Who's On Your Zombie Apocalypse Team?

Airplanes are fantastic places to have wondrous, strange conversations. On a flight earlier this year, a very fun friend told me about her plan for a zombie apocalypse. I was a bit thrown because I realized I had no plan for such an event. My emergency training is limited to a blanket in my trunk in case I get stuck in a blizzard. The likelihood of that happening in central Texas is not high.

Weapons are generally useless on the undead and I'm not really good with sharp objects or explosives anyway. My choice in footwear typically prevents running swiftly or being at all nimble. I'll have Olive with me so quietly hiding is also out. I explained all of this to my friend and she looked concerned. Because she is hilariously honest, she politely informed me I would not be on her zombie apocalypse survival team. She did, however, suggest I pull together a group that would supplement my shortcomings (and one that would have me).

Cataloguing my skills along with my needs in a crisis has been an interesting process. I'm tough, luckily, and also capable. But, worrying can get the better of me and my patience runs thin. I can think quickly and creatively but my execution is nowhere near MacGyver. I can climb really well and I always sense which direction is North. I may briefly collapse into inconsolable tears. So, we've got some pros and some cons.

Comfort was the first thing that came to mind. I'm likely to die (fighting, mind you, but ultimately nonetheless). Big, strong arms around me are a must. These will have the added bonus of being multi-purpose (lifting heavy stuff, swatting away pickaxes, carrying my lifeless body to a raging bonfire and dance party, etc). If the arms come with a beard in which to hide my face, all the better.

Next, I'll need a COO. When stressed, I often just want to be told what to do by a smart person. In times of catastrophic death and destruction, intelligent direction in a kind tone of voice could really come in handy. This person will come equipped with maps, illumination, wet wipes, and a brilliant plan of action (and a Plan B). They will be so well prepared that I will effortlessly place my care into their capable hands. This is something I do not do easily so this person will need to be the most ass-kicking, name-taking individual around.

I will also need laughter. I've been known to wallow, giving undeserving people and situations attention and time, which is a big bummer and tends to have negative cyclical effect. There is one thing alone that prevents or stops this for me and it is good company. I wish I could say that I am able to cure myself of Bell Jar, but I'm just not. I rely on others for this and I do so without guilt or shame. Someone who cusses a lot and does interpretive dances with me at 3am would be great in this role.

If my Dad could come, that would also be really awesome. He is better than MacGyver. True story.

I am now accepting applications. While the responsibility quotient is high and the likelihood of survival is low, I can promise a memorable exodus if it comes to that. I can also promise my all because if there is one thing I'm not giving up easily, it is this beautiful life. Serious inquiries only, please.

Not Enough Lifetimes

As my favorite month comes to a close, I have the usual feeling of dread. October has it all. Beauty, weather, music, pumpkin. My birthday has now come and gone. The rein of the indulgent Libra is ending. I'm not ready.

I found myself in a cab the other night, wickedly cursing 2am as if it had just kicked my dog. I didn't want it to end.

Years ago, when my Grandpa was sick, I laid my head on him and he touched my hair. My plane was leaving that afternoon. We both knew I wouldn't see him again. I wanted more time.

My Mom kept pointing out babies in headphones at the legendary Austin City Limits Music Festival. "You'd have such a cool kid," she kept saying. And I would, undoubtedly. "Don't miss out," she warned. Roger that. But that means I wouldn't get to be what I am now. I wouldn't get to do what I do now.

I could have been a dancer or a lawyer or a fashion designer. I could live in Spain. Spain sounds lovely. But, then I wouldn't be here, now.

I have come to the conclusion that there are just not enough lifetimes in this lifetime. There are so many things to do, so much beauty and fun. There are so many people. Listing the things I've done seems impressive at times, but lately it seems to just scratch the surface. Is this what getting older feels like?

If there could just be a few more, a little longer, another at least. Then I could get it all done.

