August 7—Like Finnegan's Wake, but I was the only Irish one there.
My friend Chris was visiting from Houston this week, and today we met to hang out. I might have known it would not go well: Every time we try to hang out, something bad happens. A couple of years ago we tried to go to a local coffee shop, and we met in the parking lot, but there was no coffee shop. We checked the website—we were in the right place—and tried to call the number, which was disconnected. Apparently they had gone out of business months before but never taken down the site. We wound up getting cheap coffee at a tiny shop in a strip shopping center that was just one step above gas station coffee. The next time we got together wasn't much better: It was last fall, at a small Halloween party, and in the middle of hanging out, I started to feel sick. I was coming down with the flu and still wasn't over it when I worked AC/DC, and we all know how that went. So I figured it couldn't get worse than that.
Uh, yeah. About that.
Chris and I had initially planned to visit B. D. Riley's, Mother Egan's, and the Dog and Duck Pub—among other places—but we ran into budget constraints, so we wound up getting a Lone Star at Hole in the Wall instead. For those of you not familiar with Austin, that's one hell of a comedown. Hole in the Wall is a great little dive—well, I say great, but I don't know if I'd get anything to eat there. Then again, it's miles above some of the places I used to go in Houston. I told Chris about the dives I used to visit in Houston—Dean's, Clarks (now Notsuoh), and #s (Numbers). As I said to Chris, "#s is the place that makes me say, 'I love ugly little dive bars, but holy crap.'" Case in point, here we have #s side by side with the much more innocuous Hole in the Wall:
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So, don't hate on Hole in the Wall, y'all, when there are places far worse around. Hole in the Wall is scruffily adorable. #s is, quite frankly, fucking scary.
I picked up Chris at his friend's place—thinking I'd passed it, only it turned out I hadn't reached it yet—and we headed to Hole in the Wall. Knowing that parking near a bar would be impossible on a Saturday afternoon, I parked in a garage on the UT campus, and we walked the couple of blocks north with only minimal confusion. A passing motorist asked for directions to some building; I didn't know what he was talking about. Considering that I went to UT for four years and know all the buildings, I suspected he was in the completely wrong place, but no matter.
Chris and I walked into Hole in the Wall, which was extremely dark, and we were blinded for a moment. We stood stupidly in the doorway for a second to recover our vision and then moved to the bar. We each got a Lone Star—I got a straw for mine in uncomfortable memory of having coffee spilled down my shirt the last time I tried to drink anything in public—and were just starting to get comfortable when the guy playing his guitar on stage packed up and left. Somebody grabbed the mic from him and told everybody to be quiet. Chris and I exchanged confused, nervous glances.
The guy with the mic started telling a story about a recently deceased man. When he finished, he passed the mic to someone else, who told another story, and so on. Everybody in the place, it seemed, had known the deceased and had a story to tell. Everybody but us, it seemed.
"What the hell did we just walk into?" I whispered in horror to Chris as we sat paralyzed on our bar stools. We sheepishly drank our Lone Stars and listened to the stories, wondering vaguely when it would end since, while not invited, we couldn't exactly leave in the middle of a wake without seeming rude. Well, even ruder. So we just sat there, guiltily drinking Lone Star and trying to escape notice. We awkwardly raised our glasses with everyone else in tribute to the deceased.
Luckily, the wake came to an end before we could embarrass ourselves further. We stuck around to listen to a girl with a guitar—she was quite good; we found her on Facebook later—and then left.
I took Chris on a tour of the UT campus. I showed him the RTF building (CMB, the big brown windowless building at Dean Keeton and the Drag, for those of you familiar with Austin), the tower, the turtle pond, and the ROTC building.
In the RTF building, I showed Chris the ProTools suites (someone opened a door into our faces as we passed one), KLRU, and KUT. On the fourth floor of CMB, I looked at the bulletin board with fliers advertising film gigs. I saw a flier for Pro-Tape (a store which sells, well, tape [among other things]) and, wondering if they had any jobs going, grabbed a phone number off the bottom of the flier. In the process, I tore the flier free from one of its pushpins. Chris snickered.
"Shut up," I said as I tried to repair it and botched it. I was pleasantly surprised I didn't knock the whole bulletin board down, but, not wanting to take my chances, decided to leave. Quickly.
