GLUTTONY

I just told this guy that I did not want to go to the Golden Corral. He seems reasonable in all other aspects except this one.
I think it was St. Thomas Aquinas who said that gluttony was the worst of the seven deadly sins -- but it may have been someone else.
When do you ever eat "all you can eat"?

SEVEN WEIRD THINGS ABOUT AUSTIN

38th Street and 35th Street intersect.
Lamar Boulevard has no beginning and no end -- it just fades into other roads. There is a distinction between North Lamar and South Lamar, but opinions differ about where the division happens -- some say its at 6th Street, and some say its south of the river.
Town Lake is really the Colorado River, but nobody knows where its boundaries are, either. It runs through the middle of Austin, and everyone would say that the Congress Avenue bridge passes over it, but does Interstate 35? You'll get different answers. They might say that it runs over the river, and not the lake.
The official name of the Congress Avenue Bridge is the "Lady Bird Johnson Memorial Bridge". Nobody calls it that. Its probably the largest structure in the world named after a woman who wanted it torn down.
The places that were considered bad neighborhoods twenty years ago -- they're now unaffordable. The places that were considered good neighborhoods then -- they have now ascended to Heaven.
It's illegal to smoke in Austin bars and restaurants. It's fully illegal before about 9pm. From about 9 until around midnight, it's still fairly illegal. After midnight, it's a matter of who cares and who doesn't.
Any famous band has probably played here at least once.

SIX INFREQUENTLY ASKED QUESTIONS ABOUT WORDS

What is literature?
If someone writes something, and at least two other people have a critical discussion about it -- then that is literature.
What is a critical discussion?
People talking about what some writing means. The discussion is grounded in some sort of philosophy involving the world outside the text.
Can't you just talk about a piece of writing as it is, without choosing to treat it from a particular philosophical position?
A lot of people say no -- that's impossible -- and they can make some convincing arguments supporting that.
What makes writing "good"?
If someone pays money for it.
How are good writing and literature related?
They're not. Plane tickets are good writing -- but not literature, since we don't have critical discussions about their text. Restaurant menus are often literature, but not good writing, since you get the menu to read for free.
So what's the higher objective -- good writing or literature?
That depends on the goals of the author. The more he appreciates money, the more he should produce good writing. The more he appreciates thought about his writing, the more he should produce literature.

CLASS OF 1999

Why do all these alumni parties happen on summer afternoons --it's too hot -- so we went back to her apartment right by the Ole Miss campus, just on the other side of the railroad ravine -- she still lives there even after 10 years -- her apartment has hardly changed -- and because we didn't know what else to talk about, we started talking awkwardly about her little stubby brown plant, set on the floor of her window-free, dark bathroom -- and she said she loved it because it was so cute -- with my telling her to face reality -- it was puny and dying without light -- and her telling me to shut up -- and my reiterating my concern for the plant -- for her sake, mainly -- telling her that it really would die -- that all plants die without light -- and if for some reason it didn't, then it was really a fungus and not even a plant to begin with -- and she said how dare you call my plant a fungus -- and that I haven't grown up or changed at all since college -- and I told her I'm sorry -- but she started crying anyway -- and we drank the rest of the 151 left over after the bananas Foster I had fixed. And the next thing I know we're going an uncomfortable distance down a road off Highway 6 between Pontotoc and Tupelo, headed to some dive-bar she knows about on the far side of nowhere -- a place filled with those sorts of people who think your time is best spent satisfying God, Mama, and Uncle Sam -- in that order, pretty much -- and there's no reason to do anything else -- and if you spent much of your time pursuing other goals, then you're either selfish or misdirected or an agent of Satan or Satan him/herself -- but in any case, you had to be reformed -- and they never told you that even if you cooperated, fully participating in the reformations -- that you could never gain their full acceptance even then -- since you had been more flawed than others who always did have their full acceptance -- and another thing they don't tell you -- or themselves -- is that they'll lose respect for you if you cooperate with them -- at all -- that's understandable -- from everyone's viewpoint -- since every man should know exactly who he is and what he wants and never change that -- and to that point, I am who I am, and I know the key to the good life: Time Management. That's it. Scout's honor. Have a good day.

PARADOXICAL UNDRESSING

I've just learned that just before people freeze to death, they experience a sensation of extreme heat, and often take off their clothes. Doctors call this phenomenon "paradoxical undressing".

100% OF PUTTS LEFT SHORT DON'T GO IN

It may not be the most important principle in golf, but it's in the top four or five.

