Stumpy

Twelve seconds ago, just as it occurred to me that tales of Stumpy, my dog, might make for some haha reading, I turned to see his wee little doggie tail following his wee little doggie butt right into the bathroom, a place he really has no business going. This was a) hilarious to me, knowing beyond doubt that he had nothing but waggish intentions going in there, b) also hilarious in his attempt to be sly about it, and c) fortuitously coincidental in that it galvanized my belief that if nothing else, I'll get a good laugh writing about him. Dogs trying to be covert are simply hilarious.

Stumpy, Stump, Stumps, Stumpasaurous Rex, El Stumperino if you're not into the whole brevity thing.

The Noble Creature

Holmes likes to give kisses. Right after he plays with dead stuff.

We just got back from Auditorium Shores, and I'll tell you what; homeboy ran that ish. I'm pretty sure he's the only dog in town who now has an odorous memory of every single dog that was down there, a history of each of those dog's dealings with other dogs throughout the day, and a detailed cross reference of how each dog there was connected to the others and, in fact, all the dogs in the ATX. He's nothing short of a supercomputer on four legs, a cosmic conduit of highly intelligent energy, a beacon, nay, an oracle of healing holy power.

"I, Stumpy, have found the lost city of Atlantis. Or an empty bottle."

But sometimes he's just a downright dum-dum of a dog.

Mmm, couch flavor.

This is one of the cushions on my couch. You're looking at the underside, because after Stumpy did this, I flipped it and swapped it with the other side's. Then Stumpy did this same thing to the other cushion. Because, hey, why not? Granted, he was pissed because he had been left alone for four days (don't worry, someone was feeding him), but the second cushion, after I had been home for almost a week, well... that was just mean. I mean, this little punk took to my couch like he was trying to stuff a hypothermic Luke Skywalker into it.

I... I thought they smelled bad on the outside...

Anyway, it usually just takes one look like the one above to make us forgive him for any number of puppy indulgences he might take (chewing up the Hopi rug, chewing up the chairs on The Porch, chewing up everyone's sandals...). I think we're gonna go ahead and keep him. It has been over a year now, so I think we made that decision a while ago. In fact, I think we made that decision the moment my lovely wife saw his wee infant baby puppy photo on the Austin Pets Alive website.

Well, that's all I gots tonight. Now go git yoself a puppy.

Robert Johnson, "Star Wars" of the Blues

So, the other night I'm on The Porch with my good buddies Nick and Shaun, and of course, we're talking about music.

Shocking, I know.

Nick: "Get your arm off me, you sleaze."
Shaun: "Hahahaha! Oh, you!"
Nick: "No, seriously, I'm going to go berserk any second now."

So it doesn't take us long to get talking about the Blues and naming our fave artists. Mine come down to Muddy Waters (Mr. Number One in my book)...

From His Viagra Period

John Lee Hooker...

Please, Mr. Hooker, Don't Come Back For My Soul. I Always Been A Friend To You.

And Lightnin' Hopkins...

Dear Baby God, Please Make Cigarettes Safe Again. I Wanna Be This Bad.

Now, before you get all crazy and up in arms about who should or should not be on this list, take a breather. My list of Bluesmen and women whom I adore is quite extensive. But for the sake of brevity, I have pared it down to just a few essentials who are near and dear to me. But this leads us to the topic at hand. After I had announced these three as a Holy Trinity of sorts, Nick (quite tactfully, mind you) pointed out that I had left out the King of the Delta Blues, Mr. Crossroads himself, Robert Johnson...

I Can't Imagine What Made People Think He'd Had Dealings With Satan...

To which I had to tell Nick, "Robert Johnson is the Star Wars of the Blues."

Let me 'splain. No, let me sum up. If I am ever asked what my favorite movie is, I will quickly and with conviction tell you that is Amadeus. If you want to break it down into categories, I'd have to go with Three Amigos for comedy (weeelll... Maybe The Jerk. Or Safemen. Why is this so hard?!?), The Endless Summer for documentary, and so on and so forth.

