An Open Letter

Dear I Love You So Much Wall,

Hey, dude. I love you back. So much. This is why I had to write this letter. I appreciate you as a reminder of why I loved this city so much when I moved here. It’s random acts like this that make Austin so fun to live in. Often, Austinites, absorb anonymous acts of creativity as their own, openly, and with great enthusiasm. To be honest, the bro side of me was initially like, “That’s so lame. Ha. You love dick so much.” But, that’s not really me, man. That’s not me. I really think this is awesome. 

Unfortunately, your location near the popular Austin tourist locations on South Congress Avenue transformed you into, my fair wall friend, a hot spot for yuppie out-of-town and local yuppies to take their photos. Something like this shouldn’t bother me. Hell, people take tons of pictures in front of that frog thing Daniel Johnston painted on Guadalupe. They take loads of photos at Mount Bonnell or Downtown in the early mornings. Austin is a photogenic town. For some reason, I feel really uneasy when I watch people run up to to you and ask strangers to take their picture or when I see people taking couples’ photos in front of you.

Does that not bother you? That everyone else has taken their picture there? You literally say the same thing every time. Everyone’s picture reads “I love you so much.” Everyone knows what you are and where you are. Perhaps, I find it lazy, and I don’t like lazy when it comes to things as important as couples’ photos. I get frustrated with the lack of creativity in people, and as I watch giddy individuals and groups gather at this wall, I watch a little bit of you, my dear friend, die. A piece of you is taken every time a member of the roaming hoard of Texan yuppies comes to South Congress to inject a bit of bohemian kitsch into their dull lives.

People like me, who actually frequent the area because I live here, have to watch something that I would have liked to have done with my future wife and you become less and less important. The whims of a sweet, artistic soul that created you are now just another cultural commodity that this city offers that is getting sopped up by the tasteless, cultureless dinner roll that are groups of Texan yuppies.

I feel sorry for you. I feel sorry for the people that work at Jo’s that have to share a wall with you and have to put up with questions about you. I sometimes feel bad for this city. It’s too nice for its own good. 

I should just get over it. 

Sincerely, 

Dago

How are you doing tonight?

I actually saw someone do the "Too Much Satan for One Hand" last night non-ironically, and I got sad. :(

Last night, after work, my friend (aka Dravis Tarby) and I went to see a few bands play some catchy tunes.  Emo’s was taken over by a small touring metal showcase with a bunch of bands we really didn’t care about, but Tarby and I have been talking about going to see Tony Danza Tap Dance Extravaganza for years now.  So, we went ahead, bit the bullet, and sat through some rather boring, sorta annoying metal bands, like Falsetta.

It being Austin, August, and a metal showcase saturated with cookie-cutter crud, the atmosphere was less buzzing than you would expect at a metal show.  Austin isn’t really a metal town.  Everyone was about 15.  The bartenders were suffering of boredom due to the sea of minors.  It was like 110º yesterday afternoon.  It just wasn’t a really pleasant place to be unless you really wanted to be there. Even Dravis was getting annoyed, and that kid is more metal that we can even contemplate, which is probably why he was getting annoyed. ANYWAY…

Aside from the lollable breakdowns and lack of creativity I found one more thing all of these bands had in common, the nagging insecurity of a teenager.  In the middle of every set:

“AUSTIN! [enter crazy-ass screech] HOW THE FUCK YOU DOIN’ TONIGHT?! [pause for hootin’/hollerin’] Fuuuuuck yeah! I was hoping nothing had changed from the last time someone asked you that, which was about 15 minutes ago! YEAAAAH! Y’ALL LIKE BAD DATES?!”

When they asked the crowd that I really wanted to let them know how I was doing. “Yeah, I’m really sleepy. It’s also really goddamn hot out here. Can you guys hurry up? I’m trying to catch Tony Danza.  I’m going to vamoose afterward.  I’d really like some tea and to catch some television.”

I just started playing in a band with some pretty great dudes, and I promise you and them that I will never ask an audience how they are doing.  Why?  Because, I would actually want to know.  I actually give a shit about how someone is doing when I ask them.  It just seems too easy.

