devious lil weekend

It's official. I am a fucking ho and a bad person.

I went out with this dude recently, basically decided in advance that I was going to hook up with him, proceeded to throw down loads of drinks on Friday night and sledgehammered through the awkward 'Well...I'm going to go home...I think...what are you going to do?'

'I think I'll be coming home with you,' I said definitively. I have officially arrived at the point where, if I can have sex with someone, I generally will.

This guy is cool, nice, cute, good age, artsy...but I walked in there, heart un-thundering. I didn't feel like I was going to melt from nerves. The air was not crackling with uncertainty. I find this very odd, frankly. And it may have something to do with the general unhotness of our drunkish 3 am sex.

So, I keep on telling people, that I slept with him and that it was unhot. And quite suddenly it strikes me how tacky and sort of mean that is. But I guess in some ways I can't believe I'm not still a sixteen year old waiting for something to happen to me so I can spill out my entire life story. I have things that happen that do not have to be gleefully proferred to the public whenever an opportunity avails itself (or whenever I make it avail itself).

So, maybe I'll see him again. He was cool and clever and he is a talented musician and he has beautiful blue eyes, so I don't see why I shouldn't give him another shot. I think I was just eager to walk away from the whole idea of actually dating and liking someone. It's just a bit more terrifying than I thought. And I don't know if I'm ready to even start thinking about committing all that time and energy...unless I can't not do it (gods how I love a good double negative).

Other news: a whole four days without my beloved chariot Agnes due to general poor planning. But I actually had almos the entire weekend off, so I did a lot of walking and busing all over town. It was a fun little game to see who I could get to come pick me up. My ride karma is evening out ever so slightly.

The new Tom Spanbauer is not devouring my world so entirely as his previous works, but remains incredible nonetheless.

I may be looking into some new jobs that I could potentially not actively resent. Wouldn't that be a fucking reve realisé?!

perhaps now IS the hour

I'm just rolling with the flux right now, people. My poor steed Agnes has faltered once more, and who knows what the future will bring for her. I was driving into downtown last night, to cruise by the Elephant Room and check out some massive jazz ensemble that does some classic rock covers. Just as I was about to park, a battery alert light went on and the steering wheel just locked up. I'm probably fucking lucky I wasn't in an accident and that I was able to park it. That was about eleven or midnight last night.

Obviously, having a busted car amid downtown is a blank check to get your drink on. It's not like I had to worry about driving home, eh?

I eventually found my AAA card and was able to get it towed home, but I felt I approached the whole thing with rather model calm. I was home by about 2, and it was my turn to contribute to the annoying nocturnal sound scene of my neighborhood. Yay for the weeknight warriors!

I feel I'm having a general perspectival shift in my life right now. And I realize it through things like this. I kind of hate my jobs and my appartment, but at least I have both of those things now. I have the ability to survive now, at least. I'm meeting loads of people and having fun. I may be about to get something going with a cool boy here. Remains to be seen. But I'm not putting myself through the ringer over it, which is a refreshing step up.

I also got the new Tom Spanbauer (AKA GOD!) novel, and felt such an intense rush simply from reading about something as simple as his character's recollections of self through an old bathroom mirror.

Which reminds me, I need to shove my face back into that bad boy.

talking about the weather is a failure of character

The preceding title describes adequately my feelings on the matter. I accept that I live in Texas now and there will be a point at which I must endure endless dialogs ranging from 'Hot, huh?' to the even more scintillating 'dang skeeter, it's a'swelterin'.' But what I failed to leave room for in such absolution was my absolute fascination with the sudden, violent southern storm.

And it positively poured out of the sky, the kind of rain that forces people back inside and off the roads. I was at the Carousel, site of last month's badish date, to see my ex-neighbors' band Kentucky Shade. In the middle of their set, the power went out. The whole freaky ambiance of that place got further magicked by candelight and a sudden, 'oh, fuck it!' decision on the part of the freakishly Natasha Lyonne-esque bartender to allow smoking inside.

