Keeping Austin Austin

FILE UNDER: Does Anyone Remember Film? OMG OMG OMG!!! I am really having very exciting Austin days lately. Ever since Henry grew up and moved out, my trips to HEB dwindled to nothing. We used to live down the street from Hancock HEB and alternated between that and Wheatsville. Then I became an All Wheatsville Pretty Much All The Time shopper. Much more manageable.

Curiously though, I was in HEB Hancock twice in the past week. Once to take a friend on a grocery run and then there was today. I was on a super tight time crunch, needed a few things, and chose HEB only for proximity to my house. I fear the massiveness of it. The Sunday crowds. All of it. But I sucked it up and I went in. One thing I sought was a small picture frame. I went over to the photo department but, of course, there is no photo department anymore because everyone uses digital. 

Still hoping there might be frames somewhere, I wandered down an aisle and ran into this guy and asked him if there were any frames. He said no, and then we looked at each other and though it's probably been a decade since we've seen each other WE REMEMBERED.

This is Gary. He used to work in the photo department. He is SO AWESOME. I used to spend so much time talking to him. I took bazillions of print photos. My first trip to Japan I think I developed... oh who knows how many rolls of film. That photo department was a place of so much joy for me-- getting the yellow envelopes, ripping them open, excited to see how pictures turned out. So very different from today's constant iPhone photos and all the desensitization that comes with instant gratification.

Well these days Gary is stocking shelves. He's been at HEB for thirty years. We got to talking about each other's sons. His in in high school now. He asked about Henry and I said he's a man now and living in NY and working service industry gigs to support his visual art and music. Gary told me to tell Henry to keep at it, that the world needs more art.

OMG! Another Perfect Austin Evening! Hauled ass from a Round Rock wedding to pick up my friend Jocelyn from her UT dorm. Raced to Alamo Ritz at 1.5 mph. Traffic was extra heavy, tons of roadblocks. Nice lady cop explained Pride Parade imminent. This confused me-- it's not June. But who cares? Pride Parade, like National Dog Day, should happen every day.

Found parking-- granted it was $20. But still! Got to Alamo at exactly 7, miraculously they had two seats left, hustled in and spent two hours laughing so hard at John Erler and friends' Master Pancake comedic interpretation of Breakfast Club I actually hurt myself. I thought I might get thrown out I was so loud.

Then back on the street. Huge full moon. And parade was still in progress. So fun! Look at that little gay dog.

Then driving home I was behind this not-a-taxi with a sticker that reminded me of one of my all time favorite Austin sticker sightings. It was stuck to a nice yellow bicycle and it said: This Is Not A Yellow Bike.

These days I spend a lot of time writing about what’s wrong with too many too fast changes in Austin. Some people tell me to shut up, if I don’t like it then just leave. Well it’s not that simple. The thing is, I love far more than I unlove about Austin and the things I love most here I can count on my thumbs: My Friends and Music. There’s a Venn Diagram the two form and I am so fortunate to count so many incredible Austin musicians as my friends. 

One of these friends is Lee Barber. I’ve known Lee for a couple of decades now, met him when our boys were toddlers. A few years back I performed Lee’s daughter’s wedding. And I run into him out and about at shows. The shows where I most enjoy crossing his path are the ones at which he is the man in front of the microphone. As far as I’m concerned, these do not happen nearly enough. But when they do-- man. I just sit and listen spellbound by his words, his voice, his guitar, and by the incredible musicians he gathers around. 

I am thrilled beyond thrilled then to tell you that Lee has a new record out, The Missing Pages, which just dropped and which will be officially baptized out into the world on Saturday, 27 June 2015 at Strange Brew. I’ll be there, hiding in the shadows as I always do, paying rapt attention. I had the honor and pleasure of receiving an advance copy of the album and I’ve listened to it roughly eighty bazillion times in the last month. Hearing it live is going to be this summer’s big live music thrill.

This is only Lee’s second solo effort, the last being 2009′s Thief and Rescue (which I wrote about here). That effort was a critics’ darling, something you might call a sleeper on the national level, but here in Austin all of us music nerds were instantly smitten and for a joyful spell KUT had it in pretty heavy rotation. 

There’s something so slow and deliberate and deep at the heart of all of his songs, lyrics woven of dreamy wordscapes, indelible melodies, rich harmonies, intense imagery. When I listen I think of swollen skies before the downpour, chocolate torte deliciously heavy on the plate, vivid swirling colors inside sleep-weighted eyelids. And holding all of this together is, first and foremost, Lee’s voice, at once steady on and edgy, inviting you in in an instant, insisting you stay for awhile. 

