The Statesman brought our attention to a Houston Press story which detailed the ways in which Austin is no longer the cool place it used to be. Once again, it's the age old story about how the good ole days died with the Armadillo, the music scene is too modern, and the traffic is bad (ironic complaint from a Houstonian about our traffic duly noted). Greg Ellis, a record store manager in San Marcos is quoted as complaining: "Tell me what the cool venue is in Austin right now. There’s not one. There’s nothing like Liberty Lunch or the Beach or anything like that anymore. You’ve got the Red Eyed Fly, which is okay, but it’s a hellhole, really. And then you’ve got…um…Stubb’s I guess is the coolest thing that you’ve got. And that’s controlled by [corporate concert promoters] C3, and there you go. You wanna go see Primus at Stubb’s? Well, that’ll be $45. Lauryn Hill? $63. That’s not Austin.” more ›

I confess I hadn’t really been keeping up with the proposed closing of nine community elementary schools. Forgive me this, but I was hiding in part to avoid getting crushed by Strokes fans. Also, I was busy enjoying our spring weather and I didn’t want to sully that with bad news. But then, I was out driving yesterday, and I passed two elementary schools covered in signs begging to be kept open. So I looked into the proposed closings and realized it’s time for me to wake up and solve this crisis. I’ll need your help. Before I tell you my plans for saving the schools, I’d like to offer a shout out to all the beleaguered teachers out there. As if their plates aren’t full enough with teaching, complying with TAKS bullshit, dealing with overfull classrooms, grading homework in the evenings, and putting up with shit from administrators, now they have to spend whatever few waking hours they have "leftover" fighting for their jobs while their superintendent—who in 2009 paid lip service to the importance of not closing schools and cutting jobs— pulls in $280,000+ annually, plus bonuses. more ›

Tuesday morning I got an email from my friend Tom, whom I’ve known since 1983. I am not kidding when I say that, in my colorful-character-filled life, Tom easily outpaces every one I know in the OMG department. He can swear a blue streak in English and Spanish and he typically peppers his brief biannual check-in emails with carefully constructed, politically incorrect word filth that shocks, awes and thrills me every time. So when his most recent note didn’t start out with Fuck You Puta or Hey Bitch, I knew something was wrong and I was right. Tom, had been rendered serious by the news that our friend Ric had died the night before. 48 years old. Massive heart attack. more ›

Though I haven’t worn it in a long time, I still take it out sometimes, and the stories come rushing back. FUCK BUSH. Printed across a threadbare t-shirt, a gift my son made for me, delivering it as I stood in line waiting, opening day 2004, to see Michael Moore’s Fahrenheit 9/11 at Dobie. I used to wear the shirt pretty regularly, though I had mixed feelings about it. Not the sentiment. Oh no—of the many anthems and slogans I’ve adopted over the years, there is none that holds a greater place in my heart than FUCK BUSH. But I recognized a certain folly in wearing it—I worried I might offend people who, like me, hated Bush, but still believe certain words are “bad.” And whenever I put it on, I figured in some ways I was just asking for a fight. I mean, FUCK BUSH might be a factual representation of my feelings, but even I know it’s not some persuasive argument that might instantly win over rabid members of the Bush cult. more ›

When I am not reading or writing—activities that must be done in silence unless you count the sounds of four dogs licking themselves— I usually have the radio tuned to KUT. There’s so much I love about that station. But lately, I realize there are times when I should really turn it off in the name of sanity preservation and depression avoidance. Because, as you might know, NPR news follows a certain downbeat rhythm: bad news about politics, bad news about war, bad news about developing countries, and, every hour of every day, bad news about money. more ›

There are plenty of stories I don’t like about myself, stupid things I did. Often booze and failed romance anchor these tales. Sometimes the foolish trappings of youth and its attendant lack of wisdom play a starring role. I know, I know—the past is the past, revisions not allowed, live and learn, blah blah blah. Once in awhile though, a buried memory surfaces and I ache at the choices I made, long to travel back and set things right. Such has been the case recently as Election Day approaches and the “issue” of homosexuality, still so polarizing after all these centuries, is trotted out to center stage. One of my ugly truths is this: twenty-four years ago, I outed someone. Allow me to get what will surely sound like defensiveness out of the way here. As I push through the Vaseline smeared thick across history’s lens, trying to recall just what prompted me to do such a thing, I keep reaching a conclusion that feels a bit off. But there it is: I outed a college peer out of what seemed to me then as kindness. I was “just trying to help.” My heart, as they say, was in the right place. This reminds me of a writing exercise I do with my students, which begins with a poem in which the poet recalls pouring ice into the fish tank on a very hot day. The fish, of course, die, despite the good intentions of their keeper. He should have known better, he didn’t, but he learned the fast and hard way. more ›

