It’s been a while since Sufjan Stevens contributed to his ambitious 50 States music project. ‘Ambitious’ is perhaps the wrong word. Maybe ‘impossible’ or ‘unlikely’ are more fitting. Seeing as how he’s got just 2 under his belt, an album for each of the remaining 48 states looks doubtful even if he puts out 1 per year. The outlook is even more bleak considering there was a span of 2 years between Michigan and Illinoise.
The rumors floating around the internets are that his next subject will be Oregon or California. Though given that only a select few states will get the star treatment, I thought I’d make a plea for my home state, Texas.
So here are 5 reasons why I think Sufjan should consider centering his next opus on the Lone Star State:
1. Austin – You can’t meet anyone who has ever been to this town that doesn’t love it. Sounds arrogant but it’s true. Even people I talk to who’ve never been will say that they know someone that loves Austin. The place is oozing with eclectic character and personality. It’s got a rich mixture of culture, intelligence and kookiness but has been able to retain an intimate, small town aura.
2. Because no one needs songs about Delaware – If Sufjan can’t do all the states, then he’s going to have to pick and choose. And honestly, could he even come up with an entire album’s worth of content for some of the states out there? I mean, an EP maybe.
3. Rich source material - I’m sorry, but Texas has a one-up on most of the competition in this category. The sheer size alone allows for a vast pool of people, stories and environments. You have urban cities, sprawling plains and the hilly countryside. The population runs the gamut of urban yuppies to mellow hippies to good ole’ country folk.
4. Because Texas needs Sufjan – There is a stigma about Texas that needs to be shaken. The Dallas theme song should no longer constitute any sort of representation of the state, nor should country music be the dominant soundtrack of Texas. Sufjan has the talent and sensitivity to help expel the hokey and clichéd perception of the state. There are plenty of nuanced aspects within the state-lines that shouldn’t be steamrolled by fiddles and banjos.
5. It’d be good for record sales – Texas has a strange notoriety throughout the world. You could say you’re from Texas anywhere else in the world and people’s interests will definitely be piqued. I still get raised eyebrows when I mention where I’m from. There’s a curiosity and recognition that isn’t reserved for any other state (like say, Idaho). I believe that an album based on Texas would generate a lot more interest (and sales) than a major chunk of the rest of the country.
So there ya go, Sufjan. I hope that helps in the decision making process!
Showing posts with label tx. Show all posts
Showing posts with label tx. Show all posts
Tuesday, March 11, 2008
Tuesday, January 17, 2006
Crusading against the brown-eyed girl
The Strip in Lubbock, for the uninformed, is one of the biggest tourist attractions in the dusty town. No, not that kind of strip, but a stretch of land just outside of the county line that attracts people of all kind. Well, all kinds that drink anyway. You see, I decided to spend my college years in a town that decided to remain devoid of selling alcohol. Afterwards, I would literally stand in the beer section of grocery stores in Austin staring in disbelief. “You mean you can BUY beer right here?! No being ostracized to the outskirts of the community?”
Since there’s just about nothing to see in Lubbock, most people take their visitors to the Strip to see the glimmering lights and neon signs of liquor stores and lines of cars. I loved my time in Lubbock, but even the most devoted citizens of the town should be able to admit that the fact that a cluster of beer toting shacks constitutes a tourist attraction is pretty sad.
But God bless it anyway. I would’ve never survived Lubbock or college without the Strip and its social lubricant (still talking about alcohol).
On one of the many trips to the Strip with Chad in his Chevy pickup truck, he digs through his CD collection and asks if I’m a Van Morrison fan. I think to myself, “Sure, I’ve heard that catchy Brown-Eyed Girl song. He’s pretty good.”
Before I can say those now obviously foolish words, Chad mutters, “Man, I hate that Brown-Eyed Girl song. Worst song of his career. Makes me sick that that’s all people know of his.”
I give a small laugh and slink down in my seat a bit.
Over time, thanks to Chad, I’ve come to be amazed at Van Morrison and the music that no one ever hears. Sure Brown-Eyed Girl is a good song; even today I can admit that. But should one song cast a shadow over an entire body of work? Wouldn’t it be a crime if people only hear Love Me Do and never bothered to listen to Strawberry Fields or Dear Prudence?
I’m big on hunting for good music that you never hear, and one of my methods is to find artists that aren’t necessarily that obscure and hear tracks that no one ever hears on the radio. I always say that I like to “spread the gospel of Gomez” because I think they’re a fucking great band. People will recognize the voice on the Getting Better cover on the Panasonic commercial, but my god, so many of their songs are beautiful.
