According to the Statesman, the controversial triple-Marriott planned for Second and Congress is being put on hold due to economic difficulties. Most of the businesses that occupied the buildings being torn down to make room for the hotel have already closed or found other locations.

Last night, the Capital Area Metropolitan Planning Organization board voted to use funds from the 183-A toll road in Cedar Park to guarantee payments for the conversion of U.S. 290 East between 183 and Manor from an untolled four-lane highway to a tolled twelve-lane highway (three tolled lanes each direction, plus three free frontage roads each direction). The payment guarantee was required because traffic projections were too low to convince investors to pay for the road without it.

This past Sunday morning a Temple cop pulled over an 18-wheeler on IH35 for a traffic violation. After noting the driver's suspicious behavior, the cop asked to search the truck, where he came to find 872 pounds of pot (about $872,000 worth) in the trailer. The truck driver, who hails from Laredo, has been arrested and faces federal charges for narcotics trafficking. [Statesman]

Real talk: the vast majority of us don't give a second thought to ducking our heads and shuffling past the people we see downtown every weekend. Some of us will even drive past the guy waving us into an open parking meter spot, just to avoid any awkwardness--you know who you are. Well, Saturday night provides us with a 100% stress-free way to give a little something back to our community: Mohawk's Acknowledge Me! Winter Assistance Drive features Austin's own golden boys, the, um, Golden Boys, headlining an all-Austin bill that also features noisemongers When Dinosaurs Ruled The Earth, Pataphysics, and newcomers Persimmons Literature, alongside D.I.Y. artist/craft booths selling all kinds of fun, non-mass-produced goodies for you and your loved ones. (Plus delicious vegan food.) All for the el cheapo price of $6, or $5 if you bring a donation (House The Homeless has specifically requested gloves and beanies, but toiletry items are also appreciated). That stuff is, like, $2 at Walgreen's; for the cost of half a tallboy, you can keep someone's ears/fingers from freezing off. Even in today's wintry economic climate, that oughta bump you right to the top of Santa's "Nice" list.

Acknowledge Me! website
Golden Boys MySpace

Editor’s note: The views expressed in I Am So Popular are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the outlook or beliefs of anyone else in the IST network.

Now the goddamned holiday season is upon us once again, and with it the myth that suicides increase disproportionately to the rest of the year. Untrue, according to official reports. But it’s easy to buy into the rumors because the undue stress of being forced to be jolly (or else) is just too much for some of us to falsely smile our way through and so our thoughts turn dark. For many years, my holiday motto—a joke born of a kernel of truth-- has been this: Move over turkey, and make room in that oven for my head.

I have contemplated suicide roughly one bazillion times in my life. This is a tricky one to talk about, because invariably, to bring up the topic even in a clinical manner is to invite over concern on the part of friends who begin to worry if you’re dropping hints of some imminent jump off the planet and into the ether. But I hold that few, if any of us, have escaped contemplating this particular end, if only for a moment or two. So let’s talk about it.For the record, though some of my fantasies have been quite vivid, I have always, always been able to discern between imagining death at my own hand and actually plotting a way to carry out the act. Having a child certainly has been a terrific boon in keeping me grounded in my darkest hours. Even if I had truly wanted to do myself in, the thought of what this would mean to him over the course of his life would’ve been enough to stop me. And so my thoughts of suicide run more along the lines of a fantasy a friend of mine described once: She didn’t want to kill herself permanently, just for a few days, enough time to settle down, not think about some shitstorm happening in her life, take a bit of a rest and then, like Jesus, show up again a few days later, ready to sally forth.

As someone who has wrestled with cyclical depression since adolescence, my moments (days, weeks) of despondency have been plenty. I never kept a spreadsheet or a bar graph charting these times, and so I cannot say with absolute certainty when the worst of these spells was, but looking back over the recent past, I cannot recall any time darker than Thanksgiving 2006, including the weeks leading up to that horrible day and the months that followed on its heels.

I’d been married for six months to my second husband and things were not going well. From our very first date he extolled upon the virtues of his saintly, long dead previous wife. At first, I mistook this for: Here’s a man who’s a real wife lover and now it’s my turn. But as time wore on and he could not shut up about her or remove the pictures of her from the walls or her ashes from the kitchen the spice rack, a different picture took shape in my mind. Now I thought, Here is a man who cannot let go and I will never, ever be able to live up the untouchable qualities he has assigned to a dead woman.

And people, let me tell you—there’s just no competing with the dead.

