a tree, but it's actually just a stool attached. Still sitable. The place closed down and apparently forgot about us while we were lost in the jungle.

Past the cool European-style train station (Tania was delighted to see something like this, which you rarely find around here), and further west on 4th, to the Scoot Inn, to show the Portuguese (that's Tania) how we play Skee-Ball. (I've recently joined a Skee-Ball league down here, and it's one of the best things I've done.) They also have a huge outdoor beer garden. Chatted with the bartender for a bit, and he recommended we head up to Long Branch (owned by the Scoot folks as well). North on Navasota, past a cemetery and a church, through a residential neighborhood (there really is no line between the residential and commercial on the East Side), up to 11th, and over to the Long Branch. Like the Scoot, they have animal heads hanging on the walls, and raccoons on the gallery behind the bar, but the deer are accentuated by colorful modern art, like a pink nose-guard or a green sleeve over an antler. It's a wonderful counterpart to the farmhouse that is the Scoot Inn that is my second home.

The night ends with a homemade chicken caesar salad split at a bus stop. But the journey will continue....

Still honest

I have a series of posts to make about Austin's East Side, but first a brief addendum to the walking posts:

I am scratched up, baby, bruised and scratched up.

The grid-like formation of scratches on the inside of my lower right arm and the scab on my left knee are due to pure silliness, but the cut on the inside of my lower left pinkie is for the cinema.

The Cine Las Americas, a great Latin American film festival in Austin, started yesterday. Was behind the ball in my preparations, but I went to town to make a list of picks today. The Headless Woman, an Argentinean flick that I missed at the Harvard Film Archive, was playing tonight at 6 and Saturday at noon, but at 5 today, I decided I didn't want to take the chance I'd miss it again. Last minute decisions have served me well, so over to S. Congress right as the bus pulls up. First song that comes on my Ipod is Lloyd Charmer's crooning and faithful reggae version of "Let's Get it On," which I took as a good sign. Never been down this far on Congress, but I like that the taqueria population seems to increase the further we go. Off the bus somewhere past my vague idea of the right bus stop - 6300 S. Congress.

Google Maps is great and rewarding as an artistic device, but can steer one wrong in the realm of functionality if one is careless. I walk, but do not see the street I'm looking for (Little Texas Lane). Also, there are no sidewalks here. I often get the feeling that I'm walking where I'm not supposed to. Some times it's more than a feeling, like the way the sideview mirror of that truck brushes up against your T-shirt sleeve. The people I ask for directions clearly don't speak English, but I'm giving it a shot anyway. Gonna take a right on N. Bluff Dr. and see what happens - an elementary school and kids playing on a trampoline. Gonna - I guess - take this left on Crow Lane, where they're clearing down trees and the sign reads, "No outlet." I'm sure I'm heading in the wrong direction, so now it's just an exploratory walk. Down the road, away from civilization, I see the most surreal part of my journey: a wooden staircase that leads to nowhere. Walk up the 20 or so steps and there actually is a small landing. Survey the landscape, like a dessert, with trees beyond, a hotel in the distance, and... oh shit, that looks like a movie theatre! Back down the steps, further down the road, and there it is. With a tall, chain-link fence separating us. And there are no openings in this fence, even remotely squeezable ones. That's okay. One foot up, then the other, pause like a vaulter with hands on the top of the fence - there's my pinkie scratch - and the long drop down. Success. Just gotta make a quick trip to washroom to wash my cut with soap and water, so as to avoid infection. I think they even waited for me for ten minutes to start the movie. Pretty damn interesting movie too.

On the bus ride back, the driver pulled over at a stop, swaggerred to the back of the bus, sat down next to some dude, and told him to stop cursing and being vulgar. I love Texas, y'all.

Ode to the Tropics

Easter reached in like the first hand that stokes the devil's furnace - to get the fire started - preceded by a Saturday jaunt to the East Side and movies at home; succeeded by Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday.... Days of soccer (playing or watching the Europeans play) and washers (a great game, for days when one isn't up to horseshoes), nights on the job hunt. Minimum two sandwiches a day, cereal, and maybe soup or pizza, or a visit to the ubiquitous taco trailer. I like to read and I like to write, but I'll go days without doing either - activities perhaps made more meaningful after a few days off? Or perhaps I'm full of shit.

