That Old H-town
Don’t be angry, she said in gentle tones
And I tried to listen but screamed instead
At her injustice, at the sheer ugliness,
Of this old H-town you all love so much.
God bless this city, burn it down,
Spread the ashes across the ocean,
Spin beautiful tales of that old H-town,
That malicious metropolis littered with good intentions.
Play honest violins at the funeral; flutes, too.
Trumpets don’t lie and we gather here,
To give our last respects, say our last words-
It’s okay, Houston would have wanted it this way.
Dallas came and cried a bit, as did London, Paris, Rome.
New York gave her condolences, but couldn’t come due to circumstance.
San Antonio seemed broken, lost; New Orleans cried a flood again,
But Milwaukee was too concerned with self to cry;
Seattle cried for days and days, and Galveston?
Well, Galveston attempted suicide but couldn’t
Convince himself to die.
And Moscow sent his heart, from Russia with love,
And Venice and Los Angeles consoled each other,
And Tokyo still refused to believe the news
And Chicago, Cairo, and Vancouver were silent,
Jordan and Beijing strove to be strong,
And Athens and Amsterdam collapsed with grief,
Nairobi and Sydney mourned their brother with
Toronto and Baghdad, and Phoenix and Bristol
And Berlin and Dubai and Okinawa and Barcelona
And Boston and Austin and me.
A moment of silence for that old H-town.
-- Robby Mexico
Showing posts with label Houston. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Houston. Show all posts
18.10.09
Taxonomy is usually a method of Categorization.
Taxonomy One. 35 with 2 children. He gazes forward into the sky through the office window. 47th floor. He knows that at some point that once milky white phone with all the blinking lights, now covered with smudges, will ring. He knows that ring will throw tantrums in his ear canals. She'll call him to tell him that it's over. They're done. After 13 years. He wants to cry. He wants to scream for his secretary. Secretary. That's right. That woman. Women. They're the problem. Always have been. Maybe today he'll just surprise them all. Maybe he'll get up from his cluttered desk, take in a deep breath, adjust his tie, walk over to the big office window, survey the traffic 47 floors beneath him, laugh, walk back to his phone, dial up the secretary, tell her to cancel all his appointments, hang up and make a running start at the window. Maybe.
Suddenly he remembers something his foreign exchange roommate back in college told him about women in America. He smiles for the first time all day. The phone rings.
(2008)
Taxonomy Two (Rugby House) 10:45 PM, Arrival. There’s a cigarette between my lips and a gathering out back. I hop the fence and greet the strangers at the table before me. They break conversation for a moment, stare, and continue. The cigarette takes forever to burn and I’m thirsty. 10:47, I balance the forever burning cig on a nail that protrudes from a shingle of the shed and run into the kitchen via the den. Quiet party thusfar. "Jungle Juice or Shiner?" "Jungle Juice, my man." The coloration of the red cup in my hand nearly matches the pigmentation of my newly acquired tan that only goes as high as the sleeves of my shirt will allow. I soberly, clumsily stumble my way through the den and back outside to find my cigarette still balanced on the nail. Victory. 10:55, Girls, girls, girls. Well, three of them anyway. They’re talking about how great it is to be women. Why? I have no idea. I tell them about the horrible nightmare I had the night before. They guess quite accurately that I’d dreamt of being a woman. "It was horrible," I say, "I was short, had huge knockers, which, admittedly, were fun, but worse was that I actually knew what 'colors' like lavender and periwinkle look like. Weird." They laugh and I laugh, but laughter is followed by an awkward silence. 