Has anyone seen this new show on VH1 called "The Pick Up Artist?" I don't know what's sadder:

1) That this show exists.
2) That the group of contestants are being "coached" by the three biggest weirdos in the world (a facial piercing and a British accent does not a Rico Suave make)
or
3) That I actually have watched this show.




I do have a good excuse. As someone who doesn't watch a bunch of TV, I occasionally will flip through the channels on Sunday afternoons. I caught this on Sunday and kept watching as I realized it was filmed here in Austin in some of the bars we frequent. I can't be as hardcore of a bar hopper as I pride myself, though, because I never saw any cameras. I guess they were using hidden cameras in the bars, but don't they make everyone sign waivers to be on TV?
I digress. It looks like they trolled around Sixth Street (there's a few recognizable shots of Pure) and a little bit on Fourth Street (in the ghostlike remains of Foundation). The group of guys -- compromised of the typical geek, 40 year old virgin, overweight low-self-esteemer, Ricky-Martin impersonatr and a "well, he could be cute" dude -- are being taught how to pick up chicks by three even more bizarre stereotypes.

The cornerstone coach of the show, a man who goes by "Mystery," (surely his name is taken from "it's a mystery as to whom would want to be 'picked up' by him"), is flesh-crawlingly creepy. He wears strange goggles 90% of the time and talks in spurts like Edward Norton's character in Primal Fear. If this guy tried to pick me up, I would be thoroughly convinced that the night would end with a hack saw and trash bags.

Some parts of the show are humorous -- especially the fumbling opening lines the guys try to use. One makes the mistake of, when told by a girl that she moved to Austin from New Orleans, asking how her family did during Katrina. "Two people died," she responded. Chalk that up there with "Things you don't want to yell out at someone in a bar." I also like the way Mystery tries to give vocabulary lessons on the art of picking up girls. According to this, two girls standing together is called a "Two Set." Wow. Really? That's good. "Not as good as your 'By Mennen' but still very good."

In case you still haven't seen the video, you need to watch this first:

An old Chinese proverb says:
Play "Brick" for Mean Rachel and she'll yell at you drunkenly to play it again.
Let Mean Rachel decide to learn to play "Brick" and she'll break her fingers figuring out how.

*Note my recovered BoSox hat that I finally found thanks to an anonymous tip (thanks, RTBD). A certain Yankees fan who shall remain nameless tossed it into the bushes. Typical.

Found this over at Austinist:



I particularly like how at the Austinist they said:
"Public service is honorable and noble," said Gonzales. "I am profoundly grateful to President Bush for his friendship and the many opportunities he has given me to serve the American people." If serving the American people is doublespeak for taking a wicked shit on the Constitution, then, sure.

That someone at the Department of Justice has Google alerts set up for the words appearing together in blogs, because they decided to pay MeanRachel.com a visit.

Try it, it's fun.

Department of Justice...no hard feelings.

First Rove, then Snowbird, now Gonzo? Wow. I'm enjoying this almost enough to start watching the news again. I said almost. This is as political is it's going to get for now.

I'm not sure that Gonzo's replacement (Michael Chertoff) is going to be much better. The man who allowed New Orleans to go underwater might not be able to save Bush's sinking ship. It should be interesting to watch though. The Department of Justice levees broke long ago, so there's not much more damage left for Chertoff to do.

I suppose it's tragic that it has become so entertaining to watch things fall apart, piece by piece.

Here's how it feels for me: Like a train wreck you saw coming, you uselessly waived your arms to tell the train to slow down and shouted at others staring blankly at you, "Can't you see the train coming you fools?!" until you finally just got tired, picked up a forty of Olde English, said "Fuck it," and sat down on the side of the tracks to watch the carnage.

Cheers, Dubya. This round's on me.

Proving that Austin is full of cheapskates, and that those condos they are building will never sell, eighty-five thousand people showed up on Auditorium Shores yesterday. Of the eighty-five thousand, there were at least two missing children reported (although I'm not sure a seventeen year-old boy counts as a missing child, but that's more semantics I suppose), one tiny infant being dragged around like a cocktail sausage roasting in the sun, and several pseudo-celebrity sightings (a Sir Richard Branson look-a-like; Johnny Depp-esque guy) and two local celebrity sightings (Mayor Will Wynn and, let's be honest here, me).

We started off the afternoon at Freddie's. In attendance was M, C-Lo just back from Spain, a guy named Field who came somewhat out of left field and I still don't really know who he knew, E-Dub and her husband D-Dub who is here on his leave from The Iraq, and Loui-Frizzy. Frizzy had initially been the first person to RSVP for the evite and said he would be showing with +4 people. I thought he was just trying to help our numbers, but he managed to drum up about 6 more people who may or may not have been bums off the street. D-Wheezie was there with his brand new phone that he got on Monday, which later in the night would become his brand new phone that he dropped in the sewer and then somehow the City of Austin managed to recover it at 11:30 PM out of the man hole and he had it back by 12 AM that night. Only a high-flying employee of the TtotheLBL could pull those kinds of strings. There were some other people Frizzy drummed up, namely Scacco and Stina and some other people whose names started with S's. Oh and a guy named Doug who I think might be Kenny Luna's long lost brother.

Out of Left Field was apparently the unofficial official photographer of the night and took a ton of photos, which will no doubt ruin any future political career I might have had since they are all over Facebook. However I really should have a camera crew following me 24/7 anyway since awesomely hilarious things happen all of the time (like when M tossed the containers for our jello shots all over Taco Cabana). Photo credits for the scene below go to Field.


