*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......

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. ...

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. ...

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. ...

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. ...

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 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,......

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!!!...

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. ...

For a year now it’s been a strange coexistence with these beasts of inconvenience. It’s not like I’d crack open a box of cereal and they’d pour out in a waterfall of crippling disappointment. Or that they’d even be found in the kitchen at all. Normally I’d find one pathetically backstroking on the floor tile in my hallway, and then dispose of it neatly. But every once in a while there’d be an adventurous fucker that would show up on the ceiling above our bed, as we were going to sleep, threatening to drop down like some crazed black-ops periplaneta. All hell would break loose for an hour or so until I could get the thing quarantined and dismissed. Neither of us would sleep for an hour after that. ...

Nothing quells the squabbling mass’s ire like a fat check. You want those three dudes who pissed in your gym locker to change their tune? Buy them off. You know what will impress the volleyball team? Bomb-ass circuses. What do all bouncers and voters in Florida understand when it comes to deciding whether they like someone or not? Bread. Dinero. Duckets. Dosh. Some-other-D-word-for-money. That’s a uni-goddamn-versal hand-shake that says “if you didn’t believe in my powers of affable superiority before, perhaps the fact that I can magically produce some money for your wallet will change your mind.” ...

*The views expressed in Truesday are those of the author and do not represent Austinist as a whole. Thank heavens.* -The Editors SMACK! [clackity-clack-clack-clack] “This shit just isn’t worth it to me anymore.” ------------------------------------------------------------------------------ And so it sits, the burrito, on the floor. Silent. A crowd gathered about the thing. Halfway on a slip-resistant fat-nap mat and halfway on the marred and dirt-clodded floor tiles of the 183 and Braker Taco Bell. This burrito......

I don’t believe I’m properly equipped to "welcome" myself after yet another year of meeting with you on Tuesdays (sometimes Wednesdays, Thursdays, Whateverdays). And it’s not easy to express my gratitude to people I’ve never met. People who have so many different reasons for being here, for something so irreverently personal. So I’ll defer my copy to the illustrious Mr. Samuel Clemens, as he handed thanks to the Lotus Club in 1908....

*The views expressed in Truesday are those of the author and do not represent Austinist as a whole. Thank heavens.* -The Editors To begin, I want to reiterate from last week that the email to send story submissions to is truecraig[at]austinist.com, not any of the other addresses you may have seen posted somewhere for me. I’m trying to keep this thing as organized as possible, see? And I'm not very skilled with email herding.......