Busy as a Bee (keeper)

The past few weeks have flown by, as the start of summer always seems to.

I've been to a few improv comedy shows at The Hideout. I tried to attend the Republic of Texas Biker Rally but had to leave due to the heat. I've been to the doctor twice for persistent heat-rash and other heat related issues. I went to Karaoke and was convinced (under influence of alcohol) to sing half a song. And I finally went to the Barton Springs Pool, and I am sure to return.

A bit frustrated at my own time management skills, I am, as always, losing the battle to balance socializing, working, writing, and learning new things. The newest addition to my days is jogging, which I swore I'd never do. It is a quick way to stay fit so it's either jog or cut down on the candy. Do the math: no jogging = less candy, jogging = candy stability, more jogging = more candy.

Note: I am always playing motivator for other people, telling them what they can do to improve this or that. My best intentions usually fail and annoy the ones I mean to help. I want to see the potential in everyone, but then I get ticked when I don't see them living up to that alleged potential. Caught in my own web, my brother Jon is to blame for telling me to jog, telling me to do it just so he could tell me to do something that I have the potential to do. I do not like the taste of my own medicine.

The biggest news is that the non-profit my friend Lizz so ably established is running in high-speed. My next career move (fall 2010) will be a three month stint in South Africa/Zimbabwe setting up a beekeeping farm. Not just a cause I believe in, this move supports a friend I believe in. Not to mention all the fun I'm having when I announce to friends my plans to become a bee rancher (or apiculturist, for the science-inclined).

My goal to do something or meet someone new every day is being reignited by the bee developments. To those who aren't sure what they are doing with their lives: I can only say to treat every day as the beginning of a journey. Corny enough, I wrote this on a post-it on my bathroom mirror. I am never bored, lost, or disappointed on the first day of a journey - and by constantly recognizing something new in my life, I am content to evolve into the person I am meant to be, one day at a time.

Roller Girl

Wondering if there is still a place where it is acceptable to wear your muffin-topping booty shorts? You would fit right in at the roller derby.

Sunday night, the Rhinestone Cowgirls took the Holy Rollers in a close match that kept the plaid skirts flying.

The Austin roller girls are a famous attraction, they even scored their own documentary series on A&E. Quentin Tarantino is a big fan; my boss went to a formal film event during SXSW and Tarantino was there, surrounded by a throng of the roller girls - tatooed, bra-less, and wearing their dressiest pairs of fishnet stockings.

I think pro-wrestling is lame; that the fighting in hockey is annoying; that boxing or UFC fighting is gross. However, watching girls shove each other with ass and hips proved highly entertaining.

This is the kind of trashiness I can get behind. For three hours I was at the edge of my seat, cheering for both sides while someone in the crowd shouted things like, "Punch her in the brain."

I don't know what constitutes a penalty. It's certainly not elbows flying or boob grabbing. There is a penalty box for serious offenses but minor fouls are settled by spinning a wheel. The fouler and foul-ee face off with penalties like arm wrestling or pillow fights. The smiles exchanged between teams was just part of the bizarre comradery of the derby; although winning is important, it's nice to watch a game where the players are having as much fun as the fans.

Spring, and the Natives Get Naked

Eeyore's Birthday is one of the oldest festivals (48 years) in Austin. In a city where the attitude is "fight corporate, buy local, keep Austin weird" it is fitting that they celebrate the birthday of an iconic underdog. I knew people would be wearing costumes, drinking beer and playing music so there was no question I needed to go.

Austinites bring their dogs, and pet pigs, everywhere. But like a dirty-minded kid, I had to laugh at the live Eeyore who apparently developed feelings for the girl petting his back.

In the open grounds of Peas Park, it's only April but the air is sweltering and I'm dripping sweat. Nine popsicles later, I'm on a sugar rush wandering through the blankets of people on the shady hillside. There were kid-friendly costumes - Tigger, Where's Waldo, a TeleTubby - all seen standing in the beer line or by the needle exchange/free condom booth.

The questionably PG costumes: girls fitted with fairy wings, ultra-mini skirts, and fishnet tights. The adult costumes: body-painted boobies, men in loin-cloths or g-strings, and women in transparent dresses swinging around the May pole.

The first two hours I wondered around the scores of pot-smokers, watched the white-guy reggae band, and listened ringside at the ever-beating drum circle.

When I found girls from work to tag-around with, I felt more at ease and was able to really take it all in. This hippy pride parade. This pagan-esque day in the park. I've never seen anything like it and don't think words capture the warmth of the crowd. Brought together for no purpose but to hold their "Free Hugs" signs or unleash their young children amongst a ruleless pack, it was a

stark contrast to normal.

Normal, meaning that adults rarely let their guard down, behave like children rather than childishly, express joy, or to be cliche - dance like no one is watching. I was swept up with warm-fuzziness of abnormal or perhaps light-headed and giddy from sun stroke and second-hand marijuana. Either way, it was fun to watch people.

Potato sack races, egg-tosses, giant jigsaw puzzles, hackey-sacking, trick bikes. I love simple pleasures. Even celeb cross-dresser Leslie made an appearance in cheerleader regalia.

Thou art sullen

I experienced my first harshly lonesome holiday, Easter Sunday. When you are raised in the church, no matter how twisted the path your beliefs have taken, their is still comfort in it. Going to church with my family - singing songs of rejoice or saying those prayers that I know by heart - reminds me that I was once a child. I was free of cynicism.

