I Just Want to Be Friends

"So, blog, I think we need a little time apart. I need some time on my own and I think we should start seeing other social media. I've made some new friends--you know them, Facebook and Twitter?--and I'm kind of hanging out with them these days. Let's just take a break for a while and see what happens, umkay?"

Seriously, dear readers, this is not the end. I just need a short break. There's a LOT of stuff up in the air right now that I can't share with you, as much as I 'd like to. I suspect that in another month or two things will be more settled and I can start writing again. Just not right now.

I'll be back...

Blegh!

Oh, dear readers, I have just had my first television interview. If "visibly nervous" and "addled" was the look was I going for, I succeeded admirably. I'm not saying which station it was for or when it's airing, no way. Because I have friends--and you know who you are--who will find the most unflattering clip of me in the interview and make sure that it gets circulated to everyone who knows me.

If you happen to see the interview, lie to me and tell me I was great.

Also I caught sight of myself in the monitor and I looked like Jabba the Hutt.

Emoticom time.

\:-<

Run, Don't Walk

To your locally-owned record store and purchase the new Decemberists album. Jaysus, it's good. Here's a review:

Library Books

The central branch of the Austin Public Library is closed for about six weeks while they do some repairs so I'm venturing out to other branches on my lunch hour. I've discovered a tiny branch in a crappy strip mall at the corner of Oltorf and S. Congress that has a really good selection of new books. I mentioned this to the librarian there today and he said that the branch was moving to the old p.o. at S. 5th and Mary and was trying what he called a "bookstore model"--that is, the branch was going to be devoted almost exclusively to new books. I love this idea.

I know at least 2 readers who are public library devotees like me and who live in S. Austin--this is a head's up if you hadn't already heard.

So, this is what I checked out today:

• Stuff White People Like, by Christian Lander. Based on the website. I know that some people hate this site and other people love it. I have to say that based on this line in #10, Wes Anderson Movies, "White people love Wes Anderson movies more than they love their kids," I'm digging it.
• Awesome, by Jack Pendarvis. I'm not entirely sure what this is about. Giants? Semen-powered cars? I can't quite tell, but it's logrolled by Barry Hannah and George Saunders which is promising. And I liked the cover.
• Nose Down, Eyes Up, by Merrill Markoe. It's a dog book. I think she has a blog because her name is familiar and I associate it with funny. We'll see.
• The Urban Hermit, by Sam MacDonald. Memoir about a guy who tries to live on $8.00 and 800 calories a day. Neal Pollack calls it, "like a weight-loss manual written by Hunter Thompson," which made me cackle.
• Unimagined: A Muslim Boy Meets the West, by Imran Ahmad. Title pretty much says it all. Logrolled by one of my favorite British comedy writers, Sue Townsend. (BTW, if you haven't read Sue Townsend's Adrian Mole Diaries, go out immediately and buy them.)
  
• Undress Me in the Temple of Heaven, by Susan Jane Gilman. MH, is it you who loved Hypocrite in a Pouffy White Dress? Same author, new memoir.
• More Information Than You Require, by John Hodgman. 'Nuff said.
• Vampyres of Hollywood, by Adrienne Barbeau and Michael Scott. If I had noticed that Adrienne Barbeau was one of the authors when I picked it up, I probably would have put it right back. (Not that I don't think Adrienne Barbeau is awesome, but I don't tend to read fiction written by movie stars, only their autobiographies.) I'm also very suspicious of this whole "let's take every genre and add vampires" shtick in popular lit. But I do love a good Hollywood story. So I'll try it. (PS--this was VERY good.)
  
• Beat the Reaper, by Josh Bazell. Medical thriller, I think. Looks a little more literate than most.
  

In other news, I bought an IPhone. (Thank you IRS refund!) I like it so much I want to French-kiss it.

A Cautionary Tale (Long Post Warning)

First, I must begin with the purse.

Many many years ago--possibly 1987 or so--I ran across the perfect club-going purse at Banana Republic. Tiny, with a buckle on the front and a long strap to wear across one's body. Ideal for clubs where you didn't want to leave your purse just sitting somewhere when "How Soon is Now" came on and you wanted to dance. Exactly the right size to hold driver's license, some money, your keys and a pack of smokes. I bought two, one in black and one in tan. Anyone who knows me from back in the day will probably remember those purses.

And, because I never throw away accessories, I held onto them after my clubbing days were long behind me. Because I thought, someday these might come in handy again.

