This Austin Life

Five Things! And ten million to do.

2010-01-29T15:16:00.007-06:00

Tonight I’m going to see Five Things, a really cool event curated by Miss Amelia Gray, local writer and badass. It’s only a dollar to get in, and trust me, you’ve never seen anything like it. Five creative people are given an object and their task is to make something about it. When Southpaw contributed, the object was a lightbulb painted like the American flag. I can't wait to see what's on deck.

http://fivethingsaustin.com/

Otherwise, I have ten million things to do. This Etsy thing has me BUSY. It’s a good kind of busy, believe me, but it’s kinda hard to keep up with if I don’t do some kind of work every day. It’s so much fun, though – exploring the world of online advertising, interacting with other Etsians, packing orders with love, handing out business cards, and basking in the validation that comes with people actually wanting to buy what I’ve made. I can’t believe it’s only been a month – a fantastic way to kick off a new year. I also can’t believe I waited this long. No, really, I can believe it, because I am a person who obsesses over details so much that I often find it very difficult to make decisions. With Etsy, though, I dove in headfirst, knowing winter (in Austin at least) would soon be over. I opened my shop bare-bones, with just great photos and product, and for taking that action I have been rewarded. Just goes to show that my favorite saying holds true – LEAP, and the net really will appear.

For now, I’d like to get a little ahead of the game so I can work on new designs. I’ve got the yarn – now all I need is the time. In just another couple of weeks I’m taking a class at Stitch Lab, where I hope to diversify my offerings even further. Aprons! Bags! Skirts! What would YOU like to see in my shop? Is there something you'd like me to make for you? Your comments, please.

Hearts for Haiti.

2010-01-27T15:29:00.013-06:00

Aftershocks are sending people running into the streets. A man was found alive after 10 days buried in the rubble. The threat of chaos and spreading disease hovers constantly. As the magnitude of the situation continues to reveal itself, it is clear that Haiti STILL needs our help. There are elements of rebuilding that don’t even occur to the average person, such as what to do with the actual debris (I heard about this on KUT the other morning). Those chunks of concrete can actually be repurposed as productive things like artificial reefs to promote better fishing. I don’t even need to mention the enormous population of orphaned children, or that Haiti is now the largest country of amputees. Figuring out jobs is another issue, now that Port Au Prince is basically uninhabitable. The undeveloped countryside is filling up with tents, while food distribution is spotty and disorganized. It's all so much to digest, and it's not going to be over anytime soon. The world is standing by for this broken little country.

The idea to donate a percentage of my Etsy sales occurred to me the day after the earthquake, after I tried to lift weights at the gym and couldn’t tear my eyes away from the TV. I had already made a donation to Disaster Relief International, but I wanted to do something else, something more personal. When I sat down to update my listings, I found a long list of sellers who had exactly the same idea. Of COURSE Etsy cares, and in a major way. I mean, LOOK at this - just a search for the keyword "Haiti" brings up 5,368 results.

So far, my little baby shop has generated $100 for the Red Cross. Here are a few more cool sellers/items whose proceeds will go to the Haiti relief effort. I hope you’ll consider making another small donation, in some way, to the charity of your choice, whether directly or via Etsy. Your extra $5 or $10 WILL make a difference as these organizations pour all of their resources into the effort.

Come, let me read you a story.

2010-01-20T16:26:00.005-06:00

This weekend I'll be participating in American Short Fiction's celebration of its latest volume. I'm really excited to be involved with ASF for this event. I first encountered this Austin-based, nationally recognized literary journal when I attended their summer reading at Cafe Caffeine. My friend Kelli Bland was participating, Owen Egerton was emcee-ing, there was free beer, and it was right in our neighborhood. It turned out to be an entirely engrossing evening, so much so that I subscribed to the journal right there on the spot. Inspired by both the writing and the performances, I made sure to introduce myself to editor Jill Meyers. I cut my teeth on performing poetry and prose at speech tournaments in middle and high school, so this is truly getting back to my roots. Something special happens when I have a piece of literature in front of me, in front of an audience. I absolutely live for it. So come, sit, and let me read you a story! It's about a magician with a very special trick. There may or may not be blood and guts involved.