Saturday I went to services with a girl from work. She attends the conservative St. Marys, just blocks from the capital, in an old cathedral with rafters reminiscent of a Spanish ship out of the 17th century. Pre-Vatican II traditions wrap around the congregation's throat like a June Cleaver pearl-choker. Prayers, commands to kneel, everything, is sung in a drone. It is amplified by the professional choir, who moonlight at the Lyric Opera yet sang the saddest version of Halleluja chorus I've ever heard. The only joyful hymn was "I know that my Redeemer Lives", which my friend pointed out is borrowed from we Protestants.

The most striking thing was the women in sheer veils with their daughters heads covered by lace doilies. This practice of modesty has not existed in most congregations since the 60's, and seeing the brood of children following their veiled mothers my heart was pumping with feminist annoyance. As with many practices I'm discovering in the south, I wonder which practices are out of gentility and which are of servility.

Then again, what lightened the church mood was the constant interference on the bishop's microphone. He was picking up a hip-hop radio station, loudest during the most serious parts of the service. Then later, my friend and I went to Walmart on a failed quest to find those Smooth Away shaving pads that allegedly use crystals to remove hair. An effective hair remover is my idea of the Holy Grail.

Then Easter morning came and I had nearly finished the candy from the basket my mom mailed. I took a long bus ride to Magnolia Cafe (near Hey Cupcake!) so I could get my traditional Easter breakfast, chocolate chip pancakes and chocolate milk. Random note: while I waited for a seat to open-up, I walked around the neighborhood and spotted a long-hair goat in someone's front yard.

To my frustration, Magnolia's doesn't sell chocolate milk. What kind of breakfast spot doesn't sell chocolate milk? I was so upset that I pouted while I ate. Note, I actually hate pancakes. I stabbed around the pancake to get to the good parts, sitting alone at the counter with all the old single men. The waiter kept referring to me as "Man" or said "How you doing, Buddy?" which annoyed me even further, although I don't know why.


I walked home, three miles, in hot weather, in blue jeans, pouting the whole way. Yes, I was cheered up by a call from my neice; she read me her letter to the Easter Bunny. But I did have a tummy ache from the sugar and the heat. Yes, my sister and I talked during the rest of my walk home. But still. Eatting my doubly chocolate Easter breakfast is a joy best shared with the ones I love, and it made me very sad to be alone.

SXSW Music bonanza

Last week was South by Southwest, an insane ten days that starts with a film fest, a game convention, and a music festival. 1800 bands storming a city is best described as an industry conference. The musicians are here to learn from each other, meet agents, get signed, and get publicity.

Every day I got a good taste of music at lunch, which I spent popping in and out of bars to see what free line-up they had. At night, it was much of the same. More places charged admittance so I spent much of my time at the Blind Pig Pub. On top of the music, it was St. Patrick's Day. Though there are no parades like Chicago, I went to Fado for a U2 tribute band followed by a legitimate Irish band.

The week of music was capped by two shows. I stumbled upon a secret warm-up concert of Metallica. Me and a half-dozen bystanders watched them unload from their SUVs into a tour bus, then start rehearsals. One guy on the street ran over and brought us all signed guitar picks. Then I was front row for Erykah Badu at Auditorium Shores. Though she was an hour late and only played a few songs, it was great.

Monday I had gone to an improv show at Spider House, of people from local Cold Town Improv. It was followed by a very impressive, very funny show from two Chicago dudes, TJ and Dave. The documentary about them premeired at SXSW. Because my improv teacher Tom is their pal, I got to rub elbows with them and many other comedians after the show. Though I often feel like an outsider, Tom was the key to introducing me to a ton of people. I think he has unknowingly become one of my Texas ambassadors.

I tried to see one of Tom's improv shows, and that of another guy I met on Monday. Alas, it was cancelled. But Ellen, the Houstonite from work, and I stayed at the Hideout. The improvers were conversing in peak form. I'd give details, but most of the jokes were dirty and involved props.

Which leads to this week. Tom's roommate, who I met at the TJ and Dave show, invited me over for a dinner party. I thought about not going, but after several requests, I gave in. By the end of the night me, Tom, and another funny guy were sitting around playing accordions.

When everyone is a stranger, it leaves lots of room for recreating yourself. I find myself jumping into the unusual with little hesitation. Needless to say, playing in the accordion trio is the strangest moment I've had this year, so far.

Rhinestone Cowboy

Last Sunday I went to the Austin Rodeo with a new co-worker who is acting as my ambassador of all things Texas. Originally from Houston she taught me a few new terms for my Tejas dictionary:

1. cholo - (this one seems derogatory, but I'm not sure) a girl who emphasizes her Latina looks by drawing in thin eyebrows and outlining her lips with dark pencil. I've seen the look for years but never had a name for it.

2. Kikkers - named after Houston radio station KIKK, kikkers are people or apparel that is very country cowboy. Like: the line of men wearing elaborately embroidered cowboy boots, wrangler jeans and large cowboy hats were a crowd of kikkers.

3. bull fighter - the politically correct term for a rodeo clown, because even cowboys succombed to sensitivity training.