About a thousand years ago, I read a short story by James Thurber called Many Moons. It’s a very rockin’ little tale, and every now and again—usually when I’m in the midst of some teaching gig—it comes back to me. This week marked the start of Part II in my annual adventures in running my extremely low-tech summer camps for kids. Writing Camp wrapped last Friday and I only had two days to catch my breath before the start of Fashion Camp. Yes, yes-- it is beyond ironic that I associate my name with anything having to do with fashion, given that even on my best days my ensembles usually resemble a mash-up of Kurt Cobain and a corduroy and Birkenstock addicted seventies lesbian. Me running an operation that even suggests I know how to put outfits together is on par with George W. Bush running the country. And yet, year after year, the campers eagerly sign up, and many of them are returnees. more ›

The other day, I lied to a stranger. I didn’t mean to lie. It began as an accidental misstatement. But then, I didn’t bother to correct myself, and so, like that, my words became a lie. I didn’t feel bad about my mistruth as it helped me meet my goal of quickly extracting myself from an annoying conversation. Given a chance at a do-over, I might even lie again, with purpose and precision, to avoid a confrontation, to get on with my life. The day after I lied, I was in yoga. I go to a class that often resembles more of a cocktail party than some reverent, woo-woo hour of dedication to mind/body/spirit. It’s not unusual for us to crack jokes or chatter whilst our backs are twisting or our butts are aimed at the ceiling. This particular session, the teacher read us an article from the Wall Street Journal about how and when kids lie and what it means. more ›

Do you get weary of all the Keep Austin Weird shirts and bumper stickers? Do you think all the gentrification and constant downtown construction is exponentially reducing all the beloved weirdness that led to the slogan in the first place? Perhaps. And yet, from my perch, this fine little town of ours continues to hold bizarre people, places, and events aplenty. I love the kookiness so much that, though my game plan is to never again marry, I might make an exception if there were a way for me to wed the city itself. That being impossible, I nonetheless feel ready to pledge a til-death-do-I-part commitment to this Land of Odd. more ›

Super sad news— we lost Lee Mannix, aka The Irish Dogfather, to a car crash earlier this week. I never had the pleasure of meeting Lee, but I know he rocked the worlds of many a pooch as he trained their humans to better understand them. Perhaps Lee’s best-known client is Kinky Friedman, who will be eulogizing the dog behaviorist later today. (Note: am posting this May 6, 2010, link to the details for the celebration of Lee’s life here.) In this town of mostly less-than-one-degree-of-separation, I happen to know Kinky, who has had a direct and incredible impact on my life. No, not through his writing and his politics, though these amuse me. The thing that really binds us is our shared love of dogs. More to a point, because of Kinky’s animal rescue efforts, I have come to live with a dog that, for the three years she’s been alive, has easily won two annual international contests: Cutest Dog on the Planet and Dumbest Dog on the Planet. more ›

The typical Texas Longhorn football player stands 6-foot-2, weighs 230 pounds and likes to listen to music in the locker room before the game. He loves watching SportsCenter, playing Madden or NCAA Football video games, and will tell you he came to Texas because of the family atmosphere. Also, he loves Halle Berry. more ›

College football is more than chest-painting, screaming fans and oversized young men crashing into each other at high speed. (Although those are two of its good points.) Look deeper and you'll discover personal, dramatic elements that rival any in pop culture, from Battlestar-Galactica-level intrigue to characters as deep and complicated as those on Mad Men. more ›

Z-Ro and Trae’s It Is What It Is contains none of the signifiers – marquee collaborations, cross-overs, shouted intros by popular DJs - that we come to expect from modern rap albums of a certain stature. Save one Nitti beat, the album’s producers would be tough to place for those who don’t obsess over Mr. Lee’s drum sounds. Imagine watching Monday Night Football next week without Joe Theisman, Suzy Kolber, the intro clips, the crowd noise, the dozens of camera angles, the replays, and the in-game graphics. You’d see a purer, though potentially less enthralling spectacle that depended on a matchup strong enough to carry you along without ESPN’s glossy signposts. Here recording as ABN (Assholes By Nature), Houston’s Z-Ro and Trae have always been outlaws of sorts, even while occasionally finding success within the rap mainstream. more ›

Todd Rundgren is the Costco of Rock'n'Roll. Every genre is represented. You want sweet ballads? '70s love songs so marrow-deep you know them unconsciously like you know Christmas carols? You need man-cock rock tight enough to split your spandex? Some Eastern Intrigue-chakra rockin' prog synth that makes Coheed and Cambria sound like the Jonas Brothers? So much psychedelia you can actually see Fantasia in your mind? more ›