Check out this interview I did with Eric Ladau of Houston's NPR station, KUHF. (Warning: It has either bad words or bleeped-out bad words in it.)
I'll be reading Growing Up with Tamales for story time at Blue Willow Bookshop, in Houston, on Thursday morning, May 15. Tell everyone you know with kids in the Houston area. How do you find and support local indie book stores like Blue Willow? By going to Booksense.
On Saturday, May 17, I'll be in Dallas, reading and signing at the J. Erik Jonsson Central Library, for the 13th Dallas Children’s Book Fair & Literary Festival.
On June 22, here in Houston, I'm going to do a poetry workshop. It's free and open to the public, y'all, and they're having one every Sunday in June, taught by local poets I love and respect. So come on down.
Friday, February 24, 2006
How to Survive White Trash Hell on New Year's Evean illustrated story by Gwen
When Tad told me that the gang wanted to attend a New Year's Eve event sponsored by a particular local radio station, I was skeptical.
"I don't know," I said. "I'm worried that, if it's sponsored by that radio station, it might not be... you know. Nice."
"No, baby, it'll be fine," he assured me. "It's black tie optional." Then he coughed, and muttered under his breath, "Or you can wear togas, or lingerie, but the guys want to go because it's open bar."
"What's that, sweetie? I didn't catch that last part," I said.
"I said, we should go to the mall this weekend and buy you a nice dress." And the subject was promptly changed.
This was the picture I wanted to use to show y'all how I looked on New Year's Eve.
But my boyfriend said not to, so I'm using this one, instead:
I think I look nice.
When our group met up in the line for the event, all our female members immediately shared with each other the fear that, being sponsored by this particular local radio station, the party might not be quite as... elegant... as we were hoping. As we were dressed for, I should say.
All too soon, we discovered that our fears were well founded. Because, while our group had chosen to dress like this:
... other attendees had chosen to dress like this:
Let me rephrase. While we had chosen to dress like this:
... other people had gone with the option of dressing like this:
No, seriously. I don't think you're getting it. I'm trying to tell you that there were people there dressed like this:
You see the situation clearly now, do you not? Yes, not, I'm sure that you do.
And I'm not saying that there's anything wrong with dressing like that. In public, on New Year's Eve. No, because I don't judge. All I'm saying is that, if I had known that 70% of the attendees would be dressed like that, I might have left my good rhinestones at home.
The women in our group felt many emotions at that point. Now that it was too late to get a refund for our tickets... Now that we'd spent several hours getting ready for the evening... Now that we had not yet gotten our money's worth from this beer-sponsored, Linkin-Park-cover-band-ridden event... I'm not going to say that the main emotion was disappointment, and I'm not going to say that the chief sentiment was "Mike is never, ever picking the place for New Year's Eve again." I'm just going to let you imagine how you would have felt at that point, if you were us. And I bet you can imagine it well.
Obviously, there was only one thing to do.
And once we did that, we thought of a few other ways to pass the time until the 1 AM buffet.
Such as, for instance, cursing our fates...
Catching up with friends...
Coming up with new variations on the classic devil-horn photographic pose...
Dancing our troubles away...
Getting to know young ladies seated near our party...
In more than one sense...
Or, in my case, stealing Cyra's camera and using it to photograph myself with strangers.
It's easier than you'd imagine. Especially after everyone involved has had a beer. Here's the key: Don't ask the strangers to pose with you.
Just put your arm around their shoulders, and hold up the camera.
And, instinctively, they will look into it and smile. Voila! (Or else, they'll look down at your boobs.) (Voila!)
Sometimes, they will kiss you. Whether you realize it or not. Whether you're absorbed with doing your "Sailor Moon fingers plus prominent tongue" pose or not, and whether you remember it the next morning or not. But don't worry - you'll have the photo, so you can treasure the moment forever, either way.
