Chronicles of Undercover Mexican Girl

Currency Wars - Before I Begin Reading

2012-01-15T13:38:00.000-08:00

In addition to training Lola to sit, stay, and fetch, we are also teaching her about the economy. Shand reads her a chapter from James Rickards' Currency Wars. In the past we've feared nuclear war and biological warfare. Now we must fear currency war.

Excerpt from the book summary on the Penguin website:

"In 1971, President Nixon imposed national price controls and took the United States off the gold standard, an extreme measure intended to end an ongoing currency war that had destroyed faith in the U.S. dollar. Today we are engaged in a new currency war, and this time the consequences will be far worse than those that confronted Nixon.

[...]

As James Rickards argues in Currency Wars, this is more than just a concern for economists and investors. The United States is facing serious threats to its national security, from clandestine gold purchases by China to the hidden agendas of sovereign wealth funds. Greater than any single threat is the very real danger of the collapse of the dollar itself."

I've yet to read the book, and I will do so as soon as Shand is done reading it. (We are borrowing it from the library - because of the currency war, we can no longer afford to buy books.) I think this book will help me better wrap my mind around what's going on with the economy. But I have noticed this - within the last few weeks, the cost of food and fuel have both been rising dramatically.

It's getting to the point that for the first time in my life, I am seriously doubting being able to cover my costs of living, unless I start going into credit card debt (which I have avoided all my life, except for a stupid 1-year period). To cut back on our expenses, we are also keeping our heater running at 65 degrees (instead of the usual 68), not going out to eat or drink except on very limited occasions, and generally reusing as much as we can. What are you doing to be financially sustainable?

Why I Never Dated a Latino (Or If Only They Had Actually Paid Attention)

2011-12-21T09:40:00.001-08:00

I never consciously chose not to date Latinos. It just happened. My first major crush ever was on a Latino — I suffered a horrible case of unrequited young teenage love, from the age of 10 until I was 16 years old. He was smart, cute, funny, read J.R.R. Tolkien, played classical violin, was 100% bilingual, and he had no idea that I longed for us to magically fall in love one day. (Actually, that’s not true, one bored Saturday afternoon, my best friend in the 8th grade thought it would be a good idea to call his younger sisters and tell them I had a crush on their brother. I did not think that was a good idea.)

Eventually, I got over him. I met another smart, cute, and funny classical violinist at my first day of a pre-college summer camp in Pittsburgh, right before my senior year in high school. He was Jewish (but not religiously Jewish). It might have turned out happily ever after, but I returned to California and he to Vermont. We intended to maintain a long-distance relationship until we were old enough to get married. We wrote each other several letters each week from September through March — mine were full of tortured heart poems, his full of charming drawings (as he also happened to be a talented visual artist).

I was never tempted by other boys. I went to a mostly Mexican-American high school bordering East Los Angeles, and even though I had slight crushes on a few, they went after the pretty, popular girls. I was brainy, awkward, and slightly weird. The only Latino boy who ever took any interest in me was a spastic dope-head my friends tried to set me up with. He seemed genuinely kind, but I did not know how to react to his non sequitur babble, or the pillow in the shape of a stuffed joint he brought me one day as a gift. It wasn’t until I went to visit my first choice college for a “sleeping bag weekend” — all the way back to Pittsburgh — that another boy paid attention. This one of Irish and Native American (1/4) heritage. That marked the end of my adolescent romance with the Vermont violinist.

There were other boys in college of course. None of them were Latino, unless you count the one Mexican national, and that only lasted about 48 hours. It didn’t help that not a single one of my friends in college were Latino, unless you count the one Mexican national. (Yes, if you’re wondering, that was an accidental friends-turned-more fling — unfortunately, in retrospect, to get over a very Anglo, non-Latino boy from Virginia who introduced me to Pavement, The Waterboys, and existentialism.)

To make the rest of the long story short, I moved to Austin with another non-Latino boyfriend of Polish and Italian descent (but culturally very American), and I didn’t have any Latino friends, or meet any crush-worth Latino men, until 2008. But by then, it was too late. I’d already fallen in love back in 2005 with a talented musician, handsome, reddish haired, slightly freckled man of Scottish and Prussian heritage, who — as it turns out — has greatly schooled me on the history of Mexican history, border politics, and music. We are still together. Still in love.

So there you have it. To any Latino men out there wondering why I’ve culturally strayed, that’s my story. Can’t say I didn’t try.

Undercover Mexican Girl's Senior Prom

Aviophobia

2011-12-13T20:24:00.000-08:00

Undercover Mexican Girl with little brother Coco

The winter holidays are the time of year we spend with our families. But for many people, it’s also the season of airplane travel. From the time I was born, throughout my early twenties, I traveled by airplane several times a year. It wasn’t any different than getting into a car, and I even enjoyed it – ascending into the sky and seeing the buildings and landscape turn to miniatures, surprise deluxe meals and dessert served right to my seat, the roller coaster feeling as we were touching down on the runway. When my brother and I were little, we even got to visit the captain’s cockpit and see all the levers and buttons.

Between 2008 and this year, I didn’t travel by plane at all. It wasn’t until April 2011 that I had to go on a plane again, for a work-related conference. And I was nervous about flying for the first time in my life. My flight from Austin to Los Angeles was bumpy. My muscles tensed up, my teeth clenched, and I gripped the armrests each time the plane took a little dip. I wanted to grab the arm of the guy next to me, but he was too absorbed in his laptop. Evidently, he was not afraid of dying on this flight.

The next time I had to fly, in November 2011, I was self-conscious about my recently developed phobia of flying. On the car ride to the airport, I was queasy and thought about having a few Bloody Marys for breakfast. But the flight was so uneventful, I felt silly having been so anxious. There’s nothing to it. Airplane travel is safe. You’re more likely to die in a car accident, or of heart disease.

The thing is, it’s not natural, being way up in the sky, with no easy way to get off. On my return flight this last time, from Chicago to Austin, I was extremely exhausted. I had spent two and a half days attending a very busy conference, and then several more days spending time with relatives I hadn’t seen in fifteen years. I fell sleep before the plane even took off, hoping not to wake up until the plane had safely landed.

Soon after we received our complimentary beverages, the lady next to me started talking to me. I tried to keep the conversation brief. I wanted to finish my Cran-Apple cocktail and fall back asleep. Still, she kept asking questions and telling me random things about herself. Are you from Austin? Here’s a picture of my adorable grandson! What do you do? I love music! I’m a music teacher. I raised six kids as a single mother. I love Austin! Do you have children?

Although I was beginning to enjoy the chat and was curious to know more about her, I was fixated on sleeping throughout the rest of the flight. I politely let her know I needed to catch up on rest, since I’d been awake since four in the morning. As soon as I felt myself starting to drift off, the captain announced we’d be ready to land. I stowed everything away, happy to know the flight was almost over.

Then it got darker outside, and the sky became thick with clouds. The energy in the airplane changed. The flight attendants looked preoccupied with something more beyond collecting napkins and plastic cups. The captain announced that “due to the weather,” traffic control instructed us to delay landing for thirty more minutes. He firmly reminded us to fasten our seat belts and stay seated. We’d be circling for a while. There were five or six planes ahead of us.

The plane shuddered, as if it were made of paper. The ceiling shook from side to side. The engines beneath roared against the fast winds. Then they’d stop, and we’d float like a little leaf in the sky, suddenly losing ground. Hail pummeled the plane like shards of broken glass. I felt as if nothing were holding us underneath. The woman next me, whose name I originally heard to be “Joy”, started to get nervous as well, even though she said she enjoyed airplane travel.

At first, she held on to my arm to make me feel better. I was hyperventilating a little, trying to take deep breaths. To distract ourselves from the turbulence, I started telling her stories about my great aunt’s youth in the mountains of Durango, Mexico, where she camped out underneath the stars, during a journey on horseback, and had been caught in a downpour. Suddenly, I began telling her all my greatest fears, doubts, and secrets. How I had rejected my childhood religion of Catholicism, but now felt a bit of security knowing my great aunt had sent me back to Austin with a bottle of holy water. She had told me so much about herself – I did not feel strange telling her so much about me.

When I was nearly to the point of tears, she took my hand, the same way my mother would when I was a little girl and we were about to land. Joy’s hand was cold and shaky, and warm and firm, all at the same time. She did not let go of my hand, even when a flash of rationality crossed my mind, and I wondered if it was all in my head – that I was simply overreacting, the captain had it all under control, bad weather happened all the time during landings, and I was being plain ridiculous.

Looking back, I’m not really sure if we were in any kind of real danger. But I did walk away with one realization – no matter how tired you are, you should never sleep your way through life. Wake up. You might make a new friend, learn something new, or simply be glad to see the sun.

Sustainable Living Isn't Just for Treehuggers

2011-11-10T14:38:00.001-08:00

The other day, I was asked to give a presentation about proper recycling in the office. My audience consisted of small business entrepreneurs and professional freelancers. Everyone held a college undergraduate degree, and it’s likely many of them also had a master’s degree. The reason I was asked to give a presentation is not because I work in the environmental industry, but because I’m passionate about recycling and being resourceful.

Recently, I heard someone use the word “eco-nerd” to refer to himself. He got excited that the Asian restaurant we ate at had real, non-disposable chopsticks. And on top of bringing re-usable bags to the grocery store, he kept track of the bulk item identification numbers on his iPhone to save paper and ink, by avoiding having to print out the adhesive labels.

My particular eco-nerdiness comes from my partiality to minimizing the use of plastic in my life. I will wash and re-use the few plastic bags that make it through the front door of my house. I’m on about my 12th use of a microwave and dishwasher safe to-go container that I keep taking back to a restaurant I frequent often for lunch, since it’s down the street from my office. Fortunately, they allow me to keep bringing it back, and they even offer me a 50-cent discount for my environmental consciousness.

When you’re as excited about something, as I am about reducing the amount of waste I produce as a human, it’s easy to forget that not everyone else feels the same way. Doesn’t everyone get giddy about recycling, reusing, and maybe not even using it in the first place? I discovered that the answer was no. I had also assumed that fellow college-educated, intelligent, liberal-minded, business-savvy people would be as ecologically enthusiastic as I was. But my assumption was wrong. At least in the office place.

My passion for recycling became apparent at work because I was constantly commenting on how the recycling wasn’t properly being done – sometimes, it wasn’t even done at all. The recycling bins are about ten steps from the kitchen and down a half flight of stairs. It’s easier just to throw the can or container into the trashcan next to the kitchen sink. But it’s also not that difficult to take the extra 30-45 seconds to make the short trip to the bins. (Plus, it’s a good stretching exercise for most of us who sit in a chair 6-8 hours a day.)

The presentation I gave was quite simple. I showed how only the following items are acceptable for the blue “clean paper” bin: office paper, envelopes, cardboard, cardstock, catalogs, magazines, newspaper and junk mail. The following items are acceptable for the plastic, glass, and aluminum “commingled” bin: cleaned and/or rinsed glass bottles and jars, plastics (#1 though #7), and aluminum and steel cans. This is pretty much the standard for recycling most everywhere in Austin.

I got all kinds of interesting questions during the presentation. How do you know if it’s recyclable? (Look for the little number inside a triangle, usually at the bottom of the container.) Why do I have to remove the lids and caps? (Because they are made of different material that doesn’t recycle well, or at all in some cases, plus it jams the recycling machines.) Why can’t I just put the empty beer bottles in the cardboard holder and put them in the recycler that way? (Because the recycling people ask us to separate paper and glass.) Why can’t the recycling people sort it out for me? (They ask us to do things a certain way for a reason, the same way we ask our clients to present information to us in a particular way. It makes the whole process more efficient.) The recycling bins are too out of the way. (Do I really have to answer to that?)

I removed styrofoam, plastic bags, dirty pizza boxes, and glass bottles from the paper bin. I removed paper, soiled plastic containers, bottles still filled with (now rancid) liquid beverage, and outright garbage from the commingled bin. After the presentation, I showed a funny home video I made about the things I do at home to be more resourceful – in hopes of adding a bit of humor to my schoolmarm lesson about saving the earth.

In the end, I don’t know if I was able to change anyone’s mind, or even slightly inspire someone to think about how much unnecessary waste we produce in society. Maybe everyone just went back to their desks and promptly forgot everything I said. But I did walk away with one thought – I will continue being an “eco-nerd” for the rest of my life. I figure, if I keep at it, maybe it will catch on. After all, trendsetters don’t wait for everyone else to do the same.

A Month with Lola

2011-10-16T20:58:00.000-07:00

(Note: It has now been two months with Lola. I haven't had much time for writing lately, but I hope that will change from now on.)

I meant to keep a daily, or even weekly journal, of our experiences with a new puppy. In fact, other than when I was a very young child, I'd never had the experience of raising a puppy. We didn't exactly plan on getting a puppy. It was a happy result of unfortunate circumstances (see Death Brings Life).

When we did set our heart on rescuing Lola (she was unnamed at the time) from a shelter northwest of Dallas, in the small town of Decatur, we had no reliable means of transportation to make the 400-mile round trip. I posted frantically on Facebook through my status updates, seeing if anybody was by chance making a trip from Dallas to Austin on Saturday, September 10, or even to Waco. I called and texted a few friends. We made calls to the staff at the shelter, someone affiliated with Catahoula Rescue South Central, and finally, I posted to every page and group in Texas that was involved in rescuing dogs and cats from shelters and helping them get placed in new homes.

Sometime early on Friday evening, I got a text message from a guy named Mike, who founded a little nonprofit called Transpawtation Texas. He said he'd be able to pick her up early Saturday afternoon and could have her to us by 6 PM, perhaps sooner. She was scheduled to be put down that day - she had maybe until Monday or Tuesday to live. There was nothing wrong with her. The women at the shelter told us she was very sweet, good natured, and in good health. The only thing wrong with her was that no one was available to give her a home.

Mike offered to bring us Lola out of the goodness of his heart, and to "do his part" - he fronted the $25 adoption fee and asked simply for a donation. When he arrived, he handed her over to Shand as if she were a little rag doll. She had thrown up inside the crate and looked bewildered. Shand took her inside the house and out to the backyard, while I stayed out front chatting with Mike, thanking him profusely, and learning more about his nonprofit.

I don't know how I had the courage to bring a puppy into our home. Our remaining adult dog (after Changa passed away), Tonka, was a 12-year-old grumpy Catahoula who had once attacked a smaller dog at the green belt. The woman with the other dog was throwing a stick out into the creek, and on the third or fourth time he went out to fetch the stick, Tonka went after him and grabbed him by the collar. Since then, I could not take the dogs out for walks, or to any public places, without major anxiety that Tonka would get involved in a brawl.

Somehow, though, Tonka understood that Lola was part of the pack. He sniffed at her, and she timidly began to explore her surroundings. We set out a dog bed near Tonka's bed in the kitchen, to give Lola her own space. At first, it was difficult to get them settled into a feeding routine. She didn't have much of an appetite. She was more curious about his food, and he was more curious about hers. I had to coax her into eating, and she'd only eat if I threw her kibbles on the ground and pushed them around. She was probably going through some re-adjusting, having come from the shelter, plus she was having side effects from the de-worming treatment. It also turned out she had a parasite called Coccidia.

After a month-long treatment with a supplement called FortiFlora and an antibiotic for the parasites, her little bony ribs stopped protruding, and she gained five pounds to her current twenty-one pounds. She loves her food now, and she wolfs it down as quickly as she can. We are feeding her Wellness puppy food, and we've switched Tonka to a grain-free dog food called Hi-Tek. Ever since we'd adopted Tonka and Changa in early 2006, we didn't know much about dog food. We figured dogs were equipped to eat whatever. We'd been feeding them generic dog food from HEB, with the excuse we were on a budget. But over the past year, we've been learning about all the contamination and empty fillers in most dog food, so we decided all our dogs from now should enjoy the same quality, nutrition we get as humans. I partially blame food for Changa's brain tumor and ultimate death.

In addition to the worry of getting Lola rid of worms and parasites, I also learned about the deadly parvo virus, only after I'd taken her to a dog park. I mentioned to our vet that I was concerned she might pick up worms at the dog park, but she explained parvo was a much bigger threat and concern for puppies. Essentially, it's a life-threatening disease that can be spread by direct or indirect contact with poop contaminated by the virus. It's very difficult to get rid of it, and it can survive in feces or organic material such as dirt for up to a year.

I didn't fully comprehend the disease, however, until I'd taken Lola to a dog park for the second time, and had taken her to other public places where contamination was also possible, such as Petsmart. Even when we finally realized the seriousness of parvo and only took her to very controlled environments, we discovered that the threat of the virus can still sneak up on you. We'd taken Lola to backyard party hosted by trusted friends, whose dogs were a bit older and disease free, and it turned out a neighbor had a puppy who had overcome parvo several months earlier. It was possible he'd tracked in the virus on his shoes. I stressed for the next few days, watching Lola closely, inspecting her poop for normal signs.

But at some point, you have to stop being paranoid. All you can do is be cautious. We take Lola for walks around the block, and even that can be a threat. But she needs exercise and activity to burn off her boundless puppy energy. The backyard simply isn't enough. And throwing the ball to play fetch with her sometimes upsets Tonka. I still have flashbacks to Tonka going after the blue heeler who was fetching his stick at the green belt.

One safe place to take your puppy to burn off excess energy and learn new things is a puppy class. Our vet recommended Buddy's Chance on North Lamar. They have a free class on Monday nights for puppies under 15 weeks of age. We've taken her once so far, and she had a ball playing with a bunch of little boy-pups. She learned how to allow us to restrain her by the collar, how to trust other friendly adults with our permission, and how to roll and tumble - without going overboard - with other pups. We'll be taking her to this class a couple more times until she graduates to the Puppy II class for more serious learning of various commands and tricks.

We did teach Lola to "sit" and "shake" (which she knows as "paw") very early on. When she is not overly distracted, she also knows "down." It only took about 20 minutes to teach her to give her paw. She's quite smart - intelligence is a feature of the Catahoula breed. We've also been studying a book that our friend, Chris (who had facilitated the rescue of Tonka and Changa back in 2006) brought us from the thrift store. It's called "The Art of Raising a Puppy," and it's written by the Monks of New Skete who live in upstate New York.

The book has been criticized for some by its harsh and rigid techniques. As it turns out, "mouthing" (gentle biting), is not as inappropriate as the monks say. As the trainers at Buddy's Chance explained, it's good to let puppies bite on you so they learn how to do it gently. That way, if they ever bite when they are older, it won't be a harmful bite. Although, I am sure there are a dozen different perspectives on the matter. We'll keep our eyes and ears open. Like raising a child, there is no one perfect way to do it. And that is one thing I do like about the book - it points out that raising a puppy is about developing a relationship and learning how to communicate with your dog. The communication goes two ways. You need to learn how to read your dog, and you need to understand the way the dog reads you.

All while keeping Lola disease free, socialized and introduced to a variety of environments, and teaching her manners and commands, we've also been watching her relationship develop with Tonka. At first, he seemed to simply tolerate her. He did not seem upset to have her join our home, but he did not seem too interested in her either. His only reaction to her seemed to happen when she got too close to his face or food, or when he became jealous at whatever she was doing, whether it was playing with her treat-filled toys or having too much fun with fetch. He would snap, growl, and/or lunge slightly at her.

At first, whenever I thought Tonka might have this kind of reaction to her, I'd turn or walk way, unable to deal with my fears that he'd attack her. But he never did. I eventually learned that his behavior toward her was very similar to a momma dog putting her pups in place. A momma will even pin her pup to the ground and curl her lips. All the older dog is doing is showing dominance and correcting the young pup's behavior. As long as the pup reacts in the appropriate manner, no harm is done. And Lola has been very good at submitting to Tonka's dominance. The more she submitted, the less interested Tonka became in whatever activity she'd been doing in the first place to annoy him. He wasn't trying to steal her bone or take over her game of ball. He just needed to make sure she knew he was the boss.

Today, I caught Tonka laying on his back while Lola hovered right near his face, pawing at him. He was playfully pawing back. I'd never seen Tonka in such an act of dog loving-ness. He was never even this sweet with his old lady Changa. Somehow, Lola won his heart. He doesn't seem to growl as much - or any more it seems - when she comes prancing in through the dog door while he is peacefully sleeping near it. He doesn't seem to mind when she jumps on him or follows him around. It seems they've become pals even. I think, one afternoon while we were out running errands, they signed some kind of canine pact. They figured something out between them we'll never know.

It's been an incredible month - five weeks now. For now, it's the closest thing I know to having a child. Watching a puppy grow before your eyes, developing a bond with big brother, learning new tricks and behaviors, blossoming in her personality, and learning every new thing in the world. She's discovered squirrels, birds, babies, drive-thrus with dog treats, small and big dogs, puppies and old dogs, vacuum cleaners, coffee grinders, leashes, bar patios, the joy of chewing up sneakers and cell phones, her shadow on the ground, her reflection in the mirror, how the vines grow across and through the chain link fence, and what rain after a long drought in Texas feels, sounds, and smells like.

Her favorite toy is a squeaky monkey that looks like Curious George. She squeaks on the thing with great passion, especially if I start laughing. I've never seen a dog squeak on something so fast and so hard. She cuddles with it as if it were her stuffed animal. She takes it out out to the yard and rolls it around in the dirt and grass. She goes on insane sprints round and round the yard with the monkey in her jaw.

She learned how to get up on the couch, but she also learned that it's forbidden, so she figured out how to grab a cushion from the couch and pull it out through the dog door and to the back deck. She likes to be comfortable. One day, she jumped up and grabbed her blanket from the clothesline, and she dragged it over to the corner so she could lay on it.

We approximate that this month [October 2011], Lola is four months old. (I've given her the birthday of September 10, since that is the day she came to us, and we were told she was about three months old then.) I'll check back in with progress when she turns five months.

Girls will be boys and boys will be girls
It's a mixed up muddled up, shook up world
Except for Lola, L-L-Lola.
--The Kinks

Death Brings Life

2011-10-16T17:30:00.000-07:00

Originally published in monthly print newspaper, TODO Austin, October 2011.

Rest in peace, Changa (23 August 2011).
Your spirit remains.

The weather has cooled down. (Sort of.) It’s rained. (Sort of.) Regardless, fall has started, and now we begin the end-of-year holidays that put the rest of the year on fast forward. Holidays can be hectic, but there is one that gives us a chance to slow down and reflect. Most of us in the U.S. grew up with Halloween, but if you grew up with the Mexican culture, you likely celebrated Día de los Muertos. Or if you’re like me, even though you grew up with both cultures, it wasn’t part of the family tradition, and you discovered it later in life.

Día de los Muertos (Day of the Dead) is mainly a Mexican holiday dating back to the Pre-Columbian era, honoring friends and family who have died. It takes place on November 2nd, but infants and children are also honored on November 1st, which is Día de los Angelitos. Rather than being a somber occasion, people gather and remember loved ones by build altars – both at home and at the cemeteries – with sugar skulls, marigolds, and the favorite foods, drinks, and possessions of the deceased. They sing, laugh, and tell stories, to create a cheerful and welcoming gathering, inviting the souls of the dead to return for a day and rejoin the living.

I’ve been lucky that death has tended to stay far from my family and friends, although it is inevitable, and one day, we will all die. As time passes, I will deal with it more and more. Sometimes it seems people have a hard time talking about, or even acknowledging death. My grandmother María Ines Lopez Gurrola passed away in 2007. This was my first experience losing someone close. Maybe because I did not see her every day, the way I used to when I was a child, her absence did not hit me a in a very real way.

I knew I would no longer be able to see when I visited Mexico, and that whatever stories she never told would never be heard. She comes to me in dreams often, even though I never dreamt of her when she was alive. This makes me believe that even if souls do not return to Earth, some form of energy does, even if just in the form of a memory.

At the end of July, one of our dogs, Changa, developed a brain tumor. It appeared, almost overnight, the way a cartoon character sprouts a lump after getting bopped on the head. It was perfectly round, a ping-pong sized ball, popping out between her eyes. After seeing three vets and one specialist, the diagnosis was grim. Probably malignant – that is, cancer – and even if it was operable, it would be an expensive and torturous process both for us and for Changa. The vets told us all we could do was make her as happy and comfortable for the remainder of her life. We’d know the day it was time to let her go.