On another day (was it bellini day?), I was walking past Vinny's on Barton Springs Road, and thought I saw Phil and Laura having a nice Italian lunch on the patio. Strange to see them there, but in South Austin, it's not terribly unusual to run into a compadre or two on one of the main drags. Upon closer inspection however, the guy (we'll call him "Bill") had a chubbier face, and a goatee in place of Phil's rather suave stache. The girl (shall we call her "Maura?") had a similar haircut and color, from the back, but probably had a good 15 or 20 years on Laura, at close range. Doppelgangers. I don't think Bill and Maura would've had as positive a reaction to my conversation about skee-ball, but I was tempted....

Thursday was groceries and household shopping and margaritas with the roommates, beer with Phil and Laura, and water balloons. We need practice. Had a hard enough time hitting parked cars from my bedroom window.

Friday was thunderstorms during the day, which have been pretty rare - rain in general, as a matter of fact - since I've been down here. My lone chance this season to watch the New England Revolution at my place, on ESPN2, and they almost pulled it off, but DC United tied the game at 1s in the 90th minute. Always someone out there to spoil your fun. Spent a good hour or two reading The Austin Chronicle over tea, took a walk, and made a sandwich consisting of turkey, brie, mayo, Granny Smith apple, and lettuce, on 100% whole wheat. My only goal was to re-watch Withnail and I and absolutely not leave the house. Five minutes into it, I had an epiphany, and realized I had to leave the house, to meet the Hooligans. If I can catch the 11:30 #5 bus downtown, then it's meant to be. Would rather not have to walk back with the possibility of T-storms, but that too will take care of itself....

Liz and Larry are down at Red 7 with the Hooligans FC - an indoor soccer team that plays on Sundays with a fan club that drinks Lone Star. A team after my heart. Very good people, they are. Some networking (soccer and film), some skee-ball, and a visit to Hoboken Pie for the day's second slice. Meanwhile, back at home, my roommate Anjela has called out from the porch to a guy who she thinks she knows, but who turns out to be a neighbor whom she does not know. I arrive home to find roommate, neighbor, and a bottle of Merlot in the middle of the floor. The neighbor is a very nice and smart and genuine guy, but also in a very advanced state of inebriation, a combination that yields the following quotes, among others:

"For ten years, I did things that people shouldn't do."
"I came here and jumped off bridges. (Metaphorically, you mean?) No, I jumped off the South 1st bridge. In the air, it was fine. When I hit the water, it was a bit wobbly."
"He puts too much ice in his gin." - on Henry Miller
"Is there a continuity with nude drinking and not drinking because you're slamming the hammer?"
"Some people that shouldn't, aren't."
Etc.

He asked for whiskey, and was savvy enough, however, when offerred instead a sip of Patron orange liquer, to reach for the tequila. I decided to finally call it a night.

Go to bed,
With lips stained red,
Like the little penguin

And I'm talking, but not chewing gum

Continued from last post, below.

I wondered if my romantic notion of walking had become perverse, and obsessive - walking 20 blocks at the end of a long day, in opposite direction of home, blisters formed on feet from the day before, to find the Spider House, where the Stalkers were to play a night during the weekend, but mostly to prove to myself that it was not this night - this is certainly not normal, but is it unhealthy? Perverse?

Conclusion: no, it's fine. I bought a bus pass this month for when I need it, and for the rest of the time, it's good and pleasurable to walk, no matter how skewered and contrived the justification is. Health, exercise, environment, smells, sounds, creativity, people, energy, etc., blah blah, it's all good.

3/9/09 - way back
A sticker on a post - a play on the popular slogan, "Keep Austin weird" - reads, "Make Austin weirder." Absolutely, I concur. Smell of french toast and fries is great in dining rooms of restaurants, but even better in the open air of the streets. Why the hell do people litter? Cans and trash on pavement is one thing, but dropped on green space, like the BBQ sauce that stains my white T-shirt, is much worse. A mesmeric attraction to stone buildings has developed, starting with the at-once primitive, ancient-looking, and beautiful flat-and-sharp stone design of the old church on West Mary and South 3rd; and continuing when I reach the stone exterior of Austin Pizza on West Mary and South Lamar. I should eat here.

Listening to music while walking some times seems to improve both acts simultaneously. The Mountain Goats song ("No Children") gives me chills as I walk past Ego's (the bar that's inside a parking garage - why don't you see that more often?). I usually like chills, but this fit is almost too intense - like all the short hairs on the back of my head pulled with extreme force toward some impossible ponytail. The intensity of the chills moves momentarily beyond pleasure into slight pain, and accordingly, back to pleasure.

