I remember throwing punches around...

...and preaching from my chair.

You know the scene in The Wizard of Oz when Toto pulls back the curtain and it's just a little guy pulling levers and turning knobs? Of course you do. Sometimes I wish we could do that with the internet - pull back the curtain on the jackasses who use the relative anonymity of the medium to write aggressive, simplistic, lowest-common-denominator bullshit. Yes, I've been reading chron.com again.

I saw Steve Winwood and Eric Clapton in concert a couple of weeks ago. Winwood's solo performance (on piano) of Low Spark of High-Heeled Boys was inspired. Worth the cost of admission. They closed out the show with Dear Mr. Fantasy (I think - that was a few scotches into the evening), which is an awesome song anyway but made moreso because of the players. On the walk back to the car I spotted a guy in a Satellite Lounge tee shirt. Don't see those too often [removes hat and lowers eyes briefly].

After my blog about noisy flip-flop wearers, a few coworkers half-jokingly asked if I was writing about them. Evidently there's a bit of flip-flop guilt floating about my office. Also, evidently more coworkers than I realized read my blog.

quickly

It's a jillion degrees outside and I work in a pretty laid back office, so I understand the desire some people have to wear flip flops to work.

HOWEVER - if you are going to breach typical office etiquette, laid back or not, by wearing flip flops to work - LEARN HOW TO WALK IN THEM WITHOUT ANNOUNCING YOUR COMINGS AND GOINGS TO THE REST OF THE WORLD.

I just listened to a chick walk across the office, and it sounded like a horse in high heels on a wooden dance floor in a room with no air conditioning.

some artists are assholes

So Michael Jackson died, and some people are getting pissed about the tributes that have come his way since his passing. "But he was a pedophile!" they cry, angry at the people who talk about the genius of Thriller or Human Nature or She's Out of My Life. To their self-righteous "anger" I say: If we had to base what art we enjoy on the personal (alleged) proclivities of the artist, we'd be severely limited in our options. I love reading Bukowski's ramblings about pussy, alcohol and stinky apartments, but that doesn't mean I'd like to hang out with him or let my daughter date him. (Side note: I probably WOULD like to hang out with Bukowski, so maybe that wasn't the best example, but I'll bet a lot of the sensitive hipster guys in tight tee shirts and skinny jeans who read his books in coffee shops would be horrified to see that shit in the flesh) (especially because the women he writes about weren't cute little Betty Page wannabes - they were as tired and ragged out as he was) (also, I don't have a daughter)

You don't have to want to have dinner with someone to appreciate their painting/song/play/movie/sculpture/novel. Because, seriously, have you met any artists? They can be very fucked up. Maybe not to the extreme of being accused pedophiles, but they've certainly been accused, and rightly so, of being megalomaniacs, alcoholics, abusers, masochists. Assholes.

Should you separate the art from the artist? Yes. Because "art" is the personal, individual, unique interaction that happens between the audience and the creation. Nothing else matters. If you don't agree, then I hope you're doing a shitload of homework before you go to a museum, watch a movie, listen to the radio, buy a book, go to the theatre or pop in that porn DVD. Otherwise, shut the fuck up about Michael Jackson unless he personally stuck his hand in your pants.

Huh.

The temperature readout on my car no longer shows numbers. Now it just says, "What the FUCK?" I'd leave the windows down a bit, but I'm worried a squirrel will get inside or someone will pee in my car. I related this fear to a couple of coworkers, and they thought it odd that I'd worry about someone peeing in my car. Am I alone in that fear? Huh. I mean, I don't really think that would happen.

But it could.

This heat is making it hard to do most anything. I'm feeling quite lethargic and mentally slow. I don't like it. It's sad when the early morning temp of 80 degrees actually feels cool and comfortable in comparison to the rest of the day. Maybe if it gets up to 125 degrees, 105 will start feeling cool. I won't be around to find out because I will have exploded/imploded by then. I run on a higher temperature than most people already, so this shit is for the birds. In fact, it might be time to fry an egg on the sidewalk and call it a day.

Che Colbert, shittay service

This is the image on the new t-shirt I'm wearing today. Just got it in the mail a couple of days ago and thought I'd take it out for its virgin journey. Sadly, not everyone is noticing right away that it's Stephen Colbert, as if I'd wear a fucking Che shirt. I guess when you're dealing with such an iconic image, people don't even really "see" it anymore. So the downside to this totally awesome shirt is that some who see it might think I'm an old lady trying to be a hipster. Eh, I still like it.