Here are a few lyrics from the cut Modern Life: 

The highway’s always humming

Even in the early morning

Like a turban of bees

Wrapped around my head

Endless blooming machinations

Tumble into predawn kitchens

Tokyo to Alabama 

Greet the brand new day

Once we drifted high enough

To look down on a school of human fishes

Floating in formation

Pulsing like the tide

On that one Dana Falconberry lends an assist with her gorgeous pipes, one of so very many stellar Austin talents to grace this brilliant work. You’ll also catch Brian Beattie on bass (BB also recorded and mixed this record and the first), Sahara Smith (soooo beautiful on Don’t Talk), Dony Wynn on drums, Scrappy Jud on guitar, Jon Greene on drums, Seela-- one of my very very favorite Austin singers-- on vocals, and so many others. 

As a listener I’m bummed that Lee only puts out a record once every half-dozen years. As a writer it’s a bit of a relief. Because though I’m hardly ever at a loss, I admit I always struggle very much to come up with a way to convey the beauty of Lee’s songs, to try to show a little bit the way they work. So far, the best I’ve been able to come up with is a curious analogy. A little background-- among the many books I’ve written, three have been (curiously enough) on the topic of quilts. My research on this subject gave me a chance to really explore these very famous works, The Quilts of Gee’s Bend, made by a group of women from a very poor hamlet in Alabama. At first glance, the quilts appear to be somewhat simple-- geometric works in bold colors. But the more you look, the more you see. Once, I foolishly thought I could make a quilt that paid homage to the style. I failed miserably, discovering in my efforts the true complexity of the work. My mind kept coming back to those quilts as I listened to The Missing Pages. On first listen I immediately stepped into the songs, they felt easily accessible, and on one level they are. But then, the longer I listen, the deeper I dive, as I discover another detail and another and then more still. I get lost in this record in the very best sense of the word lost. I swim in it, I float on it, I submerge myself. And ultimately I resurface, profoundly moved by the great depths I encountered. 

Behold: Bottlecap Mountain! That’s my friend David, over on the left. Oh. My. Buddha! They are so freaking fabulous! I’ve seen them twice in the past two weeks, most recently at Scoot Inn this past Monday. Their song THIS TOWN really needs to be adopted as the theme song for what is happening to Austin right now. 

I don’t just love their music, though. I love how they came into my life. And I love how going out to hear them goes a long way toward reminding me I need to keep a good attitude in the face of too much change too fast. 

I first ran into David at the birthday party of a mutual friend. This was right at the beginning stages of the whole Piñata Demolition Fiasco. It was before I got nailed to a cross by a small group of... oh shit. Never mind all that. The bullying is behind me now. Suffice it to say that the one good thing that came out of my involvement with the piñata bullshit is that it was the catalyst for a long, meandering, hilarious conversation with D. 

We caught up with each other a couple of months later and he played his songs for me. In addition to being a word/melody/six-string alchemist for heartfelt songs, he is also the genius behind the jaunty jingle for Austin Tiny Pies. (If you go to the Tiny Pies Website and click on the little button in the right hand corner, you can hear for yourself.)

Before Bottlecap Mountain’s Scoot Inn gig, I caught some softball at Krieg Complex (scroll down for more on that). Then I met up with Ann and Jay at Rio Rita for some conversation. Then we all strolled over to the Scoot. I gotta say that live music on a Monday night in Austin really calls to mind Old Austin in the best way. Parking is free. The streets weren’t packed. The fans were there to actually listen to the music. 

And I scored a food truck taco that tasted precisely like every single condiment in the refrigerator had barfed into a tortilla and formed a conga line with a handful of pinto beans, a few strands of cabbage, and an incredibly generous helping of raw diced onions. Ingesting this taste treat set forth a montage in my mind of so very many similar Gastronomical Gut Busting Delicacies I’d taken in over my decades as a drunk. (Fortunately the taco did not, however, inspire me to once again take up drinking, thus I had only morning after flatulence with which to contend, and not a screaming hangover.)

The older I get and the more crowded this town gets, the less inclined I am to wander out spontaneously, or even at all for that matter. I spend so much time at home in my bed I give Brian Wilson and the grandparents from Charlie and the Chocolate Factory a run for the money. But times I do venture out and find myself in a dark dive bar with a genuinely excellent band playing and a truly appreciative audience listening rapt, my heart just goes BOOM BOOM BOOM for Austin, Texas.

Thank you Bottlecap Mountain!

I <3 ATX!

The other night I headed over to Krieg Softball Complex to watch my friend Erin’s softball team, The Narwhals, whip the Comalcoholics. It’s been awhile since I visited the fields to take in a game and I am happy to report that if you want to escape New Austin and feel like you are fully entrenched, if only for an hour or two, in Old Austin, this is the place to do it. 

First base coaches taking drags on fags. Open beer set an nth of an inch outside of the dugout in the interest of following the rules but just barely. Cheerful Trash Talk wafting through the air. And the inimitable crack of aluminum bat hitting a fat juicy softball. 