Exacerbating the torture of having to constantly hear all about her was the way her children treated me. Two of them still lived with my husband and though they seemed to like me at first, by the time of the actual wedding, they were furious with me. In my more generous moments (which diminished as they turned up the heat) I tried to understand that their fury must be unresolved grief, that they had indulged in the magical thinking that their mother—who died when they were little— might one day reappear if only they held the space for her. When I appeared and slept “in her bed” and took up “her space,” I now believe it triggered in them the truth they did not want to face: she was never coming back. And then a wrath so over the top and violent seized them, I literally began to fear for my well-being.

My then husband pooh-poohed my fears, saying everything would be fine. But their pranks turned from mean to wildly ugly in a manner it seemed even he could not deny—though this is just what he did. We returned home one night in late October to find that the 22 year-old son had methodically smashed to bits all of my plants and dishes and some of my wedding gifts. No one else’s possessions were touched. These things were not merely tossed once against the wall or the sidewalk. They were utterly obliterated, all along the front walk and throughout the kitchen. My husband dismissed the act as merely an attempt at communication.

Terrified, I spent the night in a cheap motel and shortly after moved into a crappy, extended stay hotel. Then came Thanksgiving, a holiday already fraught with pain for me courtesy of a strained (to put it mildly) relationship with my family of origin. I learned that my husband and his children had plans to have dinner with his dead wife’s sister, as was their tradition. I was informed that I was not invited and that this was the sister’s idea. I called her and she informed me that her plan was to be happy, which meant I was not invited because I was an impediment to this happiness.

And this is when I told my husband I wanted to kill myself. What did I mean by that? I had enough prescription pills—pills I was taking regularly to fend off the anxiety attacks the kids triggered—to get it over with quickly. But I knew at my core this was not the right action. Still, I voiced the words, the wrong way of saying what I really felt which was maybe something like, I hurt so much right now I can’t imagine it ever stopping and it is making me feel crazy and irrational and unable to believe it will ever get better and the only way I can try to make you understand this is by suggesting something dire.

His response? He announced if I said it again, he’d check me in at Shoal Creek. And then he went off to laugh and eat with his dead wife’s people. I went to the empty home of an out of town friend and watched football and bawled my eyes out.

Fast forward two years. Though not a big fan of Chicken Soup for the Soul type homilies, I have to lend my voice to that declaration that time heals. And that other declaration, the one about silver linings. Because my despondency was great enough to drive me into the sort of intensive therapy I had needed for a very long time, but could not seek until I hit what certainly felt to me like the very bottom.

And in those sessions, I came to certain understandings. I could see the parallels of my childhood pain and the pain of the present. Raised by one narcissist, I grew up to marry another. Judged harshly by numerous siblings, I put myself in a situation—and stayed there far too long—of being judged by these children. The disease we all shared was grief—them over their lost wife/mother and me over more lost things than I could possibly name.

And then, slowly, I emerged. And I got better. And this year, for the second year running, I hosted my own Thanksgiving dinner. Instead of sitting around and bitching about how much the holidays suck, I took matters into my own hands. Sundry close friends gathered and Warren made his first turkey. My son was there, as was his father, the man who came back after being gone for fourteen years, who moved in with me during the months of my divorce and tended me like a little baby, and showed his son what a compassionate human he is, giving us all a chance to heal the cracks of being apart for so long, another thing on the long list of things I have to be grateful for. Next hurdle is Christmas, which I eschew more than any other day of the year. Usually I run away to Mexico but this year I will stay put. And even if I cannot fully embrace this crass holiday, I plan to set aside my cynicism and go ahead and offer a little gratitude up—a gratefulness that my suicidal fantasies were only that, and that I am one of the lucky ones who has found that, at least in my case, much of my depression has ebbed greatly over time and that asking for help was the smartest thing I ever did.

Spike Gillespie hopes that if you are feeling like shit this holiday season you’ll talk to someone about it. She blogs regularly at LaunchPad Coworking and www.spikeg.com. She is also head mistress for the Dick Monologues. Email her if you want to reserve tickets for December 14th: spike@spikeg.com.

This coming February, Parts and Labour, the South Congress boutique that sells all things made in Texas, is moving to a new larger location. The store will remain in the city's retail ground zero and is moving into the old Ace tailoring building just across the street and down the block from its current location. In the mean time, store owners are looking to spruce up the new/old building a bit and have announced a mural contest. The rules, as follows, are simple:

- Submitting artists must live in Texas
- No armadillos
- No lonestars
- No silhouettes of the capitol or of Texas
- No guitars
- Seriously

The submission deadline is December 31st and submissions should be emailed, as jpegs, to: partsandlabourtx(@)gmail.com

The winning artist will receive, not only a big freakin' mural of their original work on South Congress, but also a three month in-store residency and a reveal party when the mural is complete. Start sketching now... we think our idea for a longhorn with cowboy boots and a hat standing in a field of bluebonnets has a pretty good chance of making it to the final cut!

