Upon my velocipede
When we first moved back to Houston I bought a new bicycle. It was a difficult decision to trade my old beach cruiser in since we’d had some good times together. And some bad. I still have scars on my ankles from trying to ride that thing on the Memorial Park bike trail so treacherous it’s nickname is the Ho Chi Min. But the new bike is better in dozens of ways. The tires have grip. It has shocks! And more than 20 speeds and front and rear breaks.
Three years ago I rode my Schwinn beach cruiser — the bike with no gears and with nothing but coaster breaks — in the first annual Tour de Houston. Twenty miles isn’t that far on a bike, and that was my plan. Ride 20 miles and see how I feel. The long ride was 40 miles, but the route circled through Houston’s six wards and passed close by my house several times along the way, so I figured I could skip out and ride home at any time. When I felt pretty good at the end of 20 miles I decided to just keep going. At 30 miles I didn’t feel so positive. Towards the end of the ride I was getting to the relief stations so late they were already out of snacks and water. But still I soldiered on, me on my beach cruiser, and I finished the race so emotionally and physically drained I actually cried with relief.
Much has changed since then. I weigh about 30 pounds less and I’m in much better shape in terms of muscle mass and cardio endurance. And I have a better bike. So tomorrow I’m going to ride the Tour de Houston again, and this time I’m aiming for a distance they didn’t have the first year, 70 miles.
Seventy miles on a bicycle. We’re actually going to be riding on the highway. We’re riding to the suburbs of Houston and back. Seventy miles is like riding your bike from Oklahoma City to Stillwater.
I’m not sure if I can actually do it, but I am so excited about giving it a try that I can’t even sleep, and I have to be up at 5 a.m. tomorrow.
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.
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.
Photos rescued from captivity
11:16 pm | Photo Album | Houston | 4
I did not go see Dave Eggers speak tonight, instead satisfying myself with a plate of home-made nachos and general slothiness in the aftermath of a long and eventful weekend.
I did manage to unearth the USB cable from a yet-to-be-unpacked pile of officewares, thus allowing me to free more than two months’ worth of pictures from my omnipresent digicam.
Witness:
I find the Weinermobile to be utterly ridiculous, especially when it is parked in front of the yuppiest granolaist grocery store in all of Houston, salivated over by crowds of numbskulls posing like tourists as though they’ve never seen food-shaped transportation before. Unfortunately, I was one of those numbskulls. I simply couldn’t leave without getting a picture. I hate myself for succumbing to the eccentric and nostalgic charms of some corporate marketing guru’s brainchild, but I am not immune to everything, you know. Besides, I didn’t even get out of my car to take the shot.
The Proletariat’s Final Night
11:33 pm | Shorts | Houston | 0
I refuse to lament the closing of the Proletariat. For one, I was never fond of the place, and for two, this town needs proper public transportation more that it needs yet another hangout for insufferable hipsters.
The Seoul of Houston
6:34 pm | Internerd | Houston | 0
…It seems that many of the Korean-owned businesses aim at Spanish-speakers more than Anglos. (Someone should open a restaurant out here called Jose Cho’s TaKorea.)
John Lomax and David Beebe explore Houston’s Long Point neighborhood. I’m not missing kimchi or gamjatang enough yet.
The solid gold turd
9:44 pm | Internerd | Houston | 1
Part of me understands why people say ‘Fuck Houston’ in their heads, and move to New York or LA. Houston can be ugly, unromantic, and like Seth said, make “every other place seem exotic.” But the bigger part of me, the part of me strapped to rap music and the Orange Show, says fuck you for not giving Houston respect for what it is. Houston may be a city wrapped in cold urban banality and hot shitty weather, but the culture and artists that exist in this town are not irrelevant or deserving of marginalization. This city is like a solid gold turd at the bottom of an outhouse — you may feel awkward or disgusting picking it up out of the pot, but you’re an asshole if you let it just sit there. — Gene Morgan on art, hometowns and Wes Anderson
My friends are funnier than I am
11:41 am | Blog | Conversations, Friends, Houston | Comments Off
My friend Lance will be having the very first public showing of his photography starting this weekend. He sent me this e-mail about it the other day:
“yo im putting ten or twelve photos on display at the king bizkit bar and grill on white oak, rich people hang out there so hopefully ill sell something… im hanging them friday afternoon, they gave me good space behind the bar with spotlights. congrats on the impending nuptuals, if jesus doesnt call me home to glory before then ill take the photos. that will be my gift (no refunds). its unreal, all of the things that are happening to you and C. if you told me you had been chosen to be the first blonde on Pluto i wouldnt blink.”
Lance doesn’t really spell that horribly. He does take awesome pictures, though, and I’m more than honored to have him memorialize the only wedding I’ll ever have. Lance and a handful of other people make up the group that I like to refer to as my Houston family, a family that is just as dysfunctional and crazy as my real family, but I love them anyway. Often, when we’re intoxicated and it’s Christmas Eve and the world seems full of possibilities, Lance and I talk about working on a book together – him taking the photos and me writing the text.
So basically this is a shameless plug for anybody who can to go see Lance’s artwork. He even plans to put a photo he took of me in New Orleans on display. I may go, if I have time, but I have to pack my bags and get ready for my upcoming trip to Pluto.
Dear former coworker who used to have sex with our boss
11:12 am | Blog | Houston, Whiskey Tango Foxtrot? | Comments Off
Some people are just too damn hip for their own good. Personally, I don’t have the time to keep up with all the “fashionable” music, clothes, bars, trends and other superficialities some people seem to dedicate their whole life to. It’s all about complex social organization, who knows who and who is cooler than who and who has the most dirt on who. It’s worse than Friendster – it’s real life.
That’s part of the reason I left Oklahoma. Even Oklahoma City, the capitol, is so cliquish, it’s like living in a small town. I thought Houston, the fourth largest city in the United States, would be better, but Houston is the biggest small town in the world. EVERYBODY is all up in everybody else’s business, and I can’t stand it. I think the problem is that Houston is so large and populous that people must form smaller groups in order to have any sort of life. And those smaller groups are so incestuous, I just can’t stand it.
You are no longer allowed to complain about me blowing you off to our former boss and your ex-boyfriend, when I went out of my way last night to say hello to you and you did the very same thing.
Oh, and your boob job looks horrible. And you have a big nose.