The Alternative Softball League is so very aptly named. People of all sizes, shapes, ages, genders, and skill levels seize the night. The sun sets and dusky skies give way to inky darkness punctuated intermittently by blazing field lights. 

Head on out. Sit your ass down on those funky metal bleachers. And don’t even rooting for one team over another. Everyone is a winner at Krieg. 

It astonishes and delights me that in this day and age of insane traffic, far far beyond affordable rent, and sundry other unsavory changes, you can nonetheless still find total slackers sitting around coffee shops midday midweek just blattity blah blahing about southby and cops and fuck this and dude that and yadda yadda yadda. Self-involvement taken to nosebleed heights. Thank you slacker man-children. I loved eavesdropping today at the hipster coffee shop. You sure know how to be Keeping Austin Austin. 

I mentioned in a FB post last night that I saw a dog about the same size as Bubbles and that dog crapped inside Kinkos. That made me so happy since Bubbles loved to shit inside and this is her anniversary week, two years gone, and I took that as a sign from her: KEEP ON SHITTING!

Well Bubbies visited me AGAIN today! I was walking Rebound and Dante around Mueller, as we do most days. That was the last walk I took with Bubbles, Easter Sunday 2013, a very slow walk around Mueller, listening to Jesus Christ Superstar. Then I took off for Big Bend and a few days later got the call from my dog sitter, Emily the Wonderful, that Bubbles was fast deteriorating. I hauled ass back 400+ miles at about 90 mph and made it just in time to say goodbye. One of the most horrible days of my life.

So anyway, today I was wrapping up my walk and we stopped at the dog water fountain near Anchor Street, and a woman approached us and made those nice sounds that indicate a dog lover is at hand. We got to talking and she started crying and telling me her soul dog, Olive, had just died very suddenly last Sunday, which was Easter Sunday, the last day the took a walk together.

We talked some more. Turns out we were neighbors in Hyde Park back in the day and now we are neighbors in Cherrywood. Well we just stood there swapping stories about the Power of Soul Dogs, and all the love Olive and Bubbles had poured into us. And we hugged. And then we hugged again. 

I am so sad we lost our best friends. But it is just so remarkable that on a seemingly random Thursday in the middle of the day our paths would cross like that. Such heart comfort. Such a very Austin thing to happen. 

Thank you Olive’s Mom!

Thank you Austin!

I love that this town is still FULL of artists. And we are going to stick around as long as we can in spite of the crazy rents, the gentrification, the explosion of crap apartment complexes. 

Many years ago, after attending one of the last speeches my friend and mentor Molly Ivins gave before her death, I found myself at dinner with a group of women acquaintances. One had transplanted here from LA and was bitching about how no one can make a living off of making art in Austin. Someone else immediately piped up and informed the interloper that if you're an artist in Austin you will always be taken care of, fed, and loved. 

I adore my artist friends. I love and appreciate all the support they give me. I love supporting them. One of my favorite, favorite, FAVORITE Austin artists (or artists from anywhere for that matter) is my amazing friend Ann Woodall. 

Ann is a photographer, painter, and textile artist. If you've ever seen one of the ten million pictures I've posted from my bed (aka "my office"), chances are you've spotted the gorgeous acrylic painting of the passionflower. That's Ann's work. If you've been in my kitchen, you've walked on one of her crocheted circle rag rugs. If you've been to Blue Genie Art Bazaar or Cherrywood Art Fair you've seen her wonderful cards. 

And now, if you're really, really, really lucky, you'll get one of her cards from me. Featuring me. ME ME ME ME ME FUCKING ME!! That's right-- just like Scagnetti on Scagnetti, only completely different. It's like art imitates life imitates art or something. 

So how did i meet Ann? Great question. Spoiler alert: It involves James McMurtry naked, so hold on to your hats, people. Some of you might remember in the mid-2000's the NAKED calendar series that ran for three years, and featured photos of Austin musicians taken by Austin's best photographers and art directed by DJ Stout and Erin Mayes. Well yours truly spearheaded that project. When I asked James, an old friend, if he'd participate, he said yes, if Ann could do the shot. 

That was our first and only full frontal in all the calendar pictures we published. Totally memorable. All about fishing, I swear. But the best part was that this picture is what brought Ann into my life, and she has been a steady, loving, supportive friend ever since, an integral part of the Dick Monologues, an astonishingly wonderful listener, and truly an honorary sister.

I'm very sorry to say that, at least for now, the Spike Gillespie Series of Ann's cards is SOLD OUT. Hmmmm... wonder how THAT happened? However you can still get your hands on tons of great cards and art over at her website: Ann Woodall Studios. 

Thank you Ann! I <3 You! And I can't wait to mail myself pictures of myself!