Yes, I know that bulls buck from having their balls tied to their stomach. Yes, I agree that it seems cruel. No, I can't explain why this knowledge didn't stop me from watching the bull riding. A few more fun facts about bull riding is that riders must keep one arm free and in the air to score better. They must stay on the bull for eight seconds in order to score. Not many riders scored.

I felt more sorry for the riders, these guys in their twenties who are thrown around on the bull back until flying through the air. The riders seem fine because they walk out of the ring and the announcer tells them to suck it up and leave like men. However, the announcer also points out that this rider just recovered from a spinal injury last summer, and that rider maybe broke his ankle in the last round but he's still going to give it another try. Some wear hockey masks, some don't. They limp away, and by the final rounds they move like men ready for retirement.

One rider was slow out of the ring, his arm hung dead at his side and it was clearly dislocated, maybe broken too. The announcer quipped, "Just dust off the dirt man. Dust off the dirt." Apparently there is no empathy in rodeo. I could see how cowboys earned their 'no sissy' reputation.

The cowgirls came out in full rhinestone, sparkling, high-wasted outfits. The pagaent princesses of the rodeo gathered in the ring to hear the winner of the coveted, diamond encrusted, rodeo queen's buckle. Their big hair, white teeth and heavy makeup is what you would expect from any pagaent, but these girls were also rated on their horse-handling abilities so I guess there must have been dirt beneath those acrylic nails.

Kids got into the show too. There was a bucking-sheep riding competition for kids under ten. They were trampled as much as the bull riders, though I imagine sheep hooves hurt a little less. Either way, it is hard to imagine myself as a five year old getting strapped to the rope harness of an animal intent on throwing you off their back. It looked painful but hilarious!

We watched piglets racing in an Indy 500 style course, watched an old west shoot-out, and drank margueritas from plastic boots. I ate the best corndog I've ever had, and enjoyed my first deep-fried Snickers bar. It was beyond anything I ever thought I'd do in my life, and beyond any expectations I had for the rodeo. I've already re-written my resume to include newly acquired lasso skills. I mean - that's useful in all parts of life - maybe.

The favorite moment of the day though was when a seven year old boy showed me how to hold a baby goat. He asked "Where you from?" Chicago. "That's up north, ain't it?" I nodded. "Betcha don't see a lot of goats up there, huh?" I think he felt sorry for me, like he was meeting a kid who grew up without a TV. While holding a baby goat that cooed and wriggled in my arms, growing accustomed to the sweet smell of manure, I could understand if he felt that way.

The Male of the Species

Last Saturday I watched the Texas Independence Parade on Congress. It was not well attended despite warm weather. I was the lonesome, dorky, adult-child waving to cowboys and shamelessly collecting candy. My favorites were the lawn chair drill team routine and the UT band playing "Deep in the Heart of Texas".

Men in uniform are instantly more attractive. If you then put that man on a horse, he can easily reach hot-biscuit status. Maybe it's because horses make people look taller.

I'm still tripped-up by Texas men. I've tried to buy male friends drinks after they buy me drinks, but they flat refuse. Either I look desperately poor, or there is strong non-dutch behavior. So if no one will accept my drinks, how do I say, "Thanks for inviting me out" or "Thanks for driving me on an errand"? Chivalry can be a little inconvenient.

I wait for people to get off the bus before I get on because that is proper bus etiquette. Yet if there is a man, or men, getting off the bus - they wait for the ladies to get on the bus. Which means the driver waits longer while I skootch around the men in the aisles. Or if I am leaving a store and hold the door open for a man, he will walk halfway through the door, then grab it from me and try to hold it for me even though I'm going the other way and suddenly have to crouch beneath his armpit to get past him. It makes no sense!

I'm charmed by the gentility, really I am. But in my experience, when you let someone treat you like a princess rather than holding your own, they do eventually call-in their chips. I keep a wary eye on this southern etiquette, lest I accumulate too much debt to one entire gender.

Career Path

I'm back to a universe of collared shirts, toe-pinch shoes, and sub-humanist overhead lighting. That's right. The cubicle called to me; the paycheck gestured "Come hither."

Progress to date: The finance book is half-finished and due to the economy, temporarily shelved (bad pun, yay). I get a very small monthly income from E-how and have no time to write new articles. I'm trying to keep up with the Examiner.com, but writing the minimum three articles a week is an incredible time demand. It's too soon to say if the Examiner is financially worth it, and unless they get a print version in Chicago I'm not sure it's a resume boost either. Last week I 'auditioned' for Mortified. My usual stage fright has tempered with continued improv classes, but I was still very flustered. I won't know how it went for another month, I'm guessing not well, but at least I had the balls to try.

It was a sleepless week in Chicago for the AWP writer's conference. I was giddy to visit lectures, pick a school for my MFA, and bump shoulders with fellow wannabes. Then Monday came...

...And these past months where my schedule revolves around writing, dissolved from memory. I'm back to scheduling every hour of free time to ensure I write/journal/read every day. All this while maintaining my year's goal to do something or meet someone new every day.

The pressure to find each new adventure has left me feeling ballsy. I go to bars alone, I try things I've always been afraid of, I talk to strangers. Why don't more people do this? Why do we hesitate? Screw that whole fear of failure thing; it's time to start getting what we want by trying, failing, getting embarrassed, and never regretting that we didn't try.