We visited the ROTC building last and then wound our way back to my car. As we walked across the east mall, I kicked some dirt into my sandals. Of course. Luckily, there was some water nearby for me to rinse my feet in.
I violated the majesty of the east mall fountain with my muddy feet, but at least I didn't fall in. I couldn't dry my feet off, but no matter. I squelched happily up the sidewalk, leading Chris down a dead end as we tried to get back to the parking garage. Once we realized that our shortcut was under construction, we started up toward Speedway, whereupon Chris spied a nearby banister outside the Jackson School of Geosciences and slid down it. I decided to follow his lead at the next banister we passed. He snapped a photo.
I did not face plant.
The night was still young, so we went to Mozart's on Lake Austin Boulevard, ignoring the multiple signs warning the public not to use the deck if you haven't purchased anything. We sat at the water's edge, watching the birds and turtles until the mosquitoes started biting, and then we left. We wound down the evening at his friend's house, and then I went home and passed out.
August 8—You can't sleep in a tar pit.
My dad has been working on the house lately: He's replacing the siding along the back of the house, and I'm getting new windows in my bedroom and computer room. Today he was working on my window when he discovered some rotting wood under the sill, so rather than put my new window in place, he had to redo the wood, and my window didn't get done. The hole was covered in tar paper, and my room was smelly and hot, so I opted to sleep on the couch instead. Depending on how long it takes my new window to get put in place, today's story will probably factor into later stories.
August 9—Dirty Duds Done Dirt Cheap
Today I put my laundry in the washing machine. My dad went to do his own laundry later and pulled the stuff out of the washer and tossed it into the dryer. I didn't notice because I was in my computer room, but when I emerged later, I saw that my things were in the dryer and promptly pitched a fit.
"How many times do I have to tell you? You don't put a bra in a dryer! It warps!" I shrieked.
"But I didn't," he insisted.
"What?"
"They're right here." He pointed to the top of the dryer, where my damp bras were sitting.
"Oh. Never mind."
Still, I will have to be more careful about making sure he doesn't touch my laundry. I have a few shirts that can't go through the dryer, and I don't expect him to remember which ones they are.
August 10—Tragedy always strikes in the middle of moments of glory.
I met my friend Rick on the UT campus this afternoon. We met at the turtle pond on the north side of the tower just after one o'clock. I got there first and watched the turtles, which are for the most part small, cute, and harmless. One in particular was extremely curious about me, so I held my knuckle to the water's edge, and it gently nipped me. Probably malicious in intent, but I thought it was adorable nonetheless.
Rather less adorable were the snapping turtles. There were at least two; each one a complete beast. One took as big an interest in me as the first turtle had, but its motives were much more savage. I saw the size of the thing and suspected trouble, so I kept my fingers away from the water. I picked a leaf off the ground and held it over the water to see what happened. The snapping turtle exploded out of the water, Jaws-like, and snatched the leaf from me, splashing water over me in the process. I blinked and took a step backward. I saw the turtle eyeing my toes and curled them inward, wishing I had not worn flip flops. I fed it a few more leaves, which I don't think it liked. The turtle apparently wanted something meatier for lunch, but I was intent on not allowing that to happen.
I crouched on the ground, watching the turtles and waiting for my friend. The breeze picked up and blew my skirt up into my face, in full view of the biology building. *sigh* I wrapped the skirt around my knees in vain—The breeze was most insistent, and I could keep either the tops or bottoms of my legs covered, not both. I stood up.
Then Rick arrived, and he took some photos of me playing with the turtles.
We walked around the campus and revisited the banister I'd slid down the other day. I slid down it again.
That was fun, so I slid down it a second time and face planted. Rick photographed the whole thing.
Later we went our separate ways, and I returned home with the intent of making cookies to enjoy with a beer and a rerun of The Daily Show. My dad had been working on the house still, and he'd replaced the vent over the stove. In the process, he had removed all my spices from the cabinet, so I had to replace them before I could cook anything. I got the stepladder to reach the back of the cabinet, and of course the stepladder kept threatening to slide out from under me. I gripped the flimsy hood over the stove for support and finished sorting my spices. Then I made some beef stroganoff and ate it while I baked the cookies.