Fiona Apple will forever be tied to that Criminal song, but look past the angst, heroin-look and there is genius in the album, When the Pawn. Yeah, it’s still full of the girl angst but it’s hard to deny that there’s plenty of musical talent behind it all.
Then there’s Radiohead. One of the few bands to climb out of the 99 cent One-Hit-Wonder bin and be widely recognized as “freaking amazing”. Radiohead certainly deserved another chance after Creep (still a great song, but again it doesn’t deserve to steal the spotlight from the rest of their work).
So in the spirit of getting people off their musical asses to rediscover and redefine what they think they know of an artist, here’s a sampling of Van Morrison songs (better than Brown-Eyed Girl) that more accurately defines his body of work. I’ll admit that I’m not as thoroughly familiar with his entire music collection so I’ll direct any further exploration to the Matador.
Everyone – Bless Wes Anderson for placing it in the Royal Tenenbaums. He’s known for great musical selection in his movies and this is a shining example.
Into the Mystic – The song in Chad’s truck that truly won me over to the greatness of Van Morrison.
I’ll Be Your Lover, Too – The most beautiful song ever.
Since there’s just about nothing to see in Lubbock, most people take their visitors to the Strip to see the glimmering lights and neon signs of liquor stores and lines of cars. I loved my time in Lubbock, but even the most devoted citizens of the town should be able to admit that the fact that a cluster of beer toting shacks constitutes a tourist attraction is pretty sad.
But God bless it anyway. I would’ve never survived Lubbock or college without the Strip and its social lubricant (still talking about alcohol).
On one of the many trips to the Strip with Chad in his Chevy pickup truck, he digs through his CD collection and asks if I’m a Van Morrison fan. I think to myself, “Sure, I’ve heard that catchy Brown-Eyed Girl song. He’s pretty good.”
Before I can say those now obviously foolish words, Chad mutters, “Man, I hate that Brown-Eyed Girl song. Worst song of his career. Makes me sick that that’s all people know of his.”
I give a small laugh and slink down in my seat a bit.
Over time, thanks to Chad, I’ve come to be amazed at Van Morrison and the music that no one ever hears. Sure Brown-Eyed Girl is a good song; even today I can admit that. But should one song cast a shadow over an entire body of work? Wouldn’t it be a crime if people only hear Love Me Do and never bothered to listen to Strawberry Fields or Dear Prudence?
I’m big on hunting for good music that you never hear, and one of my methods is to find artists that aren’t necessarily that obscure and hear tracks that no one ever hears on the radio. I always say that I like to “spread the gospel of Gomez” because I think they’re a fucking great band. People will recognize the voice on the Getting Better cover on the Panasonic commercial, but my god, so many of their songs are beautiful.
Fiona Apple will forever be tied to that Criminal song, but look past the angst, heroin-look and there is genius in the album, When the Pawn. Yeah, it’s still full of the girl angst but it’s hard to deny that there’s plenty of musical talent behind it all.
Then there’s Radiohead. One of the few bands to climb out of the 99 cent One-Hit-Wonder bin and be widely recognized as “freaking amazing”. Radiohead certainly deserved another chance after Creep (still a great song, but again it doesn’t deserve to steal the spotlight from the rest of their work).
So in the spirit of getting people off their musical asses to rediscover and redefine what they think they know of an artist, here’s a sampling of Van Morrison songs (better than Brown-Eyed Girl) that more accurately defines his body of work. I’ll admit that I’m not as thoroughly familiar with his entire music collection so I’ll direct any further exploration to the Matador.
Everyone – Bless Wes Anderson for placing it in the Royal Tenenbaums. He’s known for great musical selection in his movies and this is a shining example.
Into the Mystic – The song in Chad’s truck that truly won me over to the greatness of Van Morrison.
I’ll Be Your Lover, Too – The most beautiful song ever.
Monday, September 26, 2005
Travelocity killed the cat
The Austin City Limits Festival has come and gone in a haze of dust and alcohol, and as my time in Austin was drawing near an end, my biggest anxiety of the trip began to loom closer: picking up Gina’s cat, Rex and getting him back to New York. Not only would it be tough to feed a cat a sedative for the plane, and then stuff him into a carrier, but Rex is a flighty animal by nature. Add that to his being used to the freedom of a backyard for a few months and it means an unpleasant experience for me.
It was decided long ago that it would be better for Rex to not come along as we made our week-long exodus to New York. He’d have to endure long car rides, various hotel rooms and however long we’d have to stay at a friend’s place until we found our own. Even then there’d be the unpacking and painting for him to deal with. No, it would be so much better for him to be put through just one day of torture rather than two months of it.