Being that we're in our twenties and entirely unprepared for events such as this since we don't have to carry diaper bags yet, we hadn't thought to bring a blanket to sit on, a bottle of water or a noose to hang ourselves with. So we sat in the grass ("chiggergrass," I might add) and did what Texans do best: Sweated.
The event seemed to start on time, although I didn't actually check my watch. Mayor Will Wynn was one of the celebrity judges, which was pretty funny since I had just been telling the Dub's about my Will Wynn pseudo-stalking. He actually missed his cue when they were announcing the judges and was no where to be found, but when they had technical difficulties later with the sound system (the event was riddled with production issues), they tracked him down and interviewed him. He was looking somewhat less-suave than normal in a tie-dyed Keep Austin Weird shirt. Mr. Mayor, there is never a good excuse for tie-dye. No, not even at a Flugtag.


Oh, so you might notice that there was a jumbotron. This brings me to my next point about the Flugtag: You couldn't actually see the point of impact of the machines hitting the water from our vantage point on The Shores of Hell. What looked like twenty thousand of the eighty thousand people packed themselves onto the First Street bridge (obviously they had forgotten the dangers of bridge stability) and also on the opposite side of the Lady Bird Lake. They probably had a better view but what's the point of having the event at The Shores of Hell if you can't even see what's happening? We did have a moderately good view of the flying machines' ascent across the ramp, when the old man with the giant green & blue umbrella wasn't Flugtag-blocking us.
After...oh I'd say the 3rd flying machine, I stopped caring about the event entirely. First of all, it was really freaking hot. I wore the thinnest shirt in my closet. In fact, I could tell that most of the people around me who were legitimate-looking Austinites had carefully planned their wardrobe to minimize discomfort. This meant a lot of half-naked people with bandanas wrapped around their heads, a lot of linen shirts, a lot of knit cotton dresses that resembled nightgowns, and a lot of flip flops. At some point I made the comment about I would have been better off sitting at home in the AC watching the Flugtag on my laptop and someone (I believe it was Scacco?) said "But if you were doing that you'd be a loser." Loser or no, it will be a long, long time before I go anywhere near The Shores of Hell during the summer any time before 9 PM again. Meeting up with people (my cousin Will, Gingy & her crew, the Mayor, etc.) had become pretty much impossible because no one's phones were working. I guess when you concentrate eighty thousand people in one grid, the service doesn't work. Or something like that. I got a hilarious text message from Gingy somehow, who was somewhere in the mass of Austinites, that simply said "This sucks." In my heatstroke stupor I managed to text back "I concur."


I think at a certain point we decided that it was time to go. I was told later (because I was paying very little attention) that we stayed for 15 out of the 30 flying machines. Interestingly enough, by the time we started walking over to Aussie's, both Gingy and Will texted me to tell me that they had already left the event and gone downtown to the bars.
At Aussie's, which by the way was DRASTICALLY UNDERSTAFFED, we watched something that resembled the scene from Top Gun and almost died of starvation and dehydration. It took forever for our drinks to come. The Dubs and myself went inside to do something about it and somehow my food appeared moments later, but no one else's did. So I started attempting to sell my french fries for $1.50 apiece. D-Wheezie broke the news about dropping his phone in a man hole but still managed to pull off the De Niro face.

Lots to recap from the Flugtag and such. Not enough time. I am off to Connor's birthday party.

Until then, enjoy the photos and use your imagination. Also, if someone could please let me know what happened to my BoSox hat, that'd be awesome.

Today we are going to the Red Bull Flugtag down on Auditorium Shores. The Flugtag last came to town in 2003 but I didn't go. This year M decided we should go and after some convincing via Facebook wall writing, I decided to back the idea. I usually try to avoid large crowds on Auditorium Shores (Barack Obama speeches notwithstanding), especially at 5 PM on a boiling August day. However, it's not too often you get to see people crash giant flying machines into Lady Bird Lake, so I am now somewhat looking forward to it.
We have gathered a small group via evite and are meeting at Freddie's first for linner and then walking down to the event in an effort to avoid the madhouse traffic.

---

In other news, I'm really sort of excited about the new "Town Lake Park," opening on Wednesday. Austin rarely drums up some sort of community project that seems different or novel to me, but this is one of them. They are saying it will be like the Central Park of Austin, since it is nestled alongside Town Lake and right next to the intersection of Barton Springs & Lamar.
Opening night is Wednesday at 8 PM. If I think I can brave another hot crowd of Austinites after today, I just might go.

---

And, for the record, DTP is awesome. He posted this comment on my myspace in response to my most recent piano video:

Okay. . That is a good start. But change your bass line to C - G - A - F then C - G - A - FG - A. . then into the verse. . At this rate, you'll take over mine and Kenny's job within 6 months! Good work and keep practicing.

I tried the new keys and they really do sound better! My takeover of the IC is underway.

In case you needed another reason to be outraged.

US Soldier to Return from Iraq Under 'Sole Survivor' Policy

From a lead I got this morning, in German:

Ich glaube Sie sprechen deutsch. Ich möchte gerne ein Mops-Baby in Aldergrove bei einer Züchterin kaufen.

According to Babelfish, it translates to:

I believe you speak German. I would like to buy gladly a babybaby baby in Aldergrove with a Zuechterin.

Right...

I was practicing some of my new chords last night and heard a sound that reminded me of the first part of this song. So I tinkered around with the notes until I managed to tap out the chorus. I used to call and sing this song to Shirikins when she first moved to California. We listened to it on her XM radio all the way out to Los Angeles when we drove out there in 2005. Some history behind the song.

When I was a kid, my dad would occasionally be goaded into talking about my grandfather, an alcoholic. Sometimes his stories were bitter and angry but others were melancholy and nearly fearful -- but not for fear of the past, but fear of some future abuse; perhaps a lingering nightmare or an encounter on a dark corner with a ghostlike figure of his childhood.

And so it was that I grew up as a child fearing alcohol -- I took my dad's fears and made them my own. Somewhere along the way between Big Chew and candy cigarettes, I decided that I would never smoke and never drink. It wasn't that I didn't want to or that I didn't think I could -- it was a fear of causing my dad, the funny, brilliant person that he was, pain.