Support indie publishing and the Austin literati! The new issue is FANTASTIC. And the cover has kittens on it.

American Short Fiction Winter Reading Redux

Saturday, January 23, 7pm

Space 12

Free admission, BYOB

Free appetizers from Xen Kitchen

Facebook event

More info on American Short Fiction

Welcome to the Domestic Rennaissance.

2010-01-13T18:04:00.011-06:00

Well, hello there. It’s been a minute, hasn’t it? September arrived and I was whisked away from my burgeoning blog by Evil Dead: The Musical. I was never a fan of the horror genre, truly, but now I can say with certainty that I have been baptized by blood and guts. Evil Dead will be part of my seasonal Halloween viewing each year from now on. I played Annie from ED2 and had a blast saving the world from Candarian demons for four sold-out weekends in October. It was a fantastic bloodbath that kicked my ass every single night, and I loved every second of it. I’m not sure if I’ve ever worked so hard on a show. I'm fairly certain I’ve never been so creatively fulfilled. I feel so fortunate to have had the opportunity to work with such a talented director, cast, and crew, in such an empowering and challenging role. How is it possible that I was turned on to both sci-fi and horror through the medium of stage musicals, all in the same year? Viva Bruce Campbell and viva Austin theatre!

So what have I been doing since then, you ask? Gosh. It’s taken me a couple of months to figure that out, but after much resting, nesting, and a 2-week holiday break, I started an Etsy store! Cue the fireworks! I taught myself to knit about 6 years ago while trying to survive a New York winter, and I think I can safely say it’s my craft of choice (a close second to performing). I make small garments – I don’t have the patience for sweaters – but I am endlessly challenged by the winding of yarn around needles in beautiful ways. There is a unique satisfaction that comes from making things slowly, stitch by stitch, row by row, patiently and attentively. I’ve made gifts for friends to great fanfare, so I thought why not give it a chance in the marketplace? After all, everybody’s doing it. By the way, in case you don't know, Etsy is AMAZING. Revolutionary. The great bastion of the Domestic Renaissance. A smart, progressive, robust platform for indpenedent artists to sell, network, and make a profession out of a hobby. Color me inspired.

Check out my wares, please, and stay tuned! I’m open to any feedback and/or suggestions you may have. We’ve got a couple more months of cold weather, so get yours already! Pet items coming soon...if I can just convince my cat to model some legwarmers.

www.missmaggielove.etsy.com

Huge surprise last week: my Cozy Cowl in Eggplant made it to the front page on Etsy! Talk about hitting the jackpot – that item got almost 650 views over the span of about 2 hours. What a thrill! I couldn’t have done it without photographic help from my unbelievably talented sis-in-law, Julie Wilhite. I swear, every time I look at her website, I cry. Her juxtaposition of people, settings, light, and form never fails to move me. Check it out. You’ll see what I mean.

www.juliewilhite.com/blog/

Once upon a time in New York City.

2009-08-05T17:32:00.007-05:00

Up to this point, I’ve avoided writing about the time I spent living in New York. Well, I don’t know if I’ve consciously avoided it; it just hasn’t happened. It’s not because of anything specific, really. Perhaps the experience was too big for me to process – too many emotions, too much uncertainty, too many directions to choose from. It was a 3 ½ year challenge laced with fabulousness and tremendous personal growth. By the end of it I was so ready for a simpler life, a better fit, that when I finally broke away I never looked back. The choice to leave was just as brave as the choice to move there, and it's still the best decision I've ever made.

My Austin life has now eclipsed the time I spent in New York. I have not been back to visit, nor have I had more than a fleeting desire to do so. The amazing friends I made there are constantly with me in my heart, but this nostalgia has yet to convince me to choose a NY trip over a more relaxing vacation. Sometimes it seems like those years in New York were just a dream, but it becomes very real when I consider how much it has informed my perspective and my independence. Finally, I’m starting to understand what it all meant.

Last weekend I wished my friend Laurel farewell as she set forth into her new chapter: the Pratt Institute in Brooklyn, for a master’s degree in dance therapy. She’s so much more ready for The City than I was, with a clear path and a few extra years of life experience. I know she’ll be fine – more than fine, she’ll be glorious – but I felt I should at least impart some words of wisdom. Survival tips, perhaps. What could be more useful?

