What do Hell’s bells sound like? The shrieks of children.

I have grim news, my friends. It turns out that Hell is located in Austin, Texas, where it goes by the riotously ironic misnomer of The Oasis. Imagine Disney World, Fisherman’s Wharf, Santana Row, the most shudder-inducing mental image you can possibly conjure of a tourist trap (with corresponding mobs of tourists), and every Linda Blair impersonator I’ve ever lived next door to, and you have but a dim notion of the true horror of this place, which must be experienced in person to get the full effect.

Hell, incidentally, is outfitted with its own ice skating rink, which serves as conclusive evidence that at least a parcel of Hell is frozen over. Hell also comes with its own map of Texas, clearly created by a soul so withered, jaundiced, and corroded, it very well might rival my own. This thing all but literally drips with contempt for the slack-jawed, uncomprehending, and witless yokels it conceives of as its target audience. It sports references to “San Antone,” “Damn Yankees,” and, in a woefully ineffectual attempt to throw the beholder off the scent, “Heaven”.

GAH.

On the bright side, I did make a considerable dent in my New Year’s shopping (New Year's being the holiday I’ve opted to celebrate with the strategic doling out of the odd gift or two, although I’m not clear on when I’ll actually make it to the post office) at this place, although, even within its confines, the shrieks and thumps of children (and parents!) in dire need of a visit from this guy could not be escaped.

Fortunately for the sake of its tender sensibilities and lamentably for photo-documentation purposes, I forgot dear old Shutter Island at home, so you’ll have to trust me when I tell you that the views while driving on Comanche Trail and from Hell itself are stunning: sparkling blue water, evergreens, and the kind of sky that’s just showing off. It’s a great place to survey Austin from afar and serves as perfect testimony to what a great planet this would be sans the unsightly blemish of its human inhabitants.

On that note, happy almost Day of Baseless Mass Hysteria (aka New Year)!

Which isn’t to say it’s without its charms, or that I won’t be making resolutions aplenty…Like, um, being a tad less misanthropic perhaps. But wait. I like that about myself. Ah well, back to the drawing board…

Things of note in San Jose.

La Victoria, particularly their orange sauce; brunch time depravity at Hobee’s (guava and papaya Mimosas, and The Time I Hit an Armored Car (true story)); soy lattes from Peet’s Coffee; Cindy’s famous Christmas cookie platter, including the cakey Christmas trees with pillowy green frosting, Mexican wedding cookies, and chocolate-peanut butter diamonds; troglodytes out en masse (including, and perhaps most especially, us); confessional beer drinking; Christmas Evening Sad Times at the Marmist (the X-Files theme song and lethal vodka tonics); sharp cheddar cheese, Coke, and ibuprofen before 9 a.m. = Best Hangover Cure Ever; I am a teetotaler now (at least until cocktail hour); driving by the fancy houses in Saratoga; driving by our childhood homes; so many orange trees posing against an impossibly blue sky; how many people have been so good to me; Trader Joe’s (deeply missed); Voodoo stationery; the way exhaustion (for those blessed with my good health) is largely mental; fearless flying; Hello, Cleveland; sunbursts sparkling against my wrist; how long have you had your affliction?; the way things change and never do in San Jose; palm trees and neon signs; Trivial Pursuit; cooking show commentary with us serving as the peanut gallery; seeing the place where you grew up with fresh eyes; driving aimlessly with Li; firsthand experience of the way time renders our landscapes obsolete; lifelong friendships; home safe and so very lucky.

 

Look! I have friends! 

 

Christmas Evening Sad Times at the Marmist

Time for this rolling stone to brush off the moss.

Considering that the original premise for this blog hinged on the notion that I would be traveling fairly extensively in one form or another, it’s ironic how sedentary I’ve been in recent months. Gainful employment and single parenthood cramp your style like that.

Nevertheless! Tomorrow I buck the sedentary trend by catching a six a.m. flight to San Jose, California to reunite with those near and dear. Things are more or less squared away for the trip—the main question is, since I’m working tonight and I like to show up early for flights, and I don’t live close to the airport, should I even bother going to sleep this evening? Or should I just opt for Hunter-Thompson-caliber-delirium, abandon the tortured novel attempt I’m currently making no progress on, and pen Fear and Loathing in San Jose?