My teenage years were miserable enough that I didn't need to cause trouble to remind myself that I was alive and well ("well" being a relative term in this case). If there was ever a time I could have turned to alcohol, it should have been then. I wonder now if I had stumbled through class in a drunken haze -- like so many other fourteen year olds -- if I would have been better off. After moving to my new school district when I was in middle school, I finally was invited to a sleepover when I was thirteen at a spacious house in an upper-class subdivision near my school. The two girls were somewhat higher on the social pecking order than me and I realized that while I may have nothing in common with them, I could at least climb my way out of the rut of misery I was in. At the sleepover, the girls disappeared at some point in the night, down into the dark first floor of the sprawling house. I managed to grope my way through the spiraling staircase and found myself squinting into the darkness of the foyer, hoping my eyes would adjust to the tiny slits of light coming in through the windows that flanked the front door. I called out their names: "Casey? Shelley?" Every girl in my school seemed to have a name that ended with "-ey" or "-ie" or -- the most repulsive of all -- "-ee." And there I was, just an "-el" searching for the ever elusive "-ey's." As I walked tentatively forward, I suddenly found myself stumbling down -- and then falling. I landed hard at the bottom of the two marble steps that led into the recessed living area. Pain started to well up inside of me, but was stymied by a sudden noise -- a giggle. Then another one. The "-ey's" were laughing and their hiding spot revealed -- they were cross-legged in the bar not ten feet away from my fall (everyone seemed to have a bar in their house), each girl gripping a bottle. I knew why they had not told me where they were, for the same reason that I knew why I had told them earlier in the night that I never intended to drink: I was not like them. My pain turned into crushing embarrassment and shame, and I launched myself back up the marble steps, up the winding staircase and landed -- dizzy -- in a spare bedroom I found at the end of the hall. I curled up on crisp, scratchy sheets which felt like they'd never been washed, and hoped they didn't hear me crying. The next morning my mom came to get me and I waved goodbye to the "-ey's," but was unable to meet their eyes. I never talked to them again. All I wanted in school was to be completely unaware of my miserable existence. It's almost tragic that I failed to find the most accessible anesthetic.

I suppose that is what led me to seeking out my diversion that became my hobby which became my career. I threw myself into the world of horses. From the time I was sixteen until just a few months before I turned twenty one, I lived in an isolated world of my own ambitious notions. I lived alone and worked more or less alone. Some weeks I would spend shivering in an obscure suburb of Houston or Dallas, constantly on the move, constantly distracted by a horse or a client or a class or a ribbon or an ache or a flat tire. Had you asked me then, as long as you asked me at the end of the day when I was taking off my boots and collapsing in a dank hotel room, I would have told you I was happy. I enjoyed the bubble of control I lived in. I was safe from "-ey's" in it. There were plenty of the girls still around me -- I saw their faces in the girls on their ponies and in the mothers of the children -- but I was now able to control them. I was by no means miserable.

People complain about working extra hours or the odd Saturday or having to get up at 5 AM and not having a break until 5 PM for lunch. And maybe that is how they live their life for a day or a week or even a few months. I lived like that for four years. I dove in and never looked up. I never stopped to wonder if maybe others didn't live how I did. And for the most part, I never wondered why things weren't different. At every point, no matter how low, I felt as though I was where I needed to be.

Things changed when I turned twenty one. Maybe because of the designation, but mostly because I finally stopped isolating myself. I stopped caring about the ill-fated sleepover so many years before. I suddenly realized what I had missed for over five years of my life -- I had missed that point in the sleepover where I was supposed to say "Screw it!" and stop worrying about what my parents would say or do.

Which brings me back to why I didn't. I was a child then. Even when I was living by myself, waking up every morning and shuffling around in an empty room alone, cooking with only a microwave, I was still such a child. And I remembered those marble stairs and that hard fall I took and I didn't want to make another mistake. I was choosing my steps in the dark wisely and I was meticulous. There was little room for error.

My life has evolved since then. At some point I saw that my mistakes do not end the world around me. I fall down stairs and I run and I cry but I am still alive. I stopped treating my life as if it was a dewy spiderweb stretched precariously from leaf to leaf on a windy day. I've dug myself in to whatever comfortable spot this is. I like it here. I'm not going to blow away. My decisions have been ones filled with errors and clarity. Nothing will ever change that.

I remember the first time I had a drink. Like the first few drinks anyone has, it seemed innocuous. My sister ordered it for me at an open bar at her graduation from college. "Give her the sweetest thing you can find." I gulped it down and watched the room spin. I loved it. For the first six months or so when I started drinking, I would have one or two drinks and then stare at the walls as they spun uncontrollably around me. I would be drunk off just knowing that there was nothing I could do about it -- there was no way to create this on my own. For a few minutes, there in my dizzy inebriation, I didn't have to worry about what I needed to do or what I should do or what I could do. This is a tonic of its own when you spend half of your life consumed with trying to maintain an appearance.

My dad's stories when I was a child taught me to fear his father's mistakes. But that doesn't mean I have to fear mine. I'm allowed to make them, but they will not make me.

So, stick around. I might tell you about it along the way. But, if you do -- please -- let me make my mistakes.

I can't believe I forgot to mention this. I had piano lesson number three yesterday which normally wouldn't be very interesting to read about to anyone other than myself, Chubby Charles, Cash$ and the person who googles "tickle the ivory" all the time and finds my blog.

However, one thing of note did happen (get it?? note? eh?) yesterday. We finally got to page 12 in my lesson book where we were supposed to learn Jingle Bells. I can't remember if I mentioned that I completely skipped ahead in my book two weeks ago because I got sick of playing Ode to Joy. So she pointed at the book and said "Let's play this." I got no further than the first measure of Jingle Bells and she said "Do you already know how to play this?"