Changa first came to our home in April of 2006, along with Tonka. We rescued them from a friend of a friend who had gone to Washington for a job. Changa was around four years old and Tonka was six – both Catahoulas and my first dogs that were not Chihuahuas. At first, these 50-pound dogs with an unknown history overwhelmed me, but I grew to love their smart and funny personalities. Catahoula owners are fans for life. Although he didn’t always do it on command, Tonka knew just the right moment to offer you his paw when you were feeling down. Changa always wanted to be right at my feet and rubbed her face like a sea otter when she was feeling happy. They both always took part in Shand’s band rehearsals, unfazed by loud guitars and drums. Musical dogs, just like their human ma and pa.

When Changa took her last breath on August 23, 2011, I not only felt the emotional sadness, but also the physical sadness of losing a friend, a family member. I know dogs aren’t exactly like children, but to us, they were like children. The moment her heart stopped beating, I felt as if someone punched me in the stomach and tore out a giant piece of my insides. For a couple of days, I walked around feeling dizzy and numb, as if floating and not really in this world. I don’t know if those sensations were normal, or what they mean, but that’s what I felt.

During the Bastrop fires, Shand was looking at a website with pictures of lost and found dogs. From there, he stumbled upon CatahoulaRescue.com, which then led him to the Urgent Animals at the Wise County Texas Animal Shelter Facebook page. When I came home, he said, “You need to look at this.” And there was a picture of a sweet-faced puppy who looked like a mini-version of Changa, scheduled to be euthanized in a couple of days. Although Catahoulas are a breed, the AKC does not recognize them, probably because they descended from molossers and greyhounds, brought to Louisiana by Hernando de Soto, who mixed with the Native American dog. Catahoulas vary in shape, size, and color. Changa’s physique was one of the least common variations.

So, on September 10, three-month old Lola came to live with us. She likes rooting in the canna plants for a cool spot, lays down with her paws stretched out ahead like Superman, and she has this way of watching each and every tiny move you make. Just like Changa. Although Changa has left the Earth, perhaps part of her came back to us in the form of Lola. We hadn’t even planned on adopting another dog just yet. Death sometimes happens when you least expect it. But so does new life.

Plastic Bag Ban Is a Violation of American Right to Pollute

2011-10-16T17:13:00.000-07:00

All over the United States, local governments and community organizations have been banding together to ban the use of plastic bags at retail and grocery stores.

Environmentalists have finally brought it to mainstream attention that they are creating serious waste problems. The plastic bags are collecting in mounds in urban areas, trapped in fences and trees. They also appear on roadsides in the wide open country, and they even wind up in our oceans and soil where they break down into toxic bits.

But the people of America are downright outraged by this move to ban plastic bags! With over 100 billion bags used per year, and a little over 300 million Americans, that's an average of one plastic bag per person per day. Anyone can quit drinking or smoking if they put their mind to it, and people have been known to go days without food and water, but what's a person to do without a plastic bag?

Read the rest of the article on The Leaky Wiki.

Musings from the Back Porch

2011-09-06T19:33:00.000-07:00

Changa the Catahoula, circa 2006.

After 70+ days of 100+ degree weather, yesterday felt like being on another planet, with the day time highs in the low 90s and the evening dropping to the high 60s. We did not run our AC all day, and we opened up all the windows and doors to the back yard. The beginning of September gave us a breath of autumn air, although still without a drop of rain (the 10 months from October 2010 through July 2011 have been the driest for that 10-month period in Texas since 1895). Not to mention fires raging in the Bastrop area outside of Austin. When I woke up this morning, it smelled like campfire. But there were no marshmallows.

Still, I welcome September after a brutally hot and cruel August. Last month flew by and dragged on all at once. At the end of July, we discovered a ping-pong sized tumor on one of our dogs, Changa. Almost overnight, out of nowhere, it popped out of her forehead right between the eyes, the way a lump comes up on a cartoon character after they've been bopped on the head. She also developed a slight limp.

After going to two vets, one specialist, and then having our regular mobile vet casually take a look while visiting our house for the other dog's check up (Tonka), we came to the conclusion that it was most likely a malignant tumor -- cancer. Even if we'd had thousands of extra dollars to spend on MRIs and surgery and recovery therapy, it would only have bought her several more months at best and probably a lot more suffering. At any rate, the way it seemed to be wedged between her brain, nasal cavity, and left eye, there was no easy to remove it.

Our only option was to make her as comfortable and happy as possible for the remainder of her life and wait for the day. The specialist said we'd know when it was time. I rationalized that one of three things would have to happen: she'd stop eating, she wouldn't be able to get up, or she'd appear to be in major pain.The lump grew. The eye bulged out and became discolored and finally turned milky white with a black film creeping over it. She increasingly bled through her nose more and more. The limp got worse, and she had a harder time jumping up onto the porch from the back yard. She lost weight. She lost interest in eating -- Changa, who loved food so much she'd lick tiny crumbs off the floor, stopped eating. She started breathing funny, as if she had a cold.

Then one day, the three signs converged. So we called the vet. August was a long month, as I watched this dog -- who was part of our little family since we rescued her and Tonka in 2006 -- slowly die. I will admit, she was my favorite one. Always so eager to give her love, always so grateful to receive ours.The day the vet came to put her down, on August 23, 2011, was harder than I imagined it. I kept reasoning why we were doing the right thing. And I don't regret our decision. But it was still hard. It doesn't matter how many times you watched Old Yeller as a kid.

I remember very clearly how in her last hour, she would periodically look up at us with her one good eye, even though she had been mostly out of it for the previous twenty-four hours. Even though it cost her a great deal of difficulty -- and probably pain -- to lift her head off the ground, she made eye contact with us, as if to let us know that she knew. She wanted to let us know that she knew what was going to happen, and it was okay because she was ready to go to her resting place. To let us know she appreciated all we did during her last weeks, feeding her chicken hearts from the farmers market and constantly giving her belly rubs. Or maybe that was all in my imagination. But that's what I believed, and it made me feel better.

I've never experienced death so closely. To have your hand on your dog's shoulder, right near her heart, and to feel the life go out of her, the last breath. I still feel the wind knocked out of me to remember the moment.So, here's to September, hoping for cooler nights on the porch like tonight, rain, and new life.

No andes descalza! (Don't walk barefoot!)

2011-08-28T15:21:00.000-07:00

Carson Fisk-Vittori, Dirty Feet, 2009, Archival Inkjet Print

I am aware that many children had the primal pleasure of walking around barefoot, especially during the summer. When I was growing up, however, one of the phrases I heard my mother say most frequently was, "No andes descalza!" (Don't walk barefoot!) At home, it was simply the problem of getting our feet dirty. Getting into bed at night or sitting at the kitchen table with dirty feet was improper. But walking around barefoot in a hotel (even the nicest one) or at the pool meant inviting who knows what unwanted germs - esos microbios tan asquerosos.

As a child, my mother always made us wear pantuflas ("slippers" for you non-Spanish speakers - and yes, it's more fun to say pantuflas than it is to say slippers). I had a series of various furry and fuzzy pantuflas, and although they were on the warm and cozy side, it didn't matter too much in Los Angeles where even the hottest day would cool down in the evening. I wanted nothing to do with plastic shoes - I thought they were ugly, and they made my feet hurt and stink.

Fuzzy slippers can get downright gross.

In high school during the early 1990s, I caught that craze for Birkenstocks. After much begging, my parents finally bought me a pair of brown classic, suede Birks, which I work proudly around the college prep campus when I was a boarder at The Webb Schools. In college, I learned to be a bit more mindful of my parents' money, so I settled for a knock-off pair called Betulas, purchased from the Price Club (now Costco). Going to university in Pittsburgh, sandals were rarely worn without a pair of wool socks. Most of the time, it was freezing cold, so I wore ultra-warm pantuflas.

When I finally moved out on my own to Austin, Texas, in 1998, I discovered that the town was full of flip-flop loving people. But I would never wear these dreaded chanclas, with a piece of plastic wedged in between my toes to keep them in place. It was too hot for pantuflas (besides, they collect so much dust and hair!), and my Birks and Betulas were completely worn out, so for the first time, I had the guilty delight of walking around barefoot.

Purple camo pattern chanclas, about to get retired.

But when you go to the pool and the cement is 150 degrees, or you are walking around in a questionable hotel room, you begin to realize that flip flops are a really good idea. Unfortunately, I always realized this at the last minute, so I'd wind up with $3 cheapo pairs from Walgreens that fell apart after a year. The current pair I own have somehow survived three years. They are faded and cracking, still holding together in their ugly purple camo pattern glory, but they've kept my feet germ free. Still, I can't comfortably wear them out, and they don't give my clumsy feet the support they need.

I've decided it's time for another pair in a color I actually like - and it turns out they are doing a deal of $15 for $30 for Okabashi flip flops through Descuento Libre! Even better, they're eco-friendly and have proper foot support, and they come in all sorts of solid color combinations. With this offer, I can get a pair for Shand. After all, we share a bed, and who wants dirty feet beneath the sheets? My mother was right all along.

My next pair of chanclas will be from Okabashi!

Cowboy boots aren't just for Texans

2011-08-19T10:19:00.000-07:00

I grew up in Southern California - the Los Angeles greater metropolitan area, to be exact. Not exactly rural. The only cowboy boots to be seen around were in Hollywood, usually worn by women to give a unique twist to a glam rock outfit or perhaps by the Nashvillian musician coming out west to try his luck on the big screen.

Since moving to Austin, I've gradually adopted Texan ways. "Y'all" slips into my speech every now and then, I've developed a slight drawl and started dropping g's at the end of my words, I enjoy a cold Lone Star on the porch during an old-timey music jam, and I get cold when it drops below 80 degrees. But I never thought I'd own a pair of cowboy boots.

When I first started a job with the Texas FFA (Future Farmers of America), one of the perks was receiving a complimentary pair of boots from Justin, who was a sponsor of the non-profit. I reluctantly accepted the offer, thinking I'd order a pair that would sit my closet collecting dust or get pawned off on Ebay. I flipped through the catalog to find the most basic, comfortable looking, plain black boots I could find.

The day I got the boots, though, I was drawn to the shiny, dark leather and the classic, stitched pattern. I immediately put them on, and I felt as if they had meant to be on my feet all my life. That night, I went to see a traditional Irish band play in Niederwald, Texas - I danced for hours wearing my brand new pair of boots. My feet were not even a tiny bit sore the next day. These boots were magical!

I have worn them almost every day since I first got them in June of 2006, and I even bought another pair of the exact same kind (one pair are my city boots, and the other are for the desert in Terlingua). I'm ready for a third pair - although I might opt for brown this time to add a little variety to my wardrobe. After that, I might have to get red, then multi-colored...yes, I'm hooked on boots.

And here's a fun little video about those pointy, elf-like boots you've been seeing around lately - "botas picudas" or "chuntaros":

Be Happy Wearing Your Brand New Expensive Shirt

2011-08-07T11:27:00.000-07:00

GoAnimate.com: Be Happy Wearing Your Brand New Expensive Shirt by Undercover Mexican Girl

Like it? Create your own at GoAnimate.com. It's free and fun!

This is Recovery

2011-08-07T09:34:00.000-07:00

To be honest, I haven’t been keeping close tabs on the economic news, but I do hear hurrahs about how the recession is over, and we are on the road to recovery. Apparently, sales are growing, new jobs are on the horizon, and people have hope and faith that everything is going to turn out okay. How can it not get better, right? And by the way, gas prices are down from that major spike that happened in early May, so it’s no problem to hop back into your SUV and take a summer road trip across the country. (Never mind that despite the drop, they are still at an all-time high since the 1970s.)

A few weekends ago, as we were turning the corner into our neighborhood, we saw the telephone pole plastered with “yard sale” and “garage sale” signs – more than I’d ever seen in one place at any given time. We even had our own at the beginning of April, to start weeding out excess belongings in the hopes of one day moving to our property on Terlingua Ranch in the Big Bend desert, completely off grid. It was curious to see that the items we had always considered most valuable were not interesting to our neighborhood shoppers – exotic antiques and brand name clothing pieces were passed over in favor of generic doorknobs and plastic containers.

Over the last six years, we’ve led a fairly practical and frugal life. We don’t buy clothes unless we can find them for a bargain at the thrift store, we keep our AC at 80 in the summer and the heater around 60 in the winter, we’ve maintained our 1983 Diesel Mercedes to avoid buying a newer car and having payments, and the library is our main source for books, music, and movies. Our furniture and home décor is a delightful hodgepodge of items discarded on bulk trash days (which Shand has masterfully restored), hand me downs, thrift store finds, and a small handful of IKEA and antique store splurges from the days when we were a two-income household. (Designing on dime isn’t just entertainment on HGTV.)

Some people comment about how difficult it is to let go of personal possessions – I imagine, in some cases, it is heartbreaking if you have some kind of memory attached to it, or you spent a lot of money on it when you bought it brand new. Since most of our belongings have come into our home either free or at a very low cost, it’s no problem for me to send them along the way with a new owner. I joke that if there ever were a fire, the only things I would take with me are my laptop, a suitcase of childhood diaries, my violin, and my 2 dogs.

I have to wonder how much hard-earned money goes down the drain at so many of these neighborhood yard sales? For instance, right next door they were selling a giant sports-bar sized TV (as tall as me!) for $10 and a nearly brand new SUV for $5,000. Were these purchases ever made with the idea that one day they would be worthless or that they would have to be sold in order to afford putting food on the table and paying the bills? Think twice before you buy something, whether it’s a $50 shirt or a $500 sofa. Do you really intend to hang on to it forever, or is there a chance it might wind up on a folding table on your driveway a year from now? If you’ve been living a comfortable life up until now, don’t gamble on material belongings. Give up the addiction for consuming and shopping – maybe you will be able to avoid recovery by means of purging.

The Grapefruit Showdown: Raw vs. Del Monte

2011-07-24T15:04:00.000-07:00

Do you ever wish vegetables didn't taste quite so "vegetabley"?
-V8 Commercial 2011

Conversation Overheard

Recently, I overheard a discussion about grapefruits between three people (the names have been changed to protect their privacy). Jane was in the act of eating a raw grapefruit, creating a small pile of rinds as she peeled it. Bob and Mary, who were in the same room while this activity was taking place, engaged Jane in a conversation.

Mary: Hey Jane, do you eat a grapefruit every day?

Jane: Yes, it's healthy.

Bob: Where did you buy it?

Jane: At a regional chain supermarket.

Mary: Is it organic?

Jane: No, that's expensive. I'm on a budget.

Bob: Is organic really better anyway?

Mary: I don't think so.

Jane: Tastes the same.

Bob: I eat Del Monte® Fruit Naturals® - this way I don't have to deal with the rinds, or eat the nasty white part on the skin.

Note that in addition to the name of the company having a registered trademark, so is the term “fruit naturals.” What does it mean exactly when something is trademarked? According to the United States Patent and Trademark Office, “A trademark includes any word, name, symbol, device, or any combination, used, or intended to be used, in commerce to identify and distinguish the goods of one manufacturer or seller from goods manufactured or sold by others, and to indicate the source of the goods.” [1] Apparently, Del Monte has created a product consisting of natural fruit, which they have cleverly claimed as unique by simply reversing the order of the words. Didn’t Mother Nature – or God – invent natural fruit? And just what is this nasty white stuff, anyway?

A Grapefruit’s Natural Packaging – Plastic is Unnecessary

In a 2009 article published by the New York Times:

“The underside of the peel, called the albedo, contains carbohydrates and vitamin C but is especially rich in a soluble fiber called pectin, said Dr. Renee M. Goodrich, associate professor of food science and human nutrition at the University of Florida. ''We are beginning to see links between consumption of such fiber and cholesterol lowering,'' she said. [2]

The albedo is also called mesocarp or pith. According to their official Del Monte® Fruit Naturals® website, “They're picked at their ripest, then perfectly peeled, prepared and packed in 100% juice–all in handy 6-7 oz. plastic cups with easy peel-off lids.” They even remove the seeds and that disgusting albedo for you! And let’s face it – we live in a busy world. Taking two minutes to peel a grapefruit is just too much time. Why should you waste that time, when you can spend a mere two seconds removing the “easy peel-off lid”? Not to mention, what do you do with those rinds? It’s much easier to throw away the plastic packaging.

But wait, if you are eco-friendly, you might want to throw away the non-recyclable lid, and then deposit the “green” cup in a recycling container. (If you don’t believe that Del Monte® cares about the environment, visit this website: www.freshdelmonte.com/sustainability-environment-waste-recycling.aspx.) In 2008, they launched a “Going Green” project for all their employees, giving them personal coffee cups and plastic cups (presumably the latter is for drinking water or the wide assortment of Del Monte® fruit juices).

This will surely cancel out the negative environmental impact caused by the millions of plastic cups that consumers throw away after using them for the entire 5-15 minutes it took them to consume the “natural fruit.” In reality, the percentage of aluminum, paper, and plastic that gets recycled is less than 100% – the actual statistic will vary widely depending on the source. (And if you want to learn some interesting things about plastic, go here: www.bagitmovie.com.)

In addressing the nutritional content of a raw grapefruit versus fruit-in-a-cup, there are several sources. If you look on the official Del Monte® Fruit Naturals® website www.delmontechilledfruit.com/fruit-products/fruit-naturals, you will notice there are two varieties of the red grapefruit product: the regular one in 100% fruit juice and the “no sugar added” one. On the product page, there is a charming hand-drawn graphic inviting you to “click to read nutrition facts.”

Nutrition Facts and Ingredients

Once you click, you will learn that the regular 7-ounce version contains “about” two servings of 126 grams each. Each serving has less than 1 gram of fiber, 13 grams of sugars, 60 calories, 2% of vitamin A and 100% vitamin C of the daily values based on the 2,000 calorie diet. The “no sugar added” version has less calories – it also happens to be in a 6.5-ounce cup. Per serving, this version has only 40 calories, slightly more fiber at .5 grams, only 6 grams of sugar, 10% of vitamin A (more than the regular kind!) and 100% vitamin C of the daily values based on the 2,000 calorie diet. They have conveniently left out the ingredients. We are led to assume it contains only grapefruit.

One website called ShopWell.com™, still in the beta phase, seems to have a very comprehensive database of food products, their nutritional value, and list of ingredients. For the regular red grapefruit, it lists the following ingredients: Grapefruit, Reconstituted White Grape Juice, Reconstituted Red Grapefruit Juice, Potassium Sorbate and Sodium Benzoate (to preserve quality), Ascorbic Acid (to protect color), Citric Acid, Color Added. [3] The “no sugar added” red grapefruit contains the following: Grapefruit, Water, Sorbitol, Ascorbic Acid (to protect color), Potassium Sorbate and Sodium Benzoate (to protect quality), Citric Acid, Acesulfame Potassium, Sucralose, Color Added. [4]

The obvious offenders in both versions are potassium sorbate and sodium benzoate – both of these ingredients are synthetically produced by laboratory chemical methods. The regular version contains reconstituted white grape juice and reconstituted red grapefruit juice. What exactly is that anyway? The USDA has produced a 15-page document called “United States Standards for Grades of Grapefruit Juice.” The document defines reconstituted juice as a “product obtained by thoroughly mixing the concentrate with the amount of water prescribed on the label or other appropriate directions.” [5]

What is concentrate then? The FDA has the answer to that question in a document published in its Health and Human Services department regulations § 146.132:

“If the grapefruit juice is prepared from concentrate, such sweeteners, in liquid form, referred to in paragraph (a)(2)(iii) of this section, also may be used. When prepared from concentrated grapefruit juice, exclusive of added sweeteners, the finished food contains not less than 10 percent, by weight, of soluble solids taken as the refractometric sucrose value (of the filtrate), corrected to 20°C, and corrected for acidity by adding (0.012+0.193x–0.0004x2), where x equals the percent anhydrous citric acid in the sample, to the refractometrically obtained sucrose value by the first method prescribed in ‘‘Correction of Refractometer Sucrose Readings for Citric Acid Content for Lemonade,’’ by Yeatman, Senzel, and Springer, ‘‘Journal of the Association of Official Analytical Chemists,’’ vol. 59 p. 368 (1976). [6]

Let’s dig a little deeper. What are these acceptable sweeteners in liquid form? If we refer to paragraph (a)(2)(iii) of this section on the topic of Optional Ingredients, we will learn that these are defined as “one or any combination of two or more of the dry or liquid forms of sugar, invert sugar sirup, dextrose, glucose sirup, and fructose. Sweeteners defined in part 168 of this chapter shall be as defined therein.” [6] If we refer to part 168 of this chapter, I have to wonder if we will continue to be led further down the spiral of elusive definitions.

Labeling

You don’t even have to refer to part 168 to continue the seemingly endless scavenger hunt. In paragraph (a)(3)(ii) of this section on the topic of Labeling, we’ll learn that “if any nutritive sweetener is added, the principal display panel of the label shall bear the statement ‘‘Sweetener added.’’” [6] What if the nutritive sweetener is already part of the concentrate, and it’s not present in addition to the concentrate mix? What if “two or more of the dry or liquid forms of sugar, invert sugar sirup, dextrose, glucose sirup, and fructose” are not qualified as nutritive sweeteners, and therefore does not have to be listed?

The FDA gives a decent overview on how it regulates the listing of ingredients, in its Guidance for Industry: A Food Labeling Guide: Contains Nonbinding Recommendations:

15. Do ingredients of standardized foods have to be listed when the standardized food is an ingredient in a non-standardized food?

Answer: The sub ingredients of a food that is an ingredient in another food may be declared parenthetically following the name of the ingredient or may be declared by dispersing each ingredient in its order of predominance in the ingredient statement without naming the original ingredient. 21 CFR 101.4(b)(2) [7]

To truly understand what all this means, the average consumer will likely feel overwhelmed, and if curious enough like me, will feel the desire to go back to college and study chemistry and biology. But Del Monte® has made it easy for the consumer. All they need to know about the Fruit Naturals® red grapefruit in 100% fruit juice is that it contains sugar. Because of the way the definitions are set up to cross reference each other without explicitly stating anything clearly and concisely, Del Monte® can simply list “sugar” as an ingredient, hoping that most of us won’t spend hours trying to get to the bottom of what that really means. Anyway, even if the FDA makes recommendation for labeling food, they are “nonbinding recommendations.”

To confirm the ingredients listed by ShopWell.com™, I visited three different H-E-B markets in Austin, Texas, and I could not find either of these two grapefruit products. A friend visited Central Market – a grocery store that prides in selling healthy items – and could not find them either. I also went to Sunflower (formerly Newflower), and I did not find them either. It seems my only options are ordering online through Amazon.com, Costco, or Sam’s Club, along with a large-screen television. But just to be sure, I sent an email to Del Monte® and have requested the actual list of ingredients.

Dear Del Monte,

Can you please send me the complete list of ingredients for both the Fruit Naturals Red Grapefruit and the Fruit Naturals No Sugar Added Red Grapefruit?

On your website, I can only view the nutrition facts, but I would like to know the list of ingredients.

Thank you,

Alexandra

p.s. I would also like to know where I can purchase these products? I have visited three HEBs, one Central Market, and one Sunflower market and have not been able to find them.

Dear Alexandra,

Thanks for visiting our Del Monte website and for your email.

The ingredients you requested are listed below and below that you will find some stores in your area that carry these products.

*Red Grapefruit in 100% Juice: Grapefruit, Reconstituted White Grape Juice, Reconstituted Red grapefruit Juice, Potassium Sorbate and Sodium Benzoate (To Preserve Quality), Ascorbic Acid (TO Protect Color), Citric Acid

*No Sugar Added Red Grapefruit: Grapefruit, Water, Sorbitol, Ascorbic Acid (To Protect Color), Potassium Sorbate and Sodium Benzoate (To Preserve Quality), Citric Acid, Acesulfame Potassium, Sucralose.

We checked our information for you, and it shows this product has been sold in the past 90 days at the stores listed below. Before making a special trip, we recommend you call the store to be sure the product is in stock. If you've already checked these stores recently, it may also be help ful for you to let your store manager know about your interest in this item.

Fruit Naturals Red Grapefruit NSA and Fruit Naturals Red Grapefruit packed in100 percent juice.
Austin TX 78745

Randalls Food Market
2025 W Ben White Blvd
Austin TX 78704-7518
(512) 4433083

Fiesta Mart
5510 S Interstate 35 Ste 250
Austin TX 78745-3293
(512) 3737800

Randalls Food Market
6600 S MO Pac Expy
Austin TX 78749-1431
(512) 8914350

I appreciate the opportunity to respond and hope this information is helpful.

