I am writing this week’s installment somewhere over the Pacific Ocean. I just wrapped up a week in Hawaii with my young, hot boyfriend Warren. The trip was everything and then some, with hikes into deep valleys to watch astounding waterfalls, a trek across a still steaming lava crater, a trip to watch 2000 degree liquid lava pour into the ocean in enormous clouds of brilliant orange steam, a day on a black sand beach watching the locals surf big scary waves with the sort of ease most of us can only associate with walking. We even broke down and went to a beach yesterday, our last full day on the Big Island. It is the sort of beach you conjure when you imagine paradise, the kind of place I had, until yesterday, only seen in the movies. We buried ourselves in wet sand up to our knees and built castles and moats along the water’s edge and jumped big blue and green waves and even, to be silly, took the requisite long romantic walk along the white sand....

*The views expressed in Truesday are those of the author and do not represent Austinist as a whole. Thank heavens.* -The Editors Shame is a strange thing. The places it comes from. The way it affects our projected behaviors. I used to have these horrific dreams where I would be doing something fairly standard, like shopping for vegetables, and I’d suddenly discover that I was nude. Oddly enough, it wasn’t really the nudity that......

Being incredibly popular is really very fun but can also, you know, wear a girl out. Which is why, as you’re reading this, my ass is planted firmly and deeply upon a beach chair in Hawai’i for a week as I rest up and prepare for my next round of popular posts. But just because I’m away doesn’t mean I can neglect my duties. And so this week, I present an interview with Kareem Badr, one of the four masterminds in the improv troupe Parallelogramophonograph, aka Pgraph [www.pgraph.com]. (And yes, you might have noticed, I am running a lot of interviews lately. I love other people’s stories. If there’s someone you want interviewed, drop me a note and I’ll see what I can do.) I first saw Pgraph perform at the 2008 Frontera Fest. They did a French Farce and, as I detailed here, I just about drenched my pantalones I was laughing so hard. ...

Unmanned, limping and in pieces, that Lincoln with all its suicide-door’d glory, launched over a small cliff on the edge of the parking lot, crossed 37th, and took out the Northeast corner of La Madeleine’s outdoor patio. Destroyed it. Mowed over a dressed cement wall, and violently through some fancy bistro sets. ...

Not long after I hooked up with Warren, my young hot boyfriend, he introduced me to the lovely, talented Audrey Maker. Audrey puts together burlesque shows around town. Which is how I wound up, last fall, as a volunteer at the Texas Burlesque Fest, a sold-out, over the topless, two-night celebration of boobs. I got to work the Undressing Room, hanging out with beautiful women (and some men) in various states of undress, asking them if they needed anything. Warren had the more exciting job of Panty Catcher. Outfitted in a Super Hero costume enhanced with a big, bright pink, crocheted cock, he served a function similar to that of the ball boys and girls at Wimbledon. Each time an act finished, Warren dashed onstage to retrieve thongs, gloves, corsets, fishnets, etc. to clear the way for the next act....

Sometimes we need to go back to basics. Pure, basic-basics. The bare minimum required. And thankfully, now that I’m old enough to recognize the signs of impending disaster, I can (hopefully) head that bad-boy off at the pass and keep things as kosher as possible for another round or two. At least I’ll live to fight another day. Anyone with any sort of body cleansing procedure, no matter how fucked up and disturbed… my liver’s listening. Intently. ...

The best way to efficiently kill a chicken, as far as I know, is to lop off its head. Next best is to break its neck. Neither method appeals to me. I don’t eat chickens—I certainly don’t want to kill them. But when one is an urban chicken farmer, as I was off and on for years, one stands the risk of having to take out a bird now and then. Chicken execution proved to be necessary with my flock last fall when I got a call from Starsky, my then roommate, informing me that the dogs had gotten into the chicken pen. Of my four birds, one was dead, one was hunkered down trembling, one was missing, and a fourth was flopping around, no hope for survival. I was at Warren’s house at the time. We were early into our relationship and he’d already witnessed enough drama—for being incredibly popular often comes with a component of frequent high drama—that I feared enlisting his help might be some last straw for him. I got off the phone and faux-bravely announced I had to run home and slaughter a bird and I’d be right back. ...

Some friends of mine were sitting at the Vietnamese sandwich stand on South Lamar, just south of Oltorf. You know the one, between the Office Depot and that tire shop that always blinds the shit out of me with thousand spoke rims shined to NASA specifications, all tethered together and splayed out near the bus stop to really piss off those who can’t afford to do anything but ride the Metro downtown. Across from where that other tire shop used to be, where they had another thousand-spoke rim chained to their street sign, but the rim was about three feet in diameter. Like it was designed for a pimp's dumptruck or something. Shit was INSANE. ...