I briefly entertained the idea of telling her that it was the first time I'd ever tried, but then I realized that she'd probably know I was lying so I fessed up. So she said "That's good, I'm glad you're practicing, show me what you learned." So off I went on my one horse open sleigh. At the end of it she said "You know I have several students with this book and most people take at least two lessons to learn this song. That was very good."

She put a big check mark across the page and we flipped ahead to C Major chords.

And that is the story of how I am C Majorly awesome.

No, I haven't checked myself into rehab a la Winehouse or given up my American citizenship and moved to Canada.
But there are rumors. Like the rumor that when I heard Tony Snow was leaving his post as Most Blatant Liar in the USA because the earning potential was higher if he lied blatantly on cable networks instead, I decided that my dream had finally come true and I could resign.

Since my news/politics hiatus, I fell off the first page of Google searches for "Tony Snow is an idiot." But I feel happy to have been recognized and even happier that the greedy bastard is on his way out.

I promise, more blogging is coming in the near future. I have to find someone else to rant about.

Funniest video I've seen in a while.

Two mornings ago, I purchased a 4-pack of Red Bull from the gas station in an effort to combat my poor choices with massive amounts of caffeine and some mysterious ingredient called taurine, which I like to refer to as "cancer in a can."

I chugged two of them before 2 PM. At around 2:30, MK asked me if he could have a Red Bull. Normally I'm quite giving but I was hoping that my $8 investment in a 4-pack of Red Bull would last me well into Thursday. So I said "Sure, if you give me $2." Individually at the gas station the Red Bulls cost about $3. So I was giving him a discount -- what I like to refer to as the "friends and people I might accidentally call when I'm drunk to give me a ride home discount."

MK tossed two dollar bills at me and took my second to last Red Bull. All was fine.

Until the next day when my other coworker MJ heard me saying something about how I would give MK the $2 back if he would go buy me another Red Bull at the gas station. MJ suddenly turned around and said "You charged him for the Red Bull?"

That's why they call me Mean Rachel.

Is this acceptable office behavior or not? Please discuss.

...after Shah the cab driver calls you, you attempt to call him the following night when you're stranded on 6th Street with your mute friend and he doesn't answer. You start to wonder that perhaps he gave you a new number to throw you off his scent so that you don't bother him anymore. You start to feel paranoid as if maybe even Shah recognizes your desperate drunken ways.

But then, just in time for the weekend, you get a text message:

Hi i am shah. yes this is my number. actually my phone was lost. I just find my phone. So now I am 24/7 for you. ok by.

I like the way this guy thinks. "I am 24/7 for you." That is the best sentence I've read all week.
The text message also has a certain post-card air about it - "This city's got big buildings. I like food. Ok bye."

1. I needed a metronome today to practice at Mean Rachel's Ivory Kitten. Yes, I've moved on to metronomes. I thought "Where am I going to get a metronome without leaving the comfort of my home?" The answer to that is the World Wide Web. MetronomeOnline is free, simple and the alcoholic's answer to not leaving the house when drunk to go shopping for musical tools.

2. I wanted to know what episode of SATC was the one where Carrie gets down a winter blanket at the start of fall and puts it on her bed. "Carrie winter blanket fall" and BAM! Google tells me. Hello, Season 4 Episode 18. Nice to see you again. Have some champagne.

3. Edamame is fabulous. We ate a whole bag tonight while watching SATC. This actually has nothing to do with why I love the internet, I just felt like it needed to be said. But if I was interested in learning more about edamame, I'm sure I could find some information about it here.

This entry was sponsored by two bottles of Andre and one full bottle of nail polish remover that I dropped all over the floor this evening.

Love him or hate him, he definitely is making the rounds. He's appearing in Esquire and reading trivia questions at Mother Egan's twice in one month. Mayor Will Wynn is the hottest thing to hit Austin since the Ice Cream Festival.

Last night when we spied him at trivia night, I accepted the dare of asking him for his autograph. After some hemming and hawing and one large gulp of Hefeweizen, I went for it, clutching my credit card receipt. I even pre-tested the pen to make sure it would write smoothly when he put down his John Hancock.

He jokingly said "Absolutely not" when I asked him for his autograph, hopefully not remembering me from the time I took a picture with him at the Broken Spoke or on the night of the election results. Although some say there is truth in every joke. He then said "I'm not going to sign your bar tab!" when I handed him the receipt. He got out a business card and signed that instead. I think he was a little put off by it. But whatever. This will be worth money someday guys! And by "money" I mean "I will probably lose it falling down in a bar at some point in my life."

Last night didn't turn out to be the solitary, champagne-soaked wind-down I was expecting. Gingy called and came over to celebrate her newfound life. Personally I think she only came over because she knew I had several bottles of champagne and the last season of SATC. But hey, when you're a hermit like myself, you take whatever scraps of friendship that come your way.
Which is what landed me at the Tavern on Town Lady Bird Lake at 10 PM last night at the Holiday Inn on Riverside and I-35. No Chingy jokes, please. While I was indeed chillin at the Holidae Inn there was no sippin on Hen or anything of the sort. Loui announced we were going to visit a friend of his named D-Wheezie, who is a bartender/aspiring vending machine operator at the T-to-the-LBL (that's street for the Tavern on Lady Bird Lake). We were a long way from Viperland.
Just as I was lucky to be an alcoholic perched in front of a small wall of booze, D-Wheezie was lucky to be an aspiring entrepreneur bartending for five candy machine vendors who were in town for some sort of candy machine convention. He told Loui & myself that he had a hot deal in the works to buy two "state of the art" candy machines off of one of the drunk candy machine salesmen/registered sex offenders sitting at the bar. Evidently they go hand in hand. Which made me think of that Mr. Herbert clip from Family guy where he wants to buy an ice cream truck.
D-Wheezie didn't actually have a plan as to where he was going to put the state of the art candy machines but as any good entrepreneur knows, you buy your capitol first and worry about business planning later. Wait...
Since I know a thing or two about the vending machine business (after my lucrative career operating the soda & candy machines at the stables where I'd charge the kids $2 for a Milky Way), I offered to do a pre-purchase exam on the candy machines D-Wheezie wanted to buy. He took me into a conference room where a lone candy machine stood surrounded by M&M paraphernalia. It looked like any candy machine you'd see in a store. "That's state of the art?"