For quite a few years on or very close to my birthday, which is January 10th, I hosted an event at BookPeople called The Kick Ass Awards. I handed out funny trophies to unsung community heroes quietly out there doing good deeds. I loved that event but let it fade -- it became a little too big for me to handle and despite my online big mouth and posting frenzy, I actually really prefer to spend my birthday quietly alone or with a couple of friends. 

During one event I don't even remember how many years ago, Lola of Nubian Queen Lola's Cajun Soul Food received a trophy. Lola kicks ass so hard. She dedicates her life to feeding the homeless, which she does out of her tiny restaurant on Rosewood Street in East Austin. She works tirelessly and her sweater says it all. Lola IS Love. 

Well I got word a couple of weeks ago that for the first time in forever, Lola was unable to open her kitchen on Christmas Day because she did not have enough supplies to serve the hungry. The call went out for donations. I posted it on my FB page and meant to get over there but then, as so often happens, got busy. Then my friend Jena posted on her page the other day that she'd taken some groceries over, and that was a great reminder.

Throughout any given year, but most especially during my Birthday Week, which typically lasts at least a month, my friends feed me extravagant meals-- at restaurants and in their homes. I mean, it's ridiculous. My bowl is forever overflowing and it's humbling. And really damn delicious. But I will never forget growing up on free lunches, a deep freezer full of cheap ground beef and loaves of white bread bought for 10c, marked down because they'd hit their expiration date. And I will never forget the many times when my kid was little and scraping together enough to feed us and keep the electricity on was more than a small challenge. Being hungry sucks. 

So even though I won't be giving out Kick Ass Trophies this year, I had the great pleasure of taken a few bags of staples down to Lola and the delight of a big hug. 

She can always use more. You can drop off food and gently used clothes to her restaurant at 1815 Rosewood Avenue. Enjoy the hug. 

Happy My Birthday to You!

Thank you Lola for Keeping Austin Austin! So grateful!

This is my neighbor Lawrence. When I was taking this picture he said, "Is this what they call a selfie?" I love him so much. We've been living next door to each other for nearly ten years now. And if one person had to be picked to represent what it means to be Keeping Austin Austin, Lawrence wins. 

He is the nicest human I know and the best neighbor. (He tells me I'm the best neighbor which is not why I say he's the best neighbor, and really I could hand him a list of past neighbors of mine who'd strongly disagree, but I do love the whole Mutual Admiration Society we have going on.)

So when I'm having one of those days, stuck in traffic, wondering about how I'm going to pay the latest round of tax increases to support the corporate welfare going on here, and thinking about jumping ship and moving to who-the-hell-knows-where, I think of Lawrence, and this gives me great pause. Stops me entirely actually. I don't ever want to not be his neighbor.

I understand why so many people want to live here. Jon Stewart was cracking jokes about it when The Daily Show was in Austin: Everyone is SO DARN NICE. I have especially loved observing how it seems like people are still trying to keep this a No Honk Town. I hate it when I have to honk, which is rare but happens, like last week when some guy backed into my car while I was parked, and I startled and hit the horn reflexively.

Mostly though, when someone is driving like an asshole, I just make up a story involving a bee in the car or a recent traumatic breakup or a seizure or some other non-malicious cause. Helps me to do my part to keep it chill and cheerful. 

Anyway, back to Lawrence. So he's a retired Professor of Chemistry who taught at Huston-Tillotson for years. He calls to check on me regularly, to let me know when there's going to be a hard freeze, to bring me an apple, to say hello. I take him eggs. We are, for each other, the Go To person on big holidays, which neither of us celebrate. One time, years ago on January 1st, he called me and we stepped out onto our lawns, wished each other a Happy New Year, and took pictures of each other because neither one of us had seen anyone else that day. 

Lawrence-- he rocks it so darn hard. Thanks for Keeping Austin Austin!

Below is a piece I wrote and decided to post here, even though it's sad, and the opposite of the spirit of this blog. Still, I wanted to commemorate the end of my relationship with the post office, which despite a series of hyperbolic "joking" posts about the topic on Facebook, really hurt. 

Well before I got around to putting up the post, I went over to the UPS Store today, where I now get my mail. There were two package notices. That made sense, I was expecting two packages. Guy hands me the first one, and I think, "Ah, it's my new wedding ceremony book." He goes to look for the second and I say, "It'll be small-- knitting needles."

He comes back with an ENORMOUS box. I was so curious I opened it up right there. Inside was an elaborately wrapped box, upon which was taped an anonymous note from some incredibly kind soul, who said among other things the gift was in honor of all the shit I had to put up with at the post office. And inside of the fancy box was this exquisite piece of art which includes both a goat and a knitting reference. As a hardcore knitting Capricorn who collects art, I cannot think of a more spectacular gift. 

Wow. I don't even know what to say. I'll start with THANK YOU. Thank you so much kind person with the great taste in art and thank you, too, for the kind words. It is December and I am not depressed and that would be enough. But this-- this gift that clearly was labeled "not a Christmas gift"? Just wow wow WOW. 