I fell so hard

I find it therapeutic to put myself in new situations involving a rather Phoenix-like Ctrl+Alt+Delete. But, between burning it down and building it back up is usually the most lengthy, emotional, and taxing. It can be a wearisome job to live without roots or rules. So, I've become an expert at dangling in limbo and I do it with diligent regularity.

Before

To dangle is in essence to float but also to be in the precarious state of almost falling. Dangling denotes risk, precision, fragility; to be suspended in between two things that may or may not be comfortable, to attach barnacle-like to the fine line. To dangle requires assiduous concentration and painstaking practice. It also requires bravery and resolution, to be have purpose even in the unknown. Dangling defies gravity with a shrug and another try.

After some practice

Three years in Austin have been a good lesson in dangling and in limbo. This is a place and people very hard to define and even more difficult to embrace. Fortunately, if there was ever a place to practice dangling gracefully and with comfort, it is in Texas.

Here's to 3 years and many more happy years to come.

Love you, Texas!

SXSW, a most lovely disturbance

In preparation for the upcoming SXSW orgy of toxins, filth, and sound, I've been doing a bit of thinking about those three components, attempting to understand their delicate necessity and devise of plan of surviving each of them. I'll start with sound.

The vibration of sound is ethereal and powerful, even if quiet and subtle. There are some sounds that can take your breath away or leave you panting with excitement. A baby's first cry, the whisper in your ear "I want you," a tornado passing overhead can give you chills. Some of the most deafening sounds I've heard are silence...when the fight is over, when the last guest leaves.

As everyone knows, I live for sound and have a carefully cataloged brainfile of sounds I treasure and those I wish I had never heard. We all do I assume, though how carefully filed seems to be personal preference and aptitude for self awareness.

Mine are usually filed by emotional response. The feeling I get seems more memorable than even the sound itself. To be mentally shoved by sound requires a reaction. But, to have a vault of sounds and how they have already made me feel has proven a very useful tool. I often know whether to ignore it, run from it, or soak it up.

This makes sense because sound, by scientific definition, is a disturbance. Disturbances are memorable. Disturbances can't easily be ignored. Disturbances change you, sometimes forever. Tom Robbins, one of my favorite authors, probably said it best:

Perhaps sound carries farther across time than across space.

Looking forward to a week of music and all the ways it will make me feel, I can't help but be excited and a little scared. Being 'disturbed' for that many days in a row requires a steadiness I often lack. But, at the very least, there may not be a more comforting sound than your name being called by the friend you couldn't find at a show. That is SXSW. And it is a most lovely disturbance.

Only Allow Good

Adrenal glands are perched on top of your kidneys and primarily regulate stress: physical, emotional, and psychological. Basically, your adrenal glands manage your fight or flight response, which is something that all humans deal with all day, everyday in various intensities. You don't have to be a superhero or be running from the mafia to have your adrenal gland throw in the towel. Millions of people suffer from an overworked adrenal gland. Conventional medicine doesn't recognize this as a problem since the symptoms are rarely life threatening. I can, however, promise this issue is dreadfully serious.

My acupuncturist nailed it. She asks (about a year ago), do you have an excess of any of the following:

Alcohol
Caffeine
Sleep deprivation
Cold hands and feet
Prolonged, traumatic emotional stress
Seasonal allergies

Um, yes, check, check, and check. Now, I can't say that Texas is responsible for ALL those things. I had excesses of alcohol, caffeine, cold paws, and nightowlism long before moving here. I guess the addition of the final few culprits finally did my poor hormone machine in. The sad thing needed a break, big time. I was a nervous mess; sleepless, tormented, blotchy skinned, puffy eyed, chubby, unable to concentrate, near my wit's end.

I had to turn this around and fast. How, do you ask, does one accomplish such a thing, especially in the midst of mean people, low financial backing, and Mopac traffic? This is Texas after all...people don't help you unless all you need is to borrow a truck. I'll tell you.

