A few words on MJ.

It was one of those "where-were-you-when" moments. It's still hard to believe. Even typing these words feels surreal somehow, like some protracted publicity stunt that will surely be over any minute, when the world is poised for the ultimate comeback. Michael Jackson is dead. There's no denying that the man lived in his own world, but there's no denying that our world would not be the same without him. A lot of people have expressed confusion at the mass worship that followed his death, relating it to a religious zeal, deeming it inappropriate due to all the alleged scandals and the eccentricity he refused to smother. I would be confused if there wasn't a vast outpouring of emotion and reverence. You could easily say the man was a freak. His face, his actions, all unabashed and mostly unexplained. I don't care about any of that. For me, all of that laughingstock ridicule faded, disintegrated, the instant I heard he had left us. All I care about is what he brought to this world. He did the work he was put here to do. He performed his mission beautifully. Was he mentally ill? Yes. Addicted to painkillers? Probably. An alien from outer space? I sometimes wondered. But none of that matters. Michael Jackson has affected each and every person on this planet, whether they want to admit it or not. His music paved a future for minorities. His risks informed the modern artistic age. You saw him move and you knew, you just knew this was something special. Special isn't even the word for it. The man was magic, a sorcerer, something the world had never seen and never will again.

Last Halloween I participated in the Thrill The World event at the Long Center, whereby 881 Austinites joined forces to break the world record for synchronized dancing. The song was, of course Thriller. Such energy, to be alongside so many others with the same music, the same moves, the same excitement to be part of something really BIG. Old, young, dancers and non-dancers alike, lying there on the concrete in the hotter-than-we-wanted noontime sun, hair teased, pasty makeup running, clothes ripped, zombie'd out and pumped up, the event's organizer counted down on speaker phone from California and we collectively rose from the dead. The air was electric. It was more than a tribute – it was a worldwide event, a perfect salute to the man who started it all. It was the coolest thing I had ever done or been part of, the most moving performance I'd ever given. It was a big deal then, but now, as my friend Stephanie says, "It's monumental." I am beyond grateful for that moment with MJ. It seemed like he was hovering over the crowd that day. It was his spirit in all of us that made it happen.

Still here.

It’s been a long time. I’m clearing the cobwebs out of my brain and getting back to this. Because I could never write enough to express all that has happened in the last 6 months, here’s a little chronological collage. I'm simplifying this blog at the same time, planning for shorter, more frequent entries, with the occasional rambling piece of work. There’s a lot I want to say, so stay tuned.

Amanda's bachelorette weekend in New Orleans:


My last Spank Dance show - time to move on:


Yellowtape Construction Company's WARPSTAR SEXYSQUAD, a sold-out foray into sci-fi and lezzer beams, and belting. One of my favorite roles ever:



West Texas for our 3 year anniversary:

At long, long last, a NEW JOB:


Faster Than the Speed of Light! Another sci-fi adventure:


And finally, focusing on healing my foot. I got drunk and danced in heels on New Year's Eve, and 6 months later it still hurts. Me and the boot are BFFs. Me and the crutches are not on speaking terms.

It's good to be back. I'm excited!

Pretty.

Today at work our adorably gay new administrative assistant came up behind me at my desk to ask me a question and addressed me as “Genius.” “Hey Genius, am I doing this right?” Like the way you would address someone as “Sweetie” or “ Honey” or “Gorgeous” GENIUS. It caught me off-guard. I liked it.

If men have pigeonholed all women into the categories Pretty or Smart, I’ve always been a Smart girl. Growing up I was NOT pretty, or at least I didn’t feel pretty (even though my mom always assured me I was, a notion I considered utterly ridiculous). I had a wicked overbite until braces in 8th grade, a completely inappropriate Mariah Carey spiral perm, and was always the palest kid in my class. I used to get so annoyed when I mustered up the nerve to wear shorts and kids would say to me, “God, you’re white.” NO SHIT, I thought. What was I supposed to say? “Yeah, I’m working on that.” Or “I know, I’m sorry.” I tried to get some color at the local water park or in the backyard with the mosquitoes but ended up with blisters and freckles. In the early 90s self-tanners were a new phenomenon, but the resulting orange streaks of experimentation were even worse than the pasty start. It was a strange and challenging time, middle school gym class, to learn to own your skin tone and assert that you didn’t have to be as tan as everyone else. It blows my mind to think of what a freak I felt like for being fair-skinned. Now that I live in Austin, now that I am an adult, I see people everywhere who are even whiter than me, and I give them an internal high-five.

