boobies were a delightful pause and zoom-in surprise. I crossed my fingers when it appeared as though she'd disrobe and praised Allah when she emerged from the lake topless and pouty. She's now on my list of 80s goddesses to google, Vanity being my #1.*
This is downtown Austin as seen from the Palmer Events Center. That dark treeline borders Town Lake (also known as the Colorado River (also know as Lady Bird Johnson Lake)), the river that Congress Avenue Bridge crosses. Further west up the Colorado, Barton Springs pool gushes into a tributary that feeds the river and to my perverted joy, I've seen a handful of topless women there.
the most impoverished of Americans back to a prideful standard of living, and the geyser of money that the super-rich enjoy will lose it's momentum about a mile up and splash down to fund the social part. The filthy rich will remain in their gluttonous stys, but not so powerful that they can control the world. I understand this model is a simple presentation* but Obama and I can iron out the details once he appoints me Chancellor and eventually Fuhrer. You see for me, it comes down to this: I only have one life and then I'm worm food. I don't like spending it struggling to keep my head above water to maintain the wealth of an extraordinarily small percentage of the country. If I become sick, I'm screwed. Wreck my car? Screwed. If I lose my jobs, the devils I've stupidly climbed into bed with start squeezing my balls. And I'm fortunate. I have my health. I have a car. I have not one, but two jobs, and I managed to get an education. There are people in this country eating salmonella straight out of dumpsters but still hold fast to this competitive system of government because it breeds the mindset that one day, one day their ship will come in. That's why I keep it up, I guess, but at least I recognize that I'm just a cog in someone else's money-making machine.
Austin boasts the world's largest urban bat colony, and in the summer, you can watch 1.5 million-ish of the little beasts fly out from under Congress Avenue Bridge and consume what would otherwise be a hellish mosquito population. They're Mexican free-tails, and they migrate south o' the border for winter.
This is Congress Avenue Bridge (aka Ann W. Richards Congress Avenue Bridge). The original picture is much clearer than this, but I typically destroy pleasant things, and this is no exception. Besides, I didn't want give the capitol building away yet. I'm a jealous resident.
one of the most horrifying displays of zombie behavior of all time, and even though I'd hide whenever the 9-minute video started, I liked the song and would accidentally moonwalk from behind the family sofa and back into Jackson's perversions. That was the start. My parents, unfortunately, perpetuated the King of Pop's terror by staying aloof to the things I actually stood in front of the TV watching (please see my profile picture for a visual of the impressionable child I once was). Things like Night of the Living Dead, Dawn of the Dead, Day of the Dead, Return of the Living Dead I, II, & III, both Reanimators, and every other 80's flick that involved hordes of dead people standing up and eating the living. Worst of all, most of these apocalyptic episodes were never explained. One day, there simply were zombies moaning outside your windows, and if you weren't immediately resourceful, you'd be pulled limb from limb and/or eaten alive. To this day, I still map out a zombie evacuation route at new jobs, just in case. The way I see it, I'm at work more often than home, so it only makes sense to prepare a don't-be-dinner strategy. It usually involves my clawing up the highest furniture and spider-monkeying the ceiling's rafters to the roof's escape hatch. If there's a padlock on the door (and there usually is), plan B is to belt myself to the ladder and await a slow and painful dehydration, a wonderful alternative to supernatural cannibalism. At home, the plan is to calmly but urgently make a mostly jelly PB&J and carry a crowbar and bottle of water to my roof and also, slowly die. I'd wish my loved ones well, of course, but a zombie attack trumps love and friendship, and ultimately, it's every man for himself. If my rooftop sanctuary is compromised by ambitious survivors who require I participate in their futile survival plans, I will not differentiate them from the undead and have no qualms about ejecting them from my safe haven once they've fallen asleep.
plastic frog under the nose of a coworker, who, as it turned out, really was terrified of plastic amphibians. She turned pale and eventually vomited, and I vowed to believe people when they say they're scared of ridiculous shit. Zombies are not ridiculous. They can relentlessly pursue and eventually get you, you see. It's not even a matter of being killed. It's a matter of them getting me. I don't want that. So when the shit goes down, please, leave me in my fetal defense position, and find your own goddamned hiding place. Christ, now I'm tense.
the world disgusts me, and like Salinger, I contemplate my self-righteous goodness in perfect solitude. Other times, I'm the marry-the-most-desirable-woman-in-the-country type like Arthur Miller. True, Miller was a playwright, and the woman he married was a complicated and needy hick named Norma Jean, but I don't care about those things. The man was still a writer who regularly humped Marilyn Monroe, and that's what counts.
culsively affects women by turning their immune systems against them and making their "flare-ups" a painful hell. It ranges in severity, and a person can live a long and healthy life, or she can die young because she didn't take the problem serious enough the first time she was living in Austin, and her kidneys failed and now don't filter her blood properly. Flannery O'Conner died from complications of lupus; Anna Nicole Smith died because of it. Those scars on Seal's face? Lupus. Michael Jackson and Barbara Bush and her dog have it. I'm writing about lupus because it's not an unstoppable monster, but not enough is known about the disease to cure it altogether. Despite several famous sufferers, there's no white-toothed starlet, bubbling her breasts into a telethon evening gown to raise money for the cause, and because it's a 90% female affliction, I dare say there's a gender bias that welcomes disaffection. I can understand that, I guess. I never gave much thought to a certain warty STD until I mistakenly thought I'd contracted it. That was a long, sad week of staring out my window, but it made me realize that there are a lot of people on their incurable islands of disease or, as Chris Rock so eloquently put, are "stuck with the shit." So lupus is serious and common and largely ignored, and if you didn't know about it before, you do now. I'll write a few more detailed blogs on the subject once I learn more, but until then, know that I don't have any STDs.