Okay, below is the long sad post. I still feel compelled to publish it. But know that today's surprise at the new mailbox really helps alleviate my sorrow. So grateful.

Spike

A couple of weeks ago, I broke up with the post office. This divorce was long overdue, but I have an unfortunately high threshold for pain and, I realized after the fact, I thought I held a til-death-do-we-part dedication to my PO Box. Still, even I have my breaking point. Though it cost me a small fortune to switch over to a private box at the UPS Store, I filled out the paperwork and forked over the dough. I simply could not take it anymore—customer service at the post office where I’d held a box for nearly seventeen years had transitioned from excellent to spotty and then to poor before finally crossing over into the arena of abusive.

The final straw came when I found myself locked out of my box. A supervisor informed me I had not paid my semi-annual dues. I insisted I had, that I pay every April and October religiously. He challenged me to produce a receipt. I could not. It occurred to me that perhaps I had forgotten. I’m fifty now, and have not escaped the classic forgetfulness that comes with age. Acknowledging this possibility, unable to provide proof otherwise, and needing my mail—I run my small business through that box—I decided to suck it up and pay, possibly for the second time.

The clerk informed me of an additional $21 late fee. I balked, asked for a manager, and again faced off with the supervisor. “Is it in your realm to waive this late fee, in light of the fact I’ve been a customer so long, and also the possibility I already paid?”

He gave me The Look, that one you see on people who have very little power and thus cannot resist overly exerting the bit they do. “It’s within my realm,” he said. “But I’m not doing it.”

A long phone chat with a sympathetic customer service rep netted me a sincere apology and the promise of a refund. In a follow up message, she gave me the necessary details, noting she knew it would make me cringe, but that I’d have to once again speak with the supervisor. He was, not surprisingly, “on break” when I arrived. Another supervisor, equally mean spirited, first reprimanded me when I said his post office sucked, and then announced, “I’ll get one of the girls to handle this.” He seemed affronted when I suggested that, since he was so concerned with language, he might want to refer to his adult female charges as women. 

And then came the interaction with “the girl” who, noting I did not have a receipt handy for the late fee, tried to refuse the refund despite the order from customer service. I stood, on the verge of rage tears, and willed myself to not make a scene that would prompt them to call the police to ticket me for disorderly behavior on federal property. I knew this was possible. I’d witnessed just such a thing a couple of months before. I’d gone to check for mail after hours, hoping to diminish my odds of being hit with the negativity ever present during operating hours. I came upon a couple of cops explaining to a weeping woman how to get to the UPS store.

Yes. Officers of the law helping a distraught woman overcome her emotional pain by suggesting she take her business elsewhere. I ran into her in the parking lot, tried to console her. Apparently, unable to find the necessary packaging at the never stocked self-serve station, she’d made the mistake of knocking on the door when she heard workers in the backroom and requesting a little help. I do not know who started the drama. I just know by the time I got there, it had escalated to the point of police intervention. 

The grief that surrounds my departure from the post office might, in light of so many greater ills in the world, seem dismissible. But the breakup feels as real to me as the loss of human friendship. While so many people have switched to e-mail and online bill paying, crippling the once mighty business of the PO, I’ve been a dedicated holdout. My (former) love dates back over four decades, to my first pen pal exchange when I was eight. 

Letter writing has always been important to me. It was a letter to the editor of my college newspaper that prompted the paper to offer me the job that launched my writing career. When I met a lovely ginger on a road trip across the country when I was twenty-four, we struck up a pen pal relationship that yielded romance and then, a couple of years later, the birth of our son, who grew up to have pen pals of his own, despite being of a generation far more inclined to texting than putting pen to paper.

Years ago, I hosted little summer writing camps for kids. A favorite activity involved the wonderful, magical practice that is (was) sending mail. Though this was a day camp, they composed letters home, pretending they were at sleep away camp. I encouraged hyperbole, creative description, and humor. They addressed the envelops themselves, chose from a selection of beautiful stamps and then, most exciting of all, pushed down a little stamp after I’d dripped hot sealing wax on the flap. The letters arrived in a day or two, the parents as excited as the kids to have this tangible, old-fashioned epistle, delivered the old-fashioned way. 

A few years ago, visiting friends in Oregon, I learned that one of their homeschooled sons was having a hard time with writing. I told them about this magical letter writing, how it showed kids a practical application that was fun and engaging. We thought that Martin might like to have a pen pal, and sure enough, he eagerly agreed to swap letters with me. Not long into our experiment, I received a note from him written entirely in a code of his own creation. He included a key to help me decipher his message. Each character was quite complex. I laughed, knowing I must respond in code. It took hours to compose my reply. A week later got a postcard: “Help! I lost the code!” 