Mike, Del Monte Consumer Affairs

Del Monte. Nourishing families. Enriching lives. Every Day.

Del Monte® does a thorough job of revealing its practices. The Living a Healthy Lifestyle section of their corporate website has a Nutrition Q & A. [8] Below are some of the questions and answers relevant to the investigation in this article:

QUESTION

Why do you only list certain nutrients on your products?

ANSWER

The Food and Drug Administration regulates nutrition labeling. The nutrients listed on all of our products are required by law to be listed.

QUESTION

Why do you use High Fructose Corn Syrup in your products?

ANSWER

High Fructose Corn Syrup is a sweetener that is made from corn that has virtually the same sweetening power as sugar, provides the same amount of calories as table sugar and is used by our bodies just like table sugar. In the food industry, High Fructose Corn Syrup does more than just sweeten a product — it helps retain moisture and food structure. It also allows flavors to blend and increases the shelf life of a product.

QUESTION

What is sucralose and why do you use it?

ANSWER

Sucralose (Splenda®) is made from regular table sugar, but is altered by replacing three hydrogen-oxygen groups on the sugar molecule with three chlorine atoms.

High fructose corn syrup is a probable suspect in Del Monte® Fruit Naturals®, and it is a likely explanation for its extraordinarily long shelf life of 15-21 months. Try keeping a raw grapefruit for 3 months – no natural fruit is intended to last that long, unless you preserve it the good old-fashioned way as a jam or jelly preserve. Fruit Naturals® are not being preserved as jams or jellies – they are being preserved much in the way that Walt Disney has supposedly been cryogenically frozen – trying to capture the raw and “natural” state of an organic being. Except that food processors like Del Monte® use modern high-pressurization machines to do so, in addition to preservation chemicals.

Remember the “no sugar added” version of red grapefruit? Even though it has no sugar added, it does contain the following artificial, non-nutritive sweeteners: sorbitol, acesulfame potassium, and sucralose. In its Nutrition Q & A, Del Monte® does explain its use of sucralose, openly admitting the fact that it is simply regular table sugar that has been chemically altered. What about the other two sweeteners? These, too, are synthetic, laboratory produced chemicals.

Vitamin Content

Many people will argue that the canned (or plastic-cupped) versions are actually better for you because they have increased vitamin content. Both versions of the Fruit Naturals® red grapefruit – the regular and the “no sugar added” – contain 100% vitamin C of the daily values based on a 2,000 calorie diet. But what is 100%? How much vitamin C is that? The USDA Food and Nutrition Information Center website [9] has published a chart of Dietary Reference Intakes prepared by the Food and Nutrition Board of the National Academy of Sciences Institute of Medicine. According to this chart, the Recommended Dietary Allowances and Adequate Intakes of Vitamins can range anywhere from 75 mg for an adult female to 90 mg for an adult male. [10] Therefore, we can likely assume that Fruit Naturals® will contain roughly 75 mg of vitamin C for a 126-ounce serving.

How much vitamin C does an equivalent serving of raw grapefruit have? Only 39 grams. You can look up this same information on the USDA National Nutrient Database for Standard Reference on www.nal.usda.gov/fnic/foodcomp/search. This fact gives fruit-in-a-cup advocates the fodder they need to continue claiming their packaged product is superior to the real thing. Vitamin C, also known as ascorbic acid, can exist naturally in living organisms, but it can also be industrially synthesized. Fruit Naturals® lists ascorbic acid as an ingredient. Could this be a reason why it has a higher content of vitamin C than a freshly tree-picked raw grapefruit?

CONCLUSION

Large corporations with large marketing dollars to spend can potentially convince consumers of just about anything. Del Monte® says on their website that you can “Experience Fruit Undressed™,” which is a “fruit that’s stripped down to its bare goodness; no skins, seeds or cores.” [11] Following that logic, if a human wants to be sexy and undressed, should he or she skin themselves down to the muscle? Isn’t a fruit in its natural state already “undressed”? How are Del Monte® Fruit Naturals® that come individually packaged in small plastic cups, and then packaged together in sets in cardboard, be less undressed than the actual fruit?

Also, watch those labels. A grapefruit should only have one ingredient: grapefruit.

SOURCES:

1. http://www.uspto.gov/trademarks/process/index.jsp

2. http://query.nytimes.com/gst/fullpage.html?res=9504E5D91038F932A05750C0A96F9C8B63

3. http://www.shopwell.com/fruit-naturals-red-grapefruit-in-100-juice/fresh-fruit/p/2400050785?f=sr&nr=322&sp=4

4. http://www.shopwell.com/fruit-naturals-red-grapefruit-no-sugar-added/fresh-fruit/p/2400050793?f=sr&nr=322&sp=5

5. http://www.ams.usda.gov/AMSv1.0/getfile?dDocName=STELDEV3007255

6. http://edocket.access.gpo.gov/cfr_2005/aprqtr/pdf/21cfr146.132.pdf

7. http://www.fda.gov/food/guidancecomplianceregulatoryinformation/guidancedocuments/foodlabelingnutrition/foodlabelingguide/ucm064880.htm#stdfood
source changed to:

http://www.fda.gov/Food/GuidanceComplianceRegulatoryInformation/GuidanceDocuments/FoodLabelingNutrition/FoodLabelingGuide/default.htm

8. http://www.delmontefoods.com/livingahealthylifestyle/?page=lh_askthenutritionist4

9. http://fnic.nal.usda.gov/nal_display/index.php?info_center=4&tax_level=3&tax_subject=256&topic_id=1342&level3_id=5140

10.

http://iom.edu/Activities/Nutrition/SummaryDRIs/~/media/Files/Activity%20Files/Nutrition/DRIs/RDA%20and%20AIs_Vitamin%20and%20Elements.pdf

11. http://www.delmontefoods.com/brands/

The True Reusable Produce Bag

2011-07-07T14:17:00.000-07:00

As a follow up to my post from June 10, Plastic: Use, Reuse, or DON'T Use:

For several years now, I've been using large canvas grocery bags for my shopping. If you don't have one by now, you have no excuse. Every market, pharmacy, Target, and Wal-Mart sells them for anywhere from .99 to $1.99 at the register.

But what to do about those pesky, flimsy plastic bags for your produce and loose bulk items? They don't conveniently sell those at every chain store. And they're difficult to wash out! A couple of weekends ago, I finally went to Ecowise in Austin to buy some. Of course, because I'm not yet in the habit of taking them to the grocery store, I kept forgetting them. But I refused to buy anything that required me to use a plastic bag! So we went a week without almonds at home.

Fortunately, if you set your mind to it, it doesn't take too long to develop good habits...

The true "reusable" bag.

Dear Latino/Hispanic/Your Label of Choice Bloggers & Tweeters

2011-07-07T08:25:00.000-07:00

As a blogger and Tweeter (@UndercoverMexi) interested in creating online networks and building communities, I am working on an independent effort to help us cross-promote each other's posts, news, and projects. To start with, I thought it would be cool for us to use a common Twitter hashtag, such as #latism that is used by Latism.org - Latinos in Social Media. #latism is used nationally, but I think it would be helpful to have one that is Austin based.

Please let me know which of the hashtags below you prefer, or if you have any ideas of your own! At the end of the week, I'll get back to everyone with the most popular one, so we can start using it and easily find each other's Twitter posts! Also please let me know if you have any feedback, questions, or thoughts.

Option 1: #ATXlatino
Option 2: #ATXhispanic
Option 3: #ATXhispano
(or let met know if you have your own idea for one!)

Look forward to hearing from you,
Alexandra
@UndercoverMexi
alexandra@undercovermexicangirl.com

Las Aventuras de las Chicas de Descuento Libre (Vol 1.1)

2011-07-06T14:34:00.000-07:00

The first of many more to come! My debut on Descuento Libre's video series. Can you spot the Austin celebrity while I'm eating my bacon potato and cheese taco?

Rules of the Road (and Humanity)

2011-07-06T09:42:00.000-07:00

Dear Drivers, Cyclists, and Pedestrians,

I am talking to all of you because we must all share the road, and you are all equally guilty of breaking the rules.

1) Pedestrians, please use the crosswalk and go only when it says "walk". Sometimes, when you crossing in the middle of the road, it can be potentially dangerous for me to make a sudden stop while going 40 mph. But I will do it anyway, even if it means getting rear-ended, because I do not want to run you over. When you are crossing during the "don't walk," I ask myself why you lack patience. Why not wait at the corner for 20 more seconds and reflect on where you've come from instead?

2) Cyclists, please do not zoom ahead between the lanes. I particularly find it disconcerting when you pass me on the right because you are pretty much in my blind spot the entire time. Also, when I see you in the right hand lane, in the absence of a bike lane, and I carefully and slowly pass you on the left to give you plenty of space, and we come to a stop light, and you zoom ahead of me, I must do it all over again. I do not like constantly having to pass you, this constant game of cat and mouse.

3) Drivers, I am constantly amazed at how many of you drive cars with non-functional turn signals. I'm guessing that is the case, because otherwise, I don't understand why it's so difficult for you to use it. I also don't understand why you must release all your anger by slamming the gas pedal when I am going the speed limit, and you swerve into the left hand lane and barely squeeze into the tiny space ahead of me and just behind the car in front of me.

It's like playing a funny game where we race each other to the stop light. Or a funny game of dare where we taunt fate and the motorcycle cop lurking ahead behind the bushes. Or a not-so-funny game where you taunt death because don't seem to care that you are driving a 2-ton machine capable of killing.

Respectfully,
Undercover Mexican Girl

Plastic: Use, Reuse, or DON'T Use

2011-06-10T09:46:00.000-07:00

For being such a progressive, liberal, and environmentally friendly city, I am surprised how few people in Austin take reusable shopping bags to the grocery store. Even at the farmers market, where shoppers don’t have a choice but to carry reusable bags (or baskets), they still wind up putting their vegetables in plastic produce bags. And if you have any Latin American blood in you – you, especially, have no excuse. Our forefathers and foremothers from the homeland have been ecologically conscious since the “mercados” first existed.

Mercado Hidalgo in Guanajuato
Photo courtesy of Shand Walton (c) 2006

I’ve been using canvas bags to carry my groceries for the past four or five years. It’s a no-brainer. All you have to do is make it a habit to take them with you every time you go to the store, or stash a few in your car, just in case you forget. Even though I’ve managed to keep the larger, handled plastic bags at bay, the smaller produce bags – as well as the infamous Ziploc bags – still accumulate by the mounds at home.

Items like bananas and potatoes never get a plastic bag. Nature gave them their own built-in features to make transportation easy. But what about green beans? Or a pound of granola from the bulk bins? You can’t just throw those into your shopping basket, so you’re forced to take yet another produce bag off the roll.

After watching the documentary Bag It (read my review of the film on Popular Hispanics), it’s been at the front of mind to buy the reusable mesh or light cotton produce bags to carry loose vegetables or bulk items such as rice, beans, and nuts. It turns out I can buy them locally at Eco-Wise on South Congress, an “Austin resource for non-toxic, recycled, alternative, earth and eco friendly, natural supplies for building and life.” If there isn’t a place near you, you can always find them online at www.ecobags.com or www.reuseit.com, or support the Bag It documentary project by purchasing them at www.bagitmovie.com/shop.html.

Undercover Mexican Girl's Plastic Laundry Day

In the meantime, you can do what I did. Rinse them out, hang them to dry, and give them a prolonged life before they inevitably wind up at the dump, and finally, in our oceans. Or instead of throwing them away, you have the following recycling options (via the City of Austin website):

Many Austin retail grocers such as Central Market, H.E.B., Randalls, Wal-Mart and Whole Foods collect and recycle plastic bags. Look for the specially marked containers at these stores.
Cycled Plastics in Austin is a public drop-off for plastic, including dry cleaner bags, newspaper sleeves and plastic bags that have had no food contact and have no labels or stickers on them. Monday-Friday, 7 a.m. to 5 p.m. at 10200 McKalla Place.
Many schools in Austin have organized plastic bag recycling projects. Check with a nearby school to see if you can drop off and support their efforts.

If you’re a creative type, you can make your own recycled plastic craft projects such as a throw rug, a beach bag, or a raincoat. Or maybe something a bit more artistic? Find inspiration by checking out the work of Austin-based artist, Virginia Fleck, who has been working exclusively with recycled plastic bags since 2002, creating site specific ecologically conscious art works.

Artist Virginia Fleck's Recycled Plastic Bag Mandalas

What Does It Mean to be Mexican American, Latina, or Hispanica?

2011-04-24T19:30:00.000-07:00

Not so undercover Mexican girl.

Recently, I've been inundated by films, stories, songs, panels, blogs, Q&A's, discussions, presentations, conversations and drunken ramblings about what it means to be a "Latina" (this is the most generally accepted self-referent label lately). I've come close to relating to others' definitions, but never quite exactly. So here's my own take:

born in Los Angeles to parents from Mexico - one who spent all his life in Aguascalientes until moving to Southern California in his mid-20s and another who grew up in Chicago until moving to Aguascalientes in her early teens (and then also moving to S. CA in her mid-20s, with aforementioned parent shortly after getting married)
moving back to Mexico with my family at the age of 3 and first learning to read and write in Spanish
returning to the United States at the age 5 because the Mexican banks nationalized the peso, wiping out my parents' savings in U.S. dollars
going to summer school, being terrified of the English language, macaroni and cheese, and canned green beans
starting the 1st grade in further terror of the English language, peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, and milk that came in cartons instead of jars
learning English and all my other school subjects so quickly that I skipped 2nd grade
spending every single, entire summer through the 8th grade in Aguascalientes
moving back to Mexico (without my parents to go live with my aunt and uncle) at the age of 10 partly because I was traumatized by earthquakes, but also because I loved Timbiriche and Flans and didn't understand the appeal of Madonna or New Kids on the Block, and also because I preferred writing in my diary in Spanish
never really identifying with my 1st-8th grade classmates (majority Mexican American) and therefore deciding for the 9th grade to go to a boarding school in Claremont, California, where the majority were either of Asian heritage, culturally (but not religiously) Jewish, or just plain Anglo, and my best friends were a half Chinese-half Indian girl and a Sri Lankan girl who grew up in Hong Kong and had a British accent
from about the age of 8 until I was about 15, generally being embarrassed when my parents spoke Spanish to me in public
from about the age of 15 onward, being accused my mother of being "candil de la calle, oscuridad en la casa", wondering if developing strong bonds to my non-Mexican friends, including my first boyfriend who happened to be Jewish (culturally, but not religiously), meant that I was perhaps a traitor to my own culture
transferring to a Mexican-majority, Catholic high school near my parents' house for 11th and 12th grade, often being accused (in friendly fun) by my friends for being so "white" - although I spoke, read, and wrote Spanish much more fluently, and had spent more time in Mexico, than many of them
never falling in love with a Mexican boy (or man), unless you count the boy named Oscar who I only knew for an afternoon at my grandmother's friend's dairy ranch (just outside of Aguascalientes) as part of a dozen or so children with whom I played tag - I admired him for his cunning speed and light-colored eyes
since my early 20s, being so confused at what to call myself, that I eventually invented my own label (Undercover Mexican Girl), especially because so many people in Austin, Texas would tell me that I didn't look or act "Mexican"
at the age of 34, still not sure what it means to be Latina, Mexican American, Hispanic, Hispana, Hispanica, American with Mexican ancestry, Cholula, Tapatia, Sarape, or whatever - I guess I'll just have to keep exploring!

Honk, Honk, Tweet, Tweet

2011-04-22T13:36:00.000-07:00

Reposted from Engadget.com

The other day, I was woken up shortly after 5:00 AM by the sound of honking from next door. Without consulting Wikipedia or Merriam-Webster for the definition of stereotype, I pose the question: are stereotypes completely false and racist, or are they are an exaggeration of the truth? Or are are they simply a coincidental overlap between an actual reality and a presumption?

For example, that morning when I was woken up by honking, my first thought was, "It must be the Mexicans next door." I had two reasons to believe this: 1) they've done it before and 2) no other neighbor on the street has engaged in this behavior. In fact, the only people in my lifetime that I have ever known to honk from the street while the car is still running, rather than get out of the car and knock on the door, are Mexicans. (I've seen non-Mexicans do this in the movies, but that doesn't count.)

Is it a stereotype to say Mexicans honk to get someone to come out of the house? I'm Mexican, and I don't do it. But the only people I've ever known to do it are Mexicans. In that case, maybe you could say, "Mexicans like to honk instead of ringing the doorbell. But not all Mexicans do this." What's your experience with this annoying habit?

Ten minutes later, after persistent honking, I was wide awake and had no hope of falling back asleep to wake up to my alarm set for 7:30 AM. So I lay there, eyes wide open in the dark, watching the sun rise and listening to the birds sing. I started to hear the variations in the singing. Some went chirp-chirp, others coo-coo, others tweet-tweet, and some even went pio-pio, the way they do in Spanish.

I wish I could have identified the types of birds by their singing. Do birds in Spain and Latin America say "pio-pio" because that kind of bird was the first one heard by a Spanish-speaker? Should Twitter in Spanish be "Piotear"?

p.s. if you're still wondering about honking, Ask A Mexican (aka Gustavo Arellano) gives a good answer:
http://www.ocweekly.com/2005-10-13/columns/ask-a-mexican/

Blogueras. That's Spanish for Latina Bloggers.

2011-04-08T23:36:00.000-07:00

I am too tired to even think right now. It's been an exciting latter half of the week. Attended the 2nd Annual Hispanicize conference in Los Angeles. Met many wonderful people, including several women who are part of Las Blogueras and Blogs by Latinas who have inspired me to keep writing on my blog.

This post is short, but I hope it is the beginning of many more to come on a more regular basis.

What is Organic, Anyway?

2011-01-30T10:59:00.000-08:00

According to the online Merriam-Webster dictionary:

Definition of ORGANIC

1 archaic : instrumental

2 a : of, relating to, or arising in a bodily organ b : affecting the structure of the organism

3 a (1) : of, relating to, or derived from living organisms <organic evolution> (2) : of, relating to, yielding, or involving the use of food produced with the use of feed or fertilizer of plant or animal origin without employment of chemically formulated fertilizers, growth stimulants, antibiotics, or pesticides <organic farming> <organic produce> b (1) : of, relating to, or containing carbon compounds (2) : relating to, being, or dealt with by a branch of chemistry concerned with the carbon compounds of living beings and most other carbon compounds

4 a : forming an integral element of a whole : fundamental organic parts of the action — Francis Fergusson> b : having systematic coordination of parts : organized organic whole> c : having the characteristics of an organism : developing in the manner of a living plant or animal organic>

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Let's look at definition 3 a (1) and definition 4 a: "of, relating to, or derived from living organisms" and "forming an integral element of a whole." If we think about our food being organic from this perspective, then we think of our foods as living - they are alive, pure, and in their natural state. Organic matter (or organic material), for example, is matter that has come from a once-living organism. My beef should come from a cow that was once alive, and my pork should come from a pig that was once alive - similarly, my carrots and spinach should also come from plants that were once alive and growing in the dirt.

Now let's look at the definition of inorganic:

Definition of INORGANIC

a (1) : being or composed of matter other than plant or animal : mineral (2) : forming or belonging to the inanimate world b : of, relating to, or dealt with by a branch of chemistry concerned with substances not usually classed as organic

2 : not arising from natural growth : artificial; also : lacking structure, character, or vitality inorganic things, without individuality or prestige — John Buchan>

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Our American food industry, however, has defined "organic" not as something that came from a once living being - but rather "of, relating to, yielding, or involving the use of food produced with the use of feed or fertilizer of plant or animal origin without employment of chemically formulated fertilizers, growth stimulants, antibiotics, or pesticides" (see definition 3 a (2) of organic). Therefore, it is possible to eat "organic" beef that, as a cow, was not fed growth stimulants or antibiotics, but still ate grains its whole life instead of grass, or spent large amounts of time in confinement. True grass fed, according to the American Grassfed Association means:

• animals were fed a lifetime diet of 100% forage
• animals were raised on pasture, not in confinement
• animals were never treated with hormones or antibiotics

All three things must - and should - be true. Yet, as it stands, USDA grass fed standard only requires that animals have access to the outdoors during the growing season. (See USDA 2007 Press Release "USDA Establishes Grass (Forage) Fed Marketing Claim Standard.") The good news is that the USDA is apparently making progress. Before 2007, USDA standards stated that "consumption of [...] grain in the immature stage is acceptable." Animals are not biologically designed to eat grain and corn - they are designed to forage, to eat grass and bugs. Cows that are fed corn or grain are much more likely to be infected with E. Coli because eating this type of feed makes their normally pH-neutral digestive tract abnormally acidic, which in turn causes E. Coli to develop a resistance to acid.

There are various labels on meat out there: Animal Welfare Approved, Certified Humane, Global Animal Partnership, USDA Organic, and American Human Certified. Ironically, the one label using the "term" organic actually has the least strict standards. For a good summary on what all these labels mean, read the article Truth Behind the Labels: How Meat Eaters Can Find Out if Their Dinner Was Really Humanely Raised. In the United States, we have no unified standard on what "organic" truly means. So if you really want to know, you must investigate your food source.

Now, let's move on to fruits and vegetables.

I've been reading on various sources that the USDA Organic Rule states that "the use of genetically engineered organisms and their products are prohibited in any form or at any stage in organic production, processing or handling." The thing is, I have not been able to find anywhere on the official USDA site that states this. (So if someone out there reading this can point me to the source, I'd surely appreciate it!) Granted, I haven't spent hours digging into their site - only about thirty minutes. Still - the average consumer does not even have thirty minutes to find this information. I feel this type of information should be clearly stated and easily located on their website.

This brings us to the question of whether or not the "organic" fruits and vegetables we purchase are genetically pure, or genetically modified. And by genetically modified, I don't mean that two strains of tomatoes cross-pollinated and created an accidental, nature-induced hybrid. I mean those seeds which have undergone Frankenstein surgery to acquire super powers. Monsanto, a U.S.-based multinational agricultural biotechnology corporation, has created herbicide-tolerant genetically modified seeds called "Monsanto's Roundup Ready® crops," which are engineered to be resistant to Monsanto's broad-spectrum herbicide Roundup (Glyphosate). Whether or not the USDA National Organic Program has been allowing this in the past, it's hard to say. I am still tracking this information down.

But I do know this. If you visit the NOP website on http://www.ams.usda.gov/AMSv1.0/nop, you will notice right away that this program is being run by the USDA's Agricultural Marketing Service. If you understand anything about marketing, then it should give you a fairly large clue that truth and integrity are probably not the foundations for this program. (Read Seth Godin's "All Marketers Are Liars.") Then again, they might not be hiding anything. After all, just recently - in January 2011 - the USDA stated they will allow the planting of modified alfalfa. This is on mainstream news. How this will affect the "National Organic Program," we've yet to see.

In a recent press release, however, also this past month in January 2011, the National Organic Program "Proposes Renewal of Twelve Substances for Use in Organic Agriculture." So really, who knows? At any given time, that "USDA Organic" label on your chicken breast or bag of apples could mean whatever the USDA has decided or ruled at the time. You have to keep up with it, and you have to stay informed, if you truly want to know whether your food is "dead" or "alive."

I'm a busy gal - I don't always have time to keep up with these news. Fortunately, the folks down at the local farmers market, where I do most of my food shopping these days, keep me updated. If you haven't yet visited your local farmers market, I highly recommend it. This is the easiest way to be sure that your food is truly organic - that is, not fed antibiotics, happy roaming, grass and bug fed, not genetically modified, not sprayed with pesticides, and handled with care. And most of the food is sold by the very farmers who grew it! Think you can't afford the higher prices for real food? I guess your health - and of the people you love - must not be worth it.

How Not Renewing Your Driver's License Can Aggravate Your Allergies

2011-01-08T10:26:00.000-08:00

I started driving thirteen years ago, shortly before moving to Texas. In this state, your driver's license expires on your birthday every six years. But since I've moved four times and changed my name twice (once after I got married and once after I got un-married) in the last thirteen years, I had never gotten to the point of natural expiration, always proactively going to get a new license. But since 2005, I've remained at the same address with the same last name. (And happily - but not legally - married since 2006.)