Step 1: Only allow good. (May require a rather rigorous housecleaning)
Step 2: Cope with repercussions of step 1.
Step 3: Survive and begin to notice happiness fill the spots left empty by the removal of toxic stuff.
Step 4: Repeat with fine-tuned modifications.

One year in, I'm on step 4 and I haven't felt this good in ages. I've eliminated all of the major offenders except alcohol. Through a random recipe of holistic medicine and soul searching, I've managed this without a prescription, lottery winnings, or even much inconvenience. I don't even have allergies anymore! It must be a miracle because last January I was very near cedar death. I daresay I may even survive without coffee. I never thought it possible.

Why does it matter? It doesn't, really. But, if you feel like crud all the time, have a chat with your adrenal glands. They might be warning you your life sucks. They aren't going to kill you like if you mistreat your heart or lungs or brain. But they will fuck your shit up. Keep in mind they may be the only thing between you and a state correctional facility...I suggest you take them seriously and give em a break. Also, a healthy adrenal gland makes your skin glow and your sex better. Just sayin'.

Day One: Prep

The detox program was delivered yesterday in 18 colorfully terrifying bottles. The realization that I am to have no booze, food, or fun for the next few days began to set in. Cashew milk, really? How do these healthy people do it? The instructions are simple: Don't consume anything except the specially prepared juices in a specific order and water with lemon. No problem for someone who gets normal amounts of sleep, water (without whiskey), exercise, and nutritious food. (I just had trouble spelling nutritious which is indicative of my familiarity with it.)

In preparation, I completed the following tasks:

1. "Cleaned" out cookie and milk supply for breakfast
2. Gave dog a bath (she'll be used as a stress ball over the next few days)
3. Put clean sheets on bed
4. Ate an inappropriate amount of pasta for lunch
5. Ate an amazing, amazing dinner at a new Thai restaurant 
6. Ate a spicy chocolate cake ball
7. Drank 3 bottles of wine
8. Stayed up until 3:30am

Ok, I'm ready. I can totally do this. 

Juice #1 down. It wasn't terrible. It wasn't butternut squash and goat cheese ravioli with walnut cream sauce either. But, the Donkey episode of Ab Fab is still funny for now and the sky appears to still be blue. Only 68 hours left. 

Filth and Other Collectables

As I took the trash out this morning, I gave my usual thought to the monumental ickiness of dumpsters. I know what I throw in there and I can only imagine what else makes a grave in its stinky darkness. I'm oddly fascinated with shows about rare medical conditions and I always recall the sensationalized episode on flesh eating bacteria when I touch any trash receptacle.

I like to think I don't hang out in places where the risk of picking up a flesh eating anything is possible, short of hipster zombie parties on the East Side. However, as I walked Olive and thought harder about it (pre-coffee), I realized I am in great danger.

I am actually most likely to be found in rank dive bars, smoke-filled honky tonks, and the most vile of them all, port-a-potties at music festivals, which I even went into barefoot once, bless my filthy heart. The funniest thing is that as I was writing this, I recalled a previous entry on the same topic. Clearly, my dilusions of noble ladyship, complete with girly handkerchiefs, good posture, and Junior League membership* are out with the rubbish. It is only a matter of time before I'm hospitalized. Whiskey should kill any life-threatening germs, right?

* I don't really want to be in Junior League. While I may be filthy, I am still classy. 

Worth It

I recently heard a story about Pablo Picasso. He was asked by a fan at a café to sketch a drawing on a napkin. He did and then asked her to pay him $10,000. Shocked and unwilling to pay, she retorted that the drawing had only taken him a few seconds. He replied, “No, my dear, it took me 30 years.”

Self-worth of this magnitude is impressive, possibly even valid. But it isn’t self-worth that is important to me in this story. It is that worth takes time, hard work, even failure. Worth isn’t arbitrary, it is earned. Worth doesn’t declare itself. It is given and taken based on a complex formula of needs, wants, and perceptions.