Enchanted Rock

I went to Enchanted Rock, two hours west of Austin, to see this four hundred foot boulder I keep hearing about. The hike up the steep and slippery pink granite was exhausting and unimpressive, but the view of Texas hill country was well worth it. Things get interesting at the top of the dome where the hiking is more a matter of shimmying between boulders, dropping five feet, lowering myself into lightless wet caves. Other hikers set fire to bundles of sage to light the way.

Someone told me not to touch the cacti, so duh, of course I touched a cactus. While busy pulling the thorn out of my finger I heard the rustling of a strange mohawked bird. I later identified it as the scampering roadrunner of cartoon fame. Determined not to go down the same route I came up, I chose a dangerously sloped section of wobbly boulders and crawled gracelessly down the mountain. I could hear other hikers sliding along on their butts and half the pictures I took were mid-panic attack when I debated climbing back up but realized it would be impossible.

After the rock, I drove south to wine country and the quaint town of Fredericksburg. Famous for their orchards, peaches, and a number of wineries, my only purchase was an assortment of chocolate liquers including a peach schnapp and raspberry port made by locals. Full of Sam Houston whiskey ganache, I was ready to head home but spotted a metal cow and followed a sign leading deep into cattle country.

Signs warn of lose livestock which includes the heritage longhorn cattle, as well as some woolly striped cows that I call cow-sheep. (Cow-sheep probably sound like this: Moo-aaahahah). I got out of the car to take pics of an armadillo, the first live one I've ever seen. When it hopped toward me like an armored kangaroo I screamed and backed away, before remembering it's just an armadillo, and I've never heard of a deadly 'dillo attack.

Ten miles later I reached the Benini Sculpture Ranch. It is a working ranch with miles of modern art amongst the cow plop. It's proof that the roadrunner is not the only cukoo in Texas.

Landmarks

I spent inauguration night with a friends at The Hole in the Wall bar, a whopping three stage venue. They featured a great bluegrass band, a political comedian, and the Horse Opera covering the entire Springsteen album Born in the USA. A valuable tip for Springsteen is that the title of each song is the chorus, and the chorus is 90% of the lyrics. Repeat "Born in the USA" 19 times. You have now memorized the song. And the tune will not leave your head no matter how you try. All in all, there is nothing more Obama-rama-radical than a bunch of tatooed college guys rocking out in their USA flag shirts. Their flag bandanas hanging from the back pocket. The washboard player with a stars and stripes cowboy hat. The one guy in a red-white-blue leather jacket...

I had to stop for a photo-op at the tiny Eiffel Tower at Dreyfus Antiques'. There is no explanation why this replica sits in the parking lot, protected by a laughably tiny fence. But it was on my map of Austin as a Landmark, so I had to visit. Later I passed a tiny shed, turned restaurant, marked by a mounted plastic banana that is as big as the roof. So weird that it's normal.

While Chicago weather was below zero, ours was 81 degrees Thursday. It was perfect for a trip to Zilker Park, the central public park of Austin. I paddled a kayak down Ladybird Lake, aka Lake Austin, actually a river, actually the Colorado River. Hundreds of turtles were sunning themselves on logs, ducks were diving for fish, and white geese honked at passing boats. The tributary from Zilker opens into the river, cutting between the high hills of the green belt. The only anxious moment was when a few swans came within pecking distance and I realized these birds are as big as my kayak!

I ate lunch by the park at Shady Grove. They make a peppery chicken fried steak, and serve their salad with jalapeno lime dressing that can make you forget you're eating boring lettuce. This picture is of their bathroom, which is an outdoor old-school trailer. Austin loves its converted trailers.

Headed to Speakeasy on Saturday night for a live band that played everything from Sweet Home Alabama to Sexy Back. The crowd two-stepped, they bumped and grided, they line danced, they booty shaked. It's a strange dichotomy when men in suits sit with girls in western boots and tie dye dresses. When a guy in a red jacket does the moonwalk while his friend with the long hippy hair smokes a cigar. There is no judging dumb hicks or snooty yuppies because they are all in the same group of friends, where a guy with a mullet sips a pink martini and reclines on a bed.

Cherry on Top

Those who know me best would probably subscribe me to Popular Mechanics rather than Cosmopolitan. This week I battled with my beauty inabilities when trying to apply eyeliner for a 'not-sure-if-this-is-a-date' date. The trick to first impressions is to not distract someone with your raccoon makeup, or with constant eye-twitching caused when shadow finds its way to your retina. Though I don't agree with the Cosmo-Girl advice to get a bikini wax before a date, I have been reading their makeup tips for the 'tween. in hopes of someday mastering a few beauty secrets.

Turns out it was a date. Though I didn't want to date until I made friends, it's hard to say no when a guy buys me dessert. We went to Cap. City Comedy which is the place for Austin's stand-up comedy, hosting young stars and seasoned big name pros. We saw Chinaman, the voice of several characters on the cartoon "Dragon Ball Z". I ordered a basket of my newest vice: fried pickles with ranch dressing, ate some of my date's southwest eggrolls, and had some good laughs.

What goes with pickles better than ranch? Ice cream. We headed to Amy's Ice Cream where there are tons of flavors and toppings to choose, which are blended on a warm marble slab. Though reminiscent of Cold Stone Creamery, the scoopers were rolling balls of ice cream and flipping them behind their backs or tossing back and forth. They are training already for Amy's own Trick Olympics, an annual Decathalon of the dred-locked, hippy-esque scoop staff. I sampled their specialty Mexican Vanilla, as well as the chipotle peanut butter, but finally settled on a blend called the Dirty Harry.