Good times ahead.

Support a sensitive artist with a wanton display of Christmas capitalism!

Just to clear up any doubt, the sensitive artist in question would be me, and the wanton display of Christmas capitalism in question would be acquiring my story, “The Drought,” from this fine publication (Volume 13, Issue 4). It’s available in print or PDF form, and apparently it can also be picked up at BookPeople, should you find yourself there. Because there hasn’t been enough drought in Texas this year…

As an added bonus, every time you purchase a copy of “The Drought” (an indispensable alternative to lumps of coal for the bad little boys and girls yet to be crossed off your Christmas list), a broke-wing angel plays the violin.

Or something like that.

So come on, people—get into the holiday spirit!

BUY MY WRITINGS, PLEEEEEAAAASSSSEEEEEE!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Thank you. That is all.

 

“The Drought” is Sparty-approved. 

 As you can see, he is very proprietary toward his copy.

If Sparty can successfully nab a copy, then so can you. The man can’t even catch a spider, for crying out loud.

Blair witch tamales.

In what I consider to be another rite of passage in my Texas residency, I made my first batch of tamales today at Lela’s inspired tamale-making shindig, wherein she provided the corn husks, masa, and steamer, and each attendee brought a different filling. My folded corn husks ended up resembling nothing so much as the effigies from The Blair Witch Project, but they turned out tasty enough. My contribution was of the dessert tamale persuasion: chocolate chips and pecans (the Texas state nut!) dusted with cinnamon and cayenne (in an attempt to replicate the flavors of Mexican chocolate). Next time I would up the spice factor and maybe use a less sweet, more complex chocolate (Scharffen Berger would have been incredible) but all in all, not bad. It was kind of like Tollhouse pie, in tamale form—a bite or two went a long way. I even got my own batch of sweet masa to work with, which tasted like cookie dough.

After the tamales were assembled, everyone took home some of each type of tamale for future enjoyment. In my case, Lela was even so kind as to volunteer to steam my tamales (since they are evidently not microwave-friendly, and tragically I did actually ask if they were) and bring them to me at work, on account of I lack a steamer. I look forward to trying the other varieties. Among the delicious refreshments we enjoyed at this fiesta were rice with lime and cilantro, beans, Mexican wedding cookies, and Mexican hot chocolate.

What I learned: it is very difficult to do irrevocable damage to a tamale, no matter how dubious your technique; when in doubt, grab another corn husk to wrap around any cosmetic or structural mishaps and pretend they never happened.

Lela’s neighborhood reminds me a bit of San Francisco, in that it’s full of funky, brightly colored houses whose floors have been converted into individual units. Lots of character. It was a welcome contrast to the soulless beige and noise-besotted biosphere in which I currently dwell and a valuable reminder that there are plenty of more inviting (or at least more interesting) living situations lurking out there when my lease is up in July.

One of the best things I saw all day was a big cactus with Christmas ornaments stuck atop its leaves (fronds?). I lament that Shutter Island was not with me at the time and I was therefore unable to photo-document it.

If this post is riddled with typos or just generally lackluster prose, I would like to officially blame my attendance at a librarian party last night because—whether a well-known fact or not—librarians (at least in Boise and apparently in Austin, too) are ferociously hard partiers.

I’m still recovering.

Mutter mutter mutter.

Further Austin traipsing to take note of, but this needs must be a pleasure deferred, on account of I must make my bleary-eyed way clear across town during rush hour for ethics training over near the airport. It will probably take as long to get there as this training lasts, and given the vehicular stylings of my fellow Austinites (read: Californians, G.D. them), there will be many a temptation to engage in behavior en route that, if not unethical, is at the very least unbecoming. If you ask me, being asked to be ethical before noon is ridiculous. 

In other news, I’ve joined a Fantasy Basketball League, just because it struck me as the last thing on earth I would ever be likely to do, and this appealed to my (alarmingly prominent) perverse streak.

Please help me, I am insane.

Taking stock.

