Spike Speaks

In Lieu of A Thousand Words

noreply@blogger.com (Spike Gillespie) — Mon, 23 Jan 2012 14:01:00 +0000

Let's just start the week off like this, eh?

Have I Got Something to Make Your Weekend Fantastic!

noreply@blogger.com (Spike Gillespie) — Fri, 20 Jan 2012 15:25:00 +0000

Y'all,
There is no joy greater than sharing your life with a dog (my apologies to Warren and Henry-- don't worry, guys, you run a close second). I am trying to help home a few dogs that are in sudden need. Before y'all email me with suggestions about Austin Pets Alive, etc, please know we already know all about APA, our bases there are covered. I am running this post in addition to other avenues being pursued.

If you are up for bringing the tremendous joy of a dog(s) into your world, please email me directly at spikegillespie@gmail.com and I will put you in touch with the right humans. Below is a note from my friend who is helping her friend to home these dogs. Also, adorable pictures.

Hurry people, let's get these pups a place to stay!

My friend writes:

A good friend of mine has run into some very, very hard times and was forced to move quickly to a new apartment that does not allow animals. Her three sweet and affectionate dogs need immediate and/or long term foster homes, permanent adoption negotiable. They can be adopted individually. Rock Hudson is a medium sized (approx 20 pounds) short-haired black+white mix, husky and low to the ground with enormous ears, a noble demeanor and a sweet, loyal disposition. He is shy with new people but warms up quickly. Stevie Nicks is a small (approx 8-10 pounds) wire haired terried/chihuahua mix, calm and full of kisses with an adorable white streak on her head. Chavela Vargas is a small (approx 8-10 pounds) dachshund/chihuahua mix with big worried brown eyes and is calm and cuddly. All three are healthy, house and leash trained, up to date on shots, including kennel cough, and are fine with cats and young children (my friend has a toddler).

Spider House Fools -- May I Take Your Order and Ruin Your Day?

noreply@blogger.com (Spike Gillespie) — Tue, 17 Jan 2012 22:32:00 +0000

Upon discovering that Trudy’s, our first choice for breakfast, was not yet open, my friend Stephen and I wandered over to Spider House and took a seat outside. The place was pretty much deserted—hardly a bearded hipster or retro chick in sight. After a while, our waitress skulked over, and— apparently annoyed with us for being alive on the planet—slammed down menus and asked, hurriedly, if we were ready or wanted time. We asked for one latte, two waters and a few moments.

When she returned with the drinks, I still wasn’t ready but Stephen was, so he ordered and then I—sensing the impatience of the waitress— just said I’d have the same thing: a rosemary salt Rock Star bagel with cream cheese. Easy enough. I mean, it’s pretty hard to fuck up a bagel, right? (Hard but not impossible— one time, at Summer Moon it took them twenty minutes to bring me a “toasted” bagel, which was icy cold and hard as a rock, factors that the “cook,” clearly stoned out of his gourd, attributed to “a very slow toaster.”)

After enough time had passed to perform a bris and four Bar Mitzvahs, the bagels at long last arrived, pre-smeared with a thin layer of cream cheese. The waitress dumped them on the table and huffed off. I bit into mine. It tasted stale. I thought to myself, Self, you are probably imagining this is stale because the waitress has such a shitty attitude. Just eat the damn thing.

I took another couple of bites. My bagel remained disgusting, and had the consistency of something that had been run under water, left out to dry for a few days, then put in the microwave too long, then in the fridge to overcompensate for over-nuking, then colored slightly brown on top with an off-brand crayon to give a false appearance of having been toasted. I asked Stephen if I was overreacting. I do this—I check in with friends when I’m feeling grouchy because I really don’t want to be that asshole that complains at restaurants. In fact, I so don’t want to be that person that I have been known to pick meat out of a “vegetarian” salad or deal with a lukewarm cup of soup rather than ask the kitchen to fix it.

Stephen told me, no, it wasn’t me, his bagel sucked, too.

So I did something I think I’ve done maybe a half-dozen times in my entire life—I called the waitress over to tell her there was a problem. Here’s how it went:

Me: Is it possible these bagels are day old? Because this tastes really stale. Rubbery.

Her: If you ask me, that brand just tastes rubbery. I have no idea if they’re day old.

Me: Uh, would you go and ask.

Before I tell you what happened next, let’s say that, to her credit, the bitchy waitress decided to be honest with me once she stormed back over to the table.

Her: Yeah, they’re day-old. At least day old. They may be older than that actually.

Me: Really? Because if I’d known they were old, I wouldn’t have ordered them.

Her: Yeah, well that’s just how we roll here.

[Ed. note added on January 18th-- I contacted Rock Star Bagels to let them know SH was dissing their product. They informed me they had not delivered bagels there since last Thursday, meaning my bagel was six days old.]

This part—about how they roll at Spider House— I already knew. Because another time at Spider House I had another shitty waitress (or was it the same one?). That night, I asked for chips and hot sauce and she very impatiently said, “You mean salsa?” (No, bitch, I mean hot sauce as in CHIPS AND. I know you need me to clarify because, like, you know, so many people in Austin order fucking Tabasco with their goddamn tortilla chips, so fucking thanks for setting me straight.)

That was the same waitress who, when my friend inquired very politely—after TWENTY MINUTES—when his cocktail might be arriving, said, “Oh, yeah. Well I forgot to put the order in for that.”

This proclamation of forgetfulness was not delivered apologetically nor with even the slightest amount of concern. It was delivered like, Fuck you, if you want a drink why don’t you go someplace else?

Look, I know waiting tables isn’t always fun. How do I know this? Well, little Spider House ladies, check it: Spike herself waited tables. For FIFTEEN FUCKING YEARS. And yeah, some days you’re hungover and some days your period is so bad you’re bloated like Shamu and dropping clots the size of Cleveland, and some days you show up a half-hour late because you just found out your boyfriend is having a skanky affair with the neighbor’s goat. And yes, days like these it can be pressing to feign cheerfulness with customers.

But I have a hunch that this Spider House bullshit is not something that could be readily cured with a hair of the dog, a package of Midol, or a midnight goat sacrifice. Methinks there’s something else going on here. Is this bitchiness some kind of a “requirement” to work at the cool places in Austin these days? Or did I just happen to coincidentally encounter two wildly bitchy waitresses at the same place at different times?

Back in 1989, I worked at a really fancy place in St. Louis called Riddles Penultimate (RIP). When I first started there, I complained about all my tables all the time. My friend Sue, an outstanding waitress, asked me if I just hated everyone. I thought about that and came up with a theory. I’d been trained how to wait tables by a really cranky woman at a Ramada Inn in Florida. Maybe I just thought that was part of the territory?

Truth was, I didn’t really hate them all. I just loved complaining about them all, giving them nicknames, resenting their petty requests. It was good fodder for my Northeastern ways. But I swear, no matter how much I complained behind their backs, to their faces I was as nice as I could muster on any given night.

There were exceptions, of course. And Martin Luther King, Jr, forgive me for it is true that once, in Knoxville, I got fired on the spot for telling off a customer who, the last time she’d been in, stiffed me for failing to bring her a straw to protect her lipstick and so, yes, I did walk out singing We Shall Overcome. Granted, that was probably a little over the top. And come to think of it, maybe that’s what was going on today. Long lost bitchy waitress karma coming back to bite me after all these years.

But I swear, I tried really hard to be really nice for as long as I could hack it. And when, by the time I reached the Magnolia Café in 1991, I started feeling like I couldn’t stand any of my customers, even the nice regulars? Well then I threw in the towel. I did. Because if whatever job you’re doing makes you want to go postal, honey you need to find a way to get out of there.

At the end of the Spider House ordeal today, I paid the tab, minus the charge for two stale bagels. I then left a tip even though it felt like I was paying the waitress for the privilege of being abused by her. But as someone who raised a kid on tips, and as someone whose grandmother waited on tables during the Great Depression to support her six kids, I just cannot not tip. (Warren has a joke about how Tip-Entitled our town is, pointing out that even the tip jars have tip jars in Austin.) I left “only” a dollar, which technically was a 25% tip. I wondered, if I left her a ten-dollar bill, if it might confuse her, but then I decided she wasn’t worth confusing anymore than she already was.

Years ago, Warren and I ate at Blue Dahlia and we had a fight over leaving a tip for bad service. That night our waitress was so horrible that when she asked us if we wanted anything else or just the check, we had to point out that she hadn’t yet brought the entrée. She actually looked Warren in the eye when he asked where his food might be and accused him of not having ordered an entrée. You read that right. She played it like he was bullshitting her, and had never ordered dinner, like we were just randomly sitting at the table waiting to mess with her head. Even still, I wanted to leave a little tip—again with the karma—and Warren was livid.

Long, long ago, there used to be a little place on South First called Virginia’s. It was pure heaven. Run by two of the crankiest ass bitches of all time, it featured handwritten signs that said stuff like, “If you can’t share your table then leave now.” And “NO we don’t have a bathroom don’t even ask.” And, “In a hurry? Go somewhere else!!!”

The way Virginia’s worked was you would come in, and the one bitchy lady would hand you a menu, a scrap of paper and a pencil, and a jar of sweet tea in exchange for five dollars. You would then write down five items from the menu on the scrap of paper. Virginia worked a massive stove, right out in the open, piling on the yellow grease and turning from time to time to yell at the businessmen who eagerly crowded the counter, seemingly there for the lectures far more than the food.

There was something so endearing about Virginia’s meanness, like she was some caricature of her own self. I was so sad when that place closed, when the bitchiness went away. Somehow, this new Waitress Bitchiness is just not cutting it for me. Maybe because Virginia was around 200 years old and by virtue of that fact seemed to somehow have earned the right. Whereas these Spider House chicks are maybe twenty-three, so their attitude comes across more like childish petulance, pathetic and unearned. Just like the tips I keep leaving them.

I Heart Austin, TX, Installment #97,375 (Special Birthday Edition)

noreply@blogger.com (Spike Gillespie) — Mon, 16 Jan 2012 18:11:00 +0000

So, what did I wind up doing for my birthday last week? Thanks for asking. I dedicated myself to yet another one of those Wow I Sure Do Love Austin adventures. To wit:

Breakfast at Magnolia Cafe on Lake Austin Blvd where my BFF is the manager. I had two "small" gingerbread pancakes, and Eggs Zapatino, which my son turned me onto-- scrambled eggs on an English muffin with queso and a side of fourteen pounds of home fries.

Then we had to go walk that shit off. So Warren and I headed over to Town Lake (I'm calling it Town Lake, and shut up if you were getting ready to correct me). Here we saw many things, like a train carrying a bunch of who the hell knows what.

We ran into Lionel Richie on our stroll.

Given his lifestyle choices, I have always been especially delighted to find SRV waiting for me at a place where folks go to work out and get healthy.

This is my cake-- I actually had it a few days before my bday but want you to see it anyway. Henry's ladyfriend, K, made it for me. IT WAS DELICIOUS!

After Town Lake we went to the Blanton where Warren fulfilled his lifelong dream of becoming a professional columnist.

This is me in the ladies' room of the Blanton, looking in the magical mirror that shows you what you look like naked and makes you realize we're all art!

Life imitates art here. This might be my favorite painting at the Blanton. It reminds me of my last divorce. Now, that might be a funny reason to like a painting, but when I first saw it, I was in the middle of a divorce and letting go felt SO HARD-- see, like the lady on the trapeze is not letting go. But seeing the painting again, I realized what a blessing divorce is (keep divorce safe and legal!) and how happy I am that I did let go (see, the real me is NOT HOLDING ON TO ANYTHING. Neat, right?)

In the Blanton gift shop, Warren bought me this tiny chicken purse to match the chicken handbag I bought awhile ago. I am super classy with my matching accessories!

Outside the Blanton, Warren gave me my other birthday gift-- because a girl needs a way to transport her chicken purses, you know?

After the Blanton we went over to the Oakwood Cemetery, off of MLK on the East Side. If you look closely at this headstone, you will find the true definition of Grave Error.

I love cemeteries any time of the year, but I especially liked taking a visit on my birthday.
Quod tu es, ego fui. Quod nunc sum, tu eris.
Truly words to live by.

Then it was time for dinner at Texas French Bread-- HOORAY!

I ate way too much and that was just fine-- mountains of bread, wild mushroom risotto, and-- of course-- BUTTERSCOTCH BUDINO! Get thee behind me Murph & Ben with that Butterscotch shit-- I'm trying to cut out sugar over here, people!

Thus concluded another spectacular birthday. May I remind you: when your day comes around, for crying out loud, take the day off from work and go enjoy this fine town of ours. Salud.

Zen and the Art of Halfway Done

noreply@blogger.com (Spike Gillespie) — Tue, 10 Jan 2012 15:10:00 +0000

Happy Birthday to Me. Today I am 48. As I mentioned already, if my grandmother's lifespan (94) is any indication of what I have to look forward to, then turing 48 means that today really is the first day of the rest of my life. I couldn't be more pleased.

For the past several days I have been writing in my heart a long, heartfelt, eloquent post about this occasion. The in-my-head version of how I feel though, is probably not going to see the backlight of a computer screen because instead I am going to hastily dash off a few thoughts, then I am going to hastily dash off and play.