Austin restaurants have a uniquely rustic, vaguely hippy, blatently texan quality. My other recent treat was with my friend Susan at Hey Cupcake!, which is, no joke, a silver trailor (ala I Love Lucy) that street vends cupcakes in the SoCo neighborhood. As divey as it sounds, I love that these aren't super frou-frou sugar-frosting things you typically find. And these are endorsed by Oprah. I had the Michael Jackson, a moist chocolate cake with cream cheese frosting, shot in the center with real whip cream. Hey perfect!

Birthday Suit - this is a long one

"Your birthday suit needs a better tailor."

I rushed from the Amtrak station, showered, and took the bus to 6th street. The college kids were out in full swing. I jumped to an uncountable number of bars, sharing shots mostly with bartenders who comped me for my big day. At Dizzy Roosters they announced my birthday and strangers whooped as I jumped on the bar, grabbed a shot nestled on a high shelf, then ceremoniously signed the rafters. The bouncer asked for my number and in my buzzed state I obliged.

At the Velveeta Room, the second stage for Esther's Follies - what proud Austinites consider the best locale for improv comedy - I got a birthday comp entrance. Later I headed to Mohawks on Red River. The Mohawk was a complete change in vibe from the 6th street scene: UT shirts were traded for band tees, baseball caps became knitted beanies, jeans replaced with skinny pants, and sweatshirts were leather jackets. The band was rocking and I met up with one of my Craigslist contacts, Hans.

From there we headed east to a yuppy club. The seating was queen size beds, an uptight crowd, but it was the bartenders birthday too so he made me a few special cocktails. We headed next door to a hopping Jewish deli where I topped my night with chocolate milk, fudge blintzes, and fried pickles. It was my birthday after all.

Hans and I headed back to 6th to find a cab when the bouncer from the Rooster pulled up and offered us a ride. Hans and I weren't exactly on a date, but I was dropped off first and I can only imagine the awkward conversation between the two of them after I left.

Sunday I headed back to Esther's Follies because they were offering a free improv class. I am neither funny nor comfortable on stage, but I thought this would be a great experiment in overcoming my anxieties. I got on stage a few times in front of the 30 attendees, and I neither puked nor shook uncontrollably, both my normal responses. The teacher was IO and 2nd City alum, founder of Chicago's Annoyance Theater, Tom Booker. He called me out for my shyness and offered a few tips to remember: 1. If what you're doing has never been done before then it can't be a mistake 2. Don't be afraid to make a mistake. 3. Don't suck.

Later I went with another Craigslist contact to Ruby's BBQ, then to play pool. It was a good time, though all the question and answer stuff became a chore.

Tom Booker made another point about performance. Responding 'no' stops the flow but asking questions gets people stuck in their head. One solution is to make a statement to elicit a statement, responding each time with "Yes, and..." Next time I'm out with a new person I am going to ditch the Q&A and try the improv approach. I imagine it will go something like this:

ME: I write stories.
GUY: Yes, and I like to read stories.
ME: I like lamp.
GUY: Yes, and I too like lamp!

Make New Friends - Keep the Old

Still in the cold arms of wintry Chicago, I am diligently hanging out with friends and strengthening the connections I hold dear. Typically I think post-college adults find friends through other friends, at work, or while hanging out at bars. Though I have one old friend in Austin who I've reunited with, I work from home, and going solo to an Austin bar required more guts then I can regularly muster.

My friend Mikey suggested meeting a new person every day for a year but the question is, How? I just signed on to volunteer at the South by Southwest fest in April. I even scouted people in the "strictly platonic" ads on Craigslist and lined-up a few play dates. Though talking to random store clerks is mildly entertaining... Though feeding the guy in my back dumpster was enlightening... Though getting drinks with my maintenance guy is endearing... There's got to be a better way!

So I want to know: How do you meet new people?

Perspective

Read this in a book review: "Leaving home...may provide the necessary perspective required for a writer to actually write with an objective eye."

How to Win Friends and Influence People

New to the world of microwaves and glass top stoves, I have officially broken the microwave. Then today when I moved a pan of mac 'n cheese off the stove I placed the lid to a tub of butter on the still hot burner. I didn't notice until it started to smell. Even with all windows open the stink was overwhelming and I lost my appetite. As I sat outside on my steps I noticed a young guy digging in the back dumpster, so I shouted down and offered him lunch.

Since I arrived in Austin I've wondered about the numerous beggars who seem to have their own community. Mostly young people, they beg in groups, sometimes play guitar between requests of "Spare a smoke?" They combine change to buy one can of beer at 7-Eleven. They are a jolly crew of hippy homeless. They make the Chicago bums look corporate. And my favorite Chicago bum would proudly show me his crack rock, whereas these guys are smoking reefer or just drinking.

Anyway, Max has been train-hopping since 14. For some time he had a government house in New Orleans, until Katrina hit and he went on the road again. Many of the beggars in Austin travel in groups, and he sees them in other parts of the country as they do contract construction, farming, or the traditional cup-rattling. The only relative he has alive is a jewish grandmother in northern Texas, and she's not so keen on him paying visits. He mentioned the idea of going to Israel, I mentioned that all Jews are entitled to a free trip there if they have never been before. Finally, my useless knowledge put to use.

