Last week Warren and I went camping. Nothing fancy like Yosemite. Just a trip to Mustang Island State Park, where the whipping wind and brutal sun kept us in the car most of the time. This was not a bad thing, not at all. Because whenever I run away to the beach, I have one main goal: try to be still. Of all the goals I’ve set for myself over my lifetime, being still seems the most elusive. I was born, it seems, moving at 500 mph and this has forever been my normal. Only after being told countless times over the years that this is not actually normal have I come to sort of grasp the truth in that observation. Sit still I did. I read and I read and I read, perhaps my top three favorite activities. I knitted and I played Scrabble and while I didn’t avoid email altogether, I turned to my computer about 90% less often than usual. I noted, as I do the rare times I step away from the Internet, that the virtual world continued on without me. There was not a collapse. Nor did I suffer. In fact, I really enjoyed slowing down. This in turn fed the voices that have been growing steadily louder lately. What if I came home and tried to implement an overall Slow Down rule in my life? more ›

The Pendejo of the Year Award is hereby presented to Texas House Representative Leo Berman. Leo—not surprisingly an old, white Republican—is spending his time and our tax dollars working very hard right now to legislate racism. Among other things, he wants to: a) stop giving automatic citizenship to children born in Texas, b) force Mexican kids to cough up paperwork in order to attend public schools, and c) make English the official language of Texas. It’s unclear if he also wants to authorize cops to pull over any driver who looks like he/she might be texting or talking in Spanish, but my hunch is that he’d be okay with that, too. Allow me to translate for you: Berman hates and fears Mexicans and is hoping to appeal to other people in this state who also hate and fear Mexicans. The main reason he is taking this stance comes down to—of course—the bottom line of vote acquisition. Leo makes no secret about this. He went on the record saying, “Most Hispanics right now do vote Democrat; there's no question about it. So what vote are we going after? We're going after a vote that doesn't vote Republican anyway.” 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 ›

In 1997, National Geographic Traveler sent me to snowboarding camp. The gist of the assignment was this: world’s clumsiest woman attempts snow sport, spends 99% of her time ass-to-ice. But even though I didn’t exactly learn how to snowboard, I did learn more than a few things about the (mostly) dudes that have mastered the art. One of my favorites is this—just as I used to mark my life’s timeline by bad boyfriends/ex-husbands (as in, “Oh, that was the year my narcissistic ex-husband walked out on me), snowboarders often start their stories by recalling injuries (as in, “Oh that was the year I blew out my left knee and broke my back. Twice.”;). It’s been a long time since I had a bad boyfriend or ex-husband. And so I don’t much mark time anymore by who done me wrong when. But every March when SXSW rolls around, I find myself with another chronological reference system as I flash back over previous years and the memories come flooding back. This year was especially nostalgic as I spent most of SXSW Interactive at the center of the pulsing heart of the event—in the lobby of the Hilton—and wondered at how much things have changed both for the event and for me personally. more ›

In a rough virtual approximation of waking up to find a crowd of protestors on the front lawn, I checked my email the other morning and was puzzled to see an onslaught of commentary regarding a blog post I’d published the day before about my garden. For the most part, these were anonymous missives, sent via the comment section of my blog. A couple of notes were positive but most were not. One included a death threat. Yep, that’s right: I got a death threat for a blog post about gardening. While I have not (yet) been actually killed for my writing, let us retrace my steps here to try to understand why some pussy troll from who knows where took it upon itself to write: Now we know who you are and where you live. We know you support killing the helpless so no garden will save you now my pretty. But first let me say that, yes, I know that in publishing that troll’s words here (though I did not publish the comment at my blog) I play right into the hands of the troll. I’m okay with that, since it helps me illustrate a bigger point. more ›

Sometime between September 11, 2001 and the start of the Iraq War—which “celebrates” its 8th anniversary in three weeks—I suffered a personal tragedy. Some asshole broke into my beater, an ’88 Subaru wagon with about 200,000 miles on it, and stole the radio. Installing a new car radio would’ve cost me about twice the value of the car itself. On the other hand, not having a radio at all was a loss I could not put a price on. As a compromise, I trotted over to The Shack and, for less than $20, acquired a transistor. Now that I think about it, the theft probably occurred closer to 9/11, because I have this memory of myself, totally freaked out, trying to wrap my head around all sorts of things: tumbling buildings, thousands dead, and the goddamn motherfucking Bush administration’s insane proclamations and response informing us, among other things, that the way to combat terrorism was to go to the mall. more ›