It's barely 8 am and I am so excited I want to pee my pants. I am totally a little kid about my birthday. The universe, anticipating that mine would be a life full of Christmas trauma, attempted to make up for this in advance by handing me an immediately post-holiday celebration I could call my own. Sure, having a birthday right after Christmas means whatever gifts you get come from folks' pile of shit they forgot to return to the store for exchange-- like when I turned 16 and all my friends got birthstone rings except for me, I got a Stretch Monster. But I don't care. I don't even want gifts.

My Birthday Card

You know what I think I love most about today? It's MINE MINE ALL MINE-- mwahahahaha. I don't care how old you get, you can never fully outrun your childhood crap. I have eight siblings, which meant a lot of "sharing." Never mind that's technically it's not sharing if you're forced into it. And yeah, it's totally a first world problem to have to wear hand-me-down pants your whole life. Nonetheless, to have one day a year designated to oneself is a magnificent thing.

I've used this day in the past for all sorts of things-- to drink until vomiting, to honor others with Kick Ass Awards, to order four desserts at Chez Nous. A couple of hours ago, at around 6 am I think, Warren wandered into the bedroom after one of his late night awake spells. "Happy Birthday," he said to groggy me. "What are you going to do?"

I was so out of it I can't be sure what I said, but I think what I said is, "I don't have to do anything, it's like your field of dreams, I can just hang out and pretend."

Let me explain. Warren lives on a couple of acres that I am always proposing we use for one excellent purpose or another-- Let's build me a little house back there! Let's start a goat farm! Let's get a million chickens! Warren often responds enthusiastically to these ideas but after awhile I realize he had no real plans to act on any of them. He said that as long as he keeps those acres blank, he will always have the luxury of looking out on them and they can be something different every time.

Along those lines, I think I could sit in bed all day today and just imagine all sorts of celebration possibilities without actually executing any of them. Besides, I spent the past several days gearing up for today, pre-celebrating. As I've gotten older, and immersed myself more in Buddhist teachings, and deepened my meditation practice, I have tried hard to pay more and more attention to the wonders of my life. I cranked up that attention paying over the weekend festivities, noticing as much as I could every good part of every moment, which has left me plenty to savor today as I just sit here, under the quilts, feeling very, very happy.

On Friday I had dinner with friends who gave me an early birthday card fashioned out of a piece of cardboard so large that, I think, came wrapped around a billboard. Then I went to hear my friend Jim play at Jovita's, prompting a cascade of memories of other times I've heard Jim rock it, and another cascade of memories of all those nights I took Henry to hear Don Walser yodel back when he (Hen, not Don) was three. Henry, in his little vest and red Ropers, used to wander up to the stage with his stringless mini-guitar, stand next to Don, and play along-- easily one of my fondest memories of the first 48.

Paw rocks out on the keytar.

Saturday included-- as all my perfect days do-- a meditation and a long walk. I tried to watch TV since I just got cable turned on as an experiment, and I failed, which I'm pretty sure was not actually a failure. Then, even though I finally managed in 2011 to cut almost all seafood out of my diet, Warren and I went to Tam Deli so I could get a pre-birthday garlic shrimp sandwich, which I refused to feel guilty about-- this is the best sandwich in town and you all need to get one today, this I command you as the Birthday Princess. Post garlic shrimp, we went to hear Southpaw play a hilarious set at Flipnotics, and here he unveiled the theme song he wrote for my KUT v-blog. Driving home I took a circuitous route so I could see if any Elvis movies were listed on the Paramount marquee (seeing as Elvis's bday was January 8th and they sometimes celebrate him there). No signs of Elvis, but this random route allowed us to bear witness to a massive dance party at the Capitol, where about fifty million people were belting out Bon Jovi's Living on a Prayer-- as if I needed any more reason to love Austin, TX.

Sunday I went to the funeral of my friend's mom. And even though funerals are, by their nature, tinged with sadness and full of mourners, this service was so beautiful. Incredible. Leona had been a Rockette, among other things. The tributes paid to her were many and gorgeous, in particular words spoken by her granddaughter who opened with a Rilke quote and eloquently went on to capture her grandmother's memory. May I recommend, as an annual exercise, that all of you attend a funeral right around your birthday, a good reminder that this is not a dress rehearsal. Post funeral I did East Side Yoga with some friends and then, as a counterpose to that, we ate East Side Pies-- if you haven't tried their curry pizza, you should get one of those right after you eat a garlic shrimp sandwich from Tam Deli.

Henry and his lady friend joined me for rainy day yoga-- K made me an amazing lemon bday cake.

Monday I took my time getting up, using the rain as an excuse to hang out in bed with the dogs and read some more of Buddha Standard Time, a wonderful book that spells out clearly and smartly ways you can stop feeling rushed and start truly digging the moment. It was in that book that I read something Jung said about how we spend the first half of our lives developing ego and the second half is... uh... well I'm too lazy to go dig up that passage in the book, but what I took from it is that the second half is about setting that ego shit aside and getting out there and serving others and figuring out this Higher Self shit.

Toward that end, I had a lovely meeting with my friend Owen, who is crazy talented and hilarious and thoughtful. Owen volunteered with Hospice for years, and I was getting ready to turn in my application to work for Hospice, so I wanted to quiz him. He cheerfully offered up some tales about how, no matter how mightily you fly into a death-related situation with your superhero cape on, as in other stages of life you'll encounter plenty of the mundane in dying. Which doesn't mean there aren't profound moments-- and, if you think about the way we Westerners are fed the notion of death (resist, resist, resist!), having an opportunity to discover the mundane and see that it's part of the process just like the rest of living, well you know, that sounds pretty profound to me.

And speaking of mundane, after Owen and I parted ways, I headed to the laundromat. For the past couple of years I have lived dryer free, this despite jokes and bets by Warren and Henry that suggest I am going to break down and buy a new dryer one day. I am not. I love my clothesline. I love hanging up clothes. I love watching clothes dry while I wash the dishes (by hand, no dishwasher). I love smelling line-dried clothes. And given the drought, I hardly ever run into problems using the sun as my dryer. Yesterday was an exception and, eager to start my new year with all clean clothes and sheets, I decided I would go ahead and go to the mat to get that done.

I went to the laundromat over there at 43rd and Duval in Hyde Park. For years I used to live right across the street on Park Boulevard. That old rental house, now literally falling down, is where Henry spent his most formative years. And though we lived in several different places, I think, looking back over his life, that will be the place he most identifies as his childhood home. We used this laundromat countless times. And I remember when he was first old enough to cross the street and go check on drying clothes himself. That laundromat, like the Hancock HEB, is packed with old ghost memories for me, the spirit of little Henry everywhere. Far more than my own aging process, thinking about my son growing up-- from the little sack of potatoes I used to lug around and silence with a tit to the 6'2" young man who has to bend down to let me kiss him-- this is so much more a palpable measure of the passing of time for me than my own life, a wicked vivid signal of how very fast time truly passes.

Being in that laundromat moves me so much. Really, it was the perfect place to spend the last day of 47, the washer with its cycles and the dryers with all that tumbling lending cheesy but nonetheless apt metaphors for where I've been and where I'm going.

Happy My Birthday to You. It is so good to be alive.

Dear, Dear Time Warner: Fuck You! Love, Spike

noreply@blogger.com (Spike Gillespie) — Thu, 05 Jan 2012 17:15:00 +0000

FUCK YOU TIME WARNER!

Dear Time Warner,

I am writing this note to kill some time while I am on hold with your annoying automated system. I realize now, entirely too late, that when I was asked why I was calling by the Robobitch that picked up, I made a grave mistake in revealing the truth to her robo ears. “CANCEL SERVICE!” I shouted, and I admit there was a gleeful tone to my proclamation.

Robobitch, immediately getting even, dumped me into the queue where I was informed that call volume was very high and probably I should call back later. But you know what? I’m not calling back later. I don’t care if you put me on hold for forty-seven fucking hours. I will wait. I can’t wait to tell somebody that I will no longer be using your services.

In fact, as I type this, the extremely nice Grande guys are busily installing that service. Now, mind you, I know Grande is also a big company. And I also know if I have any hope of even finding a road sign indicating that enlightenment is just fifty million light years up that path, this will involve letting go of the Internet altogether. Admittedly, I’m not there yet. And so, lesser of evils, I have selected Grande.

Truth is, I actually called AT&T first, before I called Grande. Let me tell you about that. The other week, when you sent some dude out to turn the cable off at the house because I overlooked a $57 bill? And the dude turned the cable off even though I’ve been paying y’all out the ass for sixteen years? Well I don’t know if AT&T was listening in on my phone calls or what, but within a day or two of that exchange, they had a nice special offer in my mailbox—Internet for just $14.95 per month!

Even though I actually sometimes engage in marketing work to pay my bills and so should know better, I confess I fell for this bait-and-switch offer. I called up and proceeded to get wrapped up in a labyrinth of a discussion with the rep who said well actually… and before you know it, I had agreed to sign up for Uverse at around $80 a month for the first six months and then, I think, $8000 a month after that.

I guess if I were to be totally honest, I was kind of a prime candidate for this bait-and-switch. I made that phone call on one of the last days of 2011, and knowing that 2012 is an election year I admit I have been slobbering for access to the Daily Show. I don’t want to watch it on Hulu either. If I’m going to suddenly become all Stereotypical American and start watching TV, I want to do it right. I want what I want when I want it. And I WANT IT NOW!

Actually, it’s possible that the whole TV thing won’t last more than a month. I have tried so hard over the years to become a dedicated TV watcher but without the aid of a six-pack to keep my ass in the chair, I’m must more of a pacer. I like to wander the house. Being in one place for 28 minute stretches seems like too much (unless we’re talking about real stretches, as in yoga, in which case I can do 28 minute stretches). Still, I want to try this TV thing again. I have fond if slurry memories of my last foray into TV watching, as I was recovering from my hysterectomy, stuck in bed for weeks. It did dawn on me, around week six of recovery, that I only “needed” a Vicodin at around 4, the same time that LIFETIME played one of those movies with a plot involving a recently divorced or widowed middle-aged woman and the stranger she rents a spare room out to, a guy who invariably turns out to be a killer that she ultimately must dispatch swiftly with a rusty old handgun left behind by her husband, thus sparing other unsuspecting widows and divorcees. Oh I loved getting so high, eating a pint of ice cream, and clinging to the predictable but thrilling plotline.

But there was a problem. You see, my partner Warren is a TV addict. When that thing was on, he’d watch it constantly. Until one morning, when I walked into the bedroom to find him clutching it to his groin. When he saw me, he quickly muttered, “Uh, I was just going to move this to another room.” But a friend pointed out to me a more probably truth—Warren was trying to make love to our little television set. Understandably shaken to learn this, that’s when I killed cable TV last time.

Now, though, now here I go again. I can’t help it. The thought of hearing what Jon Stewart has to say about the Republican presidential candidates is too tempting. So yeah, I agreed to get Uverse. They said they’d send a dude right out, the very next day, between 1 and 3.

At a little before noon, dude calls to say he has arrived. I know it is totally a First World Problem to have a utility worker arrive EARLY, more so considering that usually they don’t show up at all, this after you cancel every single other appointment you have just to be there waiting, like the ugly girl on prom night who didn’t realize the guy who invited her was JUST KIDDING so she sits by the window til dawn, weeping into her frothy polyester dress. Any joy I had that he managed to show up at all was tempered by his early arrival and, more so, his attitude. (Aside: Hey, I wonder if ATT ever noticed those are the same first three letters in ATT-itude? Maybe that’s why their employees are so condescending?) Anyway, there I was, more annoyed than relieved that the AT&T guy wanted me to let him start work early. I had arranged my day to be there for the 1-3 slot, knowing I would have to stick around for at least 4 hours. Thus he was interrupting my schedule. When I suggested he go get some lunch and come back at the proper time, he informed me that he had lunch in a very, Look bitch, it’s now or never, kind of way.

FUCK YOU AT&T!!

Well, well, well can you say Mister Unpleasant? Mind you, he wasn’t a flat out raging asshole or clear-cut lunatic—this upsetting in its own right since I so enjoy pigeonholing people. But there was something annoyed and self-righteous about him, a vibe he gave off like I was so LUCKY that he deigned come by my house to do HIS JOB. Then he said I had to trim the bushes, something the woman on the phone never mentioned. I pointed out that, it being New Year’s Eve, the odds of getting a landscaper out to trim these bushes (that were so overgrown they were more like Redwood trees) were probably slim. He just stared at me like I was an idiot.

Fortunately, Warren and his troubleshooting friend came to the rescue, and offered to use a pair of nail clippers and some kindergarten safety scissors to trim the bushes. I set off on a walk with the dogs to calm my nerves. Then Warren called and said that the dude was now saying he needed access to a neighbor’s yard, and the neighbor wasn’t answering, but there was a dog in the yard, so all bets were off, he was leaving. And he left.

At that point, I was thinking two things:

Thing One: That neighbor is SUCH A BITCH. The day I came home from my hysterectomy, and Rebound busted through the back fence into her yard, I hobbled outside, literally doubled over in pain, to tell the neighbor I just had an organ removed and was sorry about the dog and would fix things as soon as I could stand up straight again. She just glared and said, “YOU NEED A NEW FENCE!” And then she watched while I attempted to nail the hole over with a board, never offering to help. And then, later when I got one, even though it divides both our properties, of course she didn’t chip in. So I knew there was no way she’ ever let the guy in, even if she was home.