11:07, Flirtation. Dalliance. Her name is Nancy. My name is what it’s always been. At parties, anyway. I offer her a cigarette. She says no thanks, I’m breathing. I mockingly laugh at her sarcasm and tell her that trenchant females are just my type. She doesn’t know what trenchant means, and I gasp in shock because she claims to be an actress. She sips her drink, and darts her eyes in other directions, perhaps looking for a more attractive, less annoying guy. 11:32, Some of my pals show up. I’m working on my second cup of jungle juice, and from my vantage, I can see that the den and kitchen are packed with people itching to not be sober. Wes asks if I’ve had any luck. I assume this is in reference to women. "What do you think, man? See a woman attached to my arm?" 11:53, Dancefloor. Shitty music. No one cares. Pretty girls, though. 12:09 AM, Almost done with my second cup of jungle juice. Feeling nothing. Dreading the line in the kitchen. For some reason, I keep looking at the foreign exchange girl in the corner. I’ve seen her around campus. She’s pretty. Hmm. 12:15, Cup number three. After the hellacious line, I step outside for another cigarette. I notice my thespian friends in the corner. Nancy is with them. I shade my eyes and mingle in the opposite direction. I see Wes chatting up a girl. He’s drinking something of his own concoction no doubt. I sit at the picnic table, sip and smoke, perhaps hoping that maybe some poor drunken girl will plop herself next to me. 12:17, No such luck. I get up. 12:30, Dancefloor. The music still sucks. Still, no one cares. The girls are prettier, and maybe I’m just little buzzed. The foreign exchange girl is dancing with a guy I’ve never seen before and I get brave and start to dance. With a guy. He’s really drunk and just smiles at me. The song abruptly switches to a salsa. I can’t do this. After a few measures I retreat to the corner. I need more alcohol. Another cigarette. 12:45, I get my fourth cup. It seems low on alcohol, so I pour vodka into it. My cup is half jungle juice, half vodka. A deadly smelling combination. I know because I asked the foreign exchange girl. She was waiting in the bathroom line. Her name is Mari and she’s from the north of Spain is what she tells me. "It stinks," she exclaims. "What, the north of Spain?" I ask. She laughs and says no, the drink. "Oh, well... I’m sure in some places it does," I say. "No. It’s amazing," she insists. I tell her I love her accent, but she doesn’t believe me. "A lot of people hate it when Spaniards speak English, but not me, I love it." This is about when I realize that I’m quite possibly drunk or "crunked" as Wes might say, and I should probably quit while I’m ahead. 1:02, She really likes taking pictures. I’ve been in a lot of them. Wes taps me on the shoulder and says that "Bohemian Rhapsody" draws near. I say this to Mari and her friends. "Don’t make me explain it, just follow me." "Bohemian Rhapsody," for the uninformed, is a classic Queen song that, for many my age, was made popular by the film "Wayne’s World." At the Rugby House, the song is played at some point in the night, and we drunkenly gather and sing and dance to it. 1:14, "Ooooh baby, can’t do this to me baaaaby. Just gotta get out. Just gotta get right out of here." I come out of the scrum with only half a cup of jungle juice left. Mari laughs at me. I tell her that not everyone can be so beautiful. She offers me a cigarette. "Did we just have sex?" crosses my mind, but for some reason, gladly, this phrase does not escape my lips. 1:38, I’m drunk. Unequivocally so. Mari and her friends are still around. I begin to wonder how in the hell I could not have scared them off. 2:03, We’re out in front now. Her friends are very drunk and kissing on each other. I’m pretty turned on, but I say nothing. Mari mentions that I’m the first drunken American guy that hasn’t tried anything. Am I not living up to expectations? Should I be? I ask her if this is a bad thing. She says it’s a good thing. In my head I think it’s a horrible thing. I’m so horny. 2:30, She’s so drunk, her English sounds terrible, and I tell her to just speak Spanish. 2:40, I’m too fucking nice. I have her number, but I’m too fucking nice. 2:48, I go to sleep early.
© Patrick Patterson-Carroll (2008)
Suddenly he remembers something his foreign exchange roommate back in college told him about women in America. He smiles for the first time all day. The phone rings.