THE DRINK OF CHOICE FOR GOOD GROOMSMEN

An outdoor wedding reception now. 105 degrees -- people are complaining about swarms of flies, but none are around my table.
I am sitting here with Kim's little cousins, I think -- drinking black coffee and having just finished my 25th ham sandwich, when Kim finally sits down with me.
"They look like monopoly dice -- are they good?"
"Beyond good."
"You look like James Bond," she said with a hug.
And I did look like James Bond, sitting up straight there in my formal wear -- freshly shaven -- tan and fit from all my summer outdoor activities -- I thought about telling her that the only thing this James Bond was missing was a quality woman -- but I didn't tell her that.
"I'm glad things have changed since yesterday when you called me a dork," I said, guzzling more black coffee.
I don't believe in putting things in coffee. There's just something morally impure about it. I used to put things in my coffee when I was younger -- just like everyone experiments with this or that -- but I'm a grown man now. I like to go all the way and get an Americano every once in a while so I can most fully experience the bitterness.
People change. Just look at Kim's family, around us at this table here. Ten years ago, her brother was a baseball champion, her sister was working at Sugar's and her mother was in jail. These days, the brother is on drugs, her sister is reading Proust, and her mother is a veterinarian.
I tell everyone that I need more coffee, and I leave the table to go get it -- good strong black coffee -- that's how James Bond drank it. Okay -- James Bond never drank coffee -- but if he had, I'm certain that it'd be black.

GERONIMO REX

I want to write about Barry Hannah. What do I write about when I write about Barry Hannah, hummmmm.
He's a writer, a real one -- I don't know why he came to mind now. I took a course from him at Ole Miss -- writing short stories, and I don't know if he read much of what we wrote for our assignments, but I didn't pay attention to that back then.
Later he got cancer.
He beat it.
He always used to play tennis at the city courts by the university. I played all the time, too -- and we saw each other there a lot, sometimes at strange hours like 10am on a schoolday Tuesday or 4am Sunday, but it was mostly in the late afternoon -- normal time. And I'd see his smooth, old-fashioned one-handed backhand. And he'd tell me that he didn't understand my two-handed backhand -- thoughtfully -- while looking into space -- the way that someone would tell you they didn't understand suffering or war. It was great. And he'd smoke during court changes and drink from tennis ball cans filled with wine -- I looked over at his court one day and called him the picture of health.
And that time when he did a reading at Square Books, I really don't know why I jumped up from my seat and shouted --
"I love you, Barry!"
The bookstore crowd was silent -- everyone was looking at me -- it was two or three seconds of awkward silence.
But Barry -- at the podium, ready to talk about his book -- he ended the tension.
"But is your love complete?"

BASTILLE DAY WAS YESTERDAY

According to cancer statistics,
Lance Armstrong is not alive,
and he has not won the tour de France seven times
Viva Le Lance! And viva la clowns -- the people in the clown suits who were running with him -- how stylishly French and non-boring that was.
Bastille Day represents the ideological foundation for all other independence days
But the clowns made me pleasantly confused -- almost as confused as I was a few years ago when that woman told me that nobody in jail is innocent because we are all born with original sin -- as a bare minimum.
I don't know what freedom is. Janis Joplin says its just another word for nothing left to lose. I don't know what that means; it confuses me, too. It works -- maybe -- but I don't necessarily believe that -- it doesn't get me excited.
The clowns got me excited.
Independence days get me excited.
The Bill of Rights gets me excited.
If you've forgotten about the Bill of Rights, here's a quick summary:
I can say and write pretty much anything. I can have weapons. My house won't be used by the military. If the police don't leave me and my stuff alone, they need a good reason. Should they accuse me of being a bad boy, I don't have to answer to them (and since 1969 they have to tell me that). They can't hold me for long without good evidence that I'm a bad boy, and they have to let me know why they think I'm bad. They have to offer me an free lawyer that says I'm not. A jury has to sort things out -- and the jury has to do it quickly. If the jury punishes me, they can't be cruel. If the jury decides that I didn't do anything wrong, then that's that -- forever -- no matter what. Finally, if my state government gives me rights in addition to these, the federal government can't do anything about it.
Lance, Joplin, the clowns, the Bill -- they're all so exciting.

THE SECRET OF SUCCESS

The next time someone asks you to name as many smurfs as you can -- on the fly -- alternate them with names of the Snow White seven dwarfs, and see what happens. Your answer should be something like --
"Brainy, Sleepy, Hefty, Dopey, Smurfette, Grumpy, Lazy . . ."
-- and if you are told -- like I was -- that Smurfette is not a smurf, but a smurfette instead, don't even bother arguing with them -- just know that you're above those kind of tricks.