It was around 1977 when I discovered, courtesy of the book Our Bodies, Ourselves, that cucumbers had uses beyond the kitchen—that in fact they could come in mighty handy as an aid to self-pleasure. To this day I wonder what delightfully deviant librarian had the genius audacity to place that tome on the handful of shelves that comprised the itty-bitty library of the tiny blue-collar town in which I grew up. Whoever she was, I owe her my gratitude. I mean, talk about radical. At home, my reading materials were mostly limited to Readers Digest Condensed Books, a handful of Louisa May Alcott novels, a groovy edition of the New Testament written in 70s lingo, some ladies magazines and—when I was very lucky—hand-me-down copies of the Snappy Comebacks to Stupid Questions books put out by the MAD Magazine folks and gifted to me when the plumber across the street finished reading them. Our Bodies, Ourselves marked the start of a personal revolution, a book that opened my eyes not just to the potential of smooth, firm vegetables, but also books as mind expanders. more ›

Well, fuck. You know, I am so tired of having to do this, but once again I am going to trot out my abortion story, which I have told many times before but which—in light of Dan Patrick’s and Rick Perry’s latest bullshit—bears telling yet again. Years ago I proposed those of us who’ve had abortions all get bumper stickers that say, ASK ME ABOUT MY ABORTION. Of course, if we did, our tires would be slashed, windshields shattered, and “Second Amendment remedies” applied. But the idea was that maybe if all these jackasses trying to outlaw abortion would stop and really listen, they might gain enough insight and compassion to BACK THE FUCK OFF. Before I revisit my own abortion—which, for the record, continues to count as one of the smartest choices I ever made in my life, so please don’t try to add me to some false statistic report about post-abortion regret— let’s take a look at Lila Rose, shall we? My heart swells with pity for this 20-something woman-hating, blind sheep who identifies herself as a revolutionary when, in fact, she is merely a puppet for so many conservative bullies (many, many of them men) who scream about too much government control and, at the same time, keep trying to legislate the female reproductive system. more ›

Four years ago this week, I spent a few days holding the hand of a dying friend. The cause was cancer and if you’ve not witnessed a cancer death, my wish for you is that you never will. And yet, bittersweet, I was at least grateful for the opportunity to bid my friend a proper farewell, kiss her fuzzy head, look one last time into her once sparkling eyes. That friend was Molly Ivins. She succumbed on January 31, 2007. I remember getting the call that she’d passed. I remember crying and then heading out to hear music at Café Mundi, and Southpaw covering Springsteen’s Promised Land, and crying some more. I remember being doubled over with grief at her overflowing memorial service, where a thousand of us gathered for her send off. My friend Sarah went with me, practically had to carry me out of the church. 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 ›

In the wake of the not-yet-week-old shootings in Arizona, more ink has been spilled now than blood, as journalists zoom in on, dissect, theorize and hyper-postulate about what caused a 22 year-old kid to take out six people and fell another fourteen, best known among them Representative Gabrielle Giffords. Many are saying that political vitriol is at least as culpable as the gunman himself. The yelling, smears, and finger pointing brought us to this point, they say. Because, you know, it’s all fun and games until somebody gets a brain put out. Most folks who live beyond the borders of Amish country in Pennsylvania have likely allowed fade the memory of October 2, 2006. That was the day Charles Carl Roberts IV holed up in a one-room schoolhouse and shot ten little girls— half of them died— before offing himself. I’ve been thinking about that event this past week, because it changed my life. It didn’t change my life on the grand scale that it changed that Amish community and permanently scarred the surviving victims. But I do remember one of my first thoughts upon hearing the news, a thought that was soon confirmed by the media. more ›

“You don’t know me, but I know you,” I said to the hitchhiker when he opened the door and hopped in my car. It was the middle of the day in the middle of the week bookended by Christmas and New Year’s Day. Not my favorite time of the year, but I’d made it past the dreaded 25th without falling into my usual dark hole, and the prospect of soon flipping the calendar to 2011 had me in a nearly cheerful mood. This borderline buoyancy was elevated by earlier occurrences that day, and would rise higher still later on. Because, like Dickens’ Scrooge, I unwittingly found myself being reminded of some important lessons about life in general, and Austin in particular, just when I needed them most. more ›

Last week, I was mentioning trying to change my shitty Christmas attitude. I’m happy to report that, like some holy miracle, though I haven’t gone overboard and starting liking all the nonsense, at least the December doldrums have remained at bay. Not only that, but I recalled two funny stories of Christmas past, both involving trees. And so, herewith, my gifts to you this season. O Tannenbaum Part I December 2000, was, as ever, a crappy time for me. But despite my Christmas allergy, when I got word that a couple of kids in the neighborhood were going to be going without a tree, my unstoppable urge to Take Action and Fix Things went into high gear. Never mind that I rarely got a tree for my own son, I couldn’t bear that his little friends would have to go without. more ›