Thing Two: Fuck that AT&T guy. I don’t need to put up with his shit. If he so clearly doesn’t want to do his job, then I don’t want him here giving me his shitty attitude.

Which is when I noticed that Grande—also apparently tapping my wires and listening in— had sent a special offer in the mail. Wow! How do these folks do it? So I called Grande and a human answered right away and when I told her what I wanted, she connected me to another human who also answered right away. And when I asked questions, that human knew all the answers. And then they said they’d send somebody out. And the window was from 9 til 1. And the guy got here at 9:15. And then the other guy got here. And they are here right now and they are rocking it. So there, Time Warner idiots! So there AT&T idiots!

DEAR GRANDE, WILL YOU MARRY ME?

Meanwhile, I did call AT&T to cancel the order and, again, I made the error of telling a roboemployee that I wanted to cancel, which got me dumped into the go-to-hell queue, where I spent about forty minutes of my life I will never get back until I was finally connected to a human. At least when I did connect with her, she acted sympathetic. She even said she would make a note about the shitty attitude of the guy who came out to the house. I told her please do NOT do that because, really, would you want a stranger who knows where you live to know that you got him at trouble at work? Oh no, no thank you. I insisted that she just put down a generic reason for the cancel.

Anyway, Time Warner, since I started writing this, it “only” took y’all 18 minutes to get me through to a service person to cancel my service. And the Grande guys—who were nice and smart and helpful—have already finished up! Now the only thing upsetting me is that I didn’t call them sooner. I am trying to make up for this foolishness by encouraging all of my friends to set aside the necessary time to go ahead and switch internet services, switch banks, switch away from all the businesses that do not give a shit about their customers.

Au Revoir,

Spike

I've Got a Few Spaces Left in the Upcoming Six-Week Writing Workshop

noreply@blogger.com (Spike Gillespie) — Mon, 02 Jan 2012 17:09:00 +0000

So did you make a resolution to make more time to do what you really want to do in 2012? And does that include FINALLY sitting down and doing some writing like you've been meaning to do FOREVER? If so, I have excellent news for you-- there are a few slots left in my next workshop. Here's some info:

Winter Six-Week Writing Workshop
Dates: 1/5, 1/12, 1/19, 1/26, 2/2, 2/9
Time: 7 - 9 pm
Cost: $300 (ask me about a discount for returning students)
Description: We'll spend six weeks talking about all aspects of memoir/creative non-fiction from process to publication. There are weekly homework assignments, in-class writing as time allows, group feedback and one-on-one coaching via email during the course of the six weeks. Also, I recently added another component-- those interested can participate in a public reading of their work at Hyde Park Theater. See the testimonials page over at Write With Spike to find out what past attendees have to say about their experience. There are only a few spaces left in this workshop. Email me to sign up.

The Year in (Just Twelve) Pictures

noreply@blogger.com (Spike Gillespie) — Sun, 01 Jan 2012 01:00:00 +0000

I probably took at least 2,000 pictures in 2011. But amazingly enough, I managed to narrow this collection down to just a dozen-- one for each month-- to capture That Which is Most Important In Life. Herewith, my selection. Happy New Year, Y'all-- damn this year went fast.

JANUARY

FEBRUARY

MARCH

APRIL

MAY

JUNE

JULY

AUGUST

SEPTEMBER

OCTOBER

NOVEMBER

DECEMBER

A Little Gratitude During this Godforsaken Holiday Crap

noreply@blogger.com (Spike Gillespie) — Sat, 24 Dec 2011 20:59:00 +0000

As the year draws to a close, I would like to issue thanks to the following:

Dear Everybody Who Knows and Understands How Very Much I Detest This Time of Year, and Recognizes That Holiday Depression is a Real Affliction,

Thank you for taking the time to email me all your kind words of hope, appreciation and reassurance. I wish I didn’t need that sort of thing. I wish I could will the crappy feelings away, knowing as I do that they come and go every year, but I can’t. Your kindness and tolerance of my grinchiness means more to me than I can adequately express.

Dear Time Warner,

Thank you for sending some guy out yesterday to shut my internet juice off at the house while I was away at work. I know I’ve been a loyal customer (read: internet addict) for sixteen years now and that this does not net me the courtesy of continued service when I overlook a $57 outstanding payment. Whatever pissed offedness I feel to you has been quite offset by the urgent texts from my neighbor who let me know, as I was driving home from work, that maybe my house was being broken into (again). I take so much comfort in the fact that I have such a great neighbor, a comfort I might’ve overlooked had it not been for your thoughtful efforts to get my attention (because I know that without my $57 you’d be teetering on the edge of bankruptcy). I wonder if Grande will treat me similarly when I switch over them as a tangible signal of my gratitude? I can’t wait to find out!

And speaking of utility companies…

Dear AT&T,

I want to also thank you, for giving my other next door neighbor such crappy service. When his phone went out yesterday, he had to come over and use mine, which turned out nicely, since I’ve been meaning to check in on him for weeks but got too busy with my own depression bullshit. His need of my phone and your insistence on putting us on hold for twenty minutes gave us a chance to catch up some. I just love my neighbor— he’s the best I ever had— so this unexpected together time was a real treat. It was also a chance for me to teach him, a 78 year-old technophobe, the wonders of the iPhone. He was able to figure out the elegant GUI in no time flat, and we had a good laugh over that. Plus, since you can’t repair the phone of an elderly man until “at least Monday,” I’m anticipating that we’ll have more time to catch up when he comes by to use mine again. It’s going to be hard not to show him Angry Birds, but I’m not sure if I want him hanging around until he gets to the ten gazillionth level.

Dear Steve Jobs,

Thanks for being the man behind the iPhone and even more for granting Walter Isaacson access to your inside story. I just finished the bio he wrote about you and damn, you really were a supreme asshole, weren’t you, dude? I learned a lot from your life story and I have to say that, given a choice between creating addictive technology that has so many of us constantly absorbed by our shiny little pocket computers and being nice, I really do think I would choose the latter. Powerful lesson, dude.

Dear Dante,

You big silly Labrador, thank YOU for shitting big runny shits from one end of the kitchen to the other last night while I was at an overnight babysitting gig. I realize in hindsight, after filling four poop bags, that I wasn’t even remotely irritated at the task. This was yet another reminder of how much I love you and the other dogs for all the unconditional love you bring into my life.

Dear Other Dogs,

Don’t get jealous over that personal shout out to Dante—I love you, too, and yes I did find those substantially smaller, drier poops you left in the laundry room. And no, those didn’t make me mad, either.

Dear All You Parents Who Allowed Me to Spend Time with Your Kids this Month and Who Acted Like I was Doing YOU a Favor,

To you I say au contraire! What a kindness you did me in allowing me the distraction of making arts & crafts and playing Wii and Lego and everything else. This helped me get outside of my head, the one that was filling up with self-pity and holiday gloom. I mean it when I say I will gladly watch your kids anytime.

Dear Super Cranky Postal Worker Lady,

Thank you for earlier today when I came in to pick up a package. All the times you’ve been a total bitch to me and yelled and were all talk to the hand when I protested your discourteous behavior? Those were, I must admit, slightly mitigated by the fact you were only mildly bitchy today when you mumbled an irritated and insincere Merry Christmas to me. Here’s hoping in the New Year we can both stop glaring at each other.

Dear Darling Son,

Thank you for asking, in a truly hopeful fashion, if I was going to make cheesecakes this year. You know, I really wasn’t going to, but since you put it like that, as I type this, I am making precisely one batch of two cheesecakes. Remember when I used to make thirty or forty each year and the joke was, “Keep the Oven Full at Christmas So There’s No Room for Your Head”? Well as I made those two cheesecakes today, I wondered how the hell I ever mustered the energy to make so many, and I started thinking how, wow, maybe therapy did work, and maybe I am slightly less OCD these days, so that’s cool. I also realized the house smells pretty damn good when I make cheesecakes—all that cinnamon. (But let’s get this straight: you WILL be taking the damn cheesecake home with you tomorrow because I need to stop eating crap.)

Dear All of You Who Inexplicably Seem to Enjoy this Miserable Time of the Year,

While I would ask that next year maybe you lay off the reindeer antlers on your car roof, I want you to know that I am trying (really, really I am) to understand that we all have different perspectives and that you are entitled to like this overblown, commercialized holiday. To you I say Merry Christmas, and honestly, my tone is at least slightly less irritated than that of the Super Cranky Postal Worker Lady.

Dear Santa Claus aka Carl Anderson,

Let me say to you, and not in a begrudging fashion, that what you said at the Dick Monologues show about your job for the past thirty years as the most popular mall Santa in the universe really did fill my heart. I seriously appreciate your insight.

And finally,

Dear the Rest of You Who Share My Disdain,

I totally understand, I know it’s a total double suck you/we are going through, to not only hate the holiday but to be subjected to so many misguided people who want to “cheer you up!” and make you “get into the spirit!” Please believe me when I tell you that I’ve been going through this for nearly fifty years now, and we really, really are going to get through it. Less than two days to go.

GODSPEED through the fog,

Spike

Office of Good Deeds Asks You...

noreply@blogger.com (Spike Gillespie) — Thu, 22 Dec 2011 15:11:00 +0000

Hey Y'all,

So let's see-- the economy is in the toilet, it's the holiday season during which we pressure ourselves to spend money we don't have on crap we don't need, and...

Oh wait, I'm being glum and you're not supposed to be glum when soliciting good deeds. Okay, let me try that again. Take Two:

Hi Y'all!

Isn't it the most WONDERFUL time of the year?! Well I have a way for you to make it more wonderful. This past year, I found out about Casa Marianella, this amazing homeless shelter in East Austin that, for 25 years, has been providing food, shelter, English classes, social services and legal advice to immigrants seeking asylum. Folks find Casa M often after terrifying journeys that include fleeing homelands where they have been tortured, and detention centers here in the U.S. where they have been kept, like prisoners, for months or years at a time.

You'd think a place like Casa might be full of the broken-spirited but that's not the case. There really is a lot of hope and optimism going on. I got to spend some time over there this summer with my friend, Sarah, a lawyer who does pro bono work helping these folks out. I was so excited to find out about this resource and, having some Office of Good Deeds funds hanging around looking for the right place to land, I hooked the residents up with a really awesome badminton set. Because, you know, it can totally suck just sitting around, unable to work due to legal constraints, waiting for a shot at asylum and a life that is free of brutality and oppression.

To speed up the process from badminton-playing, legally-mired immigrant to free and productive citizen, Casa Marianella has started a new legal clinic. Okay, here's the part where I hit you up for some dough. Can you spare $5? Tell ya what-- you can forgo getting me a Christmas gift AND a birthday gift (what, you forgot my birthday is in two weeks?) and just earmark a portion of what you would have spent to buy me a new chicken coop and spinning wheel on helping these folks out.

Five bucks. That's all I'm asking. You can donate online here. Please indicate that your donation is for the new legal clinic.

Thanks,

Spike

Rupert Holmes Salon Part 2! Wednesday, 12/21. Be There or Be On My Shit List!

noreply@blogger.com (Spike Gillespie) — Tue, 20 Dec 2011 16:57:00 +0000

So Kathy Kehoe and I have been grandly scheming to create another stunning Salon de Rupert Holmes for y'all. For those of you who missed the last one, the idea is that we want to provide a setting for folks to meet, a setting that doesn't rhyme with Ratch Dot Pom or Me Farmony. A setting that isn't about jello shots. A place where you can admit to loving books and that is a good thing.

We were sort of focusing on this Make it For Singles thing. But as we continue to re-shape the PlayDough, we have decided, WTH, why not just open it up to all? So that's this month's experiment. ALL of Y'ALL are welcome and you better show up OR ELSE. We'll meet tomorrow at The Snug, which is actually located INSIDE OF Tom's Tabooley on the Drag. Cover is $5. We start at 8 and end at 10. Here's what you do:

Show up, maybe even a little early. Order up some awesome yet reasonably priced food and/or beverages (yes, they have beer and wine) on the Tom's side, then head on over to the Snug side and grab a seat at our Big Dinner table. We'll chat and eat for the first hour. Then we'll have some amazing entertainment. This month, that means the brilliance of:

Kathy Kehoe!
Terry Bowman! (who flew in from SF to entertain you people!)
Paul Klemperer! An avid REEDER (who knows if he'll show up with sax or clarinet. Maybe both!)
Richard Steinberg aka Mr. Smarty Pants, he of Chronicle Fame!

Please join us! Please tell your friends! This is a safe harbor for book lovers, holiday haters, and all ye of good cheer AND sourpusses. Our only rule: no assholes! Isn't that easy and refreshing?!

See you WEDNESDAY DECEMBER 21, 2012 at THE SNUG!

I, Spike: Holiday Capitalist Pig! Please-- Buy My Stuff!!

noreply@blogger.com (Spike Gillespie) — Wed, 14 Dec 2011 15:58:00 +0000

Act today and help keep this dog from eating shit!

