Springtime down in the ‘Trose
10:35 pm | Blog | Houston, Listening | 3
A while ago someone asked me where I lived. Not the actual address — she already knew that — but the name of my neighborhood. “What do you call that? Midtown? Or Montrose?”
I wanted to be offended but after giving it some thought I understood her confusion. For the record, I refer to my neighborhood as The Montrose. Sometimes other people call it The Mantrose. Or the Gayborhood. I live off lower Westheimer, behind Numbers. The eastern border of one of Houston’s most eclectic neighborhoods. But I can see where the lines might be blurry, where the borders begin to meld.
Ten years ago, before I even considered moving to this city, before I even knew Houston had a gay district, people were decrying the gentrification of my neighborhood. I first noticed it while on a visit here after moving to Korea. Someone had painted over the deliciously salacious mural at Mary’s.
(Here is a side story about Mary’s that is altogether unrelated but too good not to share: My old friend John grew up as a punk rock/surfer kid in Houston in the 1980s. At the heyday of Judas Priest’s career, long before Rob Halford came out, back when it was still completely fashionably acceptable and rock-n-roll for a seemingly-straight man to wear ass-less leather chaps, John went to see the band play somewhere in town. Being the star-struck teenager he was, he and some friends decided to follow the Priests’ tour bus back to their hotel after the show. But the bus didn’t go to a hotel. Instead, it promptly delivered Halford to Mary’s, Houston’s most notorious gay bar.)
Since moving back I’ve noticed other changes too. Dozens of new built-in-a-week townhomes, including a trio around the corner from us selling for half a million dollars. That’s half a million dollars for a home with two out of four shared walls and no front or back yard. (Also, have you seen the monstrocity being built between the Height’s Target and I-10? The thing is so big it looks like it could house half of Houston alone. And there is another one going up next to our closest dog park which will effectively block out the little sunlight the park gets in the first place. And this is not a phenomenon isolated to The Montrose.
The transvestite hookers on our corner have been replaced by Mystic-tanned sports car drivers looking for fresh meat at LaStrada and even my old favorite haunts are now plagued by Juicy-clad chicas and young urban professionals who can only manage to button the bottom half of their shirts. There are no less than 10 new wine bars in my hood, meanwhile, it’s impossible to find a St. Arnold’s within walking distance.
Granted, I live in one of those townhomes, but it was built in 1993! And for the most part it’s structurally sound! And my husband may also be a young urban professional, but we have a leg up on the typical Midtown resident and that advantage is this: we are not annoying. Still, even as I type this, techno music is blaring from Numbers on a Monday night, plans have been finalized for the Westheimer Block Party, and the collar-popping jerks of the world have yet to overrun my other favorite sleazy bar, Lola’s. My faith in my ‘hood was reignited on Election Night when I communed with my neighbors — people who actually live in this neighborhood, not just spend their money here — and no one even threw a hissy fit about the hours they spent in line.
And weirdo folk-rock musicians are still writing wonderful little odes to my neighborhood which has had most of the Houston music bloggers linking with glee this week.
One must not treat children like adults
5:28 pm | Blog | Whiskey Tango Foxtrot? | 8
Tuesday C and I participated in our first caucus. It was a festive event — we walked the five minutes from our house to our polling location with a collapsible cooler and made friends in the line by talking about the various candidates. There were Obamaphiles everywhere and for some reason not a Clintonite to be seen. Something like 200 people filed in and out of the bed and breakfast, filling the back yard and front and hanging out by the swimming pool, which gave the entire affair the air of a block party. There were so many people they stopped asking for registration cards. While other polling locations were on the brink of devolving into riots ours was a happy hearty place which I think can be attributed to the diversity and personality of our still-thriving gay-borhood (a subject I have more to say about later).
I’ve been obscenely excited to participate in the political process this year. More excited than one should be. I can’t decide if it’s because my candidate of choice has filled me with the most hope and optimism than I’ve felt for this country in a very long time, or if I’m just glad to be back in Western Civilization and all the trappings that go along with it. Nonetheless, I’m relieved the election is over here, for the next eight months at least, because I can no longer bear to witness conversations like the one I eavesdropped during lunch on Monday, in which a seven-year-old overly-precocious boy and his septuagenarian Eastern-European grandmother hotly debated what Obama could do for the country. The grandmother (and the parents, who for some annoying reason encouraged this argument) believed that Obama was a Socialist who, once elected to office, would steal from her family all their collected wealth. I might add that this conversation came right on the coattails of another dialogue in which the three adults at the table discussed what to do with their uninhabited second home, located in River Oaks.