On the fretful day that my host, Chad graciously accompanies me to go pick up Rex from Gina’s mom, I’m well beyond any initial anxiety and moved into suppressed dread. I had already sought the advice of Gina, other pet owners and even the internet for some secret trick that would make feeding the pill to a feline a breeze. Oh, so you just tilt his head back until his mouth practically swings open, toss the pill down his throat, stroke his neck, blow on his nose, nothing to it!
So Chad and I venture into the garage where Rex is holed up. It’s my hope that he remembers me from living together for over a year and the fact that I fed and pet him everyday. Spotting him behind a tool box, I crouch down and start calling him to come over to me. My hopes are raised when he steps out and then my hopes are quickly dashed when he completely ignores me and starts breaking for the door that we just walked through.
The next thing I know, Chad and I are both wrestling the cat into submission. Chad, who I forgot was allergic to cats, was bravely leveraging his weight onto Rex to keep him in position, while I was holding Rex’s head in one hand and using my other hand to pinch a pill in my index and thumb and pry his mouth open with my middle finger. After fifteen minutes of him trashing and growling at me, Chad and I look at each other exasperated. I let out a long breath and hold up the pill to see if Chad wants to give it a shot. He lets out a weary laugh and says "No way!" which is probably a lot more polite than how I would’ve responded if our roles were reversed.
Somehow after more thrashing, more growling and much more cussing, I manage to catch Rex by surprise and he swallows the pill. After that battle, getting him into the carrier was no problem so Chad and I celebrate our triumph with a McDonald’s breakfast.
It was my hope that Rex would immediately conk out and I wouldn’t have to stress for the rest of the trip. No such luck, he’s still darting his head around and letting out periodic meows. I deduce that A. the kitty valium is taking longer to kick in. B. the kitty valium is weaker than expected. Or C. Rex was being sneaky and kept the pill in his mouth long enough to spit it out when Chad and I weren’t looking. I’m trying to be optimistic that it’s A, worried that it’s B and really hoping that it’s not C. But it can’t be C because we held him for a while, and I stroked his throat and he did the licking his nose thing when I do the blow on his nose thing and the cat has to swallow when I do that. Right?
Well, whatever it is, all I have to do is get him past the security check, past the boarding people and onto the plane and make it through unscathed. All the while, I try to be discrete that I have a live animal in a big bag. I actually get onto the plane but while waiting for the people in front to get their bags in place, a seated woman spots Rex and coos, "Awwww! Whatcha got there?" I chime "A kitty!" in a sickeningly sweet tone to try and get on at least one person’s good side in case Rex starts wailing in flight. The woman lets out another "Awww!" and then her jovial face plummets into a suspicious glare and asks "Is she sedated?"
The plane takes off and lands in Houston without any incident. But the connecting flight to LaGuardia is delayed 90 minutes. Normally I’d just be annoyed, but today I’m more worried about any extra time I’m having to keep the cat locked up in a cramped carrier with sedatives (that he may or may not have ingested) rapidly wearing off. So I sit in the farthest corner so not to draw attention to Rex but also to keep away from the human traffic as much as possible to keep Rex calm. This provides the perfect view to observe a 40 year old man in a suit pick his nose while reading his USA Today. I crinkle my face in response as he gets his index finger past the first knuckle. I glance towards the CNN on TV just in time for him to scan around to see if he’d been caught in the act. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see that he’s satisfied that he’s in the clear and inspects his finger for any boogers. I spend the rest of the delayed time trying to get a view of his boarding pass and praying that he doesn’t wind up next to me.
As we finally board, Rex is definitely more animated. He meows at any jostling so it’s my hope that his calls get drowned out by the aircraft engines. He’s faint, but anyone near me will clearly hear him. I keep my eye on the people sitting around me hoping they pull out iPods or headphones to watch Jennifer Lopez’s hilarious dilemma in "Monster-in-Law".
After two hours, and the start of our descent, Rex has had enough. He starts meowing continuously but we’re close enough to landing that I don’t care to apologize to anyone. I get into the terminal and it’s shocking how loud an airport is when you hear it with new ears. Aside from the jets taking off every few minutes and the dull roar of people in the background, an airport is disturbingly noisy. Luggage wheels rumble on the tile, carts with loose wheels rattle on the asphalt, baggage claim buzzers drone on, and then there’s this one child who finds a way of entertaining himself by throwing a tin can onto the tile to hear the loud clanging as it bounces and rolls around. This is irritating enough to people, but I just wondered how many times Rex recoiled in terror as the kid tossed the can again and again. We’re beyond restraining the child, the parents need to be locked up and beaten.