One guy's group of friends caught on to what I was doing, and they gathered around me. "He thinks you're hot," one of them screamed, pointing at the one guy and then at me, in order to facilitate his point.
"I am hot," I agreed.
"No... He thinks you're hot!" the guy's friend screamed. A little louder, so I'd understand.
"I am hot," I screamed back, in case he'd missed my point.
"No... Our friend thinks..."
Finally, I realized what they were trying to tell me. They wanted me to take a picture of myself with their friend, and then post it on my blog. Okie dokie, guys. Here you go:
I have to admit that, in that photo, their friend was totally right. And so, although I'd felt insecure earlier in the evening, with this man's approval of my appearance, my life had suddenly become complete.
All too soon, however, the new-found fun was over. As the clock struck midnight, like magic, heated misunderstandings broke out in the ladies' room. Like a beautiful rainbow, some guy didn't appreciate Richard trying to make out with his wife. Like fairy dust sparkling on gurgling streams, vomit emerged from partygoers' mouths.
It was time to go home. And so we did, with designated driver intact. And as we rode down the city streets, with Richard lying wrapped in a tablecloth across the laps of everyone in the back seat, our hearts welcomed all the potential of 2006. And we promised ourselves, through laughter mingled with tears, that next New Year's Eve, we'd stay home. 11:29 PM # (19) comments
Thursday, February 23, 2006
Expressions of Love, Part Two: Chicken Soup for the MMORPG SoulThe other day I was playing World of Warcraft (or World of War-crack, as I've heard it called). In that world, I'm a blue-haired Night Elf in leather armor, who kills monsters with a quarter staff and magic spells.
So I'm there, and I'm killing the monsters. Because that's what they pay me to do. And then, as I near the town to collect payment, I notice that my mail icon is on. "You've got mail, pre-industrial druid!"
I go to the mail box and pick up a package. It's from a stranger - someone named TerrorKnight or BloodTerror or something like that. With the package, there's a letter. The letter says:
I'm learning to cook. This will give you extra stamina.
- Josh..
Josh is my son. I open the package. It contains five herbed, baked eggs.
Now, whenever I think of my children, I see the icon of a World of Warcraft herbed, baked egg in my mind, with its properties listed underneath. And thus, it has become an icon for the love we share.
Sometimes I mail them gold, if I have extra. My character can't cook yet. But whenever I can, I skin monsters and use their hides to make my children special, enchanted armor. When they get the packages, the game shows the sender as Night Elf Xora.
But I always sign the letters "Love, Mom."
Labels: parenting, pop culture
3:35 PM # (10) commentsExpressions of Love, Part One: When a Man Loves a Woman (and Her Scarf)
The other day
No... First I have to tell you something, so you understand this anecdote.
I get really freaked out when people stare at me. Probably because I'm a little insecure. Partially, I'm sure, because I grew up in a subculture where staring is considered not just rude, but an invitation to a fist fight. Maybe, partially, because I inherited part of my mom's extreme tendency in this regard. As I've mentioned before, she's paranoid schizophrenic. So, who knows, maybe hearing her say stuff like, "That man keeps staring at us. I think he wants to kill us!" affected my young psyche just a little, before she went to live somewhere else. Who knows?
The point is, I dislike it when strangers stare. A lot. But I've been trying to get over it. My boyfriend helps, with his good example, logical guidance, and willingness to be my boyfriend despite my flaws.
The other day he and I were at Bed Bath & Bourgeousie. I didn't want to be there in the first place, but there we were, and it was very cold for Houston that day (39 F), and I had on my warmest coat (black suede trench) and a scarf made of balls of brown rabbit fur that match my hair. (It was a gift. (A very warm gift.))
So we walk in and, right off the bat, these three baseball-cap-wearing-type men in their forties start with the looking. One of them in particular let his looking become a full-blown stare.