Now, I understand this Bloc-raised woman may have had some Ayn Rand-ian aversion to socialism and an unnatural love for capitalistic culture, fine, but the entire conversation was ridiculous and crazy-making (who argues with a seven-year-old over politics? What seven-year-old knows that much about politics?) not to mention the fact that I was annoyed anyway because these people were totally abusing their waiter to begin with, and then the entire event was brought full-circle yesterday when I spotted the kid, mother and grandmother on my turf, at the museum. AND! AND! The whole time this conversation was happening another couple was arguing politics to my right and the restaurant’s televisions were tuned to network news and so I was trapped in some kind of a Homer-esque hell of stereo political gobbledy-gook.
Then, after we voted in the caucus Tuesday evening we went to eat sushi with neighbor friends and were yelled at by an overweight female Clinton supporter with a horrible ’80s man’s haircut who was eating alone. Not to say she’s indicative of ALL Clinton supporters. It was just an observation.
Weekend warriers
6:43 pm | Blog | Two Wheels | 0
One week before he’s scheduled to leave again C finally got his ‘79 Vespa running. Notice how he got mine running before his first hitch in January. Guy knows how to prioritize.
Anyway, the two of us and Lance decided to take advantage of the weather Saturday, and started by meeting at Star Pizza in the Heights. God, the Salsa Verde pizza there is dee-vine. Served deep dish on wheat, with a side of their most amazing marinara to dip the crust into afterwards. Heaven.
Afterwards we rode to Glenwood Cemetery to see Howard Hughes’ gravesite. C worked aboard the Glomar Explorer long ago and thus has a single degree of separation from Howard Hughes, as well as some interesting stories (and souvenirs) from the ship.
Glenwood Cemetery is my second-favorite cemetery in Houston (my favorite being that spooky, old, hidden cemetery in danger of being built over on Dallas near Shepherd). Glenwood is great for many reasons — the famous who are buried there, the tree-canopied roads, the smell of fresh bread from the Sunbeam factory across the street. Glenwood is especially fun to explore on a scooter because the roads twist and wind and there are enough hills that you can squeeze in your clutch and coast for a good long time, and towards the back of the lots there is a nice view of the bayou.
From Glenwood we took Houston Avenue downtown and then headed towards the Third Ward in search of this insane Jesus billboard, which I now know was actually installed (and removed) sometime in the summer of 2006, despite what that recently-dated blog post will have you believe.
A cruise down Memorial and through the park, hampered by annoying rodeo traffic, ended our journey, as I had to be at the museum at 4:30 p.m. in order to assist with a members’ party. I got to hobnob with museum donors and even got off an hour early. In all it was a damn good day. Sorry I didn’t take any pictures, but my hand was too busy revving the throttle.
Barack Obama bought me candy
I just got home from the Barack Obama Houston rally. I live-blogged it on Twitter but you can read a more thorough account written by someone else on the Chronicle’s political blog (with pictures) here.
To sum up my experience — I was hoping for something more along the lines of his New Hampshire primary speech and was a bit disappointed to hear same-ol’ material similar to previous speeches. The event was not well-organized at all and getting into the Toyota Center was a hassle, but it appeared that everyone with a ticket at least was able to get in, as well as some standbys.
A lot of what makes a rally a rally involves cheesiness, and I’m the type to sit with my hands clasped firmly to my hips when The Wave comes around, but it’s hard not to get “fired up” as we say in Texas when everyone else is too. I mean, The Dude pretty much had me at Renew American Diplomacy but also, having been away from American for the better part of nearly three years I am eager to absorb and involve myself in all aspects of American culture, the most fundamental of which is our process of electing representatives. In summation, it was an interesting experience and has piqued my interest in further participate, especially with regards to the Texas Two-Step.
N-E-ways, lest I get all political bloggy, I would also like to express once again how excited and grateful I am about my new job, not just because of the most excellent perks it offers but also because I no longer have to be 100 percent financially dependent on my number one best husband, who returns from his month-long exile tomorrow. The afore-mentioned reunion, as well as on-the-job training and a potential excursion to Austin for the weekend may make it a bit tumbleweedy around these here parts, but don’t you fret, amigos. Rest assured I’m either laid up in bed with the vapors or surrounding myself with the finest of Houston’s arts and culture.