Growing up I always had a Pretty Friend. A blonde who was always by my side and infinitely perfect. The cheerleader. The student council president. It never failed that the boy I was pining over had his eyes locked on her. I can remember wondering what that must be like, to just wake up and look like that, to be so nonchalantly beautiful all the time. To just be pretty in the world, all on your own, without makeup or any great effort. As an awkward and insecure pre-teen, I didn’t understand how much of it was about confidence. This was a person who had never had to fight with their skin or hair or body, who just had to wake up and approach life au natural. A person who did not know my struggle. I was in awe, invisible by her side.

In college I ended up running into one of those middle school lost crushes at a club in Houston on Thanksgiving break. He remembered me from the old days, but suddenly I was a new person to him. My Pretty Friend was not in the picture, and without her, plus 10 years of life experience, it was finally my turn to be the hot one. Of course we danced dirty and made out in public and exchanged numbers and one marijuana-smoke-filled date. But in the end, he was…boring. Nice enough, but not enough. I don’t even remember what he did for a living. I think he worked for Sprint.

When someone tells me I’m smart it’s no surprise. I already know that. Years of feeling physically inferior drove me to develop a strong intellect and a personality – a journey for which I have unbridled gratitude – but there is still a special something I feel, albeit fading, when someone tells me I’m beautiful. Recently someone stopped in their tracks to tell me I was gorgeous. Not in a construction-worker harassment kind of way – in a stop-and-appreciate beauty kind of way. It was genuine and a true compliment. I was flattered, but hearing that from a stranger didn't electrify or validate me like it has in the past. Now that I am in a committed relationship that kind of compliment doesn’t have the same sparkle. Or maybe it’s that I don’t need to hear it so much anymore.

At this point in my life, I think I’ve mastered Pretty. I understand it. I know how to achieve it. My quest for attractiveness, perfection, copious detail in my appearance, is complete. I see myself in every mirror and I am satisfied. Some might call it vain. I call it obsession, mastered, so that no one suspects. I have attained Pretty. And it is no longer interesting to me. At my college-era Pretty Friend's wedding in Omaha last October, that was all I needed to be: pretty. It was strange and limiting. Pretty in my bridesmaid’s dress, pretty with the wedding party, pretty as one of the two single girls catching the bouquet. Surely if I was pretty I could snag myself a husband. Pretty is the ideal. Pretty is boring. Pretty is depressing. I want more.

I cannot fathom a life of upkeep of my appearance. Micro-dermabrasion, Botox, plastic surgery, expensive face creams, infinite definition of myself based on my physical attributes. I’m sure at 50 I will consider my laugh lines or the wrinkles around my eyes, when things really do start to fall, but here, at 30, I want something else. More. I want knowledge and challenge and intellectual stimulation. I want to make jokes and art and connections. Showing up to work looking perfect is not the fulfillment I am seeking. I’ve been so busy lately that I've been getting dressed in the morning without a thought to how I actually look, only that my clothes match and are clean. I’ve slacked on reapplying lipstick after lunch. It’s been too long since I had a haircut. I haven’t shaved my legs in 3 weeks. Given a free hour the last thing I would do is get a pedicure. Is it Austin? It is adulthood? Is it contentment, security? I want my place in the world at large to mean something. I don’t want to be just a pretty face. I'm more than that.

But what else am I? I've still got so many questions, so much to figure out. I still don't know what I want, and my quest for Pretty has been mostly a diversion as I delve further into the unknown of adult decision-making. Securing my appearance and the way I present myself in the world has been a rock for me to stand on, however unstable, while I attempt to choose a more spiritually substantial route. The true purpose for my talents is yet to be revealed. At least I know I'll look good when I get there. So when you see me on the street, call me Genius, please. You'll make me blush.