As 1/2/2011 approached, and I did not receive an expiration notice in the mail as I had wrongly assumed, I was on my way to the sparse and remote region of Big Bend, where internet access is limited, with a soon-to-be useless driver's license in my wallet. Fortunately, out in Terlingua, Texas one does not get carded - it would have been most ironic to be denied an alcoholic drink on my 34th birthday for lack of current identification. But if you want to know real irony, keep reading.

Immediately after my return to Austin, I went online, renewed my license and printed out a temporary permit to use until I received my new card in the mail. The permit would allow me to legally drive, but it did not specify anything about the ability to also legally drink or purchase medication with pseudoephedrine. Of course, my birthday had to be at the very beginning of January, the start of the horrific cedar allergy season in Central Texas. And this season is stacking to be one of the worst in recent history.

Walking around yesterday in windy, cold, and dry conditions - beautiful at first sight, but perfect breeding grounds for cedar pollen - I decided to go to the CVS pharmacy to purchase Zyrtec D, just in case my symptoms flared up. I was feeling slightly sniffly, but otherwise, not too bad. Upon walking into CVS, I began sneezing violently. I lost count...I sneezed maybe 10 or 12 times in a row. Enough that I lost my general sense of balance and direction, asking a fellow customer if she knew where the facial tissue aisle was located, and honestly, tempted to run out of CVS for my dear life, truly wondering if they planted cedar pollen inside as a conspiracy to sell more antihistamines. But I gathered my wits, found the Kleenex, and headed to the pharmacy counter, hoping they would not notice my expired driver's license. After all, it was only six days past the expiration. Would they really deny me relief?

Well, yes they would. Because everything is digital and automated now, they must electronically swipe your driver's license. And my renewal wasn't yet processed in the Texas Department of Transportation's computerized systems. My temporary paper permit wasn't good either. I silently cursed all the meth-makers for making my life miserable at that very moment. And the absolutely irony is that if I wouldn't have walked into CVS in the first place, I probably wouldn't really have needed the allergy relief.

The moral of my story is this: if you have a January birthday and live in Central Texas, don't let your driver's license expire. You can take the bus instead of driving, you can abstain from alcohol, but you can't hide from the cedar.

What is there to do in Terlingua, Texas?

2010-12-12T11:29:00.000-08:00

When I say I spend a lot of time out there, people ask, "What is there to do in Terlingua, Texas?" Mostly, when they ask, it's because they have a general sense of the place. It's centered around a historic Ghost Town (consisting of a restaurant/bar/music venue, a restaurant/saloon, a bar/hotel, a coffee shop/inn, a general store, a couple of art galleries, a few homes, a church, adobe ruins, and a cemetery) with a population of about 300 people (give or take, depending on the time of year), in an area of 16 square miles, according to the U.S. Census. Now, that's just Terlingua proper - which is technically Study Butte-Terlingua. And this doesn't include thousands of acres land distributed through the Terlingua Ranch property owners association to private homesteaders.

Think of it this way - what's generally known as Terlingua is miles and miles of open desert land, with closest neighbors being on an average of 5 acres away. For recreation, there is river rafting/canoeing, horseback riding, hiking, animal watching/hunting, campfires, singing, music playing, drinking, eating, and star-watching. There are no Walmarts, no McDonald's, no places to shop for clothes, no movie theaters, and people hardly ever turn on their televisions. In a place that is so sparse, however, I find myself spending more time with people, and listening to more music, than I do here in the super hip and cool Live Music Capital of the World...Austin, Texas.

Why is that? Because Terlingua is stripped down to simplicity. People don't need hundreds of options of places to go and things to do. People just think they need all those options. But in reality, as humans, we only have the capacity for a smaller number of choices in our lives. Even when you have thousands of bars to choose from in a big city, do you go to each and every single one? Do you actually sample all of them before choosing your hangouts? Or do you settle on your 2 or 3 favorites where most of your friends go? And then how often do you hang out at those 2 or 3 places and start to get bored, because you wonder about the thousands of other possibilities?

But in a town where you only have 2 or 3 to choose from, they become more than places you chose out of the many - they are the centers of your community, they are hubs for catching up with friends and family, they are all the entertainment you have, so you invest yourself into making them special and unique. It becomes more about the people you're with and how you interact, and less than the place you've chosen to be seen. And for me, as a usually shy girl, I find it's much easier to talk to strangers. Every time I walk into a place in Terlingua, I meet new people and make new friends. This rarely happens in Austin.

Undercover Mexican Girl and friends at La Posada Milagro Guesthouse and Espresso...y Poco Mas Coffee Shop.

How to Make the Fact That Your Car Ran Out of Gas...Worse.

2010-11-10T10:26:00.000-08:00

1) Knowing that your fuel gauge is not accurate, rely on it, instead of being diligent about keeping track of how many miles you've traveled on the amount of gas you should know is in your tank. (Especially if you've been driving your car for 12 years, you really should know how far you can get on one gallon.)

2) Own a really old car, say, a 1983 Mercedes Benz Diesel. Not every gas station has a diesel pump.

3) When you finally make it to the gas station with the last drops of diesel sucked out of your tank, make the horrible realization you've left your wallet at home.

4) Call your significant other at home, even though you share the car you're driving. So he'll have to get to you by bike or bus. It doesn't help if he happened to turn his phone ringer off.

5) Go and tell the attendant at the convenience store about your predicament. He might feel sorry for you and give you $2 of gas, on your promise that you'll be back shortly and pay him back. Although he is doubtful you'll keep your word because you're not the first one to have used this "likely" story. Note, in the year 2010, $2 won't even get you a full gallon of gas.

6) Be extremely confident about getting home (which is a little less than 2 miles away) on half a gallon of gas, so you can get your wallet. Don't even worry about being able to make it back to the gas station. You're a Capricorn. You're always logical, except under dire stress - you can become quite stubborn and irrational.

7) Get stuck halfway home, and pull off the road - go into a driveway that goes uphill. Your car that is just about out of gas is more likely to shut off completely when going uphill.

8) Call significant other again. No answer. Probably a good thing. You've really made a mess of things by now, and at this point, he can help you even less.

9) Start doing things you should have done when you were stuck at the gas station in the first place. Go through your cell phone directory and find friends who live nearby to bring you your wallet and take you to the gas station to fill up the emergency gas canister.

10) Keep a gas canister that only holds 2.5 gallons.

If you're lucky:
1) The friend who comes to rescue you is savvy enough to bring another gas canister.
2) Your car is really tough, like a Mercedes Benz, and it's able to take extreme amounts of abuse.
3) Your car starts up again after a few revs to the engine, and you're able to go back to the gas station with ease to fill up your tank once and for all.

Lesson learned:
1) Never trust the fuel gauge on a 27-year old car.
2) Always reset the odometer when you fill up your tank with gas. And do always fill it up completely.
3) Never let it get less than 1/2 empty.

Why You Do What You Do

2010-09-03T09:44:00.000-07:00

Answer this quiz. Analyze your own results!

1) I wear high heels because they
a) are seriously comfortable.
b) make me look fashionable.
c) attract men.
d) I don't wear high heels. I prefer comfort, and I am fashionable and attract men without having to wear them.

2) I wear cologne/perfume because
a) smelling human, even if I don't have body odor, is disgusting.
b) I want to smell fashionable.
c) it attracts men/women.
d) I don't wear cologne/perfume because I don't like to smell like chemicals and intoxicate everyone in the elevator.

3) I drive a sporty car because
a) who knows, I might have to take it up to 100mph on my way to the grocery store or to work.
b) I want to look fashionable.
c) it attracts women and/or makes me more manly.
d) I don't drive a sporty car. Or a car at all for that matter. I am not interested in people that care about cars.

4) The reason I like certain bands/music is because
a) I saw it on the top 100 on iTunes.
b) that's what the cool people are listening to.
c) it makes me sexy.
d) it's appealing to me. What's iTunes? What's everyone listening to these days?

5) I judge a good movie by
a) its starring celebrities.
b) its rating at the box office.
c) how much money it took to make it.
d) whether it was made somewhere between 1963 and 1979.

Chip In to help The Best Wurst!

2010-09-03T08:56:00.000-07:00

In the summer of 2010, The Best Wurst faced a battle to keep their operating license after Parkside restaurant pressured the City of Austin to revoke their license. The battle with Parkside has left The Best Wurst in a very unstable predicament, with $15,000 in legal bills, and even more in lost revenue and miscellaneous costs.

You can help Austin's beloved 6th Street food vendor, by donating today. A few dollars can make a huge difference.

If everyone on the "Save the Best Wurst" Facebook group gave just $5, The Best Wurst would be in reach of paying off their legal debt that was, unfortunately, imperative in their struggle to survive.

Click below to chip in! Help us Save The Best Wurst!

Where I've Been, and Where I'm Going

2010-09-02T11:12:00.000-07:00

Grüner Man

When I visited Germany two years ago, I spent a few days in the city of Bremen with the great Dad Horse, a one-man band and individual of incredible character. It was late at night, around 10 o'clock, when a group of us were crossing the street - Dad Horse, me, and a few of friends from the United States. Like many Americans, even though the light was not giving us permission to cross the intersection (in Germany they have a much more logical, and charming visual of the green man and red man), we thought, "Well, if the street is clear of traffic, it's safe to cross anyway."

But Dad Horse patiently waited at the curb, on the quiet and peaceful street, for Grüner (Green) Man to appear on the signal. When we curiously asked him why he waited, even though it was safe to cross, he explained, "I like to use this time to think about where I've been, and where I'm going."


See the trashcans and recycling bins? Of course you don't. They're neatly hiding.

One thing that struck me about Germany was the orderliness and logic of things. Trashcans and recycling bins for all kinds of materials were neatly lined up along the streets; cars, bicycles, and pedestrians minded all the traffic signals; people listened to the music or watched the show rather than chatting amongst themselves and fussing over being part of a "scene."

I recently attended a presentation where I could not hear the people speaking on stage because everyone was hobnobbing and running amok in their fabulous outfits and hairdos. I ended up leaving early, disappointed, because I had envisioned chairs lined up in neat rows. I had expected to arrive, find my seat, listen, and learn something interesting. Why does it seem, in America, people are hesitant to slow down, be silent, and stop for awhile to absorb? Might we learn something that challenges us? Might we learn something about ourselves that we are afraid of? Why don't we take the time to think and do what is rational and logical?

So if you see me waiting at the curb somewhere in downtown Austin, Texas, at a quiet intersection, I am simply pondering and waiting for the go-ahead. You're welcome to cross the street in front me, and you probably will get there faster than I do. But I'll be more relaxed when I get there. And who knows. I might have come up with the million-dollar idea during the time I took to wait.

This blog post is dedicated to my friends in Germany. It is also dedicated to Joyce Carol Oates and her short story Where Are You Going, Where Have You Been?

In Absentia

2010-09-01T13:03:00.000-07:00

For the past 19 days, I've been keeping myself so busy that I haven't had time to work on this blog. (Ok, that's not true - there's always time to write a post. Instead, I foolishly spent such times Googling and Facebooking, watching undeserving movies, or observing my dogs' comical behavior.)

During these last three weeks, my family visited from Los Angeles - among many activities, went to the LBJ Library twice in two days (I've lived in Austin 12 years and had never gone), hung out in Luckenbach and Albert, posed with a longhorn, and discovered a great band called Shawn Nelson and the Ramblers. I also helped a friend launch two online businesses, met with friends about exciting upcoming projects, overhauled our home desktop computer, built a website for El Sol y Luna Restaurant, built a website for Plum (details coming soon), wrote an article for the September issue of TODO Austin, and partly funded (mom funded half) the installing of the new door between the kitchen and garage (picture coming soon) as part of the great garage remodel (goals: improve aesthetics and productivity, control climate, and let in light).

The question is - why am I not a yet a millionaire?

Anyway.

Chronicles of Undercover Mexican Girl will be back in daily business tomorrow.

Update On My 30-Day Challenge

2010-08-12T09:32:00.000-07:00

In my last two postings, I did not include my progress on my freelance writing business, so here it is:

Wednesday: wrote article for TODO Austin newspaper
Thursday (today): will write copy for marketing client, and will write copy for web business client

Save The Best Wurst

2010-08-12T09:20:00.000-07:00

THE ISSUES

In 2008, Shawn Cirkiel opened the Parkside at 301 East 6th Street in the building purchased by his parents, Pamela and Martin Cirkiel. In 2010, Parkside applied for a permit to build a balcony, when there was already an existing permit for The Best Wurst to operate on that portion of the sidewalk, which is city property. Parkside failed to make their case to appeal The Best Wurst's Right-of-Way permit on the legal grounds provided. Instead, they turned to dirty politics and leveraged a long list of unsubstantiated and exaggerated complaints and violations to ensure their agenda of building a balcony, and ultimately a sidewalk cafe.

The Best Wurst's permit expired on June 16, 2010, and the issue has yet to be solved. Fortunately, the City of Austin has willingly allowed The Best Wurst to continue operating on week-to-week permits while they try to resolve the matter. But time is not on our side. The Cirkiels have been generating the false impression that The Best Wurst can simply move “across the street.” Right-of-Way permits for mobile food vending are site specific and have defined space requirements and limitations – a mobile food vendor cannot simply “roll down the street,” and locations are very difficult to acquire. Currently, there are no other available, licensable spots on East 6th Street. Even if there were, we must keep in mind that other locations may not prove to be viable for the success, or even the survival, of The Best Wurst.

Austin has historically fostered a climate for successful small businesses – including street vendors – that support each other. It is unethical to ask The Best Wurst to move their location because a brick-and-mortar business does not like it there due to unfounded allegations. For the past 17 years, The Best Wurst has had its permit to operate on 6th and San Jacinto. It has been supportive of the Parkside’s desire to build an upstairs balcony to expand their business (which would not legally interfere with the presence of The Best Wurst upon completion of construction). Now, The Best Wurst is in danger of being pushed out. The Parkside even has plans to build a sidewalk café. It is evident that the Parkside is taking one small step at a time to have sidewalk – which is City and public property – just the way they want it, even if it means sacrificing another business and its employees.

THE SPIRIT OF AUSTIN

The Best Wurst is openly supported by businesses that could have been – or can currently be considered – true competitors: Frank in the neighboring Warehouse District (sells sausage sandwiches as their main menu item), Dan McKlusky’s (shared the corner with them for 13 years), El Sol y La Luna (who currently shares a corner with their second cart on 6th & Red River), Big Top Dogs and many other cart vendors and trailers along East 6th Street (all targeting the same bar crowds). This type of co-existence among diverse businesses and eateries is what has contributed to the fantastic spirit of Austin as a unique, creative and friendly city!

When we forget this ideal and don’t work together preserve such street vendors full of character and charm in our landscape, we will be silent contributors to erasing the tradition of diversity in Austin, which will ultimately destroy our small businesses and food establishments, and locally-based economy as a whole. Moving is not an option for The Best Wurst, which has become a definitive Austin icon! They have paid nearly two decades worth of fees and taxes at their current location on 6th & San Jacinto. Furthermore, that corner has become part of their brand and has become crucial not only to their success, but to their ability to survive as a small business and keep musicians and artists generously employed. Although they have a second cart, their cart in front of Parkside accounts for 85-90% of their business.

JON NOTARTHOMAS – A COMMUNITY LEADER

Jon Notarthomas, owner of The Best Wurst, has gone above and beyond the call of duty as a small business owner by being a leader in his community: by helping other small business owners get their start, survive, and ultimately be successful in a challenging market, by being a generous friend and employer to many people, by giving to local charities, and by being a responsible tax payer and contributor to the local economy. The Best Wurst has been fully compliant with City of Austin regulations, to the degree that the Austin/Travis County Health Department has referred people seeking to start similar businesses to The Best Wurst for advice. The Best Wurst has an impeccable health record and offers their inspection records to the public.

Contrary to the "bad boy" image that owners of the Parkside claim, The Best Wurst is proud of being a conscientious watch dog on the sometimes rowdy strip, and can even take credit for exposing two cases of counterfeiting which led to arrests. Notarthomas and employees of The Best Wurst have prevented fights on East 6th Street, called the police in dangerous situations, and kept streets safe by putting inebriated individuals in cabs, sometimes paying out of their own pocket.

The Best Wurst has been credited as paving the way for Austin’s mobile food vendor explosion. Not only has it recently been voted Austin Chronicle’s “Best Street Food”, but it has afforded immeasurable positive promotion for the City of Austin and is recognized nationally after appearances on the Food Network, MTV, and The Tonight Show. It has become a staple in downtown Austin, for locals and visitors (particularly during SxSW) and has contributed to the festive environment on East 6th Street that so many people seek and enjoy today.

Letter to the City and the Media regarding The Best Wurst

2010-08-11T08:41:00.000-07:00

Dear Mayor Lee Leffingwell, Austin City Council, and City of Austin Managers:

Currently, the City of Austin finds that The Best Wurst is in full compliance with codes, and that the charges leveled against The Best Wurst by Parkside are unsubstantiated. Parkside has not made its case to appeal The Best Wurt’s permit, as laid out by the City’s guidelines. I am asking the City of Austin to issue The Best Wurst their permit to vend at 305 E. 6th Street, as there should be no reason for further delay or deny, given that:

Permits are site-specific and no other locations available on East 6th Street.
The Best Wurst food does not compete with Parkside; Parkside’s happy hour is between 5-7 PM and The Best Wurst begins operating after 7 PM.
Parkside has not made its case in its appeals to the City to have The Best Wurst’s permit revoked.
The Best Wurst provides a much needed late night, inexpensive food service to 6th Street goers.
In its 17 years of operation, The Best Wurst has maintained impeccable vending and health records with the City of Austin.

Jon Notarthomas deserves the respect and support of our current community and civic leaders to help The Best Wurst stay where it has stood for the past 17 years. I urge you to review the false and unsubstantiated allegations being made by the Parkside’s owners against The Best Wurst.

I, along with thousands of others in this town, call on the City of Austin to renew The Best Wurst’s license to operate on the corner of 6th and San Jacinto, which will allow Jon Notarthomas to sustain his business and employees, as well as continue paying his loans for the infrastructure (kitchen, warehouse, and vehicles) he has acquired to run his food service. I hope that you will be able to use your leadership to influence Parkside to adopt a spirit of sharing and collaboration – in the way that McKlusky’s and The Best Wurst maintained a very fruitful and mutually beneficial relationship for over a decade.

My community and the members thereof are important to me. While I commend the City of Austin Transportation Department for ensuring that my downtown public right-of-way of spaces remain free of obstructions, are safe for pedestrians, and create positive environments for the citizens and tourists of Austin, and I encourage them to continue to do so, I also recognize that small food vendors like The Best Wurst are an important asset to the vibrancy and identity of Austin. I hope that the City of Austin, in a spirit of compromise and tolerance, can find a way to help these two neighbors live together amicably on the same corner and continue their remarkable success. I hope that as my leaders, you are willing and able to facilitate such a compromise.

Many thanks to you for your service to the greater Austin community.

Sincerely,
Undercover Mexican Girl

Dear Austin Media:
If you need a skilled proofreader or a writer, please consider hiring me. If not, below are a few typos you should fix:

KXAN
http://www.kxan.com/dpp/news/business/fight-for-sixth-st.-sidewalk-heats-up
paragraph 4: it's -- its
paragraph 8: Cikeil -- Cirkiel
paragraph 9: permeneantly -- permanently
paragraph 12: Protest -- protest
paragraph 15: sathey -- say they
paragraph 16: Cirkeil -- Cirkiel

Fox 7
http://www.myfoxaustin.com/dpp/top_stories/Best-Wurst-Fueds-with-Parkside-Restaurant-20100714-ktbcw
title: Fueds -- Feuds

Austin American-Statesman
http://www.austin360.com/blogs/content/shared-gen/blogs/austin/dining/entries/2010/07/09/parkside_and_best_wurst_in_a_s.html
paragraph 2: McClusky’s -- McKlusky's

Why I'd Never Get Bored

2010-08-10T08:23:00.000-07:00

I've had a similar conversation with many friends and acquaintances in which they say they would get bored after a while without full-time job. I argue that I wouldn't.

These are the things I am compelled to do and can't seem to fit into my evenings and weekends:

Make a film in each of the following genres: noir, documentary, spy
Write every day
Write a short story collection
Write a novel
Read every day
Ride my bicycle every day
Grow a garden that supplies me with all the vegetables I need on a daily basis
Build a coop and maintain chickens as pets and for their eggs
Practice the violin every day
Practice the piano every day
Play music with others around campfires, and on porches and decks
Decoupage boxes
Promote and manage Shand's music
Help my friends start their non-profit projects
Run Plum, my soon-to-launch freelance writing and editing business
Travel the world

Maybe I should figure out how to make all of the above part of my job.

p.s. Freelance business progress of the day: revised website template for restaurant client

Simple Office Rules to Live By

2010-08-09T15:06:00.000-07:00

1) Unless everyone has the same musical tastes as you and wants to listen to music at the same times you do, use headphones. And if you use headphones, please keep the volume to yourself. Also, please do not hum along to your music. That, too, defeats the purpose of headphones.

2) If you replace the regular paper in the printer or copier with a specialty paper, please remove it after you are done. It's easier for you to this, than for the rest of us to have to double check the tray each time, just in case. Also, this will prevent unnecessary wasting of paper.

3) Please don't take it personally if I do not take you up on your invites to the Sunday church ladies' group or the Thursday happy hour at the hippest bar in town. I promise I won't be offended if you decide not to join me on my Saturday morning bike ride around my neighborhood, or help me pull weeds in my herb garden.

4) If I am considerate enough to answer your question or provide you with information in a timely manner, with a pleasant attitude, I hope you will do the same.

5) Politics, religion, my lifestyle, and what I'm eating for lunch is my own business.

p.s. freelance business progress of the day: wrote copy for current online retail client.

Health! Bless You!

2010-08-08T12:21:00.000-07:00

"Bless you" is a common English phrase said to someone when he or she sneezes. Socially, the word "bless" has lost its religious connotations in the United States. It's used quite casually in various sayings: "bless your heart" (old-fashioned saying to express sympathies), "blessing and a curse" (something good and bad), "blessed day" (wonderful day), and "you have our blessing" (usually granted from parents as a sign of approval). These are just a few examples.

But if you look up the word "bless" in Merriam-Webster (www.m-w.com), the formal definition is very much based on religion:
     1 : to hallow or consecrate by religious rite or word
     2 : to hallow with the sign of the cross
     3 : to invoke divine care for —used in the phrase bless you to wish good health
         especially to one who has just sneezed
     4 a : praise, glorify b : to speak well of : approve
     5 : to confer prosperity or happiness upon
     6 archaic : protect, preserve
     7 : endow, favor

So when I sneeze, and a person says "bless you" - who is blessing me? That person? God? The ghost of Pope Gregory I who supposedly originated the tradition of this expression in the 6th century, when people believed that sneezing was an early symptom of the bubonic plague? Does my soul really momentarily exit my body, or does my heart really stop beating when I sneeze? Or as the Buddhists believe, am I clearing my consciousness while spewing out snot and dust particles?

Why must sneezing be such a complicated and mysterious act?

Why do Latin Americans, who on the whole are much more known for being religious with their traditional Catholicism, instead say "salud" when someone sneezes? They don't go around blessing each other. Salud literally means "health," and it makes a lot more sense to wish someone good health, rather than offer some kind of vague blessing with questionable origins.

The Founders of the United States, beginning with the First Amendment ("Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof . . .") called for the legal and political separation of church and state. Yet, our pennies trust in God, city council meetings begin with the Our Father prayer, and apparently, our sneezes leave us at the mercy of being possessed by the devil.

I'll favor the Latin Americans on this one.

p.s. freelance business progress of the day: wrote copy for current restaurant client.

Work Places

2010-08-07T15:54:00.000-07:00

Places of work are usually the least productive environments. I have not done extensive research, but I've read a few bits of social commentary and studies published in the news. Most importantly, I know what I need - as a human - and I would bet that my needs are not uncommon.

It's just a matter of intuition and logic.