Speaking of crotchety, I went to a new-to-me bar last night. Loved the interior, the drinks were great but the service SUCKED. There were four bartenders serving a crowd of maybe 65. Even rounding up to 100, that's only 25 people per bartender. But you had to wait for a good ten minutes to get a drink. Unless you were a regular. Regulars got drinks fairly quickly and were able to have lumbering conversations with the bartenders while the new people were standing there waving money around trying to get someone's attention. One of the most simple things people can do in the service industry goes a long way with me - look me in the eye and acknowledge that you know I'm there, waiting. If you do that, give me a slight nod or a finger-in-the-air "I'll be right with you," I'm fairly patient. But when you've never made eye contact with me and you're standing there with your ironic tattoos, shooting the shit with your emo buddy, it makes me think that you haven't seen me. Or that you have seen me but misunderstand what it is you're supposed to be doing for a living. See, you make me a drink, and I give you money. Very simple transaction. But I can't give you money if you won't even wait on me.

I'm going to give the bar a second chance, but I'm going to make sure not to go on a busy night. Maybe if there are only 10 customers per bartender they can keep up with both the volume and the striking of cool poses.

mild kingdom

James took this picture of the baby owls that are living in our backyard. Each morning just as the sun is coming up (yes, we get up that early) (sigh), we see the little owls sitting in a tree or on the power line, just chilling. Probably trying to digest whatever small mammals they ate during the night. We first saw what we think is mamma owl right after Ike blew into town. Owls are cool.

And they aren't the only wildlife living with us. We also have a possum and at least two cats that hang around pretty regularly. There must be something tasty (rats?) under the house because there's always a lot of activity. Especially at night. Sometimes when I'm soaking in the tub, I can hear something under the floor scratching around. Yeah, it's as relaxing as it sounds.

blah-di-blah

- The former Pig Stand on Washington Ave. is about to open up as a two-story sports bar. Ye gads.

- Finally found a use for Twitter. I was going home from a meeting last Monday night when I encountered a roadblock on Montrose at Waugh. While sitting there not moving, I logged on to Twitter to see if anyone had posted information about what was happening. Someone had. So, while I have little interest in learning what my lovely friends ate for lunch (though I still love you), I do appreciate using the site as a way to obtain immediate news (and share when I've written a blog because it brings me new readers). The only way to manage the online part of my life is to pick and choose what I spend my time doing (both reading and writing). I'd rather spend 15 minutes writing a blog entry than 15 minutes writing 100 Twitter updates. And that's okay. The only other option is to go totally luddite in a cabin in the woods, and I'm not at that point. Yet.

- On the way home from grocery shopping Sunday morning (before 10AM), I saw a motorcyclist pulled over on 610 near the Woodway exit. He was standing next to his motorcycle...wearing a rifle. Is that legal? To ride around on a motorcycle with a rifle strapped to your body? Seems it should at least be in a carrier or something. Maybe it's not as intimidating when he's in motion because his hands are busy operating the motorcycle. But driving by someone who could shoot you with one easy movement is not a comfortable situation in which to find yourself. I realize, of course, that living in Houston means that I'm probably never very far from people with guns. It was just such an odd thing to see on a sunny Sunday morning.

- There are a shitload of cameras on I-10 between Studemont and Washington. What's that about? I've been noticing cameras more and more in this city. We're turning into London. Mind the humidity.

- One of the new theatre groups I've been working with (Horse Head Theatre) is this week's Cultured Cocktails featured artist. Happy hour is from 5PM to 10PM this Thursday (June 18) at Boheme on Fairview, with a portion of the proceeds going to Horse Head. I'm excited because I hear the place has good sangria. I love good sangria and am even sort of fond of shitty sangria.

stories, one short and one long

SHORT
On my walk this morning, I saw a pair of glasses in the street. The frames looked okay, but the lenses had fallen out and were broken into many pieces. Odd, I thought. Then, just twenty feet later, I saw a spilled bottle of Axe Body Wash. So maybe the commercials are true? You put that shit on, and the crazy bitches come running.

LONG
Haven't had time to blog about the trip to California, but I would like to share one story now. James and I were sitting in a little coffee/bakery place on Columbus Avenue that was right under our hotel. We were still a bit groggy, trying to shake the cobwebs from the previous night's activities, when we heard, "YOU BETTER GIVE ME MY FUCKING MONEY." We knew that wasn't directed at us because A) we never get harassed for money when we travel, either because we look like we live there or we're scary, and B) this bitch was really, really mad. Most panhandlers in San Francisco in my experience are either totally insane or trying to be clever (As in, propping a sign up against their dog that says "I need money for weed." ha ha. Then get a job, stinky.)

