I miss him.

OK, so my husband is a musician and he’s been on tour now for exactly 15 days. By himself. Driving across from Texas to L.A. and then up along the West Coast. And it’s really starting to get hard. I miss him. Which is kind of like, duh, right? The first week was fine, got my girl time in, hung out with family. But now the missing is really starting and he’s still going to be gone for at least another week. My cat and I have really gotten to know each other. Really well. I’m even thinking about getting a dog. I’ve EVEN read the first Dune novel and want to see the movie. In short, I’m not handling this well, people.

It’s funny because I sort of encouraged him to do this. He’s been a musician since we got together, but the past fews years have been kind of fallow for him. I encouraged him to quit his old job (it was an OK paying job with benefits and good friends, but ultimately soul and time-sucking. Plus he’d already worked there for 12 years, and was just spinning his wheels.) I encouraged him to do more solo stuff when he was fretting over not having a band together (he writes his own songs, sings and plays guitar). I told him to start doing his own booking when he lost his booker and to do his own publicity with the connections he already has (he knows a ton of music people). And he did. And he did it remarkably well. He drove himself (and me) crazy with the emailing and phone calls over the past few months, but he’s really doing well for himself. Doing radio, playing shows, and getting 2 page articles in L.A.-area weeklies is no small feat.

The fact is, he’s 32 and not getting any younger, so I told him he might as well try for a career in music now. If he fails, oh well, at least he tried. And he won’t look back on his life as an old man with regrets. Also, the man is ridiculously talented. I know I’m biased, but he’s really good. And with absolutely zero pretension. So, he must do this. But it’s still hard when it’s a reality. And the fact is, the more successful he is, the more he’ll be gone. Man. Talk about a double-edged sword.

I’ve been having bizarre dreams since he’s been gone. Weird ones about him being in Portland for his tour (I lived there when we got together) and not talking to me and walking away (he never does that!) and then me getting carjacked with an old Portland buddy of mine. I also had a dream about the crazy hot film director who tried hitting on me at a film workshop I attended 2 summers ago (right after C and I got engaged). I found out I’m even faithful to C in my dreams! It was just more of what happened in real life, i.e., Crazy Hot dancing with me in an overly sexual manner and trying to cuddle with me at parties and film screenings and me being all, hello, I’m engaged!

Anyway, one of C’s very sweet and cool and mentor-worthy bosses wants to hang out with me on Wednesday! Yay! Maybe we’ll be all grown-up and cool and sit at a wine bar and discuss our ambitions OR maybe I’ll get her to go to a bar that screens Project Runway and be totally shameless!

Best. Pumpkin. Ever.

Taxi Driver

Last night, C and I were trying to get back to Haight-Ashbury from Fisherman’s Wharf. We didn’t want to do a repeat of our Friday night marathon four mile trek, so we finally gave in and hailed a cab. The driver pulled over and he asked if we minded if he ran inside the convenience store real quick. After we had a chance to crack several jokes about stealing his cab, he finally came back out, coffee in hand.
And boy, did he want to talk. He asked us if we’d seen the Blue Angels (we had, but only incidentally). We started talking about how crazy it is that people do stunts on planes and how dangerous. He told us about incidents he knew of stunt planes crashing into their own audience and commercial planes crashing into neighborhoods. C told him about friends of his who had crashed a car going 80 miles an hour in a 20 mile an hour zone. They crashed into a house right as the owner was showing it to sell! The cab driver said that people are more likely to die between the ages of 16-20 because that’s when you do the craziest shit. Then he and C started trading stories of crazy stuff they’d done.

He told us one time he pushed his good friend into some green, froggy water and then ran away. “He could have DIED!” he exclaimed. Then he told us about rolling a huge tractor tire down a hill and into the path of cars on a busy street in Paris. It hit a bus which rolled sideways and bounced 3 times before narrowly missing a motocyclist. “We ran away LAUGHING!” he shouted. Then he told us about being in a train station with some friends. They wanted to climb up and get the eggs out of a dove’s nest. One of his friends dared to climb up. “You should have seen the minute he touched that cable. He was like charcoal!” The kid got electrocuted and died. There was some awkward silence after that story.