Answer the following questionnaire:

1) Do you prefer (a) fresh air or (b) conditioned air, when the weather's nice out? (Understandably, when it's extremely hot or cold outside, even I prefer a bit of recycled cooled or warmed air.)
2) Do you prefer (a) natural sunlight or (b) fluorescent light bulbs?
3) Do you prefer working in (a) a controlled, quiet environment, or (b) one that can erupt in chaos and noise any given moment?
4) Do you prefer working in a situation where, (a) if you can't focus, it's okay to pick up a musical instrument or ride your bike around the neighborhood? Or would you rather work under circumstances where, (b) if you can't focus, you must sit there and pretend to look busy?
5) Do you think you'd appreciate your coworkers more if you saw them (a) 5-10 hours a week or (b) 40-50 hours a week?

I think most people would answer (a) to most of the questions above. And really, with computers and the internet, home can be a very productive place to work for most people. If the argument against a non-office-based work environment is that people will not get their work done, well, I'd say then let natural selection weed those people out.

Imagine how much more effectively and frugally businesses could run if they allowed their employees to be happier and more productive by working in comfortable environments. I'll gladly pay my utility bill, and save you - the business - the cost of paying for my lighting, climate, parking, furniture, coffee, and birthday cake needs.

p.s. freelance business progress of the day: designed website template for current restaurant client.

Clothing Hang-Ups

2010-08-06T22:09:00.000-07:00

Today I overheard some coworkers discussing various clothing hang-ups. They don't like to buy clothes that don't fit a certain way, for example, on the shoulders or the waist. Or perhaps they prefer a specific type or style of clothing. For some, it's even as specific as wanting to shop at a particular department store, boutique, or name brand.

I was tempted to shared my clothing hang-up, but it didn't seem parallel with the other hang-ups.

My clothing hang-up, lately, is -- does it cost more than free?

In my early 20s, I enjoyed clothes shopping and did not blink an eye at a $30 price tag on a shirt, or a $50 price tag on a nice pair of pants or skirt. For a dress, $75-$100 was acceptable. I wanted to look a particular way, with clothes that I believed would make me feel confident and happy. In my late 20s, I discovered thrift stores. My standards dropped a bit, but I would still routinely pay $5-10 per item for every article of clothing I desired.

Many of these items of clothing that I purchased, I either out-grew, or grew to dislike. Thousands of dollars of clothing gone to waste. A shallow and pointless investment. Nothing to show for it, except a few compliments here and there. And much like getting scratches on a car, I'd be mortified when I accidentally stained them or shrunk them. Eventually, many of these purchased clothes ended up going to Goodwill, little sister, or...the clothing swap.

The glorious clothing swap, the most ingenious way to clean out your closet of unwearable items, acquire new articles of clothing (what's old to you is new to me!), and have an excuse to indulge in a bit of feminine socializing in the comfort of a home. (I'm getting too old for dressing up and going to the bars.) And the host of the party is generally responsible for delivering all the leftovers to a charity.

Three clothing swaps later, I've disowned three piles of clothing, and acquired some of the fashion pieces I wear the most and actually have received the most compliments for. Some of these items, of course, I grew tired of quickly, and they made their way to another clothing swap or given away to the needy. But there's absolutely no shame in getting rid of a shirt, even if it's a brand name, that you never paid for. At this time, I have 3 skirts, 9 shirts, and 2 pairs of shoes that I frequently wear from my clothing swap finds. I also have 2 skirts, 6 shirts, 2 dresses, and 4 pairs of jeans given to me by friends cleaning out their closets.

My wardrobe is gradually being replaced entirely by recycled fashion. True, these clothes don't necessarily make up the exact or ideal outfit I would have dreamed up to wear, but really, in the end, it's just an outfit. I am still tempted by the charming retro-imitation fashion on websites like Modcloth.com or Daddyos.com. But ultimately, my clothing swap outfits are free, fun and stylish in their own random way, and guiltless. And best of all, I can wear them to Europe with all the money I saved up!

p.s. freelance business progress today: met with current restaurant client, wrote copy for current web business client.

30-Day Challenge, Money Back Guarantee

2010-08-05T09:18:00.000-07:00

I've challenged my brother to a 30-day blog-writing challenge. So here's day 1. The idea is to apply self-discipline to daily eating, drinking, exercise, writing, and anything you need to improve upon habits.

For me, it's writing. I vow to write every day, because I'm a writer, and I don't write enough. But since my brother is improving two habits at once - staying sober and writing about it - I must choose another, to be fair.

So, I vow to also do one thing every day to contribute to my soon-to-launch freelance writing and editing business. The key word here is business. I must work on things like designing my website, marketing, and networking. I will create. But I will also sell. Too often, I've created something that has never been exposed for entertainment and/or monetary value.

Time to cash in.

How to Advertise Turtle Nests

2010-08-02T15:23:00.000-07:00

Emerald City Press, Austin, Texas

A couple of weeks ago, a friend and I were driving southbound on Lamar, looking for a place to conveniently grab coffee before I had to get back to work. Austin Java? No, parking lot full. Food 4 Fitness Cafe? Wait, do they serve coffee? Raw salads? Clif Bars? Oh, look - they DO serve coffee. But whoops! Too late, already passed it.

Then, like a beacon, we see a giant sign pointing us in the direction of coffee. COFFEE. Despite the munchkin-sized parking lot, a space called out a welcome. We arrived at Emerald City Press, home of caffeinated delights at the end of the yellow brick road. My friend and I, coffee and hibiscus tea in hand respectively, sauntered to the back patio overlooking Shoal Creek, shady and cool in the baking July Texas heat.

Shoal Creek on Lamar Blvd.

We saw a dog pull his owner on a leash down the banks of the creek, and the dog rolled around in the dirt. And just the way the Good Witch of the North magically appears out of a ball of light, an employee from Emerald City Press suddenly appeared on the edge of the bank, frantically calling to the man and his dog to watch out for the baby turtle nests. The man explained that the dog had been stung by a wasp, which gave him the urge to roll around in the dirt. The employee suspected the dog had perhaps smelled the scent of the turtle eggs, and of course, dogs find it necessary to cover themselves in unpleasant odors.

My friend and I were simply surprised there were turtle nests down there at all - we would never have known if the dog hadn't decided to relieve its sting pain, or freshen up in stink, whichever of the two. So my friend suggested to the employee that she place orange cones as cautionary markers. She thought it was a brilliant idea! And me, a lover of words and always curious about what orange cones might mean, suggested she put a sign on the cone. She thought it was an even more brilliant idea!

I don't know if they ever put up the orange cones with signs. But the baby turtles hatched. (Photos courtesy of Emerald City Press.)

The Truth About Your Meat: It Used to be Alive.

2010-07-05T14:30:00.000-07:00

That beautifully buttered, seasoned, boneless, skinless filet of salmon you eat was once a slithery, scaly fish with googly eyes swimming in the ocean. So then, why is it so gross to buy a whole fish from the market to bring home to cook? Why was I tempted by the perfectly pink square slab of boned and skinned salmon, even though it was five times more expensive? Why did the girl at the check-out register cringe and squeal in disgust at the sight of the fish?

Because we are so far removed from our food, we forget that our meat comes from live, moving animals with legs, fins, eyes, and mouths. How many of us would kill an animal for food, if we had to? Would we be able to look the cute, furry lamb in the eye, knowing that hours later he or she will end up on our plate in broiled cubes with mint and feta? Would you be able to pluck the feathers off the chicken before putting it in the oven?

These situations don't even require us to kill the animal - they simply requires us to come one step closer to the animal's state of being alive. A fried chicken leg has become something we eat out of a box, not the part used by the chicken to walk around the farm (that is, if it's lucky enough to be a free-roamer). Sometimes, it's not even referred to as a leg, but as a drumstick. We call meat steaks and filets, not muscle and flesh. We eat beef, not cows. Pork, not pigs. Poultry, not chicken. Seafood, not fish. Yet, that's what it is. We are eating cooked, dead animals.

So, I resisted the temptation to buy the boned and skinned fish. And even though the whole fish had its tail and head cut off, and it had already been gutted, it still looked like a fish - not the kind you eat on a plate, but the kind that wiggles around in the water with pulsating gills and glub-glub mouths. It looked frightening, unappetizing, and monstrous. I decided to be brave and get more intimate with my fish.

At first, I didn't want to use my fingers to rip open the plastic wrap on the Styrofoam tray. I held one end of the tray with a paper towel and tried to remove the wrapping with a fork. When that method quickly proved inefficient and clumsy, I was forced to use my fingers. I tried not to to be bothered by the feeling of the slippery scales against my skin. And after a few minutes, I discovered the scales weren't as slimy as I had thought them to be. It was cold and clammy, but not slimy - and surprisingly smooth. Then I had to put the fish in the sink to rinse it.

Although I was comfortable touching it here and there, I couldn't bring myself to grab it firmly with my hands. I awkwardly slid it off the tray into a colander on the sink. I was able to rinse one side of the fish without touching it. But flipping it over to its other side - well, I was just going to have to go in there grab it with two hands. So I did. No choice. You can't spear a fish with a regular eating fork, and you can't use salad tongs to grab it.

After covering it in olive oil and stuff it with herbs, then wrapping it tightly in foil, I was becoming less and less squeamish about the fish. I had to keep reminding myself it was just like the salmon filets I purchased at the store, except one or two steps of preparation back in time - closer to its state of being alive. Otherwise, there was no difference. It's a great exercise, if you ever have the opportunity to choose a whole fish over the fileted fish. And if you find you can't do it - well, then, you decide - should you really be eating it? (For the record, this was some of the best fish I've ever had. Cooked on the grill. Highly recommend it. It's inexpensive, feeds many, and will impress your friends.)

Now what did Mr. Sal do to deserve your disgust for

his looks, especially if you're going to enjoy his flesh?

(Photo courtesy of Denise Chan, Flickr Creative Commons)

New at Starbucks: DIY Iced Coffee

2010-06-27T12:27:00.000-07:00

I will admit, the coffee we buy at our grocery store is of the Starbucks brand. Ethics and morals put aside, we like the taste of it. Which reminds me, we should switch our brand. Then again, Starbucks might be a good guy, and I just haven't done my research. But that's not the point of this story.

The point is that with the purchase of each bag, you receive a free tall (which, for any of you not familiar with Starbucks terms, is actually the small), brewed coffee in exchange. All you do is take the bag in, and you get a coffee in return. It says so, printed on the bag. So we took two of these bags to the nearest Starbucks to redeem our prize.

It was about 95 degrees outside, and we were on our way to Luckenbach, about an hour and a half from Austin, without AC in the car. And I wanted iced coffee. I realize perhaps I am out of tune with barista technology, but at home, when I want iced coffee, I simply pour out of the hot coffeepot into a glass filled with ice.

When I ordered the iced coffee at Starbucks, however, they told me they couldn't give me an iced coffee - the bag was only redeemable for a hot coffee. (Which is not true - it does not specify hot or cold on the bag.) Regardless of my convictions, I felt I'd be cooperative and comply with their policy.

Then, I asked, "How much is a cup of ice?"

"We don't charge for that," they replied. "We'll give you a cup of ice, no problem!"

So I took my hot brewed coffee, took the lid off, and poured it into the ice-filled cup they gave me for free.

I ended up throwing away about two ounces of coffee, plus the cup, lid, and cardboard sheath that were only in service for a minute.

I wonder, why, they could not have just poured the hot coffee into the cup with ice, to begin with?

DIY Iced Coffee! New at Starbucks. Low in calories, just the way you want it.

Falling Buildings and Skeletons

2010-06-25T10:05:00.000-07:00

In the last year, I've had extremely vivid dreams, the kind that leave a residue throughout your waking day. Some have been pleasant, some have been terrifying, but most of them have been anxious and absurd. Chaotically disconnected scenes.

Last night, I dreamed about falling buildings, marriage, and skeletons.

The falling building scene happened three times, each time with a different ending, like a choose-your-own adventure book.

In the first version, I was sitting in a lobby of an old residential high rise, from the turn of the century. The interior of the lobby was quite modern, but in the second version, as I saw the building fall from far away, I saw that the building was quite old, made of stone, built in a Romanesque Revival style. But back to the first version. We - me and a few other people who were connected to me in some way but I could not recognize - were sitting in this lobby when the earth undulated two or three times. At first, we thought it might be an earthquake, but then it registered to everyone that the building was about to collapse. Everyone started to run out of the building. Except for me. My body was frozen. I was glued to chair. I called out to someone to please take my hand and take me with them. But I had the feeling no one would come back, and I was doomed to die.

In the second version, we were all sitting in the lobby once again. It started just like the first version. But I had the knowledge of the first version in my dreaming memory. So, before we actually felt the earth undulate, I sprang from my chair and I told everyone to run out with me. Only one girl heeded my advice, following right behind me, and I urged her to run with me far, far, far away from the building. It wasn't enough to get out of the building, or far from the building, but it was necessary to get extremely far from the building, so as to avoid being crushed by the collapsing debris.

When we were far enough to be safe, we turned around and watched the building lurch forward, then backward, and finally crumble into pieces. I asked the girl who'd followed me, with great anguish, whether she thought everyone had gotten out in time. She said she didn't believe they had, as they'd all been intent on running back into their apartments to take out their belongings. I found this to be ridiculous - who wants to save personal belongings when a building is about to fall? I had a sad feeling overcome me, because I knew there were family members in that building.

Then, as if the dream were a movie, the camera zoomed into the rubble and showed some of the people in a room on the first floor, who were sitting around conferences tables, as if in the middle of a meeting. For a few seconds, some appeared alive, but after a few seconds, they collapsed like deflating dummies. The ones who seemed dead, sprang to life, as if waking from a dream. This part of the dream seemed almost comical, exaggerated, like a cartoon.

Before the third version of the collapsing building, the scene cuts to preparations for a wedding. My wedding. I am getting married to Shand. We are having a very small wedding, outside, in a tent. But it happens very suddenly, with very little planning, and we gather whatever family members and friends who are able to attend on short notice. I'm dressed in white, but it's not really a wedding dress. My hair is a mess, and I haven't put on any make up. I excuse myself, as we're still waiting for some of the musicians, to run to the bathroom and freshen up.

In a hurry, I put on my makeup, but I accidentally applied pink lip gloss on instead of eye shadow, and in a frenzy, I try to wipe it off and cover it up with eye shadow. I try to trim my hair, flying off in many directions. Before I'm done, someone is sent to me from the wedding party to let me know I am holding up the wedding, and that the guests are starting to believe I decided not to show up. My grandmother, who has been dead for nearly three years but is somehow present at the wedding, delivers the message that she feels something is wrong, wrong because I'm not there on time. I deliver a message back, assuring that I am fine, that everything will be fine, and I'm simply trying to make myself look pretty for the wedding.

Shortly after, I make it back to the tent. The trumpeter has left, but it's no worry, there are still two or three other musicians to make the band. And the wedding continues. The groom and I kiss in a fairy-tale romance way, and I start to think it perhaps is a fairy-tale, that it's not real. But the reception room is being set up with plates and glasses and food and drink, in the meeting room in the lobby of the building that collapses, where dead people come to life and live people die.

The scene cuts to the lobby, and this time, the groom and I are there, waiting for the reception to begin. But he now has the knowledge, in his dream memory, of the building about to collapse, and he takes my hand, and we fly out of the building.

Then I am logging on to something like Facebook

I watch the video, at first from the point of view of me watching it on the computer. My friend, the musician, is jumping off a cactus, making a tumbling pirouette into the air - and then I start to see it from his point of view. I see sky, sand and rocks, then sky, and then I am sucked back out of his point of view, watching it from the desert, as if I am standing there with him, and I see him land on his face onto a pile of rocks. He is disoriented, seemingly in pain, terrified, and I run to help him up the hill where his girlfriend is waiting.

As I help him along, I see a young woman come up behind me from the bottom of the hill. She looks like she might be from Haiti. She has pamphlets in her hand, and I sense she is trying to sell me something, so I hurry faster helping my friend to the top of the hill. But I've made eye contact with the woman, and she catches up to us. She is trying to tell me if I've heard about what she is about to tell me. Out of the corner of my eye, I see photographs of dead people, half turned to skeletons. I tell her I cannot look, I am not interested, and my friend just had a terrible accident, and he will be mortified to see these photos.

My friend seems to be losing his mind, as I push him into the back seat of the car and slam the door. The young Haitian woman tells me if I know about the monster that has visited these parts of the desert. I tell her I haven't, and I run to the other side of the car, and jump into the front passenger seat, telling my friend she needs to hurry up and drive out of here as fast as possible, into town. She slams on the gas, and we drive out of this area, on a gravelly dirt road, and just up ahead, I see a blue pick up truck pull into the road ahead of us, and the Haitian girl is sitting in the back in the bed of the truck, watching us. And I have this realization that we cannot escape death. It's waiting for us, ahead.

Movies I Saw in 2007

2010-06-17T21:32:00.000-07:00

Inspired by my brilliant filmmaker and film critic friend, Carlos Herrera (visit his blog www.exiledfromcontentment.blogspot.com), I decided to also keep a tally and journal of the films I watch. Except, unlike Carlos, my list is entirely comprised of films watched on Netflix, and rarely any made after 1975.

My movie-watching activity can only be traced back to November 2007, so I will start with that year and try to recall as much I can about my thoughts on each film. UMG-endorsed films followed by a red star *. Double stars ** mean that I loved the movie.

(Disclaimer: I am extremely discriminating before watching a movie. You will see that throughout most of 2007 and 2008, I had plenty of amazing films to catch up on available through the watch-me-now feature. But as I approach 2009 and 2010, I've exhausted the repertoire of instant viewing options, and you'll see many less endorsements.)

Angel Heart (1987): Watched this movie during a streak of curiosity about things New Orleans and/or voodoo. It was hard to shake off the image of Lisa Bonet in anything other than the Cosby Show, but Mickey Rourke still had his youthful, clean-cut look. I remember there were some creepy and gory scenes, and overall, I enjoyed the movie as solid, relatively well-written entertainment. There is a twist at the end that you won't fully expect.*
I Walked with a Zombie / Body Snatcher (1943): I don't remember much about the Body Snatcher, but I do remember that for a movie made in the early 1940s, the voodoo scenes - particularly with the drumming sound effect - were quite spooky. One my favorite parts of the movie was Sir Lancelot performing the Fort Holland Calypso Song, which he wrote.**
The Bicycle Thief (1948): I first watched this in a screenwriting class at Carnegie Mellon, with the fabulous professor and writer Sharon Dilworth. So 9 years later, I felt it was time to watch it again. The simplicity of the plot is something every aspiring filmmaker should study. Also, it's a very depressing film, but beautifully shot.**
Nights of Cabiria (1957): You might say this film could not exist without the direction of Federico Fellini, but I would say that it could not exist without the exquisite acting of Giulietta Masina. She is half clown, half woman, playing the role of Maria "Cabiria" Ceccarelli. She is sad and she is happy, she is beautiful and clumsy. So clumsy, she is not very good at being a prostitute, and you feel rather embarrassed for her.**
The Lady from Shanghai (1947): One of Orson Welles' finest. I can only recall the ending scene with the mirrors and the shooting. A true depiction of "smoke in mirrors."**
Emperor of the North Pole (1973): I'll admit, I fell asleep through most of this one because we watched it very late at night. This was one of Shand's picks. The best part was Lee Marvin yelling to Keith Carradine at the end, "Stay off the tracks. Forget it. Its a bum's world for a bum. You'll never be Emperor of the North Pole, kid. You had the juice, kid, but not the heart and they go together. You're all gas and no feel, and nobody can teach you that, not even A-No.1. So stay off the train, she'll throw you under for sure. Remember me for that. So long, kid."*
City of God (2002): Haunting cinematography, and unbelievable that these violent, impoverished favelas are homes to humans. You will probably feel grateful for whatever your living conditions are after you see this movie. You will also be resigned to think that crime and corruption and violence are never-ending cycles. It's useless to stop it.**
Bugsy (1991): All I can remember is Warren Beatty, and that's because I cheated and looked it up on IMDB. Unmemorable film.
La Strada (1954): Who can forget the wailing trumpet theme? Again, here you have half-clown half-woman Giulietta Masina, playing a character named Gelsomina who actually plays the part of the clown, along with Anthony Quinn, who plays a mean old man named Zampanò. Another Fellini masterpiece. Possibly, the most brilliant movie ever made, epic in scale, following the life of a girl as she's sold off by her family to marry and perform with a performing strongman, and travels "the road."**
Shampoo (1975): All I can remember is Warren Beatty, and that's because I cheated and looked it up on IMDB. Unmemorable film. Although I do remember it was funny and entertaining.*
A Dry White Season (1989): A movie I saw in some politics class in college that I decided to watch again because I was on a kick about seeing films about South African apartheid. Stars Donald Sutherland and Susan Sarandon. How's that for a power couple?*
The Power of One (1992): A movie I saw in some politics class in college that I decided to watch again because I was on a kick about seeing films about South African apartheid. Except if you're a sap for tragic love stories, this movie has one between Peekay and Geel.**
McCabe & Mrs. Miller (1971): Did I say Susan Sarandon and Donald Sutherland on screen together were a power couple? Never mind. Try Warren Beatty as McCabeBeatty movie)! Directed by Robert Altman.**
The Shooting (1967): If you think you've seen Jack Nicholson in everything, you haven't, if you haven't seen this movie. A Monte Hellman western that's all about - well, the shooting. This movie also planted the seeds for my later adoration of Warren Oates.**
The Thomas Crown Affair (1968): Steve McQueen is so dreamy. That's right, I'm not talking about the 1999 version with Pierce Brosnan. Nah. I'm talking about the 1968 version with hot and sexy McQueen. Who can blame Faye Dunaway's character? Impossible to resist the temptation.**
Inland Empire (2006): The problem with a David Lynch movie is that it's so twisted and complicated, watching one is like being on drugs, so I think I'll have to watch this one again and get back to you.*
Forgiving Dr. Mengele (2006): A documentary about an elder Jewish woman who survives medical experiments performed on her at a WWII Auschwitz concentration camp (her twin does not survive) going through the process of forgiving the doctor.
You're Gonna Miss Me (2005): Documentary about the legendary rock musician from Austin, Roky Erickson. His mother is creepy.*
Cowboy del Amor (2005): Documentary about Ivan Thompson, a 60-year-old man from New Mexico who offers matchmaking services American men who want to find Mexican women to marry, all for a low fee of $3,000. The documentary follows three of his clients. He's for real, too. You can call this self-proclaimed Cowboy Cupid at 505-531-2681 or e-mail him at ivanthompson1941@hotmail.com.*
My Best Fiend: Klaus Kinski (1999): Fascinating documentary about Werner Herzog's experience living with his friend, and main actor of many of his films, Klaus Kinski. Klaus is insane.*
Beyond the Valley of the Dolls (1967): Sex. Drugs. Rock'n'Roll. And much more, if you can believe it. It's probably considered an underground cult film, and probably offensive to many, but I found it wildly entertaining.**
Hoffa (1992): History-based fiction movie on the famous Pittsburgh union teamster. If you're in the mood for a very polished, straight-up, follow-the-standard-rules-of-cinema, historical genre file, then watch this. Starring Jack Nicholson, written by David Mamet, and directed by Danny DeVito.
Klute (1971): Very obscure mystery romance starring Donald Sutherland playing a detective investigating dead and missing people, who gets involved with a prostitute played by Jane Fonda.*
Bad Day at Black Rock (1955): Not your typical western, starring Lee Marvin and Ernest Borgnine.*
The Tiger and the Snow (2005): I watched this because I'd seen Roberto Benigni in Life Is Beautiful and generally enjoyed it, but this was a bit too much on the whimsical side for my tastes.
The Ballad of Cable Hogue (1970): Well darn it, I can't remember anything about it. But it's a Sam Peckinpah film, so it must be fabulous, and I'll just have to watch it again.*
East of Eden (1955): One my favorite movies of all time based on a John Steinbeck novel, directed by Elia Kazan, who makes intelligent and heart-wrenching movies. His movies get under your skin and somehow connect to the most emotionally dark moments in your life when you feel as if you've been kicked in the stomach. And beautiful cinematography.**
Five Easy Pieces (1970): Jack Nicholson, an angry and genius pianist turned oil-rig worker, goes back home to visit his ill father, with his ditzy waitress girlfriend in tow. How it turns out between them at the end is funny, even though it's not funny.*

The Cupcake Bandidos

2010-04-18T11:04:00.000-07:00

The Cupcake Bandidos from Alexandra Landeros on Vimeo.
An Undercover Mexican Girl Production, Catahoula Press Studios (c) 2010.