Of course, there are things in life that are monumentally undervalued and foolishly overvalued. Look at the wage divide between teachers and NFL players. Look at the price of an engagement ring and the price of a divorce…ironically similar, huh? And if you can pay for both in less than two years, perhaps they should both cost more. Even taking into account my own “values”, I’m almost ashamed to admit I spend more on alcohol than I do on groceries. Almost.

Clearly, there can be a binary between what something is worth and its value or cost. For example, friendship. In my opinion, friendship is one of the most valuable things a person can posses. But adults treat it cheaply, at least in my early-30’s world. This is one (possibly the only) place highschoolers have it right. Death is preferable to hurting a friend in highschool. Adults do it all the time.

Can you really not buy love? Yes, you can. The good stuff costs kindness, patience, flexibility, and love back. You can and you must invest. This shit is NOT free. I’ve also met my fair share of golddiggers in Texas who would argue to the grave that you can buy it. I’ve contemplated becoming one of these people but decided the karmic payback is just too terrifying.

Self-worth is another tricky one. After you determine what you’re worth, are you confident and proud when you reveal the price? Alternatively, are you red-line pricing things that should never be discounted? Picasso sure knew his worth. He knew because some valued him as much as he did. He also felt he had earned it.

Worth may not be arbitrary but it is definitely relative. It can stand alone, but alone it just might be. Worth that isn’t worthy usually gets forgotten anyway. I’m going to try to remember that the next time I have to determine worth or the next time I negotiate my own value. I’m going to try to make sure that worth = value which means it isn’t that complex of a formula after all.

Smile Therapy

When I taught yoga a million years ago in Boulder I used to do a guided meditation with my students called the Inner Smile. You simply closed your eyes and visualized all your bits smiling. And by "all," I mean it literally, from your brain all the way to your toes, allowing your organs, limbs, every cell to radiate what is typically delegated only to teeth and lips. After about 7 minutes, I would ask them to open their eyes. Without fail, they would all have this strange (almost creepy) smile on and they would slowly lumber out into the world, my guess is to give someone a hug. It was awesome.

Fast forward a few million years in DC where I saw What The Bleep Do We Know!?, a documentary about quantum realities and the interconnectedness of our emotional world and our actual world. 

One of my favorite parts of the documentary was when they showed how words like "love" and "patience" create beautiful ice crystals from water while words like "hate" and "war" create jumbled crystal patterns. (This is research done by Emoto.)  I'm not saying I believe every word. In fact, I'm a natural skeptic. But, pleasantries and blind hope keep me from flinging myself off national landmarks so I try to go with it. This was an interesting concept especially considering humans are 70-80% water. I also liked in the film that she draws smiley faces all over her body with marker. I've always wanted to do it because it reminds me of the Inner Smile meditation. 

The other day I decided to document my smiling patterns, mostly because I realized I hadn't done it much lately. I didn't try to pinpoint why (that's easy...left all my best friends in DC, emotionally vacant relationship with latest boyfriend, a stranger in a new town with little direction, job on the fritz, etc. Nothing especially unique here.) I wanted to conscientiously smile at every single person I saw for a whole day and see what happend, both to me and to them. 

It was a pretty cool day. I got invited places, flirted with, kissed, serenaded, and asked for my phone number, all in about 4 hours time, all by different people. I was certainly on a cloud and I appeared to cheer up everyone in sight. This is an experiment I suggest everyone try right away. I wasn't smiling out of my ear or kidneys but my mouth seemed to suffice.

I'm not sure if smiling can change the universe but it certainly can't hurt. It is infinitely more useful than pouting, scowling, or flipping the bird. So I am on a new mission of smiling, much like that dude in Ally McBeal, even if I don't feel like it. If nothing else, a wise friend of mine told me recently over martinis that "sometimes, girl, you just have to fake it till you make it." Indeed.