(2008)
Taxonomy Two (Rugby House) 10:45 PM, Arrival. There’s a cigarette between my lips and a gathering out back. I hop the fence and greet the strangers at the table before me. They break conversation for a moment, stare, and continue. The cigarette takes forever to burn and I’m thirsty. 10:47, I balance the forever burning cig on a nail that protrudes from a shingle of the shed and run into the kitchen via the den. Quiet party thusfar. "Jungle Juice or Shiner?" "Jungle Juice, my man." The coloration of the red cup in my hand nearly matches the pigmentation of my newly acquired tan that only goes as high as the sleeves of my shirt will allow. I soberly, clumsily stumble my way through the den and back outside to find my cigarette still balanced on the nail. Victory. 10:55, Girls, girls, girls. Well, three of them anyway. They’re talking about how great it is to be women. Why? I have no idea. I tell them about the horrible nightmare I had the night before. They guess quite accurately that I’d dreamt of being a woman. "It was horrible," I say, "I was short, had huge knockers, which, admittedly, were fun, but worse was that I actually knew what 'colors' like lavender and periwinkle look like. Weird." They laugh and I laugh, but laughter is followed by an awkward silence. 11:07, Flirtation. Dalliance. Her name is Nancy. My name is what it’s always been. At parties, anyway. I offer her a cigarette. She says no thanks, I’m breathing. I mockingly laugh at her sarcasm and tell her that trenchant females are just my type. She doesn’t know what trenchant means, and I gasp in shock because she claims to be an actress. She sips her drink, and darts her eyes in other directions, perhaps looking for a more attractive, less annoying guy. 11:32, Some of my pals show up. I’m working on my second cup of jungle juice, and from my vantage, I can see that the den and kitchen are packed with people itching to not be sober. Wes asks if I’ve had any luck. I assume this is in reference to women. "What do you think, man? See a woman attached to my arm?" 11:53, Dancefloor. Shitty music. No one cares. Pretty girls, though. 12:09 AM, Almost done with my second cup of jungle juice. Feeling nothing. Dreading the line in the kitchen. For some reason, I keep looking at the foreign exchange girl in the corner. I’ve seen her around campus. She’s pretty. Hmm. 12:15, Cup number three. After the hellacious line, I step outside for another cigarette. I notice my thespian friends in the corner. Nancy is with them. I shade my eyes and mingle in the opposite direction. I see Wes chatting up a girl. He’s drinking something of his own concoction no doubt. I sit at the picnic table, sip and smoke, perhaps hoping that maybe some poor drunken girl will plop herself next to me. 12:17, No such luck. I get up. 12:30, Dancefloor. The music still sucks. Still, no one cares. The girls are prettier, and maybe I’m just little buzzed. The foreign exchange girl is dancing with a guy I’ve never seen before and I get brave and start to dance. With a guy. He’s really drunk and just smiles at me. The song abruptly switches to a salsa. I can’t do this. After a few measures I retreat to the corner. I need more alcohol. Another cigarette. 12:45, I get my fourth cup. It seems low on alcohol, so I pour vodka into it. My cup is half jungle juice, half vodka. A deadly smelling combination. I know because I asked the foreign exchange girl. She was waiting in the bathroom line. Her name is Mari and she’s from the north of Spain is what she tells me. "It stinks," she exclaims. "What, the north of Spain?" I ask. She laughs and says no, the drink. "Oh, well... I’m sure in some places it does," I say. "No. It’s amazing," she insists. I tell her I love her accent, but she doesn’t believe me. "A lot of people hate it when Spaniards speak English, but not me, I love it." This is about when I realize that I’m quite possibly drunk or "crunked" as Wes might say, and I should probably quit while I’m ahead. 1:02, She really likes taking pictures. I’ve been in a lot of them. Wes taps me on the shoulder and says that "Bohemian Rhapsody" draws near. I say this to Mari and her friends. "Don’t make me explain it, just follow me." "Bohemian Rhapsody," for the uninformed, is a classic Queen song that, for many my age, was made popular by the film "Wayne’s World." At the Rugby House, the song is played at some point in the night, and we drunkenly gather and sing and dance to it. 1:14, "Ooooh baby, can’t do this to me baaaaby. Just gotta get out. Just gotta get right out of here." I come out of the scrum with only half a cup of jungle juice left. Mari laughs at me. I tell her that not everyone can be so beautiful. She offers me a cigarette. "Did we just have sex?" crosses my mind, but for some reason, gladly, this phrase does not escape my lips. 1:38, I’m drunk. Unequivocally so. Mari and her friends are still around. I begin to wonder how in the hell I could not have scared them off. 2:03, We’re out in front now. Her friends are very drunk and kissing on each other. I’m pretty turned on, but I say nothing. Mari mentions that I’m the first drunken American guy that hasn’t tried anything. Am I not living up to expectations? Should I be? I ask her if this is a bad thing. She says it’s a good thing. In my head I think it’s a horrible thing. I’m so horny. 2:30, She’s so drunk, her English sounds terrible, and I tell her to just speak Spanish. 2:40, I’m too fucking nice. I have her number, but I’m too fucking nice. 2:48, I go to sleep early.