So I sat down to find within me what I needed to share about my former life as a New Yorker. I was surprised at what this exercise brought out in me. When I set out, I started with just 10 tips, and once I was rolling it became 15, then 20, then 25, now 35, and I could go even further. In fact, I could probably write volumes. Hey, maybe I will.

Here's the list, expanded from the original 25. Feel free to leave your additions in the comments.

Maggie's Tips for the New York Life

Be brave!
Give yourself some credit every day.
When you start to feel lonely, know that it’s okay. Everyone is.
Avoid Times Square at all costs, and Macy’s during the holidays.
Keep in mind that men are different there. Young people don’t come to NY to settle down – they come to stir things up. Be careful with your own heart.
Stick to your course. Distractions abound.
Go to yoga. Meditate. Explore spirituality. It’s far too easy to get lost, especially in the winter.
People won’t be as friendly. Your grocery store checker won’t smile or look you in the eye or tell you to have a nice day. It’s not personal – it’s just the Yankee way.
Look both ways when you’re crossing the street.
Expect to be cat-called daily in your own neighborhood.
Understand that it takes an inordinately long time to get to know new people. You will appear, at first, as a blank slate. Don’t lose sight of the parts of you that may be invisible to others.
Go to shows! All the time! And always buy your tickets super early because they WILL sell out.
It’s gonna start getting dark at 4:30pm in late October. Take your vitamin D.
Purchase your Metrocard with a credit or debit card. If you lose it, you can get a prorated refund.
Go home for the holidays, whatever the cost.
There is no way to understand what it’s like to live in NY until you’ve actually lived in NY. Keep this in mind when trying to communicate with those who have never experienced it (especially your parents).
Appreciate H&M every chance you get.
Beware the black puddles in winter, and puddles in general.
Know that you will probably have to do a lot of things by yourself, and that’s okay.
Take care of your feet!
Have your window unit A/C delivered, if at all possible.
Beware the temptation to drink too much/too often in the absence of the responsibility of driving.
Be firm when saying no.
Be careful. Be smart. Be aware. Consider your safety.
Call your friends.
Wake up each and every morning knowing how amazing you are, and what a difference you are making for people in the world.
Only buy as much as you can carry.
February sucks, but March is worse. It'll trick you. Don't count on spring until late April.
When taking the train late at night, ride in the conductor car.
You can order any type of food you can imagine and have it delivered at all hours of the night, but you won't find queso on anyone’s menu. Keep some Velveeta and Rotel handy.
New York cops can really be jerks. Don't expect them to give a shit.
Get lost. A lot. Your sense of direction will build with time.
Don't touch the handrails in the subways unless you are wearing a hazmat suit.
Protect your ears: be aware of your iPod volume when riding the train.
One day at a time. Sometimes that's all you can do.

F@#% YOU, CRUTCHES.

2009-07-21T11:36:00.006-05:00

CRUTCHES SUCK. I'm in my 3rd and next-to-last week (hopefully) of doctor-prescribed hobbling, and now I fully understand why I've been getting so many pitying looks and cluck-clucks from people I happen to encounter. Because it SUCKS. Being a dancer, I think of myself as a graceful person, even in my daily life. I've always taken great care in the way I present myself to the world. I cannot glide through a restaurant or a bar or a party. There is no vanity on crutches. There is only clunking. And staring. And sheepish glances. That's what I hate the most – the staring. My sweet boyfriend keeps offering to carry me, and while that is appealing in a practical (and romantic) sense, it would probably just alarm people and cause even more rubbernecking.

I’m lucky that I’m 30 and have never sustained an injury that calls for this type of effort, but I’m not used to the kind of attention it brings. At first I was surprised and touched by all the people who held doors for me and offered their sympathy and stories. This is just a month out of my life, after all, and for that I am grateful. However, as the days pass and the bruises develop on the insides of my arms, I’ve started to notice that for every considerate door-holder there is also a giant asshole. Like the guy who was approaching the line at the movies at the same rate as me, from the same distance, who looked down at my foot and then turned around to get in line in front of me. Or the student who knocked over my crutches, ignored the clatter, and just kept on walking. Luckily that’s about it thus far, but I’ve gained perspective, that’s for sure.