Walk toward the dusk of that magical sky, with cascading pink and orange ridges... I'm like an animal that only sees certain colors. Due west. Red at night, Adam's delight. I want to feel this city - and keep in mind, it could be any city - with the pavement or grass beneath my feet, and nothing in between. There is an electricity, a direct connection, that can only be accessed by one foot and then the other, placed purposefully upon pavement or grass, testing the water....

Before it goes any further, I'll end this collection of thoughts on walking with an example of theory put into practice. Enrique Penalosa is the one person - more than any politician, lawmaker, or head of state - who makes me think that reform can actually work - when it's focused not on economic issues, but on transforming the quality of life, for everyone. As mayor of Bogota, he installed a mass transit bus system, put in hundreds of pedestrian-only streets and parks, planted lots of trees, and instituted a city-wide "Car-free Day." He recently spoke in Boston and Austin, and I missed him both places, but I did come across this quote of his that nicely illustrates a sound attitude toward city life and urban planning:

"We need to walk, just as birds need to fly. We need to be around other people. We need beauty. We need contact with nature. And most of all, we need not to be excluded."

Yes indeed

Something that I've been thinking about for a while - that has further polarized since being in Texas - is the variety of thoughts on walking. I've developed a romantic and idealized conception of the act of walking, partly from reading Herzog on Herzog ("In today's society - though it would be ridiculous to advocate travelling on foot for everyone to every possible destination - I personally would rather do the existentially essential things in my life on foot."), and partly because it just makes sense. Good for health, for the environment, for thought and creativity, for visceral experience; and it seems to give more purpose and means to the event in pursuit. I was telling Dad about this developing romanticization of walking, and he brought up a further point: walking exposes one to smells and sounds much more than do closed forms of transport. Smell the french toast and fries, hear the unseen animals sneaking behind trees.

Now, I understand that cars and buses are often essential for time and convenience, but - my god! - life is much sweeter, more passionate, and more intense when you are on foot. I've been walking generally two to three hours a day in Austin, and it feels great. My first thought was that these Texans are crazy for driving everywhere - I don't need to take a bus from the capitol building to West Campus, and I don't need a ride back to the bus stop (but thanks for the offer. You're very kind, if only a little lazy) - but is the rest of the world different? Am I the one who's crazy? Or is it all relative, and simply looks that way?

Do I look crazy - walking parallel to the highway with a lamp in one hand and a fluffy pillow in the other, on my way back to the bus stop from Target? Do I look crazy - accidentally walking through a patch of hornets, getting several stuck in my hair (this is gonna sting...), furiously brushing my hair with one hand, and blindly swatting at my head with the other, while walking in front of a traffic light that - who knows? - may be green? (The answer to the second one is probably yes, but there may be other reasons for that.)

My romantic notion has become perverse....

SXSW End

Last South By post was getting long, so took a break, and now the end.

3/21/09
Had remembered the night before that the Stalkers were playing on the East Side at 11:30am(!), so up early to try to come up with a bus route to get there, over at Cafe Caffeine. Surprisingly, Phil was up too, and ready to make a day of it. Give it a shot - meet downtown.... I caught the lucky #1 bus, Phil ran, and amazingly we both made it. Pooled our change - $1.45 (five cents short) - so I asked everyone within range of the bus stop, even those who looked homeless, for a nickel. Finally got one from a dude on the corner, just in time to deposit $1.50 in the #6 bus, and head east. Another dude who got on the bus needed change, Phil yells from the back, "Sorry dude, we only have twenties!" We quickly realized this is not the thing to yell on a bus bound for East 12th. Off the bus at Club 1808, and the bands are out on the street, waiting to get in. I talk to Andy, singer of the Stalkers, and we think we've met before through a mutual friend. Finally get into the club - what a marvelous dive! - and out to the backyard, where there are card tables, chairs, trash cans, and a really cool stage. Hang out in the noontime sun, listening to some really sensitive singer/guitarist who apparently lost his band, and is losing his voice. Anyway... across the street to the liquor store for brown-bagged tallboys, and a hot dog for me - one of the best hot dogs I've had in years. The cashier offered me no condiments, and I needed none; dogs this delectable should be pure. During my transaction, Phil gets accosted outside, ordered by this hoodlum to a) buy him beer! and b) buy a medicine kit's variety of drugs from him. Phil looks relieved to see me exit this wonderful hot dog-serving liquor store. Over to the alley beside 1808, and into the backyard to see the Stalkers. These guys are awesome, late '70s era hard/punk rock, really damn catchy and fun. There are about 15 people sitting in chairs watching them. Andy flails around in front of the stage and smashes cinder blocks with a wrench, both conveniently located in the yard and the alley. We will come back to this neighborhood, just maybe not at night....