At six o'clock, I sat down on the couch with two fresh snickerdoodles and a Lone Star (to those of you not from Texas, Lone Star is a Texas beer) to watch The Daily Show. I jumped up to get a napkin and walked across the carpet in my socks, noticing a couple of wet patches on the carpet as I did so. I rolled my eyes, imagining I'd slopped Lone Star onto the floor, and sat down again. I noticed a small puddle on the table and wondered when I had spilled the drink. I saw a few damp spots on the couch and concluded that I must have spilled some of the contents of my water bottle earlier without noticing. No matter. I settled in to enjoy my cookies and beer.
Twenty minutes later, I had finished the cookies and was sipping the last of my Lone Star, laughing at the show, when I happened to glance up and see a patch of water on the ceiling.
Oh shit.
"What's up with the ceiling?" I asked my dad. He looked up.
Language, angst, and a great deal of unnecessary crashing and banging resulted, thoroughly ruining The Daily Show. My dad charged up and down the stairs with various tools, swearing loudly the whole while. He wasn't thinking of my suffering, but I am thinking of yours, so I will spare you the details. All you need to know is that the AC overflow pan had overflowed thanks to an undersized drain pipe.
Also, the soggy couch and wet patch on the living ceiling that may have been about to fall in at any moment meant that my spare sleeping quarters were now ruined. No bed, no couch . . . where was I to sleep?
I had a sleeping bag, but our tent had been stored in the attic for many years and was no longer usable. So I rearranged things in my computer room and spread the sleeping bag on the floor. Of course, the floor space in my computer room is extremely limited, and no matter how I positioned my sleeping bag, I could not stretch full length. Good thing I'm only five three; it could have been worse. As it was, I spent the night with my feet pressed up against a small bookcase and woke up with sore ankles.
At this point, this story segues into tomorrow's story. (FYI, that's pronounced "segway"; it doesn't rhyme with "league." It's Italian, not French.)
August 11—I always anticipated that my next camping trip would be the result of whim, not necessity.
After waking up this morning with sore ankles due to not being able to stretch out to my full length on the floor, I decided not to subject myself to that pain again tonight. So I went to Academy and purchased a tent.
Tent shopping is more complex than you might think. I only needed a tent for one, but the smallest tents sleep two. That's just as well since, should I ever want to take anybody else camping with me, I'll be prepared. Smaller tents are cheaper, but I knew better than to buy the cheapest twenty-dollar kind. I settled for an ugly orange dome dent, and then I set to work looking for sleeping bags. I have one, but it has a hole in it and is a little itchy. I spied a double sleeping bag—very handy for camping with someone else—but it had a purple lining, which I absolutely hated. I despise purple, so I went out of my way to find a different color bag. I located two dark green bags with plaid flannel linings. They could be zipped together to make one double bag. Then I got two air mattresses and an LED lantern and left.
I loaded up the trunk of the car and put my keys in the ignition, at which point the skies split open with a thunderous crack. "Seriously?" I said, glaring. Oh well. I drove home in the rain and brought my new camping gear into the house. After it stopped sprinkling, I began making camp and then realized I needed a rubber mallet to drive the stakes into the ground. I didn't feel like borrowing my dad's or using my own hammer; I wanted a mallet to keep specifically with the camping gear. So back to Academy I went. I bought a kit containing a mallet, a small dustpan and brush, four spare tent pegs, and a peg puller. Then I realized I didn't have any storage bags for the sleeping bags, and I was not going to rely on the shitty elastic straps around them. I loathe the ties around sleeping bags; they always slither out. The Academy closest to my house didn't carry bags large enough, so I went to the Academy by the Pavilion Park and Ride to find the appropriate size. I got two nylon stuff bags as well, figuring they'd come in handy for hauling clothing. I left, driving home in a torrential downpour. One of lights on 183 was out, so it took a while. It quit raining by the time I got home.
Once at home, I transferred the sleeping bags to their new stuff bags and discovered that the bags I'd purchased were too small. But the other stuff bags were the right size, so a simple switch fixed it. Nevertheless, it was annoying.
Back in my back yard, I opened my tent making kit and realized that my new dustpan had a crack and hole in it, rendering it useless. The peg puller looked a little rusty, too. How tedious. I wanted to pitch the tent, though, so I saved the receipt and set it aside. I pitched the tent without trouble aside from Freefall trying to pee on it. I chased him away and quickly got the tent up and zipped the flap shut before anything else could happen. Then I put my air mattresses in it side by side and inflated them, and I laid my sleeping bags over the mattresses and zipped them together to form a double bag.