© Patrick Patterson-Carroll (2008)
27.8.09
The Loving Wall
The Loving Wall
from
"¡Existe el amor solamente para matarme! or Love and Me Have No Business Doing Business"
by Stuart González
Paul got an efficiency apartment in Montrose. $375 a month plus bills totaling near $500. He made $1,000 a month after taxes, which was manageable, but he was still poor. The place, tucked away in a corner covered with folliage that sits between an alley and a small street only a block away from the hookah bar on Westheimer, was owned & operated by a couple of gay artists who were famous for their annual Halloween bashes. If he could manage not to get evicted in a month's time...
Sitting alone in a beach chair, he sipped on a beer and exhaled. "Small place," he said aloud. Not even an echo. Small, empty place. With only a chipped, cracked coffee table and a smelly bean-bag chair taking up the rest of the space (most of it), Paul couldn't fathom bringing a girl home.
He didn't even have food. Two beers and a banana were the only contents of the mini-fridge, which buzzed annoyingly in the corner. Every now and then he'd hum along with it or he'd add the lyrics to Gimme Shelter.
Outside he smoked a cigarette with one of the owners. He couldn't think of anything to say to the guy because he knew nothing about art. What could he say? "Oh yeah, I like Picasso." He couldn't even name one of the man's paintings. All he knew is that they all looked like someone spilled water on them.
Instead,
"What do you smoke?"
"Marbs."
"Cowboy Killers."
"Lights."
"Oh."
Back inside his apartment he'd ponder going to the movies. Pondering movies made him think of posters. There weren't any on his walls. In fact, he had nothing to put on his walls. Well, there were the postcards his sister had sent when she was studying abroad in Europe, but he didn't think anyone would want to see pictures that he couldn't explain. He hated explaining things to people.
He considered calling his sister, but decided against it. She talks about boys a lot and cries as if their parents were dying or something. It's unbearable to him.
In the bathroom he noticed that the tub one of those old ones. A classic, as people with extensive knowledge of bathtubs would say. "Maybe one day I'll take a bubble bath," he said aloud.
Then, a knock on the door. Paul stepped onto the wooden floor from the bathroom, which is slightly elevated a step from the rest of the apartment and walked to the door. Peering into the peephole, he saw a young woman with curly brunette hair flowing down her shoulders.
Another knock.
After opening the door, they stood staring at one another.
"Hi," she said.
"Hi."
"I live upstairs. Randy told me you'd be in. Says you're new to the neighborhood."
"Yeah. Kinda."
"Well, I'm Monica, and I go to St. Thomas."
"Paul. I went to Rice."
"Ooh. Smart guy, huh?"
He didn't want to tell her that he flunked out. It was embarrassing. She asked to come in and he looked around behind him and agreed. He offered her a beer, but she didn't drink. She was only nineteen. The thought came into his head to laugh, but instead he offered her his banana. It put deviant thoughts into his head, which he liked. She laughed and asked for water. He gave her some from the tap in a paper cup.
"Paul," she started, "do you have a girlfriend?"
"Nope. You got a boyfriend?"
"No. Never had one. Parents didn't let me date in high school."
"Sucks. Why not?"
"Because high school boys haven't the resources to get married."
"I see."
Now Paul really wanted to fuck her. Innocence is overrated, nymphomania undervalued, and loneliness is observed seriously as a virtue called solitude. He hated it. This is why he wanted her to leave.
And after a while, she did. They exchanged numbers.