You haven't seen this yet? OH MY GOD quit reading this pointless blog and go watch this RIGHT NOW!!!

But I will always make sure you know that there is another category that supersedes all of the above, that does not even need to be named as a variable in the equation of what equals my favorite movie. I like to call this particular genre of film "Star Wars." Now, when I say "Star Wars" as a genre, I'm simply referring to Star Wars and Empire Strikes Back. With a few scenes from Jedi thrown in. 

So this is how I feel about Robert Johnson. He doesn't even need to be named when the question of Blues greatness comes up. He's like some otherworldly, spiritual, conceptual entity.

I feel the same way about The Godfather and The Godfather II, but you can't just slap "The Godfather of..." onto just anything. Robert Johnson is much more than a godfather. He's like some ancient alien astronaut come here to show us how to build pyramids and giant stone astronomy sites and shizzz.

Robert Johnson, Ancient Alien Astronaut.

AAA

Oh Montana, give this child a home
Give him the love of a good family and a woman of his own
Give him a fire in his heart, give him a light in his eyes
Give him the wild wind for a brother and the wild Montana skies

So go the words of the great psalmist John Denver.

I just spent four days in Bozeman, Montana, and I must say, it wasn't enough. Apart from the fact that it was too short of a visit with my wife and daughter, who are on a two-week buying trip, I am also reeling from the aborted immersion into miles and miles of rolling hills of undulating grass, technicolor flowers everywhere I looked, snowy mountains on all sides, and temperatures in the low 80s. The almost-daily afternoon cloudbursts, stunning sunsets, and great food didn't hurt, either, and needless to say, my return home to Austin was certainly rife with mixed emotions.

However, I am choosing this day to serve the emotions of gratefulness for the home I have and offer up my thanks to the cosmos for the following AAAs (Amazing Austin Aspects):

The Porch

Our Own Little Bayou Slice of Tejas

I love our porch. The Porch. At least to us, it is. The great thing about a great porch is that anyone can make any porch great. These are abundant here. Ours has plenty of room, chimineas, cheesy paper lanterns and Christmas lights, quirky knick-knacks, a couch, a hammock, and even a record player. Let's not forget the washer and dryer... they make the whole porch vibrate when they're goin. We've got a whole waiting list of people who want to come do laundry here.

Even The End of The Porch is Awesome

Sure, if we were living in another city, in another state, or even country, we could have a great porch there. But this one happens to be here, now, and it is regularly populated by what really makes The Porch amazing:

Our Peeps

Yeah, we have found some good ones here. All creative, all talented, all loving. Our peeps.

Hoping This Will Entice Some To Return...

The Baddest of the Baddest

SoCo Sisters

E Baby!

Mama T

Rocker Dads Unite. And Get Drunk.

No, Seriously, We Put the "Chill" in Achilles

We Might Have Eaten Too Much

Pretty Sure We'd Be Lost Without This One

Alright, So We Met In L.A. Close Enough!

Whataburger RULES

Alright, alright, we're not really friends with the Brad. Just seein' if you're paying attention.

Now, what would we do with all these friends if it weren't for the next AAA?

The Bands

It's done to death, of course, to talk about bands and live music when talking about Austin. But whatevs, isn't that why this city is still here? The wonderful thing about the hype is that it's not just hype. There really are some kick-ass bands in this town. Here's a short list:

To Get Your Ya-Ya's Out in the booziest, struttinest way possible: The Happen-ins

To Get Your Garage Rockiness On: Shapes Have Fangs

To Get Your Long Hair On and Your Eardrums Gone: Scorpion Child

To Get Your Soul All Buttered: T-Bird and the Breaks

I told you it was a short list, and yes, those are all my buddies. But hey, PROMOTE YOUR FRIENDS' WORK. Just sayin'. Trust me, there are a ton of other great bands to see here.

