Mal du Monde

Margie called me this afternoon about plans for my birthday. I croaked weakly at her. "You sound sick. Are you sick?" she asked me, rather huffily I thought. "You're never sick."

"Well, I'm sick now," I said.

"That's no excuse," Margie remarked unsympathetically. "What do you have, swine flu? You swine."

Could I get some chicken soup with that?

Here are the top ten things you should not do whilst recuperating from swine flu:

10. Pick at the scabs on your slowly-healing heart - this is always highly contraindicated, but especially when you're suffering your own personal pandemic. (Doesn't that sound like a menu offering at Pizza Hut? Granted, a fairly gross one - but we are talking Pizza Hut here.)

9. Go to work. You have to anyway, because if you're out more than three days in a row you have to bring a doctor's note, and I'm not paying $20 to sit around in a waiting room full of people with much worse infections than mine, only to be told to stay home and drink plenty of fluids (NOT vodka) and get some sleep, which I already knew. So if you come to my office, be sure and wear a gas mask. Otherwise, you're going DOWN, pal.

8. Take your kids to visit your ex-mother-in-law in the hospital. She's fine, except she has a cracked vertebra from being hit by a VW bus while trying to retrieve a cardboard garage sale sign from the median near a major intersection. However, 30 minutes into our visit, she got a phone call from her daughter-in-law, who brusquely informed her that she has a staph infection and visitors aren't allowed into her room without gowning up. Now, the nurses hadn't mentioned this, and she does have a (gownless) roommate, who also had a (gownless) visitor while we were there.

Frankly, it was too much for my feeble brain and I just decided our visit had been about long enough anyway; but I'm still scratching my head over that one, or would be, except I'm frightened of getting my hands that close to my face.

7. Be the parent of an equally sick child. I'm sorry, but frankly this is just irresponsible. When you're sick, you really can't afford to be up all night bringing water and comfort to a coughing, feverish infant. So cut it out.

6. Read the weekly wildflower report for the state's recorded information line. Your voice sounds all husky from the sore throat, and you'll only give the traveling public the wrong idea.

5. Permit a cool front to bring a line of thunderstorms across the region where you live, dropping temperatures by 15 degrees and reawakening all the mold, cedar and pollen which thought spring was over and were all ready for a long summer's nap, therefore bringing about the worst allergy attack you've suffered in years. That was a dumb-ass thing to do.

4. Entertain Bill Gates with your karaoke stylings.

3. Go to the roller rink with your best friend. This isn't so bad in and of itself, but you need to go when the place isn't full of preteens, because preteens do not fear death, and therefore aren't nearly as frightened of 75-mph collisions as you are. Feel that funny thing your heart is doing? That's probably not good.

2. Plan the mother of all happy hours for your 40th birthday this coming Friday, itself merely a precursor to a full night of debauchery in Austin and a Memorial Day weekend of alcohol-fueled madness in Corpus. I have friends coming in from at least four different cities for the event. I don't think it'll be a proper party unless at least someone gets arrested, as long as that someone is not me, because the number one thing you should never, ever, ever do whilst H1N1ing your sick little ass into next week?

1. Go to jail!

On the other hand, I have been pretty badly in need of blog fodder lately.

In the Wild

How lucky I am, I was reflecting last night, to have friends who have friends who throw spectacular New Year's Eve parties.

This particular party was held in West Austin, near the Wild Basin Wilderness Preserve. In fact, I'm not entirely certain it wasn't in the Wild Basin Wilderness Preserve. It was certainly close enough as makes no difference. The couple who own the many acres of property have their own separate little houses at opposite ends of it, on the steep, rocky banks of a deep ravine. The houses are only maybe, oh, two hundred yards apart, but the topography of the area adds a lot. The wooded hills are traversed by hundreds of roughly hewn limestone steps. A creek runs through the middle.

Can you imagine a more perfect setting for lasting conjugal bliss? You'd have togetherness, but you'd also have privacy, and your own space, and you wouldn't have to launder anyone else's skivvies. Another excellent option would be to live in an ancient English manor house where you could have a whole wing to yourself. I'd like one of those boudoirs with an enormous, canopied four-poster bed on a dais and a ruffled dressing table where I could sit and primp while my lady's-maid brushed my hair. And, just in case the living arrangements were still not perfectly satisfactory, there'd be a secret passage for all my lovers.