Flash forward to 2009. The hubster and kiddos are out of town and I am on mine ownself and am taking in SXSW for the first time in years. Last night, a late night show at Pangaea (sp?) to see Gomez and the Decemberists. (Fantastic, BTW.) And, tonight, a meeting with some gal pals at the Pop Culture Press party at Dog and Duck to enjoy some good beer (Magic Hat, not readily available in Austin, a friend tells me, but very tasty) and live music, including a band I had completely forgotten, That Petrol Emotion (successor band to The Undertones, y'all!).

So I dig out my little black purse. Still perfect, now fits my drivers license, cell phone, passkey to get into my office garage, money, check card, gadget that unlocks my car, business cards, a pack of smokes, and a few other necessary odds and ends. And I'm delighted to be wearing it again, and am even thinking about how I can call it "vintage" I walk from my office to Dog and Duck after work today.

Sooo, after the 10 block walk to Dog and Duck, my tiny bladder is demanding immediate relief so I avail myself of the portapotties set up outside the show. (Inside bathroom is closed, yes, I checked).

And because the purse hangs down low, I remove it and set it on the tiny ledge in the portapotty and turn around to, well, do my business.

And that's when it happens...

I stepped on the ping-pong ball.

No wait, that's Auntie Mame, sorry.

I hear, ker thunk, SPLASH.

Did you just say, "oh NO?"

And I say, oh yes.

My purse FELL IN THE PORTAPOTTY. Yes, in there with that blue liquid with all the filth and the toilet paper and the cigarette butts and God knows what else.

And in my purse was all my money, the passkey to get in the garage where my car was parked, my drivers license, the gadget that unlocks my car, my check card, my cell phone, and my cigarettes.

Well, what would YOU do?

First I yelled, "AAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHH FUCK!"

And, then, dear readers, I fished my purse out. Yes, with my hands.

I had no choice.

(Those of you who are dry-heaving by now should probably just not read the rest of this.)

So, in the grand scheme of things, the portpotty was not as, um, befouled as some that I have been in. And my purse, thank GOD, um, floated on top.

So God help me, I reached in, grabbed it, and threw it to one side. Which was a bit, um, splashy.

And then I inspected the damage.

Actual purse itself, dry.

The strap?

DRENCHED. Disgusting.

I used up all of the remaining toilet paper to dry off the strap. And then I gingerly carried my purse out of the portpotty from hell and asked the people selling beer if they had any hand santizer.

So when my friend Jaye found me I was busily scrubbing the strap down and trying to clean off my hands like I was Lady Macbeth.

I deposited the befouled purse on a picnic table in the direct sunlight for the duration. Kept an eye on it, but really? If you wanted to steal it? I say, have at it! Enjoy the syphillis you catch from it!

So, now I'm home and the purse is empty and lying on the floor of the bathroom. Some of you are saying, just throw the damn thing away. But I've had so many adventures wearing it! Including, now, dropping it in a portapotty. And it's vintage! Maybe it could be disinfected and saved somehow? Because I might need it again?

As for me, I'm needing a shower.

For Movie Buffs Only

Oh, dear readers, I scarce know how to say this.

When someone says, "Joan Cusack," what do you picture?

Well, this is what I picture:

And later, in the same movie:

(For those of you not obsessed with John Hughes teenage movies from the '80s, this was one of her first film roles in Sixteen Candles. Which also featured her little brother John Cusack as one of Farmer Ted's geek friends.)

But, anyway, in the mental picture of her I carry around in my head, she is in high school. And then later in some other good films, a grown-up, but still youngish woman.

Soooo, I took the afternoon off today just 'cause and decided I wanted a light, fluffy, girl movie. So went to see Confessions of a Shopaholic in part because I loves me some Isla Fisher.

The movie was meh. Very predictable, and, even fashion-challenged moi can spot a Patricia Fields-costumed outfit from a mile away. (I'm a little tired of them, frankly.)

But here's the part that made me feel sad. And elderly. Joan Cusack plays ISLA FISHER'S FUCKING MOTHER. Not older sister, not young hip aunt, not slightly older coworker, but HER MOTHER.

I just couldn't get my head around it. It wasn't just that she was playing a mom, it was that she was playing the mother of a grown woman.

She wasn't a character in her own right, she was just the "mom" character in every other "girl meets boy" story you've ever seen.

I can't even pretend to be young anymore, I am so old that the ingenues of my youth are playing the mothers of the ingenues of today.

The mind boggles.

(And I'm not even going to mention the fact that Julie Hagerty plays the love interest's elderly secretary. Oh wait, I just did.)

Jonesin' for Some Live Music

This awesome cover song showed up on my Bookhart radio on Pandora.com and it made me jones for a kick-ass, live, loud, hard rocking experience.



Perhaps something is in the cards? Next week, perhaps?