As the economy continues to flounder, and folks continue to lose their homes and to fail to find work, and the news continues to report overcrowded food banks and the mess that is Wall Street and the other mess that is the bullshit “health care system,” I sometimes get this visual in my head of Obama. It’s late at night, and he’s just walked into the First Bedroom. Michelle is lifting her little weights, toning her lovely arms. Here, in this private space, Obama lets go of the Joe Cool façade that on good days he is admired for and, of late, nets him accusations of being a compassionless animatronic incapable of actual change. Obama looks at Michelle, balls up his hands, stomps his feet, and screams, “I FUCKING HATE GEORGE W. BUSH. I HATE HIM I HATE HIM I HATE HIM!!! THIS IS ALL HIS FAULT!!” more ›

I love, love, love fake shit. And when I say, “fake shit,” I am not euphemistically referring to, say, “reality” TV shows, imitation boobs, or the way some of the ex-girlriends of my young, hot, domestic partner treat me at cocktail parties. No, no, when I say “fake shit,” what I mean is prosthetic poo-poo, crafted ca-ca, faux fecal matter. So when esteemed Austinist arts editor, Emily, asked me if I might like to profile Kourtney Lea Moon-- aka Angry Olive-- and when I found out that Kourtney sews embellished excrement as part of her emporium of uber-cool crafts, I jumped at the chance. I emailed Kourtney to tell her of my love of fake shit, and how thrilled I was when Warren gave me a box of plastic dog crap for my birthday. She enthusiastically responded: “You can never, I repeat, NEVER be given too much shit! Fake, real, plush, cute, fossilized... We deal with it everyday- literally. Best present ever...” more ›

My life as a study in contrasts extends to my travel. I am a fan of getting in very large airplanes and hurtling thousands of miles to get to places where I can then dispense with all modes of transportation besides my feet. I enjoy hanging out in little towns and villages where the best live entertainment comes in sitting around, drinking coffee amidst the locals, alternately eavesdropping and participating in the conversation. Such it was, then, that last week I headed off for Oregon. For the fourth year running, I lighted temporarily in Portland, then joined forces with my friend David, whereupon the two of us headed on over to Astoria, a town famous for a few things. This is the place where the Columbia spills into the Pacific, Lewis and Clark wrapped up their little walk, and Goonies and Kindergarten Cop were filmed. And it’s the first town in Oregon Country where a white woman—an English barmaid named Jane Barnes— lived. more ›

Years ago, when I was researching a story for the Dallas Morning News, I interviewed a therapist who worked with abused kids. At that point I’d been a working journalist for maybe fifteen years and I think this was the first time I cried on the job. The story that got to me involved a little boy who had been presented with one of those bounce-back bop toys— you punch it, it goes down, then it pops back up. The boy was asked to say three things that upset him about his neglectful mom, and he was allowed each time to hit the bag. This he accomplished with ease. Then, a harder task was presented: Name three good things about your mother and hug the bag. He hesitated, unable to think of a single good memory until, at last, one came to him. more ›

Steve, the father of my young, hot boyfriend Warren, lives in Houston. Warren asked Steve if he was going to come up here to avoid Hurricane Ike , which looks to be heading straight for the Texas coast, prompting major evacuation. Steve told Warren he’s not going anywhere, that we should come to Houston. Warren explained he’s got his hands full with Hurricane Spike, so we’re staying put, too. So, okay, I guess the comparison is fair—at times. Let’s see, Hurricane Spike has been known to blow into a room at gusts of up to 120 mph. And sometimes massive downpours fall from her eyes, since she’s a sensitive artist and all that. Plus, having been raised in hurricanes her first eighteen years probably had more than a little influence. more ›