Now that I’m at LaGuardia, my next task is to get to the apartment in the East Village. My weariness is begging for a cab. But my responsible side is telling me that I just spend over $200 in the last three days and I don’t even have a job. So I trudge over to the shuttle bus waiting area. Twenty minutes pass and no shuttle. Meanwhile, cab after cab goes by, laughing, just laughing at me. A man in a uniform comes out and one of the waiting travelers asks if the shuttle is coming. He gives a not very reassuring "Oh, yeah. It’ll be here in five to ten minutes." I pass the next few minutes by studying to shuttle sign and notice that the shuttle stops running at 8 pm, which is in ten minutes. In my head I start calculating whether or not that means that it’ll make rounds while it’s still in mid-route and what my chances of being in mid-route are. Just then another man in a uniform walks up and asks "You all bought your tickets yet?" Everyone shakes their head. He asks everyone where they’re headed. I say "Grand Central", another asian says "Port Authority" and a guy who looks like Paul Walker from the "Fast and the Furious" says "LaGuardia". When confronted with the fact that he said "LaGuardia" he laughs and says "No wait, I meant Grand Central." The uniformed man tells us to follow him and we all do, thinking that this is another helpful attendant who found a shuttle. Instead, he leads us to an unmarked, large extended-cab van with a black guy in a bandana at the wheel.
Now I don’t think I’m being racist by pointing out that he was black, since the uniformed man was black and I didn’t mention that. It’s just that the situation was getting surreal and not a little bit sketchy. Paul Walker nervously asks "This goes to Grand Central?" The uniformed man replies "Yeah, it’s faster than the shuttle." Ding, that’s all we needed. We all climb in. The driver starts the engine and proceeds to pull out five feet and stops. The uniformed man hops out to wrangle up more suckers and we sit in the van which smells like my uncle’s car that he had in the 80’s. That stale dusty smell. The silence and stillness gives me time to look out and ponder this situation. I’m seriously ready to make a break for it by jumping out of the van. Then the actual shuttle picks up the people at the spot we were just standing at and drives off. Paul Walker and I exchange worried glances. The scene with Ving Rhames and Bruce Willis in "Pulp Fiction" all tied up pops into my head. I start hysterically wondering if we all just wandered into something strange and dangerous and hope there’s no gimp involved. I shake my head thinking "Nah, that’s crazy. Not in real life." But then I remember all the News of the Weird stories that I ever read over the years. Crazy shit still happens. I’m sure the farmer who blew off his brother’s nuts was thinking that nothing crazy would ever happen to him.
Another five minutes passes and the uniformed man comes back with another unfortunate soul. We start to move out of the parking area and I can’t decide whether or not to be ecstatic or really worried. We drive in the rain. Since I don’t know my way into Manhattan, I concentrate on timing the trip in order to calculate what cab fare would be for the next time I end up in this situation. Then Paul Walker leans toward the driver and asks "What way are you getting into Manhattan?" Everyone else in the van looks up sharply. The uniformed man is clearly annoyed and retorts "What way do you get into Manhattan? We’re going the fastest way." Rex lets out a faint whimper and I think "I feel you, buddy. I feel you."
We make our way onto the bridge and everyone is visibly relieved. The man in the rear row is on the phone and mentions that we’re about to make it to Grand Central. The asian guy looks around and asks "Grand what? I’m going to Port Authority." The driver replies "Yeah, Port Authority. Same thing." and lets out a sarcastic cackle.
We arrive at our destination and hop out as fast as possible. The asian looks confused, and starts arguing with the uniformed man. I suppose I should’ve helped the guy out. But I wasn’t even sure what train to take from where we were at, and Rex had at that point taken up to meowing again. The trains were out of the question for me and I take the luxury of a cab the rest of the way.
In the end, Rex makes it safely to our apartment and has adjusted much more quickly than we had hoped. It feels good to have him here. It makes the place feel more like home. But I’ll be damned if I ever get on a plane with a pet again.
It was decided long ago that it would be better for Rex to not come along as we made our week-long exodus to New York. He’d have to endure long car rides, various hotel rooms and however long we’d have to stay at a friend’s place until we found our own. Even then there’d be the unpacking and painting for him to deal with. No, it would be so much better for him to be put through just one day of torture rather than two months of it.
On the fretful day that my host, Chad graciously accompanies me to go pick up Rex from Gina’s mom, I’m well beyond any initial anxiety and moved into suppressed dread. I had already sought the advice of Gina, other pet owners and even the internet for some secret trick that would make feeding the pill to a feline a breeze. Oh, so you just tilt his head back until his mouth practically swings open, toss the pill down his throat, stroke his neck, blow on his nose, nothing to it!