The filmmaking process began in December 2009, when we were out in Terlingua, Texas with a lot of time and creativity on our hands. We didn't have a plot or a script, or real actors, and we filmed it with a Standard Definition Flip video camera.

After reviewing the footage from that first filming period, a plot began to surface. We went back in February 2010 to film additional scenes, this time with the video feature of our 2006 Canon Powershot A520 still camera. What made up for lack of acting skills and technical equipment was the amazing scenery.

Now, I present to you, my first no-budget film short.

Cheers!
AML

p.s. the film debuted at the Terlingua Green Scene Festival on April 10, 2010.

How to Get a $6 Beer for Free, and Other Tips for Saving Money

2010-04-01T10:43:00.000-07:00

It’s April, the first true month of spring in Austin, as we remember how we spent the remainder of March hiding indoors from the unexpected arctic winds. The bluebonnets are rampant, the pigeons and grackles are mating, and everyone is clamoring for the outdoor patio tables. And taxes are due. If you’re like me, you get a refund every year, but if you end up owing, I have a few year-round tips to help you recover. First, go to an Irish pub downtown, during an extremely busy tourist season (say SXSW) and order a $6 pint of Guinness and a plate of fish and chips. Then contemplate the following:

Very few people – if any – will notice you wore the same pair of pants three times this week, or that you wore the same black shirt twice. (As long as they are clean.) If you are suffering from an abundance of items in your wardrobe and you can’t stop expanding it, ask yourself: Do you really need it? How often will you really wear it? Settle on a few basic outfits that best flatter your stature or figure, and stick to that style. These days, anything can be fashionable. I would bet you a $6 beer you only regularly wear a small percentage of clothes from your closet, and when you do wear that trendy skirt, you’re uncomfortable all day anyway. What you don’t wear often, sell at a yard sale or donate to folks in need. (Classy outfit: $1 shirt from friend's yard sale, free pair of jeans worn 2 or 3 times a week received from friend cleaning out closet, free pair of cowboy boots worn every day received as a benefit of working for Future Farmers of America.)

Beans and rice aren’t just for Mexicans. I may be undercover, but I have not lost my instincts. There are so many ways to make beans – cowboy beans, curried beans, refried beans…the list is endless. They are high in protein, fiber, inexpensive, delicious, and a pot will go a long way. As far as the rice, brown is the way to go, but wild rice is even healthier. And neither contains gluten, which has increasingly become suspect in causing anything from mild fatigue to seriously adverse digestive complications. Although this topic of gluten is controversial, it’s better to be safe than sorry.

Your air conditioner and heater don’t need to run as high as you think you need. I keep my heater at 65 in the winter, and the air conditioner at 85 in the summer. If you’re cold, exercise or clean the house to get your blood flowing. Sleep with a ton of blankets. Bake cookies. Buy a chimenea and have a fire in the backyard. Invite your friends over for hot cocoa and marshmallows. If you’re hot, go swimming or spend the afternoon in the library. Turn on the ceiling fans. Invite your friends over for grilling and cold beer. (Exciting evening: free heating source courtesy of wood scraps and brush clippings, priceless lifetime entertainment provided by $40 ukulele and $100 accordion.)

Borrow instead of buying when you can. I’m not saying you should ask your next door neighbor every other Saturday if you can use the lawnmower. But think about items you buy but only use once: books, DVDs, or a fondue pot for that one Valentine’s Day dinner party. You can borrow books and movies for free from the public library, and you save yourself from carrying heavy boxes every time you move. The library might not have that latest Hollywood, Oscar-winning hit, but you’d be surprised at what you’ll find. Besides, almost all the best films were made before 1975.

By the time you’ve finished considering all these ideas to help you become more frugal, about an hour and a half has gone by at that Irish pub, and because the kitchen is supposedly backed up, your fish and chips have not yet arrived. Even though the table next to you, who ordered after you, already has their food, and no one else in the pub seems to be eating. So you ask the waitress if you can just pay for your $6 Guinness and skip the food, and she feels bad for you, and lets you have the beer for free. Stomach growling and light-headed, you then go to a taquería, which would have been much cheaper in the first place. (Frugal cultural experience: innards of Cathedral of Junk in South Austin - admission is a suggested donation of whatever you can afford. Amazing art is built from free thing-a-ma-jigs, doo-dads, knick-knacks and garbage.)

Not that I have anything against the Irish. Even though not economical, I am still craving those fish and chips. And besides, the Irish and the Mexican formed an alliance during the Mexican-American war in the mid-1800s. But that history lesson is for another time. ¡Viva los San Patricios!

Wealth in Sparseness - West Texas

2010-02-15T10:28:00.000-08:00

After spending ten days this past December in the Far West Texas region of Big Bend, without the internet, sleeping most nights in a dusty school bus with a pot-bellied wood stove as the only source of heat, attending an acoustic concert in an abandoned cinnabar mine, drinking my morning coffee as I wandered through a zoo of cactus and creosote, or discovered arrowheads along the Rio Grande, and having limited access to running water, electricity, and cell phone, I fell in love with life – a simple kind of life. This Valentine’s Day, I want to celebrate my love for the desert and the love it breeds.

The Big Bend region of Texas consists of the expansive Big Bend National Park – one of the largest in the country – and a few small towns: Terlingua, Study Butte, and Lajitas. Including the entire area of Brewster County, with the cities of Alpine and Marathon about an hour away north of Big Bend, the area is just over 6,000 square miles with a little over 9,000 people – that’s about one and a half persons per square mile. And about 5,000 of those people live in Alpine, so the further you get into the Big Bend area towards the U.S.-Mexico border, the more remote it gets.

With such a sparse population, I had imagined that people living there were only interested in solitude and had moved out there to entirely get away from all people. But as I found out, they moved out there to get away from most people, and what you’re left with in the desert is a small number of people who do, indeed, crave isolation. But as much as they celebrate their seclusion, they also celebrate a real sense of community.

Living such long distances from their neighbors and friends – when they get together, it’s a meaningful occasion. There are campfires instead of televisions, there is music playing instead of video game playing, and as one of my new Big Bend friends put it, “when you get sick out here, people check in on you and bring you soup” because they know you can’t just run down to the corner pharmacy.

I just can’t get Big Bend out of my head – it gives me the kind of lovesick feeling I’d get when I was a teenager and couldn’t stop thinking about a particular boy. I’ve been on the internet and at the library, researching the history of Big Bend, looking up photographs, trying to picture myself old and white haired living on a giant plot of land with a greenhouse to grow my vegetables, goats and cows for milk and meat, and an off-grid adobe cabin running solar power for heat and light and a rain-catchment system for water.

The highlight of my recent trip to Big Bend was the Villa de la Mina concert in a defunct cinnabar mine between Lajitas and Terlingua. About a dozen musicians and one bona fide cowboy poet, and twice as many audience members, gathered beneath the earth for an underground audio and video recording of original songs about lost love, the absurdity of the stock market, sleeping under the stars, the border patrol, and being free. Being deep in the earth, with the unspoken possibility of a cave-in or lethal gasses escaping from the walls, surrounded by propane and candle lighting, flickering shadows, empty Lone Star cans, and crystallized minerals in the walls and domed ceiling, and a group of people who live to hear and play music, was nothing short of a magical experience.

As we all exited the mine going ever so slightly uphill along the narrow wooden mine-car tracks, tightly nestled between two walls of red rock, into the blinding sunlight, we knew that this concert would all bond us together in some way, if anything because so very few people in this world – living at the same time as us – would be able to enjoy this moment. Some of these people were residents of the Big Bend region, and some of us were visitors, mostly from Austin, who are now longing to go back.

At first, I didn’t completely understand the love that Big Bend residents had for their land and for their way of life. I didn’t understand why they felt so sad when they left and were always so anxious to return. I didn’t understand how they could go days without a shower, how they dealt with the never-ending dust on all clothes and belongings, how they could survive the cold and hot temperatures without central heat and cooling, how they could be so brave to use the outdoor potty (necessarily placed far enough away from the main shelter for sanitary reasons) in the middle of the night with coyotes and javelinas running wild.

By the end of ten days, I realized that feeling dirty in nature feels much cleaner than feeling dirty in the city, that campfires are entertaining and gorgeous ways to escape the cold, and that sitting in an outdoor potty with a 360-degree view of the desert is a thousand times more appealing now than sitting in an enclosed box of plaster and linoleum. I marveled at how one friend carefully placed a stone on top of an arrowhead we’d dug up to keep the critters from accidentally wounding themselves, how another friend went back into the cinnabar mine by herself to make sure no garbage was left behind, and how everyone in general did what they could to not only preserve the existing nature but also to minimize waste and re-use as much as possible.

We don’t own the earth, much in the way we don’t own the people we love. The only way the earth – and true love – will survive is if we don’t clutter it or restrain it for our own comfort, but rather, let it unfold as it naturally should.

Visit my Flickr page to see recent photos from West Texas.

Affairs with a Bicycle

2009-12-15T10:23:00.000-08:00

When I tell people I ride my bicycle five and a half miles each way to and from work, their response is shock. “That is such a long distance!” they say, or, “That is so dangerous!” I’ll dispel two myths right now: five and a half miles really isn’t a long way unless you’re going up and down San Francisco hills, and well, yes, it can be dangerous. Then again, so is driving my car at 65 miles an hour, walking across the street, or eating spinach.

But I have a confession to make. I don’t ride my bicycle as often as I’d like to. On my best week, I’ve ridden four days – three during the work week and once during the weekend for a leisurely adventure. I blame it on hating to wake up early, inclement weather, and most of all, on the fact that my 1983 Diesel Mercedes still runs wonderfully with no end in sight. In order to be at work by 9:00 AM, I need to leave the house by 7:30 AM to make it down to Mellow Johnny’s Bike Shop for a $1 shower (towel, soap, shampoo, and conditioner included with the price!). Fortunately, I don’t wear make-up on a daily basis, and I don’t fuss too much with my hair, so cleaning up is quick, and work is just a few blocks from the shop.

The commute downtown takes me approximately 45-50 minutes, mostly taking South Congress all the way up from Stassney. There is an official bike lane a majority of the way, but I admit to using the sidewalk for a great part of my route because there are never any pedestrians, and I feel safer that much further away from the cars. I don’t ride very fast either, especially if I’m going downhill. I fear flying over my handlebars, so I steadily clamp the brakes. Combine all these elements with the fact that I am not an athletic person and that I only started riding an adult bicycle less than 2 years ago – the average person out there can probably out-do me.

Back in 2006, my boyfriend gave me an early 1970s women’s style Raleigh with a 3-speed internal gear hub and a pedal-generated dynamo headlight. With $80 of tune-up work and a milk crate attached to the book rack, I apprehensively rode around our South Austin neighborhood, and slowly worked my way to riding all the way downtown. I think I might have made 3 trips downtown altogether that year – each time getting a mini heart-attack when a car passed me too closely, or wobbling through a narrow passage.

In 2007, I probably doubled my rides downtown for a total of 6, the highlight of which was the East Side Studio Tour in November with the luxury of pulling my transportation practically right up to the door and being one of the “cool kids.” That year, I also discovered the Veloway, just off Mopac, south of Slaughter Lane: a 3.1-mile paved loop where no runners or cars are allowed. It’s mostly flat, with a few slight hills, and one very steep hill that I never conquered.

By 2008, I was averaging one or two bike rides a month downtown. I learned not to teeter when riding through a tight space as long as I focused on an object up ahead, and passing vehicles did not frighten me as long as long as we each maintained a straight line ahead. When crossing an intersection or a driveway, I had learned to make definite eye contact with drivers. That fall, my boyfriend and I traveled to Germany, and my intermittent love affair with the bicycle became the beginning of a life-long relationship.

In Berlin, there are bicycle lanes on both sides of the street that are actually off the road and up on the sidewalk level, clearly marked by a red-paved surface. They even have their own traffic signals. The cars weren’t the ones to fear, but rather, the angry cyclists ringing their bells or squeezing their horns at distracted pedestrians stepping into their lane. Bicycle riders come in all shapes, sizes, and ages, wearing pants and skirts and rarely a helmet. Then we went to Amsterdam, home of the Dutch-style commuter bicycle, where the bike lanes extend into the countryside and no more than 3 speeds is necessary because it’s flat as far as the eye can see.

When I returned to Austin, I increased my bike trips to once a week, and told myself if I kept up a good weekly routine, I’d reward myself with a newer, lighter bicycle. I loved my Raleigh, with its stylish fenders and chain guard, but with a steel frame it was painfully heavy to hoist onto the bus if needed. After intense research, I decided in March 2009 to purchase a Bianchi Milano Parco with a celeste green light-weight aluminum frame and a 3-speed internal gear hub, which is critical if you want to be able to switch gears when you’re at a stop. It also came with fenders and a chain-guard, and once I added a rear-basket, it was virtually a modern twin of the Raleigh.

On my first long ride on the Bianchi, I suffered my first accident going east on 4th Street from Brazos Street. After being thrilled by the only short stretch of almost-European-style bike lane in Austin, my wheels caught on the rail tracks just west of I-35, leaving me with a bloody knee and knuckles. But after 6 months on the new bike, I had become very confident riding solo or with my boyfriend. We had made the 20-mile round trip trek to downtown Buda on Old San Antonio Road, countless trips downtown and to East Austin as far as Montopolis, and many night rides. So I decided to look for new adventures on the bicycle.

Surely, we weren’t the only casual bike enthusiasts – where were the other riders like us? In the process of planning Mexic-Arte Museum’s Viva la Vida Fest and recruiting participants for the procession, I discovered number of cycling groups – including ATX Social Cycling, Austin Cycling Association, and the SkelliCyclists, a squad of urban street bicyclists who got their name from the founder’s idea that they all love cycling so much, they’d be riding even after deceased. I found this 3rd group to be a perfect addition to the Museum’s Día de los Muertos parade, and several of them did come out with skeleton-painted faces.

In return, I joined the Skellies’ Halloween 12-mile day ride through downtown and East Austin and had a fantastic time. I had been afraid of being left behind or teased for being slow, but the ride leaders were encouraging and truly watched out for everyone. All the riders I met were friendly, and even though the group varied in ages, interests, and skill level, one thing united us all: we enjoyed riding our bicycles, didn’t feel obligated to wear spandex, and approved of beer as acceptable hydration.

A few weeks later, I joined the ATX Social Cycling group on a 10-mile bike ride through East Austin, frequently interrupted by bar stops and parking lot activities such as jousting and dancing to mini-stereos strapped to bike racks. There aren’t too many things more satisfying to a cyclist than riding up a hill and seeing hundreds of flickering red bicycle tail lights up ahead. Of course, it’s not all just for fun. Most of us recognize that riding our bicycles is healthy for the environment and healthy for our bodies. When I ride my bicycle, I am in a terrific mood all day, on a high that even large amounts of caffeine could not possibly give me.

Take that goodness one step further, and bicycle riding can actually turn into helping out the community. The fearless SkelliCyclist leader, Nam Phan, organized a team of Skellies to volunteer with Meals on Wheels to take over one of the bike routes. The day I joined two other Skellies to deliver meals in East Austin came a very close second to being my favorite bike ride ever (the first was the day we toured all of East Berlin).

Now, it’s already the end of 2009, and as I settle on my New Year’s resolution, I think about one that will take care of many other resolutions: ride my bike 4-5 times a week, and take at least one 20 mile-plus journey on the weekends. This will save me money on gas, save me money at the gym, and keep me in shape. And who knows what new friends I’ll make, or how many people in need I’ll help out along the way. So if you have a bike, I dare you to join me – I’ll be the girl with pigtails flying in the wind from under my helmet, scuffed saddle shoes, and a basket packed with everything I need for the day.

War on Display

2009-11-15T13:44:00.000-08:00

Every year on November 11, Americans observe Veterans Day to honor military veterans, particularly those who have served in the United States forces. I had always felt detached from this holiday because none of my relatives or close friends had ever served in the American military. In fact, my great-grandfather on my paternal grandmother’s side, Luis Aguilar, served just prior to the United States entering World War I – he fought for Mexico and against the Americans.

According to his journal, in April of 1914, the American Marines landed in the Port of Veracruz to intercept several German ships transporting weapons to the Mexican federal government, which had been taken through a coup by Victoriano Huerta. It was then that my great-grandfather realized that the American government wanted Venustiano Carranza and his revolutionaries to win. Luis Aguilar and his young friends eagerly joined the army because that’s what they were taught as children – same as American children – to love their country first. So off they went to fight for their government under Huerta’s presidency, thus fighting off the invading Americans.

He wrote in his journal, “How lovely it would have been to hear the shout ‘the soldier Luis Aguilar died for his country!’” In Veracruz, as he described it, he could have easily died from the many plagues and diseases brought on by the thick vegetation in the intensely hot, tropical climate. But he never made it to the actual port, and his troops only got as far as the surrounding areas. As he claimed in his journal, had the American troops been ordered to advance further inland from the Port of Veracruz, my great-grandfather would have been one of the first casualties and wouldn’t have been alive to write his stories.

Twelve years later, during the Cristero War (1926-1929), my great-grandfather on my maternal grandmother’s side, Tirso Gurrola, fought as a counter-revolutionary to overthrow President Plutarco Elías Calles who had strategically aligned himself with the winners of the Mexican Revolution. Calles was deeply atheist, and as a devout Catholic, my great-grandfather fought not for his country – but for his Church. Two years before my grandmother died, I was fortunate to record her memories of her father’s stories.

Twice, Tirso Gurrola escaped capture and imminent death. The first time, he had been taken in for interrogation. He identified himself with a fictitious name, but still suspecting him, the government officials searched his clothing to prove he was Tirso Gurrola. Knowing he had his wedding ring in his pocket with his wife’s name engraved on it – Aurelia Gurrola – he convinced the officials to let him first use the bathroom before being searched. He hid the ring in a bar of soap while washing his hands.

The second time, when my grandmother’s family decided to temporarily escape Durango, my great-grandmother Aurelia and a brave family friend came up with a scheme to sneak Tirso out of their hacienda in the village of Tapias. They tied him up so that he was compact and lifeless like a pole, wrapped him up, and placed him on the back seat floorboard of the car.

Aurelia’s brave friend was a strong Mexican American woman from Detroit, Michigan, and when the government officials asked about the wrapped pole, she explained that she was a photographer from the United States. She told the officials that if they dared un-wrap the package, they would have to make themselves responsible for the damaged film. Not willing to take responsibility, but still skeptical, they kicked the “camera.” And Tirso must have made himself stiff as a board, because they let Aurelia and her friend go.

Several years ago, I researched the archives of the Mexican Congress and found the following from the November 25, 1926 legislative session (translated): “The 2nd of October, the Chief of Military Operations in the state of Durango communicated that in the town of Santiago Bayacora, a rebel movement had taken place. A gang of approximately one hundred men was led up a nearby mountain by Knight of Columbus Cristero rebel Tirso Gurrola.

[By the end of October, most of the Cristero rebels had been killed or captured and] Gurrola's rebellion had completely dispersed. Tirso Gurrola had fled and his whereabouts were unknown. In the state of Durango, the Government continues to search for dispersed rebels -- the only rebels that remain in the entire country -- with the certainty than in a few days, they will be completely exterminated.” My great-grandfather had indeed fled to the United States via Eagle Pass, Texas, with his wife, and two sons (my grandmother and her younger sister fled separately pretending to be the maid’s daughters), until it was safe enough to return to Mexico.

Through the stories passed down in my family, I’ve learned the intimacies of two Mexican wars. But I’ve never had the chance to get a personal perspective from American wars. And then I discovered a treasure trove of American military history in our very own city of Austin: the Brigadier General John C. L. Scribner Texas Military Forces Museum at Camp Mabry, whose mission is to “tell the story of the Texas Military Forces from 1823 through the present and into the future, support the mission of the Texas Military Forces, honor our veterans, educate our fellow citizens, promote esprit d’corps among the men and women of the Texas Military Forces, and inspire our youth to serve.”

Located on West 35th Street just west of Mopac, the Museum resides in Building 6, which was built in 1918 as a mess hall complete with a bakery and kitchen facilities. The exhibitions begin with the Texas War for Independence (1835-1836) and extend through all major conflicts, including the 1846 Mexican War with the United States.

The Military Forces Museum is slated for a major renovation, but I suggest visiting now while the artifacts are still contained in a plain un-museum type setting, and they can be enjoyed in quiet and solitude. The Museum and its archives house more than 10,000 artifacts, 6,000 books, 20,000 historic photographs, and more than three dozen history military vehicles and artillery pieces. In the two times that I have been to the Museum, late on a Sunday afternoon, we were the only people there a majority of the time.

The phase I renovations are structural (roof repairs and electrical upgrade), but the phase II and phase III renovations are more aesthetic, including the construction of exhibit space and design of new exhibits. While these later-phase renovations will certainly help the Military Forces Museum join the ranks of higher-end museums such as the Blanton and the Bob Bullock, I always feel that with too much polish, you lose some of the charming quirks: the creaky floors, the eerie drafts, and the mysterious corners.

War is gritty and complicated, and it’s difficult to absorb by reading history books, let alone watching Hollywood movies with romanticized imagery, or by going to museums with spectacularly designed exhibitions. The reality of war cannot be neatly categorized or beautifully displayed. The best presentations of war are the personal accounts – and if you’re lucky and they are still alive, from your family and friends.

To read the published version of the article, check out a coffeehouse near you for this month's issue of TODO Austin!

Forgotten Graveyards

2009-11-15T12:34:00.000-08:00

You probably know about the Texas State Cemetery on Navasota Street just east of I-35, which according to its website is “the final resting place of Governors, Senators, Legislators, Congressmen, Judges and other legendary Texans who have made the state what it is today.” You may have even been to Oakwood Cemetery a few blocks north – the oldest cemetery in Austin with graves dating back to the 1760s. There is one cemetery, however, you may have never heard of. It’s not the oldest, or the largest, or the most historically significant, but it exists as an oddity, frozen in time, inconspicuous between new apartment complexes and restaurants.

Perhaps you’ve sat at Trudy’s palapa bar off Stassney, without realizing that right across the street is Williamson Creek Cemetery. It’s completely enclosed by a chain link fence and padlocked gate, designated by the Texas Historical Commission. Although I do not necessarily encourage illegal trespassing, there is a secret way to enter without disturbing the fence, and I made sure to remain on the remnants of the foot pathways – all for the sake of undercover journalism!

Most of the tombstones are crumbling and their inscriptions are weathered, or the markers are simply gone with only sunken earth as evidence of a decomposed grave. The Austin Genealogical Society cemetery database doesn’t give a clear record of the earliest grave, but the Austin History Center does have a complete inventory. With my own amateur photography, I documented a few tombstones dating back to 1891 and 1895. There is one newly placed plaque at the foot of a live oak tree – while the marker is obviously recent, the grave of James P. Eagle is dated 1863.

I experienced a sensation of strangeness being in this cemetery, not because it was haunted, but from my fleeting encounter. Because I had a feeling I shouldn’t be there and the sun was about to set, I only had a brief period of time to absorb the details of each grave: the variation of the carved letter types and decorative motifs, or the way they were neglected with overgrown weeds and not a single fresh flower. Clearly, some of these sites had not been visited in years, or maybe even since the time of burial – yet someone had taken the time to try to reconstruct some of the broken tombstones. My memory of the cemetery’s particulars is now hazy, and all I have are a few photographs to help me write about the visit.

In this way, I think about my maternal grandmother, Maria Ines Lopez Gurrola, who passed away on January 8, 2007. Sometimes, my sadness comes not just from the fact that she is no longer around, but that I wasn’t able to take in more of her while she was alive – her stories, her mannerisms, and her intelligence. The only things that remain are her belongings, photographs, a few home videos, and a cassette tape with her final childhood recollections in Durango, Mexico during the Cristero War. She was in many ways, the undercover Mexican grandmother.

She did not cook very much, leaving that chore to my grandfather. My most distinct memory of one of the few times of her making something in the kitchen involved Lebanese kibbeh and homemade yogurt. She was mostly busy running accounts for the flower shop, Florería Mayali, she owned in Aguascalientes. She did not teach me how to sew or iron, but she did teach me how to read, and how to drink a small glass of wine with dinner like European children.

