so. one of the pleasures of life in austin is the music. it's everywhere. especially during south by southwest, a great big infectious extravaganza of bands and films and celebs and self-congratulation. although i haven't really taken advantage of it--there are so many great acts playing all the time that it's a little hard to know where to start--i saw reggae legends toots and the maytalls last night and tonight i'm seeing up-and-coming texican rockers los lonely boys, who are about to explode (you heard it here first).

all this by way of saying: i want to be a minor rock star. i want a band of young, ironic hipsters, and a lazy manager, and a dorky roady with a ponytail who's a less a friend than a hanger-on, and a vintage amp. i want to write snappy lyrics full of heartache and wry humor that make people smile and nod knowingly.

also, i want to rock out.

i want to drink beer onstage, but not obnoxiously. classily.

i want to banter with the crowd between songs. when that one drunk guy keeps shouting out the name of the one song he wants to hear, i will tell him to keep his shirt on (or something wittier). if it's a drunk girl, i'll ask what's she doing after the show. i will then tell the crowd i'm just kidding, because i have a girlfriend.

i will never wear the same clothes for two gigs in the same month, or at the same venue in two months.

my band might be called todd lopez and the raw chesters. alternatively, it might be harry long and the twins. a third possibility is the secret mortifications of desmond p. holbein.

my band's shows will never sell out. sometimes, when we travel more than a half hour away for a gig, only one or two people in the bar where we're playing will have heard of us.

my band will have a mediocre website. the coolest part will be publicity photos of us looking moody and stylish. i will include amusing pictures of my grubby bathroom, as well as recipes i find tasty.

at least once during its lifespan, my band will fire the drummer, not because he sucks, but because he's an alcoholic. it will break the other members' hearts, because he's a funny drunk.

the band will never be great, but it will be ok. it will be fine, and it will rock a few really good parties, and the other members will get lots of girls because of their playing in the band.

in the future, i will treasure the cd that we cut with the producer who onced worked with jakob dylan, long after the band is no more. every once in a while, i will listen to the cd while sitting on my couch in the living room, alone, at twilight, with the lights off. the music will be somewhat stale, but it will also rock somewhat.

being in a band will have been awesome.

have rocked out with me,
TR

this is a borderline blog, a holler from the hinterlands, halfway between naughty and nice, between decent and in-. it's not for the faint of heart. so let the bloggee beware of the blogged of this blogger.

the thing i like best about living alone is the freedom to poop with the bathroom door open.

i know, i know: it's a vulgar thing to do, and an even vulgarer thing to say.

but it's true.

i make no concessions to the normal rules of decency since it's just me, solito, in my 1 br/1 ba. there's no point in being modest--who would notice?

my reasoning for this borderline activity runs thus: the opportunities for this socially-unacceptable behavior are few in this life (though who knows about the next life). at some point in the future, i may have roommates again, as i have in the past. such a shared-space living arrangement may be born of necessity--i may need someone to help share the rent (though hopefully in a slightly larger place). alternately, i may someday acquire the kind of permanent roommate they call a wife, or those shorter roommates popularly known as children. any of the foregoing varieties of accomodation-sharer would seem to prohibit open-door pooping, as i figure. there might be a small window in which to exploit the familiarity allowed by spousely cohabitation--who better than a loving wife to tolerate her new hubby's minor extravagances, after all. however, visits by or to the houses of parents and in-laws rule out unfettered disclosed elimination (as well as complicate normal conjugal relations in other ways). the last gasp for doing my business exposed to the house might come during the years when my potential children are still too small to be traumatized by the crudeness of the act. however, the propensity of tots to innocently enter an in-use bathroom could have tragic consequences for them and for their paternal pooper. at the risk of sending my more delicate readers away in a confused and disgusted huff, i offer this hypothetical dialogue to pre-construct the scene that might ensue were a small, curious person to stumble onto daddy doody-maker in the act:

wee one: tra-la-la, i'm so carefree, i like legos and grilled cheese and transformers and nana and papa and abuelo and abuela and bugs and snowflakes. (ENTERS BATHROOM.)

poops88: oh, no, pumpkin, don't come in here. daddy's taking care of business.

wee one: daddy, what's that smell? it hurts my eyes. i feel yucky. hey, what are you reading? let me see! i wanna see! read me a story! daddy, your legs are skinny and your tummy's fat.

poops88: listen, sweety, why don't you run along and see where mommy is.

wee one: no, daddy, i wanna stay here with you. let's play the pinchy game.

poops88: honey, daddy's toes are still sore from the last time we played the pinchy game. also, daddy's busy right now. he needs to concentrate very hard on what he's doing. why not go count the grass out in the yard some more?

wee one: but daddy, i wanna stay here with you! otherwise, i might grow up to resent you for all the bonding opportunities you let slip away. can you live with my neglect and mute hatred in your twilight years?

poops88: [sighing; closing maxim] no, i guess not, sweetie.

wee one: yay! now, let's play a different game. it's called "guess what i'm doin'."

poops88. ok, how do we play?

wee one: daddy, you're so dumb. you just try and guess what i'm doin'.

poops88: right. ok, let me see...are you counting to ten inside your head?

wee one: nope.

poops88: all right, are you biting your tongue?

wee one: nope.

poops88: hmmm....are you wistfully remembering the carefree joys of life before you had children?

wee one: hee-hee, no, daddy--you're so silly. you get one more guess.

poops88: i give up, love. what are you doin'?

wee one: i'm poopin', daddy! just like you!

poops88: but honey, i'm the one on the toilet. and you're supposed to be potty-trained.

wee one: i know, daddy. isn't this a fun game?


it's all a hypothetical, of course. but the possibility--the probability, even--of scenarios just like this one make me even more resolute to live out my days of bachelor defecation with as much relish as possible. my time is limited, my chances are numbered, but with the right attitude--and reading material--i can poop my way into the sunset.

do not go in there with me,
TR

well, i'm back from an extended absence. these things just seem to creep up on you. unfortunately, i don't have anything to say now, either.

here's something i just learned on tv, though:

the olsen twins, those formerly adorable, currently legal twins of "full house" fame, used to make $25,000 per episode of that show.

that's just about what i make, too--in a year.

sigh.

be in the wrong business with me,

TR