Barbed wire
7:37 pm | Blog | Girly, Whiskey Tango Foxtrot? | 4
The idea that a married woman and a single man can not be just friends is fucking sexist patriarchal bullshit tripe. This is the Twenty First Century in the Land of The Free, and shame on all you who think otherwise and perpetuate jealousy and divisions between the sexes.
Clearly I need some buddies of the estrogenal variety, but my experiences as an expat wife have soured me greatly. What to do, what to do? How does one find girlfriends to share my high-falutin’ nerdy interests but who also aren’t outright catty bitches?*
Por ejemplo, I would like to meet someone who will go see “Persepolis” and hold an intelligent (and hilarious) conversation with me afterwards, but who can also compare the merits of various vintage Pyrex patterns. I personally own pieces in Butterfly Gold (1 and 2) but I have an insatiable lust for Moon Deco and Barbed Wire.
*ETA: Actually, blatant catty bitchitude is preferable. It’s concealed catty bitchiness that I find troublesome.
I am not having sex with the guy you broke up with
It was a long, strange weekend. The fact I have only been sleeping about five hours a night does not help. This weekend had the potential to be either extremely awesome or extremely disastrous and it ended up somewhere in between, so that it is now 11:31 p.m. Monday night and I still do not feel as though I’ve mentally recovered.
The good part was Saturday, driving the four hours to north Dallas to see my little sister for the first time since I’ve been back in Western civilization. During my time away she has apparently morphed into a true-blue adult (instead of a kid 8 years younger than me) to whom I can now easily relate and who shares my extremely cultivated taste in movies. She just got back from a trip to New York which makes me insanely jealous, since I’ve never been there. I also, for the first time, had a full-blown, awesome conversation with her hot-ass Hispanic Adonis and I must now find some way of convincing them to drive to Houston on their motorcycle over Spring Break, or maybe this summer, when we all can hang out on a Matagorda County beach.
The trip to Dallas was to celebrate some familial birthdays, including my father’s, which is actually on Valentine’s Day. Plans Sunday, however, meant that I had to drive back to Houston on the same day and I didn’t end up getting home until 2 a.m.
The bad part happened exactly an hour later, when I was rudely awakened from my much-needed slumber by a phone call. Somebody with mental issues and an extreme lack of maturity is attempting to pull me into her own self-perpetuated drama and I’m not having it. In addition to having my sleep disturbed I was also forced to spend the better part of the next day trying to figure out exactly how I came to be dragged into this whole stupid mess and what I can do about it. The upside, if there is one, is that I now have a new Most Hated Person in Houston, a role that was previously occupied by a former paramour. (Look at me, throwing that word around so generously. An old huckleberry friend just doesn’t have the same ring, does it?)
Only one person is allowed to interrupt my R.E.M. and for only one reason at that, and he’s currently 100 miles offshore.
Thankfully, Sunday I was able to exercise away my confusion and aggression and I no longer want to lurk in a certain someone’s regular bar and write nasty things about them on the bathroom wall. Several rounds of fermented libation purchased by my favorite patron made everything better. Also, watching Amy Winehouse perform on the Grammys, because I love that hot mess more than anyone else in popular music today.
What would Jesús bring?
I bravely (foolishly) volunteered on the first night of my short story workshop to turn something in by the following evening so that the group might have something to read over the week and critique at the second class. Not having anything actually prepared, I then had to spend all day Friday writing, and was able to get ten pages worth of a story which has been foating in my head for a few years. here’s to deadlines and being accountable to someone else.
I also volunteered Thursday to go first. Getting critiqued consists of sitting silently for 15-20 minutes while the others in the class talk about your writing. It wasn’t as painful as it sounds — I came away with a very good understanding of what works about my story and what needs work, and I drove home feeling validated and refreshed and optimistic and ready to get right back to the grind on it.
The challenge for the evening was to bring a snack that a character in your story would bring if he or she were attending a writer’s workshop. It’s a whole “get inside the heads of your characters” exercise. One of my characters is named Jesús. The other characters are a family of German descent who are meeting in St. Louis for a family reunion. I had grand plans for cooking something, perhaps some kind of family reunion food like deviled eggs or ambrosia salad, but I ran out of time and ended up buying grocery store-made mini strudels. (Because strudels = German? I dunno.)
Two Thousand and Great!