New vocab: Rainbow Kids (ok, I already knew this one) are hippy homeless, mostly travel around the country, lots of couch hopping/camping/pot/other drugs.
Punk bums are punk, travel, mostly drink, some drugs.
Train Hoppers, mostly alcoholics.
Home Bums, homeless who stay in one place year round. They tend to be older.

There is a Yiddish word, beschert, or meant to be. Maybe I was meant to melt plastic, ruin my appetite, share my lunch, learn new street terms, and send a guy to Israel today. And as I am still struggling to meet people, he did me the favor of providing today's human interaction.

Movies with a Twist

I love the Vic in Chicago, a divey movie theater with tables and barfood, but Austin kicks that idea up a few notches. I've heard many raves about the Alamo Drafthouse, a chain of theaters that play new releases, movie sing alongs, and old classics depending on your tastes. Zab, his friends and I went to the Christmas Pancake show which was a montage of holiday movie clips ranging from Home Alone and Rudolph to Pee Wee Herman's Christmas special. But it doesn't stop there...

Like Mystery Science Theater 3000, three live comedians add their own voiceovers during the movie. They take a long intermission and perform rowdy improv skits, like Jesus in his underwear singing an audience chosen theme song "Testicles for Christmas". I've seen tons of funny improv and would give this a top rating, but it's one of those you had to be there experiences.

The Alamo is normal theater seating but with a bar running along each row, a waitress, and a full menu. I had the Poultry-geist chicken sandwich, Slumdog Millionaire Samosas, fried pickles, and a Guinness milkshake. The milkshake might be the most brilliant idea for a dessert drink ever, and if it weren't $7 I would have ordered a few more.

When we left the Alamo, I heard someone shout "There's Leslie!" but alas, it was a false spotting.

After the movies, headed over to Main Event, which is like Dave & Busters without the noise, overcrowding, and ghetto-ness. We went glow-in-the-dark bowling, played arcade games, and then shuffle board. No, not the shuffle board with the long pole you play while wearing boat shoes. I'm guessing other parts of the country have this but I've never seen it before: A long narrow table covered in sand which helps you slide heavy pucks down the wooden field. The goal is to score points and knock your opponent off the table, and it is surprisingly addictive.

Pic below of a cowboy bowling. My definition of cowboy is any guy with a dark tan, broad shoulders, thick biceps, skinny legs, a tucked in shirt, and very snug pants. A cowboy bowling is all that, but with a backwards baseball cap and bowling shoes. For some reason, I find this hilarious.

Surf and Turf

My friend Zab was in town from D.C. and I went with him and his local friends to Saltgrass Steak House. We reminisced about the strangely cool magnet school we attended as kids plus all the news of the past decade, a continuation from our 10 year reunion last week. (Reunion by the way was a big success, lots of attendees, and I fulfilled my planning duties by drinking like a fish.)

Not usually a fan of beef, in fact I didn't eat beef for 8 years, I will say that the 6 ounce strip steak I ordered melted in my mouth. This was my first experience with steak I could cut with a fork. I also ordered the coconut shrimp which I've had many versions of but never like this - it was spicy and sweet, and I'd have to guess they added tobasco to the breading. That's the thing about the Texas pallet, spicy is everywhere and the chips are always made fresh.

Sentimental Slush

[check Lizz's blog about her trip, Ndafunga Dande]

Saturday was Lizz's Send Off Party at Chicago's Grafton (my fav place for Irish whiskey) then Lincoln Karaoke: a proper night of booze and friends topped with a rendition of Toto's Africa. The wave of tears at 2 am can be blamed for my forthcoming mushiness. And tears again on the train after leaving lunch with Lizz yesterday.

It would be easier to have the type of friends who want to stay in one place and rot. I have the friends who are smart, moody, independent and ambitious. Today Lizz goes home to Zimbabwe. And now in New York, in Maine, Indiana, Chicago...in Zim my People are scattered about. Things are shifting, like tectonic plates shaking-up life. It's hard to believe I incited part of this, that I was feeling brave and crazy enough to move away.

I undergo daily yearning for company with my friends and family. Yearning to be face to face with the ones I most adore. I feel like a child who wants what they can't have. If you have loved any People, you might know this variety of suffering.

We are strong enough, I am, to go alone on our journeys. Yet I am vulnerable to the thoughts of what I left behind. It's changing and can't be changed back. With desperation I wish I could contain all my friends in one place, one city, to waive their rights for choosing paths. But those are not my kind of friends. My sort know better than anyone how to let loose, endure, rise above, and never accept the norm. I am lucky to know them; I'm learning that luck doesn't mean getting just what I wanted.

Steady Girl

While driving down the highway with the Austinite via Hawaii, Casey, he commented on the bad driver in front of us. "You have to watch out for the migrant Mexicans; they're the worst drivers." Hmm.

ME: How do you know they are migrants?
CASEY: Because all the migrants drive beater cars.
ME: [in my head: are all beater cars therefore driven by migrants?] How do you know the person is Mexican? We can only see the back of their head.
CASEY: Because it's Texas.

Rather than slap him upside the head, I needed this little reminder not to stereotype this state. It only takes one example to create a stereotype, it takes 100 to break a stereotype. If I keep assuming things, I'll miss out on learning something new or meeting new people.