So Chad and I venture into the garage where Rex is holed up. It’s my hope that he remembers me from living together for over a year and the fact that I fed and pet him everyday. Spotting him behind a tool box, I crouch down and start calling him to come over to me. My hopes are raised when he steps out and then my hopes are quickly dashed when he completely ignores me and starts breaking for the door that we just walked through.
The next thing I know, Chad and I are both wrestling the cat into submission. Chad, who I forgot was allergic to cats, was bravely leveraging his weight onto Rex to keep him in position, while I was holding Rex’s head in one hand and using my other hand to pinch a pill in my index and thumb and pry his mouth open with my middle finger. After fifteen minutes of him trashing and growling at me, Chad and I look at each other exasperated. I let out a long breath and hold up the pill to see if Chad wants to give it a shot. He lets out a weary laugh and says "No way!" which is probably a lot more polite than how I would’ve responded if our roles were reversed.
Somehow after more thrashing, more growling and much more cussing, I manage to catch Rex by surprise and he swallows the pill. After that battle, getting him into the carrier was no problem so Chad and I celebrate our triumph with a McDonald’s breakfast.
It was my hope that Rex would immediately conk out and I wouldn’t have to stress for the rest of the trip. No such luck, he’s still darting his head around and letting out periodic meows. I deduce that A. the kitty valium is taking longer to kick in. B. the kitty valium is weaker than expected. Or C. Rex was being sneaky and kept the pill in his mouth long enough to spit it out when Chad and I weren’t looking. I’m trying to be optimistic that it’s A, worried that it’s B and really hoping that it’s not C. But it can’t be C because we held him for a while, and I stroked his throat and he did the licking his nose thing when I do the blow on his nose thing and the cat has to swallow when I do that. Right?
Well, whatever it is, all I have to do is get him past the security check, past the boarding people and onto the plane and make it through unscathed. All the while, I try to be discrete that I have a live animal in a big bag. I actually get onto the plane but while waiting for the people in front to get their bags in place, a seated woman spots Rex and coos, "Awwww! Whatcha got there?" I chime "A kitty!" in a sickeningly sweet tone to try and get on at least one person’s good side in case Rex starts wailing in flight. The woman lets out another "Awww!" and then her jovial face plummets into a suspicious glare and asks "Is she sedated?"
The plane takes off and lands in Houston without any incident. But the connecting flight to LaGuardia is delayed 90 minutes. Normally I’d just be annoyed, but today I’m more worried about any extra time I’m having to keep the cat locked up in a cramped carrier with sedatives (that he may or may not have ingested) rapidly wearing off. So I sit in the farthest corner so not to draw attention to Rex but also to keep away from the human traffic as much as possible to keep Rex calm. This provides the perfect view to observe a 40 year old man in a suit pick his nose while reading his USA Today. I crinkle my face in response as he gets his index finger past the first knuckle. I glance towards the CNN on TV just in time for him to scan around to see if he’d been caught in the act. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see that he’s satisfied that he’s in the clear and inspects his finger for any boogers. I spend the rest of the delayed time trying to get a view of his boarding pass and praying that he doesn’t wind up next to me.
As we finally board, Rex is definitely more animated. He meows at any jostling so it’s my hope that his calls get drowned out by the aircraft engines. He’s faint, but anyone near me will clearly hear him. I keep my eye on the people sitting around me hoping they pull out iPods or headphones to watch Jennifer Lopez’s hilarious dilemma in "Monster-in-Law".
After two hours, and the start of our descent, Rex has had enough. He starts meowing continuously but we’re close enough to landing that I don’t care to apologize to anyone. I get into the terminal and it’s shocking how loud an airport is when you hear it with new ears. Aside from the jets taking off every few minutes and the dull roar of people in the background, an airport is disturbingly noisy. Luggage wheels rumble on the tile, carts with loose wheels rattle on the asphalt, baggage claim buzzers drone on, and then there’s this one child who finds a way of entertaining himself by throwing a tin can onto the tile to hear the loud clanging as it bounces and rolls around. This is irritating enough to people, but I just wondered how many times Rex recoiled in terror as the kid tossed the can again and again. We’re beyond restraining the child, the parents need to be locked up and beaten.