The Superfan.

Last weekend I had the pleasure of seeing – nay, witnessing a My Morning Jacket show at Stubb’s. They are my favorite, favorite band, and have been since they rocked me to the core for the first time at Irving Plaza in New York back in 2004. I’ve seen them many times since, and each experience has been a true gem. From their crazy oversized costumes at Bonnaroo to the Jim James/M. Ward/Conor Oberst acoustic set at the Paramount to their intimate ACL taping, I have felt utterly connected to this band, their music, and their message. I’ve had few experiences more transcendent in my life, and to be in their presence, to witness their craft, is always a most special treat.

I was nervous on the evening of the show. I often get a little stressed out by crowds and details, especially where music is concerned, something I’ve come to call “event tension.” It's a bit OCD, yes, but my ultimate goal is always to enjoy things to their fullest. My boyfriend and I arrived relatively early for this sold out show, but when we settled into a location with our group, we were a little farther back than I had envisioned. On the other hand, a couple of other friends had stationed themselves on the second row, which was far closer than I had envisioned. Complete sonic immersion was my main concern, but when faced with the choice of making my extremely supportive boyfriend into a sardine and sharing the experience with our group of friends, I stalled until I had no other choice but to stay put.

As the music started and the window for forward motion closed, I started to mentally kick myself for not taking that leap and moving closer to the stage. Recognizing the futility of that kind of thinking, I grasped hold of that negativity and began to will myself onto the positive side. It wasn’t difficult, what with the sparkling soundscape coming off the stage, and soon I began to feel like I was in exactly the right place.

Very shortly I noticed a guy about ten feet in front of me who was already bordering on obnoxious, not even three songs in. Fist pumping, jumping, singing along to every word. How annoying. My mood was already fragile enough. Once again I willed myself into a positive mindframe.

I couldn’t take my eyes off him. He was directly in front of my face, right between me and Jim James, so I actually couldn’t help it. Quickly I began to realize that as much as I should be, I wasn't scowling – I was smiling. He was so utterly full of joy, so unabashedly, relentlessly IN LOVE with this music. He was GEEKING OUT. At one point he actually turned around, clasped his hands over his heart, and animatedly told his friends he was in “true love.” Each song was meticulously choreographed with a battery of rock star moves including much pointing, bouncing in rhythm, and all manner of syncopated clapping, with the occasional spin-around. He could have won any air guitar championship, hands down, and he never seemed to get tired, even during the slow songs. The shirt he wore had the words GET BACK emblazoned on it in yellow. Indeed.

Who was this guy? Where did he come from? There must have been some musical theatre somewhere in his life. He probably at some point played the role of Danny in Grease. Maybe he was a mascot for a college sports team. So strong was his resolve, he even got the surrounding frat boys to dance with him, grabbing the shoulders of the dudes in front of him until they finally gave in to his energy, and by the end he had a whole shameless chorus of backup dancers. Other guys were bringing him beers, and he was so, so grateful. He shared that spirit with everyone and thus he didn’t have to miss one single second of the show.

Moreover, this guy and I had something important in common, a solidarity that transcends social norms. I have to say, I’ve probably been that guy to someone else in a faraway, more intoxicated time. I definitely know all the words to all the songs and all the chords and solos too, and I certainly have my own little choreographed moves. My dancing, of course, is far, far less overt, but I’m sure I enjoy a show with more gusto than most of the people around me.

The Jacket is a force. It is pure elation coursing through your blood, through each and every molecule of your being. By the encore I was actually weeping with joy. Any shadow of tension had dissolved in swirling guitars, elevated by the joyous freedom of this young man. It electrified every cell in my body. Truly, they transmit a magic that fits my soul like a puzzle piece. I don’t know how it happens, but it never fails. I hang on to every note, giggle as spontaneously as a child, bend to the will of the music in the simplest, purest, Baptism of Rock. The hair flying, the highs and lows, the rambling tangents, this is what it takes for them to get that sound, that otherworldly expression out of their bodies and into my ears. Their spirit possesses me in a way I cannot describe. The synchronization of their efforts connects me to something larger than myself, and when music can do that, it's good. Really good. So good it might just make you dance with complete abandon, eyes closed, ears open, waving your hands at the sky like some blissed-out churchgoer. It's not much different. That, you can believe.