After a while I started to get the stranger-danger vibe from the patrons at the bar, so we took our leave of the Holiday Inn and headed over to Katz's. Since I live the life of a wage slave, I'd already eaten my dinner but I decided to pretend to not watch Loui eat his giant ham & cheese BLT (two sandwiches, by the way, which are mutually exclusive). My three and a half glasses of champagne wore off long enough for me to rant about my fabulous idea of an Anti-ACL Fest Party. I think I could drum up at least four people to attend. My idea is to play *NSync all weekend long and sit in the air conditioning drinking out of glass bottles in protest of the indie rock crew sweating and covered in dirt, drinking overpriced Coors Light, watching some crappy band they could easily see at Emo's on any given Thursday night.

At one point, Loui pointed out a photograph of the pre-9/11 New York Skritty skyline on the wall behind me. He made some comment about the Twin Towers being up like, "Didn't they hear that they fell?" I had a giant mirror in front of me so I was able to look at the mirror and see what he was pointing at. For some reason, what really stood out to me was the picture to the right of the Twin Towers. Irony at its most extreme. Loui took this picture with his phone iPhone.


I guess because I'm a horrible person and I'm going to hell, I found it somewhat comical. I mean, okay -- had this been anywhere else it would have been like, "Wow, that's unfortunate planning." But this was Katz's. As in, Katz's New York Style Deli. First of all they should have gone through that place with a fine-toothed comb post-9/11 and pulled everything showing the old skyline out. Not only did they fail to do so, they then managed to put a picture of a 737 banking toward the city. To make matters worse, the photos are all for sale. Perhaps one should not be selling photos of giant airplanes flying over NYC to epitomize the New York City vibe. Stick with subways and the Brooklyn Bridge.

What made it even worse was that Loui decided he wanted to point it out to everyone from West 6th Street to the Upper West Side. He got the attention of ten very New York-ish looking men next to us and when they saw what he was pointing at they all frowned and looked unhappy. The waiter (a German boy named Hans - I wish I could make this stuff up) said that no one had ever pointed it out to him before and that he'd tell the manager. I wanted to have him leave the photos up so that we could go back in a week or two wearing Yankee hats and leather jackets and I could film Loui making a huge scene. Then we could submit it to Break.com and Cashmoney could finally have her Break.com video which she has been dying to get.

Probably the very worst part came as we were leaving, where Loui pulled aside the hostess who was not much older than eighteen. So that would make her, what, 12 when this happened? Theoretically not a fetus and alive and aware of the world around her? He pointed to the wall and she stared at it momentarily, chewing on her index finger looking confused. "What?" Loui looked at her and held up one hand vertically and flew his other hand into it and said "BOOM?" The lightbulb suddenly went off and the girl kind of muttered, "Oh. Wow."

"Shocking. Shocking that she even got it."

Song number 1 (in fact, the only song) on the set list at Mean Rachel's Ivory Kitten: Jingle Bells.

Please just bear with me while I fly my freak flag.



Now it's on to Monday Night Football, champers and soybeans.

Top Socialite posted the Top 10 Scenes from The Office.

Give yourself a ten minute break when Google reminds you that you've forgotten how to spell the word "quarrel."

Did you mean quarrel?

Yes, damnit, I did. It's Monday for chrissake.

It's probably a good thing that the weekends are only 2 days long and they come at 5-day intervals. I'm not sure my immune system could handle it.

I made a speedy recovery yesterday (aided in part by a marathon of The Hills that was showing on MTV, which is like taking a dose of Xanex when you watch it) and geared up for Night #2 of the weekend. Cashmoney drove down (just in the nick of time) and we drove out to Louie's casa. We rolled up and the title conversation went down between Cashmoney and myself -- this is key later on in the story.

Off we headed with Louie and his friend Erik out to Lake Travis. We were running late but luckily the Tom Tom (which is what the Garmin is now called) told us we'd be about 2 minutes early. We drove out 360 and across to 2222, a hilly road that runs east-west through Austin. I was reminded of the story my mom and dad used to tell me about how when they were in college they had a car that they had to start driving fast down one hill just to make it up the second hill. The generation gap never seemed so distant as I found myself surrounded by speed and functionality - iPod's, GPS navigation systems, a blasting air conditioner. Whether you can chalk that one up in "The world is getting better" column is anyone's guess.

From 2222, we went down 620 where I gave Cash my version of Mean Rachel's Guided Tour of Austin: "There's where I used to babysit a kid. There's this place where we dropped off a guinea pig from Japan once. There's where the Dellionaire I knew used to live. There's the dam. Oh - are you afraid of dams? Because we're about to go over one."

Apparently, despite its functionality, the Tom Tom does not factor in Saab's towing ski boats driving 20 MPH down winding lakeside roads. "I didn't know you could tow a boat with a Saab," I said to Cash. "I didn't either," she replied, nonplussed. "I guess they have a lot of torque." This got us into a discussion of words in english that end in "que," of which there are not many.