Now that I’m at LaGuardia, my next task is to get to the apartment in the East Village. My weariness is begging for a cab. But my responsible side is telling me that I just spend over $200 in the last three days and I don’t even have a job. So I trudge over to the shuttle bus waiting area. Twenty minutes pass and no shuttle. Meanwhile, cab after cab goes by, laughing, just laughing at me. A man in a uniform comes out and one of the waiting travelers asks if the shuttle is coming. He gives a not very reassuring "Oh, yeah. It’ll be here in five to ten minutes." I pass the next few minutes by studying to shuttle sign and notice that the shuttle stops running at 8 pm, which is in ten minutes. In my head I start calculating whether or not that means that it’ll make rounds while it’s still in mid-route and what my chances of being in mid-route are. Just then another man in a uniform walks up and asks "You all bought your tickets yet?" Everyone shakes their head. He asks everyone where they’re headed. I say "Grand Central", another asian says "Port Authority" and a guy who looks like Paul Walker from the "Fast and the Furious" says "LaGuardia". When confronted with the fact that he said "LaGuardia" he laughs and says "No wait, I meant Grand Central." The uniformed man tells us to follow him and we all do, thinking that this is another helpful attendant who found a shuttle. Instead, he leads us to an unmarked, large extended-cab van with a black guy in a bandana at the wheel.
Now I don’t think I’m being racist by pointing out that he was black, since the uniformed man was black and I didn’t mention that. It’s just that the situation was getting surreal and not a little bit sketchy. Paul Walker nervously asks "This goes to Grand Central?" The uniformed man replies "Yeah, it’s faster than the shuttle." Ding, that’s all we needed. We all climb in. The driver starts the engine and proceeds to pull out five feet and stops. The uniformed man hops out to wrangle up more suckers and we sit in the van which smells like my uncle’s car that he had in the 80’s. That stale dusty smell. The silence and stillness gives me time to look out and ponder this situation. I’m seriously ready to make a break for it by jumping out of the van. Then the actual shuttle picks up the people at the spot we were just standing at and drives off. Paul Walker and I exchange worried glances. The scene with Ving Rhames and Bruce Willis in "Pulp Fiction" all tied up pops into my head. I start hysterically wondering if we all just wandered into something strange and dangerous and hope there’s no gimp involved. I shake my head thinking "Nah, that’s crazy. Not in real life." But then I remember all the News of the Weird stories that I ever read over the years. Crazy shit still happens. I’m sure the farmer who blew off his brother’s nuts was thinking that nothing crazy would ever happen to him.
Another five minutes passes and the uniformed man comes back with another unfortunate soul. We start to move out of the parking area and I can’t decide whether or not to be ecstatic or really worried. We drive in the rain. Since I don’t know my way into Manhattan, I concentrate on timing the trip in order to calculate what cab fare would be for the next time I end up in this situation. Then Paul Walker leans toward the driver and asks "What way are you getting into Manhattan?" Everyone else in the van looks up sharply. The uniformed man is clearly annoyed and retorts "What way do you get into Manhattan? We’re going the fastest way." Rex lets out a faint whimper and I think "I feel you, buddy. I feel you."
We make our way onto the bridge and everyone is visibly relieved. The man in the rear row is on the phone and mentions that we’re about to make it to Grand Central. The asian guy looks around and asks "Grand what? I’m going to Port Authority." The driver replies "Yeah, Port Authority. Same thing." and lets out a sarcastic cackle.
We arrive at our destination and hop out as fast as possible. The asian looks confused, and starts arguing with the uniformed man. I suppose I should’ve helped the guy out. But I wasn’t even sure what train to take from where we were at, and Rex had at that point taken up to meowing again. The trains were out of the question for me and I take the luxury of a cab the rest of the way.
In the end, Rex makes it safely to our apartment and has adjusted much more quickly than we had hoped. It feels good to have him here. It makes the place feel more like home. But I’ll be damned if I ever get on a plane with a pet again.
Tuesday, August 02, 2005
U-Holla
Here I am blogging from Texarkana! The last goodbyes to coworkers, friends and family have been done. The frantic loading up of the U-Haul is completed (Many thanks Chad!). My biggest fears of having too much stuff to put into it were laid to rest (but just barely). And we’re one fourth of the way there.
A lot of pressure and stress has been lifted after the weekend but New York is still so far away that it still seems surreal to think that by the end of the week, I’ll be walking around in the city.
Everyone knows that U-Haul is the oldest and crappiest, but come on, not even a tape deck in the dash?? I was banking on being able to pop in a tape converter for my iPod to drown out the creaks and squeaks of the truck, but no luck.
Oh, and for anyone of you out on the road: If I’m in a 10ft U-Haul loaded to the brim with boxes and I can still pass your ass, you need to have your license revoked.
A lot of pressure and stress has been lifted after the weekend but New York is still so far away that it still seems surreal to think that by the end of the week, I’ll be walking around in the city.
Everyone knows that U-Haul is the oldest and crappiest, but come on, not even a tape deck in the dash?? I was banking on being able to pop in a tape converter for my iPod to drown out the creaks and squeaks of the truck, but no luck.
Oh, and for anyone of you out on the road: If I’m in a 10ft U-Haul loaded to the brim with boxes and I can still pass your ass, you need to have your license revoked.
