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.

A word on crickets.

They're back. If any of you Austinites out there remember the great Cricket Invasion of aught seven, take heed. Those nasty, persistent, bold little buggers found a way into my office and made it their home, their play and breeding ground, for the whole of the summer last year. This situation forced me to come to terms with a number of things.

At first I had to learn to dispose of them myself, humanely scooping them into a cone made of paper and then gingerly walking them outside, to be set free into the concrete wilderness. Although I am a person who likes to harm no things, that kind of treatment got old real quick. Taking them outside was like depositing them directly into a bird's mouth anyway.

After I got over the novelty of my self-imposed ritutal of humane displacement, I had to learn the perfect helpless tone of voice that would ensure male assistance when I didn't feel like disposing of these critters myself, or when I was past the point of caring and ready for them all to hurry up and DIE DIE DIE.

I also took the opportunity to educate myself on crickets in culture. It turns out they're a big hit in China. People keep them as pets, domesticated loose or in cages, and are soothed by their chirping, or singing, as they deem it. They also breed them for strength and hold fighting matches. Crickets are a symbol of good luck all throughout Asia. In fact, at certain periods in history, a cricket was seen as a classy type of pet to own.

I'll wax sentimental for a moment – crickets are pretty amazing if you think about it. There's something to be said for a singing insect. It's a mystical and intriguing characteristic, and I can see why they have such a solid place in folklore. Only the males chirp, like some kind of ancient operatic mating ritual, and they do it in tune with the temperature. You can actually count their chirps to determine how many degrees it is outside, which sounds like an award-winning science fair project for someone's 5th grader.

That's enough of their virtues. Let's talk about the smell, shall we? Were you aware that dead crickets give off a revolting odor? By August of last year, I could not walk into a certain corner of my office without gagging. Literally gagging. There were people who actually worked in those corners and I do not understand how they got used to such a horrifying stink. Nothing helped. I kept a heavily scented candle at my desk, burning right under my nose, surely a fire hazard but it somehow dulled my olfactories just enough so that I didn't have to spend the entire day with my nose under my shirt. The aerosol fragrance we had on hand was "Clean Cotton," which has now been ruined forever. To this day it smells like crickets and it can never be reclaimed. I'm not sure if it's their waste or their decaying carcasses, but the stench was thick. Appalling, even. At first we tried vacuuming them up, but the main result of that was that the vacuum became infected with cricket stench and only exacerbated the problem. There were times when I thought about that scene in Silence of the Lambs where Jodi Foster goes to see a dead body and puts that white stuff under her nostrils, wondering where I could get some of that.

In addition to their olfactory offensiveness, crickets are bold. They have no problem being in plain sight. They will perch delicately on a wall right in front of your face. They will even arrange themselves decoratively on the wall so as to appear stylish. They will jump off the wall at you if they feel like it. They will certainly jump out from under a piece of paper. You better sit cross-legged in your chair because they will crawl across your feet. No one is safe. They will get right up in your purse, so you better put in in a drawer, and even there you can never be sure.

It was like something out of Little House on the Prairie. The sheer mass was so out of control that they actually turned off the lights in the UT tower as an attempt to curb the problem, a historical first. The invasion still haunts me. I have to be careful when going through drawers at work, or a random box that has been sitting idly on the floor, for fear of being surprised by yet another lost carcass.

We'll never get them all. We've actually sort of given up. Stray cricket pieces are just a part of the work culture now. Today I delivered three whole, live ones to outer safety, so I suppose I've done some healing over the past year. I've gotten to the point where I can enjoy their soft chirping on a summer's night in my backyard, but I may never be able to see crickets as a benign presence again.

This is the first day of my blog.

I realize I'm a little late joining the rest of the world on the blogging train, but hey, here I am. I'm ready now. Let it flow forth. The name was the hardest part in getting started – I mean, what a task, to come up with a phrase or couple of words that is just vague and specific enough to evoke the entire concept of a person and what they aim to share with the world. I really hope Ira Glass doesn't try to sue me.

Regardless of the legal peril, that's what this is going to be: perceptions and musings on the many varied elements that make up This Austin Life of mine.

This weekend we spent the night at a cottage on Lake Travis for a friend's birthday. I was surprised to find some unrealized jagged edge in my soul soothed by the crashing waves, the perfect sunset, the half moon on the water, the shooting stars, that out-of-town feeling, the simplicity of it all. I didn't expect to be so moved. When it came time to make an early, sensible departure on Sunday, I had to go back. One more hour.

Being from a solidly suburban part of Houston, "lake culture" is a foreign concept to me. We're not outdoorsy people. My grandfather had a sailboat stashed in the garage when I was growing up, but I do not recall that I ever set foot on it. It was something foreign for us to climb on, some mystery of ropes and metal and plastic with a bright orange and yellow sail, just like in the Juicy Fruit commercials. I think he and my uncle shared it, and while I recall some pictures of them at sea, the actual experience of water and wind is not in my memory. In college I spent some time at a friend's lake cabin in the backwoods of Mississippi where the spirit of this water culture was also palpable and penetrating. Those trips played a big part in my spiritual awakening, despite a major mishap involving a speedboat and my forehead.

I've recovered since and no longer flinch at the sight of a wave runner. After this weekend I appreciate all of it in a new way. I know I'll never feel at home on a yacht, but give me a little house on the lake – even just for a weekend – and I can find my way to peace.