The driver said women don’t do that kind of dangerous stuff, just guys. C said probably because we’re smarter. The driver said maybe not smarter, just more scared. He said the worst thing women do is get pregnant. He said that women fall in love, they want to give their man everything they need. If they’re unlucky, they get pregnant. Then, he started talking about how love makes you blind. Like, a mother’s love for her kids. He said, “We have a saying, ‘Every mother thinks her child is a gazelle’. Even though it might look like a monkey!” He said every person in love thinks their husband or wife or girlfriend or boyfriend is the most handsome or prettiest on the planet.

By this time, we had arrived. He stopped the car and I got out. C was paying and the cab driver asked if I was his girlfriend. C said that I was actually his wife and that we had just gotten married. The driver said, “Can I give you some advice? As a brother?” And then he told us to take two years and do whatever we wanted, travel, fight, make up, whatever. But to give ourselves that time and then start thinking about kids.

OK, Parisian Cab Driver Man. We will.

Marfa, TX, I love you!

I traveled to Marfa, TX last weekend with my husband, C. We were going to help out with the opening of El Cosmico, the new Liz Lambert venture in Marfa, along with some co-workers and friends.

Liz has a interesting story. She was an attorney working for the attorney general’s office who tired of the business and decided to take a seedy, trashy old motel and turn it into the Hotel San Jose, which is now one of the hippest and most relaxing places to stay in Austin while still having excellent access and proximity to great music, food, and entertainment. She even made a documentary about it called The Last Days of the San Jose. She’s also the force behind the cool coffee stop Jo’s Hot Coffee.

El Cosmico is (and I quote the website), “… the latest lodging concept from Liz Lambert and her management company, Bunkhouse… Lambert’s new project, El Cosmico, is currently under construction on 15 acres of land in Marfa, Texas. El Cosmico will be part yurt and hammock hotel, part residential living, part art-house, greenhouse and amphitheatre – a community space that fosters and agitates artistic and intellectual exchange…”

All of that translates in to a super cool opening party that was laid-back and fun in a truly Marfa way. C and I camped. Here’s our spot…

…there was a yurt…

…and a lonesome train…

…gorgeous dogs (in fact, I think the dogs thought the whole thing was about them)…

…transcendent music, courtesy of one Miss Barbara Lynn…

…amazingly delish Corn Raspberry muffins from the The Brown Recluse…

…and, of course, contemplative cowgirls.

Sure do miss you, City of Marfa…

…you took my breath away.

It’s as boring as being alive

The title is the most pretentious thing I’ve ever heard and so, appropriate for today’s theme: douchebaggery. Austin City Limits festival is upon us, and along with it a lot of silliness. This is one of the times of the year when everyone in Austin instantly transforms into a jackass. Suddenly, there’s an obsession with getting on lists and going to afterparties and what level of pass you have. I remember when this event was very small and I worked for my friend in the VIP area and had a great time. Over the years, it’s gotten better known and more crowded and had to deal with all the problems that come with huge crowds, big acts, and unpredicable weather.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not pining for the “good old days” because that’s just a waste of time. But my best friend and I have agreed that during festival times, Austin suddenly becomes a mini-L.A. or New York. It’s funny because most people live here to avoid that sort of thing. I was going to sit out the whole ACL madness this year (there aren’t really any bands that I was dying to see in the lineup) but my friend got me a VIP pass which is the only way to do this particular festival. It was an offer I couldn’t refuse.

I hope I don’t regret it.

Nothing to fear but fear itself

Lately, I’ve been asking all my friends if they believe that there are people who can communicate with the dead. Kind of a weird and heavy icebreaker, but people usually have fairly strong opinions about it. I went to dinner with some friends the other night and in the middle of the conversation posed that question. My girlfriend hemmed and hawed a little, but her fiancee was surprisingly vehement. His eyes got all squinty and he maintained that nothing happens when you die. I was surprised because I expected HER to be the vehement defender of logic (she’s a scientist).