Hey Y'all,
Welcome to this week's exercise in hypocrisy! Even though I enjoy bad-mouthing the holidays and also condemning over-consumerism, I am here today to peddle to you my books. And I am going to suggest what lovely holiday gifts they'd make. Ready:

BUY SPIKE'S BOOKS FOR YOUR LOVED ONES THIS HOLIDAY SEASON! BECAUSE NOTHING SAYS SEASON'S GREETINGS! LIKE A COPY OF PISSED OFF UNDER THE FESTIVUS POLE!

Okay let me 'fess up. Remember the whole bullshit with The Moth? And remember how I had that bad case of the What Ifs? As in What If this performance gets me noticed? Well part of that prompted me to acquire many copies of some of my books, which I had intended to sell at the merch table. Now I have that back stock and I was thinking... (uh-oh, not that again). If I can sell these books to y'all, I can pay my mortgage this month and still have money left to feed Rebound the delicious wet food she so loves, so she can stop eating Dante's shit and then barfing it on my bed.

So how many birds is that with one stone if you buy my books? Let's see: I keep my house, Rebound gets fed, my sheets stay clean and you don't have to fight the crowds to go shopping. I'll even sign, gift wrap, and mail the books to your recipients.

Or maybe you have all my books already. And maybe your friends do, too. So okay then, what about giving the gift of a Spike Writing Workshop? That can be arranged. Just let me know and I'll print up a nice gift certificate and mail that along. So here's info on the books and the workshops.

I've got three books in stock-- scroll down for ordering info:

Everyone's favorite holiday topic: RAGE!

This one is safe for Moms and Grandmoms! It's about quilting.

A collection of my essays. UT Press photoshopped out my Bush is a Punk Ass Chump bumper sticker, but I had a bunch of mini ones printed up so act now and I'll include one of those.

The books are $20 each. Postage for 1 is $4, for 2 is $6 and for 3 is $7.

If you prefer to give the gift of a writing workshop-- my next one starts in January, runs for six weeks, and costs $300. If you email me before the 20th and tell me the secret code (which is Rebound Eats Dante's Poop) I will give you a $50 discount.

If you want to order stuff, just email me.

Thanks!

Zen and the Art of the After School Special

noreply@blogger.com (Spike Gillespie) — Mon, 12 Dec 2011 19:41:00 +0000

Hello Everyone!
My name is Spike and when I'm not walking around feeling totally irritated with my fellow human beings and/or being held (sort of gleefully) captive by running snarky commentary in my head about say, how the American Apparel model type in front of me in yoga class apparently forgot to wear underpants beneath her sheer stretchy pants (Wait til you're 47 honey, then let's get a look at that ass without a foundation garment!) I actually, believe it or not, LOVE BEING NICE TO PEOPLE!

I love it. I really do.

I'm not going to spend a hell of a lot of time here today going over one of the big things I learned in Emo Chemo (my name for therapy). Let's just say that someone smarter than me pointed out what appears to be a pretty clearcut pattern on the part of yours truly to swing, sometimes wildly, between good girl and bad. Could it be the heaven and hell model in which I was raised? Oh sure, why not, if I can still get away with blaming my parents, sign me up. Or let's point our finger at the media for hyperbolic hero/villain breakdowns of everything. Or hey, how about fucking Santa Claus with all that Have you been naughty or nice? bullshit? What, Santa? No gray area in which I wasn't naughty enough to merit a spot on Middle Age Bitches Gone Wild nor nice enough to pass full-stocking muster? Can't I have one goddamn day (or week or month or year or decade) where what I do doesn't get judged?

Anyway, so being nice, yeah, it's the nice antidote/counterpose to my love affair with sarcasm.
Por ejemplo:

The other day, I ran into my friend Alyssa at Cherrywood Coffee. Not a surprise-- we live blocks from each other and blocks from the cafe. Nor was it a surprise that Alyssa looked beautiful. She always looks beautiful. But on this particular day, instead of keeping my secret admirer observations to myself, I decided to enthusiastically let her know just how beautiful she looked. How did I do that? I said, "WOW ALYSSA YOU LOOK BEAUTIFUL!" just like that. And when we leaned in for a hug, I noticed she also smelled beautiful (also not a surprise-- Alyssa's first book is about to come out and it's all about scents). So I said, "WOW ALYSSA! YOU SMELL DELICIOUS!!" And then me, being me, I invited her to come over to my house and make out with me, which Warren might applaud but I'm thinking maybe Alyssa wasn't so interested in and likely, too, her husband might not get behind (which isn't to say he isn't liberal or generous, but probably just, you know monogamous).

Alyssa lit up even more than her already glowy self when I told her how cheering her loveliness was to my eyes and nose. And when she lit up, I kinda lit up, too, and it reminded me of something I think I sometimes forget: Saying nice stuff to people can actually feel as good as ripping someone a new asshole! Cool! I know I know this, but damn, I do forget it sometimes so it's really nice to be revisited by the concept. Because E=each time I recover from my ongoing amnesia-regarding-the-saying-of-nice-things, a couple of things pop into my head. They are:

Your hat is so beautiful!
No, no, YOUR hat is so beautiful!

Number One: Yeah, I guess I kind of am the crazy lady that will walk up to you, a complete stranger, and ask if I can touch your beautiful fuzzy hat, or pet your beautiful fuzzy dog, or admire your beautiful fuzzy haired baby. I like to think I have good boundaries around this-- offering a balled hand to be sniffed, a gentle hello for the kids, a non-lingering caress of the hat. Maybe some other people (Warren? Henry?) think I'm borderline nuts and possibly freaking out these people/pets/babies simply by approaching them at all. But I swear I just try to get in and get out with the niceties UNLESS, say, the clerk with whom I am discussing the benefits of buying slow cook steel cut oats in bulk vs. overly packaged quick oats wants to segue off and talk about how his grandmother, before she died in a freak Arizona snowstorm in July, used to always make him slow cook oats softened with possum milk. Then, okay, I will either a) cheerfully stick around for the extended dance mix conversation or b) stick around for the conversation and fake cheerfulness because even if I'm bored out of my skull, I can tell the clerk is feeling all warm and mushy inside (not unlike the oatmeal at the heart of the discussion) and so that's a good thing. Plus, you know, I started it, right?

and

Number Two: Episode 6, Season 5 of the ABC After School Special, titled Very Good Friends and starring Melissa Sue Anderson, she of Little House fame. (While I admit that this episode got stuck in my head from the moment I first saw it in April, 1977, IMDB did just lend a major assist for me in tracking down the exact episode, title and date because you know what? I'm not THAT big of a freak.) In the episode, Melissa Sue's character (described in IMDB as "a sensitive young girl") has to come to terms with the death of her little sister who, as I recall (freakishly, yes) dies when she falls out of her treehouse and breaks her neck. The moral of the story is not, as you might guess, to be careful climbing out of your treehouse.

Instead, we discover that the dead girl had a super cheerful demeanor and a self-imposed rule by which she always remembered to find something lovely about everyone she met, and to give voice to that loveliness, to let the other person know know! So when she looks at a rather plain looking neighbor and sees not her plainness, but instead a certain spark that reminds her of... get ready for it... Elizabeth Taylor! (Remember, this was '77), she says, "YOU REMIND ME OF ELIZABETH TAYLOR!" and the woman totally lights up. On the one hand, we-- the young and easily influenced home viewer avoiding pre-algebra homework to watch the program-- are now doubly horrified that this super sweet child was so rudely robbed of a future by an evil treehouse ladder. On the other hand, trauma often makes for more indelible memories than joy, so fueled by our horror, some of us-- by applause how many of you also remember this episode?-- clung to that moral and carried it with us.

Which is to say, yeah, I can't ever just compliment someone now. I have to then immediately think of that After School Special episode, the single thing that most inspired me to be grow up and become the scary lady behind you in line who no, does not want to tuck your tag in but, yes, wants to say, "Gosh, you remind me of a young Peter Frampton, sonny! Do you know who that is? Want me to show you on my smartphone?!"

I'm so grateful to Alyssa for showing up just when she did. I was having a kind of crappy day before then. But afterwards I felt much better thanks to our big happy energy swap. And even now I'm getting a nice residual boost as I discover that somebody or somebodies actually went to the trouble to list every single After School Special at IMDB, along with synopses like these:

Season 4, Episode 6: Blind Sunday

Original Air Date—21 April 1976
In an effort to understand his blind girlfriend, a teenage boy decides to spend an entire Sunday blindfolded.

Season 6, Episode 4: It Isn't Easy Being a Teenage Millionaire

Original Air Date—8 March 1978
14-year-old wins the lottery and thinks all her problems are over. But she quickly learns that her real problems are just beginning.

Season 8, Episode 5: The Heartbreak Winner

Original Air Date—13 February 1980
Teenage figure skater learns to true value of winning when she meets a paraplegic youngster.

Season 11, Episode 3: A Very Delicate Matter

Original Air Date—10 November 1982
Teenage girl is shocked when a former boyfriend tells her he has gonorrhea. Not only does she get tested, she must tell her current boyfriend to get tested as well.

I think I might just stop reading all the bad news in NYT and from now on only ever read After School Special descriptions. Damn I loved that show. I wish I could run into it at a coffeehouse and say, "After School Special, you STILL look hot 35 years later!"

The Pepper Spray Cop Meets His Match: Welcome to Brokeback Mountain 2011!

noreply@blogger.com (Spike Gillespie) — Fri, 09 Dec 2011 23:12:00 +0000

produced by Ori "Genius" Sofer

Meet the Parents: Review-- God of Carnage at Zach Scott

noreply@blogger.com (Spike Gillespie) — Thu, 08 Dec 2011 16:12:00 +0000

Lauren Lane & Thomas Ward in God of Carnage
photo copyright Kirk Tuck 2011

As promised in my recent I HEART AUSTIN post, I am here to deliver Reasons Why You Must Go See God of Carnage at Zach Scott. Let me just come out of the gates with the most important reason of all:

BECAUSE I SAID SO!

Now order your tickets quick, before reading more, because I predict this show, which runs through January 8, 2012, is going to sell out and sell out and sell out, as it should.

Okay, got your tickets? Good. Now let us continue. First, a confession: I don’t often read other reviews before writing my own and, with rare exception, do I comment on other reviewers. That said, the other day I read what at best could be described as a tepid endorsement of God of Carnage and I had to wonder if that reviewer and I saw the same show. Because that reviewer (who shall remain nameless and genderless here) did not jump up and down and proclaim what a hilarious show this is. REALLY? REALLY? Because I laughed through the entire thing.

While I don’t usually go in for spoilers, it’s perfectly fine for me to describe the premise here, since the piece is more about character study and human relationships than some massive, convoluted plot that gets resolved in the end. We’ve got two married couples—Annette and Alan Raleigh (played by Angela Rawna and Eugene Lee) and Veronica and Michael Novak (played by Lauren Lane and Thomas Ward). The Raleighs are a wealth manager (her) and a big pharma attorney (him). The Novaks are a salesman (hardware type stuff—him) and a “writer” and part time art bookstore clerk (her). We open up with the four gathered in the Novak’s modern-y living room (are they putting on airs with this decor? Probably. ) Veronica is reading a strongly (you might say offensively) worded statement regarding how the Raleigh’s son, Benjamin, attacked the Novak’s son, Henry, resulting in the damage of the latter’s two incisors.

While the kids are discussed often in the ensuing 90 minutes (this is a one act, no intermission show), they never make an appearance. Instead the Novaks and the Raleighs discuss this “event” that brought them together literally ad nauseam, to wonderful effect. I love to keep an eye on where my free associating mind travels whenever I’m at a show, be it a Neil Diamond concert, a Broadway musical, a heavy movie, or a staged comedy. Here’s what I came up with for God of Carnage: it’s sort of a mash-up of Elvis Costello’s Indoor Fireworks, a very light version of Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?, and Bunuel’s Exterminating Angel. We’ve got four people who cannot seem to extract themselves from one another’s company despite the fact (or likely because of it) they are driving each other nuts (and to drink).

The brilliance in this show comes in part from the wonderful physical comedy. But more than anything, it comes in the way playwright Yasmina Reza (note: it was written in French and translated by Christopher Hampton) configures and reconfigures allegiances throughout the piece. One minute the Novaks are a united front. The next, Veronica will say something that Michael finds offensive and he’ll correct her, drawing support for one or the other Raleigh. This happens over and over as couples first concur then wildly disagree in different formations. This is going to be a stretch here, but did you ever see that little stacking magnet game? The metal pieces are shaped like tiny people and you can build them up and up but then they collapse on top of one another and you have to start again? Okay, THAT’S what these interactions reminded me of, people moving toward and away from each other like magnets pushing and pulling depending on which way they’re facing.

Something else I love about this show—you are welcome to enjoy it on the surface: four lunatic, hovering, longwinded, hilariously annoying adults getting entirely too embroiled in a kids’ brawl. Or, you can dig deeper. My joke as we were leaving was that I certainly learned some great new argument techniques from the show and I couldn’t wait to try them out at home on Warren. You should feel a little uncomfy watching God of Carnage—not too much but just enough. Think comfortably uncomfortable. Because if you are a human that has ever interacted with any other human ever in your life, and if you have ever gone from being enamored with someone to totally annoyed by them, you are going to be gazing into the looking glass here.