Friday, July 08, 2005
A Festivus for the Rest of Us
The schedule for this year’s Austin City Limits is finally online, so now I can have a whole two months to plan accordingly. At first glance, there appears to be no dire dilemmas suchs as the Gomez/Franz Ferdinand of yesteryear. The only one I see so far is Fiery Furnaces/Walkmen but that’s an easy choice for me. Blueberry Boats!
Although all of this seems pretty infinitesimal in relation to the attack in London yesterday. As with 9-11, it makes me wonder if, as a society and as an individual, what I devote my life and career to is really making the world a better place. Working for a non-profit education association may not be as creatively or intellectually stimulating as I’d aspire for, but it helps salve the soul somewhat. Fighting for education, or just making teachers feel better, is a just cause that makes me feel as if I’m doing something for the world.
I was always struck by a passage in Chuck Palahniuk’s Choke: "Someday I’d like to live a life based on doing good stuff instead of just not doing bad stuff." Okay, so that was amidst deplorable sexual acts and heinous scamming, but that just makes it more beautiful in contrast, right?
After wondering about how we can all still devote ourselves to celebrity magazines, video games and every other self-indulgent product out there, I realized that in some cheezy way, living our lives is a sort of resistance to the attacks of terrorism.
People obsessing over the latest performance on American Idol may not be the most virtuous form of fighting back, I’ll admit that. But yesterday’s London Underground bombing hasn’t deterred me from still planning to ditch my car and hop on a subway in New York. I think that counts for something. (Or maybe I’m just suicidally dense.)
I’m not sure how this War on Terror will play out, but while we still have the luxury of attending music festivals, planning obscenely elaborate weddings, or whatever we want to do, we just might pull through this.
...
I have no idea how this post dissolved into such a rant. Another case for my crippling, non-linear mental issues which were already touched upon in an earlier post.
Back on subject, although my wallet will be painfully light as it is, I hope the Fiery Furnaces find the time to play a full evening show at a venue around town. One hour shows are nice when bundled with a buffet of others, but I need something of a three-course meal here.
Although all of this seems pretty infinitesimal in relation to the attack in London yesterday. As with 9-11, it makes me wonder if, as a society and as an individual, what I devote my life and career to is really making the world a better place. Working for a non-profit education association may not be as creatively or intellectually stimulating as I’d aspire for, but it helps salve the soul somewhat. Fighting for education, or just making teachers feel better, is a just cause that makes me feel as if I’m doing something for the world.
I was always struck by a passage in Chuck Palahniuk’s Choke: "Someday I’d like to live a life based on doing good stuff instead of just not doing bad stuff." Okay, so that was amidst deplorable sexual acts and heinous scamming, but that just makes it more beautiful in contrast, right?
After wondering about how we can all still devote ourselves to celebrity magazines, video games and every other self-indulgent product out there, I realized that in some cheezy way, living our lives is a sort of resistance to the attacks of terrorism.
People obsessing over the latest performance on American Idol may not be the most virtuous form of fighting back, I’ll admit that. But yesterday’s London Underground bombing hasn’t deterred me from still planning to ditch my car and hop on a subway in New York. I think that counts for something. (Or maybe I’m just suicidally dense.)
I’m not sure how this War on Terror will play out, but while we still have the luxury of attending music festivals, planning obscenely elaborate weddings, or whatever we want to do, we just might pull through this.
...
I have no idea how this post dissolved into such a rant. Another case for my crippling, non-linear mental issues which were already touched upon in an earlier post.
Back on subject, although my wallet will be painfully light as it is, I hope the Fiery Furnaces find the time to play a full evening show at a venue around town. One hour shows are nice when bundled with a buffet of others, but I need something of a three-course meal here.
Tuesday, July 05, 2005
Austism
The countdown to New York is well underway so now the question is what to do with the time that remains in good ole’ Austin? Holiday on a boat on the lake with some beer? Check. Lazy afternoon on a tube on the Comal with some beer? Check. Uh... now what?
Showdown and Spiderhouse are definitely on the list of things that I will need to have one last go-around to. But other than that I can’t think of any pressing thing I need to do or visit before I’m gone. I’ve seen the Capital, been to 6th and 4th Street, seen the bats at dusk. Plus the lack of urgency to fill up on culture is negated by the fact that I’m going to freaking New York. Sure I’ll miss Din Ho, but I’ll have all of Chinatown. Shopping on South Congress? Uh... Soho, anyone? Once I find my Spiderhouse replacement, I’ll be good.
Hey, if I had nostalgia for Lubbock, I’m pretty sure I will miss my Austin days. But for now, I’m all about looking ahead to what lays in store for me in the City. And that’s a good thing.