I said nothing, but I had to think up all the possible reasons he might be staring. Because I must do that. That is my nature. Here are the possible reasons I came up with:
1. Interracial relationship. People gotta stare. Some people have never seen or even imagined a Caucasian woman with an Asian man before.
2. He thought I was ugly.
3. He thought I was pretty.
4. He thought I looked like somebody he knew.
5. He thought I was overdressed for the weather. Some people can take the cold. Some people can't. He obviously could, but maybe he'd never before seen a person who couldn't.
6. Maybe...
I couldn't take it anymore. "That guy stared at me," I said to Tad.
"Probably because he thinks you're hot," said Tad.
"No. It wasn't like that."
"Probably the interracial thing."
"Maybe..."
We didn't find what we were looking for, so we turned to leave. The baseball cap men were still there.
"They're gonna stare at me again," I whispered. For some reason, it bugged me a lot. I'm okay now with old ladies and little kids staring, but something about getting stared at by three tall, smile-less men in baseball caps who have nothing better to do than stare at strangers at Bed Bath & Beyond? Unnerving. I glanced at them with my peripheral vision, ready to spin and yell, "What the hell you lookin' at, ese?" while pulling out my imaginary knife, if need be.
As we neared the gauntlet, Tad put his arm around me. The men were arranged so that we had to walk right through them.
As we walked through, Tad held up his left hand, like a bodyguard, and said loudly, "Nobody look at her. Nobody look at her, please!" And then of course they must have looked. Because I must've been a celebrity, in town for the All Star Game, right?
By the time we got to the parking lot, I was laughing my ass off. In the car, I laughed until I coughed, then realized: "I think he was staring at my scarf, actually. Trying to figure out if it was real fur."
Tad, who is a very good mimic, launched into an exact imitation of a Texas redneck. "Yeah. He was like, 'God DAMN. If that was my woman, I'd hunt enough to put a different dead animal around her neck every day.'"
I giggled. I wish you could have seen him, with that voice coming out of his mouth.
Tad went on. "Shit. I'd make that girl a deerskin bikini."
And from now on, when people stare, I'll imagine that's what they're thinking. Some people just want to show you love with dead animals.
And some people show you love by being silly in order to make you feel better. And if that, in turn, shows you how silly you've been, then it's okay, because it's done with love.
Labels: my sex life, psychobabble, stories
2:59 PM # (13) commentsSunday, February 19, 2006
WeirdI'm guessing God or Blogger doesn't like my last entry, because it keeps disappearing of its own volition. Fine. I'll leave it off for a while, then. A bloodless sacrifice. I got the chicken salad recipes I needed. FINE. And thanks, everybody.
In other news: If you've been reading this blog to find out how I'm spending the child support checks that very infrequently come in the mail, let me just give you the answer flat out...
Hookers and blow, baby. Hookers and blow.
Labels: parenting
9:01 PM # (6) commentsWednesday, February 15, 2006
Linkelodeon!Alert reader Tanya C. writes:
Hi Gwen,
I was goofing off and went to the Fritos site, and there is a recipe section you must see:
http://www.ilovechilipie.com/Recipes.aspx
Swear to god, most of them are the same thing with a tiny bit of variation, like add some onions, etc. But my favorite is the Fritos Chili Pie in a Bag*, which is the same as the Walk Around Fritos Chili Pie, except it seems to call for chipped onions.... For some reason it all struck me as hilarious.
*"Perfect when you are in a convenience store and want a mini-meal on the go." Like, say if you're robbing the store or like, kidnapping someone and you're on the go!
Of course I wrote back to Tanya and informed her that Frito Pie in the Frito Bag is popular school-carnival fare here, and that maybe we should consider mailing emptied Frito bags to impoverished countries that are bereft of waterproof materials. Good job, Tanya, on finding snack resources for criminals and lazy single moms alike.
In other "Found While Goofing Off" news...