What you can do to participate in recognizing your gooderest-of-gooder peers is to simply think of someone (or hell, several someones if your clique is that tight) who has done something really kick ass this past year, write up a quick summary of that kickassedness, and then email it to Spike. BUT DON'T TELL THEM ABOUT YOUR EFFORTS TO DO THIS. Why the hell not? you might be asking yourself. Well, because it is awesome to surprise people with positive reinforcement. So here's what's meant to go down after Spike has agreed (she only has about 20-25 spots she can fill, so she will have to be prudent with her award-choosing-methodology) with your kickass opinion: more ›

I have been on this planet for more than a couple of decades now (actually, nearly five). For the vast majority of this time, I have loathed and despised Christmas. To the point that, were you to ask my closest friends to name five characteristics that most define me, Christmas Hater would likely land on most lists at least as often as Crazy Dog Lady. And so, as October rolled around and the stores trotted out all those fucking holiday decorations, and piped in all that loathsome fucking holiday music, I did an internal wince. Oh Fuck. Here it comes again. Fuck you December. Go Away. more ›

Last night, around 11 o’clock, I made a dark chocolate cake. Later today I’ll fill it with raspberry jam and pile is high with fresh whipped cream. Then tonight I’ll cover it in candles and light them. No, this is not a makeshift menorah (though I made one of those last night, too). It is the umpteeth dark chocolate cake I’ve made to celebrate the birth of my son, The Amazing Henry. I liked realizing that I started that cake quite close to the hour I went into such a horrendous 17-hour labor that the tale became almost instantly legendary. I also liked that, for reasons I can’t figure out, the cake fell. It is not typical for one of my cakes to droop in the center. I am actually quite good in the kitchen. But then, I do appreciate when life hands me a metaphor and even if a fallen cake is not on par with some MFA conjured wordsmithing, it’ll do for today. 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 ›

Last week I invited my writing workshop students to write obituaries describing the lives they hope to have lived by the time they reach the finish line. Some balked, thinking this was too creepy and might even jinx them into dying sooner rather than later. I’ve decided to thumb my nose at this potential curse and write up my own fantasy obit. Here ya go: Spike Gillespie died on May 4, 2074 at her home in East Austin. She was 110 years young. Though the cause of death remains fuzzy, an autopsy suggests she succumbed to the one-two combo of a head injury and “over licking.” Her son, Henry, 83, told investigators that two days before her death Gillespie was driving him to band practice, as she had every week for the past 70 years, when, as she was so fond of doing, she accelerated while approaching a speed bump, at which point her trusty Buddha statuette, which she kept on her dashboard to remind her not to flip-off shitty drivers, flew forward and conked her in the head. more ›

There’s a new dude in my life. It’s all Warren’s fault for leaving me for a month to go on a road trip. I guess I got lonely. I don’t usually succumb to online ads. But there I was, one Saturday morning, clicking a link, reading Dante’s story. Even though he’s 49, overweight, blonde (not my preference) and has a mysterious history, still I thought, “I need to meet this guy.” I met him in person that same day, let him move in the day after that. Turns out he’s a heavy breather, slobbers a lot, and spends most of his time lying around. He’s not a particularly well-mannered eater. And it became clear our first night together that we won’t ever share a bed. Still, I’m letting him stay. 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 ›

I have here, in the past, mulled the notion that the definition of insanity hinges on repeating particularly stupid actions in hopes of achieving different results that never come. Now I’m bringing it up again, which—yes, yes, I know-- since I’m repeating myself, might itself qualify me as certifiable. But there are other clues that I might be totally nuts. Witness, for example, that yet again I recently attempted to find a legal parking spot at UT. As if my forays into this futile endeavor two weeks ago weren’t maddening enough. My latest attempt scored me a parking ticket when my meter ran out before I returned to my car. My fault? Oh yes. But am I still going to bitch about it? Do you know me? more ›

Last night I was engaging in that futile activity known as trying to find parking near campus. Driving south on Guad, I spotted a parked car with its taillights on and thought maybe, miraculously, this was my chance. I eased over to the right and pulled up beside the car, only to be told by the driver he wasn’t going anywhere. Thus I had to reenter traffic. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but there are now bike lanes on the southbound side of Guadalupe. Bike lanes are great and/but in this case, the lane is sandwiched between the driving lane and the parking lane. That means that when I’d eased over, I was officially in the bike lane. While I realize that’s a drag for cyclists, there is no other option unless/until I can get my hands on a car that will hover above the bike lane. more ›