People have a bad habit of asking how someone is doing and making it all too obvious how little they actually care for a response.  Asking a crowd of people how they are doing, an attempt to elicit a response that makes a band feel better about not doing well, is just an easy way to get people riled up.  “How are you doing tonight?” is the concert equivalent to the “Charge” sound bite at basketball games.  I don’t want to be directed to cheer and yell.  I should want to do it.  If I’m not, this might just be the worst date ever.

CHARGE!

-dago

PS: What kind of bands do y’all think Ellen Page likes? :/

http://www.spin.com/articles/ellen-page-reveals-her-favorite-music

Cover Letter

To Whom It May Concern:

I know. hehehe That tiny cat is adorable. Ha. I think we both can agree that cat’s tiny spine cannot support the weight of a human person, nor does it possess the strength needed to transport critical and consumer goods between the couch and coffee table.  Stupid cat.  It’s expendable.  I can plant something in his desk; make it seem like he’s been stealing.  Fire him on a Friday.

See?  This is the sort of critical thinking your company needs.

I’m great.  I know that this position just opened up, and I’m perfect for it.  When you hire me let us consider getting rid of some dead weight, yeah?  I’m like an overworked porn star.  I can pretty much fill any position, even better ones you’ve never thought of.

OK, honestly, I am a college graduate, currently getting my MA, bilingual, hate homeless people, ridiculously loyal, promiscuous, if need be, and needing a challenge.  Don’t allow the influx of overly qualified and well-groomed Southern Californians into our fair city dissuade you from making the right decision.  Not to sound like a protectionist, but as a protectionist, why can’t we just look out for the Texans for a lil while, yeah?  While this whole thing blows over.  That riff-raff moving east is good for nothing anyway.  You’ve seen what they’ve done to their own state.

Anyway, good talk.  Hire me.

Sincerely,

D. Garcia

PS: I’ll bring tacos every day.  I’m serious.

Here-Everything’s-Better

2400 S. Congress Ave. Austin, TX 78704

There are few places that draw so much simultaneous love and hate in South Austin than the H-E-B on Oltorf and S. Congress.  The place is fantastic! It’s a colorful place where homeless people, hipsters, blipsters, the upper-middle class yearning to be poor and normies can consume the vast selection that our American way of life affords us.  From the shaky man in the parking lot asking for change to the over-make-up’d cosmetics department lady, this H-E-B is a big part of my life.  From week-to-week, I joyfully make the half-mile drive to it like [insert movie reference here].  I get in and get out relatively quickly.  I spend anywhere from $30 to $45 and I’m set for the week.  (That’s what she said to the last two sentences. HEYO!)

However, the practice of dragging ass through the same H-E-B for the past five years, past the produce, past the butcher, past the hired Asian actors that pretend to cut sushi, past the out-of-place beer and wine aisle, gets boring.  Every time I go back, I am resolute in saying, “I will not COME BACK!”  But, like a fool, I do.  No matter how inconvenient that death-trap of a parking lot is.  No matter how many times I run over a runaway Mexican kid.  No matter how many times I realize that the cart bays are in the most inconvenient places.  I ALWAYS GO BACK.  It’s the familiarity.  I tried the Wal-Mart around here once, and I almost threw up.  It was too sterile.  I need danger.  H-E-B offers me that danger.

I know I can head to other places and get exactly what I need.  I know that they are cleaner, offer more amenities and probably offer a higher hawttie-to-dewd ratio than this H-E-B can.  It is overrun by families and old people.  But, where’s the fun in that?  Does Central Market have COLA CHAMPAN?! The greatest beverage known to man! NO! IT DOES NOT!

The whole purpose for this is post is to proclaim that I found the most perfect parking spot in their lot.  It was one of those spots that lies right in front of the exit and sits directly beside the handicapped spot.  I almost took a picture, but I’m sure I would have been hit by a car if I didn’t keep my head on a swivel.

This was the reason H-E-B gave me to come back today.  Next time, will I get that spot?!?!  This one beautiful experience outweighs the awful ones by a lot.

The leftover and marked down Valentine’s balloons were a sight.

The fact that I could buy Heineken and Muesli at the same store without really putting any thought into how stupid that combination sounds is GRAND!

Even though I almost killed a tyke in the parking lot, it was a great experience.  Great experiences keep you in situations that are all together not that great for you.  They also set you up for the next great let-down.