Despite our delayed status, the Tom Tom blinked 18.30 when we arrived at the Just for Fun rentals dock. After a small bit of confusion regarding where we needed to be, off we went onto the party boat. I immediately told Cash that some rules must be put into place:

1) Do not let me get in the water. In my opinion, on the lake in open water at night, you can drink or you can swim. Or you can do both and you can drown. However, I chose drinking because the key to being a functioning alcoholic is not dying. Talk about a buzz kill.
2) Do not let me go down the slide/jump off the boat/move around the boat at a pace faster than crawling on my hand and knees. That thing was an MRI waiting to happen.
3) Remind me every time I go up and down the stairs from the top deck to the bottom deck that it will cost me $3000 if I fall down the stairs. My ever expensive back does not need anymore investments.

With my own little set of rules in mind, we sat on the top part and enjoyed the evening. At some point I busted out my BoSox hat, which Erik attempted to steal from me but I had my hind eye on it all night and it came home with me.


We spent some time at Firehouse, where I think I had my final drink for the night. Considering it was about 12:30 AM, I think that shows incredible self-control. Everyone's favorite hat was out on the town, so we took some time to revisit.

Disturbingly prophetic. From a somewhat reasonable statement to a criminal.
This sobered me up from my self-medication via alcohol long enough to get pissed off about the current state of the world.

Last night was...interesting. And by "interesting" I mean "I remember it all." You can be the judge whether that makes for a good night or not.
I guess I should start by saying that Nichole had the awesome idea of sending Mrhe here for DD's birthday weekend as a surprise. Pretty genius.
M and I decided to rein it in a bit for the night because M had to get up early today to go to her camp reunion and I wanted to be able to recover in time for tonight's festivities. So our answer to reining it in was that we got downtown a whole hour later than usual (9 PM instead of 8 PM). It was actually dark!
M & I first went to Grownupland (which I think Mrhe called at some point last night "Adult Town" which I think sounds more like a store on the side of the highway with a big sign that says "XXX" outside of it). We went to see everyone's favorite bartender (and disputed best bartender of Austin) Duck. Lots of grapefruit vodka was consumed. M told the girl next to her to order a Mean Rachel, which she did, and she actually enjoyed it so much that she ordered it again. I also came up with a great way of telling people in loud bars about my blog: "You know, Mean Rachel, like a mean drunk?" Works quite well.


Duck proceeded to make us several very strong drinks which basically ruined all hopes we had in reining ourselves in and resulted in me knocking over a glass of champagne while I was gesturing dramatically about the demise of democracy in the United States. Fortunately no harm, no foul, the flute was replaced by a heavy-bottomed glass, and we carried on. Confession: this is the second weekend in a row where I have knocked over a glass. Perhaps I should write that into the Roommate Covenant. Yes, we had to create a list of rules now that we are both concurrently single to create some decorum within the household. We posted it to the fridge and are now up to 6 rules ranging from "Don't leave your roommate downtown" (cough-M-cough) to "Take off your heels before walking up the stairs" (this has cut down on people knocking on our door and yelling at us at 3:30 AM).
We decided that if we had any more to drink at 219 we might pass out on the bar stools, so it was time for us to go. M wanted to go to Vicci (why, I have no idea as it basically sucks). Then DD and Mrhe showed up, which I'm not really too sure on the specifics of how that occurred as I was told they were going to do some sort of guy's night. We made a quick run through Vicci and then left out through the alley door and ended up going through the alley door into Lucky. Some crappy band was playing, too loudly, and I told Mrhe "You know we're the live music capital of the world, right?" I actually was trying to be funny because I figured he did actually know and I was referring to the fact that crappy bands play all over Austin in small spaces where they shouldn't be. But he actually didn't know about Austin's moniker and said "Really?" So the joke was lost on a Beantowner. We did pose for some fotos.

Your phone rings at 8:05 PM on a Friday night from an unknown number and it's Shah the cab driver calling to tell you that he got a new phone number and he just wants you to know for later in the night.

Thanks, Shah. You got my back.

I now know what a $25 gift card can get you at Target: Seven bottles of Andre and a Lean Cuisine (even alcoholics have to eat).

And yes, I took this through the Express line.

Party at my house. Bring your champagne flute and a slip 'n slide.

A few weekends ago I went to watch my coworker play at the Funk Fest. I dragged my dad with me because it seemed like the perfect place to take an old reformed hippie - La Zona Rosa, midday, free gumbo, nondescript bands playing music without words. You get the idea.
While my dad and I were there, we went around to the sponsors of the event and entered every drawing we possibly could. I had my fingers crossed for the $100 Costco gift card. Not because I give a shit about Costco (in fact I loathe to shop in anything that resembles a small train station) but because I hear that they sell liquor at Costco and $100 makes a lot of Mean Rachels. And $100 makes this Mean Rachel very drunk.
About a week ago I got a call saying that I had won the $25 gift card to Target. This isn't exactly the "You won the lottery!"-type phone call but I was still relatively thrilled (it helped that they called at like 10 AM on a Tuesday when a call from the dentist is more exciting than the mundaneness of a Tuesday). Also, they do sell champagne at Target and ever since The Great Existential Crisis of 2007 when I discovered the beauty of Andre, I have been buying hella cheap Andre champagne whenever possible. So eight bottles of champagne was an exciting proposition that Tuesday morning.

The company that held the drawing is a branch of Farmer's Insurance. I need another insurance company like I need another hole in my head. I hate hate hate insurance companies. Hate.

So it was only appropriate that I found myself driving out to BFE (Spicewood Springs & 360) at 5:45 PM today. I was irritated to begin with because I miscalculated how long it was going to take me during rush hour. I also found myself infuriated with the people who were out on their boats at 5:45 PM on a Wednesday while I was sitting on the 360 bridge. But these are the things us alcoholics do for booze.

I finally rolled up to the insurance agent's office and this is where it gets good. The man who owned the office was named...Stormy Johnson.

I couldn't make this name up if I tried.