You all know and love local literary legend Spike Gillespie—if not for her popular column on this site, then for one of the other six thousand things she does in the Austin community. Tonight's your chance to get up close and personal with Spike as she hosts “Bitch, Bitch, Bitch,” a free, one-night, Dick Monologues-esque reading at which she and ten others will share their thoughts on that rude word. more ›

I returned from several weeks of travel semi-determined to lay pretty low for a while when I got back. In particular, spending a week off the coast of Maine almost entirely disconnected from the world inspired a desire to SLOW DOWN upon my return. I knew, even before landing in Austin, the folly of this goal. Besides having to do the Find Work Hustle, I faced a bigger challenge to a slower pace. And that is the fact that this city is packed-- more than packed, bursting-- with opportunities to expand mind, body, and spirit on a daily basis. On an hourly basis. So when I got word that Blue Lapis Light, Sally Jacques' aerial dance company, was fixing to stage another performance, I shoved aside my hermit aspirations and rushed over to see the opening night of ONE. Hopefully by now all of you have seen at least one performance by the group. In case not, let me attempt to clue you in to what these stunning pieces are like. Fortunately, Warren is lending an assist-- he attended with me as my official photographer and I'm delighted to be able to share some of his pictures with you here. more ›

Exactly one-half of my lifetime ago, I was 23, drunk most nights and, par for a course I’d been on since my single digit days, in the deep throes of lamenting love lost. In the fall of 1987, the man in question was Tony. We’d dated for what in retrospect seems like about fifteen minutes, but at the time felt like so much more. I knew, from our first date, that he was moving far away in a matter of weeks. And I know now that I saw a challenge in that, an opportunity to prove to myself and to him that I was worth hanging onto, even at a distance. Of course he saw it differently. And so when he headed off to a job in West Virginia it was with little regret regarding our time together ended, a chance at great things and a new life. I remained in Knoxville, licking my wounds, lamenting my loss, and using the FedEx account of the company I worked for to send him elaborately orchestrated packages of gifts, clinging to futile hope, a specialty I’d honed years before. more ›

I defriended someone this week. The experience was odd, and caused me more contemplation than I anticipated when I logged on to do the deed. Though I had only the dogs for audience, I performed the act with some flourish, my finger melodramatically hovering over the keyboard as I decided whether or not to really hit the button that would effectively obliterate this particular person from my virtual life (and, hopefully, my real life, too). The argument I entertained before going through with this regarded potential fallout. On the one hand, I understood that this person, a rampant narcissist, likely wouldn’t even notice my choice to exile It. (I shall use “It” here, because I don’t even want to hint at the person’s identity, not even gender.) On the other hand, if It did notice— well, we happen to have a number of mutual friends. So if It did discover my action, would It then raise a stink among the overlap in our Venn diagram of comrades? And if so, would that cause more aggravation than keeping the “friendship” and thus subjecting myself to seeing It’s updates on a regular basis? more ›

On the topic of engagement, Warren and I have nearly opposite opinions. He is completely opposed to the idea. I, on the other hand, while not exactly a lobbyist for the cause, can’t seem to resist the idea that engagement is the way to go. Things sometimes get touchy when he sees that engagement fire in my eyes. And he knows, if he tries to get me to see things his way… well, let’s just say he has come to accept that trying to stop me usually just pours accelerant on the flames. The engagement of which I speak isn't the sort that culminates in a big white dress, tuxedo, and multi-tiered cake. But there is an exchange of passionate words and, at least on my part, some vows at the end. Those vows usually go something like this, “I have got to stop doing that. But goddammit all these fuckers keep pissing me off.” more ›

Warren and I will soon mark our third year anniversary together. Given our past respective (if not necessarily respectable) relationship histories, this is nothing short of a miracle and our time together would more aptly be measured by a system on par with dog years. Three years?! For us that’s like twenty-one years at least. Sticking with one person for so long means you get to establish traditions. One of our biggest happens each summer when I start wandering around the house, gathering an assortment of items that includes my banana suit, silly clothes, stacks of paper, and sundry other items. This year I’ve added in a Yeti hat, the top half of a pig costume that belongs to the Boston terriers, and a collection of about twenty bags (canvas totes, old purses, backpacks). more ›

In 1999, Neil LaBute wrote three grim little plays and wrapped them together under the misleading title Bash. Some of the critics said LaBute was getting back at Utah and at the Mormons, as a revenge for the years he spent studying and then teaching at Brigham Young University. The off-Broadway version in 2000 carried the title Bash: Latter Day Plays. more ›