When I turned in that night, I discovered that the two air mattresses side by side was not a good idea, for they would not stay in place. They also weren't thick enough to disguise the rocky soil in the yard. So I shall have to purchase a queen sized air bed.
Meanwhile, here is my tent:
It is not a very nice tent.
The rain fly clips to the corners of the tent, and I didn't bother staking the vestibule, so it looks sad and deflated, in keeping with the tone of this whole week.
August 12— . . . And Called It Something Like Macaroni
I made macaroni and cheese this evening, and I had already started the noodles and sauce when I discovered that I did not have enough grated cheddar. I fished around in the fridge till I found a block of cheddar, cut some of it off, and tossed it into the pan. Of course, it didn't melt and blend in with the sauce as well as the grated cheese did, so my sauce was a bit clumpy. I picked out the clumpy bits and ate it anyway.
August 13—Talking Shit About a Pretty Sunrise
Sleeping outside in August sucks. Especially in Texas.
I slept in my tent in the back yard again last night, not falling asleep till close to two. I tried to sleep in this morning, but the sun beating down on my tent pulled me out of the tent and into the house at eight thirty. That plus Freefall pitched a fit about not being able to sleep at my feet like he does in the house, and he circled the tent, sniffing at every possible entrance and finding none, proceeding to meow piteously (and with increasing volume) from about four o'clock till I unzipped the tent flap and got out four and a half hours later. I staggered out of the tent and through the dewy grass to the house, where I discovered that my dad had locked the back door when he'd gone to bed the night before. I grumbled, fishing my keys out of my robe pocket. I padded around to the front of the house to let myself in, praying nobody would drive by and see me in my rather brief robe. Freefall followed me the whole way, meowing and purring and rubbing against my legs all the while. As soon as we were in the house, he parked himself in front of his food bowl, glaring at me as I ignored him in favor of the French press. I glared at the sun, desperately wishing it had been overcast or rainy.
A large cup of coffee later, I sat in front of my computer and the inevitable iTunes. For those of you who don't know this, I listen to music all the time. I originally bought an iPod to listen to when I worked at the UT Co-Op warehouse. I had this excruciatingly annoying coworker who never shut up, and she had an iPod she sang along to when not babbling or screaming about something, so I bought an iPod to avoid listening to her. She wasn't a bad singer, but her joy in singing didn't translate to my joy in listening. I quickly discovered the perks of carrying around an iPod; it was that much harder for creeps on the bus to hit on me. I also took to listening to it when doing laundry and cooking, especially cooking since I hate it when my dad interrupts me when I'm cooking. I eventually upgraded to an iPod nano and purchased an adaptor for it so I could listen to it through the car stereo (my car lacks a CD player).
So, between my mp3 player addiction, three years of piano lessons, coming from a family of musicians, knowing several musicians, having volunteered at a radio station, and having majored in Radio-Television-Film, you might guess I have a thing for good tunes.
You might also guess what my reaction was when I discovered that all my Modest Mouse mp3s had mysteriously vanished.
"I could just weep," I moaned to a friend on instant messenger. I desperately poked around on YouTube, hoping to rip the audio from YouTube videos for free. I feel a tad guilty for doing that, but I am poor. I didn't meet with much luck on YouTube, so I said fuck it and went to the iTunes store and bought six Modest Mouse albums. I spent the rest of the day listening, guilt free, to nothing but Modest Mouse.
August 14—Eerily reminiscent of the 23rd . . .
I went to the grocery store this evening to get some pot stickers since my dad had said he wanted some. I arrived at the sushi counter and called my dad about six times trying to find out whether he wanted chicken or pork, but he didn't answer the phone since he was outside working on my windows. I decided he would have chicken, bought some Lone Star and shrimp, and left.
In the car, I hit the brakes at a red light, the six pack of Lone Star fell over, and all the bottles slipped out and slithered across the floor mat.
"No!" I shrieked, irrationally envisioning them shattering and causing my car to reek forever afterward of cheap beer. I scrambled to replace them all, praying that a cop wouldn't see me and draw the wrong conclusion. Given that the red light was half a block away from the police station, I wouldn't have been surprised if it had happened.