Ditching my PO Box does not mean a total end to letters. I now hand over correspondence to the pleasant workers at the UPS Store. I know they in turn give it to a US Postal worker. In essence, I’m still using the system. But as in a bitter divorce, I need a mediator to supervise the handoff. 

When I consider live music and what it is to Austin, I often consider the Eiffel Tower and what it is to Paris. First and foremost: the thing each city is perhaps best known for. Second: both tower and song are indisputably magnifique! But then, I think if I lived in Paris, I'd likely be all, like, Yeah yeah, the Tower, I'll check it out really soon, it's always going to be there. 

Here the analogy goes a little astray. I don't totally take music for granted here. I go hear a decent amount of it in any given year. Frankly, it would be impossible not to in a town where there's a firefighter who practices bagpipes outside the station and it is not unusual to stumble across a mariachi band playing in the HEB. I'm guessing just by virtue of living in Austin, most of us hear more music by accident than a lot of folks hear on purpose. 

There's another thing about music and our town. With so very many musicians in our midst, we're bound to count quite a few as personal friends. This is so true for me. My life is crawling with incredibly talented music folk and I love them all so much. I love them for the music they make, the inspiration they offer, their generosity of spirit-- face it, it's not easy making a living as an artist, but they just keep giving.

Toward that end, meet my friend Brian Kremer. Hopefully, you already know all about him and his music. But in case not, let me tell you: WHAT A VOICE! So soothing, so croony, so smoothe. And the words he wraps that voice around, from his lovely originals to his carefully selected covers, well just W.O.W. 

Not long ago, Brian threw a Kickstarter for himself so he could put out his record Echoes & Twirls. I was delighted and honored to kick in. I wasn't the only one. He hit his goal in THE FIRST DAY. Can you even believe that? Actually, I totally can. Now the record is out, and I love it with all my heart. I cheerfully cornered John Aielli at Cherrywood Coffee recently and thrust upon him my own personal copy, so hopeful am I that he will just play the hell out of it. 

On the record, Brian is backed by The Carper Family, yet another priceless gift to Austin. The harmonizing they do along with BK makes my heart sing. Fortunately, my heart mouths the words because frankly, I couldn't carry a tune if it were contained in a hermetically sealed harmonica bag. 

Echoes & Twirls official drop date is December 9th, which is the date of this post. The big album release party is December 10th at Spider House Ballroom. I will so be there with bells on, even though (or especially because) this is the time of year I am most inclined to hole up at home and save visiting our version of the Eiffel Tower for another day. 

I so hope you'll join me. It's going to be one hell of a show. You can get a sneak preview of Brian's fabulousness by simply clicking this link and observing how instantly happy your ears get. 

Congratulations Brian! How lucky we are to call you our own.

Tonight a generous ex-boyfriend took me to Jeffrey's. Restaurants in general make me giddy. I grew up very poor and during a time when eating out as a matter of course (pardon the pun) wasn't what it is today. I didn't eat a restaurant meal until I started working in restaurants as a teen.

Now I'm past the halfway point of my life. I have had the amazing fortune of eating all over the world, in all kinds of places. I've had sushi in Tokyo, empanadas in Buenos Aires, falafel in Israel (and Paris!), curry in London, the most amazing pasta ever at a little joint in Hawaii, and elotes on a cobblestone street corner in a tiny Mexican village. High end, low end, I don't give a shit if I'm eating a P. Terry's veggie burger or some frou-frou hipster concoction: it's NEVER not exciting to me. And I will not ever forget what it was like being poor, both as a kid and later as a young adult, when just having food at all was a big deal.

All that said, I get a certain kind of extra giddiness at places where the bill for two totals enough to cover the cost of inoculating an entire Republican state against assholitis (would that such a vaccine existed). I look around at all the people who appear to the manner born, and I feel like I'm getting away with something. And I also feel like if I lick my plate with my finger that's cool, too, because all along I knew and they knew that I was to the (much) plainer born.

So tonight, before we ordered, I announced to my date that I needed to visit the ladies. I then set my napkin on the table. But before I could get up to hit the loo, the waiter (one of apparently six assigned to our table) came by and said something. I couldn't hear him (or more likely simply couldn't comprehend him). I asked him to repeat himself, which I think he did two or three times before I understood him. Well, I understood his WORDS but not THEIR MEANING.

He said, "Do you want a black napkin?"

Startled and puzzled, I said, "No, thank you."

Did I want a black napkin? DID I WANT A BLACK NAPKIN? I glanced around at all the incredibly white, incredibly blinged, incredibly cosmetically surgically enhanced people around me. Did THEY have black napkins? Was this some sort of punking or racial profiling?

A BLACK NAPKIN? Was there a correct answer? Did I blow it?

I needed help finding the restroom. A waiter walked me there. "Um, why would I want a black napkin?" I asked him.