Air will take the shape of any container. It can be compressed or it will naturally expand as far as it is allowed. Air plays nice with most other elements. It lives side by side with Earth. It is a integral, yet nonreactive component of Water. Fire requires Air. This need is rapacious, however. Fire uses up Air until there isn't any left. To be, Fire must destroy Air in a way it cannot other elements. It is in this complex relationship that Fire exists at its strongest. But where does that leave Air?

Gone. Running for the hills, hiding in dark corners or up high, hoping Water comes to the rescue. It is not a pretty sight.

Fire must be careful not to use up all the Air, even though the supply seems infinite. Just like Water better not put out all the Fire, just like Earth should not confine Water, Fire should be mindful of its strength and appetite. It may not mean to, but Fire can really fuck things up with the one thing it needs. Both end up nonexistent.

Air may be invisible but it is everywhere and pretty darn useful. It has to try really hard to be noticed, but take it away and you'll be sorry. So folks, be extra nice to Air the next time you run into it (which will be now. And again now. And now.) Listen, even though the voice may be tiny and see however the transparency. It can't carve canyons, it doesn't hold your highrise up, and it can't cook you a steak, but it is good and deserving anyway.

I can't carry it for you, but I can carry you.

My dog and I don't coexist in the traditional sense. I'm not the parent and her the child. I don't own her. It is more symbiotic...when I need her she is there and when she needs me, there I am. And we pretty much always need each other. She is my Samwise Gamgee. We have done it 3 times together in the last 8 years and she has proven to be exceptionally adaptable and helpful in a move. A pictorial memoir...

Deciding where our furniture should go
 
Unpacking (rats were in a high priority box)
 
Enjoying our new neighborhood, Zilker Park

Testing our new bed

Selecting paint colors at Home Depot

Posing for Martha Stewart in our newly decorated bedroom

Worn out from too many projects
 
I could not do this without her. Fact. 

Warren Buffet can thank me later

I checked my Mint.com account recently and was playing around with their comparison budget tools. Pretty nifty until I got to the part where it compared 2010's spending habits to 2011's. The differences are striking, especially in the music category.

Pre-Austin, it appears I spent around $100 annually on concert tickets (a few shows at best). In 2011, that number increased 10 fold without even factoring in all the tickets bought for me by others which were substantial. Add in all the money spent on booze and the occasional t-shirt and you're looking at a degenerate music junkie who would sell plasma to see shows should I ever loose my job. If it weren't so much fun, I'd be alarmed.

I don't think of this as money wasted or even spent, however. I consider it an investment. According to Wikipedia, an investment is putting money into something with the expectation of gain, even the security of a return. This precisely defines what I do when I buy concert tickets. Music is an investment in life, happiness, relationships, musical prowess, boredom alleviation, intellectual complexity, and so many more things.

Sure, sometimes you invest and you don't see a return (such as the Modest Mouse show at Stubbs). But, sometimes your ROI is stupendous. The net gain from shows like Edward Sharpe, Grace Potter, Awolnation, Bright Light Social Hour, Friendly Fires, Gaygns, Young the Giant, or Muse far surpasses the initial investment. I wouldn't take that money back for anything.

It isn't just what music is worth in comparison to other investments we make. It is the whole host of intangibles you get for investing in that way. It has never let me down unlike most of my other monetary investments. I have no intention to decrease the amount put towards these most valuable expenditures.

Wikipedia also says that putting money towards something without the the security of return is considered gambling, an activity I do not care for generally. That being said, I have tickets to every major concert happening in Austin from now until late May and many of these bands are not my favorites. I'll label those for now as speculation though. I've found that with music you have to spend to "make."

Ten Four

As another birthday draws near, I'm doing my usual self-assessment. I like to take stock annually and then decide what gets to stay and what gets the boot. I also make resolutions. I much prefer b-days to the end of the calendar year for making resolutions. For one, no one gives a shit about your resolutions if you make them at the same time as everyone else because everyone is too busy with their own. I usually require assistance with change and therefore get much better participation rates if I choose an off day. Also, there is something about "10 Four!" that sounds official, like I actually better try to complete the tasks or be made to do push ups.