And while I sometimes enjoy such reflection as delivered by heavier, more serious works, I gotta say that being reminded in a comedic fashion of the folly that is Being Human is my favorite sort of comeuppance. None of us are any better than the rest of us. We might not be as annoying as the Novaks or the Raleighs, but to be certain we’ve all got our faults.

Big bravos to director Matt Lenz and all the players here-- each pulls their character’s weight wonderfully. I always have to give a special shout out to Lauren Lane who, for a couple of years, was wonderful enough to make time to be in my Dick Monologues. If you need any reminder of one major reason we are so lucky to live in Austin, go see her in this show or any show she does. Hell, go watch her wash the laundry. She is a great gift to the stage and in God of Carnage her wonderful performance is well matched by Lee, Rawna and Ward.

Really, awesome, y’all. Go see for yourself.

Austin, Texas, Come Over Here RIGHT NOW and LET ME GIVE YOU A BIG FAT HUG!!

noreply@blogger.com (Spike Gillespie) — Mon, 05 Dec 2011 23:32:00 +0000

Photo courtesy of and copyright: Sarah Bork Hamilton (2010)

Most weekends I am wrapped up in my wedding business but December is a slow month for getting hitched, so this past weekend I had an entire Saturday and Sunday to myself. There was a great temptation to stay in bed with the dogs and read-- possibly my favorite comfort activity. But the voices insisted that I get my ass up and do something. I think this might be related to Middle Aged Brain Syndrome whereby I have come to know myself well enough to recognize that the so-called Holiday Season is a potentially dangerous time of year for me. Seasonal Affective Disorder is a distinct possibility, and with it comes my holiday motto, "Keep the oven full so there's no room for your head." What I'm getting at is that common sense, at long last, seems to prevail. So realizing that lying around in bed can be the start of something bad, I dragged myself out into the world, determined to stave off holiday depression this year.

You have to see it at night!

In truth, I got a running start last Tuesday night, when I headed over to Mueller for the lighting of the NOEL sign atop my beloved air traffic control tower. This activity went beyond tolerable and into the arena of downright pleasant, and thus armed I got a funny idea in my head. I thought, "Wouldn't it be funny on several levels if I went to the John Aielli Christmas Tree Caroling and Lighting Festivities at the capitol?" I mean, I was actually considering doing this in a non-sarcastic fashion. Fast forward for a second-- I did not, in fact, make it to the event, but just the fact that I considered it is a sign to me that either a) I am finally lightening up after 46 years of hating Christmas or b) I actually am exhibiting signs of early Alzheimer's.

So what did I do Saturday? I started out with a yoga class at East Side Yoga, where Lance cheerfully kicked our asses, an activity in which we joyfully and willingly participated. Lance likes to adjust my poses and gently lift me by the head and ask, "Can you feel the difference?" And I'm like, "Duh, Lance, of course I can feel the difference, you're, like LIFTING MY HEAD FOR ME!" Maybe I can start doing yoga by proxy, whereby I stay in child's pose while Lance whips through forty sun salutes on my behalf, but courtesy of some Steve Jobs beyond-the-grave technology, my ass shows the sculpted results of Lance's efforts. I like this plan.

This is a picture of a balloon release that was part of the remembrance ceremony for Chris Kern in September.

After yoga, I hopped over to Cherrywood Coffeehouse to catch up with Simon. Simon is one of my absolutely favorite people and we met in large part thanks to the beautiful memorial bench down at Town Lake that is dedicated to the memory of Chris Kern, who died twenty years ago, the victim of a drunk driver. It's a very long story how this bench brought Simon and me together, but let me just say that bench is magic, the energy in it amazing, and if you've never visited it, I hope you'll put that on your list.

Danny at Peacock makes my hair all pretty.

After Simon, I scooted over to Peacock Salon on the East Side because my ego had insisted I make a hair appointment with Danny back when I still thought I could be part of The Moth without selling my soul. Even after I discovered otherwise, I kept the appointment because Danny has been doing my hair off and on for 20 years, and he helped to raise Henry, and seeing him is always a hoot. As he was finishing up, I asked if there was a place nearby to get a plant, and he told me GREAT news: Big Red Sun, which once upon a time had a retail space, but then didn't, now does again sell plants to the public.

Big Red Sun is BACK! Yay!

Better still, Big Red Sun is just a few blocks from Peacock. I went in there right before they closed and it was like my Narnia or Wonderland or something. Just the two nice folks running the place were there, along with two nice dogs. Leonard Cohen was singing an especially maudlin, beautiful tune. The place is so gorgeous on the inside, and outside there are tons of succulents to choose from. I walked through the massive sliding door and had the backyard to myself, and with Leonard crooning I just took my time drinking in the succulent succulents until I settled on a couple. One for me, and one for Chris's aforementioned bench. Because Saturday was December 3rd, the anniversary of Chris's birthday. I usually remember it because it's the day after Henry's. For many, many years I took flowers or plants to the bench on his birthday and death anniversary, but I'd fallen out of the habit and wanted to change that.

I want to live in a house filled with succulents.

So I took a little succulent down to the bench, and Town Lake was deserted thanks to the weather. It was quiet and muddy and wet and gray. I was just there for a minute, but it was a minute full of a million memories, the countless times I'd been to that bench, the nearly thirteen years I walked around the lake nearly every day.

A truly terrible picture of the Mother Falcon show.

Then I scooted home-- by now it was too late to join forces with John Aielli, but still I wanted to go downtown because Mother Falcon was playing at the Frost Bank Building. I LOVE MOTHER FALCON and, bonus points, Henry's got friends in the band. Jill joined me and we found a miracle parking spot (this is my secret hidden talent in life-- good parking spots). We only had about twenty minutes because we were also heading to a play. So we strolled down Congress at a good clip, and there were tons of people out for a big, orchestrated Holiday Stroll. I could hear the Minor Mishap Marching Band behind us, yet another reason I love Austin. But we didn't have time to wait for them. So we scooted down to the MF show, and lots of folks were gathered, sitting on these yarn-bombed yoga balls that I had seen just the week before at another event. (I am being followed by yarn covered balls, people!) In the very short period we were there, we witnessed yet another one of those SPECTACULAR AUSTIN MOMENTS that makes you wonder why anyone would live anywhere else in the world ever. The Minor Mishap band had made their way to the Frost building. They gathered, en masse, behind Mother Falcon and then, in a moment of unity I shan't ever forget, both bands played Johnny Cash's Ring of Fire. OMG-- I am getting weepy just recalling it. It was SUPER AWESOME!

I am being stalked by these yarn bombed yoga balls. Not a bad thing.

Then on to Zach Theatre to see God of Carnage featuring the inimitable Lauren Lane. I'm going to write a full blown review of the show in a day or two (hint: IT IS SO FUCKING FABULOUS BUY YOUR TICKETS NOW!!). After that, as if the show itself wasn't splendid enough, there was a fantastic after party with food by Austin Catering. Hello, world living outside of Austin? What fools you are!

Doesn't this explain a lot about why I like to spend so much time in bed?

I got home Saturday night so elated that an idea came to me. Instead of spending Sunday reading the NYT-- (totally pleasurable once I rip that GD Texas Tribune sticker off the front ENOUGH WITH THE TexTrib STICKER!!!)-- what if I stayed on a roll and went out again, and just kept the excitement going? I was thinking a lot about my old job with JetBlue where I used to write thirteen articles every week about how fantastic Austin is. That was such a good job that it was crazy-- to be paid fabulously well to go around writing love letters to the city. I decided to re-inhabit those days, to go for it, to skip NYT and seize Day Two of the free weekend.

What a splendid choice.

Sunday looked like this:
Meditation at East Side Yoga

A slow drive around East Austin with Ross-- Ross and I raised our sons together. We stopped at East Village Cafe, an awesome, seemingly undiscovered cafe on 11th Street. Then on to Cisco's for the migas-- my favorite place to get migas.

Cisco's Migas. Food of the Gods.

After brunch, I scooted home to put on my church clothes because I had a memorial service to attend. For those of you who did not know Joe Gracey, you can learn more about him here and here. He played an absolutely pivotal role putting Texas music on the map. I only met Joe once, when I had dinner at his place with him and his wife, the amazing singer-songwriter Kimmie Rhodes. Joes's story is stunning-- a DJ from age 14, cancer took his tongue and his voice when he was 28. He reinvented himself. He was so beloved. His memorial service was held at the new ACL Moody Theatre and around 2000 people attended. Joe Nick Patoski gave a great send-off, as did Joe Sears dressed as a preacher. The Flatlanders played and so did Alvin Crow and others. I don't think Joe would mind me saying that Austin is such a bad ass town that even the funerals rock.

Water bottles with Joe Gracey's picture on them at the memorial service.

Flatlanders open the memorial service. That's Joe Sears in the vestments-- he did a hilarious "sermon."

Post-memorial service, it was off to Jo's on Second Street for some hot chocolate. This was very good, but I confess that I will spend the rest of my life desperately seeking the chocolat chaud experience I had in Paris in 2009. I know it's not going to happen. But damn, I keep trying.

Drinking Jo's hot chocolate makes me look a LOT younger! JK, JK-- this is Jill, my weekend partner in crime.

From Jo's we went over to the Alamo Ritz for the Master Pancake Christmas Show. SILENT SHIT, HOLY SHIT, PEOPLE! Have you seen this? Owen Egerton, John Erler, and Joe Parsons ad lib their way through a bunch of Christmas show clips and they also throw in sketch comedy. I laughed so hard I think certain parts of my body won't ever recover. The show plays through the rest of the month and you really need to go see it. Sweet Baby Jesus these guys are hilarious.

Me and the Master Pancake Geniuses!

You might think that by the time I got out of there I'd be ready to collapse. Au contraire! I was totally energized and even, oddly, felt like maybe I didn't hate Christmas after all. So I insisted that Warren and Anderson go with me over to this house in Clarksville behind Jeffrey's, where every year the place is covered in lights. A year ago I performed a wedding on this lawn, and that was one way I fought off the threat of Holiday Depression 2010. (I am really starting to get the hang of Not Hating the Holidays So Much.)

Clarksville

Then I popped by Toy Joy for a second to grab a magic wand for a friend of mine. I carry a magic wand with me wherever I go and it really helps me magically improve people's moods (including my own). I think I need to just carry a case of them and hand them out.

Toy Joy!

Post Toy Joy I swung by Wheatsville and procured some local chevre, some brie, and some Honey Crisp apples. These I shared with friends, before finally-- FINALLY-- going home to collapse in bed with the dogs.

A cheesy finish to a fantastic weekend.

What an absolutely fantastic weekend in Austin. I had been so busy for so long with weekend weddings that, while I never ever forget what a great town we live in, I sure had forgotten precisely how fun it is to go out on the town like you're a tourist. Seriously, you should try it-- forget about decking the halls. Just clear the decks instead, screw the housework and errand running, go out and enjoy our fine town, goldang it. OMG we are so lucky to live here!

You're the Best Thing That Ever Happened to Me

noreply@blogger.com (Spike Gillespie) — Fri, 02 Dec 2011 22:19:00 +0000

I woke up this morning feeling ten tons lighter thanks to my decision yesterday to gather together my Moth balls and withdraw from that project. But it gets better. I was feeling all Day-day-enu, when, as I came to the surface, a surge of additional SUPER GRATITUDE filled me as I remembered the last thing I'd been thinking before I fell asleep. Today, this very day, is THE 21st BIRTHDAY of HENRY MOWGLI GILLESPIE!

Put your hands together people! And don't just put them together for Henry and me. Give yourself a round of applause. Because holy mackerel-- you want to talk about the whole whole village thing? This child was raised by so many people that I truly, truly cannot begin to count. People across the city, the state, the country, the world. We did it together and here's just a little of your ROI:

Together we are delivering into the world of adulthood a young man who is, above all, deeply compassionate. Of all the things I could have hoped for, that is at the top of the list. He is also happy, healthy, well-traveled, hilarious, and almost gives skinny jeans a good name. He's a badass guitarist and a puppy worshipper. Little kids dig him. He's had the same job he got when he was 14-- his very first job. He is so loyal. He is so beautiful. Raising him has been the absolute best thing I ever did in my whole life (sorry, Warren-- I know I said it was going on that first date with you...)

If I knew I wouldn't be leaving out folks-- my addled brain can't remember every name of everyone who helped us over the years-- I'd make a list here and thank each of you one-by-one. Let's give thanks for my forgetfulness, because if I could compile such a list, it would be so long the Internet would blow up.

Thank you all. Thanks to those of you who took him on dangerous adventures that I never would have done myself. (And thank you for mostly not telling me the details). Thank you for the lessons, the travel opportunities. Thank you for coming to his shows, his soccer games, and his infamous birthday art auctions. Thank you for helping us when we were very poor. Thank you for all the time and patience and good energy you invested. Thank you for the LOVE!!

OMG y'all-- we truly just stumbled into this town when that child was just ten months old. We had no idea (not consciously) of just what a perfect fit it would be. Austin has been our playground, our homeland, our School of Life. From our first days living at that truly shitty motel-style apartment complex with the big sign out front that looked like a cross between a water theme park entrance sign and a logo for a heavy metal band to our rocking lives in Cherrywood (where we live just blocks apart) and everywhere in between we have had the time of our lives. (Aside: and a shout out to our friends in Knoxville who gave us love and shelter the short period of time we left here.) From Montessori school --where Henry once excitedly told me, "I know why the dinosaurs are extinct, Mom! Because a giant Meat Eater crashed into the planet!!"-- to martial arts training and yoga classes to all of the musical mentoring Henry has received from so many rock greats in this town, we could not have hoped for better educational opportunities.