As I get older, I think about how much of life is consumed by technology to record our moments. I see people more focused on how the photograph will look on their social networking profile the next day, rather than letting their minds capture the moment. When we are at the end of our lives, will we clearly remember our experiences, or will we have to do an internet search to find them?

Click here to read the published version of this article in the October issue of TODO Austin.

Mapless Travel

2009-09-11T11:12:00.000-07:00

My first trip to Europe was in the spring of 2005. My friend Regina and I had never been across the Atlantic, and although I had always imagined my first European trip to Spain or Greece – Rome was close enough. We booked airline tickets and rented a flat in the Flaminio neighborhood near Piazza di Popolo and the Spanish Steps. No whirlwind tour of all the great European cities, but rather a one-week intimate affair with Rome and a one-night stand with Florence.

While I only got to see the outside of the Colosseum and never made it to the Roman Forum, I spent an afternoon traipsing the outskirts of Rome in La Garbatella, a working-class neighborhood built between the 1920s and 1940s with winding streets, sweeping staircase entries, courtyard gardens, and even a peek at stockings and handkerchiefs hanging in the breeze out a window. I half expected to see a young woman in a sailor-top dress and finger-waved hair ride down the street on a three-speed bicycle to meet her soldier at the cinema. We did however encounter two elder women walking home from the corner market and more than happy to chat with us even though we didn’t understand each other.

On another afternoon, I rambled – mapless and alone – the cobblestoned labyrinth roads of the Renaissance era districts. Wearing a brand new, bright red Pashmina scarf I bought from a street vendor and relishing a cup of gelato, I stumbled upon the Pantheon. As I turned the corner, without any warning from a travel book, there it stood in front of me in all its majesty. Later that day, in search of a music school I had read about, I met Julia, an expatriate woman from Indiana who worked for the United Nations and played in a traditional jazz band in the Caffe Latino by Monte Testaccio, a hill made of pottery fragments coming entirely from the jars used to transport grains and liquids into Ancient Rome.

On my way back to the Flaminio, I stopped anywhere that caught my eye – for a glass of wine here, or a cup of espresso there – which meant I missed the last train on Line A. After wandering lost for four hours up and down the Tiber, into and out of any old square or fountain that seemed to lead the way back to the flat, I called Julia the expatriate trombonist who gave me instructions on how to find her – we drank wine, smoked cigarettes, and ate the best Italian food somewhere in the Trastevere, the oldest and last surviving intact quarter in Rome.

I could have planned out more of my trip and seen more historic landmarks, or remembered more places that I could recommend for you to visit. I can’t tell you where I stopped for coffee this one night, but I can tell you that as I sat to write in my journal on the sidewalk café in the middle of seemingly nowhere Rome, I could see the flickering yellow street lamps illuminating crumbled remnants of non-descript ruins, I could smell fresh bread being baked down the street, and I could hear conversations weaving between Italian and Hebrew. I had landed somewhere in another time and another place, never to be found again except by chance.

UMG’s CULTURE MASH RECOMMENDATION OF THE MONTH: I always used to say that Milto’s Pizza Pub should be renamed because it is so much more than a pizza pub, even though their pizzas with a Neapolitan thin crust or Sicilian thick crust are a specialty. Their lasagna, gyros, and salads are just the thing your mother would like you to eat when you dine out. (Well, if you had a Greek or Italian, or maybe even a Mexican mother.) So I had been repulsed by black olives for years until I had the Greek salad at Milto's with lettuce, tomatoes, onions, green peppers, cucumbers, feta, and kalamata olives. I fell in love with olives for the first time. Milto's is my gyro! (And is now more appropriately named Milto’s Mediterranean Café.)

Click here to read the published version of the article in the September issue of TODO Austin.

Click here to view photos from UMG's adventures in Rome.

The (un)American Dream

2009-08-02T11:57:00.000-07:00

If the American Dream is owning a big house, a big car, the newest phone, computer, and television - at the cost of spending all my time working in order to afford these things, and spending all my time on the freeway in order to get to work to afford these things, and not having enough money to pay for healthcare because I spent most of it on the house and car, and not exercising or eating well because I was too busy working and driving... well, then, I don't think I want to take part of the American Dream.

In the same way that people look to America as a place of freedom and opportunity, I look to Europe as a place where I can walk out my front door and walk to a cafe to meet friends, ride my bicycle to the town square market to buy local fish and vegetables, take the train to visit the next city over, and live in a modest flat with giant windows overlooking the courtyard or bustling pedestrian activity, and never have to worry about replacing my car's tires or air compressor or fuel injection pump or the fact that I haven't been able to visit the dentist in over 5 years because I couldn't afford it or that I might be killed by a Hummer while riding my bicycle - well, then, I think I do want to partake in the European Dream.

Levanta Pompis

2009-08-01T14:40:00.000-07:00

After a bank errand at the corner of William Cannon and Westgate, we heard loud music coming through a PA system and a voice inviting everyone to visit the new Marketplace Austin - "if you want it, we've got it!" A Spanish radio sponsor? No, a twelve-year-old boy getting a start on his future career as a deejay.

As we made our way across the parking lot, a guy in a pickup truck slowed down in front of us and asked what in the world was this Marketplace Austin all about? We replied we had no clue - that's precisely what we were going to find out. I thought, from the row of flags representing countries all over the world perched on the roof, this place might be an international warehouse of goods, groceries, and decor - like the famed World Market where you can purchase marzipan, wine, and expensive wicker furniture.

However, upon walking in, I realized this place might more accurately be called "Mercado Austin." It was a labyrinth of booths selling anything from Mexican movies, frilly underwear, Zacatecan western wear, tacos and mariscos, jewelry, toys, furniture, bridal and quinceañera dresses - to "levanta pompis" jeans. Yes, that's right - you want jeans to shape and lift your butt? They've got it!

How Undercover Mexican Girl Came to Be

2009-08-01T13:44:00.000-07:00

(Welcome to my first monthly column, now appearing in print in TODO Austin, which you can find in coffee shops and various places around Austin.)

I was born in the U.S. When I was four, my parents moved back to Mexico where I first learned to read by asking my grandparents to teach me the meaning of the neon signs along the streets of downtown Aguascalientes: Nescafé, Fanta, Bimbo. My parents returned to California only a couple of months prior to me starting the first grade. To help me learn English more rapidly, they placed me in summer school where I befriended, exclusively, the only other Spanish speaker.

Throughout elementary school, I was a shy child looking forward to spending entire summers in Mexico. In the sixth grade, I voluntarily left my mom and dad because I was convinced I was a Mexican national at heart—so I went to live in San Luis Potosí for a half year with my aunt and uncle. When I returned to California, I became even more alienated from my Mexican American peers; while they listened to Madonna and Michael Jackson, I listened to Timbiriche and Flans and wrote in Spanish in my private journal.

Then I moved an hour away to attend a college prep boarding school where my best friends were a Sri Lankan girl with a British accent who had grown up in Hong Kong and a half Chinese/half Indian girl who introduced me to They Might Be Giants and Dadaism.

After spending my childhood longing to be in Mexico, it had finally occurred to me that I was simply longing for culture. In fact, many different cultures. Throughout my teenage years, I wore a Jewish Chai, read Russian literature, watched French films, and admired Moroccan architecture. In the 11th grade, I transferred to a high school closer to my parents, where my Mexican American friends teased me for acting “white.”

Since moving to Austin over ten years ago, people have made anti-Mexican remarks in my presence, not knowing I was a Mexican. And if they happened to find out, they would say, “But, you’re a different kind of Mexican.” Even though I am light-skinned and I don’t wave the flag, I am highly critical of the proper use of the Spanish language and Mexican food that falsely claims to be authentic or interior. So, five years ago, when trying to explain my hybrid cultural experiences to a friend, I conceived of my alter ego: Undercover Mexican Girl. Stay tuned, amigos and friends, for more adventures and undercover tips.

UMG’s CULTURE MASH RECOMMENDATION OF THE MONTH: Take a drink to the
sounds of Shand Walton and the All Amigos Club at Lovejoys on August 13, and at The Amsterdam on August 15. The All Amigos Club—fusing mariachi, rock, Irish, folk, and blues—are highly influenced by the Latin music of Ruben Rodriguez and his Guadalajara Kings, Noche Los Tres, and Trini Lopez, the Irish blues rock of Rory Gallagher, and the British folk guitar of Davey Graham (of Guyanese and Scottish
descent).

FAILURE NOTICE

2008-04-03T09:01:00.000-07:00

I've been sending out mass e-mails through my job for an upcoming fundraiser event. Our e-mail database hasn't been cleaned out in a while, so I am getting quite a few bounced back e-mails. The error message I keep getting is:

Hi. This is the qmail-send program at mail26c.sbc-webhosting.com.
I'm afraid I wasn't able to deliver your message to the following addresses.
This is a permanent error; I've given up. Sorry it didn't work out.

:
207.97.245.101 does not like recipient.
Remote host said: 550 5.1.1 : Recipient address rejected: User unknown in relay recipient table
Giving up on 207.97.245.101.

It reminds me of when I've been broken up with in the past - by a significant other, or even when a friendship terminates. They say: I've given up. Sorry it didn't work out. I don't like you. Rejected. User unknown.

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THE DAILY BUS REPORT

2007-11-14T07:06:00.000-08:00

My car broke down a couple of weeks ago. I am not sure if I am ever getting it fixed. It might be on its way to the graveyard. I tried bicycling to work. But that requires excellent reflexes and a courage in the face of death by angry automobile. So I am now taking the bus to work five days a week. Every day, a different type of crazy rides the bus. I'll keep a running list and update it daily. (Or at least once a week.)

Nov. 14 - dude intensely playing imaginary set of drums in a heavy metal band
Nov. 16 - woman asking forgiveness for her sins
Nov. 21 - older man who talks back to automated bus voice
Nov. 27 - young, chic woman singing in operatic R&B voice about being a shepherd of Christ
Nov. 29 - kid with compulsion to repetitively recite everything he saw out the window

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LOVE THE INTERNET. HATE THE INTERNET.

2007-10-05T09:38:00.000-07:00

Anna Oakley: i love the internet
Undercover Mexican Girl: it's my addiction. i've been using it ever since it was possible, since prodigy was online but not really the internet yet. i started sending out e-mails when it looked like an MS-DOS screen. when i was in boarding school, on the weekends, i'd drag out my little PS/1 and hook it up the hallway phone line to get dialup. can you say junkie? 17 years and counting.
Anna Oakley: im more like 14 years.., when we first discovered chat rooms we were addicted. I couldnt grasp the concept of talking to strangers onthe other side of the world in real time...now i think chat rooms are GAY.
Anna Oakley: maybe i should comment that chat rooms with people you actually KNOW are not so gay. but chat rooms designed for the sole purpose of "hooking up" are gay.. and i dont mean gay in a derogatory way towards the homosexual lifestyle.. gay as if to say "strange and corny". boy... when your words are publised to the world you really gotta clarify dont you.
Anna Oakley: i hate the internet

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SHARPPOINT FLUVELLIN

2007-09-25T14:33:00.000-07:00

Saturday morning, I decided it was time to pull weeds from my herb'n'rose garden. The following weed, at first, was charming. It was a velvety layer of green carpet, covering the empty space between my plants: sharppoint fluvellin. After not too long, however, this little guest plant became the annoying friend who overstayed his visit. Time to get out Mr. Fluvellin! I've had enough of you. And you're choking my oregano. Absolutely rude.

Let me tell you what a nasty weed it is. It's sticky. It falls apart if it's not grown up enough, only to scatters its dozens of tiny seeds all over the garden bed. And, apparently, this one lone bee who came from who knows where was absolutely offended that I was pulling these weeds.

About 3/4 of the way done, this bee starts circling around me in a maddened fashion, obviously upset that I am removing his habitat. Of course, I am unreasonably afraid of bees (never been stung) so I start running figureeights, loops, and untraceable squiggles around my front yard. Like a crazy woman.

I observe the bee from afar, and I see it crawling all over the weed that's still in the garden bed. Oh, its taking it's sweet little time, probably dropping its little pollen all over the weed to make it spread like even more wildfire. Fortunately, my roommate's presence apparently drives bees away because when I asked her to come out to bear witness to this neurotic, lone bee (where was his hive? was he kicked out for not properly pollinating more select flowers? reduced in his loneliness to pollinating weeds?). And the bee did not come out, so I finished my gardening.

Later on, I began to tackle another rampant spreader in my yard: crabgrass. You've seen it--when let go, it appears like a wheatfield of very thin stalks. I'm trying to do this organically. So, I have a container of cinnamon bark that has been ground up to a fine, white powder, and as I start sprinkling it all over the front lawn, I know people who pass by will wonder.

Sure enough, this woman walks by, and she asks, "Hormigas?"

No, not a variation of a Tex-Mex breakfast dish. Ants. I shake my head, and I respond in English, "I'm trying to kill crabgrass with organic cinnamon bark." When I'd told my boyfriend about it, he asked why I didn't respond to her in Spanish. I explained that I didn't know the words for crabgrass, bark, or organic in Spanish.

It occurs to me then, how much I am becoming less and less bilingual. I stopped speaking Spanish on a daily basis when I left for college. So, is my Spanish vocabulary stuck at the 12th grade level? Why wouldn't my family have talked about crabgrass, bark, and organic things before I was 18? Are these things only adult matter? Maybe crabgrass isn't in daily Mexican culture vocabulary. Maybe killing it organically isn't in the vocabulary either. Maybe we'd just mow it down. Results are much quicker that way. And it would leave more time for killing hormigas and eating migas.

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PATH OF TERROR

2007-09-25T14:27:00.000-07:00

Last night, I began what was my ultra-relaxing entrance to the weekend. I got home at about 10:15 after a an hour-and-a-half of girly-lolly-gagging around Target (you know the routine: browsing through the collection of purses, hairclips, underwear, makeup.) After I put away my newly purchased shampoos, vitamins, and flannel sheets (I only have 2 pairs of sheets now, and 1 of them I HATE), I washed my face with Burt's Bees Tomato soap, gave my facial a facial mask, then washed my face again with Aveeno scrub, toned, moisturized. After that, I proceeded to polish my toe-nails the color of "rainy-day red." This is fire-engine, big red candy-like button, red. I like it. After I was done primping, I wrote for a while, and then went to sleep, feeling absolutely cozy.

This morning, my alarm went off at 6:30 AM, and I woke up feeling so refreshingly awake, I began to wonder if I should maybe spend 2 hours every night spoiling myself. (Not a bad idea, really...) I showered, dressed, and made my way out the door with plenty of time to catch the 110 South Central Flyer to work.

As I walked down the street toward the busstop, I noticed that up ahead, at the intersection of Stassney and South 1st, there was a cavalcade of emergency vehicles. "Oh shit," I said to myself out loud, without even realizing I was saying it. It's just one of those scenes you look at, and it only takes one second to instinctively understand it's BAD. Only one other lady was at the bus stop. When I got there, I had about 3 or 4 minutes until the bus pulled up. I wasn't really keeping time. Just watching for the bus. And wondering how we were going to plow through the scene of the accident.

Soon, a Capital Metro Supervisor mini-van pulled up at the stop and turned on its blinkers. The lady at the busstop and I looked at each other for a second, trying to figure out what was going on. The lady tried to open the sliding door, but it was locked--the driver seemed to be absorbed in her walkie-talkie. I asked the bus stop lady if she thought this was our ride, and she said she thought so because of the accident up ahead. I waved to the driver, trying to get her attention.

She couldn't seem to figure out how to roll down the window, so she just unlocked the door, and I asked her if this was our ride for the 110. She said it was, so bus stop lady and I got into the van. There were stacks of paper everywhere. Obviously, this Supervisor van wasn't regularly transporting customers. I had to gather up the paper and hold it on my lap to make room for the other lady. It felt like riding in my Mom's van.

Of course, I found this whole situation rather strange. The 110 bus picks up nearly two dozen people during the course of its route. Two dozen people weren't going to fit in this minivan. Not with all that paper mess, anyway. Well, there must have been other rescue vans because the other lady and I were the only two on that van for the whole route. For sure, it was a luxurious ride--no stops, comfortable seats, and free. As we crossed the intersection of Stassney and South 1st, we didn't have much trouble. But I did catch a glimpse of one of the cars in the accident.

Totaled. Front end smashed in, windshield completely shattered. The kind of thing you see in those horror videos in driver's ed. It's always so creepy to see an accident right after it's happened. What if it had been me, just minutes before, driving my car through that intersection? The ride to work was mostly uneventful. The Supervisor took calls the whole time about bus drivers stuck in traffic jams, bus drivers who were getting weird lights on their dashboard, bus drivers who had just let a potential murderer on board. Really.

One bus driver intercoms from his route near Highland Mall. It's not a message for the Supervisor, but rather for some othr Cap Metro headquarters, perhaps security--but we can hear it. The driver says there had been this man looking all frantic at the bus stop, jumping up and down, running back and forth. The man got on the bus, and so did this older lady. The older lady reported to the bus driver that crazy man had been talking about wanting to stab someone. The bus driver asked if someone should be sent out to check out the situation. The Cap Metro voice responded, "We'll look into it."

I got to my destination about 20 minutes early, so I went to JP Java's for a breakfast taco and a cappucino. I sat in one of the big, cushy leather armchairs and ate calmly. (Usually, I'm eating breakfast on the run.) As I walked the block toward the violin shop, a man is stopped on the side of the street, and he's getting out of the car, asking, "Excuse me miss, can you tell me where this is?" He's apparently delivering something, but I recognize the destination, and I gave him directions on how to get there. In the meantime, his car starts rolling down the hill toward the intersection. He runs down the street and hits the parking break just before it rolls through the light. I'm pretty sure he got my directions, so I keep walking to work, just in case something might blow up next. Or a piano falls on my head.

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THE PROPER WINE GLASS EVADES ME

2007-09-25T14:16:00.000-07:00

I started out with a set of four wine glasses. Nothing fancy. Just a set of four plain, average-sized wine glasses.Over the course of the summer, I lost two of them. One was broken during a party my roommate was hosting and another was broken while she was cleaning. Throughout the fall, my roommate promised to replace them, or maybe even buy another set. I thought it was nice of her to offer, but I wasn't in a rush. Not at first, anyway. I just made do with the two that I had, and sometimes drinking wine out of water glasses if need be.

Then, I started to get antsy. I saw on EBay that a set of four stemware glasses were being sold for $9.99. They were vintage, iridescent glasses from England. Even labeled Queen Mary, even though they had nothing to do with my beloved ship. So I ordered them, and I was excited to own a set of wine glasses even better than my first set. Hell, then my roommate wouldn't even have to worry about buying me another set.When they arrived, I saw they had been placed inside my mailbox. I thought, damn! these people did a great job of packaging them tightly.

When I opened the shipping box, I saw the inside package they came in was much smaller. Well, holy shit! these glasses must be made of rubber or they come in a fine powder that you just add water and poof! you get a set of four wine glasses. Magic?

No.

Cordial glasses.

That's a fancy shot glass, if you don't know what a cordial glass is. I certainly didn't. So, now I had a set of four lovely cordial glasses for drinking fine after-dinner liqueurs. I went back to look at the EBay description, wondering how I could be so ignorant as to purchase CORDIAL glasses. Well, the textual description said nothing about cordial glasses. They were simply referred to as stemware. Well, that's like saying you're selling shoes--are we talking sneakers or high heels here? In one of the images of the package they came in, however, I could see the word "cordial glasses" imprinted in the lower right hand corner on the box. Might have been helpful if the photographer had bothered to show a close-up.

Time passed, and still, my roommate did not buy me the glasses. I even showed her my miniature glasses and the whole story behind them, as a sort of light-hearted hint. But I got antsy again, especially when I got a coupon from Central Market offering a set of four Slovakian wine glasses with a $30 minimum groceries purchase. A $40 value...FREE. Wow. Excellent?

Maybe.

But they were STEMLESS wine glasses. And there were two large ones and two small ones. So I don't even get a matching set of four, even if amputated, wine glasses. So we go from tiny stemware to stemless.

All I want is a set of four matching, regular-sized wine glasses. With stems. Is that too much to ask?

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DANGEROUS JOURNEY

2007-09-25T14:12:00.000-07:00

In 1976, my parents moved from Mexico to Los Angeles. They each applied for and easily received a Green Card, which is a U.S. Visa for permanent residency. Considered legal permanent residents by the U.S. government, they had the same employment rights as an American citizen. Furthermore, they were eligible to become naturalized citizens. By the time I was ten years old, they were U.S. citizens, they had bought their first home, they had full-time jobs with benefits, and they were sending my brother and me to private school. It is not that easy for all immigrants who come into the United States.

In May of 2001, the most dangerous and deadliest border crossing since 1987 occurred in the southern Arizona desert. Twenty-six men traveled for five days into the United States on a path commonly referred to as the Devils Highway because of its extremely harsh terrain and conditions. Desert land shows no mercy; it is blindingly hot during the day without any shade, and there is no water. Only twelve of those men survived. Of those who did survive, some suffered permanent kidney damage.

This is only one account of the deaths that occur as immigrants cross the border in hopes of a better life in the United States. Sometimes, women and children join the men on these journeys. For women and children, the trek is much more dangerous because they are usually not as strong. They are crossing with little or no money and a small ration of food and water if they are lucky. It is too risky to carry any more possessions than that. They not only face the danger of dehydration and heat stroke, but they also face the danger of crime and violence in a land where even the U.S. Border Patrol is afraid to travel through.

"It's one of the most terrible deaths that can occur to a human being," according to Johnny Williams, Western regional director for the Immigration and Naturalization Service. He said that by the end, the victims can become disoriented and delusional, often removing their clothes and walking in circles. These migrants are smuggled in by coyotes who are often quite young and ignorant of the conditions in the desert. Coyotes take on these jobs because it is an easy way to make money. If they dont end up abandoning their group, they wind up dying along the journey, too.

To solve the problem of dangerous crossings, both the United States and Mexico governments are working together to increase security along the border. They are using surveillance helicopters and increasing the number of border patrol agents. But this is not really helping. Instead, the migrants are finding more secret, remote, and dangerous routes because they are afraid of being captured. Director of the San Diego office of the American Friends Service Committees Border Program, Roberto Martinez, describes this approach: "Its like the U.S. Forest Service setting fires in an area, then sending rescuers in to save some of the people whose lives are endangered by the fire and calling themselves heroes."

The population of the United States has a rich history of immigration. After all, every Thanksgiving, we celebrate the tradition of the pilgrims sharing dinner with the Native Americans. The pilgrims, when they arrived on the Mayflower, were also immigrants. However, back then, there was no complicated government structure or economy to outlaw them as illegals. Ever since the landing on Plymouth Rock, there have been other waves of immigrationthe most famous is Ellis Island during the late part of the 19th century and the early part of the 20th century. Most of the immigrants then were coming from Europe, but there were also immigrants from Africa, Asia, and Latin America. It does not matter whether my parents emigrated from Mexico or my neighbors great-great-great grandparents emigrated from Ireland. We are all in the same boat. The only thing makes us different is how many generations we are removed from those who immigrated before us.

Currently, immigration is a very controversial issue. On one side, people argue that immigrants are a drain on our system. They claim that immigrants are stealing our jobs and not paying taxes, creating a subculture that refuses to learn English, using up our health and social welfare resource, and sending all their income back to their homelands instead of reinvesting it in the United States economy. Some may even fear that immigrants are going to take over our country and replace American culture with theirs.

On the other side, people argue that immigrants are only taking away the low-paying and/or menial paying jobs that the natives would not otherwise take. If they are working for less than minimum wage, its only because there are employers who are not willingor simply cannot affordto pay fair wages. These jobs only exist because there is a demand for cheap labor. Coming from a life of poverty, immigrants are more than willing to supply the demand, even if it means risking their lives to get here.

Another counter-argument is that many immigrants from developing countries find it in their best interest to learn English because it is one of the ways they can get ahead. Also, many illegal immigrants do pay taxes through special identification numbers distributed by the Internal Revenue Service. In 2005, the IRS issued an estimated 1.2 million identification numbers, up from about 800,000 or so issued the year before. The irony is that without a valid social security number, these immigrants cannot participate in any social welfare programs. By paying taxes and learning English, immigrants feel they might be able to prove themselves in hopes of becoming citizens.