But we're in Austin. Wild Basin will do.

Both the houses are small and cozy, but breathtaking - one of the guys is an architect - but the party setup is all at one end: not the end, as it turns out, where Kevin, Tony, Larry and I parked. So when we arrived, we immediately began descending the rough, rocky steps into the ravine, following the sound of merriment, our way lit by dozens of pale blue Chinese lanterns. Kevin had to carry the champagne I'd brought, because someone - someone who calls himself a geographer, despite having significant navigational difficulties with his iPhone; but I digress - didn't warn me that stiletto heels would be an extremely bad idea. Thank God the stairs all have railings. Not realizing how large a plot of land it was, I kept expecting every turn to reveal a house or patio full of the people whose laughter I could hear. Instead, we wound our way deeper and deeper into the ravine. Even the guys were having a little trouble with their footing, though this was largely because they were laughing so hard.

Finally we reached the bottom. The creek is traversed by a narrow rock dam, perhaps 8 inches wide. At this point I was no longer expecting to turn a corner and see the party, I was expecting to turn a corner and see giant, intricately timed chopping machinery that we'd have to dodge our way through. I had to sit down for a little while.

"The advantage of this," pointed out Larry, who has a wonderfully positive attitude, "is that if you're not sober enough to drive, you'll never actually make it to your car."

But we did eventually reach the party, where we were greeted with hot hard cider (I know it sounds kind of dirty, but it was a gay party), and stood inhaling its fragrant steam on the patio under the chilly stars. The night was perfect, being cold - perhaps mid 40's - but not enough so that you couldn't be comfortable outside, in a warm jacket, with a hot drink. From this vantage point, the Chinese lanterns strung here and there throughout the trees looked like a hundred tiny moons.

Our host led a tour back into the ravine to see where they're building a swimming hole fed by the creek, "our own little Barton Springs," he called it. When it's finished, it'll be fed by a 12-foot-high waterfall. So I need to be sure and send a thank-you for the hospitality, so I can get invited back! I'll wear flats.

Closer to midnight there were fireworks, big bright beautiful ones shot off from the site of the swimming pool. And there was amazing food and many, many extremely attractive men. In fact I was the only female person there. And yet I didn't get hit on even once! I guess that's the good thing about having so many wonderful gay friends: you can go out, you can experience the finest things in life, you can have a wonderful and exciting time, and you never have to worry about dealing with improper attentions from men. Never. Ever. You will never ever ever have that problem at all ever again as long as you live.

Sigh

Ah well, who needs 'em; all straight men ever do is make demands without giving anything in return. My New Year's resolution this year is to be a bigger fag-hag. That way I get to go to all the cool parties.

Drink Bacardi Like It's Your Birthday

To make a mojito, first put several sprigs of mint and two slices of lime in a glass, and muddle them with a - a muddler, I guess. It's a longish implement with a spiked, flat piece at the end, and you use it to squish the limes and the mint together and get the juice out of them. I guess you could also use a meat tenderizer, but you'd have to have really good aim.

Then fill the glass with ice and add a dash or two of sugar syrup and a shot or two of Bacardi. Top it off with club soda and voilà! you've got yourself a pretty tasty drink.

To make potato salad, boil the potatoes about five minutes longer, use more onion, and don't forget to thin the dressing with a bit of vinegar so it's more piquant and not so goopy. Otherwise, perfect.

To make drunken conversation with a stranger in your friend's backyard pool, try to avoid the subject of death.

It was late, and Robbie and several of Diane's other guests had already left. Tony and his friend Larry, Diane's husband Mark, and a few other people were lounging idly in the water. A fine sprinkling rain had begun, and the sensation of tiny droplets of cold water on my face contrasted deliciously with the warmth of the pool. It was full dark out. Another party guest remarked that we weren't so bright, swimming around during a rainstorm - we were just asking to be struck by lightning.

"What are you talking about?" laughed Mark, "it's not thundering."

"It's raining," pointed out the swimmer.

"Yes, but it's just a little rain, there's no storm," said Mark.

"I'm more worried about dying of cancer," I said.

My fellow party guest was taken aback. "Why would you worry about that?" he asked.

"Well, it just seems like the most likely thing to kill me," I reasoned. "Well, that, or I get cut up into pieces and stuffed into the trunk of some stalker's car."