I went home without further calamity, put my groceries in the fridge, and helped my dad put the windows into my room. I was totally convinced he'd botched it since the tops of the windows didn't line up with the wall: There are two windows side by side, and they appeared to be buckling inward. He assured me that it was the house that was crooked, not the windows. I put about as much faith in that as it deserved until he pointed out that the windows wouldn't open if they were really off. The outside of the house looks like this now:
Ecstatic about having windows in my room again, I washed my sheets and put them on the bed, though the room is not really finished yet. The interior of the windows has yet to be completed, but damned if I continue camping in the yard in August.
I stuck my pot stickers in the microwave and cracked open a Lone Star. I always open bottles over the sink in fear of spills, but nothing happened. I went upstairs to work on the computer, and while sitting at my desk, the beer abruptly bubbled up and over the mouth of the bottle, into my lap. I swore and grabbed a paper towel out of the trash can to mop it up.
It could have been worse, of course. It reminded me of a party I attended once where a friend of mine was sitting on a couch with a beer in his hand, and he was making an important point when an ill-timed hand gesture caused him to pour most of his beer directly over his crotch. The three of us watching howled in laughter as he hopped around, trying to clean up and continue making his point, but the rest of us were laughing too hard to pay attention. I was relieved that nobody witnessed my drink spillage . . . this time.
August 16—Sometimes I wish I could live with clutter; then this angst would never have happened.
Today I rearranged my under bed storage and closet floor a bit. I moved a cedar trunk from under the bed into the closet with the intention of using it to store my socks, underwear, bras, and stockings, which are currently stored in various wicker baskets since I cannot afford and do not have room for a dresser. I therefore emptied the trunk of its contents: old yearbooks, my local crew shirts, and a bag of white stuffing I use for knitted projects. I didn't really know what to do with them then, though, so I put them all back in the trunk and put the baskets of my socks, underwear, etc. on top of the trunk. It was a slight waste of time but worked out since now the baskets are raised off the floor and easier to reach.
Then I set about cleaning out a couple of old purses. One black purse of mine, the one I used as my main one until recently, is a bit too large for my liking, so I decided to make sure it was empty and then put it on the top shelf with my other less-frequently used purses. I opened up all the inner pockets and, lo and behold, located the iPod I lost weeks ago. Naturally, it is exactly too late to return the new one I bought to replace it. FUCK.
Oh well; the new one has some features I prefer to the old one anyway. Besides, this way I have a ready gift for . . . well, someone, eventually, provided it's not more of an insult to be given a slightly beat up, obsolete iPod. I'll wrap it up real nice.
August 17—Rankled Ankles and Dinky Pinkies
Today's klutzy incident occurred in my sleep. Nope, didn't fall out of bed, though that used to happen when I was kid. Then I upgraded to a queen sized bed.
In case I haven't mentioned this before, I have a bad ankle. I did ballet as a child and sprained my right ankle, leading to chronic lateral ankle pain. I can't wear heels (for very long, anyway) or run very far without my ankle seizing up and causing me to fall down. Also, a few days before it rains, my ankle hurts like a real bitch. Since there's a line of storms headed this way, my ankle hurt all day yesterday, and I put my ankle brace on it. I removed it when I went to bed because you're not supposed to wear them to bed; it cuts off the circulation or something. So at four o'clock this morning, I awoke from a bad dream that I had just broken my ankle.
I woke up, realized that my ankle was not broken, and hobbled to the bathroom. That was when I noticed that the tip of my left pinky felt terrible, like it had been pinched between two extremely heavy objects. I have no idea how I managed to do that in my sleep. Possibly I slammed it into the headboard during my bad dream, but I also suspect Bolie may have been at fault. No, I am not above blaming it on the cat. Ugh, when I think of all the ways I could get injured in bed . . . alas. I wrapped my pinky in sport tape and spent all day getting the sticky tip of it covered in lint, cat hair, etc. It ought to be doubly fun at work tomorrow.
My day loading in a show at the Long Center was not rife with the stage denting, face planting, drink spilling clumsiness you have come to expect. Then again, during the coffee break, I took pains to avoid a repeat of the 23rd: I waited at the end of the line, filled my cup barely a third of the way, and then sat on the floor to drink it, keeping the cup on the floor next to the wall in between sips. The clumsiest thing that happened to me while at work came after I left, when I had to call my dad to get him to tell me where my bus stop was since I had forgotten the cross street. Oops.
The true glory came later.
Oh yes, I have a most delicious treat for you.