What are heirloom vegetables? Besides my latest mini-obsession, you mean? They're non-hybrid vegetables - meaning ones that have been planted since forever ago. Meaning not the ones at most grocery stores, which, if you plant their seeds, will degenerate into inferior-DNA-ed species. My newest fantasy is to convince my boyfriend's retired, hobby-less father to start a garden. Then, I will buy him seeds from the heirloom seed catalogue I couldn't resist having mailed to my gardenless apartment. Then, I will reap the harvest. My boyfriend is supposed to talk to his dad about this tonight. I'll keep you updated.
Author and heirloom vegetable enthusiast Amy Goldman creates art from really sexy squashes and melons, which are, incidentally, my favorite sections of the seed catalogue.
Is Monsanto evil? Monsanto is a big ol' corporation that genetically engineers plants and seeds. And bovine growth hormones and Agent Orange, from what I'm reading. I like Old Hippie's Monsanto Site, which tells you who on Bush's cabinet is an ex-Monsanto exec. (Clarence Thomas is one. Who knew he liked gardening, too?) If you want to know more, all you have to do is Google "monsanto evil." Want a personal perspective? Read Queen of the Harpies' take on ex-cops visiting old men to make sure they don't save and plant their Monsanto seeds. There's some scary stuff going on in the world.
But heirloom seeds are not scary. And they're not created by Monsanto. No, they're created by Mother Nature, with help from people who were into plant breeding back in Victorian times. Okay, well... I take that back. Some of the tomatoes are a little scary. But in a cool way, you know?
The Project Runway contestants showed their collections at NYC Fashion Week.
Here is Santino's collection.
Here is Chloe's collection.
Here is Daniel's collection.
Here is Kara's collection.
I was surprised to find that I didn't like Chloe's much at all, given that she's been my steadfast pick for winner. For all the talk of Santino not designing with women's bodies in mind, I have to say that his collection contained the most items that I could imagine my chunk-style body wearing. Lastly: I wish people weren't so lookist. Daniel's designs aren't that good, but people love him because he's handsome, so his clothes benefit from that. Would I sleep with Daniel if he were hetero? Sure. Would I buy his clothes? Probably not.
Labels: culture, domestic, links, pop culture
2:39 PM # (8) commentsMonday, February 13, 2006
Road-RelatedA good game to play when you're caught in traffic or just driving somewhere you always drive: First think of a number, like fifteen. Then find fifteen (or whatever number) things that you would like to photograph, if you had nothing better to do than go around town taking pictures. Today, on the way to pick up my kids from school, I mentally photographed palm trees, a fabulously old trailer than had been painted yellow then blue then red, the swanky font on an old liquor store sign, and a red reflector light embedded in a tree. It's a fun game because it reminds you that there's pretty and interesting stuff all around you.
A bad game to play when you're on the freeway at night and have been driving for seven hours straight is: throwing the finger at whoever just cut you off in his SUV. The bad thing about that game is that sometimes state troopers drive SUVS, and, at night, you can't tell it's a state trooper until after you've thrown the finger at him, and he turns on his flashers and pulls you over. Even if he only gives you a speeding ticket and informs you in a forlorn good-old-boy accent that he could have you incarcerated for disorderly conduct, as opposed to actually arresting you, it's not a fun game. It adds twenty minutes to your seven hour drive. So don't play this game. Or, if you must, start practicing your sincerest, good-old-girl, eye-batting apologies in advance.
I don't mind telling you...
...that I've been feeling mildly depressed for the past week, and I haven't yet figured out why. Maybe there is no reason. But I like things to happen for a reason, so I thought up a few possibilities:
1. I'm not working on a book right now, but I should be working on a book, even if I'm scared to start one because it seems like such an overwhelming thing.
2. Eating carbs and then suddenly, for the millionth time, not eating any carbs, jacks up my blood sugar and makes me feel bad.
3. I've come across several rude or just plain assholish people lately, and the more that happens, the more it makes me wonder if the world is getting ruder and more assholish every year, and the thought of that depresses the living heck out of me (until I come across three kind people in a row or something).