To being let down,

dago

Solo

If you replace the scenic meadow landscape on this photo with mewithoutYou on stage at Emo's Outside, you'll get the picture I'm trying to paint.

Ever go to a concert and notice that guy that’s just there by himself?  Every show I’ve been to has that guy.  What a LOSER! Oh my god!  I mean, he couldn’t even wrangle together a couple of friends to go to this show?  Has he no life?  I bet he plays hours of video games a day, and “reads” a lot.  At least, he could have brought his girlfriend. With a mug like that I’m sure he doesn’t even have a girlfriend. What an asshole.

Well, I was that asshole last night.  I liked it.  I haven’t been to a concert by myself in a while, not since mewithoutYou and The Dear Hunter in June.  THAT show was my first solo flight.  I didn’t really feel that weird about it because it was mewithoutYou, and their Christian post-hXc followers can be pretty nice.  I expect most Christians to be convivial unless I bring up gay marriage or how Jesus probably rode a Velociraptor around.  That show was really nice, despite the hands being held high and the smell of cologne.  However, I kind of told myself I would never do it again.  I was alone.  I was out in the open.  I could have been pamphleteer-ed or EVEN WORSE converted.  You always need a wingman or best case scenario, a squadron.

In high school and college, I usually went to concerts at least rolling three deep, maybe even with a lady to score us the “approachable” points with da ladeez.  I never really thought about it, but the shows we went to kind of required that we keep together closely and watch each others’ backs.  I sometimes imagine what would have happened if that guy from The Mars Volta concert with the word “FUCK” tattooed across his chest wanted to start a fight with me, instead of the other shirtless bro.  I would have been publicly humiliated by this guy who, obviously, had a hormone problem.  What if that cat fight I broke up at the Between the Buried and Me show got out of hand and the two chicks decided to break me off?  I would have had my head on a swivel, but I’m pretty sure I would have gotten jacked the fuck up.  The only thing worse than fighting one out of control chick is fighting two.

With all of this running through my mind before the La Dispute show last night at Emo’s, I decided to go for it. I love them so much, it didn’t matter where they played.  I would have to see them.

I braved the chances of me bumping into the wrong person and getting gang tackled by a squad of hipsters.  Alas, it did not happen.  Actually, I convinced myself that if things got rough I would just start kicking people in the skinny jeans.  I mean, it’s low, but effective, and I’m not really a person with many principles/morals/regrets.

But, the experience taught me one thing.  I’ve always been kind of alone.  I was an only child growing up.  I did shit alone all the time.  I’ve been doing my own laundry since I was 8.  [I know, legit, right?]  I mean, shit, I’ve become so fucking needy of other people in the past few years.  I’m realizing every day how stupid it’s become.  I need contact, but not as much as I think I do.  I’m finally becoming aware of how little I need people in my day-to-day life.  I really like my friends, but I’m becoming more independent, as I once was, as I always should have been.  I believe it’s made me weak.  I’m too conscious of the outside. I’m too focused on what people have thought about me and the way that people will see me if I treat people a certain way.  Anyway.

My New Year Resolution is to do as such:

  • Become more independent emotionally
  • Get all of the needy, narcissistic and manipulative people out of my life

Oddly enough, those two are directly related.  My personality for some reason focuses on helping people that are in trouble.  I want to fix things, inanimate or animate, but I can’t do that anymore. Time to go back to lone wolf mode.  Because the more time you spend with yourself, the more you realize that you’re pretty fucking crummy, too.  The only person left to fix is you.

It’s tool time,

dago

PS: THEY WERE FUCKING AWESOME

PPS:  I love you, Houston Texans (9 – 7).  Good season. Let’s build on that.

Going out.

We meet again, Gort.  I certainly hope you brought your dancing shoes, bitch.
We meet again, Gort. I certainly hope you brought your dancing shoes, bitch.

The joke is, “There are only two certainties in life, death and taxes.”  It’s a stupid joke, mostly told by old Republicans, but it’s entirely true.  We’re all going to die.  What’s important is how we do it.  I’m not the first person to say this and I won’t be the last, but I’m not going out like no bitch.  If there’s a global war with Neo-Nazi zombies sent from space to invade Earth and they happen to stumble into South Austin, those undead mother fuckers better watch out, because this guy ain’t going out like no punk-ass mark, ya heard?  If this were December 8, 1941, I would be suiting up to punch some Japs in the face for good old Uncle Sam, regardless of whether or not Ken Burns would mention me in his documentary about America at war or not.  America doesn’t go out like no pussy, and I don’t either.