This evening, as I sipped at an Irish coffee, I tapped away on instant messenger as I do most evenings. Out of the blue, I received a message from a stranger whose screen name included the worrying phrase "flea flicker." He said,
"you would not, by any chance, be the former proprietor of the same username on ok cupid, would you? if so, i am the guy that once accidentally pissed you off by pointing out a few minor grammar/style issues (again, sorry). i recently re-logged onto ok cupid, tried to reply to some message thread we'd had, noticed you were gone, and wondered what you are up to. IF you're the same person." (Excellent grammar skills there, by the way, flea flicker. Especially the capitalization.)
"I am NOT replying to that," I snipped to my friend Brian.
"Ick," he replied.
I love Brian. I never have to explain sleazy suck ups to him. Nevertheless, I added,
"I mean, at the time, I specifically called him out as an idiot, ignored his subsequent emails, and didn't bother to keep in touch when I deleted the profile. Yet months later, after being ignored repeatedly, he brings it up again? No. We will not talk."
It's true. On May 6th, Flea Flicker contacted me for the first time ever and criticized my writing style in the process. I replied with an appropriately "WTF?" remark, and he pointed out a few nit picky things. And anyone who reads this site no doubt knows that when I say someone is too picky about grammar, it's a serious problem. Flea Flicker's lack of social skill bothered me more than the actual criticism, though: He apparently thought it would be acceptable to initiate a conversation by criticizing my writing style. Who starts a conversation by picking on someone? Not that I enjoy it when guys kiss my ass, but holy lord. So I called him on it, he realized that I had just—as in, moments before—posted the May 6th klutzy incident, and then he tried to backpedal. I pointed out that his attempted apology was insincere and backhandedly condescending. He tried to refute that, and I said, "You're right. It wasn't backhanded condescension at all; it was totally straightforward condescension." It was about then that he gave up, I blocked him, and I deleted my OK Cupid profile not long after.
So you might say I wasn't overly pleased at hearing from him again. Very few of the many, many annoying guys on OKC ever earned a response tailor made to their own specific brand of idiocy; I usually just ignored them. But when you antagonize me enough that I publicly call you out for being a moron, you know you've gone too far. If you are reading this, Flea Flicker, I don't want to talk to you. Let your silence be your apology. Also, incidentally, a Google search for your screen name returned a link to a male enhancement site you'd left a comment on. Just sayin'. One more reason not to talk to you.
August 19—I have looked at the map dozens of times; it's never helped me yet.
I am turning into a sad stereotype of a caffeine addict: I am not myself until I have had my morning tea or coffee. So this afternoon (I slept extra late because I'm working a load out tonight), I got up and made myself a cup of tea. My large mugs were all in the dishwasher, so I made the tea in a plastic travel thermos with a lid on it. Remember this.
Now. I frequently have instant messenger open while I'm working on the site. I tend to keep up a stream-of-consciousness commentary as I work; it helps me think. Also, I think friends like helping me create. So it was that today I prepared my tea and talked to my friend Chris as I wrote the notes for a new ARSE. The following is my dialog:
[14:41:23] fuzzknot: btw, I am compiling notes for this ARSE now.
[14:41:40] fuzzknot: What shall I title it?
[14:43:20] fuzzknot: holy shit burned tongue omg wtf everything sucks
[14:43:25] fuzzknot: cancel everything
[14:43:26] fuzzknot: ever
[14:43:38] fuzzknot: Brought tears to my eyes.
I dried my eyes, set my tea aside, and resolved not to drink it till it quit steaming and also never to prepare tea in a thermos again. Of course, by then my train of thought had completely derailed, and I was no longer prepared to work on ARSE. I still haven't even thought of a title.
Later I went to work. I loaded out a show at the Long Center, which is at Riverside and 1st. You can just see it on the map below:
The Long Center is the large building just south of the river between Riverside and Barton Springs. When driving there, I take I-35 (on the right side of the map) to Riverside, an intersection not visible on the map. Only, of course, I missed my exit on the way down there, took the next one, headed back, didn't go far enough north before making my U turn, and had to do the whole thing all over again. Then I got tangled up in the disaster that is Riverside at Lamar: You can't see it on the map very well, but Riverside kind of splits in two and hits a roundabout before reaching the entrance to the parking lot at the Long Center. I finally floundered my way in, where the garage attendant gave me some bullshit about having to pay seven dollars (in the past, every garage attendant there has let me park for free since I'm working for the show, not an audience member). I did not pay the seven dollars and instead parked in the service yard, where I had wanted to park in the first place but thought would be full. I managed to snatch up one of the last two remaining parking spaces.