Homeslice

If you've ever been to Austin, you don't need me to tell you. Sure, there are lots of killer slices like this all over the world, but Homeslice is the only one that scents the air of my 'hood and is often brought straight over by these two members of Olympus:

If Only She'd Lighten Up!

The Arlo Bishop Experience

My kid eats at Homeslice. She was also #1 Student in her class. You do the math.

Hey, If Avery Likes It, You Know It's Good! Uncle Dan Seems To Be a Fan, Too.

KUT

I love KUT. It's pretty much always on in my car. Sure, it's not perfect, but there is usually something interesting coming through the airwaves. The news gets me to work, John Aielli captivates me all morning with his space-cadet thought processes and eardrum-massaging voice (haters to the left), and the healthy dose of NPR sprinkled throughout the day is always massively informative. We even get to hear our friends on there daily, either playing music or talking about it! 

No Really, We Love It!

The Girls

Truly, the best thing about the ATX is the GIRLS. Specifically, these two:

She Rings Like a Bell Through The Night, And Wouldn't You Love To Love Her?

She's Like A Rainbow

Okay, so that's just a short list. Clearly, I like short lists.

angelitos negros

We Are All The Inventors

I recently heard on the radio that the Smithsonian has created a new exhibit showcasing American inventions. According to their website, “This story is told through many of our collections, revolutionary or mundane, from the light bulb to the can opener.”

Included in this collection is this guy:

That's right, the world's first frozen margarita machine. Pretty cool, if you ask me. I mean, how many dudes who never had a chance in hell before 1971 have gotten laid because of the sweet, boozy, lady slaying confections that pour out of these things? I'm gonna go with lots of dudes.

Interestingly, this was invented right here in Texas, and can, in fact, be verified as such. I'm not entirely sure how Texans process the knowledge that something can actually be proven to be a Texas invention, considering the fact that they seem to truly get off on completely fabricating portions of history to make it look like most of the world's great creations were birthed here. Sorry guys, but you did not invent the hamburger, nor the personal computer, nor bicycles, nor football, singular stars, Mexican food, horses, live music, or the concept of bigness. But the frozen margarita machine... that's pretty major.

Incidentally, if you'd like to take credit for some of the things we came up with in California, I'm sure none of us would mind. Plastic surgery, rollerblades, muscle pants, Gold's Gym (now headquartered in TX, so that kinda counts), traffic, gargantuan mansions built on totally unstable mud cliffs over the ocean, movie-star governors, smog, super shitty pop-punk bands, and bros are all up for grabs in the claim game.

No Really, We Couldn't Be More Proud

Now don't get any crazy ideas just because I listed a bunch of lame stuff from Cali... I still think California is the greatest state in the nation. But hey, I'm obviously biased. And to be fair, I've only been to 45 states. Any opinions I may have about Delaware, Rhode Island, Vermont, New Hampshire, and Alaska are purely speculative and formed from L.L. Bean catalogs.

You'll have to forgive the low-key and nonvituperative nature of this blog, as I feel like my writing has been hibernating all winter and I'm just now stretchin' out the creaky old bones of thought and scurrility. I'm sure I'll be back to my cranky ol' self any day! Until then, I'm gonna enjoy this spectacular Austin day, sitting at my favorite sidewalk coffee joint, watching the parade of amazing characters, and looking forward to hanging out later with some truly cool Texans.

In the meantime, keep those hands up and lead with your jab. Most of the time.

The Future's So Bright, I Gotta Look Like A Full-On Bag of Douchetools

Basically the hardest thing that I, or any man for that matter, must ever deal with in life is a situation of such great import, such weighty magnitude that only a small, strong few have truly discovered the way to survive its trying and mettle-testing powers.

I'm talking about where to put your sunglasses when you're not wearing them on your face.

It's a huge issue that many Americans today do not want to admit is real... The never-ending conundrum of how to store your shades when you are indoors, while still looking cool. Fortunately, there are men out there on the front lines, taking the heat for all of us, searching tirelessly for the answer to the greatest question of our time. And I am in awe of the ones who have found the answer.