The first night in the apartment was trying. The newness of it was fading and he'd already masturbated twice to the thought of bedding Monica. On what bed, he'd never know, such is the nature of fantasy. But laying back in the bean-bag chair, staring at the empty wall in front of him, he realized that he had never felt as comfortable as he did in that moment. Relaxation had settled over him. He fell asleep.
In the morning he awoke face down on the wooden floor, a pool of slobber trailing from his mouth.
He stepped outside and had a cigarette. Still wearing what he wore the day before. He hadn't taken a bath. He hadn't brushed his teeth. The only thing on his mind was the ennui of the "day off," and how it would eat away at him. This is what he knew, and it was only half past nine.
Monica bounded down the staircase next to him. They exchanged greetings. She told him she was off to class.
"I'm off today," he said. "Anything cool to do around here during the day?"
"You could hang out and flirt with girls on campus at UST or you could go to the hookah place on Westheimer. Just a block north."
Cool, he thought. But hookah during the day is useless. Kind of like drinking. She skipped off out of his sight and he wondered if he should've stopped her to ask where the campus was, but shrugged it off and went back inside. Pulling the last beer from the fridge with a sigh, he knew he couldn't go all day in such a fashion.
From the bean-bag chair he had a great view of the wall in front of him. He finished the last swallow of the beer and tore into the banana. The formless wall was quiet. Plain. Mysterious. Inviting. Plainly, mysteriously, invitingly sexy. It was the only thing about the new apartment that didn't bore him.
In that moment he considered Monica. Compared to the wall, Monica had all of the requisite anatomical qualifications, the aesthetic qualities necessary for attracting the male of the species. But what she lacked was a cool, calming effect. She was animate, talkative, a "mellow harsher."
He stood up, approached the wall, caressed it with his hands and beautiful words. Silence. He put his lips to it, feeling the coldness.
"This could be love."
© Stuart González
from
"¡Existe el amor solamente para matarme! or Love and Me Have No Business Doing Business"
by Stuart González
Paul got an efficiency apartment in Montrose. $375 a month plus bills totaling near $500. He made $1,000 a month after taxes, which was manageable, but he was still poor. The place, tucked away in a corner covered with folliage that sits between an alley and a small street only a block away from the hookah bar on Westheimer, was owned & operated by a couple of gay artists who were famous for their annual Halloween bashes. If he could manage not to get evicted in a month's time...
Sitting alone in a beach chair, he sipped on a beer and exhaled. "Small place," he said aloud. Not even an echo. Small, empty place. With only a chipped, cracked coffee table and a smelly bean-bag chair taking up the rest of the space (most of it), Paul couldn't fathom bringing a girl home.
He didn't even have food. Two beers and a banana were the only contents of the mini-fridge, which buzzed annoyingly in the corner. Every now and then he'd hum along with it or he'd add the lyrics to Gimme Shelter.
Outside he smoked a cigarette with one of the owners. He couldn't think of anything to say to the guy because he knew nothing about art. What could he say? "Oh yeah, I like Picasso." He couldn't even name one of the man's paintings. All he knew is that they all looked like someone spilled water on them.
Instead,
"What do you smoke?"
"Marbs."
"Cowboy Killers."
"Lights."
"Oh."
Back inside his apartment he'd ponder going to the movies. Pondering movies made him think of posters. There weren't any on his walls. In fact, he had nothing to put on his walls. Well, there were the postcards his sister had sent when she was studying abroad in Europe, but he didn't think anyone would want to see pictures that he couldn't explain. He hated explaining things to people.
He considered calling his sister, but decided against it. She talks about boys a lot and cries as if their parents were dying or something. It's unbearable to him.
In the bathroom he noticed that the tub one of those old ones. A classic, as people with extensive knowledge of bathtubs would say. "Maybe one day I'll take a bubble bath," he said aloud.
Then, a knock on the door. Paul stepped onto the wooden floor from the bathroom, which is slightly elevated a step from the rest of the apartment and walked to the door. Peering into the peephole, he saw a young woman with curly brunette hair flowing down her shoulders.
Another knock.
After opening the door, they stood staring at one another.
"Hi," she said.