So I walked in and sat down as directed by the secretary. I glanced around the little waiting area and noticed a collection of "Young Women in Faith" books. They are these little books written about girls that are aimed at brainwashing the youth of America into young Republicans.
But my flesh really started to crawl when I looked to my left and saw, sitting on the coffee table next to a silk plant, an 8-by-10 inch framed photo that looked like this:

At first I did a double take. "Is that an autographed photo of Owen Wilson on display? Blue Steel himself?"

No. That's Stormy Johnson (about five years, five pounds, five kids and five boxes of home highlighting kits ago).

Stormy then came out to greet me and I said "You must be Stormy" and had to keep from saying "Or you just happen to look like that guy in the framed photo over there."

He brought me into his office where he then started pontificating on the reason for the drawing. "Do you have kids?" He asked. Am I seriously at an age where that's an acceptable question? No wonder all of these 30something bloggers abhor people with kids so much - who the hell wants to be asked that question for ten years?

They are promoting some sort of software/service (aka ripoff) where they can take pictures of my unborn kid and take their fingerprints, then upload everything onto my computer so if my unborn kid gets abducted by my estranged husband -- we'll call him "Cloudy" -- I can create milk carton profiles more quickly. The program also can archive your photos and various personal documents in case of a fire. After listening patiently, I asked, "So it turns them into a .PDF file, basically?" Stormy nodded. "And puts them on my computer?" Stormy nodded again.

Excuse me but has someone been breathing in too much ammonia from their Nice 'n Easy? Why do I need a software to scan a picture for me and turn it into a .PDF? "It files the documents into folders on your computer," Stormy explained. So...like...what I already do?

I have heard of salesmen who can sell you the shirt off your back, but apparently Stormy was attempting to sell me the job I had just driven like a bat out of hell away from.

An hour later, I was headed home, my $25 gift card in hand. Tomorrow on my way home from work I plan on going into the Target and purchasing as many bottles of champagne as possible with $25 and toast to Stormy himself.

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My newly single mom (the Farris women are trendy like that) has started blogging about the house she bought and the renovations she's making. She's an amazing gardener and artist, so her blog - Aurora Primavera - should be pretty good reading.

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Stephen Colbert, when recapping YearlyKos (the convention of all blogging conventions, basically), had a hilarious clip that if you missed it, you need to watch it now. His definition of a blogger? “Someone who has a laptop, an axe to grind and their virginity." Genius.

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And to all you people who gave me crap about posting 4 entries last night -- here. I consolidated.

My first piano lesson went pretty well today. I kept having these flashbacks to when I taught riding lessons and would absolutely dread the first lesson because all you did was talk at the person the whole time. I also wondered the entire time if my teacher (we'll call her The Grand Staff) was the kind of person who liked to teach adults or children more. She had a bunch of crayons sitting on top of her piano, which made me think maybe it was the latter. Or maybe just more kids take piano lessons than adults and I'm just insane.

She showed me how to hold my hands and explained where the "D" key was on the keyboard (between the two black keys like ears on a dog - D for dog -- maybe she does prefer kids). From there it was pretty easy. I learned part of a song song called Aura Lee that sounds like a really terrible song to me but I am practicing it anyway. Definitely will not be a hit at the Ivory Kitten.

I told The Grand Staff about the Ivory Kitten -- well, sort of. I told her I enjoyed listening to piano music and that one of my friends knew how to play so we had been playing duets just for the fun of it. I also told her that my neighbors kept yelling at me but I left out the part that they were yelling at us because we were playing duets at 3 AM. Selective storytelling is a beautiful thing, until someone calls you out on it (which she didn't).

So I'm signed up through the month of August. She told me that they have a recital in January that I could go to which made me laugh to think about -- me with a bunch of eight year olds playing Ode to Joy. I would be tempted to bring notepads and golf pencils and go around handing them out to all of the parents saying "Please write your requests and hand them over with a $1 bill."

And now - with the four requisite entries for the evening done - I am going to sleep, dreaming of vodka and the mural on the wall of the Ivory Cat.

Over the weekend, during my drunken shenanigans, I was propositioned by Cashmoney (never before did her name seem so appropriate in a sentence) to become a Broncos fan. As in, the Denver Broncos. Cash$ grew up in Denver and despite being displaced in K-Town, she still follows her home team closely during regular season.

Coming from Texas, where you either root for the Longhorns like the rest of America or you pretend like you were alive during the glory days of the Cowboys, it's not like I've ever really had a team I cared about. When I was a kid I would go to the Rangers games from time to time with my dad. I was even at the July 28, 1994 perfect game pitched by Kenny Rogers Jr., which I remember realizing was a huge deal, despite the fact that I was nine years old. I remember these hillbillies sitting in front of us yelling "Thraw 'eem de heeter! Thraw 'eem de heeter!" Every once in a while, my sister would pull her nose out of the Baby-Sitter's Club Super Special #7: Snowbound!, look around and say "What's going on?" and then go back to reading. But the Rangers are as washed out as John Cornyn's pallid forehead, so I don't watch them play anymore. So until Austin gets its own MLB team, I'm just going to have to settle for football.

Since Cash$'s husband is displaced in Iraq, and she is stuck here, I thought that I would do my patriotic duty and become her surrogate Broncos fan. Granted, there is an ulterior motive, which is that we plan on going to local sports bars and getting into heated arguments with men while they buy us drinks. Obviously, a person like myself needs a way to earn a drink here and there, so what could be better than going straight to the source where we will stand out like Perez Hilton dressed as a starting lineman.