Even though I’m not particularly religious (raised Catholic) and I don’t necessarily believe there are mediums who can contact your dead relatives, I do wonder about the spark of life. Call it spirit, call it energy or whatever you call it, there’s undeniably SOMETHING that sets apart what’s alive from what’s not. You can look at a fallen bird and tell if it’s dead. It’s lost its spark.

When we are feeling peppy and particularly energetic, we say we feel ALIVE. When we have expended a lot of energy and work to achieve something (climbing a mountain, say), we feel alive. To paraphrase the first law of energy, energy is neither created nor destroyed. So what happens to the spark? Does it just dissipate and fade into the ether? Does it remain whole and journey somewhere else? Is it different for everyone?

No wonder religion is so full of reincarnation beliefs. Personally, I don’t know what happens but I think there is potential for just about anything. I can respect any religion’s views because I think, hey, it’s POSSIBLE. I brought this up with my husband last night. He, like me, isn’t sure about anything but is a very spiritual person. He’s always talking about how things affect his soul. So I know he knows what I mean. I speculated that maybe it’s when you experience the loss of someone important, knowing what happens next becomes more consuming.

My father passed away in 2000. When I think about where he is now, I can only think of a coffin full of bones. Morbid, I know, but I can’t get the image out of my head. I want to think that his spark, at least, has transformed into something good.

Also, when you find happiness with someone, the next stage seems to be fear of losing them. I can’t imagine what it was like for my mom to lose my dad, her partner of 28 years. He was much older than she, so he practically helped her to grow up. He was a friend, a mentor, a father to her children, a husband, everything.

I can’t imagine losing C , nor would I want to contemplate a life without him. It’s scary to feel so grown up, yet so vulnerable.

Overheard in Austin, Labor Day weekend

The Mohawk, Red River

“Hipsterish girl: (sneezes)

Other hipsterish girl: Bless you!

Hipsterish girl: When you die, nothing happens.”

WTF?

New Bohemia, South Congress

“Crazy girl: Should I get this? (holds up a pin that says, “IKE”)

Reasonable girl: No!

Crazy girl: He beat his wife. That’s cool, right?”

Hmmm…

You can call me Al.

I recently started calling my husband Carl. Not because it’s his name, of course, more because I feel like it. It kind of sounds like the first syllable of his name, I guess, but that’s not why either. I don’t call him Carl at any (ahem) critical moments, mostly for everyday stuff and especially if I’m mock-angry at him (I do a lot of mock-angry because he likes to tell off-color and not-funny jokes). He doesn’t particularly seem to mind. Although he has been threatening to start calling me “Carla” or “Jennifer”. (Those names aren’t mine, either.)

I don’t know why I do this. I went through a pretty strong “Lucas” phase, where the name Lucas became more of a term of endearment than anyone’s actual name. I called my cat Lucas, I called my nieces Lucas, but I never called my then-boyfriend Lucas. Lucas has kind of faded out, only for “Carl” to rear its (his?) persistent head. And I only call Carl Carl. It’s not an all-around term of endearment.

I half justify it by saying it’s only fair becasue he calls me “doll”. I’m clearly not a doll. I’m a real human girl (woman?). My dad used to call me doll when he was alive. Which was fine. And my mother called me “muñeca” sort of jokingly, because she’s not really the endearment kind and because she speaks Spanish. Carl’s been calling me doll since started dating. To which I protest. Not because I want him to stop, necessarily, but because what am I supposed to do? Agree? “Yes, you’re absolutely right, sugarpants, I AM a doll.” No way. Which brings me to the name of this blog. Albeit circuitously.

The truth is, I don’t call him Carl in retaliation, either. I just like to. And he has apparently accepted this completely. He’s in California for a week and he just signed an I-love-and-miss-you email to me as “Carl”.

Is that weird?