I avoid push ups at all cost.

A few weeks ago I came across a phrase that resonated: the other side of someday. I think it is a lyric. I like it because I'm often guilty of living/wallowing in futuristic hypotheticals and sometimes need to be reminded to enjoy and live the present. This year, when I performed the birthday metaphorical MRI, I was relieved to find out I that I may indeed be on the other side of someday. I'm very near or exactly where I want to be. For once.

I chatted with my mom a few years ago about the two paths folks can take in life. The first is the marriage/kids/house path. The other is the wild/unexpected/free path. My mom and I agreed that you simply cannot have both simultaneously. You have to choose. You can do it all but you have to do just one at a time or you risk pulling yourself too thin and generally doing a lousy job at both. At the time, I was whining to my mom about how all the friends my age had houses and boats and diamond rings. I had a metro pass, a lame-ass boyfriend, and a shih tzu. I had walked away from all the forks in the road for the marriage/kids/house route. I wondered if I had made the wrong choice. She reminded me that I had lived in some amazing places and seen some amazing things. I had lots to show for my life, she insisted. Bless her.

I'm so glad now that i chose the wild path. I won't doubt it again. I may not have the burden of property or stretch marks or a divorce lawyer at age 31, but, dammit, I have other things. I've got a kick ass man, a pretty cool job, low debt, few wrinkles, and no regret. As far as birthday wishes go, anything I think of will probably seem wildly overzealous since I already have everything that I want. I'll still ask to win the lottery of course. Global peace and harmony is just futile really.

Birthday debauchery has already begun with a champagne limo ride to Miranda Lambert and the Pistol Annies. If that isn't the other side of someday, I don't know what is. Getting old is pretty damn fabulous!

A Man and His Fish

Planet Texas Moment #587:

Took myself on a long, exploratory walk last night down one of my favorite streets in my hood, South 1st. It is a colorful street with tiny, random shops covering an array of niche commerce from cupcakes to used neon signs. The weather was superb and I haven't donned tennies since sometime last Fall. It was time.

Best part of the night was a new friendship I made with the proprietor of a hookah shop and smoking lounge. Here's a summary of the conversation...

Dude: You should totally meet my fish.

Me: Um... [eyebrow raised]

Dude: [knocking on fish tank glass] C'mon out and meet someone!

Me: Um... [wondering why the trippy music is so loud when no one else is here]

Dude: Here-e comes! Isn't he great?! He's kinda like a puppy. The kids love 'im.

Me: ...

This was, no joke, the happiest fish in history. He was a 3 foot long, obese, whiskered eel-like creature who was, as far as I could see, wiggling with delight at the sight of his owner and smiling like a Cheshire cat. I mean, this fish was literally doing the Olive "full body wag." He was equally thrilled to see me, after he was scolded for not greeting the guest. I've never quite seen anything like it.

Thanks Redline Hookah for keeping Austin (and rest of this planet) weird.

The Next Place...and the next

I've always feared that my colleagues would discover that I'm a bit of a loon. I usually try to keep my new agey behaviors to myself, even hidden from my closest friends. Only my mom, who is biologically obligated to love me anyway, really knows about the quirky beliefs and rituals I've incorporated into my weird little life.

Now that I've moved to Austin and have to show up in an office every day to be seen by my co-workers and boss, my hippie ways are harder to hide. I did retire my desktop aromatherapy kit in exchange for a subtle bottle of pressure point cream. But, my Inner Peace Cards remain right there, front and center, for all to see, right next to the Creative Whack Pack and lava lamp.

Today's card I love...