So many things coming up: covert operations, a librarian party, a tamale-making party, appointments galore, a trip to San Jose, California, where I will bask in this person’s exquisite company, and then, of course, 2012, which I intend to start off with a bang by attaching ambitions far too numerous and unrealistic to it, and then frantically scrambling to REALZE THEM ALL SIMULTANEOUSLY.

Good times.

In a bit I will venture into the kitchen to try my hand at a goat cheese dip, which just might culminate in an entry in this sorely neglected blog.

Word count: 33,061

Even more things of note.

The weird lucidity that accompanies being slightly ill; ginger water (I sliced a leftover piece of ginger and boiled it in water, since ginger is supposed to aid the immune system—too bad there’s no honey or lemon); scouting semicolon tattoos for an upcoming blog post; long naps; hot baths; this comic book; gray skies (awfully accommodating, given that I am presently The Infirm); the way it feels like it could be several decades later within a mere matter of minutes (the way it already feels like this). 

Word count: oh, dear

Other Things of Note.

Morning fog wending its way down the street, shrouding the trees across the way, making them look like veiled widows; the interpersonal equivalent of a colon cleanse (hint: this is why some of the links I’ve recently posted are broken); Meep curled up in my lap; a deep and abiding sense of relief and freedom from fetters; conjuring calendar holidays; venturing to a new grocery store later in hopes of finding a happy medium between H.E.B. and Central Market; Aunt Sheila’s rainbow-colored afghan, which has been a part of my life for as long as I can remember; the excitement of too many ambitions; waffles for breakfast; to be continued.

Word count: 30,254

MORE about how to break into technical writing: get a job!

You’ve done your homework and honed your expertise? Now it’s time to hit the pavement and show prospective employers what you’ve got.

Go get ‘em, tiger!

http://professionalwritersofaustin.com/2011/12/08/how-to-break-into-technical-writing-part-2/

Oh yeah, seasons. I remember those—vaguely.

It appears that winter—or our version of it, at least—has decided to make a guest appearance in central Texas, with the temperature currently hovering between 30 and 35 degrees, and an expected high of 47 degrees today. I actually had to turn on the heat for the first time ever here. As my winter coats currently reside in Boise, Idaho, and I’ve lacked the good sense to acquire a new one (my abiding philosophy of clothes acquisition has long been that they should magically find their way to me, and I’ve had surprisingly good luck with this), I’ve cobbled together a fairly ridiculous getup in hopes of staying warm when venturing outside (remember Rainbow Brite?). I hope the library temperature isn’t set to “meat locker” today.

How to break into technical writing: read all about it!

Attention, would-be spinners of gobbledygook! You want to get in the game? Here’s a start:

http://professionalwritersofaustin.com/2011/12/05/how-to-break-into-technical-writing-part-1/

Things of note.

Rainy Sunday, purple Christmas lights, pinpricks of light through tin stars, chicory coffee, sleeping cats, comfy pants and a ridiculous gray shirt with a pink stereo emblazoned across it, words falling out of fingertips, the familiar pain of a throbbing headache, the whooshing of cars on a wet street, baseless (or not) optimism, the thuds, slams, and screams of neighbors (“It’s NOT cold out!”), good books, the promise of so many discoveries as yet unmade in this city, time flying with leaden wings, and incremental progress.

Word count: 27,355

Mirages.

It’s a gorgeous rainy morning of the sort that makes my soul glad, and I’m thinking of the way sunlight dies between oak trees in the late afternoon, and the red and blue walls of this delightful place, where I met Carolyn for coffee yesterday after originally steering her to this evidently now-nonexistent venue, about which she was quite gracious, especially considering that I was ten minutes late and therefore not present to swear that it was indeed once an actual café adjoining a Shell station.

While it’s a shame, it seems fitting that Tuscany@360 appeared on my horizon and then vanished just as quickly. I like the idea of it as a mirage: a mysterious one-time oasis that serves its purpose when needed and then disappears to another plane, where another soul in search of respite discovers it.

Plus, this seems to fit beautifully within the whole “Keep Austin weird” theme.

Meanwhile, I’ll be looking forward to another cinnamon-flecked mocha at Uno (where they also do mean latte art), as well as drinking their wine, and losing myself in their red and blue walls, which palpitate with deep, rich, glorious color.