"Cut up into pieces?!" he repeated, sputtering slightly. "Where on earth did that come from?"

"It could happen," I said.

"The trunk of a car??"

"Well, not loose, of course," I clarified, "I'd probably be in a plastic bag."

"No offense," he told me, "you're fine, and all, but that seems very unlikely."

"Oh, you don't have to be super fine to have a stalker," I said, "there are plenty of crazies to go around."

"I want out of this conversation," he said.

To impress men, just shut up and drink your Bacardi.

Happy New Year!

Robbie, if you're hung over, don't look at the picture.




Our hostess commented a few times on how there weren't enough people at her party, which she said she got roped into having by some very persuasive people from her gym, who had shown up for five minutes before heading out to go somewhere livelier. But the party was just the right speed as far as I was concerned: a very pleasant mix of people I did and did not know, quiet enough for conversation, and plenty of champagne for everyone. Also there were brownies. "I've had three!" the hostess announced, giggling, when we arrived. "I think I need a drink."

She had the TV on playing dance music, which started an interesting conversation among those of us in the living room who noticed that it seemed to have been playing the same song for about 45 minutes. "Dance music doesn't make ideal background music for sitting around talking," someone remarked.

I started describing an idea I once had - I think I may have written about it before - to come out with a CD of party background noises. There would be a cocktail party track, with some light jazz piano, the clink of glasses, and well-modulated voices discussing things like art and literature and the theater. And there would be a frat kegger track, with a bad garage band, shouting and laughing, and the occasional sounds of retching, scuffle, and breakage. Or any other kind of party you can think of. The idea, I explained, is that your party guests will unconsciously adjust their behavior to fit whatever kind of background sounds are playing. It's called psychology, you see.

"People would hate that," said a friend of mine, "they would think it was really weird and stupid and they would leave."

"They couldn't," I retorted. "The party would be in a sealed room. No one would be allowed to come in or go out."

"Well, what about the people who are already there?" he asked.

Some people are so literal-minded!

He did come up with a couple of good ideas, though, like having a track with people saying "This party blows" and "I'm really bored," if you enjoy feeling bad about yourself, and - much more importantly - a "party's over" ending to each party track that you could put on when you're tired and want everyone to go home, with people yawning and saying things like, "Gosh, look at the time!"

Or, for a quick wrap-up of the festivities, you could play the "Oh shit, it's the cops!" track, though that might make for a bit of an odd ending to, say, afternoon tea in the garden.

We counted down to midnight and Tony kissed me soundly. I hugged him tight. I love him so much! "What, no tongue?" I demanded.

Have a blessed, peaceful and very happy 2008! Muchas smooches! Now go eat some black-eyed peas.

How the Other Half Lives

Leaning on the railing of a balcony overlooking the pool and yard of a multi-million-dollar Westlake Hills mansion yesterday evening, I realized that Austin has an aristocracy. And the people who keep Austin weird aren't hippies, or garage band members, or Chronicle staffers, or art car drivers, or even, say, Leslie. Not that these people don't do a lot. But they're labor, not management. Without the blessings, programs, and campaigns of the moneyed ruling classes, all these feathers in the weird Austin cap would be just so much underground-movement riffraff.

"How do you know Scott?" I was asked several times over the course of yesterday evening. "Oh, he represented my sister's ex-boyfriend on a DWI charge," I didn't say.

The full story is that the band Margie's in plays at parties for Scott, who really is an extremely nice guy - certainly he has at least 300 close friends - as payment in kind for his services. The upper classes can be indulgent: certainly he had no difficulty affording a "real" band, an excellent professional bluesy roadhouse combo whose name I didn't catch. Teddy and Marge are not such a band. They typically play for exposure, not money, in any case.

There were two kegs of good beer by the front door, two more on the back patio, and a third pair at a drink station in the yard. There was a full bar in the wood-paneled den, better stocked than some restaurant bars I've seen. There were margarita machines and limitless bottles of wine. So Scott, being as I've mentioned a DWI attorney, rented out the parking lot of the nearby high school and hired a fleet of golf carts to shuttle guests back and forth from his house all night. Guests who had too much to drink could then easily be prevented from leaving.

Margie's ex-boyfriend, Bill, befriended Kay over barbecue. She's from Dallas and took an instant dislike to him. "How did you come to be here," she asked, "did you find a flyer on the street somewhere?"