(paraphrased...you'd gag otherwise) Each experience up to now was necessary to get me to this very moment. I wouldn't be in this desk chair, staring at PowerPoint slides, waiting rather impatiently for Friday, if it hadn't been for 30 years of other moments, good and bad.

I dig that kinda. And it kinda fits in to this whole New Years hoopla. So, New Years resolution declaration: Try to have as many useful, positive, thrilling, transformative moments as possible in 2011 so that each next moment is made that much better.

Ok, and do more Om breaths. *wink*

Nighttime's Wooly Blanket

Last night was a lunar eclipse on the winter solstice. I hear this combination doesn't happen very often. I usually don't need much persuading to stay up all night drinking on a weekday so this excuse was particularly validating.

Because I have moved to paradise where 65 degrees on Dec 20 is only a little atypical, I sat outside on the sidewalk with Olive and some friends looking at the bright moon through the ancient tree branches at my apartment complex wearing flip flops and a smile. It was the perfect night for lunar gazing.

We made plans to move rooftop for some live musical eclipse accompaniment. The night had every potential for epic fabulocity. Naturally, as soon as we got there, the creepy warm temperatures blew in a foggy cloud cover from the lake that completely obscured even the outline of the moon. Even my will to cocktail suffered.

Luckily, my company was amazing (as usual) and a late-night Whataburger taquito resolved any disappointment. It was way cooler to lay in bed this morning and look at all the fab photos of the eclipse on my phone anyway.

Also, because I finally finished Awesome Wedding Mix 2010 (which, if i do say so myself, is so good I might even get some), I thought this favorite track was especially pertinent.

And now off to frozen Nebraska where I will most certainly stay "wrapped up like a child who has been in the rain too long" the entire time.

Just Like the Moon by Brett Dennen

Making every possible mistake

My mum is an expert at giving me gifts. I suppose it has something to do with me being a clone of her, which makes gift giving infinitely easier. This year, she got me a psychic reading for my birthday. She went with since it is no fun to talk about your destiny by yourself, obviously.

I told this man nothing. Not a single thing about where I live, who I am, or what I wanted to know about. I could tell he was disappointed to have nothing to work with. But, i thought it would add to his credibility or lack thereof after the the fact so i kept my lips sealed.

Turns out, i'm not all that bad off. Saturn has flown the coop which means things should start looking up (though I can expect another rough patch around age 50...dammit!) I can expect to meet my life partner on a sidewalk outside a restaurant or bar...shouldn't be a problem as I do that sort of thing almost daily. Timestamp hazy, however.

Two things of note:

1. I am a psychological gypsy with a boredom problem who violently changes direction in life, sometimes without notice. This came as no surprise to me. Here's the cool part... We all have spirit guides that help us navigate the tricky waters of life. They don't always help you do the right thing, but they look after you lest you totally botch up your whole existence. Usually you get yours early on and they are yours to keep for life. I mean, they invest in you and stay by your side like a German Shepard or an STD that can't be treated with antibiotics. Not mine. Because I change everything up so completely every now and again, I require different spirit guides at different times. I chuck mine and get new ones with all my different life stages. This is quite unusual, according to Mr. Psychic. Right now, I'm stuck with Arthur, a pony-tailed intellectual, who "helps" me over-analyze and question things. Thanks dude, you're coming in really fucking handy. Poo!

2. You've met those people who just exude wisdom and experience, even at a young age. They have that look that says they've seen things others haven't and know things others don't. When they look dazed, it doesn't come off as lost and confused. It looks contemplative. I am not one of those people. I am a new soul. Lacking in wisdom, sophistication, and patience, I am attempting to take this universe by storm and cram in several lifetimes during my Earthly stay. I imagine the psychic was trying to come up with an inoffensive way of saying soul-wise, I'm a bratty teenage idiot who thinks they know everything. Luckily, I have the motivation to get it all done in a hurry so that i'm an old soul faster than other baby-souls. It isn't a competition or anything...I just want to know it all as soon as possible so I'm devouring experiences like Ms. PacMan. Hooray!