Back downtown with a list of venues that are supposed to have both music and free food and/or beer. The list is flawed! So up to Waterloo Park - another magical spot, with gently sloping hills and a tree house-like overlook - to see King Khan and the Shrines. Very good garagey soul/funk. Phil has to work, so I meet Tania, and we take her scooter (still not convinced that this scooter should seat two, but it's fun) to Whole Foods for sushi and Foster's oil cans. (I'd done the recon and knew we could buy and bring these into the park in Tania's bag at $2 a pop instead of paying $7 each for them inside.) Back to Waterloo to sit and watch The Thermals, who I really like - catchy power pop, singer has a great voice. Then Lucero, who I enjoyed, but maybe am still not seeing what the fuss is about. Then the Monotonix....

Last time I saw these guys, I proclaimed them the best live band I've ever seen. I told everyone about their maniacal act that ended with the entire band out in the hallway of the club they were playing, still playing their instruments. I worried that this would spoil the mystique if they did the same thing again. It did not, because they did not, and yet, they are still the best live band ever. They play 1970s hard rock/metal, like a faster, lighter Sabbath. But their stage presence... well, that's a misnomer, because they're rarely actually on stage, except to climb the rafters and jump off. The bass drum gets passed around the crowd, with the singer surfing on top of it. Then the drummer gets passed around, while continuing to play his kit. The singer parts the crowd like the Red fucking Sea and runs amok. Then... relax... everyone sit down. Everyone within 100 feet of the stage in this park sits down. "Shut the fuck up everybody!" the singer yells in his peculiar Israeli accent. When the band starts playing again, everyone jump up and dance. And we do! To have hundreds of people jump off the ground in perfect clockwork frenzy is a beautiful experience. Then we sit down again, packed like sardines, and do it again... before house PA cues house music, effectively ending the Monotonix set. Singer persuades them to let him say one more thing, that is... that this is the third time they've been cut off this festival. Thank you everybody....

Circle Jerks are next, and who can follow the Monotonix? But they are actually really good and fun. But ready to get out, Tania and I dump her scooter in a garage for the night, wander around looking for food. Oh, there's Jaime's Spanish Village, of course, let's go there. Pitcher of sangria while we wait for a table, then quesadillas and chicken mole. Have I been living under a rock surrounded by cacti because I've never heard of this fantastic entree made with a chocolate and peanut butter sauce? Stuffed, out for a walk. Various choice haunts on Red River and 6th are packed, so over, and up, to Speak Easy - another swanky dance club that I did not see myself setting foot in. But very nice, up on the roof top terrace, with futon/couch/beds all around the perimeter, nice view of the city. Rum and Cokes, dancing, and... "Hey Eric!" My phone had died, and Eric had tried to call, but miraculously we both ended up at the same place, where neither of us had been before. A fun night there. Then, with Eric and friends, we go to wait in line for some after-party. Eric and Candace try to sneak in the side, then the back, and no luck. Fuck this, I'm walking home....

3/22/09
Saturday was great, but would've been an anticlimactic end to SXSW (waiting in line for an after party - Eric and Candace and the others got in one hour later - at 4:30am), had I not decided to join those two and Lacey for Gay Bi Gay Gay on Sunday. As you can guess, this is the gay version of South By (before I realized it was "bi" and not "by," I wondered how they didn't come up with a more clever title), in someone's large backyard. A fun, colorful event (natch), with interesting costumes (pasties, imaginative cross-dressing), good pizza loaded with toppings (mine had garlic, jalapenos, olives, mushrooms, spinach, and other shit that fell off as I lifted it to my mouth), and music, including Butch County, a very cheesey and funny lesbian hard rock act. Eric takes Candace to the airport, and we are done my friend... done, fried, burned, cooked, no longer hungry... for the night, at least....