I want to go out fighting like 19 ninjas.  I’d kill 18, and the 19th one turns into a 30-foot robot that shoots lasers out of its eyes.  After a 3-hour battle which involves Megan Fox, the “Most Interesting Man in the World” and Harrison Ford in some way, I get taken out by the robot.  After completing its mission of killing me, the robot self-destructs and blows up a chunk of South Congress, preferably where those new SoCo Lofts are or those stupid trailers set up shop.  In the aftermath, I want there to be a song written about me like “Candle in the Wind” or something just legit as fuck like “Crossroads“, and have it written by Francis Scott Key’s distant nephew Steve. (I miss my Uncle Charles, y’all!)

Anyway, I really don’t have many specific goals for my life.  I just want to get my PhD, teach and be happy.  I think it’ll work itself out from there.  There is, however, one goal that I have to follow through on, and that is not to get lamed, pwnd, pwnt, owned, lolled or rofled in a manner that would be stupid and totally my n00bish fault.  I seriously don’t want to end up getting a Darwin Award or winding up on the local news getting ridiculed for being found dead after trying to race a train or something.

The Highlander never has to worry about this.  He knows his death will be epic.  He will probably yell something like, “RUN! Save yourself!” [chop]

[head rolls on floor]

[cue sweet lightning and Queen song]

I don’t know why I’m so focused on death.  It might be the whole Caradine-McMahon-Fawcett-Mays sadness going around (No, I’m not at all sad about Michael Jackson).  I don’t think I’m afraid to die.  Knowing that everyone does it makes it seem so much more acceptable.  At least no one is getting a free pass.  All of you are going to die. :P  And that’s okay.  My parents are going to die, and that’s alright.  We all end up in the same place.

I’m just concerned about how much I will miss when I do die.  I will miss out on watching Scientology become the largest religion in the world.  I’m going to miss the rise and fall of Michael Jackson’s Zombie Army.  I will miss Carl Weathers become America’s Third Black President after Obama and Morgan Freeman.  (Everyone from the movie Predator has to hold public office–except for “Billy”, he’s a Native American.)  I’m going to miss the 2 Girls 1 Cup made-for-TV movie produced by Hallmark.  I’m going to miss Perez Hilton… just straight miss him.

I’m going to miss out on a lot of things.

I enjoy life a lot.  As lame as life might seem for a lot of us, there is so much to appreciate.  I never got why Christians are so damn ready to die.  They’re all in such a rush to get to heaven.  Life is already pretty bitchin’.  I just don’t want it to end with me being videotaped and the footage being used in a new Faces of Death video.

On second thought, Faces of Death was pretty sweet,

Dago

beginning things

This is my second/third (if you count an early-2000s era LiveJournal) attempt at a blog. I used blogs in the past to deal with personal issues. I would leave them open to the public, knowing what the consequences were. This blog won’t go down that road. To avoid most interpersonal conflicts, the intended purpose of this blog is to criticize the anonymous.  I hope the more I get the hang of this, the better the writing and topics get.

I want to discuss the everyday things I see, and hear. As any good American, I consume. Also, like any good student of the liberal arts (blegh!), I have a lot of opinions about things I interact with on a daily basis. You will probably not agree with what I have to say, have an opinion on whatever sport I’m yelling about or even like the way I write about it. I just want this blog to be fun. In fact, I’m pretty sure this blog will be fun at the expense of others. I hope you’re okay with that. OK.

Now, onto the most important thing—myself. I’m an out-of-shape, twenty-three year old male from Austin, TX. A graduate of St. Edward’s University, I have a degree in History (know-it-all), and one day hope to get my hands on a Ph. D.

I currently have two employers, but will probably disclose their names in another post.  I’m not a fucking bum!

I have opinions, and I, being a dirty fucking liberal fascist, feel like all voices are important. I suppose this will be mine, for now. I’m originally from Houston, TX—Sharpstown to be exact. I’m obsessed with sports, music, politics, lively debate and people’s day-to-day interactions. So, let’s just get started, eh?

Continue reading beginning things