Irish-style.

Last night as I was basking in the glow of Bill Clinton's speech at the Democratic National Convention, I rolled down the windows in my car to breathe in the late summer air and remind myself how great this country is, or how great it could be. I was stopped at the light at Manchaca, NPR cranked up in the aftermath of Night 3 of the event, slowing coming back to life from the mind-numbing business trip I had just returned from, when I faintly heard what seemed like someone trying to talk to me from outside the car. I looked to my left. Sure enough, there was a young man in his car next to me, with his passenger side window rolled down, looking at me expectantly. I turned the radio down.

"HEY! You're really cute."

He was about 23 and grinning from ear to ear, so utterly thrilled with life and with paying me this compliment that I was taken aback. This kind of thing doesn't happen to me. Well, not anymore.

"Wow. Thanks!" I replied, utterly surprised.

"No, really, I just had to tell you, you're really cute."

"Um, okay, thanks. Wow."

It was a little bit too enthusiastic, and I wondered for a fleeting second if I was being punked.

"Do you think we could, like, go out sometime?"

I stifled my guffaw. "Uh, no."

"Aw man, why not?"

"Because I have a boyfriend."

"Man. How'd he get you?"

I paused. The answer was simple. "Well, he's kind of a genius, and that's what I go for."

The boy peered at me. "I'll bet you're a genius too."

I played along. "Well, yeah, I suppose I am."

"Well you know what baby, I'm a genius TOO."

I was puzzled at this point. This guy was way too excited, way to eager to entreat a stranger, way too flush with energy and good vibes for a Wednesday night on Manchaca. And I didn't look that cute, anyway. It seemed like something out of a movie. I was seriously waiting for Ashton Kutcher to pop up in the backseat.

"Hey, are you Irish?" he asked, attempting to keep up the conversation while the light was still red.

"Yes," I lied. I'm not fully Irish, a quarter is more like it, but with my red hair and freckles it's just easier to say yes.

"ME TOO, BABY! And look, I'm packin', IRISH-STYLE!"

With that, he triumphantly held up a bottle of Boone's Farm and a six pack of beer from the passenger seat and as the light turned green, he was gone, the paper license plate to his new car flapping in his exhaust. I sat there for 5 full seconds with my mouth wide open. This guy was not just friendly, he was totally wasted. Like an alcoholic, he was completely outside the bounds of the social norms of his personality. Yet there he was, out in the world, on his way somewhere. I hope he made it. It certainly gave me a laugh last night, but today it's left me with a shudder.

Why New York smells like piss in August.

Sarah and I had just finished a comforting dinner at an old east side pub called Maggie's Place. It was sort of a last supper, close to my departure from New York, in celebration of our friendship as roommates and beyond. We had shared much as post-collegiate young Texas girls in the Big City, dancing around our apartment to Wilco and the Flaming Lips, trying our best to deconstruct the motivations of the three unruly boys who lived upstairs, and bemoaning the lack of Shiner Bock in the northeast. A more careful bird than I, Sarah often told me how much she admired my willingness to take risks in dating, to fearlessly put it all on the line over and over again. I, on the other hand, admired her resolve to do the opposite, to calculate the costs of spending time and energy on men you already knew would swiftly reveal themselves as Mr. Wrong. It was a mutual appreciation we shared, one of us determined to save her investment for the right choice, and one determined to seek companionship at all costs, in whatever short-lived, disastrous forms.

Sufficiently gorged on gourmet meatloaf and macaroni and cheese, we ventured downstairs to the well-shined historic bar for a couple of pints. It was basically empty, in that creepy haunted sort of way, but we were soon joined by a friendly gentleman in a pink oxford shirt, slightly wrinkled. He seemed eager for company, and although we hadn't yet factored a male dynamic into our girls' night out I decided – and Sarah conceded – to allow him to stay and entertain us for a bit. He seemed harmless enough, and hey, he was buying.