Plus, I’ll be back for Austin City Limits festival. But for now, here’s my tentative Get Austin Outta My System list (and no comment on the frequency of beer-related ones):
1. Spiderhouse
2. Showdown
3. Alamo Drafthouse
4. Dog and Duck
5. Gingerman
6. Draught House
7. Uncommon Objects
8. Din Ho
9. Brown Bar
10. Tubing the Comal (once more couldn’t hurt)
11. Run Town Lake
12. Walk through Hyde Park
13. Dolce Vita
14. Crown and Anchor
15. Steak at Eddie V’s
16. Waterloo Records
17. Book People
18. Barton Springs
19. Hula Hut
20. Salt Lick
21. Chuy’s
22. El Chile
23. Drinks at Hotel San Jose
Showdown and Spiderhouse are definitely on the list of things that I will need to have one last go-around to. But other than that I can’t think of any pressing thing I need to do or visit before I’m gone. I’ve seen the Capital, been to 6th and 4th Street, seen the bats at dusk. Plus the lack of urgency to fill up on culture is negated by the fact that I’m going to freaking New York. Sure I’ll miss Din Ho, but I’ll have all of Chinatown. Shopping on South Congress? Uh... Soho, anyone? Once I find my Spiderhouse replacement, I’ll be good.
Hey, if I had nostalgia for Lubbock, I’m pretty sure I will miss my Austin days. But for now, I’m all about looking ahead to what lays in store for me in the City. And that’s a good thing.
Plus, I’ll be back for Austin City Limits festival. But for now, here’s my tentative Get Austin Outta My System list (and no comment on the frequency of beer-related ones):
1. Spiderhouse
2. Showdown
3. Alamo Drafthouse
4. Dog and Duck
5. Gingerman
6. Draught House
7. Uncommon Objects
8. Din Ho
9. Brown Bar
10. Tubing the Comal (once more couldn’t hurt)
11. Run Town Lake
12. Walk through Hyde Park
13. Dolce Vita
14. Crown and Anchor
15. Steak at Eddie V’s
16. Waterloo Records
17. Book People
18. Barton Springs
19. Hula Hut
20. Salt Lick
21. Chuy’s
22. El Chile
23. Drinks at Hotel San Jose
Sunday, February 20, 2005
Oh Spiderhouse I hardly knew ye
Sure the new two-tier deck adds some needed tables and outlets and the new tiles in the bathroom are nice, but there’s something to be said about the old comic book lined walls and paint-chipped posts. And what’s this? A motion sensor towel dispenser in the bathroom?! Is nothing sacred anymore?
Wednesday, February 02, 2005
From Halo’s heart, I stab at thee
Last weekend was the demise of the Dallas house (aka Sean and Jon's, aka Jon and Mike's) so what better way to send it off in style than to gather up 15 guys and network three Xbox's in the living room and play video games until eyes are bloodshot, livers are aching and thumbs are throbbing? Is there some sort of male instinct that makes such an event so enthralling? Man used to hunt and gather, and now we hunt aliens and gather spinning ammo icons.
All this is speculative since there was a girl in the midst of all this virtual testosterone, my girl to be exact, which left me with too much shame and embarrassment to let my hands get too comfortable nestling a controller. Not that I really minded anyway. I'm not much of a gaming buff anymore and hardly miss it. Plus the small split screen TVs and the fact that the only two guys who knew how to play teamed up to slaughter everyone else made it rather unpalatable. C'mon, where's the challenge? It's like Shaq slam dunking on high school freshmen.
It's still amazing to me that a room full of single guys can so easily resist rows of bars filled with females (just a few blocks away) to play video games. I'm sure I've been guilty many times of foregoing society for a chance to get to the bonus level. But I now I wouldn't hesitate at all to spend time with my girlfriend over a night of video games or to watch football or other minor things (like much needed sleep). But hey, that's me.
All this is speculative since there was a girl in the midst of all this virtual testosterone, my girl to be exact, which left me with too much shame and embarrassment to let my hands get too comfortable nestling a controller. Not that I really minded anyway. I'm not much of a gaming buff anymore and hardly miss it. Plus the small split screen TVs and the fact that the only two guys who knew how to play teamed up to slaughter everyone else made it rather unpalatable. C'mon, where's the challenge? It's like Shaq slam dunking on high school freshmen.
It's still amazing to me that a room full of single guys can so easily resist rows of bars filled with females (just a few blocks away) to play video games. I'm sure I've been guilty many times of foregoing society for a chance to get to the bonus level. But I now I wouldn't hesitate at all to spend time with my girlfriend over a night of video games or to watch football or other minor things (like much needed sleep). But hey, that's me.
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