4. Something, or several somethings, recently reminded me of the crappier moments in my history, and I haven't yet processed those thoughts and dismissed them.
5. I've been reading too much young adult fiction in which Good battles Evil, and it makes me feel that my own life has no meaning.
6. I'm just crazy.
Or maybe it's all of those things. Or maybe I'm just tired. Today (shh - don't tell anybody), I drove my kids to school, then drove myself to work, just like every single week day. I made it all the way to the parking garage, turned off my CD player and my engine, and opened the door. Then, after a few seconds imagining myself getting out of my car and going to work all day, I closed my door and drove home, instead. I told myself that when I got home, I'd write. Or do dishes or something, so that my sick day would be worth it. Instead, I slept most of the day.
That hardly ever happens, but it's happened before. When I figure out why, I'll make it stop. Either that, or other people will say in the comments that it happens to them, too, sometimes, and then I'll quit worrying about it and move on. I'm going to work tomorrow, though. Seriously. I promise.
Voices From the Past
A few weeks ago some guy called me and, after telling me a million stories about myself in the ninth grade, managed to convince/remind me that we'd attended high school together and had briefly been friends. (I taught him to play chess. I used to carry this funky little velour bag I'd found at Salvation Army, and we learned about carpetbaggers that semester in History, so he called me Carpetbagger. He asked me to a dance and I said I couldn't go. Like all teenage girls, I dated some jerk, and this guy never thought the jerk was good enough for me.)
So we were shooting the bull for a while (Don't ask me why I talked to him. I'll talk to anybody, at least for a while.), and then he says something about how he used to have a picture of me and him. And he kept it until his ex-wife made him throw it away.
So, finally, I wondered what you would've wondered right from the beginning: Why the hell is this guy calling me? And then I knew the answer, so I said: "I don't look like I did in high school anymore. I'm fat and I have three kids. And a boyfriend."
No, no, that's not why he was calling, he said. He had a girlfriend. And, really, I'd gotten fat? We talked for a while longer and I made him tell me his innermost secrets, as payment for my time, and now I'm sure he'll never call again. So... fine.
***
On the other hand, there's this other person. There's this woman who's married to a peripheral character of my teen years - let's call this woman Vicky. Let me tell you that I've only met Vicky about five times in my life. I heard about Vicky's marital troubles from my friend, Raquel, a few months ago. Through every ounce of (unsolicited) gossip, I tried to remain objective and empathetic to Vicky's plight. Hadn't people thought the worst of me when I left my husband? Maybe Vicky was just like me. From afar, I gave her my compassion and the constant benefit of the doubt.
Recently, my friend Racquel shared several second-hand conversations with me. It turns out that, over the past few years, Vicky's had quite a bit to say about me.
One: she thinks I have designs on her husband. (I don't.)
Two: she suspects I had sex or "hanky panky" with her husband when he and I were twelve years old and I attended his sister's sleepovers. (We didn't.) And she regularly accuses him of this in times of marital discord.
Three: She thinks my writing sucks (because I don't "even use complete sentences") and that I only got published through nefarious and/or prostitutional means, and that if I were "pure white," I never would have been published at all. And she regularly says this to her husband, then screams, "Why are you defending her?!?" if he says anything in reply.
If you know me in real life, you know that it doesn't take much to make me talk loudly and pepper my conversation with cursewords. Like, for instance, if you had a purse that I really liked, I might, right in the middle of a cafe, start bellowing, "Oh my fucking god, that purse is SO FUCKING AWESOME! Jesus!" So, when Raquel told me the extent to which Vicky had been saying all this stuff about me, since meeting me six or seven years ago, I of course said something like, "Oh my god, what a fucking psycho. I'm so fucking sure. What a psycho, insecure FREAK. Oh, and I'm so sure I care what her took-eight-years-to-get-an-Associates'-in-English ass has to say about my writing - as fucking IF. Fuck that bitch. Jesus. I can't believe I was trying to stand up for that bitch. Well, screw her."