That being said, let's get down to the stereotypes...
I saw a guy wearing shorts and cowboy boots today. There are people who run along the river path in the morning, in cowboy boots. Construction workers wear cowboy boots, and I wonder if they are steel-toed. Must get boots to fit in with the natives.

It's a pleasant thing that I rarely see women wearing makeup here, and dressing-up is what I think of as dressed-down. However, if it is cold outside or a man wishes to get dressier, they wear sports coats. Not coats/fleeces/hoodies, they wear old school curodoroy jackets or navy blue blazers, or even jackets with elbow patches. This is over the pearl snap shirts and with blue jeans, even with sweatpants. It's oddly formal, like a postcard of a bygone era.

Toothless

Toothless is what Dan referred to Austin as when I met him for chips and queso at Kerby Lane. I get the feeling from a few people that chips and queso is the thing to eat, and Kerby Lane is one of the few 24 hour restaurants in Austin so it's a good place to do it. I also had pumpkin pancakes, and they put every pancake I've ever had before to shame, I had no idea they were supposed to taste that good.

Hadn't seen Dan since high school and it was good to see a familiar face, and a fellow writer at that, and have a few laughs.

Moved the rest of my stuff out of storage then played pool at Rack Billiards on the east side of the highway. The east side is supposed to be the sketchy area of the city, but to me it looked like any bar in Northwest Indiana. The only difference is that the waitresses wear no makeup but show a lot more skin. As in: mid-drif shirts, or men's vests with no shirt beneath, plus skinny leg jeans and boots over the pants. There is supposed to be no indoor smoking in Austin, but that rule doesn't seem to apply on the east side.

Annoyed with my own bad habit of smoking, I have yet another reason to quit. Most places in Austin do not take out of state IDs for liquor or cigarette purchases. Out of towners should consider themselves warned.

My new friends

The problem with new construction: it leans towards shoddy. The gaps they left in the new tile grout have allowed a tiny-red-ant infestation in the bathroom and the kitchen. My new friends are so tiny that they are impossible to kill by smashing, so I've resorted to execution by drowning or douses of dishwasher soap. Temporary solution: stuffing the grout holes with toilet paper and hair gel. At least I'm finally making use of my hair gel.

Went out with Ty yesterday, one of the guys I met while playing pool. Went to a very busy bar that hosts an 80's cover band, the Spazmatics, every Wednesday. Butera would be pleased with their performance, all 4 hours of it, but I felt the need to leave after the third encore. Got a slice from the pizza street vendor, a slice I'd compare to cheap frozen, but even bad pizza hits the spot.

Ty is my first contact with a legitimate full blood Texan whose only trip out of state was to Panama City, Florida, when he was 23. No joke, this guy has never seen a mountain, a foot of snow, or the Mason Dixon Line. He wears point-toe boots, pearl snap dress shirts with the V back-yoke that screams Western wear, and calls everyone friend, pronounced 'Fruh-ind'. He refers to many of the city-dwellers as Liberals. Like, "Y'all don't need to go to that part of the city. They're ruh-eel Librawl. Austin has all kines uh people." I have exhausted our friendship because we really have nothing in common to talk about, but now I know more about hydroponic tomato growing than the average person.

Saw Leslie finally. Leslie is an Austin celebrity who has been mentioned by every single person I've met so far. Why is he famous? Because he is a cross-dresser. Wait, why is he famous? I think he might be the only cross-dresser in Texas. Leslie is a full-bellied brutish man with a good week's worth of facial hair. Rumor has it that he wears thongs out in public. When I saw him, he was wearing a pearl snap shirt, a jean skirt, and knee high boots. Probably the ugliest man I've ever seen. If he made it to Chicago's Boys Town they'd be quick to offer him a makeover. But here in Austin he draws a crowd of young and old, people take pictures with him, they buy him beers, and the locals think you don't know the city until you know Leslie.

Coming out of the phrat house today: Two guys in fitted jeans, shirts tucked in, big shiny belt buckles, aviator sunglasses, and cowboy hats. My definition of normal needs a geographic adjustment.

book stores, etc.

Went to the renegade book store yesterday, and defended a customer against the biligerent owner. Have no idea why I entered the argument, other than the fact I had nothing better to do. Went last night to Book People, which is the largest book store in Austin, I think the largest in Texas. Not quite the Mecca I was hoping for; I've been spoiled by the 4 story Borders on Michigan Ave. But they do a lot of author readings, and they're hosting events for this month's National Novel Writing Month, which I'm trying to participate in. Writing a novel in one month = 1200 words/day. I'm not quite there yet, but I keep trying.

The electrician finally came to fix my hot water heater, and while he waited for it to heat I pulled out my cartoonish map of Austin so he could point out his favorite spots. We went across the street for lemonade, yes, I kidnapped the maintenance guy of all people. He used to be in finance, worked for Enron, so we talked some about my current project. I like the place we went to, it's a huge yard full of old furniture and mismatched tables. Mostly old porch swings, those plastic/chrome classroom chairs, and a fountain made from a rusty watering-can pouring into a bathtub.