Mayor Wynn made a symbolic donation of $100 and a crystal bowl this morning to House the Homeless, a local nonprofit advocacy group that assists Austin's transient population. The City Council is also expected to officially honor Gale during today's session.

“Jennifer most nights slept outdoors,” said Wynn. “Jennifer we believe is the 136th person who has died sleeping on the streets (of Austin) over the last 12 months.”

Meanwhile, an anonymous supporter has created a posthumous "jennifergale" twitter account in honor of Austin's most vocal, intriguing, and beloved political candidate. The most recent entry read, "I am Jennifer Gale and I will always be the conscience of Austin if you remember me."

Those wishing to honor Gale's memory may do so by donating to the House the Homeless Thermal Underwear Drive; $10 provides a full set of thermals; $25 provides thermals, a pair of socks, some gloves, and a winter hat. With another cold front headed our way this weekend, the timing couldn't be better to help out. The fundraiser has seen an impressive outpouring of support following the announcement of Gale's passing yesterday; thus far they've raised $1,500 out of their target goal of $18,000.

[Donate to House the Homeless' Thermal Underwear Drive]

Every weekday morning we'll be featuring a photo (or two) from our readers. Please feel free to submit your photos (min 600px width) by adding them to the Austinist Flickr Group.

Foggy Morning
BY BONITA SARITA

It was announced last night that Gallery Lombardi will close on January 15th, 2009. The contemporary art gallery, currently located on West 7th Street, has existed in Austin since 1996. Proprietor Ron Prince and director Rachel Koper cite not making "nearly enough money this year" as a reason for closing the gallery.

The sad news broke at last night's opening reception for Lombardi's current show, their annual Xmas Expo. Prince debuted a collage informatively titled "The Gallery Will Close in January". The celebration of the last show went on as scheduled and featured music by Coma in Algiers and Leila Bela among others. As is typical of Gallery Lombardi openings, the space was packed to overflowing and art appreciators spilled out into the gallery's parking lot.

Gallery Lombardi's final show, the Xmas Expo, will be on view until January 10th. After the gallery's closure, Ron Prince will continue his career as a custom woodworker and Rachel Koper will be looking for employment in downtown Austin (hopefully she's planning to still be involved in the uneasy world of the art business). According to Koper, the gallery space is currently for lease.

The Austin art scene will definitely feel the effects of Gallery Lombardi's closing. The space has been one of the most prolific art venues in town, hosting events and new shows almost monthly for years. Although they've hosted traveling exhibitions in the past, GL has been particularly supportive of local and Texas artists. They served as a venue for the 2005 Texas Biennial and were scheduled to be a part of the 2009 event.

To take us out on a positive note, we turn to Prince and Koper. Despite the setback, Prince still believes that "If you are a creative person, and you have an opportunity to be creative, consider yourself blessed. The rest is window dressing." And Koper says of her experiences that she has "so many good memories of this creative community" and that "it's been a dream come true and a learning opportunity" for her.

Gallery Lombardi, thanks for all the great shows, you will be missed!

“So, everything’s pretty much back to normal down there, right?” The ignorance behind such a question is stunning, and less likely to be heard in Austin, which established itself as a sister city to New Orleans after Hurricane Katrina. The storm left some of our nation’s oldest neighborhoods and most sacred haunts in irreparable pieces. Still, in the shadow of Barbara Bush’s unbelievable post-Katrina remarks (“And so many of the people in the arena here, you know, were underprivileged anyway, so this--this is working very well for them”) we must understand what’s been lost, what needs to be preserved, and what needs to change.

To help us understand the magnitude of the disaster, Super! Alright! Creative Studio brings Way Down in New Orleans to Austin. The traveling exhibition, curated by Aubrey Edwards, includes dozens of artists with personal ties to New Orleans. They have come together to illuminate the harsh realities of Katrina’s aftermath, finding hope and possibility in the bravery it takes to acknowledge and heal the hopelessness that descended upon the city in this hour of unprecedented abandonment.

Dred Scott’s installation, Never Forget, Never Forgive, bares Post-K brutality by showing the faces of parents, children, young people and elderly who died neglected and forcibly separated from their loved ones. Some of the victims portrayed in the piece were gunned down by police while “looting” food.Marlowe Parker’s visceral painting, Untitled, comes to life as two sisters struggle to inch into a helicopter from a rooftop scrawled with letters that call ‘Help Us’ as the water rises around them. Looking at this image reminds us that New Orleans is a city still in recovery with a long way to go towards being a city renewed. Parker’s depiction of this moment has a captured a struggle that will never end, and it drives home the understanding that rebuilding on this scale is a lifelong process.