One of the ten million things I love about Austin is how well this town lends itself to the creative class—those of use dreamers who eschew cubicle jobs and want to figure how to put matzoh on the table through some fun, interesting endeavor that pays (I’m trying hard to avoid the word “work” here). It’s precisely because Austin embraces this lifestyle that I’ve been able to support my writing habit through putting on camps and shows and performing non-traditional weddings and working all sorts of nutty gigs. And oh, how I admire my creative class cohorts. Back around 2002, I met David Ansel at a dinner party thrown by Lisa Kaselak. David was just starting a business, inspired by a trip he took to Real de Catorce (a Mexican village I would one day come to count on for my annual escape-Christmas plot). David’s business, the Soup Peddler, involved making good, homemade soup and delivering it to people’s homes. By bicycle....

My darling son called me a week or so ago in the middle of the day. Some of you might recall that Henry sometimes (like about 54 times in a row one semester) has a hard time getting up at the crack of 9 a.m. to get to chemistry class and, as a result, he’s been afforded a priceless learning opportunity to find out, firsthand, what it’s like to go to court for truancy. The judge, in addition to basically telling my son that he’s stupid, informed him he better have a pristine attendance record when we show up for our next date, in June. Hence my son’s call. He wanted to let me know that he’d left school in the middle of the day. His excuse? He found a bullet in the hallway. You know, live ammunition. He turned the bullet in to the school cop and principal and voiced his concerns about safety. Then he split. He wanted to let me know that he was worried his absence would be counted as unexcused, getting him in trouble in court. Call me a screaming liberal and Charlton Heston hater, but, you know, I could really get behind this vacate-the-premises-in-the-face-of-otherwise-maybe-getting-shot-to-death....

They were out there, the dudes, standing with slumps, targeted by those police lights. Though appearing pretty sedated, their faces showed a curiously awed fear. Like they just woke up in a stranger’s life. As if they’d Quantum Leaped, or got crossed-up in some weird Memento scenario, blinked, and WHOOSH – car is wrecked and cops are tapping their toes with expectation. Looking at them, you knew that they knew they were beyond help at that point. Chemicals moving through the system, dousing all attempts at neurological focus. ...

I sort of hated Elizabeth Gilbert for beating me to the punch in writing a memoir about how an utterly fucked up divorce led to amazing travels, much meditation, and ultimately great healing. On the other hand, I have to say that I actually enjoyed the book, my enjoyment compounded by the fact that I read it while I was in the midst of my own utterly fucked up divorce. For the three of you who haven’t heard of or read Eat, Pray, Love, basically this really tall chick with blonde hair and a big book advance decides to spend four months in three different countries not getting laid for a very long time despite the fact that she meets a lot of hot Italian guys. A part that really stuck with me was how her friends ragged on her for taking night classes in Italian. I think they referred to the campus as Divorced Lady College. As if we must immerse ourselves in frivolous activities to help us forget what our idiot ex-husbands did to us....

Just as I was once an amazing pet sitter who nevertheless had a hard time keeping my own animals alive (back off—they were guinea pigs), I am now the wedding officiant who cannot manage to stay married for more than ten months. I tried twice, each time marrying a different facet of my father (round one: the bully, round two: the narcissist) but when husband two walked out, that cured me of any “need” I felt to be hitched. Interestingly, it was during the very month I filed for divorce (he left the dirty work to me), I had to perform eight weddings. It’s true, people, I’m not just popular, I’m a minister. Actually, you can be a minister, too. It takes about two minutes at the Universal Life Church web site. And the cool thing is, once you’re ordained, you are legally qualified to join people in matrimony. Back in 2004, I was up in Jersey, visiting my bio family, and a few days before they chased me down the beach yelling about Jesus, prompting an earlier than planned departure, I was reading the New York Times and I saw an article about a growing need for wedding officiants by non-denominational and mixed-denominational and secular couples. The gig involved writing, public speaking, being useful, making people happy and cold hard cash and so the article caught my attention since these things are all very important to me....

Sleeve tattoos and neck specks (smallish tattoos on the neck, usually a spider web, Mickey Mouse, or a cursive name) are just as popular there as they are here. As are chest tats for dudes in v-necks. Bikes, bikes, bikes. Everyone’s on bikes. Bikes are chained up all over the downtown area. Just about any open post or chainlink fence is coated in cycles like the front of a middle school. It’s quite beautiful, really. ...

