Wednesday, September 30, 2009

ACL Fest, the Grunge.

Folks, if I hear any more about Austin City Limits Music Festival, I'll kill a stray animal...or a wild urban one. I normally don't mind missing out on the hordes of drunken assholes, sun-baked and sardine-packed in a field at Austin's own Zilker Park, but this year's three-day event culminates with a Sunday night performance by Pearl Jam. Pearl Jam. We're talkin' Ten, Versus, Vitology. These were puberty albums, people. I was air-guitaring "Even Flow" and stage-diving onto my twin bed well before my testicles eased into the pendulum mammoths that they are today. "Dissident" was on my mind the day I discovered and planted my eager face between a pair of real-life (and what were once described as "unattainable) boobies. "Corduroy" was the song I'd cheerfully whistle every time I'd climb out my bedroom window and down our backyard tree to unauthorized, midnight freedom.
Sigh. But I'm not going.
Cost was a factor but not really. The early bird three-day passes sold out a year ago for a measly 135 clams, and I'm quite sure I've since spent much more than that drugging myself with Blue Bell's glorious Rocky Road ice cream (my primary sleep agent) and gallons of Lone Star beer (my secondary). But I'm still not going. That's 135 dollars (185 by regular admission) that I could use toward my black sea of college debt or, even better, the Orion Sky Quest XT8i Computerized Intelliscope I plan on buying in order to search the heavens for signs of God or extraterrestrials or my parallel self staring back. I figure amateur stargazing is much more important than aging grunge bands or repaying that spider woman, Sallie Mae. So please, if you go to the ACL Fest this year, keep your goddamned stories of how plush the new irrigated turf was on your bare feet to yourself, and don't update your Facebook or Twitter status with which stage you're walking to either because I'll drive to your vacant home and lay a dead animal on your doorstep.

Sunday, September 20, 2009

Austin, a Pictorial (the lazy edition)

Folks, this is what Texas has been dealing with all summer, but it's over now. It's been a time when neighbors suspiciously eyeball each others' lawns and determine if they've been following the no watering ordinance, a time when anything you leave outside warps or dries out but is still annoyingly useable, a time when (if you're a decent human being) you don't leave your pets outside all day because they might be jerkied by the time you get back home. But, it's over now. The rain has come and with it, winter's promise of a constant hoody-and-sandals temperature.


This is Fred Cantú. He's a news anchor here in Austin, and I once saw him get jolted by electricity on live TV. It was pretty funny. I don't know why he has manifested as a floating head on this person's car, but I thought it necessary to take about six pictures of it while the driver watched me disapprovingly from his sideview mirror. If you don't want people photographing your car, don't float pictures of Fred Cantú's head on your rear window.

Friday, September 18, 2009

This is why I'm not published yet.

I was working in the lab late one when my eyes beheld an eerie sight, for my monster from its slab began to rise, and suddenly, to my surprise...he did the mash! True story, except I was sitting cross-legged in bed, and there wasn’t really a monster. It was a dirty pair of underwear on my bedroom floor. They didn’t dance either. They just laid there and watched me muzzle my face into a bag of tortilla chips while the History Channel educated me on the Second Punic War.

Friday, September 4, 2009

Honest Scrap

Since blogs have become a kind of superior social network for me, it seems only appropriate that I complete an intrusive list for an award bestowed upon me by Chrissy at I Should Have Been a Stripper. I normally maneuver around this sort of thing, but I realized that if I created a swell list of bullshit with worthwhile answers, it’d be a nice little writing exercise on my favorite subject: me.

Here’re the rules.
1. “The Honest Scrap” award is not one to hold all to your self but it must be shared!
2. The recipient has to tell 10 true things about themselves in their blog that no one else knows.
3. The recipient has to pass along this prestigious award to 10 more bloggers.
4. Those 10 bloggers all have to be notified they have been given this award.
5. Those 10 bloggers should link back to the blog that awarded them.

I don’t eat for pleasure. Eating, like sleeping, is an irritable chore that my body has committed to without my permission. As a result, I have a remarkable capacity for consuming the same bland food over and over and over again. Ice cream, of course, is a different matter. The only reason I eat ice cream is because I can’t liquefy Rocky Road and inject it directly into my neck.

Old people tend to enjoy the same crap that I do, and I have been the only person under 65 in line at Luby’s Cafeteria on many, many...many occasions.

If I were to call myself well-versed in something, it’d be that I roundly suck at Spanish, French, the violin, and the guitar, but I’ve studied enough of all four to not get rid of my books or instruments.

People who aren’t interested in everything are boring assholes without substance. I’m sorry if that’s you, but it’s time you heard it with honest constructiveness.

I love music but rarely watch local bands here in Austin, “the live music capital of the world,” because I have an unhealthy jealousy for other people’s ambition and success. I also don’t like people.

My girlfriend is an unbelievable ray of sunshine on my life, and I’m overwhelmingly thankful to have met her.

I have tattoos on my right forearm, left shoulder, and right latissimus dorsi. They enhance my sexy by three, and I’ve analyzed several different responses to them: 1) the woman who couldn’t care less about them but pretends to be fascinated in order to strike up a conversation and eventually remove her clothing for me; 2) the cold and detached woman who’s genuinely curious about them but doesn’t want to appear as though she’s pretending to be fascinated in order to strike up a conversation and eventually remove her clothing for me; 3) the woman who only brings them up in order to safely expose the butterfly, flower, or heart on the semi-private places of her body. The revelation is an instant turn-on that I resent for its frustrating results. Men don’t ask about my tattoos unless they enjoy the spooning company of other men.

I have no tolerance for intolerance (my favorite paradox) and only suffer fools because my college degree is worth as much stapled to my ass as it is printed on my resume, and I can’t find a good full-time job. But, I do suffer.

I would have been a much better European than American.

Here are some bloggers whom I read and am passing this torch to:
F8hasit
Chindiana Trails
Dreamchaser1998
Carma Sez
Panda Mime
Sara Says Awesome
Vent
Something On Your Face
Good Twin/Bad Twin –already posted something like this but gave me a Kreativ Blogger award, so kudos to her.

I switched everything to 9 because I’m a wild man.
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