I have to say, I was impressed by the psychic's expertise. Still not sure i believe he could see my future but if he could get all that from a handshake, a wrinkled t-shirt, cowboy boots, and a hangover, he's doing pretty well in my book.

New Soul by Yael Naïm

To Get To You

Getting around in Austin, TX is a nightmare. Transportation in this city is so epically mismanaged and poorly planned that it has caused me to become enraged and borderline dangerous on numerous occasions. It is no wonder Texas has such a high rate of drunk driving.

First, the traffic is impossible. On the way to work, i zip straight there in 10 mins flat. The way home, on the other hand, is a painful, soulless stop and go that can be up to 60 mins of pure mind-numbing torture.

Parking is an effort in futility that usually leads to homicidal fantasies.

You cannot get a cab to save your life. I had an easier time snagging a cab in DC during the Obama inauguration in the freezing rain. Hailing a cab is out of the question. You must call to be picked up. There is a single cab company with 1 or 2 phone lines, likely manned by an unambitious, bong-hitting high school kid. These alleged phone lines are often disconnected and go straight to what sounds like a third-world country's IRS helpline. If you do manage to get through, the person on the other end usually hangs up before you can get your address noted. It is infuriating.

If, by some miracle of the universe, you do find yourself in a cab, the driver is invariably grouchy and rude. These men clearly need to get laid, which may be possible if they didn't refer to their unlucky significant others as "my old lady" and have permanent scowls on their miserable little faces. I promise...because of the rare treat of riding in a cab I am overly polite and kind to these people (without effect).

Walking, my preferred method, is possible. However, you frequently have to jump fences, scale cement walls, or cross interstates to do so. Walking in 110 degree heat isn't the most fun ever. Also, Texas is big. I mean, really really effing big. For that reason, you can walk miles and still only be to the next intersection.

The only mode of getting from A to B I have discovered is to fling yourself on to the cargo train that passes over Barton Springs occasionally and then fling yourself off the moving train nearer your destination. Hobo-ism is evidently the most reliable transportation.

These Old Shoes by Deer Tick

Nighttime, A Love Story

I stayed up too late last night and it hurts today. It's just that I love nighttime so much I don't want to miss even a little bit of it. My 9 to 5 bullies my true love like a jealous boyfriend. It is unnecessary.

Night has all the qualities I like best: cool, dark, rowdy, reliable. I could go on and on. And right now, i'm wanting it...bad.

Yellow Brick Road

I'm basking in the haze of hot sun and secondhand pot smoke at Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros the other day in Zilker Park. I'm stoked because Edward Sharpe had fast been becoming one of my favorite bands. I'm also a little drunk. I'm transfixed by the backdrop of the stage which includes a far off Emerald City and hills of yellow brick road. Because I'm a fruitcake, I start comparing my life to Dorothy's. This is easy when you:

a. Are alone at a gigantic music festival.
b. Have been sitting through almost 3 full days of mind blowing musical ecstasy, comparable in sensory bliss only to a lazy Sunday having sex on faux fur with Lenny Kravitz.
c. Need therapy.

I've met them all. The stupid, clumsy sweetie you just want to slap; the heartless one with such an impossible body shape getting close to them is an effort in futility and much lubrication is needed; and the cowardly lion (I've met many of them, in fact).

Which leads me to my Halloween costume...Lion Tamer. These brave circus performers are really just glamorous cat herders. While herding cats is something I'm not particularly fond of, the outfit is adorable and I like the metaphor of smacking around cowardly lions for the entertainment of crowds. Also, carrying a whip is rad.

After putting the finishing touches on my "bridesmaid dress turned sex-kitten circus freak," I think I'll have no trouble channeling Mabel Stark, the original fearless mistress of big cats, and seeking out some courageous kittens worthy of a good whip tickle. I declare this weekend opening night under my own little Austin Big Top. Like a what?!