Surprisingly, Way Down In New Orleans is ultimately hopeful. Its proceeds benefit the New Orleans Kid Camera Project, which helps children from flooded neighborhoods process their experiences and their return home. Six untitled prints from the group are featured in the exhibit and show how beautifully the kids in this program express themselves. The images remind us how vast the capabilities or art really are, and once again, how vital creative expression is to rebirth.

The work Neighborhood Story Project, Seventh Ward Speaks: Creativity and Activism in Our Neighborhood, lets longtime New Orleans residents speak in their own words, transporting the reader to the neighborhoods they call home. It is a celebration of community, history, and above all, the irrepressible spirit of New Orleans.

Way Down in New Orleans allows you to feel the pulse of a city whose rhythms coalesce into a song that sounds like no other in America. It is a dance that goes right to your core, and there are no wrong steps, as long as you keep listening.

Way Down in New Orleans runs through January 10th and can be viewed Wednesday from 7-9pm and Saturdays from 1-5pm at the Super! Alright! Creative Studio.

Every weekday morning we'll be featuring a photo (or two) from our readers. Please feel free to submit your photos (min 600px width) by adding them to the Austinist Flickr Group.

Auditorium Shores Fountain Play
BY GOLD41

Editor’s note: The views expressed in I Am So Popular are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the outlook or beliefs of anyone else in the IST network.

Twas the week before Christmas, and all through Spike’s house
She sought out ways her Yuletide misery to douse.
The hand knitted socks hung from the shower rod sans care
Washed with generic shampoo also used for her hair
The pooches were nestled all snug on the futon
Dreaming of liver and dead squirrels and croutons
When Warren in his undies awoke from a nap
Announcing, In the laundry room a dog took a crap!
She looked at the pack—Rebound, Bubbles, Satch, Tatum
And promised if that happened again she would crate ‘em.And then to the Internet she flew in a flash
Recalling she had to find ways to make cash
Because the economy, we all know does blow
And one always must hustle when one’s a Word ‘Ho
When what to her wandering eye did appear
But a pop-up featuring a shapely nude rear
Now there! thought Spike, That’s one profession
That will not at all be hurt by this recession!
More rapid than a case of Montezuma’s revenge
She came up with a plan her bank balance to avenge.

I’ll dash out to Best Buy and write a check hot!
For a camera to show the web all that I got.
I’ll be a prancer, a dancer, a cupid, a vixen!
Though this might require some real getting’ blitzened!

But then Spike recalled, not without some dismay
She’d long ago given up her drinking days.
With this thought came another, even more dismal
That sent her to seek out some pink Pepto-Bismol
For even with tastes that run the gamut
From nude teenage girls to sorority sluts
The market for Spike-porn might be much slimmer
And with that thought her hopes did grow dimmer
For really, how many folks surfing YouTubie
Are seeking gray crew cuts and middle-aged boobie?

Thus saddened Spike knew she needed distraction
So she clicked upon Cubby to watch him in action
A big boy! Beyonce pretending to be!
Filling millions of viewers with Single Lady glee!
Next came those Japanese puppies on their webcam
And an idea struck quite sudden like a flashback from Nam!
With times so damn hard, we all need cheering up!
And her eyes fell upon her indoor-crapping pups.
They do tricks very funny, and too they are cute
Just look at Miss Bubbles in this red Santa suit!

Thought she: I shall focus my lens, I won’t loiter!
I’ll become Spike the next great web doggie exploiter!
Let’s see—they can smile and act cute and jump!
And Bubbles on Tatum’s back so loves to hump!
And something that instantly spurs these gyrations
Is when Henry offers up theremin vibrations!
So screw you Beyonce and screw you, too Cubby
The next big web hit will be hump-lovin’ Bubby!
Next step is determining best Google ad
To cash in on this furry canine Johnny Wad!

She spoke not a word but set right to work
Contemplating dog porn ads her spirits did perk
Vibrating collars! Ball gag shaped treats!
Chihuahua sized pasties for Chihuahua sized teats!
Inflatable poodle butts ripe for the sniffing!
Plus, added bonus! Rightwing nuts she’d be miffing!
At this Spike began to laugh hard and outright.
Happy Dog Porn to All! And to all a Good Night!

Spike Gillespie would like your help finding work to tide her over through this fucking recession. Otherwise, she's forcing the pups to apply at the Yellow Rose. She blogs regularly at LaunchPad Coworking and www.spikeg.com. She is also head mistress for the Dick Monologues. Email her if you want ticket info for the Frontera Fest shows in January: spike@spikeg.com.