Now I don't know about you, but I do know that if I were this epically awesome and super badassly cool enough to own shades as aesthetically perfect as these, you bet your sweet sorority ass I'd display them in as many fresh, dope, ill, and, yes, sick ways possible. Shades like this just scream "HIGHLY INTELLIGENT BEING!!!" Forget about the classic styling and sleek lines of a solid pair of Wayfarers, the striking, balanced visual of some unpretentious aviators, or even the total-badass look of a pair of lowrider lokes; if your sunglasses aren't polycarbonite, mirrored-and-shotgunproof-lensed, they're gettin' picked last for kickball.

Don't get me wrong; I do love me some McConaughey... Some McConaughey, mind you. But you know what? I know what a dude learning how to surf looks like. I don't need to see it over and over. Plus, I hate Lance Armstrong. I think there's a connection, right? I might be a bit behind.

But I digress.

Sunglasses. This is for the guys out there. There are only a few acceptable places to store your dark glasses when they are not being used. One is right on top of your head. Easy enough. This looks easy and breezy, very California when coupled with a t-shirt or no shirt, very New York when paired with a black turtleneck. Then there is your jacket or shirt pocket. This will make you look very cool in an old-man-badass sort of way, as if that pocket should also be loaded with your softpack of Marlboros, a racing form, and forty percent of your paycheck in cash.

Okay, that's it. The only two places you should ever stash your smoky specs. Now for the unacceptables.

1. As far as "unacceptables" go, this is the closest to being acceptable. Still, it's a bit coke-dealeresque.

2. Your forehead? I'm confused. Why stop there? Why not go all the way up, where you will still look cool, your shades are in no real danger of falling off, and they act as an impromptu headband?

3. Back of shirt collar. This is the method de douche I see most often. I don't understand how it got so popular. First of all, it's in no way a quick and easy thing to do. I had to actually think about it when I posed for this pic. Secondly, I just take issue with this on a philosophical level. Is the front of your person so dope, fresh, and ill that you can't mess up the lines? Are you trying to hide the fact that you have sunglasses? Then why'd you pay $300 for those Oakleys, broheim?

 

4. Back of the head. Wow. This one I really don't get. Are you trying to be funny? Are you trying to frighten people into thinking that you really do have eyes in the back of your head? I'm gonna tell you something right now. You don't. You know how I know? Because I'm flipping you off behind your back and you still haven't gone all MMA on my hippie ass. This method is typically employed by dudes with bicked heads. Lord knows why.


So there you have my take on the storage of your dark glasses. Yes, I feel quite strongly about it, and yes, I did use my lady's shades in the photoshoot, because, why not? I already look like a jackass wearing 'em on the back of my head.

The Buttercream Gang

Feeling blue? Uncertain about the future? The economy, terrorism, social injustice, poverty, racial tension, genocide, oil spills, nuclear proliferation, and iPhone Death Grip got you down? Well, do like I do, and just take a gander at these nice, sweet boys:

Don't They Just Give You Cavities?

Dear Reader, it's my pleasure to introduce you to the one and only Buttercream Gang. Standing, left to right, are Pete, Eldon, and Lanny, and that crazy kid they're struggling to hold up is Scott. They're just four fun-lovin', good deed-doin', talkin'-to-their-parents-about-daily-struggles guys, who love nothing more than devising ingenious plans to get inside the Widow Jenkin's home after she fell down and couldn't get up and jumping rope with the neighborhood kids (Eldon reluctantly performs his patented "Earthquake" show that involves him skipping rope and then falling on his ass—a skill which proves quite useful when the Gang is faced with subduing a home invader). 