Staying true to addict form, I'm going whole hog into this. I have already picked out the hat I plan on buying to wear to the aforementioned sports bars. It looks sort of faded, as if it says "I've been a Broncos fan for years," which will fit in nicely with my "I've been a Broncos fan for years" lies I will be peddling all over Austin. I've also subscribed to a training camp blog on Google Reader called Mason's Morsels. This will keep me up to date on all of the injuries, drills and hot guys to watch for when they do the post-game locker room interviews. I have no idea who the Mason guy is, nor do I really care, as long as he continues to post two entries a day about morning and afternoon practice. That way, when I'm yelling at the TV a few weeks from now I can say "Back in training camp, you were nothing!! Nothing!! We want Biff! Or at least that hot guy who wears number 88!"

If nothing else, this will expand my Google search power. And to the beer-bellied 40 year old who just googled "training camp Broncos" and stumbled across my blog -- I'll see you at the sports bars. I'm going to be thirsty.

Question: If Harry was a celebrity, which celebrity do you think he would be?



Ricky Martin, Jackie Chan, Nathan Lane or Chuck Norris?

Please discuss in the comments section if necessary. Feel free to contribute alternative celebrity look-alikes.

Apparently God himself decided to stage an intervention on my twelve-step bridge to alcoholism, as He delivered me from evil and straight into a sore throat and a cough overnight. If I was a better artist, I would draw a picture of "The Creation of Adam" but instead of index fingers touching, it would be God tearing the bottle of Malibu away from me while I lounged around naked eating edamame.
So I'm temporarily incapacitated which is to say I am going to attempt a pseudo-detox at least for the next 24 to 48 hours. When I told my cousin I was detoxing last night she thought I meant I was drinking lemon water for twelve hours or something -- I had to explain the Mean Rachel detox of copious amounts of soy beans and drinking glasses grapefruit juice with a straw while pretending they were Mean Rachels. Maybe by Thursday I can pick back up on step 8.

I have more in the queue to write about later this evening -- for now I have to figure out what is in this damp bag of clothes on my floor left over from Saturday night. Topics for later tonight include, but are not limited to:

• Becoming a Broncos Fan for Research Purposes
• H.O.T.D.
• The First Ever Piano Lesson (Funniest Moment: When my teacher pointed at the "grand staff" - that's sheet music for you cholos - and said "I don't know if you've ever seen this before." No, no I haven't, except for on this fabulous hoodie I once wore...)

Sometimes my job causes me to come across hizz-larious items on the interweb.

This happened to be one of them.

Continuing in our twelve step program, we find step seven - a rather large, intimidating step:

7. Tell yourself you are going to detox for the week, then find yourself heading downtown at 8 PM to have drinks at bars that all look vaguely alike with your cousins, Representative - Tribute Act and a dude named Bonaroo. Drink several Mean Rachels (part of step seven is to name a drink after yourself because why the hell shouldn't there be one?).

Directions:
Mean Rachel
2 oz. vodka (preferably Absolut Ruby but there's no need to be picky, it will all have the same affect)
1 oz. grapefruit juice
splash of soda (this is the mean part)

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I have my first piano lesson tomorrow. That's right. Be afraid. I'm tempted to rock the musical hoodie but I don't want my teacher to think I'm insane quite yet. Then I am going to Trivia Night at Mother Eagan's where I will spend the entire night googling random facts surreptitiously on my phone, followed by perhaps more Mean Rachels at Lucky.

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I blame George W. Bush for all of this.

Your boss will thank you later.



*Filming credits actually go to RTBD, since I handed him the camera and said "Film this while I rock out."

(Hence the part where it's sideways--luckily I spied this and fixed it.)

2. Go to the Ivory Cat and have a fabulous time. Enjoy favorites such as "Such a Long Time" and "The Dave & Joe Show is Amazing."

3. Stay out until 8 AM.


4. Somehow end up at Louie's house and go swimming with M. Wear a shirt that says AMSTERDAM on it and keep telling everyone that the airport code is "AMS." Temporarily forego the hoodie.

6. Laugh.

Drink. Often.

Preferably on weeknights.

Bonus points if you are out with Gingy, who is the antidote to any woe.

Daily double if you get free sugarcane.

I'm sitting here watching the coverage of the I-35 West bridge collapse in Minneapolis and feeling somewhat stunned by the coincidence of a collapsing overpass, on the freeway that goes directly from Minneapolis to Austin, in a city where I was exactly a year ago.

I can hear the CNN anchor saying, "It's almost unbelievable that something could be so structurally unsound," and my stomach turns. My thoughts go to those who were injured and killed today but the selfish side of me is consumed with an eerie sorrow. I remember looking at that very bridge, standing over the Mississippi on another bridge only a quarter of a mile further north, smiling down at the murky waters below. I remember the uncanny fact that I-35 is as essential to Austin as it is to Minneapolis. It was another "thing," like ping pong balls and penguins, ivy plants and arrowheads.

"Everyone is stunned." I thought concrete and steel was strong, I thought it was safe. And I accustomed myself to the long drive, the daily commute of worn-in jokes and comfortable silences. I drove to places I'd never been, but I was unafraid because he was a road that was sound. I thought I had found a bridge I could cross.

"The wreckage." That's what it is. A wreckage, at the height of rush hour. A frightening, earth-quaking crumbling of hard, painful realities. Life can change, just like that, in a tiny moment. A quiet recollection of a past conversation or a evening detour through town.

I didn't know a year ago when I saw that bridge, when I stood there on a cloudless day and stared into the blue, that there would be a collapse. I saw no flashes of a future of pain and ruin. I saw no tragedy. I only saw a sunny day, a cool breeze and a beautiful bridge that we crossed together.

Wolf Blitzer fades onto TV now, explaining there will be no war coverage tonight. Tonight, we will hear about the bridge. "For some unexplained reason, it just went down, causing all of this destruction and devastation." You can't explain what doesn't afford explaining. There is no understanding the structural soundness of a ruined bridge, between two people or across a river.

"No one could ever think that a bridge of this magnitude would suddenly collapse." There are no answers. There aren't even any more questions. All that is left at the end is the human ability to recover and rebuild.