Then, Stanley Roy and the Pigfuckers, who were following and whom I had heard some good buzz around (weird-ass local queerish rock stuff), started in on a freaky banjo/xylophone/craaazy vocals, since the Shade was without acoustic instrumentation. I sat around with a group of cool-ass girls, two of whom has been in NYC during the freakish blackout of a few years ago. I wished, not for the first time, that I could have experienced that.

But, I was eventually compelled home to rise early for work in the morning. As usual, the anxiety of trying to get up that early prevents me from sleeping soundly. When I arrived at work, even though I was feeling like a used condom left on the street, I proceeded to partake in the caffeine wars and slayed at work and functioned with absolute manic efficiency.

Last night's fawking highlight was an east Austin 60sish soul/funk dance party, preceeded by weird tripped out beach-shimmying music. I ran into Stanley Roy (of the aforementioned Pigfuckers) and after maybe flirtatiously praising their acoustic set, I remarked on the feeling of being in Psycho Beach Party.

Ended up at a much lamer party unfortunately adjacent to a Toga Party (fuck da college hood!), which was eventually transformed into a Wet Toga Party by another sudden and astonishing outburst of rain. After supposedly heading home, I drunkdrove circuitously through the crazy rainstorm, because I did NOT fucking drink that hard to not have a burger at 4 am.

The weekend is just getting warmed up, y'all.

prison tats and street rats

No one at work has noticed the fact the I have 'Butt Tuff' written on my knuckles in permanent marker. Or maybe they have, and don't want to ask about it, because they fucking KNOW they will get an inky punch in the face. Um, perhaps not.

This weekend was a fucking scream, even though I worked my face off, I still found a little smidge of time to throw some drinks in there for good measure. Friday night was quiet and tinged with the abject hatred of having viewed Match Point, which might actually have been worse than Melinda and Melinda, but it's hard to say. It's like comparing gangrene to the knowledge that people are inherently selfish - both arduous and unfortunate in their own little way with little to redeem either one.

Saturday, after working the entire day away, I liberated myself and joined my dear Renae and new coworky friend Jeremy at a karaoke/hookah-smoking party, which was kind of fantastic for this reason: I saw two seperate groups of people I met in Austin at two very different points. And this was a pretty small party, so it seemed wildly coincidental. But all around me, people have pointed to the coincidencia that defines Austin, it being at once a small town and a big city. Love the combo.

Group one: two girls whose acquaintance I met amid the drunkery of New Year's Eve this year. My ex-ish friend Raquel almost single-handedly redeemed her manipulative ass by picking me up late NYE to go get my party on and pick up my visiting dreamweaver from Montana. We also picked up four crazydrunk girls from Club deVille. They were all cool, or so I thought - one of them sat in front, was violently wasted and pestering the living shit out of me. Then she started critiquing my driving. At which point I reached over (she was riding shotty, alas (for her!)) and just threw open the passenger side door, at, oh 50 miles an hour. Heehee. Um, she was wearing her seatbelt. I think.

But, I saw her and her friend. The friend remembered me from my karaoke stylings (to be described in a moment) and my near-victim hadn't the foggiest who I was, but she was stoked to instantly start talking shit about Raquel (yay!).

Group two: My Devotchka friends. I was pretty startled to see those two cats, let's call them Dale and Veronica (their names). Veronica even hopped in on the disasterous sinking ship that was my attempt to sing 'I Wanna Know What Love Is.' Obviously, this is a terrible song, but I didn't realize how much of it was comprised of something besides passionately screaming that YOU wanna know what love is. Oops. The Neil Diamond went better, I'm glad/sorry to say.

Anyway, it was a really fun night, it was wild and fun to see such divergent acquaintances merge under the simple auspices of a smallish house party.

And even though I had to face my not favorite person at 8:30 the next morning at the coffee house, I demanded of myself that I continue getting my party on until after 2. Actually, the whiskey demanded it. And even though I slept like shit and was slightly hung over, I performed admirably under pressure and spent the afternoon and early evening boozing with my new friendcrush Jenn, whose friends branded me with the 'Butt Tuff' knucklicker. She runs with a refreshingly and intimidatingly witty pack - I'm all about it. Definitely deep in friendlust.

I had a great time and finally felt like I was crawling out of this stagnation I've been feeling such an abundance of lately.

I still wanna know what love is, though. And I want YOU to show me.