GETTING CHANGE FROM JOHN UPDIKE

Today I was looking through the UT library catalog for Updike stuff, and headlining the bibliography was "Updike,John(1932-2009)", and it didn't really register at first -- but then I was like -- what? -- he's dead?
And he's been dead for SIX MONTHS??
I'm so out of the loop -- it's the result of not hanging out with that crowd anymore -- choosing instead to roll with degenerate gamblers and music people -- it's really no surprise, I guess -- I don't suppose many of my friends even know who John Updike is -- much less his work.
I saw him a few days before Christmas 1999. I was in the post office after-hours in Beverly Farms, Massachusetts -- trying to package and mail something complicated -- I forget what -- and I was wrapping and sealing and writing and stamping -- and he walked in -- and I waved a wrinkly dollar in the air.
"Do you happen to have change?"
He nodded his head toward the change machine -- directly in front of us -- it was about the only thing in the room other than a table and chained papermate. "Does it not work?"
"My dollar is too worn out."
"Ummm," he said.

CLOSE ENCOUNTERS OF THE 3AM KIND

Wow!
She hits me like a sweet, unexpectedly soft rock -- reminding me of Cyndi Lauper in her prime -- wearing a paisley top with short short plaid pants and a hot pink bandana, tied in some complicated scouting knot, going in and out and in and out and in and out and in and out of her wild dirty blond hair -- I want to have seven or eight children with her, her choice -- seven or eight -- immediately -- what do I say to her? -- how can I most effectively channel the spirit of Barry White, and not just stare -- I've never seen anyone like this woman in Whataburger now -- alone, eating a honey-butter chicken biscuit, and sipping black coffee.

YOU CAN'T FIGHT CRIME ON A FULL BLADDER

I've seen the brightest minds of my generation -- well, not really -- they all hide it -- it's stylish to hide it -- and they're so inconspicuous -- with nobody telling them when they've had enough Lone Star and Ziegenbock or whatever -- why is it pragmatic to tell them?
Patrick -- I remember when your dad took you to play bridge with us, little kid -- now you're older -- too cool for that -- too obsessed with all the things your Fender can bring you -- but separated from music like those church people we talked about and agreed were separated from God, back in '03 -- I remember when we were in Atlanta just before Christmas that year, talking about how some people are conditioned to see music as just accompaniment, with the words as the root -- and feeling sorry for them -- because we knew that music is more universal than lyrics -- that music is the real root -- that they can say their words are primary if they want -- but they're not -- they'll never be -- and the primacy of the music is something you just have to understand -- impossible to explain to someone who doesn't get it. I really liked it when we played music back then, and we talked about guitar -- talking about my not using a pick -- and you looked at me in hardcore disgust and whined that people can't grind out metal without a pick -- wondering how could anyone even THINK about playing serious music without a pick -- a shiny, idealized pick, maybe -- that my music was unacceptable, and that I should burn, and that the more seriously I took my art, the better person I'd become -- you genuinely hated me, kid! -- do you even remember that? -- why did we enjoy it so much jamming at Eeyore's a few weeks ago? -- why were we so happy? -- why are you now content with my pickless playing -- why didn't you even mention it -- your change in attitude -- who acts in the baddest faith -- you for growing up, or me for complaining?
Why are you not outspoken anymore?
I remember the time when we saw that Jack Nickleson-One Flew Over the Coocoo's Nest picture on the wall of the pool hall -- and you asked me what movie that picture came from -- and I said One Flew Over the Coocoo's Nest -- and you looked at me eyes-to-eyes, shocked and impressed -- and challenged me, "Who directed 'One Flew Over the Coocoo's Nest?'" -- and I said let me think -- and you told me Stanley Kubrick -- and I said good guess -- and that even though I didn't know who directed it, I didn't think Stanley Kubrick did -- and you said that the director was indeed Stanley Kubrick -- you said so confidently -- and our discussion didn't go any further.
Those three little by my doorstep are still singing sweet songs now, a little before 7 in the mornint. And everylittlething really will be alright -- I'll keep you in mind -- and your neighbors like you nearby who'll soon have a hangover -- and more and more and more and more and more and more and more and more and more and more in time to come -- with each guy abandoned his edge like you did -- quietly drinking himself to death on local beer.