He explained to me that since I'd put my white napkin on the table, he assumed I wasn't pleased with it, and that perhaps I would prefer a black napkin since I was wearing black. I WISH I'd told him I was wearing black because it wouldn't as readily show off the ketchup stains I was hoping to acquire. Instead I just told him, "You know, mostly I just use paper napkins."

He said he did, too.

Post loo I inquired as to other available napkin colors. Alas they only have black or white. Tomorrow I resume my real life, where I will sit outside at cafes and wipe my hands on little dogs at the next table over.

Summer 1995 a gentleman named Andy asked me out on a date. I agreed. I was still drinking back then, and for our first rendezvous he showed up at my place with a half-bottle of excellent vodka still cold from the freezer, a couple of Cuban cigars, and a Wiffle ball & bat set for Henry, who was four. 

We didn't date long-- roughly seven minutes. But to this day we are great friends, and he truly is part of my chosen family. That first year Andy turned me onto the Thundercloud Turkey Trot. He knew a thing or two about it, since he happens to own Thundercloud (along with his partner John). Henry and I did the 1K that year, and it was cold and miserable and by the finish Henry had such an unhappy look on his face a Statesman photog thought it was a great op, snapped a pic, and it wound up in the paper. 

Though I don't love holidays, there are some traditions I can get behind. The Turkey Trot is one of them. I never actually ran a 6K. I don't even think I walked one. But Henry participated lots. I don't know the exact number, but I think maybe he ran a dozen, perhaps more. It was especially fun when he reached his teen years. Though he was a great soccer player, he eventually chose rock 'n roll over sports, and so let's just say he didn't work out daily. But come hell or high water, and even if he'd only had four hours of sleep, the kid got up and ran that race every Thanksgiving. 

So when my roommate Jenn announced she was going to run, I got really excited. I wouldn't have cared if she ran it in four hours. As it happens, she's a professional runner and, as you can see, she did five miles in under thirty minutes, the thought of which is enough to make me nearly pass out. As I had for Henry all those years, this morning I stood at the finish waiting for Jenn and cheering her on. What a glorious start to the day!

And, bonus points-- all the money raised by the trot goes to Caritas of Austin, which helps folks living in poverty keep on keeping on. This year the projected gift from Thundercloud to Caritas is $325,000. Astounding. 

For all the crazy changes this city is enduring, I am so thankful this fabulous tradition persists. Thank you Andy! Thank you Thundercloud!

I'm going to go ahead and say we hit a new all-time high last month when, with a WHOLE lot of help from a tattoo artist friend, Henry and I tattooed each other. It was the first time either of us ever gave anyone a tattoo. And it was his first tattoo ever. We had SO MUCH FUN!

Above is the video of me tattooing him. If you'd like to see the video of him tattooing me JUST CLICK THIS LINK. The him-tattooing-me video is about 14 minutes and if you've been made impatient by the Internet's whole short-attention-span thing, then I urge you to at least watch the last 90 seconds to catch the prank we played on my boy. 

My friend Jill swears that when she first met me, back in 1998, I was not a hugger. She says when I did hug, it was a lame echo of a hug, and usually I had at least one hand full, which may have been a conscious or subconscious way of not getting too huggy. 

Really though, you can’t live in Austin and not eventually get bitten by the Hug Bug. It happens. I’m not complaining. I’m actually a pretty darn good hugger now, and Friday night I felt like I maybe earned my black belt in hugging.

It began when Ori met up with me to go catch Rufus Wainwright at the Paramount. We no longer date, but we still hug. So we had a nice hug, then drove down to the Stephen F. Austin Hotel to meet Jill and her groom Kenan and our friends Everett and Tracy on the upstairs outside deck for pre-show snacks. Because as it happened, they all had tickets to Rufus, too. Because apparently every single person I know in Austin had tickets to the show.

So we started out with big hugs at the hotel which, as an aside, I’d not ever been too before, and they are apparently into the Slow Food movement because HOLY MOTHER OF GOD it took about two hours for my grilled cheese sandwich to arrive. But, whatever. I had hugs to keep me happy.

Then, when it was time for me to dash down and get a new parking meter sticker for my car with the hopes I could keep my spot for more than three hours without getting a ticket, I decided first ran to the loo. As I was exiting my stall, I heard two women chatting at the sink, and I’ll swear I heard one ask the other, “Aren’t you glad you got divorced?” Which is the kind of talk that’s right up my alley, so I sidled up to them at the sinks and listened in some more whilst hand washing.

I think they were a little tipsy— hey it was a bar not a convent— and one bent down, picked up something from the floor, and said, “Oh, someone lost an earring! That’s too bad.” 

I glanced at myself in the mirror and noted I had both earrings in, but looked over anyway and lo! She was holding one of my earrings from another pair. I guess this one hitched a ride to the show on my scarf. So I thanked her profusely and we all laughed and smiled because this is Austin. Then just as they were exiting, I noticed a pair of glasses on the sink.