"Hi."
"I live upstairs. Randy told me you'd be in. Says you're new to the neighborhood."
"Yeah. Kinda."
"Well, I'm Monica, and I go to St. Thomas."
"Paul. I went to Rice."
"Ooh. Smart guy, huh?"
He didn't want to tell her that he flunked out. It was embarrassing. She asked to come in and he looked around behind him and agreed. He offered her a beer, but she didn't drink. She was only nineteen. The thought came into his head to laugh, but instead he offered her his banana. It put deviant thoughts into his head, which he liked. She laughed and asked for water. He gave her some from the tap in a paper cup.
"Paul," she started, "do you have a girlfriend?"
"Nope. You got a boyfriend?"
"No. Never had one. Parents didn't let me date in high school."
"Sucks. Why not?"
"Because high school boys haven't the resources to get married."
"I see."
Now Paul really wanted to fuck her. Innocence is overrated, nymphomania undervalued, and loneliness is observed seriously as a virtue called solitude. He hated it. This is why he wanted her to leave.
And after a while, she did. They exchanged numbers.
The first night in the apartment was trying. The newness of it was fading and he'd already masturbated twice to the thought of bedding Monica. On what bed, he'd never know, such is the nature of fantasy. But laying back in the bean-bag chair, staring at the empty wall in front of him, he realized that he had never felt as comfortable as he did in that moment. Relaxation had settled over him. He fell asleep.
In the morning he awoke face down on the wooden floor, a pool of slobber trailing from his mouth.
He stepped outside and had a cigarette. Still wearing what he wore the day before. He hadn't taken a bath. He hadn't brushed his teeth. The only thing on his mind was the ennui of the "day off," and how it would eat away at him. This is what he knew, and it was only half past nine.
Monica bounded down the staircase next to him. They exchanged greetings. She told him she was off to class.
"I'm off today," he said. "Anything cool to do around here during the day?"
"You could hang out and flirt with girls on campus at UST or you could go to the hookah place on Westheimer. Just a block north."
Cool, he thought. But hookah during the day is useless. Kind of like drinking. She skipped off out of his sight and he wondered if he should've stopped her to ask where the campus was, but shrugged it off and went back inside. Pulling the last beer from the fridge with a sigh, he knew he couldn't go all day in such a fashion.
From the bean-bag chair he had a great view of the wall in front of him. He finished the last swallow of the beer and tore into the banana. The formless wall was quiet. Plain. Mysterious. Inviting. Plainly, mysteriously, invitingly sexy. It was the only thing about the new apartment that didn't bore him.
In that moment he considered Monica. Compared to the wall, Monica had all of the requisite anatomical qualifications, the aesthetic qualities necessary for attracting the male of the species. But what she lacked was a cool, calming effect. She was animate, talkative, a "mellow harsher."
He stood up, approached the wall, caressed it with his hands and beautiful words. Silence. He put his lips to it, feeling the coldness.
"This could be love."
© Stuart González
10.7.09
Comix & Shit
Happy Birthday, a strip by my friend,
Robby Mexico
From left to right, round and round!:
"Hey, since the economy's crumbling, wanna get fucked up animation style?"- Robby
"Fuck Yes" - Jill
--Time Passes-- Caption: SOON
Caption: MANY HOURS LATER:
"Oh shit. Robby, what time is it?" - Jill
*cough* 4:20
"Shit, I have to go to work" - Jill
"Not in animated land, you don't." - Robby
HAPPY BIRTHDAY
"Robby, is this what you do all day?" - Jill
"No... Yes." - Robby
--
Given the UST/Houston nature of this post, I want to show respect for, and give "shout-outs" to "Booze Sleeve Crew", Robby, Brian Husband, Shana Copeland, Ally Taylor, Christian Kawas, Bill Higgins, Matty G., Michelle S., Elaine Harwell, Sam Garza, Anthony (Fat Tony), D ee R ai L, Steven Vaughn, Ace, all the fez kids: Lorena, Jessica, my roomates Yasushi and François, etc, etc...
Robby, if you have any to add, do in comments. I'm forgetting people.
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