WOW! I love this day. I love this day SO MUCH! I love it because it is a reminder every year to stop and be truly grateful. And the day before I always reflect on how, late on December 1st, I went into one of the worst labors in the world. And I remember how Henry came very close to dying once he did arrive. And I remember how the NICU nurses and doctors saved his life. Here is our big tradition on this day: I always make my son squirm by suggesting we reenact his birth (though, really, I have stopped actually lying down on the floor when I make the plea).

One more round of thanks and then I have to go tend to the other tradition-- making a dark chocolate raspberry cake with fresh whipped cream. Parenting-- as I don't have to tell those of you with kids-- is really the most humbling activity in which one can partake. To say I made a few errors along the way is like saying... oh somebody help me here, what's a ridiculous funny analogy? Uh... well it's to say that Springsteen wrote an occasional decent song here and there. The mistakes I made using my patented Error & Error Parenting Technique (TM) could fill many tomes. Along the way so many of you stuck by us, helped me through the first shitty divorce, the second shitty divorce, and many questionable decisions in between. I thank you more than you can ever know.

And most of all, I thank my son for being born. Because along with all of his other fabulous traits, the one I might just be most grateful for is his capacity for forgiveness. He was born an ancient soul, and he came imparted with wisdom I'm still working on attaining: that letting go of shit is a really, really excellent way to live. He has gotten over, past, and through any number of my questionable decisions, he has accepted the apologies I've offered (to the point of telling me I can go ahead and lay off the apologies already, since often they remind him of stuff he long ago forgot), and we have come through it all as very best friends.

BUNNY, I LOVE YOU! HAPPY HAPPY BIRTHDAY! THANKS FOR BEING BORN!

Zen and the Art of Squandered Opportunities

noreply@blogger.com (Spike Gillespie) — Thu, 01 Dec 2011 23:27:00 +0000

A couple of hours ago, I emailed the director I’d been working with at The Moth and withdrew from the performance. I’d wrestled with the decision most of the day, really wondered if I would regret it, and knew that I couldn’t be certain how I’d feel until I hit send. So, okay, the verdict is in and, you know, I feel pretty okay about it. I’m a teensy bit sad that I won’t be taking the stage at the Paramount next Tuesday night, which had been the plan. But in the end, I think this was the right decision.

So what happened? Well let me preface by saying I love listening to The Moth. If you aren’t familiar with it, it’s an NPR distributed program that comes out of NYC. Folks tell amazing stories from their lives and I’ve heard more than a few that have stopped me in my tracks or inspired a busted gut. So when I got the interview call to see if I’d be right for the live show, I was pant-peeingly excited. I also told myself not to have expectations, that they were probably interviewing lots of people, and that only two folks in Austin would be picked.

I talked up a storm to the director who at one point stopped me and asked me to give her more details about something I mentioned in passing. “I can tell you that,” I said, “But really it’s nothing I want to perform in public or potentially have on the radio.”

Those were the magic words. I think we both thought the same thing when we heard me say that, “Okay, this is the story,” though I had some reservations. The story was about how after a seven-year estrangement my sister and I are mending fences. I worried if she heard it that process would end. So I called her to check in and she said to me basically the same thing that I said to the director, “Nobody in our family listens to NPR so go for it.”

I was really grateful to my sister for this attitude, since for me to tell the whole story would be to expose some parts of her she might not appreciate. (And yes, this did make me wonder about myself and if I am a little too willing to sell out people when a microphone is dangled in front of me.)

So the deal was done, the process begun. The director said to me that we’d be talking on the phone several times, and that a lot of people she works with are surprised when they find out how much time it takes. I took that as a warning and made some adjustments—cleared the decks, set aside the book I’m writing, didn’t schedule many appointments. I wanted to fully focus on the task at hand.

At first it seemed to go well. I was asked for a written draft and when I turned it in I got feedback that went like this, “THIS IS GREAT!!” And then, despite the greatness, I was asked to make changes. Lots of them. That was not terribly surprising. The Moth has a very set format – any big programs or print publications do. I’ve written enough for the New York Times (not that much, just enough) to know when you start working with national folks, you are going to have to bend to their will or you are going to get cut.

A pattern established itself. I’d hear the requested changes, maybe wince a little bit, but agree to make them. I’d then make them. I’d get a call and an email saying GREAT JOB!!! absolutely riddled with exclam points. But then there’d be more changes requested. I’m just going to give one example here, because in the end it’s the one that annoyed me the most. At one point in the story, I talk about how difficult it was growing up with my dad who was a Holy Roller and a racist. I wrote in an early draft that he used to tell us that if we left our small town, we’d be raped, tortured and killed by a black man. I also wrote that he didn’t actually use the term black man.

I thought that it was pretty clear that I meant he used a racist term. But the director said I needed to cut the line or clarify. So I rewrote it and changed the word to my father’s actual terminology—nigger. I did not feel good typing it then. I do not feel good typing it now. And I knew, as I included it that, saying that word could be a showstopper in a bad way. But how else to clarify?

After I’d done more drafts than I can remember (a dozen perhaps?), and around three weeks into the process, the director said it was time to have A Fresh Listener weigh in. This involved a conference call where I was supposed to “just talk it through.” By this point, I was having nightmares about the whole thing. I don’t usually perform without pages in front of me—I’m a writer/reader, not an actor— so there was the fear I’d go blank. But also there was the fear that in my head all the drafts would get mangled and I’d wind up blurting a hybrid that made no sense at all.

So for the Fresh Listener, I kind of read from the page, but also tried to look away from the page and just tell the story. I could tell it was a wooden delivery. I am totally perplexed by the concept of rehearsed spontaneity/ pre-written extemporaneous. When I finished, the Fresh Listener was asked to weigh in with her thoughts. She immediately zoomed in on the word nigger and gave me a speech about how and why it doesn’t work and that cunt is the other word that doesn’t work. I kept trying to cut in to say I knew that, but she wouldn’t let me cut in. By the end of her speech, which she probably didn’t intend to be condescending but which sure sounded like that to me, I knew that she was from Alabama, that her family uses the word nigger, and that this embarrasses her in front of her Jewish husband. Not that this had anything to do with my story, but she wanted me to hear HER story. FINALLY when it was my turn to speak, I explained that I never wanted to say nigger in the first place, that there was no need to sell me on the idea of cutting it out, and that I only put it in because that’s what I thought the director meant when she asked me to clarify. (Not to mention that the director did not herself, after seeing the word, ask me to cut it out, which in hindsight seems kind of weird.)

For her part during the call, the director—who just hours before had written to heap high praise on the draft— made a few comments like, “You have to understand that sometimes things that really read well on the page just don’t work out loud.” Really? Like I didn’t know this? What upset me was that this was the same person who’d given me all the revision requests that got me to the draft that didn’t work for the Southern Fresh Listener with the Jewish Husband and the Racist Family.

And then I got another round of revision requests. At this point, I was becoming very vocal in my discomfort to my closest friends. I didn’t want to give up this BIG CHANCE but it felt like the life had been sucked out of my story. I felt like I’d been to Oz and had an unfortunate glimpse of the man behind the curtain. I wanted Cher to come over and sing a song about how if we could turn back time I could just go back to listening to the show and not know the process of how they Moth-ify people and that would be just fine with me.

Seriously, people, I thought about all of this WAY too much and WAY too hard. I mean, talk about your First World Problem with a capital FWP. I’m having a breakdown over the fact that my ego agreed to do a show so I could hear a bunch of people clap for me and so that later I could have bragging rights? Really? And then, oh I didn’t do it, did I? Oh shit, I DID— I started to drift into the dangerous Seas of What If— as in What If This Moth Gig Leads to Bigger Things and Changes My Life and Makes it BETTER!!?

WHAT bigger things? That’s what I finally had to ask myself. I don’t want bigger things. I’m 47, almost 48. My grandmother lived to be 94 so if I follow that pattern, I am, as of right now, halfway finished. Not having a national spotlight the first half of my life didn’t only not harm me, I’m pretty sure it was a good thing.

Wait, see the above paragraph? A bit defensive, no? See that’s still MORE of the stuff that was running through my head. Jesus H—this little ten-minute performance had taken over my life. I decided they call it The Moth because it eats holes in you. I dedicated close to 20 hours to the thing before I finally sent in that email and quit. Twenty hours I’ll never get back. Twenty hours and my paycheck was going to be $200. Plus tickets were $50 to $90 and I was only allowed one comp. Several of my friends wrote to say they were sorry but they couldn’t afford to attend. I wrote back to say that for $90 (or less) I would come over, do a private reading of the piece AND have sex with their dog. (That offer still holds for any of you who want to pony up $90.)

Somewhere in here I need to thank Garreth, the world’s best realtor, for stepping in when Warren cleverly failed to answer his phone. Garreth listened to me lay it all out there, and really think it through. I told him that, though it might be narcissistic of me, I was feeling a bit bad, like I was leaving them in a lurch on very short notice. He helped me to calmly see that I was in a lurch of my own, without a final draft to focus on, which left me with no time to adequately rehearse.

Another friend of mine, an actor/director, talked me through it, too. He said he turns down roles to act in other shows just because he prefers to be in shows he directs, to have it his way. So maybe I’m a control freak, but man that resonated with me. I like the Dick Monologues. I like just getting up there and being chill and doing it my way. I detest writing by committee—and there’s a difference between incorporating thoughtful edits and just rolling over and letting others dictate how it’s going to be and with each new revision I felt like my story was disappearing entirely.

I’m no Melville, but I’ve been amusing myself imagining how it would be for him if he lived today and turned in a manuscript. These days the whole world of writing (and so many other things) is so geared toward homogenization, marketing, branding, and pleasing the masses that no manuscript escapes unscathed. “Uh, Mr. Melville? This manuscript, it’s GREAT!!! Super!!! Really, all we need is for you to change that whale to a hamster, tighten the whole thing down to 250 pages, and come up with a sub-plot that we can parlay into a blog and you’ve got yourself a deal!!”

Two more quick thoughts. This whole thing reminded me of watching the Wilco documentary, I Am Trying to Break Your Heart. Spoiler alert: in the end, Tweedy and the boys turn in a carefully crafted record to a very disappointed label exec. The record gets rejected. They turn around and sell it to another label. Bonus: The second label was owned by the first label. Double bonus: The record, Yankee Hotel Foxtrot, landed on just about everybody’s Best Record of the Year list that year.

Really, it’s so hard to know when to stick to your guns and when to give in. I tried really hard to give in, but I reached the point where I just couldn’t compromise anymore. After I sent in my withdrawal note, Warren and I went for a walk so he could listen to me process—I was feeling stressed at first, sad about a squandered opportunity. But as we walked along in the gorgeous weather, and I looked at the dogs, and thought about how good my life is, I felt really, really fine. Relieved even.

And then Warren reminded me of my favorite joke: A writer and an editor are the only survivors of a plane crash in the desert. They crawl along for days, dying of thirst, when at last they come upon an oasis. The writer plunges his head in and begins slurping away thirstily. The editor drags himself to his feet, pulls down his zipper, and takes a piss into the water. The writer stops slurping, looks aghast, and croaks out, “WHAT ARE YOU DOING?” and the editor says, “I’M MAKING IT BETTER.”

I guess we all have to decide in the end what draft works for us. Bummer that the draft I liked won’t be heard by the masses. But I’m pretty sure I’ll survive.

Anyone interested in having me come do a private reading while servicing your dog can email me directly. Also, I was going to be allowed to sell merch, which I paid for upfront, hoping to recoup my money. Now I’m sitting on a bunch of my books over here. So, not that I believe in the holiday or anything, but if any of y’all want to buy my books, you can also Email Me

One Upcoming Holiday Workshop for Kids and Two Writing Workshops for Big People

noreply@blogger.com (Spike Gillespie) — Sun, 27 Nov 2011 20:53:00 +0000

KIDS HOLIDAY GIFT MAKING WORKSHOP

One Day Only

December 17, 2011

10 a.m. Til 4 p.m.

Cost: $80

Back by popular demand I am offering one day of gift making for kids ages 9 - 13 inclusive. We'll meet at the UU church over on Grover. We had a great time last year. Cost includes ALL supplies (even gift wrap and cards). We'll have light snacks but kids do need to bring a box lunch. This one is very close to being sold out, and it will sell out, so if you're interested please send me an email asap.

TWO WRITING WORKSHOPS FOR ADULTS

**Write to Read in Public Workshop**

Dates: 12/8, 12/15 & 12/22

Time: 7 - 9 pm

Cost: $75

Description: Each attendee will pick a theme or two on the first night and start writing in class. We'll spend the three sessions whipping one piece into shape and practice reading it out loud for maximum effect. Then we'll have a public reading. (The reading will not be held on one of the meeting nights, but shortly thereafter.)