I have never liked Dallas.

But Bill, who works for Waterloo, has been respectably outfitting Scott with vinyl for years, apparently. Scott is a connoisseur, and has a small room just off the entrance hall dedicated to his record collection. Bill is too good-natured to bristle. Kay became friendlier, asking how she might best dispose of her ex-husband's record collection, which she doesn't know anything about, except that he had loved it and supposedly had several rare and valuable items in it.

"Why did you get it, then?" Bill inquired.

Kay laughed. "Oh, I got everything!" she said. "Except the dog."

After we had eaten, Teddy and Marge relieved the roadhouse combo to do a set by the pool. I was apprehensive. "This is not the right scene," I whispered to Bill. "These people are going to hate this."

He laughed. "It doesn't matter," he told me.

We were both right, though at least Scott said he enjoyed the set. I did, too. And the aristocracy of Austin is too well-bred to be openly hostile. Afterwards we tore down and loaded up the trailer, and Grady (that's the Teddy of Teddy and Marge) capped the show by stripping down and leaping, splay-legged, hooting and naked, into the pool. Nobody batted an eye. I don't think they expected anything less from someone who had just played what they had just listened to him playing.

With gratitude to our generous and indulgent host, then, we headed out to Clementine's to hear Grady's girlfriend Lauren play accordion with the Seas, which was totally awesome, then back to the little eastside art co-op where Bill lives.

Money's nice and all, but I think the riffraff have more fun.

In Your Court

Have you ever browsed through the attorney listings in the Yellow Pages?

It's an interesting little sociological study, you know, to do so. The basic alphabetical text listings are no good whatsoever. You can't just pick someone and call, because for all you know you're getting someone who's board-certified in suits for personal injury caused by escaped zoo animals. If you called such a lawyer needing real estate advice, the receptionist would just laugh at you. You schmuck! What do you know about the law?

So you have to rely on the lawyers who have taken out ads listing details of what types of cases they handle. And because a picture is worth a thousand words, almost all of them are thoughtful enough to let you know what they look like, too.

Personal injury attorneys always look very grim and aggressive in their pictures. They're pissed as hell at what's happened to you! And they're not going to take it! Some of them appear to be clutching pieces of raw meat in their teeth. These are the guys you want on your side if you're dealing with big business: uncooperative insurance companies, malpractical doctors, your asshole of an employer. This'll learn 'em a lesson they'll never forget.

But look, then, at the bankruptcy attorney pictures. They're smiling, but not happily. They appear to be overwhelmed with sympathy. You poor thing, you can almost hear them saying. There, there. Everything's going to be okay. My favorite attorney in the whole Yellow Pages falls into this category: not only does he bear a genial, understanding grin, but his kindly visage is blessed with the Moustache of Compassion. Look in the Yellow Pages; you'll see him. Just looking at his photo is almost enough to make me wish I were cripplingly in debt, because then I'd get to hire him.

My second favorite is the one who has "As seen on TV!" in his ad. I've seen him on TV: he looks like a regular guy, with long dark hair pulled back in a ponytail. His schtick is that he doesn't look like a lawyer, so that helps him sneak up on 'em! But his Yellow Pages photo looks like an illustration from a children's Bible. My third favorite is the one who I refuse to believe is not actually a woman dressed up like a man. God, I hope this post doesn't get me sued.

It disturbed me a little to note that attorneys representing you against charges of sexual misconduct or DWI seem disproportionately to look like college frat guys. But they're junior partners, generally; the senior, respectable guy, the "dad" attorney, almost always appears alongside. We can sympathize with what you're going through! But unlike you, we know how to keep it in our pants.

Family law attorneys (that's divorce, there, and a few other case types of less immediate interest) smile brightly, but don't look quite as compassionate as the bankruptcy guys. Sure, they'll provide a shoulder in your time of need; but make no mistake: you wouldn't want to be on the wrong side of one in court.

Then you have your large law firms: a full staff of senior partners and junior partners and associates and who knows what all. These firms have something for everyone. Just look at the pictures: men, women, black, white, Hispanic, kindly, tough, old and young, all arrayed in dark suits and ties for your pleasure. One rather wonders if they offer a special of the day.

I'm going to a lawyer party tonight with my sister. It will make my weekend if I actually get to meet some of these people.