I mean, who wouldn't say that, right? I said it, and then felt better and moved on.
So, later, my friend Raquel calls me back to apologize, saying she should have remembered how "sensitive" I could be.
And that, I have to say, kind of annoyed me. I had to ask her how she would feel if I called her up and told her someone she barely knew had been saying all that crap about her. She had to admit that she might be a little annoyed, too.
Lesson: If you don't want to hear me yell a bunch of cursewords, don't tell me what psycho, insecure freaks who barely know me have been saying about me behind my back for years, okay? Because it creeps me the hell out.
Why We're Not Celebrating Valentine's Day
Tad has to work tomorrow night. Every sushi chef has to work on Valentine's Day. And that's okay. You know why? Because he seriously, truly commits acts of love against me on a regular basis. I'm just telling you in case you've been asking about it and thinking that he's cheap, or that our relationship must be on the rocks, or that we're finally showing evidence that we are each others' beards.
Tad and I are the kind of people who hate fake crap and hate doing things just because people expect us to, and that is part of why we're in love.
Tad and I are both crass and blunt, and that may be part of why you think we couldn't possibly be in love. But, if you've ever seen us drunk, (and who in Houston hasn't?) then you know that, deep down inside, Tad and I are also horribly, disgustingly mushy and romantic. To the giggling-and-handholding level. To the icky-sweet nickname-calling level. To the level that we often secretly have romantic dinners for the lamest of reasons.
We've had a very nice secret romantic dinner already this month, and Tad even brought me a very nice surprise lunch during his break today, because he knew I was home doing nothing. So I don't care if we never celebrate Valentine's Day. You know? I mean, I hope everyone out there has a very sweet Valentine's Day with someone they love or at least want to boink. But don't worry about our lack of celebration anymore, all right? There's no need.
All that being said, I couldn't resist picking out a sickly sweet/cute card last week and mailing it to Tad at his house. I messed up the timing, so he got it way before tomorrow, so it still doesn't count as Valentine's Day. But, like I said, that's okay. I'm probably going to buy my kids some cupcakes and rent us a movie to watch while they sort their messy little school valentines on the coffee table. Because that's really what the day's about, as far as I'm concerned. Sugar, and pink and red construction paper drama.
Labels: health, my sex life, psychobabble, venting, writing
6:29 PM # (10) commentsFriday, February 10, 2006
book-relatedMost nights, I read to my kids. Last night we decided to give up on Ramona and Her Father and switch over to A Wizard of Earthsea, instead. I haven't read that one since I was a kid. Sometimes I suspect I read to my kids because it gives me such a great excuse to revisit old faves... It's going better than I thought, even though the youngest two fell asleep before the chapter was done. (Which is the secret plan. Mwa ha ha ha!) Before either of those, we read Then Again, Maybe I Won't, which they liked very much. It's funny how often I have to preface our books with, "This was before cell phones and video games, so..." It's hard to get a book that's suitable and enjoyable for their varied ages. I try to err on the side of bigger words, and that's why we quit the Beverly Cleary. My youngest is old enough to read those by himself, and he's been reading the Henrys and the Ribsys at school.
When I was in seventh grade, our Reading teacher read us Flowers for Algernon. I'll never forget the way she cried at the end. "I'm sorry," she said, between hugely noisy sobs and gulps for air, "The end always makes me cry!" Some of the kids snickered, and some of them looked scared. I don't know what face I made (maybe snickered) but I remember being amazed to see a grown-up so affected by a book. That freed me up in some ways. A few years after I left that school, I heard that teacher died. I didn't fully appreciate her until it was too late. (Like you do with all teachers, in a way.)
