Sattiday juke: it wouldn’t be so bad if I was not so wide awake

You know I honestly do not know how many live concerts I’ve seen, between all my time in Austin and my NY years, but I never did see the Flatlanders live during their first legendary years. I did have the album — I don’t think I knew anyone that didn’t have that album.

But, anyway, I did finally see them-once- when they reunited a few years back. That was a great show, midwinter in Gruene Hall, a bitter cold night.  Well worth the wait.

I love these guys. Individually and and as a group. Poets all three. And they play them geetars pretty well too, I reckon.

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Tuesday Hippie Hour: That’s the way it always goes

Probably the longest running steady gig ever in Austin was Toni Price’s Tuesday Hippie Hour at the Continental. It was legendary. For 15 years, the sultry Miss Toni, along with the best band in town, did her thing, then she up and left us. Someone asked why she was moving to California:

“Because it’s got an ocean,” she told a curious fan at her final Continental show, a twinkle in her eye. “When y’all get one, I’ll come back.”

Listening to Toni on the iPod this morning, been thinking about Hippie Hour all day. Only fitting, since it is Tuesday. Thanks for the memories, darlin’.  We’ll keep working on that ocean.

amplitude and abundance*

The stall is unattended.  Some days, like yesterday, it’s all tomatoes. Other days, it’s a mix of giant zuchinni, yellow squash, peppers, and yeah, tomatoes.  You pull up into the dusty lot, step out of the car into the heat, and the smell and the taste of tomatoes envelopes you.

There are two handwritten notes attached to the metal moneybox. One apologizes in advance for nibbles by wandering deer. The other explains that the stand is closed on Wednesdays, in solidarity with the farmer’s market.

Sometimes you have to find the bowl of the scale that’s blown off into the weeds or down the sidewalk, sometimes the bags are all gone. But the one thing that seems constant is that the box is stuffed with money, you have to work a little to push your dollars into the slot. You realize then that you are paying for two things, really: the divinity of fresh tomatoes, as well as the chance to prove you can be trusted.

*Post title from Pablo Neruda’s Oda al Tomate (English translation)

Success in failure

In the time I’ve lived at this house, one thing I’ve not done at all is landscaping or yard work, other than basic mowing and weed eating. Partly because I couldn’t afford it, partly because I didn’t have the time, but mostly because I wasn’t inspired yet.  My usual pattern with big projects, for interiors or exteriors, is to do nothing until I figure out the best path of action. That usually takes a long time but I trust the process.  I’ve learned the hard way, too.  I’m such a circular thinker that if I don’t wait at first,  I’ll start things on an impulse, then a different impulse takes over and I’ll either abandon it or it morphs into something I don’t like anymore and I get hopelessly frustrated. It’s best to get my brain out of the way and let the space teach me what to do with it.

I’ve finally settled on what to do in the front yard. I knew all along that I wouldn’t be keeping the manicured turf grass that came with the house.  Water’s becoming more precious by the minute around here, we pay a fortune for it, and anyone who uses it to keep turf grass alive is an idiot. I’ll be replacing it with a combination of native grass, limestone and river pebbles, and stepping stones in paths and wider paved patches, with larger native plants in groupings. I’m still sketching; I’ll start the heavy work in the cooler weather, then plant in the spring.  I won’t get it done all at once, so I’m leaving the brown grass to hold the soil.

The sage above is the one plant I’ve put in the soil since moving here. Like me, it’s a transplant from the failed marriage. Not long before things went south, the ex and I had put a bunch of them in at the old place.  I took some with me when I moved out, this was the only one that survived, and I’ll attest that it’s thrived largely on neglect. This is the fullest set of blooms it’s ever had, result of a couple of welcome rain showers a few weeks ago.  With everything around burned and dried to a crisp, the luscious purple is heartening, reminding me to be patient.

O Winebringer, the sun is up

Driftwood Vineyards, very early a.m. Click on the link to see a photo (not mine) from the opposite perspective.

08 Pride Post #18: everyone will quote me on this line

San Antonio’s own punky homegirls Girl in a Coma are all over the place lately, most prominently as part of the True Colors 2008 gay benefit juggernaut line up, touring with The Clicks, and handpicked to open for Morissey.

Above, their video debut Say, below Road to Home, featuring lip synching by plastic surgery enthusiast and model Amanda Lepore. See if you can catch the Joan Jett cameo. Immediately after hearing Girl in a Coma, Jett signed them to her Blackheart label in 2006.

Big Bad John? Ah, jeez … now I’m actually a little embarassed for him

No way am I going to embed a John Cornyn video here, so you’ll have to visit Pink Lady to see just how ludicrous his new ad is.

The condensed version (with apologies to Gary Larson): I’m a cowboy! Howdy! Howdy! Howdy!

This is what happens when a chickenhawk Republican who’s never been in harm’s way has to scramble to defend his seat against a Democrat with 23 years in the military, including a tour in Afghanistan, in addition to a decade of public service in state government.

Tell Box Turtle Cornyn that we don’t need anymore fake cowboys in Washington, folks.

Support Rick Noriega for U. S. Senate. Help elect a man who doesn’t have to pretend to be something he’s not.

UPDATED:  Cornyn claims it was a just a joke…you know, funny.. ha ha.