His name was Bernard, or Bernie, a classic could-be-foreign-but-probably-just-a-nerd kind of name. In his faint European accent he related some jumbled stories of growing up in Switzerland, skiing, and his seemingly lucrative work in finance at JP Morgan, where Sarah happened to be employed as well. At first it was hard to tell if his slurred speech was an effect the alcohol, the accent, or a bona fide speech impediment, but we shortly came to realize that not only was he far more intoxicated than we had suspected, he was also socially inept AND a racist. His handsomely disheveled appearance was clearly not a deliberate stylistic choice, and also he was not handsome enough to pull it off. All he was getting from Sarah and me was fake laughter and sideways glances, but our distracted responses were no deterrent to his nonsensical rambling.

It was clear that we'd have to make a break for it, so we said polite goodbyes and headed for the door. He would not be stopped – trailed behind us like a lost dog, begged us to join him and his coworkers for sushi at some fancy place across town. Sarah looked at me with horrified eyes. "No," I pronounced firmly. "We're calling it a night."

Unfortunately, at that point Sarah and I were headed in opposite directions, and in my hurry to end the encounter I didn't think to fabricate some alternate route or excuse to go her way. As we parted, Bernie followed me, alone, down the dark street. I ignored him, hoping he would give up and veer off at the corner. As he awkwardly walked backwards beside me on the sidewalk, he groped for my hand. I recoiled. He backed off and apologized. He asked me for my number. I declined. When we stopped the street corner I prayed for the traffic to allow me to cross quickly, but he hailed a cab and begged me to get in, said we could share a ride heading north and then I could decide if I wanted to join him for sushi.

I sighed. I was standing on the threshold of choice, of adventure, and at that instant I didn't really want to go straight home, even with the crossing signal’s red hand flashing at me like an admonition from across the street. The prospect of free sushi will impair anyone's judgment. I got in the cab.

I barely had enough time to cast my eyes toward the heavens and pray for a safe journey back to Queens. After a mere two blocks, Bernie slurred, "I have to pee," and with a pound on the front seat divider the cab lurched to a halt. I watched this drunk, desperate, pink-shirted man stumble out of the cab, walk pointedly over to the metal security grating of a closed business, unzip his pants, and begin to urinate. I could hear his stream whizzing off the metal in the still summer air.

I stared straight ahead. I understand that one of the benefits of having a penis is that you can pee wherever you want, of course, but what kind of person does this? Recognizes his need to relieve himself and pinpoints the sidewalk on East 47th street as the nearest acceptable place to do it? Especially in the presence of a woman, one he was so determined to win over? You go to JAIL for pissing on the street in New York! No slap on the wrist – hard core New York City JAIL! And here was a real, live Urinator, attempting to woo me with a cab ride and raw fish. I don't know what reeks more.

There in that cab, time stopped, and I found myself at yet another threshold of decision. I closed my eyes. I placed my hand on the cab door handle and drew in a quick breath of action, but before I could open my eyes he was already back in the car, relieved, oblivious, filthy, and we were moving. Uncertainty gave way to sheer curiousity. I held on. At the next stoplight, Bernie checked his wallet. "Oh, shit," he muttered. "Can you pay for this?" Apparently he'd reached his ATM withdrawal limit for the day after paying his rent in cash and would have to wait until midnight, which was over an hour away.

Oh, HELL no.

This time my hand connected with the door handle with gloriously follow-through to the outside world. "Wait, wait, please, " he beckoned. "What did I do wrong?"

I blinked at him.

I should’ve told him he was a socially retarded racist freak.
I should’ve told him that no amount of free sushi would be worth the cost of withstanding his disgusting presence another minute longer.
I should’ve told him he was the sole reason New York smells like piss in August.
I should've laughed in his face.
I should've told him to FUCK OFF.

Maybe it was pure exasperation, but my inner southern girl politeness took over, and I left him with something like, "You just...have a very...interesting...way of going about things." With that, I slammed the cab door in his face and escaped ironically into the safety of the subway.