The first time I ate dinner with REM’s Michael Stipe—okay so it was also the last time I ate dinner with him—was September 28, 1984. The boys were in Tampa to play at the University of South Florida (my alma mater, a place of such prestige that the dorms had pools behind them and no one took classes during prime tanning hours). Stipe didn’t invite me, I invited myself. I’d lucked into a phone interview with Pete Buck and Mike Mills a few days prior and I was still high from this unbelievable score—me a twenty year-old fledgling music writer getting to talk to them, some of my biggest musical heroes. They weren’t superstars yet, but they were heading in that direction. It was an outdoor gig and when they pulled up, I watched from a little ways away as Pete and Mike scrutinized my words in The Oracle, our college daily. Stipe was a vegetarian—probably still is—and vegetarian wasn’t something the caterer had provided, so it fell to my friend Ed, to ferry the singer to a place where he could find something that suited his palate. I like to think Ed invited me along. Or maybe I just shoved my way into his sports car. Either way, there we sat, gathered around healthy food before healthy food was a trend, at the NK Café. ...

*The views expressed in Truesday are those of the author and do not represent Austinist as a whole. Thank heavens.* -The Editors There’s this guy, not sure if you’ve seen him around town, but he’s one of the wandering of the downtown area. I can’t say he’s homeless, because I don’t know that; I’ve never witnessed his lack of a home. What I do know is that he’s black, looks to be mid/late thirties,......

I know, I know, apparently it is illegal to use the letters “s,” “x,” “s” (again), or “w” in any combination this week unless you are officially sanctioned by the folks at SXSW. And so here I sit, risking some Midnight Express fate (did you see how I worked not one but two “s’s” and an x into Express) because I am going now wax poetic on zen and the art of SXSW. First, a brief history of Spike and The Festival. I got to Austin late ’91. My first SXSW was spring ’92. I was a waiter at the Magnolia and so my baptism was by fire as the place was slammed with all those badge wearing assholes. I became a badge wearing asshole a year or two into my Austin tenure because, as I like to remind y’all, I am so popular. Sometimes I got a badge for performing (back when they still had a poetry venue for SXSW) and sometimes for being a reporter. And suddenly, I understood that sense of entitlement I once loathed back when I was pre-badge. I pitied the fools who had to wait in long lines when I could simply sashay to the front of any line, Japan night being a favorite....

To quote the poetry oft-spewed by Tim's Molson Gold-swilling step-dad, we were "Young, dumb, and full of come."...

When I first started thinking about what I wanted to say, I figured out that I really shouldn't be thinking in the first place; that just makes things complicated. I could start by simply complaining about the people who complain about SXSW or better yet I could start railing on the organizers of after parties and how they should really figure out what their legal obligations are before calling shenanigans on SXSW management. Maybe I could talk about how $140 is way too much to charge for access to 1500+ bands, but that would just be asinine and ridiculous. Maybe, just maybe, I could bring myself to try and help some people out on how to deal with SXSW. That my friends, (read as people who have too much time on their hands so they are actually reading this garbage) is what I will attempt to do....

So, I produce and co-star a little show called The Dick Monologues. We have four shows this month—three more than usual. Two are in Dallas this weekend at the Water Tower Theatre as part of the Out of the Loop Festival. Two are here in town—one at the Victory Grill on March 21st and the other at Hyde Park Theatre on March 30th. Please tell your Dallas friends to come to the show up there. And if you want to attend an Austin show, please email me at spike@spikeg.com for info. This week, I present a piece I wrote that sometimes appears in the show. Big Dick on Buddha Mountain To meditate with the enlightened Buddhist monk, Thich Nhat Hanh, is akin to playing guitar with Pete Townsend, making cookies with Martha Stewart, or tying your shoes with Mister Rogers. And so, despite my tight budget, when I heard that Thay, as he is known, was leading a retreat in California, I did what any overzealous aspiring Buddhist would do: I mailed off a hot check to procure my place at the monastery. ...

or most of us who simply go to work, ruthlessly stab our livers, mow our lawns, and try to find enough time to fight off sleep deprivation, voting is the most impact you will likely have on the world you live in. SO GO. Vote your brain. Vote your heart. Vote your history. Vote your soul. I don’t care, just go vote for something. STAY FOR THE CAUCUS!!!...