**Winter Six Week Writing Workshop**

Dates: 1/5, 1/12, 1/19, 1/26, 2/2, 2/9

Time: 7 - 9 pm

Cost: $300 (discount for returning students)

Description: We'll spend six weeks talking about all aspects of memoir/creative non-fiction from process to publication. There are weekly homework assignments, in-class writing as time allows, group feedback and one-on-one coaching via email during the course of the six weeks. These six-week workshops sell out pretty regularly so let me know soon if you want to sign up. And yes, you can pay in installments.

For more info about my writing workshops, to read interviews with great writers like Hank Stuever (formerly of American Statesman, now the TV Critic for The Washington Post) please check out www.writewithspike.com.

Au Revoir Uncle Jack! Hasta Luego! Layla Tov! I Will Miss You with All My Heart Forever.

noreply@blogger.com (Spike Gillespie) — Thu, 24 Nov 2011 03:28:00 +0000

Even if I had a million years and ten times as many words at my disposal, I could not ever do proper justice on the page to my Uncle Jack, who passed the other day. Passed is a word carefully chosen, not a euphemism to try to ease the reality of death or push away grief. Uncle Jack really was just passing through, and if there is another plane, or a chance to reincarnate (as a pelican or a Vegas showgirl or a marigold), or some other opportunity to somehow manifest again, I’m sure Uncle Jack has already got all that figured out.

And though I cried hard when my mom called me a couple of Sundays ago to tell me her oldest brother was reaching the end, whatever momentary grief I felt melted as he lingered for a week, took his time exiting, and gave many of us who loved him a chance to say goodbye. My own opportunity had to be conducted via phone— buying a next-day plane ticket involves the kind of money I don’t think I’ll ever have. But the phone turned out to be okay.

Uncle Jack— whose primary cancer (lung) gave way to another cancer (not sure what)— declined morphine until the very very end. He told me, when I called, he wanted to stay alert. Boy was he. At 81, he had never gotten around to retiring. He told me he planned to get out of the hospital and get home soon because he still had some clients to whom he owed work. Yes, that’s right— my uncle was still doing people’s taxes up until the end. (And his mother, my Murphy Mom-Mom, was his secretary until the day she died at 94.) Uncle Jack was so adamant about getting out and getting home that he refused to sign a Do Not Resuscitate order and was weighing three options the doctors presented to try to squeeze a few more months (or years) out of his rapidly failing body.

When I spoke to Uncle Jack, I tried to hold it together and the more I talked to him the calmer I got. What a blessing to be able to tell him goodbye and how much I loved him, and to hear him say those words back. He also managed to reassure me and mystify me in the ten or fifteen minutes we spoke. The reassurance: “Don’t worry about coming home – there’s not going to be a funeral. I’m donating my body to science!” he said.

And then the mystery. “You know, Jack,” he began, calling me by my childhood name, a name we shared, a fact I loved. “When you were born, Mom-mom said something to me I didn’t understand. She said, ‘Jack, I hope you’re around to see her grow up to adulthood, she’s going to need you.’ Well I just didn’t know what she meant by that but I wondered if maybe you had been born with both organs.”

Both organs? WTF? I thought about this for a minute and, while I didn’t ask him to clarify, I felt pretty certain my favorite uncle had just sort of asked me, “Hon, do you now or did you ever have a penis in addition to your uterus and other lady parts?”

This speculation on his part THRILLED me! It was a pure Uncle Jack moment. And though sadly, my sister Kitty told me-- during a fact-checking call I made to her shortly after talking to Jack— that she’d changed my diaper plenty and could assure me I never had a penis, not even one that maybe got lopped off early so that maybe I forgot about it, well… I still get to keep the memory of that last priceless conversation with Jack.

Oh the other stories I could tell you about the man. He was often referred to as the crazy uncle, the one who was “a bit off.” In our family you might hear someone suggest you were going to “grow up to be like Uncle Jack,” which wasn’t intended as a compliment, but nor was it an insult. More it meant, “You are exhibiting signs of nuttiness” and that was, I can say, a fair assessment. For my part I loved it when it was predicted I would be like him, and I loved it later when it was noted that the prediction had come true. Uncle Jack didn’t march to his own drummer—he dispensed with drummers altogether and strode along to some internal rhythm only he truly knew. What a damn fine role model his was.

I know only scattered, non-confirmable parts of his story. These came from a number of places--- family lore, family grapevine, and/but mostly from Uncle Jack himself. My family spent summers in West Wildwood, NJ, a spit of an island that went under water with every full moon. Mom-mom and Uncle Jack-- who were roommates til the day she died (though I think a lot of us didn’t piece together that this was, yes, the classic gay son situation until several decades into their living arrangement. A friend of mine once asked, “So, you just thought he was waiting for the right woman to come along before he moved out?” Well, yes, I guess we were)—lived in a little house the next block over. Every time we’d get to the shore, they’d be waiting with treats for us—Jello and marshmallows, rice pudding, or some soup Jack cooked up in a massive pot, his cigarette in a long holder as he stirred, the equally long ash at the other end threatening to become (an no doubt sometimes becoming) the exciting secret ingredient.

As I got a bit older and started spending whole summers down the shore, honing my teenage alcoholism and later sharpening my skills as a smoker, it fell to Jack and Mom-mom to “keep an eye” on me since my parents were back at our year round home, save for weekends. I loved Uncle Jack and Mom-Mom’s version of supervision, which mostly involved them telling me to have fun and praising me for being such a good worker. One night, when I was out way past curfew, I ran into Jack walking on the boardwalk—he loved to just walk all night (and I, too, can walk for hours on end). I was startled to see him, thought I might be “in trouble.” Nah. He just wished me a pleasant evening, showed me the buck knife he carried for protection, and was on his way.

Whenever I wanted to bum a smoke from Uncle Jack, he would just whip out a whole carton and offer me that, or at least a few packs. He smoked those MORE fags that are, like, five hundred feet long. My god the man could smoke, and yes lung cancer got him in the end, but he never voiced regrets (and in truth he quit probably twenty years ago).

Uncle Jack had lots of interesting habits besides smoking. He would sleep in most of the day, spend as much time as possible—by which I mean weeks or months on end—in his bathrobe, and then, suddenly, decide it was time to get out the lawnmower. When he did he would mow his and Mom-Mom’s lawn, then proceed to the neighbors’, and before you know it I swear Uncle Jack had mowed the entire little island.

He had a hippie friend name Paul that he brought around in the sixties or early seventies. Uncle Jack had long hair then and Paul had an earring and there was that ubiquitous cigarette holder. Oh they were so radical and bohemian and a total shock to everyone. Except for me. To me they were an inspiration.

When I got my first computer in 1995, Uncle Jack got his. I guess he was 65 then. I was HenMom@aol.com and he was TaxService@aol.com, an address he kept to the end. We might not have been freakishly early adopters, but we were ahead of the curve and these magical machines served us well. I could kick myself for not saving our email exchanges but in those long notes we sent back and forth I began to get a deeper history and broader picture of this man. For example, I’ll swear he told me he helped found the first lesbian bar in Philly, and that the secret code to get in was this line, “What’s your story?”

He didn’t talk a whole lot about being gay, but I pieced together some of his story from the long emails he sent me. As a young man he joined the seminary. He learned a bunch of languages. Seminary didn’t work out. He fell in love. His partner died young (I have no idea how). Uncle Jack had what they call a “nervous breakdown.” Maybe that’s when he came back to live with his mom, I don’t know. All I know is that he came back, and he stuck around, and he was the most damn cheerful person – at least on the surface. Maybe there was other stuff going on, but if so he didn’t mention it at all.

When the casinos opened in Atlantic City in the early ‘80s, Jack found his niche. He and Mom-mom went to those casinos nearly every night for decades. You’d ask him how he did and he might say, “Great! I won $15,000 last night!” But if you’d asked him how much he lost, he’d admit it was $20,000, maybe more. I’m not sure how he worked it—except that he did keep his job for all those years, probably to finance his habit. He was so well known in Atlantic City that I’ll be surprised if they don’t darken all the casino lights for a night in his honor.

Uncle Jack never did learn how to drive and he was always asking one of us kids for a ride. I think it drove my siblings nuts sometimes, but I never got sick of it since I wasn’t around very much—heading back to Jersey maybe once every five or ten years at most. I have this one great memory of him needing a ride to get gas for the lawn mower and some office supplies. I can’t even remember what beater I was driving then, but he climbed in, put the rusty gas tank between his feet, did some weird thing with the seatbelt to escape from the shoulder harness portion so he could turn sideways in the seat to sort of face me and chat, and then lit up a cigarette, once again the long ash threatening to fall, this time directly into a rust hole in the gas can.

During the week he spent dying, I got regular reports from one of my sisters, who visited him in hospice. From my perch down here in Texas, it sounded like Uncle Jack chose to die for a solid seven days, one for every language he spoke. One day he’d be saying goodbye in English, the next in Latin. I got a text from Kitty at one point saying, “I think he’s talking French now.” I texted back, “French as in fuck shit fuck? Or French as in Au Revoir mon cherie?” Because everyone is a comedian in our family, she wrote back, “I don’t know! I don’t speak French!”

During his very final days he got around to sign language and then nothing at all, except mouthing soundless words and conveying things with his eyes. I called my mom after he was gone—she’d stayed at his side all week—and she said that before he lost his voice he told her that dying felt a lot like being on hold with the IRS, that it was taking a lot longer than he expected, and that it was harder than he thought, too. But he said he wanted to die smiling, and my mom said he did. She said she really felt like she’d watched him head off on a journey. I’m telling you, that man was just passing through.

Zen and the Art of Having A-Peel!

noreply@blogger.com (Spike Gillespie) — Thu, 17 Nov 2011 00:37:00 +0000

I'm not a big fan of the big holidays-- the ones rooted in Paganism and co-opted by the marketing whizzes of Christianity. But I'm getting less militant about that whole mess the older I get. Plus there are some holidays that I am pretty down with-- St. Patty's Day (less so since I gave up tossing 'em back), International Talk Like A Pirate Day, Knit in Public Day, that sort of thing.

As for the recently passed Halloween-- I like Halloween just fine. I don't have the same sort of nightmarish childhood memories about that one as I do, say, Christmas. My mom always made us really cool costumes, a tradition I carried on for Henry. And even though Henry is all grown up now, I still love shoveling mini-Snickers and Reeses Cups into my piehole. I also get a kick out of handing out candy (a kick that is not without cynicism when, as happens often enough, the Trick or Treater appears to be badly in need of a shave and/or an underwire brassiere.) Since I moved over to the hood, on a busy thoroughfare with no sidewalks, I have to borrow other people's houses if I want to be part of the fun.

This year, as last, I invited myself over to Garreth and Mary's house. That way, they could take their kids out T-O-Ting and I could hold down the fort. I decided to wear a costume-- in fact, a costume given to me years ago by G & M, a big banana suit that I have gotten way more mileage out of than any bridesmaid dress I ever owned.

In fact, a few nights before Halloween proper, I went to a big Halloween party at the W and also wore the banana costume. Please note: I am not a W Hanger Outter type but I had some generous friends offer me a ticket. It was my first time to that palace of falling glass and the food was great and the mood festive. But what I liked best of all was an unplanned (are they ever planned?) moment of Zen.

The thing is, I have a lot of social anxiety. Way more than anyone would ever guess who has seen me onstage or running my mouth at a dinner party. I mostly stay home, in bed with the dogs or arguing with Warren over the right way to open and close the refrigerator-- these places/activities defining for me "comfort zone." Going out into a crowd makes me squirm. But I put myself out there for this party and because I did, I realized something pretty quick: Hanging out at a party is WAY easier when you are dressed like a banana. Everywhere you turn, people light up. (One guy said to me, "Are you a banana?" And I said, "No, I'm just happy to see you!")

I also realized that when I am not a banana it is really easy to inhabit the skin I grew up with. That is the skin of defense and judgmentalism and a bunch of other fear-rooted shit. It's a skin that I have worked very hard to shed over the years (thank you yoga, meditation, and therapy). And it's a skin so utterly familiar to me that even when I manage to leave it behind, I just sometimes want to slip back into it.

But it is very hard to be judgmental when you are a banana. It is damn near impossible to be angry. And when you-- as I did a few nights after the big W party-- swing open a front door and yell surprise to a bunch of unsuspecting little kids, and when they see a banana at the door, it just gets more and more fun.

After we ran out of treats, I wandered around the streets of my beloved Mueller, taking in the action. As I strolled, I heard kids say excitedly to their parents, "Look, a banana!" And then, behind me, I heard a deep man's voice say, "I'm hungry! I want to eat a banana."

This proclamation momentarily sidelined my joy. I thought, "Great, a fucking pervert." But I regained my inner banana sense of balance, gave him the benefit of the doubt, swung around to take a peek and... no shit, I came face to face with A GORILLA ON A SEGWAY! And ANOTHER BANANA! Truly a moment to remember.

Thank you banana suit.

Thank you other banana.

Thank you gorilla on a Segway.

The firm fruit in me bows to the firm fruit in you.

Namaste.

