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Weekend Music Preview: Woven Bones Tour Kick-Off [Beerland / Friday]
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Did the end of Bel Canto make you cry like it did us? Are you as interested in the friendship and literary relationship between Lucy Grealy and Ann Patchett as we? Do you like celebrating the works of a beautiful writer at dinner parties the way we do? If you answered yes to any of these questions, then you will probably want to attend The Writers' League of Texas’ 1st Annual Award of Literary Merit awards reception at the Bob Bullock Texas State History Museum this evening as they recognize the achievements of internationally acclaimed author Ann Patchett. Patchett is the recipient of the PEN/Faulkner Award and Britain's Orange Prize for Bel Canto. Her latest book is Truth & Beauty: A Friendship.
(from the press release) The evening will include a talk by the author, dinner, live music and a silent auction featuring, among other items, an original Armadillo World Headquarters poster by J. Shelton, lunch/dinner with Texas gubernatorial candidate Kinky Friedman, a walking cane belonging to Texas Women's Hall of Fame member Liz Carpenter and a private reading delivered by Texas Monthly columnist Sarah Bird. Individual tickets are $100; tables and sponsorships are available.
The Writers' League of Texas
1st Annual Award of Literary Merit, honoring Ann Patchett
Tonight
Tickets: 512.499.8914.
If you can not attend, at least pick up one of her books and keep yourself abreast of the goings-on at the The Writers’ League of Texas.
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hey man, where's the ist list? am i missing something? It was almost like a daily planner of fun times and free shows.
i think our favorite Ist-list compiler is sleeping off a wicked hangover on his lunch break after celebrating an equally sexy austinist contributor's bday bash/shots barrage. so, fret not, it will be up by mid-afternoon. good lookin out, jen
Ha-ha! Boozin' it up on a school night! We might be a bit too predictable here at Austinist... and that's okay. We still hold it down. Or something like that.
you know how crazy we are.
Now that you bring it up, how does one make a suggestion for the Ist List? Ken Webster over at Hyde Park Theatre is doing Eric Bogosian's Sex, Drugs, Rock & Roll again. Will be an amazing performance, rest assured. I plan to catch it this weekend if at all possible.
Jooley - Here's the IST list as it currently stands:
http://www.austinist.com/archives/2005/09/27/the_ist_list_september_27_october_2.php
Send a message to Allen (email link and whatnot at bottom of that post). He's the man.
All suggestions/tips can be emailed to any of the Austinist contributors (see the contributor page for links). We'll make sure they get to the right person.
Or, just email him:
allen(@)escapeest.com
He's all about being "in the know", so there's that.
I love Ann Patchett, but not enough to lay down $100 for her. The Magician's Assistant is one of my favorite books.
Looks like it made it. (Uh, kudos to Manilow I guess.) Cool, and thanks!
speaking of great literature; i feel compelled to share a verse you may all know, but you can not stop me, everrr....
It so happens I'm tired of being a man.
It so happens I enter clothes shops and movie-houses,
withered, impenetrable, like a swan made of felt
sailing the water of ashes and origins.
The smell of a hairdresser’s has me crying and wailing.
I only want release from being stone or wool.
I only want not to see gardens and businesses,
merchandise, spectacles, lifts.
It so happens I’m tired of my feet and toenails,
my hair and my shadow.
It so happens I’m tired of being a man.
Still it would be a pleasure
to scare a lawyer with a severed lily
or deal death to a nun with a poke in the ear.
It would be good
to go through the streets with an emerald knife
and shout out till I died of cold.
I don’t want to go on being just a root in the shadows,
vacillating, extended, shivering with dream,
down in the damp bowels of earth,
absorbing it, thinking it, eating it every day.
I don’t want to be so much misfortune,
I don’t want to go on as a root or a tomb,
a subterranean tunnel, just a cellar of death, frozen, dying in pain.
This is why, Monday, the day, is burning like petrol,
when it sees me arrive with my prison features,
and it screeches going by like a scorched tire
and its footsteps tread hot with blood towards night.
And it drives me to certain street corners, certain damp houses,
towards hospitals where skeletons leap from the window,
to certain cobbler’s shops stinking of vinegar,
to alleyways awful as abysses.
There are sulphur-coloured birds and repulsive intestines,
hanging from doorways of houses I hate,
there are lost dentures in coffee pots
there are mirrors
that ought to have cried out from horror and shame,
there are umbrellas everywhere, poisons and navels.
I pass by calmly, with eyes and shoes,
with anger, oblivion,
pass by, cross through offices, orthopedic stores,
and yards where clothes hang down from wires:
underpants, towels, and shirts, that cry
slow guilty tears.