We look up to see a middle aged woman in a green tennis dress jumping out of her Mercedes SLK. Then we see the guy, he's named Gary, as we're soon to find out, walking up the sidewalk wearing a backpack. Gary gets hip to the crazy in the green dress and tries to go back the other way. "Don't you walk away from me, Gary. I want my fucking money." That should have been in all caps because this bitch be CRAZY, yelling at the top of her lungs. Gary doesn't say much, which infuriates crazy even more, so she continues. "I sent you a fucking email telling you that you better have my money. Where's my fucking money, Gary? I'm going to tell Paolo, and he's going to take care of your ass. You fucker." Seriously - I'm not exaggerating how much this woman cussed during her tirade. And it was all unabashedly LOUD on a pretty populated street, albeit fairly early in the morning. This continues for a full minute or two, directly in front of us, her screaming and Gary just standing there retracting his balls.

She flips around to get back in her car, tennis skirt flying in the breeze, and sheepish Gary gets into the passenger side and sits. I thought she was seriously going to bust a vessel in her brain, she got so worked up. He's trying to calmly tell her where the money is (or whatever, we couldn't hear what he was saying), and she is having a FIT. She makes him get out of the car and then takes off like a rocket that runs on crazy bitch fuel.

Our analysis of the situation: Gary is her ex-husband. He cheated on her, so she hates his guts. He was late with the alimony payment, probably because he has a new girlfriend (or boyfriend), so she's threatening him with the guy they used to buy their coke from.

Either that, or it was some bizarre form of street art. Whatever it was, we tried to keep from laughing and keep our heads down for fear she'd send Paolo after us, too.

let's all go to the movies, or UNPLUG you jackals

Yesterday, James and I hit a matinee showing of Drag Me to Hell. We go to the movies only about once every couple of years. It just doesn't come up that often.

After some drama at the ticket kiosk (overly-tattooed jackass jumped in front of me in line - I said, "HOW RUDE," he turned around like he was going to say something then saw me and James and thought better of it), we found our seats. Once the film started, there were little spots of green and blue and white hovering in the darkness. Seems some people pay money to sit in a darkened theater so they can send text messages and read their email. Then about halfway through the film, the guy in the row behind us and one seat over decided to put his bare feet on the top of the seat next to mine. Which brings me to this question:

Where the fuck did manners go?

I mean, it's tacky to put your feet on a seat in general, but it's really unacceptable to do so when another person's head is mere inches from your nasty toes. There was an article in the New York Times recently (I can't find it or I'd give you the link) about bad behavior at the theatre, which I haven't seen in Houston too often, but I can definitely say there's some real shitty behavior happening at the theater.

I'm amazed that no one answered a call, but I guess they didn't have to because they were typing the entire time. The film was very entertaining - gory, gruesome and loads of fun. If that can't keep you engaged enough to put your fucking phone up for an hour and 45 minutes, you need to reevaluate what you find interesting. Because writing twitter updates about how you're at the movies and it's making you LOL should be a lot less interesting than having the actual experience with no distractions. Last time I checked, you have to look down to type on your phone. Looking down during a movie kind of defeats the whole purpose, you know?

I know because I had to keep fighting the urge to look at all of the floating green, blue and white screens in my periphery.

cuh-reepy

I recently changed the route that I walk, and I realized on my walk yesterday that I was passing by this house. When I first read that it was located on Cottage, I immediately knew which house it was. A friend of mine used to live across the street from it, and it's been in bad shape for years. I thought about peeking in the window yesterday but felt like I'd be trespassing. Today, I said what the hell. I mean, they took the innards out of the house - surely they expect people to check it out.

But evidently not too many people. The outside of the house is supported by braces since it's unstable now that the inside is missing. I took my earbuds out (so I'd be able to hear if things got too creaky) and went up on the screened in front porch to peek inside. I was surprised at the strong emotion I felt looking at what is left of the house. I was disturbed by what I saw. It felt very...wrong for a house to be missing its insides like that. Exposed in a horrible way. I think it didn't help that the interior of the house is in such bad shape - and obviously has been for a while - from water damage and neglect. Against the far back wall (what used to be the kitchen), an old stove teetered backwards, waiting for its trip to the dump. It was just...sad.

I couldn't get off that porch fast enough. It was kind of like looking at a dead animal. I know that sounds melodramatic. It surprised me, too. I expected it to feel more whimsical, I guess. Something like what I felt when they did Inversion. I drove my grandfather by that piece, and we both got a good chuckle out of it. Maybe if I can get someone to go with me, I'll check this place out again. I don't expect it'll ever feel whimsical, but it might not be as surprisingly bleak as it was today.