Even after 3 years in New York, I still deferred to my innate southern affability when tested. Somehow I couldn't connect my mouth to my outrage at this caveman’s behavior. I’m sure lots of women would do the same thing. Some friends with whom I’ve shared this story were surprised I didn’t pony up and pay for the cab, so I suppose it is a small triumph after all. I’d like to think, though, that I get better at it every time, that I am quicker to point my finger in the face of ridiculousness with each instance of outrage that I swallow and digest. I've certainly told some assholes where to go since then, in one way or another. I'll just keep practicing, so I'll be ready for my ultimate moment of brilliant castigation when it finally finds me. There are a lot of idiots out there. It's bound to happen.

The Office, nonprofit style.

I wanted to wait a little while before opening this particular can of worms with my newly minted blog, but after the events of today I just can't wait. I shouldn't. The people need to know the truth about what I do, and more important, where I do it. I plan to make this a regular installation, and here I will just scratch the surface.

So. My workplace. My daily bread. My 40-hour-a-week community. Let’s just call it Helpin' People Out, Inc., or HPO for short. In the spirit of keeping it vague, we’re a company that deals in all kinds of, well, helpin’ folks. We employ all types of Austinites: older people well-established in the field, young people looking to make a difference, artists who need day jobs, former addicts, hippies who need day jobs, people who aren’t qualified for anything else, and people who got a job there and got too lazy to seek out greener pastures. Through a truly serendipitous twist of fate, I happened to fall into an administrative position with them when I first moved to Austin. At the time I was waiting tables at a country club and wondering if I had in fact moved to Dallas instead, so I was eager to take anything but more of that.

Working for HPO has been my first real experience in the professional world. Outside of waiting tables in NYC, this is the longest I’ve ever held any job. The skills I have learned through experience here are invaluable, and I truly am glad this opportunity fell into my lap. I do believe there are some passionate people fulfilling their life’s work in this organization despite the rampant hypocrisy and dysfunction. This is a beautiful thing to witness, and I'm secretly envious of their integrity. I wish I were one of them, because then all the bullshit would be a lot easier to dismiss for the sake of dharma. I've connected with some incredible people who have influenced my life in innumerable ways, and I've made good headway on all those pesky little life lessons a young worker bee in the creative class has to reconcile. I've been at the end of my rope several times and have somehow managed to hang on a little longer. That's where I am today. Hanging on, hoping I've grown enough to understand all the old challenges in a new way.

The reason for my breaking the seal on this particular topic is that I just got a new boss last week, one whom I had hoped and prayed would save me and my colleagues from certain prolonged misery and mismanagement. She's amazing, inspiring, truly an Earth Mother type, dedicated and brilliant and more than qualified to lead us. It took us over a year to find her. We all loved her at first sight, and we all knew what the major problem would be.

Larry.

That's my boss, now hers, and the CEO.

She's got one week under her belt, and already she's gone home in tears as a result of a tyrannical, insensitive email exchange with him. He wasn't even in the office her first week, and all it took was a few careless words on a screen. I know she's stronger than that, but it was far too soon for her to be blindsided with such power-driven thoughtlessness. I've seen her sitting alone at her desk, appearing busy but floundering, even with the best of intentions, searching for a way to root herself among us, a cause to which she can commit her vast resources of knowledge, experience, and energy, and she has been given no support. Zero guidance, except from us, the powerless program leaders. None from her superiors, none from her supervisor, Larry, to whom she must learn to answer. We are all too familiar with the effort that takes. No matter how hard we strive to tuck her into our fold of safety and compassion, it will ultimately come down to one issue: him.

Today she attended her first Board Meeting, or Bored Meeting, as I would more accurately describe it. This meeting happens quarterly – each department is required to give a report which includes much grandstanding on their recognitions, accolades, and achievements, an orchestrated illusion clearly designed to impress. We have all been extensively coached on our delivery. On the way back to work she noted the remarkable degree of "salesmanship" within the company, the way employees are encouraged to drone on without really saying anything of import. I exchanged a helpless glance with another coworker in the car. So she's onto us, already. I've started steeling myself for goodbye, searching the shore for another life raft. I may just have to tread water for awhile.