So, after all that bloody palaver getting into the venue, it should have been easy to find my way back, no?
No.
Leaving the theatre tonight, I for some reason turned onto 1st instead of continuing down Riverside. I guess I was thinking I'd take 1st to 35, but of course I headed in the wrong direction. I did a U turn and headed back to Riverside, turning left instead of right as I should have. I didn't get very far, of course, for Riverside dead ends in the parking lot behind the Zach Scott Theatre. Left with only one direction to go, I turned around and headed back to 35. Of course, once at 35, I encountered a brief traffic jam and couldn't get on the northbound feeder as I needed to, so I had to take the southbound feeder, make yet another U turn, and went home. I shall be taking the bus to work tomorrow.
August 20—The 40-Year-Old Virgin
I worked a load in at the Long Center today, which regrettably included working with my least favorite stagehand. Aforementioned stagehand is not a good hand; he's actually been banned from the Erwin Center, and I think he lost his forklift certification as well, or at least got in trouble for almost backing over somebody and I haven't seen him on fork since. You probably don't need any further detail to know that many stagehands dislike and mock him. So today, the idiot coworker was working with another stagehand, building a platform, when the following conversation took place:
Coworker: "Have you seen The 40-Year-Old Virgin?"
Idiot coworker: "No, I don't watch that stuff."
Coworker: "Why; are you living it?"
I cracked up, of course, and then the idiot coworker snapped my name to make me shut up. Of course. He gets mad at me for laughing, but says nothing to the guy who actually said it.
Anyway, I went home without event (the bus ride might have been more eventful, but I deliberately turned up the volume on my iPod to block out the three people who got on the bus, shouted a lot at each other, and got off a block later, still shouting and gesturing at each other), and then I made Guinness cupcakes. I haven't made them before, which was probably an indicator that I shouldn't have tweaked the recipe, but damned if I use vegetable oil instead of butter. The cupcakes were strange, but tasty. And of course I spattered batter and icing all over the counter and side of the fridge. Still, they were tasty.
This morning, I checked my Facebook page and saw I had been invited to an event. Curious, I clicked on the link and saw that it was a suspiciously spam-ish thing called "Hidden message in the Faceb00k logo." I had no idea what it even meant, but, fearful of viruses and highly annoyed at spam from strangers, I declined the event and commented on the wall, "I don't even know you; please don't invite me to this shit." I tried to flag the event as retarded, but I couldn't find a button to do it. I had to settle for reporting it as spam. Of course, my comment on the wall got deleted within minutes. I suppose I committed a breach of netiquette (stupid term), but no matter. It's no worse than spamming thousands of strangers with ridiculous bullshit like that.
August 26—We All Scream for Ice Cream
This evening I decided to have some chocolate ice cream. I put the half gallon container in the microwave for a few seconds to soften it so I could scoop it easily, and when I pulled it out of the microwave, I predictably dribbled a bit on the counter and floor. Even more predictably, I didn't notice that which I had spilled on the floor. Then my dad came into the kitchen to serve himself some ice cream, and he stepped in the dribble on the floor and tracked it across the tile. Considering that it was only a small amount of ice cream on his sock, he set up one hell of a hullaballoo.
August 28—Glory Hole in the Wall
This afternoon I went to Hole in the Wall on the Drag to hear Melissa Engleman sing. Those of y'all from Austin should come hear her sing, but not if you act like the creeper I met today. Oh yes, today's klutzy incident was nearly a violent incident.
I invited my coworker Freefall (after whom one of my cats is named) to go with me, but when I called to remind him, he informed me that he could not attend because his front door wouldn't lock, and he couldn't leave his apartment for any length of time till it got fixed. Crap. We talked for a bit, during which conversation I had to explain that the suspicious squelching noises in the background were me making chocolate milk (it was actually half chocolate milk and half coffee). Then I wished him luck, waited till my clothes were out of the dryer, donned a navy blue sundress with small white polka dots on it, and left.
I was late leaving the house and thusly expected to miss the first part of the show, but Melissa had not taken the stage yet when I walked in. I sat at the bar, bought a Lone Star, and read a bit in A Passage to India. Then I recognized Melissa, who told me she was going to play in the back room instead of the front. I purchased a shot of Jameson, put my book away, closed my tab, and took my two drinks to the back room.