From The Mailbag: A "Fan" Tells Us What He REALLY Thinks of the Dick Monologues

noreply@blogger.com (Spike Gillespie) — Wed, 16 Nov 2011 00:53:00 +0000

Preface: Yesterday I sent out a note to previous Dick Monologues attendees giving them the heads up that our next show-- The Dick Monologues: You're What's Wrong with the Holidays-- is December 18th, at 6 pm at the Hyde Park Theatre. I instantly received a slew of reservations requests, which I only just now am getting to. Going through these emails, I came across the following note regarding a recent show we did which, apparently, the letter writer was less than enthused about. And, well, y'all know me and that silly Irish Buddhism of mine-- I just had to respond. My response follows the "fan" mail. Meanwhile, for those of you who want to waste your money and have the worst time of your life-- drop me an email to reserve your seats for the most horrible piece of theatre of all time. Hurry up. Seats are limited.

THE LETTER:

Dear Spike:

I have been meaning to write you and tell you what a terrible staging of Dick Monologues I sat through about 5 weeks ago. It certainly wasn't theatre by any stretch of the imagination. You all sat around on the stage looking very uncomfortable. And you, what's with the knitting? Not clever, not cute, certainly not theatrical. And you don't memorize lines, but just read from a piece of paper, real exciting. The show was less than amateurish. I've seen better shows performed by 5th graders. I've been involved in theatre for over 40 years and have never witnessed such trash. Maybe it's time to get serious about the future of your theatre, namely, everyone should look for a new career.

Tom

MY RESPONSE:
Hey Tom,
Wow— just read your email. Too bad you had such a bad time at the show. We started the Dick Monologues in 2007 as a one-night performance. The audience loved it and asked for us to bring it back. So we did. And we sold out our shows for two years before I retired it. Recently we did a reunion show— again, just for one night. Again, we sold out and the people asked for more. So I’m not sure what stick you have up your ass that you have to write a note like that tearing us to bits. It’s one thing if you don’t like the show— of course that’s your personal preference and just further illustrates the point De gustibus non disputandum est. However, if you hated the show that much you should’ve just grown a pair, pulled up your big boy panties and walked right on out and not sat through it. Life is short, Tom. What kind of idiot sits through 2.5 hours of such pain (unless, of course, you are practicing endurance and or adamant about writing a full start-to-finish review of The Tree of Life)? Also you should’ve asked for your money back. In fact, if you’ll send me your address, I’d be more than happy to refund your money. Heck, I’ll personally come to your house, crawl across your lawn, and lay it gently at your unhappy little feet.

As for what’s up with the knitting... Oh, I am SO SORRY my knitting offended you. I know, I know— I am such an asshole with the knitting. You’re not the first one to say so. I nearly got banned from Passover dinner last year with the in-laws because I wanted to bring my knitting and I guess that’s just a selfish thing to do. Yep-- it’s always me me me, knitting the chemo caps and the blankets for little babies and homemade gifts for my only son and, yes, even sometimes stuff for myself, thereby depriving slave factory workers from earning their daily pittance knitting things for me to buy at ridiculously low prices at big box corporate stores. I really am a pathetic excuse for a human. I am grateful you took the time to point this out. As of right now I will never knit again, so don’t even think about me finishing that nice pair of alpaca socks I had planned for your surprise Christmas gift.

You know, at first when I read your note I felt sort of outraged, like, WHO THE FUCK IS THIS GUY AND WHERE THE HELL DOES HE GET OFF? But then, I thought about your stunning creds— he’s been involved in theatre for 40 years so he must know what he’s talking about! Humbled here in the shadow of the vast theatrical resume you hinted at, naturally I could hardly resist the urge to google you. And I know that just because my search for your productions yielded ZERO returns that it is entirely possible that, like many big stars, you operate under a pseudonym. Or maybe it’s just that my 30+ years of experience as a journalist simply has not provided the research skills necessary to find what I’m looking for. Probably that’s it. That said, please put me on your mailing list. Because in addition to being the worst performer you’ve ever seen disgrace the stage, guess what? I’m a theatre critic here in Austin, too! And I would love an invitation to your next production. I’d be happy to return the favor of offering feedback. So please keep me in the loop.

Meanwhile, if you’d like to catch me performing without my knitting needles and without reading from the page, I hope you’ll catch The Moth at the Paramount Theatre on December 6th. The folks who put on the show apparently did not get your memo and made the decision to invite me to join them. Those fools!

Thanks again for your input. We’ll be sure to overhaul the show— or better yet simply cancel it— per your observations.
Cheers!
Spike
P.s. It’s too bad we’re going to have to cancel the show now because I have to hand it to you, you really inspired a great new Dick Monologue I’d love to read onstage someday.

My Gift to You This Holiday Season: The Companion of Your Dreams!

noreply@blogger.com (Spike Gillespie) — Mon, 14 Nov 2011 18:31:00 +0000

UPDATE: Based on feedback from the masses, we have made a slight adjustment to the "rules" (<-- a terrible word and concept, not to mention an accidental reference to that godawful bestselling dating book, but it's too early in the morning for me to come up with a better alternative.) Anyway, point is, that while we are most hoping to create an event where likeminded singles can meet each other sans the internet, sometimes it's good to have moral support. And sometimes your moral support might not happen to be single. SO... if you want to bring a friend tomorrow night it's not like we'll be kicking out folks who are already taken. But do be sure to RSVP. Info on that below.

Hey Y'all,
My friend Kathy Kehoe and I have been conspiring of late. The fruit of our labors is a brand new reading series designed to help single people get laid because:

Books + Sex = What Could Be Better Than That, Right?

Below find some pertinent details. Please help us spread the word. The first reading is NEXT TUESDAY 11/22. You better sign up now.

Do you seethe with envy when you see couples bickering at holiday parties? Are you tired of arguing with yourself? Sure, sure, some people like being single and that’s their business. But then there’s the rest of us. The Rupert Holmes (look him up) Salon is for folks who don’t love being single, who do hate the whole online dating bullshit, and who want to meet like-minded singles for dating purposes. In short, IF YOU CAN READ **AND** YOU LIKE GETTING LAID... The Rupert Holmes Salon is for you. Our first Meeting & Reading is from 8 til 10 p.m on Tuesday, 11/22, at the SNUG (2928 Guadalupe), which is adjacent to Tom’s Tabooley. Cover is $5. We’ll have door prizes for folks who show their library cards. We’ll have dramatic readings of singles ads (bring one of your own and sign up to read). Come a little early and grab some excellent food and drink at Tom’s— you can bring the eats/drinks into the reading room with you. When you sign up, you also can join our private FB page, dedicated to joining together those of you who want someone to be irritated with at Christmas and Hanukkah parties, not to mention someone to share a chapped lip smooch with on New Year’s Eve. Space is limited to 50 people total. Reserve a spot today— email RupertHolmesSalon@gmail.com

*This event is for straight, gay, whatever... If you aren't single but have single friends who are constantly bitching about being single, feel free to send them info about the event.

It's Like Montessori School for Fading Punk Rockers!

noreply@blogger.com (Spike Gillespie) — Tue, 08 Nov 2011 23:53:00 +0000

This is Garreth Wilcock, the human oxymoron. Which is to say he's a non-pushy realtor. A wonderful guy. And you should let him help you find a house in Mueller.

Last week Garreth and I went and took a tour of the Wildflower Terrace, a new apartment building going up over next to my FAVORITE ARCHITECTURAL STRUCTURE OF ALL TIME, aka The Eiffel Tower of Austin, aka The Old Air Traffic Control Tower. We even received complimentary hardhats!!

The scoop is that Wildflower Terrace features a bunch of apartments for folks 55+, and the majority of these will be subsidized. So, for example, if you're on a super low, fixed-income, you might score a spot for as little as $360 per month. There is a handful of non-subsidized units that'll run tenants up to $1600 but, hey, by the time I'm 55 even that'll be a steal on the off-chance I hit it big and don't qualify for the subsidy.

And when will I be 55? In 7 years, 2 months, and 2 days (not to put to fine a point on it). Taking the tour-- seeing how they will have activity rooms and classrooms and a little art studio-- got me thinking. This place is sort of like a mashup between a dorm and a Montessori School. I'm not sure about the former but I know the latter always has a long waiting list-- don't couples buy a slot on Montessori waiting lists the same day they buy prom tickets to ensure that any hypothetical children that actualize down the line will have their pre-K needs covered?

de facto Resident Assistant of Wildflower Terrace!

Along these lines, I am recommending that Wildflower Terrace start a waiting list so that folks like me can get in when it's time. I already have it all planned out-- I'm going to force my kid to take over my mortgage so he can deal with my quaint, 65 year-old house (it'll be 72 when he gets it). Let him fix the fucking casement windows, I'm done with even fantasizing I will ever be able to afford that-- I can barely make the mortgage. I am also convincing all of my same-aged creaky former punk rock friends that they, too, will be moving into Wildflower and that they, too, must therefore get on the waiting list.

And then? Then *I* will be the de facto Resident Assistant! No one ever believes this but I was an actual RA at the University of South Florida. There, I was stationed on the first floor of an all girls' dorm. My charges included: all the girls that spoke English as a second language/were from other countries, all the aspiring (but mostly still closeted) lesbians, AND the Hall Mother (who supervised all of the RAs in the building). I came back from summer break with a modified mohawk and the parents of the incoming freshman had a collective conniption fit. It was AWESOME. And every morning, at dawn, I would sneak to the emergency fire door and use my special key to open it and let out all the boys that had slept over, including my own. (Turns out I wasn't as stealthy as I thought, and I did get a verbal dressing down during my annual evaluation.)

Anyway, so I have the experience to run my floor, and I can't wait to start putting up holiday themed bulletin boards! We will also have drinking games in my room! (No, I don't drink, but I'm planning to start again on my 80th birthday.)

I will insist on having an apartment that faces the Eiffel Tower of Austin. Speaking of which, I know this is a super hard sell, but I swear the Wildflower Terrace is a next big step toward turning Mueller into the Paris of Central Texas. How's that? They have one of those enclosed courtyard thingies just like in gay Paree! The apartment complex is four buildings that, bird's eye vies, create a square with a hole down the center. And if they ever let me back up to the top of the tower, I'll just take a picture to show you what I mean.

Meanwhile, by applause, how many of you aging Elvis Costello fans are ready to join me on the waiting list? Pump it, up, people. It's almost our turn to get AARP cards!!

My Son: Artiste!

noreply@blogger.com (Spike Gillespie) — Wed, 02 Nov 2011 02:02:00 +0000

WJ by HMG

You know even if my son didn't have a piece in the show that just opened in the DOMY Books Gallery, I would STILL LOVE DOMY BOOKS! Have you been there? DOMY BOOKS rocks! They have a massive offering of zines, a ton of Taschen, all sorts of beautiful art books, cookery books and craft books-- a lot of stuff you just won't find anywhere else in town. Plus DOMY is LOCAL. Oh, and they have super cool toys.

Anyway, as I was saying, the gallery, which is part of the store, had an opening the other night. The installation is called MONSTER SHOW SIX and 150 artists took that monster theme and ran with it. The results-- see below for some samples-- are spectacular from primitive to childlike to elaborate. Of course, being partial, I have to say I love my son's piece (pictured at the top) the best He chose to interpret MONSTER as Warren Jeffs, and for his medium he used a six-pack of Modelo, some paint, and his brilliant imagination. And for the art opening he and his lady friend went as... Just Kids. Oh my boy-- such an artiste!

Please go check out the show, which is on til December 8th. Buy some cool books. And buy my son's art! DOMY Books is located at 913 E. Cesar Chavez.

Spike Speaks

In Lieu of A Thousand Words

Have I Got Something to Make Your Weekend Fantastic!

Spider House Fools -- May I Take Your Order and Ruin Your Day?

I Heart Austin, TX, Installment #97,375 (Special Birthday Edition)

Zen and the Art of Halfway Done

Dear, Dear Time Warner: Fuck You! Love, Spike

I've Got a Few Spaces Left in the Upcoming Six-Week Writing Workshop

The Year in (Just Twelve) Pictures

A Little Gratitude During this Godforsaken Holiday Crap

Office of Good Deeds Asks You...

Rupert Holmes Salon Part 2! Wednesday, 12/21. Be There or Be On My Shit List!

I, Spike: Holiday Capitalist Pig! Please-- Buy My Stuff!!

Zen and the Art of the After School Special

Season 4, Episode 6: Blind Sunday

Season 6, Episode 4: It Isn't Easy Being a Teenage Millionaire

Season 8, Episode 5: The Heartbreak Winner

Season 11, Episode 3: A Very Delicate Matter

The Pepper Spray Cop Meets His Match: Welcome to Brokeback Mountain 2011!

Meet the Parents: Review-- God of Carnage at Zach Scott

Austin, Texas, Come Over Here RIGHT NOW and LET ME GIVE YOU A BIG FAT HUG!!

You're the Best Thing That Ever Happened to Me

Zen and the Art of Squandered Opportunities

One Upcoming Holiday Workshop for Kids and Two Writing Workshops for Big People

Au Revoir Uncle Jack! Hasta Luego! Layla Tov! I Will Miss You with All My Heart Forever.

Zen and the Art of Having A-Peel!

From The Mailbag: A "Fan" Tells Us What He *REALLY* Thinks of the Dick Monologues

My Gift to You This Holiday Season: The Companion of Your Dreams!

It's Like Montessori School for Fading Punk Rockers!

My Son: Artiste!

From The Mailbag: A "Fan" Tells Us What He REALLY Thinks of the Dick Monologues