12:29 am | Blog | Two Wheels, Writing | 6
Thus begins The Year of The Experimental Living Apart Project, round one of which is a week underway. (Please ignore the fact that we are already 8 percent finished with the year. I have been spending my days moving more than 2,000 pounds* worth of possessions from one hemisphere to another so can we just pretend that the past two months of blogging negligence never happened?) My beloved house-husband is somewhere in the rough vicinity of the African continent for three weeks remaining and in the meantime I have been tasked with both finding a job and setting up home in our fair southern city.
I woke at 6 a.m. on the morning of January 13 to volunteer at the Houston Marathon. My running club hands out beer (!) and water at Mile #24 and in addition to this carb-o-licious beverage it is the volunteers’ job to yell encouragements to struggling athletes. It’s great fun to see someone perk up at the mention of their name and begin to pick up speed again. The warm-fuzziness of such community service coupled with the inspiration gleaned from watching 70,000 people run 26.2 miles on a sunny-cold winter morning put me right in the mood to re-examine Mein Überlist Oh Seven and write up a new and improved version.
I have ultra-high expectations for this year. Goal one was to get Gilda the Red 1978 Vespa running after three years gathering dust in our garage. Christopher was not allowed to board that airplane nor sleep in the bed next to me until this mission was complete. My beloved scooter is and always has been a class A champ — we simply filled the gas tank, cleaned the carb, tightened the cables, and she started right up on the fourth kick. (By “we” in that last sentence I of course mean “he”.) I immediately rode her to Biba’s One’s-A-Meal for a gyro plate and Greek chicken soup in celebration.
Christopher and I hope to buy a bona fide grown-up motorcycle as soon as he gets back so that we can embark on Texas Tour 2008 before spring is over. I rave about living in this, the largest state in the lower 48, but how is it that I have never been to Marfa? Or Big Bend or Brownsville or even the Germanic settlements outside Austin City Limits? I’ve spent the past three years traveling throughout Asia when I have the whole unexplored world right at the tip of my nose. It’s criminal.
Goal two was to do something productive with myself, so I spent several hours enduring the bureaucracy of undergraduate education in order to enroll myself in a single 5-credit-hour Spanish 1 class. After waiting in line all morning I found out I couldn’t enroll in a class without my undergrad transcript, despite the fact that I was enrolling in an entry-level class with no prerequisites. It’s penance, I guess, for failing to learn anything in Hangul beyond “beer, please” and “flying face kick” but I am determined to become bilingual again and I anticipate I’ll have way more opportunity to exercise my Spanish skillz in Houston than I had to speak French in Oklahoma.
It’s odd being back in school again a full six years after I celebrated passing my final final. I’m the only Anglophonic gringa rubia in a classroom full of cholitas and still-maturing babes who were already forced once by the Texas Educational System to learn Spanish in order to graduate high school. Still, on my way to the bike racks after class one day I totally got hit on by a totally cute co-ed who was totally eight years younger than me, and it made my heart soar with joy that I clean my face with extra virgin olive oil every night and thus still look young enough to be an actual college student. ¡Ay Dios moi! My first test is Tuesday!
I am also taking a sweet short story workshop at Inprint Houston, a non-profit sponsored in part by the U of H Creative Writing department, an MFA program so prestigious they only take 20 students a year (10 prose, 10 poetry). It’s taught by Randi Faust, who just had a short story chosen for the 2007 Iowa Book Review Award and who has a pretty wicked sense of humor. She didn’t blink an eye when I made a BJ joke on the first day of class. In February they’re sponsoring a reading with Dave Eggers and Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie, which brings me to my final point: oh the glory of my newly-acquired student identification card. Conveniently sized for proffering discount tickets at the new-fangled picture show, the county historical society museum, and free student entry for an upcoming reading of some high-falutin’ writerly types straight from New York City (get a rope!). Otha suckas gots to pay five dolla for the pleasure of it.
*Not an exaggeration.
Not in a good way
10:44 am | Blog | Conversations | 1
Clyde Daniel’s is the asshole of all asshole’s, and not in a good way — Women’s room graffiti at the Engine Room in Houston
Back in the USSA
The Rule household is currently in transit. We are starting Wednesday morning on an island in South Korea and will make it to the western hemisphere in time to see Electric Six play in Houston the very same evening.
Blogging will resume later this week, once we’re re-acclimated to Central Standard Time. See you soon, childrens.