I sat down to watch the show, and then things began to happen. Two somewhat creepy looking guys walked in, both checking me out. I instantly wished I'd foregone the cute dress and instead worn paint stained jeans and my AC/DC local crew shirt. Alas, they sat next to me. I hoped they'd look but not speak, but alas, within minutes, one of them, the bearded one, piped up.
"Our neighbor's having a great time. How are ya, neighbor?"
"Fine." I stared straight ahead at the stage.
"I want to count your polka dots," the bearded one said. I couldn't possibly reply to that, at least not the way I was probably supposed to, so I grumbled something incomprehensible and turned away again. I avoided conversation for a little longer, but then he inevitably asked what kind of music I liked and so on. I listed a few favorites off the top of my head, explained that I didn't really go to shows since I was usually working them, and then I confirmed that yes, I did like music. Duh. Why else would I have been sitting there watching a show?
Melissa finished her set then, and she sat next to me at the bar and introduced herself. Our first ever conversation involved me explaining what a fleshlight was. I'm not sure how it came up, but I heard the (female) bartender struggling a bit with the embarrassing definition, so I took over. It did not occur to me until it was far too late that 1.) that was not an appropriate topic for an introductory conversation, and 2.) the creeper(s) next to me were probably listening and itching for an opportunity to discuss it in detail. The bearded one probably owned every model.
Luckily, Melissa invited me to join her and her friend outside, so I hastily finished my whiskey and vacated the bar. Of course, it was not to last: The two creepers from indoors sat behind us outside. It did not take long for the bearded one to make his obnoxious presence known. He leaned over the booth behind us and began babbling about Jersey Shore, that asinine television show. Melissa and I explained that we did not watch it, but the bearded guy didn't seem to care and blathered on about the actors' fake tans. I don't know where he was headed with that; possibly he intended to segue into a comment about my own pale, freckled skin. Yay Irish heritage—apart from not tanning, I have also inherited the ability to drink whiskey without disgracing myself in public, unlike the bearded guy. He finally shut up about Jersey Shore and went back to the conversation at his own table. Of course, he still wasn't done. Several minutes later, he stood up to go indoors to purchase a drink, and he stopped by our table to ask if we wanted anything. I wouldn't have accepted anyway since he was a creepy stranger and I feared getting a roofie colada instead of a Bushmill's, but then it happened.
"I can get you a beer," he said.
"No, thank you," the three of us chorused.
"It's really no trouble; I don't mind."
"No."
"Because I'm going inside anyway; it's on me."
"No." The forcefulness, predictably, came from me.
"You're sure?"
"Quite sure; we don't want anything; thank you," we assured him.
"Because I don't mind at all. I can get you a beer. Or something, anything. If you put out."
Deafening silence reigned over our table for a second as the three of us (Melissa and I especially) blinked in astonishment.
The silence did not last. Melissa tried to voice a polite rejection, which I quickly bypassed.
"What the—! If you bring that up again, I will bitch slap you," I hissed. "Now get out of here. God damn!"
He left.
I wished fervently that I had brought my pepper spray with me, but no matter. A verbal threat was all I needed. All the same, I made a note not to leave the house without it again.
After a little while, I went home. I got something to eat, watched a little TV with my dad, and then checked my Facebook page. That was when I saw that my friend Dom was in town and had had a show earlier that night. Sooo . . . I could have seen an old roommate at a show with free beer, and instead I wound up discussing fleshlights and threatening to beat up strangers. FUCK. *sigh*
As I told Dom, quite frankly, I'd expect to get harassed at his shows, not something at Hole in the Wall. Shows what I know. Oh well; next time I go to Hole in the Wall, I'll either wear work clothes, bring a couple of burly guy friends along as bodyguards, or carry my pepper spray. Preferably all three.
This evening I sat in the living room, tapping away on my laptop to my friend Robert when his AIM crashed, which was when today's incident occurred. Rather than explain the full context of today's incident, I'll just copy and paste the following message I sent to Robert:
It is just as well that your AIM crashed—just as I sent my last message I spotted a small camera on the mantle that wasn't there before. You just missed me freaking out as I tried to figure out whether the camera were on because I watch porn in this room, and in the process of trying to examine the camera I switched it on and then couldn't figure out how to turn it off. Sweet dreams; it's better than I'll have.