I'm trying to read Kavalier and Clay, but it's hard to read big-word books when you don't have big blocks of time, and you keep having to re-read in order to get back into the flow. Or maybe this one just starts slow. If you read it, feel free to comment and tell me what you thought. 4:38 PM # (12) comments
Wednesday, February 01, 2006
Something FunDo y'all know what geocaching is? It is, apparently, a sort of treasure hunt people undertake using GPS devices.
At a public place near my day job, I encountered geocachers while eating my lunch. The weather was glorious and, if I hadn't already spent most of my lunch hour walking to the sandwich place and back, I totally would've horned in on the expedition and looked for the geocache myself.
Maggie, the hunter I met, told me that sometimes the caches contain prizes. Usually they contain a log so people can write down "I was here!" and whatever else. She said it's a lot fun, for kids and everyone else. A good excuse to enjoy the weather and visit places you wouldn't know about otherwise.
According to the web site, the GPS trackers (which look like PDAs or cell phones) start at $100 per. I probably won't buy one any time soon. But next time I meet a geocacher on a mission, I'll definitely stop to help.
Good luck, Maggie. Happy hunting.
Labels: Houston
12:51 PM # (9) commentsSpringtime Is an Indomitable Monster
There's something so awesome about this story, in which the Houston Bayou Bend peeps had to put ice on their many azalea bushes to keep them from blooming too early. The Bayou Bend people are like, "Oh, no, don't let our March Azalea Trail Tourist Thingie get ruined!" And the azaleas are like, "You wanna stop us? You're going to have to ICE US DOWN, mofos!"
It does feel like spring now, because everything is blooming, because it's been so warm. I know we're not supposed to be happy about that, but I am. Spring and blooming flowers rock.
In Other Houston News
People who ride their bikes really slowly down Waugh Drive are self-centered assholes. Especially if they do it during rush hour. Why don't you people move out to the country, if you're so languidly rich and jobless that you can halt traffic at 5 PM, instead of using the sidewalk our taxes paid for? Use the freaking Heights bike trail. It's a mile away. Corporate Houstonians are not here to give you the attention your parents never did.
Also, you may have noticed the 3 gazillion signs on and near Waugh Drive that say "Waugh Drive Bat Colony" or "Look, Houston has a bat bridge just like Austin's!" or whatever. What those signs need to say is "Here's where you can park if you'd like to see the bats. And... Get your bikes off the road."
When you go to a Houston nightclub in Midtown that's basically a big, dimly lit rectangular room with $8 drinks, and when that Houston nightclub has a velvet rope and a line, just walk away. There's nothing at Bond or Red Door or that new place in Old Chinatown worth standing in line for. Especially if you're an ethnicity other than white, and you see that the doorman's white and only white people are getting in...? You should just leave. Don't stand in line, because it makes the club look like a place worth getting into. And they don't deserve you doing that for them. Let Houston club owners know that this isn't New York, and this isn't LA, and we like it that way.
Houston Avenue has fallen prey to dusty, rocky construction and it sucks really bad now. Avoid Houston Avenue at all costs.
Another thing to avoid is Ragin' Cajun on Richmond. Do not eat there unless you like your food to taste bad. You might think it's difficult to mess up fried oysters and fried shrimp, but that's because you haven't tried frying them in flavorless batter and old grease, like the people at Ragin' Cajun do. Also, I strongly suspect that they use MSG. Also, they charge too much.
Finally, in my last piece of Houston news for the day...
I've said it before, and I'll say it again: If you don't like the weather, feel free to go back to where you came from. Or please, at least, think of a more creative way to whine about it. If I hear one more transplant say, "I miss seasons! :( !!" then I'm going to hand that person a world map and scream, "Move farther away from the Equator, then!" I mean, god. Why don't you just stand there in the elevator and complain about the vastness of space? It'd be just as annoyingly pointless to everyone trapped with you, but at least it'd be something new. 8:15 AM # (27) comments