Applied for waitressing jobs, but I am highly underqualified. I have experience, but every server at every restaurant is covered in tattoos and I wonder if I look to clean-skinned for employment. Austin has more tattoo parlors than any other city in the south, and it shows. Just outline tattoos mostly, not the colorful 'sleeves' I'm used to up north.

I have Cedar Fever as they call it here. The juniper trees are starting to pollinate (they call them cedars) and I'm a sneeze-aholic every time I go outside. Some relief to the allergies and the warmth came when it rained today. I heard the thunder, then the rain came, and two minutes later it was done.

Funny things so far

Lots of people riding in the bed of pick up trucks.

Everyone calls me ma'am.

Everyone who asks my age says I look great for 28. Meaning that 28 sounds old and they expected more wrinkles and gray hair. Damn college kids.

On game days, EVERYONE wears orange. Hook 'em horns. Football is life here.

People say Brea'fas (breakfast).

When I say "Chicago", people say I have an accent.

I have seen 3 vehicles with large horns as hood ornaments. Awesome.

The trip down

Train ride to Austin from Chicago: an uneventful 30 hours, but I got a lot of writing done.
Taxi from Amtrak to apartment: shared cab with some guy who is now my myspace friend. Yay! My first new friend.
Got to my new place around 8pm and the electricity was not yet on. I tried to settle in, using my lighter, but gave up. Went walking for 2 hours, mostly around the UT campus which is surprisingly quiet and empty at night. Bought toilet paper at CVS and went home. Called Yvonne and Nathan in a moment of panic when I realized I'm here, and everyone I know and love is somewhere else. What the hell was I thinking?

Friday: Electricity on, but no hot water. Wandered around from 28th down to 6th where the more touristy bars are and lots of live music. Some retired guy offered to by me a drink, which I accepted, drank, then ditched him. Went back into the same bar (Buffalo Billiards) and played pool by myself, then with a couple on their anniversary, then with a few guys who have since offered to help me move my stuff out of storage. In the meantime, I am sleeping on the floor and have no towel/dishes/furniture/pillow. It's like camping, but with a microwave.

Saturday: Spent most of the day at Starbucks, checking email, bus maps, etc. Went to dinner with guy I met while playing pool. Ordered 2 meals (on his dime) and brought home leftovers. Called a few people, and started keeping track of who I call each day so I don't repeat in the same day. I don't want to look desperate, but whatever, I just got here.

Sunday: A few hours at Starbucks, then practiced Banjo for 3 hours. Then back to Starbucks. It's open til 2, and I think I'll stay until then. Still no hot water. I keep calling Jon, and he either lost his phone or hasn't charged it, which is completely unacceptable since he should know that I'm trying to call and should have his phone at the ready.

Creative Process

I remember journaling about the creative process for college classes and thought it was a lame exercise. Now I get it. At the time, I lived in a studio and turned my large closet - which had a big window - into my office. I would sit at my desk with pen and paper until 4 in the morning, watching the neighbors on the rooftop next door or listening to the cheering cubs fans at Wrigley a few blocks away. Mostly it was white noise and a confined space.

I live in the world of my characters, become involved in their fictional lives, constantly shuffling the issues they face just to see how they will react. Sounds schizophrenic, I know. And it's a lonely game when writing, but the loneliness fuels the stories.

The book I'm currently writing is about finance. Dry and boring stuff. My employer was telling me how the outline should look and how to approach each chapter. What he really wants, I think, is for me to sit in his office all day and write. I sat and sat in front of the white screen of the computer. For the first time in a decade I had writer's block, or a better way to describe it: writer's procrastination.

Only after 3 hours in an empty bathtub with notebook and pen propped on my knees did I finally accomplish something. I could hear the entire book in my head, see the way it all fits together. I can't deny that this is non-fiction, but it is still a creative endeavor. I can't screw with my process. I can't make it fit into someone else's deadlines and expectations. Nor can I look at each part individually, I need to develop it as a whole book, not chapter-by-chapter.

This goes for any artist. In figure drawing workshops instructors tell you basically "don't focus on the detail until you cover the page in sketches". If you draw the nose, then move to the ear, you may draw both well but the ear may not be in line with the nose/eyes/chin. The perspective is all off. Your style may change while you are working, and you can end up with a VanGogh nose beside a Monet mouth. Start with the big picture, then work on the details.

New approach to writing the book: step away from the computer screen, write in the distractionless bathroom, listen to the voice of the story. The voices tell me what to do, but I'm not worried because they've never led me astray.

How this writing life started

I knew when I was 8 that I wanted to be a writer. There was a drawer in our living room with my stories, written on that one-inch ruled paper you use in kindergarten. I have a degree in creative writing as proof that I am serious, but also that I am willing to disregard family concerns about my career choice. Yet, only now at age 28 have I finally cut ties with traditional income flow and decided to go broke writing.

A few of my writing jobs: crappy commercials, grants, scripts for documentaries, business letters, and during college i wrote papers for $10 a page.

No more writing for everyone else, or doing office jobs to pay the bills. I've saved some money, cut the cable, don't own a car, and will waitress as needed to avoid the traditional 9 to 5. Two weeks ago I left a good paying job. In reality, as excited as I am about this little experiment, it is scary as hell to know that I gave up security.

Never interested in blogs before, I realize that it is one more way to keep myself motivated. If I don't feel like writing anything else, it's fairly easy to put random thoughts on the page, with the added motivation that someone might be bored enough to read it.