I understand the motive. We have perverts and pedophiles walking the halls of our schools. Perverts and pedophiles entrusted with the care-taking of our young, impressionable chil’ins. I have to wonder though. Hasn't this always been the case or have we just degenerated into some sort of depraved fetishists that the world has never been exposed to before?...

A couple of weeks ago, I blogged about the uplifting and relaxing experience of taking my son to court for truancy. Brief recap: In Texas, if, say, your seventeen year old child, who lives independently, takes care of himself, buys his own food and gas and concert tickets, owns his own car, and demonstrates daily acts of thoughtfulness, compassion and general total-duded-ness, decides that having to attend chemistry first period is not part of his Desired Life Experience, and if, say, he does this forty-seven times in a row, there’s a very good chance that you, the parent, will find yourself in a court case titled State of Texas vs. Henry’s Mom....

I spend very little of my time or money in corporate America, preferring to shop mostly at independent merchants. I also try to only buy things made in countries where it wouldn’t be horrible to be a worker, like, say, France or Sweden. This means not only going to independent merchants like Toy Joy, or Karavel Shoes but looking at where the things they sell are made. It’s actually kinda exhausting. It’s the kind of retail therapy that might send you into therapy....

Yeah, while you and your other bubble people are mercilessly burning the ghosts of dinosaurs long since passed, I’m out here inhaling your shit results. And man, I gotta say, it makes me feel like a better person than you. Like, Jesus better. While your mouth is all agape with impressedness, go ahead and roll down your window, Rapunzel. Let down your ratty mane of ignorance. Take a long gander at moral superiority. Check my dope shades. Smell the sweat. Yeah. Suck it in. ...

I wonder: why wouldn’t the APD drug cop and the data miner want the world to know what they’re up to? They’re heroes, after all! Cleansing our streets of the dreaded indoor weed farmer. They should be proud. They're like The Punisher and Microchip....

The other night, Warren—my hot, cocky, young boyfriend—came over after work to pick me up. As soon as he arrived, I popped a Vicodin. I love Vicodin. I love it for many reasons. First of all, I am in my ninth year of not drinking, if you don’t count the three times I accidentally ingested booze hidden in food (hint to teetotalers: watch out for that sake laced mussel broth at Uchi, people) and the sip of Kahlua I had mixed in a coffee one night at Jeffrey’s. (Aside: For the record, Spike is not one to frequent places like Uchi and Jeffrey’s. Really. Those were special occasions.) I also haven’t had any pot, if you don’t count two hits in Mexico, December ’06 (and no, I did not inhale), since the late nineties, when I needed hourly bong hits in order to maintain my “relationship” with the bikini-underpants-clad cheater I mentioned last week. So, like, nearly a decade ago....

Unlike San Antonio, Austin has so many more opportunities for musicians to play in actual venues attended by actual attendees, so at first glance the need for more private, unique places for bands to play seemed to be less of a necessity. But the deeper a person burrowed, the more they could uncover – with The Church of the Friendly Ghost, out on Pedernales street, standing in as the most odd and accommodating venue for which a music geek could wish. A former site of a real, honest-to-god church whose landlord was glad to rent it out to musicians and curators of The Church of the Friendly Ghost – a step above the wacky fundamentalists who had the space before – the Church had a distinction of being a welcoming place that also catered to fringe music for those in the know. ...

Getting married ruined Free Sex in Public for me. Let me explain. Back in the late ‘90’s, I was dating an asshole we’ll call George, since that was his name. George would do things like ask me to come over and help him pack for a trip and he’d leave condoms out on top of his suitcase for me to find. Now why, you might ask—and I most certainly asked —would he need condoms for a trip on which I was not joining him? Well George was one of those guys who liked to give the speech that goes like this, “Babe, we’re above that monogamy crap. We’re beyond it. We’ve evolved.” What he meant by that was that every time he went to Chicago, he would be banging his so-called ex but that if I so much as attempted to have a platonic lunch with a male friend he would threaten to break up with me and/or kill himself. Very evolved, George! Later, after we finally finally FINALLY—oh Thank you Baby Jesus!—really did breakup, two major things happened....

Way, way back in the day, I had a perfectly good Valentine. What had initially attracted me to him was his enormous, regal afro. Seriously, wow. I am not kidding when I tell you that my Valentine had the perfect afro, and I would stare at it in wonder for hours on end. Generally, I felt like a lucky man. But things went awry when, on Valentine’s Day of 1996 he showed up at my house with a bright blue stolen candle that was covered in hand-painted stars and shaped either like a mushroom or a very unfortunate penis. His other hand cradled a bottle of Night Train. ...