At any rate, their story opens with eldest member and gang president Pete moving from Elk Ridge to Chicago to live with his aunt. He nominates Scott for president, who is easily voted in by the other two chubby and thereby regarded with less respect and considered incapable of leading Buttercreamers. In the course of three minutes we see that Pete has fallen in with an (all white) street gang called "The Blades," and is getting into trouble at school and with the law. He has begun dressing like some sort of scrawny Chicano/Italian mobster hybrid and throws the "shaka" sign to his homies, who basically look like a moronic hillbilly version of West Side Story. 

It's pretty awesome.   

Hang Loose, Vato

Long story short, Pete gets 86ed from his Aunt Maria's place in Chicago ("I thought you'd be a good influence on my kids!") and returns to Elk Ridge, where he promptly recruits a new gang and teaches them all the tricks and nuances of being a vicious street gang, like how to steal Twinkies and throw rocks at bottles out by the railroad track. It's chilling. After Pete really crosses the line by tossing a firecracker through the window during the school dance, Scott confronts him, setting off a series of unfortunate events that result in Scott getting his ass whipped. However, love rules the day as Scott, Eldon, Lanny, and the rest of the good citizens of Elk Ridge never give up on Pete, no matter how hard he tries to get them to leave him alone. Scott never stops following him around, asking things like, "Why aren't we friends anymore? Don't you still enjoy having tickle fights with guys two or three years younger than you? Don't you know your street gang terrifies the old people when you ride your BMX bikes around and dump cans of Pringles on each other's heads? DON'T YOU KNOW YOU CAN NEVER LEAVE YOUR SMALL-TOWN LIFE BEHIND?!?"

This shit starts to get truly spellbinding when Mr. Graff, owner of Graff's Market, tries to give Pete money out of his cash register so he won't technically be "stealing" it, and Scott just lets him have his sweet ten-speed when Pete decides he wants it for his own.


Screw that. That's right about the time Pete would be picking up his teeth with broken fingers on my planet. But I digress. 

"I'm gonna get in your face so hard I'll have to change my name from 'Pete' to 
'Captain Sinus Cavity Dweller Man'!!!"

The Buttercream Gang, though not officially an LDS production, is teeming with the kind of family values one would expect from Mormon writers, directors, actors, and caterers (I heard the jams and jellies on set were simply Celestial-Level-of-Heavenly). 


Family Values:

• You can't leave your past behind. 
• You should never let someone else try to leave their past behind. 
• You should never beat the crap out of someone who refuses to stop being a total dick (especially when they're being a total dick because you won't let them leave their past behind). 
• The women are always watching (see: Buttercreamettes).

"I just overheard Scott say Pete stole treats from Graff's. Eavesdropping leaves me feeling cold and empty. I am finally ready to wear the holy Pull-Ups®."

Ah yes, the Buttercreamettes. The girls of the town who decide the Gang needs their help keeping an eye on Pete and the Elk Ridge chapter of The Blades. Our wisdom-bomb-dropper of a film makes no apologies for, nay, even encourages spying on people. The Buttercreamettes, most of whom are about four years old, sit and gaze coldly upon Pete at all turns, relaying later what they discover to Scott and his two cherubic pals. To what end, you ask? Oh you know, just to be sure that Pete has fully gone to the Dark Side and is truly in need of their redemptive outreach. 

In the end, Pete splits for the mean streets of Chicago once again and Scott comes home one day to what looks like an intervention; after several tense and suspense-filled moments which culminate in Scott's father telling the town pastor that he should tell Scott the news, considering he has "more experience with things of this matter," we discover that Pete has shaped up and is now in a good-boy gang (still dressed like a cholo/mobster/hillbilly) that reaches out to bad-boy gangs. Scott's love prevailed! 

Seriously, I thought they were going to tell Scott that Pete had offed himself as a result of his emotional downward spiral brought on by wearing bandanas and high-wasted baggy pants. Those filmmakers really know how to throw a twist! Whew!


Yes, I own this movie. Yes, it's on VHS, and yes, I paid a quarter for it at the Mennonite thrift store. Come on over, we'll get Buttercreamed together!

Seriously, What Do You Do?!?!?!?