There is one perk in my situation – that beautiful blue handicapped parking permit, good through January – but it isn’t even all it’s cracked up to be. It’s not like you’re guaranteed a spot. Lots of times they’re already taken, leaving the option to either crutch it from the far reaches of the parking lot or be dropped off to stand and wait alone for my companion, should I have one. There are a lot of handicapped permits out there, so I guess I’ll adjust my mindset and join that rat race for a little while.

I’ve passed the halfway point now, and for the most part I think I’ve been a good sport. Of course I've had a few fleeting moments of pouty self-pity, but I think anyone would. It’s just not fun, and it’s summertime, and unfortunately I have to miss out on some stuff. The costs of going to, say, a concert, are almost always going to outweigh the benefits of engaging in a more sedentary activity, such as watching a movie or hey, blogging! This focused rest and reflection is all in the interest of healing and hopefully dancing again as soon as possible. I miss it. The stakes are quite high. I’d be really, really sad if I couldn’t dance anymore. I don’t even want to think about it. I’m lucky that I don’t have to.

Today my boyfriend sent me a link to a Mental Floss story about disabled dancers determined to do their work, even on crutches. It is mind-blowing and unbelievably relevant. Watch and be moved by these artists’ sheer will to perform, no matter what the obstacle. Their bodies are instruments, no matter how differently-abled they may be. Perhaps it’s time for me to quit bitching about my temporary handicap and explore creativity from a different angle. I’m inspired.

Trekkies.

2009-07-13T18:51:00.010-05:00

Last weekend, inspired by some previews we saw at the Alamo Drafthouse a month or so ago, my boyfriend and I watched Trekkies, the 1997 documentary that exposed the wild, certainly weird, passionate, utterly thorough universe of Star Trek fans. I expected to be entertained; the snippets I'd seen were enough to convince me to add it to my Netflix immediately, but I never expected I could be so moved.

I've never known a true Trekkie, but I sure wish one would show up in my life. I LOVE that kind of fanaticism, that ability to wrap onself up in the most minute details, to be lost in one context while physically existing in a completely different one. I was relieved to see how people who go that far with it are still allowed to be the way they are in the world, how their commitment transcends whatever teasing or ridicule they have been subjected to. The dentists with their office fully equipped in Enterprise regalia, who wear their costumes every single day, even outside the office. The woman who served on the Whitewater trial in the 90s in full Starfleet uniform and now works at a Kinko's-type establishment where everyone calls her "Commander." Young Gabriel Koerner with his robust collection of action figures, his perfectly constructed uniform, and his endearing mispronunciation of adult words. "Spiner Femme" Anne Murphy, the very definition of obsession, who finds escape from her daily life by gazing out into the Hollywood Hills in the general direction of Brett Spiner's home. A woman brought back from the brink of suicide by attending Star Trek conventions. The outlet of fantasy and identity Star Trek provides is a gift to these people. It's a community, one where everyone has a purpose and everyone is accepted.

By diving into all these niches and bringing out the three-dimensional people inside, the film balanced the exposition of that world without exploitation. Alongside all the outrageousness, the filmmaker (Roger Nygard) managed to bring home the overarching messages of the Star Trek series. It was the first mainstream presentation of diversity on such a large scale. Martin Luther King, Jr. personally called the original Uhura to convince her to stay with the show beyond the first season because of the enormous strides her presence made for the black community. Star Trek put science onstage and forced people to think about the future in progressive, creative ways. I can't call myself a fan – with such limited knowledge I know I don't deserve it – but I can't help but appreciate the institution. They truly did "boldly go where no man has gone before," and we are so much wiser for it.

A few words on MJ.

2009-07-13T18:35:00.005-05:00

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.

2009-07-11T16:43:00.016-05:00

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.

2008-11-18T13:08:00.004-06:00

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.

2008-08-31T19:35:00.004-05:00

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.

2008-08-28T18:47:00.007-05:00

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.

2008-08-19T17:58:00.007-05:00

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.

2008-08-13T17:35:00.006-05:00

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.

2008-08-12T11:42:00.002-05:00

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.