"Did y’all leave these?" I asked. They turned. One of them had. We were all so thrilled that we’d gotten to help each other that the lost glasses lady and I spontaneously hugged right there in the SFA bathroom. 

That would’ve been enough to make my night. 

But no. Another round of hugs with my friends then off to the Paramount. I walked in and spotted my friend Dylan working at the bar. I’ve known him since he was a teenager. Now he’s 34. There was a line from here to eternity but, I repeat, this is Austin, people. So Dylan cheerfully stepped out from behind the bar, knowing the crowd would wait for him to give me a big hug. Which he did.

And that would’ve been enough.

But no. I hear my name and I look and the couple at the front of the line patiently waiting for me and Dylan to hug is none other than Mike Lee, of KUT fame (I love hearing him announce my business name) and his lovely wife, Stacey, who performed my all time favorite dance piece EVER, which was a burlesque number to the tune of Darling Nikki, choreographed by my other friend Ellen Stader. If you were there at the ND when that happened years ago, I don’t need to describe it. If you weren’t, well I can’t.

Anyway, so Mike and Stacey and I got in a hug (oh dang now I can’t remember? Did I hug them both? I am so hug drunk right now I’m a little confused.) 

I then walked into the hallway outside the theatre proper, and a lovely woman comes up, calls me by name, and it’s my FB friend Lucy, so we have a hug. Then I turn around and there goes John Waters up the steps, and I wanted to run and hug him but I made myself not. I did spin around and see Mike and Stacey again, and they patiently allowed me to attempt to capture in words my borderline hyperventilation. 

I then showed the usher my ticket. I’m on the list for Rufus Fans Pre-Sales tickets so when I bought mine, I didn’t even look at the seating chart. They just give you a seat, and you know it’ll be good, so as when I am traveling to Japan or pretty much anywhere else, I don’t bother looking up exactly where I’m going. I prefer to be surprised.

Well I was SO surprised to find out I was in the third row, that I nearly crapped my pants with joy. I started babbling like a two-year-old with full run of the Kool-Aid dispenser and the usher smiled at me so I smiled bigger at her and I kept going on and on about how she’d made my night and she said she really hadn’t done anything but I insisted oh yes she had and then well… yes… I HUGGED HER. (I could tell she was going to be down with the hug or else I wouldn’t have gone for it.)

Day…dayanu and all that, again I thought that really was enough in the best sense of the word. But no! After the show, which was SO FABULOUS because RUFUS IS SO FABULOUS, John Waters walked right by me, and we looked into each other’s eyes, and I stuttered and said THANK YOU but I did not hug him because I could not tell if he would like such a thing. I did ask him for a picture, and I know he would’ve obliged, but he said he had to hurry backstage to see RuRu. OMG. Two of my favorite gay men in a historic greenroom on Congress Ave. ONLY IN AUSTIN, PEOPLE!

Jill and I re-found each other and made a mad dash up to the second floor lav and got in the line that was a bit less long than the ridiculous line downstairs. Jill wanted to talk about how she was about ready to pee in the sink, but I really wanted to show off my music nerd super powers and explain to her how Rufus had purposefully arranged his set as follows: First he played a song he wrote in honor of Jeff Buckley, then he played Hallelujah which Buckley made famous, but which was written by Leonard Cohen. Then he played Montauk which is about his daughter, whose mother happens to be Leonard Coheh’s daughter. Then he played a song about his own dad “Loudy” aka G-Paw. 

I was all proud of myself for knowing all this and was just about through it when the woman in front of me, Jennifer Edwards, pictured above right, turns around and says, “It’s me Jennifer. I adopted Lil Bit Possum.” 

Sometime ago I had to re-home a 3.75 lb eleven year old yorkie I had adopted after her human died. I called her Lil Bit. She was miserable among my rambunctious pack, having spent her first eleven years on the ample bosom of an old woman, which though I am getting older and do have an ample bosom, I simply could not provide the same accommodations. Jennifer swooped in, took her, named her Possum, and continues to love on her dearly, and Possum is way happier in her new home.

So I ditched the whole Wainwright-Cohen Dynasty discussion replete with imaginary white board that I was trying to force on Jill who was really only eyeing the sink as a place to relieve herself. And then Jennifer and I hug. And someone in line overhears all this and notes how great it is. Then someone gets the idea (maybe it was me) that maybe we should just have a chain reaction hug in the public restroom amongst strangers, all of us with the common denominator of full bladders. (I know, I know, full bladder + hugging = not the best idea but, whatever.)

By the time I got out of my stall, apparently this flash mob hug thing had gone down, prompting Jill and I to again feel the need to hug. And it prompted another woman to follow us into the hallway and over to the staircase, telling us how we really need to write this whole hug scene into a book. 

And so we hugged her, too.