Defenders of immigration also argue that they do contribute to the U.S. economy because they still have to pay for goods, housing, and services, just like any other citizen. Even though they do send a portion of their income to their families back home, they can only do so by wiring remittances through American companies such as Western Union. For each remittance sent, Western Union earn fifteen dollars.

Recently, there were rallies all across the United States to increase awareness of immigration issues and push for justice. In addition to tightening security along the border, an immigration reform bill passed by the U.S. House in December of 2006 contains a provision that makes illegal immigration a felony. Organizations such as the Fair Immigration Reform Movement (FIRM) are asking our policy makers to reconsider the bill and include provisions that would address current working conditions and the issue of unsafe border crossings.

FIRM and other similar organizations believe that immigrants will make the long and deadly trek across the border regardless of the laws put in place. They are asking policy makers to see immigrants as humans and not aliens. When it comes down to basic human justice, they are simply asking that immigrantswhether they are arriving from Mexico, Colombia, China, or France be given the same rights our parents, our grandparents, and our forefathers had.

When I attended one of these rallies in Austin, Texas, I had expected to see people dressed in red and green, waving Mexican flags. While some were in fact expressing their Mexican nationalism, a majority of the people at the rally were waving American flags. And the people were young and old, students and blue-collar workers, alone, together with their children, dark-skinned and light-skinned, legal and illegal. The differences did not matter. What mattered was that they were all waving a common flag, the American flag.

Before taking a side, it is important to carefully research both sides of the issue. It is not a black and white matter. There many complicated economic, social, and political factors influencing the issue. At the heart of the matter, however, we should consider why anyone would want to enter the United States by putting his or her life on the line. We should think about where they came from and what they are hoping to accomplish here. If anything, we should remember Ellis Island, the Mayflower, and even Christopher Columbus. Whether they crossed the Atlantic, the Pacific, or the treacherous Arizona desert, immigrants are simply hoping for a better life.

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EERINGLY ROMANTIC NIGHT

2007-09-25T14:07:00.000-07:00

Even though we both forgot our cameras, the sublimeness of last night could never have been captured with photographs. The moments will just have to exist--indellibly so--in my memory.

We arrived at The Green Muse, shortly after 8 PM for the Black Molly's Wild West open mic. At first, we had assumed Shand would be entered into one of the earlier slots, but he wasn't scheduled to play until 10 PM. We were in the company of good friends, however, so we ordered some beverages and listened to other performers. Of course, Black Molly is always a pleasure with their remote desert band sound. We also enjoyed Yellow Grass' music of revenge on the border, and Chris Giffen's short story reading.

S played his set, and maybe I'm biased, but I do think his one-man-band seriously captured everyone attention...he got the best applause and cheers of the night. During his next-to-last song, the temperature dropped about 20 degrees. It had rained a little earlier in the evening, but there was a spooky stillness in the air. Then it began drizzling. And then the wind kicked up furiously.

Hugging my sweater around me, I walked up to the stage and told S that I thought some bad weather was about to stir up. But he played one more, and by the end, it really started to come down. I tried to help him as fast as I could. Black Molly was up there, some of Yellow Grass, frantically trying to get instruments, amps, cables and other equipment shoved as far as possible against the back stage wall. We stood a few minutes on the stage, while everyone else ran inside for cover. We had enough of a roof above us to keep us dry.

S wanted to get wet in the rain, so he gallavanted around the Green Muse like a little kid jumping puddles. Then the wind became really ferocious, sweeping the plastic chairs across the patio as if they were made of paper, ripping the canvas ceiling off one of its gromits, causing it to flap violently against the tin roof. It began to rain sideways. Then the power went out. Lightning was striking so fast, the nighttime sky was more light than dark. At that point, going out into the rain was even less desirable. It was better, we thought, to stay put.

So, there we were, S, Dono and Jules of Black Molly, and me, in complete awe of the storm's force, in the dark with only the glow of my cell phone screen. But someone, maybe Daniel (the owner of the Green Muse) or maybe Chris G., called us from the back door of the Green Muse, frantically urging us to come inside. Hurricane warnings. Tornados. This was serious.

We ran inside, and the first thing I saw were people sitting in the dark, some entertaining themselves with their battery-powered wi-fi laptops. Such is the convenience of modern-day technology. A few people were going back and forth with flashlights. S and the Black Molly guys went back outside to rescue their instruments.

I was nervous. Nervous for them outside in hurricane-like conditions, wondering what the rest of Austin--or Central Texas for that matter--was going through. Who had been stranded in the storm? Who'd been unfortunately caught in a bad place? What about our dogs Changa and Tonka who'd been left outside. I reassured myself that even though they'd be frightened, they'd seek shelter underneath the deck. Did I turn off my computer? I left it on. S turned it off in the afternoon. Did I turn it back on when I came home? No, because I didn't have time to mess around on the computer between getting off work and going to the Green Muse. All this time, still stating over and over again in disbelief, "This is crazy! I've never seen anything like this!"

Eventually, we all settled into our shelter for the time being. All instruments and equipment were brought into dryness. Everyone started drinking more beer and wine. Black Molly serenaded us with an acoustic version of their set. People were calling friends and family on cell phones to make sure loved ones were safe. Daniel turned on his headlights to bring some light into the front room of the Green Muse. Meanwhile, the storm was not letting up. The windows fogged up with the muggy warmth of our breath and sweat. The flowers planted in front were mere silhouettes against the bright headlights.

Then, the Hobo Gobbelins began enchanting us with their music. A duo made up of a flute and accordion. As hauntingly charming gypsy tunes filled the room, I thought about how lucky we were to be trapped there. S and I saw a pair of folks dancing. He asked me to dance, and I eagerly accepted. There is nothing more lovely than waltzing in the safety of friends and darkness, during a terrible storm, to a magical song, with the man you love who is soaking wet from running around in the rain. Really, there isn't much else lovelier.

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TO THE LADY WHO GOT OFF THE NO. 10 AT 4th AND BRAZOS

2007-09-25T14:00:00.000-07:00

I'd like to know what bit you this morning. I've been riding the #10 bus in Austin, on and off for a couple of years, and I've sat next to children, construction workers, homeless people, people who smelled a bit funny, and even people who took up a little more than their seat. None of these situations were unpleasant. Maybe they were less than ideal, but surely, not enough to make me quit taking the bus, or enough to put me in a bad mood.

What's more, in my 10 years of taking public transportation -- I've taken subways in Rome, Monterrey, Boston, and Washington, D.C.; busses in Pittsburgh, San Francisco, Austin, Los Angeles, and Mexico; the BART and the CALtrain in the CA Bay Area; the "T" in Chicago -- yes, let me stress that in my 10 years of taking public transportation, I've never run into a malcontent such as you.

I boarded the bus this morning at 7:34, and I took a window seat (the paired seat kind, forward facing). Of course, anyone familiar enough with public transportation knows that the seats are not very ample. It's part of the joy - you will rub shoulders with the person next to you, more often that not. These seats, at best, are usually best accomodating to a small person like myself. As you can see, in the following photo, even if the girl did not have her leg crossed, her hips might very likely be a hair away from the person sitting next to her:

When I sat down, like the average commuter, I had my purse, my lunchbox, and my book. My purse is one of those small-sized jobs, which is just large enough to hold my wallet, my phone, a few necessities, and a small notebook. It's the kind that you can strap across your chest, with the bag hanging by your hip, adding about an extra four inches of girth to my hips. My hips are about 32 inches, so as you can see, even if I wear a purse on my hip, I am still not unreasonably taking a humongous amount of space. That would be 20 inches of space across that I was inhabiting for the moment.

My lunchbox, on the other hand, was sitting in the space between the seats, and it was encroaching a few inches into the seat next to mine. So, lady, when you sat next to me, even though there were plenty of other seats behind me, I moved my lunchbox, even though you asked me, with a snark in your voice and a glare in your eyes, "Do you want to move that?"

That. Yes, my lunchbox, the thing that might give you some kind of incurable disease, I'll move THAT. After all, I would not want to soil your grossly coordinated black and red outfit, down to your ponytail holder and your oversized purse. I'm a nice person like that, so I moved my lunchbox down to the floor.

Five minutes into the ride, as I tried to continue reading and mind my own business, I could sense your miserable sighs and your repulsion as I turned the pages in my book, or adjusted my legs slightly so my lunchbox would not careen down the aisles at each stop.

It should have been no surprise to me when you asked me with a double-snark in your voice, and a double-glare in your eyes, to "please move your purse." That's when I said, "I think I will just move to the back," because I was tired of your pathetic unhappiness with the world. To which you replied, "Yes, maybe you should." After I moved, you moved into the seat I'd just vacated, and you placed your monstrous purse in the empty seat next to you.

When I sat in those back seats, which were plenty ample, I could not help staring at the back of your head, wishing a person with the most unbearable stink would sit next to you, maybe even force you to move your oversized purse out of the empty seat next to you. I also could not help but wonder what could have made you such an angry woman. Because I see people get on the bus who are struggling with poverty, teenage motherhood, and hard manual labor, while it looked like you were dressed to go work in an office. Yet, none of those other people looked or acted as miserable as you. I'd just like to know what horrible things happened to you that you think it's okay to take your anger out on a stranger who was causing you no harm. Maybe, then, I might understand, or have some empathy.

I'd just like you to know this, lady: next time, if you sit next to me, and you don't like, YOU move.

Sincerely,
Me

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THOSE DAMNED MEXICANS

2007-09-25T13:56:00.000-07:00

For a brief period of time, on a flight from Austin to Mexico City, I was Undercover American Girl. The flight attendant purposely did not hand me a tourist visa, because she assumed I was a Mexican national. Perhaps ordering orange juice and accepting a snack box had not given away my subtle lack of Mexican national accent (yes, I am fluent, but my Spanish accent has developed a slight lisp, perhaps influenced by living in Austin for too long).

At any rate, most of the rest of my life, I exist as Undercover Mexican Girl. As a result, I am privy to some absurd comments made about "Mexicans." I'll list a few I've heard in the last couple of months:

1) The market in Mexico is growing for Colgate products because recently more Mexicans have started to brush their teeth (this was stated by an educated professional investor).
2) This bus is so crowded! It's those damn Mexicans.
3) I don't drink Coca-Cola bottled in Mexico. Who knows what the hygiene in those factories is like.

Maybe Mexicans prefer Crest. And every Mexican I've ever known has always brushed their teeth. Second - Mexicans might be crowding the bus, but at least they are not polluting the world with another SUV. Third - keep drinking your American Coca-Cola, made with corn syrup instead of real sugar.

Thank you for reading this public service announcement.

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WHY AIRPORT SECURITY IS INEFFICIENT

2007-09-25T13:50:00.000-07:00

Some of you may already agree that airport security procedures these days can be inefficient when considering from a philosophical, technical, and/or moral standpoint. But let's get a little more basic: Indianapolis International Airport security folks are MATHEMATICALLY inefficient.

I traveled to Indianapolis for work, so I packed lightly. These days, checking in your luggage is like gambling. You may or may not have your clothes and personal belongings upon arrival to your destination. One small carry-on suitcase and a laptop (with my purse jammed into the laptop briefcase...because even if the purse is the size of your hand, it's considered a 3rd item!).

Since I would be carrying all my toiletries in the cabin, they all needed to be 3.4 or less ounces, in quart-sized ziploc bags. No problem. I am an easy girl in these matters. Fortunately, I had a 100 ml Crest toothpaste tube that I'd brought back from Mexico, which was smaller than the average sized 8 oz. toothpaste tubes. (I did sneak through a 4.0 oz multi-purpose contact solution. Suckers!)

Well, as I was going through security at the Indianapolis airport to return to Austin, they made me throw out the 100 ml toothpaste because it was "too large."

Consider this UNDENIABLE FACT: 100 ml converts to 3.381402 256 ounces. Last time I checked, that was LESS than 3.4 ounces. But I was going on about three hours of sleep and didn't really care as there were only about 1.17193 ounces left in the tube. So I just said, "Sure, whatever." (I silently cursed them).

I'd already confirmed this mathematical conversion before getting on the plane in Austin to go on this trip. And Austin airport security can do their math, too, because they had no problems with my toothpaste. The only thing I can rationalize is the toothpaste was from Mexico. Maybe "pasta de dientes" sounds like an explosive to Midwesterners.

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MY GREAT-GRANDFATHER WAS A REBEL

2007-09-25T13:46:00.000-07:00

This morning, I received a MySpace message from a Gurrola in Portland, saying his grandfather - a Gurrola - had been born in Durango, Mexico, in 1917. My grandmother was a Gurrola, and she was born in Durango in 1921. This strange coincidence led me to once again try to find information about my great-grandfather, Tirso Gurrola. I've attempted before to research him online because he had been involved in the Cristero revolutions in Durango during the 1920s. I always figured something would come up - he was a rather significant individual, so I'd been told. But I was never able to find anything on him. Until today.

I found his name on the Mexican Congress website, in a section that contains minutes from Legislative sessions dating back to 1917: http://cronica.diputados.gob.mx/DDebates/32/1er/Ord/19261125.html

I've pasted the original Spanish excerpt below from a session that took place November 25, 1926, and the following is my translation:

State of Durango: The 2nd of October, the Chief of Military Operations in the state of Durango communicated that in the town of Santiago Bayacora, a rebel movement had taken place. A gang of approximately one hundred men was led up a nearby mountain by Knight of Columbus Cristero rebel Tirso Gurrola.

The Chief of Miliary Operations, a general from the Enrique León brigade, immediately went out to their location with armed forces from the 26th batallion and 76th regiment. The confrontation resulted in 10 casualties on the Cristero rebellion side. On the Government's side, General Domingo G. Martínez was wounded, and a sargeant and three soldiers were killed.

On the 19th, the rebels were defeated by the Colonel Fermín Núñez at the Hacienda de Capulín. Two rebels were killed, two were taken as prisoners, and a rifle was confiscated by the Government army. On the 21st, the Cristeros were once again defeated, resulting in the death of rebel Pedro Mora.

General Ismael Lares, who had gone with a group of 15 men on an expedition into the Durango mountain range, was caught by surprise in a Cristero ambush and was killed. This is what motivated the Chief of Military Operations to once again go out and pursue the rebels. On the 1st of November, he confronted the rebels in Arroyo del Agua, killing two rebels and confiscating 6 rifles, 60 horses, 10 llamas, 30 burros, 40 various stolen livestock, 70 saddles, and food provisions.

All of the killed rebels had scapulars bearing the image and inscription ordained by the Knights of Columbus. After this last event, Tirso Gurrola's rebellion had completely dispersed. Tirso Gurrola had fled and his whereabouts were unknown.

In the state of Durango, the Government continues to search for dispersed rebels -- the only rebels that remain in the entire country -- with the certainty than in a few days, they will be completely exterminated.

ORIGINAL SPANISH TEXT:
"Estado de Durango: El dos de octubre, el jefe de las operaciones militares en el Estado comunica que en el pueblo de Santiago Bayacora había tenido lugar un movimiento encabezado por el Caballero de Colón Tirso Gurrola y una chusma compuesta de más o menos cien hombres, que se remontaron a una sierra inmediata. El jefe de las operaciones militares en el Estado, general de brigada Enrique León, salió inmediatamente con fuerzas del 26 batallón y 76 regimiento, al lugar de los acontecimientos, teniendo contacto con el enemigo, a quien se le hicieron diez muertos. Por otra parte del Gobierno resultó herido el general Domingo G. Martínez; un sargento segundo y tres soldados, muertos. El 19 fueron batidos por el coronel Fermín Núñez, en la hacienda de Capulín, haciéndoles dos muertos y dos prisioneros y recogiéndoles una carabina. El día 21 fueron batidos nuevamente, muriendo el rebelde Pedro Mora. El general Ismael Lares, que con un grupo de quince hombres salió a expedicionar por la sierra de Durango, fue sorprendido en una emboscada, quedando muerto en el campo; por este motivo, el jefe de las operaciones militares salió nuevamente a perseguir a los rebeldes, habiendo tomado contacto el día primero de noviembre con este grupo, en Arroyo del Agua, haciéndoles dos muertos y quitándoles seis carabinas, sesenta caballos. diez acémilas, treinta burros, cuarenta cabezas de ganado que se habían robado, setenta monturas y algunas provisiones de boca. Todos los muertos del enemigo llevaban escapularios imágenes y la leyenda ordenada por los Caballeros de Colón, quedando con esta acción completamente dispersada la gavilla de Tirso Gurrola, quien según informa el jefe de las operaciones militares, ha huído, ignorándose su paradero.
En el Estado de Durango, se continúa persiguiendo a los dispersos de Gurrola, únicos que quedan en la República, teniendo la seguridad de que en breves días quedarán completamente exterminados."

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DEAR NO-SIGNAL LANE CHANGER

2007-09-25T13:43:00.000-07:00

I'm driving along in my lane, and you are driving along in your lane - either to my left or my right - just ahead of me. Then, noticing an open space (sometimes a questionably open space) in front of my vehicle, you suddenly appear in my lane. You don't need to send smoke signals or place an announcement in the local newspaper. You just need to use your turning signal.

By not using your turning signal you are assuming that I can either read your mind and/or that I am not going to suddenly accelerate, thus making your sudden movement into my lane dangerous. I say "and/or" because if I were of the jackass-driver variety, even if I could read your mind and knew you were about to change to my lane, I'd speed up anyway.

Of course, there is the instance that your turning signal light is not working and you are not aware of it. I understand this because this has happened to me, and I've gone weeks - maybe even months - imposing myself onto other lanes without proper announcement. (Usually, I don't even realize this is the case until I go in for an oil change or an inspection.) Then, yes, I may be that driver whom you curse at and write MySpace letters to.

But let's just suppose that your turning signal light is not working and you are aware of this fact. I would suggest replacing the light or using arm signals the way you were taught in driver's ed. If I had to guess, however, you are more likely the driver whose turning signal light is working, and you just don't choose to use it. What makes you choose not use it? Does it take too much work to flick the lever with your hand, or maybe even your thumb or pinky if you are already holding a 7-11 Big Gulp or a cell phone? Or perhaps you've got cause-and-effect all mixed up.

I've seen you do it. You change lanes, then use your turning signal after the fact. Or you're impulsive. You decide to change lanes so quickly that you simply do not have time to use your turning signal. Or maybe you don't even know where your turning signal switch is located. Or you're not even aware of its existence.

Whatever the situation may be, this is my request to you: please use your turning signal if it is in working condition, if you know where the switch is located, and before you actually change lanes.

Thank you,
Undercover Mexican Girl

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HOT DOGS AND PAWN SHOPS

2007-09-25T13:40:00.000-07:00

On Sunday, we went for a drive to Montopolis Supply in search of gutter materials for the deck. Just before taking the on-ramp onto the freeway, a canoe in front of the pawn shop caught Shand's eye. Being a lazy day, we pulled over. In the front parking lot, amidst bicycles and lawnmowers and the featured canoe, the owner of the pawn shop had set up a smoker where he was grilling carnitas and hot dogs. He offered us hot dogs and cokes, perhaps in hopes that we would purchase the canoe. After looking at the guitars and amplifiers inside, we went to claim our free hot dogs. We weren't hungry, but who passes up a free hot dog?

And there I stood, with a hot dog in one hand and a Hill Country Fair Cola in the other, in front of a pawn shop, a couple of doors down from a Lutheran Church, at the foot of a ramp to highway that connects to one of the largest north-south Interstates.

This is America.

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WHAT YOU HEAR ON TEJANO RADIO

2007-09-23T17:04:00.000-07:00

You hear the typical oompah-oompah rancheras about drinking and revenge and the vaquero's sorrowful ballads about losing his pretty woman. You hear the radio announcer shout names of songs and the name of the station as if he were broadcasting a soccer game. And then you hear some interesting commercials.

This Western Union commercial, paraphrased from its original Spanish, was played on Mother's Day:
Voice 1 -I wanted to send a greeting to my mother in Coahuila.
Voice 2 - My beautiful wife and son are in Jalisco, and I wanted to say hello to to them.
Narrator - If you want to do something special for your wife or mother this mother's day, wire money through Western Union!

The following commercial did not identify the name of the speaker, the product, or the company. The narrator spoke in a British accent:
Do you want to know how to get rich? When I was 17 years old, I bought my first property - without a penny to my name! Now I am wealthy! Call this number to get your free tape, and find out how you, too, can get rich!

Think about who is primarily listening to this radio station. Most likely, Mexicans. Tejano music is border music, so most likely Mexicans who have recently immigrated to this country. And even more likely, struggling to get by. The Western Union commercial is obvious. Wiring money back to relatives left behind in Mexico is common, and Western Union is one of the largest businesses providing this service. (If you're reading this and believe that the Mexicans are depleting our economy, I would like to point out that it is not only the Mexicans who are taking their money south of the border. You might want to consider that red-blooded Americans contribute to this depletion as well. Read Mike Davis' article.)

Getting back on topic - it's the second commercial that was most interesting. It stinks so much of scam, it does not even bother to identify itself, except by an accent that is strangely reminiscent of Robin Leach. It's simply banking on the fact that the listeners might be desperate enough to make money by any means. That the listeners might not be able to discern between a legitimate product or a mysterious free cassette tape that will make you rich! Without a penny to your name!

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MERCADO DE PULGAS (OR THE FLEA MARKET)

2007-09-23T16:50:00.000-07:00

About a month ago, S and I wanted to explore one of the local flea markets. Where we come from, out west in California, we call them swap meets. We picked the one on East Highway 290 - we had been informed it was one of the largest flea markets in the area. It sure was.

If I had to imagine the layout of the flea market from an aerial view, it would be like an octopus. The halls stemming from the entry way seemed to go on forever and loop back unto themselves, so after miles and miles of walking, we seemed to be right back where we started but from one of three or four different perspectives.

Mostly, we found discount (= tacky) clothing and shoes, used hardware/tools/electronics, gaudy home decor, Tejano music and DVDs, fried food, spicy Mexican candy, old-style kitchenware for making salsas and tamales, fresh produce, curandera curios, and a few authentically antique item booths. Among our favorite finds were the following...

Moving pictures featuring waterfalls, underwater sea life, night-time city skylines, and beach paradises:

Tawdry lingerie such as sequined, butterfly-crotch panties:

The confederate guy selling racist antiques such as "White Colored Folks Only" plaques and mamie figurines:

But we did not go home with any of these items. Instead, we walked away with a sleeping lawn Mexican, a Mexican flag bandanna, and a framed picture of a saint to ward off bad spirits. I had really wanted to find a DVD - or even a videotape - of young Pedrito Fernandez movies.

For those of you who do know who he is, Pedro Fernandez was born on September 28 in Guadalajara, Jalisco, Mexico in 1969. His birth name was Jose Martin Cuevas Cobos. He made his film debut in 1979 when producer Ruben Galindo gave him his first oportunity in the production "La Nina de la Mochila Azul" where he started his career. He changed his name to Vicente Fernandez, because of his music idols Pedro Infante and Vicente Fernandez. He is also a singer with more than 25 LPs in a 20 year music career. (NOTE: Although he changed his name to Vicente Fernandez, he is NOT to be confused with the original Vicente Fernandez.)

Well, not a single Mexican running the DVD booths knew who Pedrito Fernandez was. I mean, come on. He was a legendary teen star in the 1980s in Mexico.

Pedrito Fernandez revolutionized sexy for young Mexican teens. No other 12-year-old boy could pull it off better than him.

But, lest I forget. He was an icon in MEXICO. Not in TEJAS. And thus continues the saga of Undercover Mexican Girl...

Go see for yourself. The Flea Market, that is.
9500 E Hwy 290Austin, TX78724-2316
Phone: (512) 928-2795
Hours: Sat-Sun 10am-6pm

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CYCLING AND CUTTING

2007-09-23T16:33:00.000-07:00

I dream vividly right before waking, but the sound of the weatherman's voice always cuts my dreams short at 6:00 AM. The details come back to me in the shower, the place I go to immediately after getting out of bed. Maybe it's the therapeutic, steamy droplets of water upon the back of my head that induce memories of my dream. But once I get out of the shower into the madness of coffeemaking, dressing, lunchpacking, toothbrushing, and buscatching, the details of the dream elude me. This morning, I promised myself I would remember as much of it as possible and record it once I got the computer.

As I clicked on "post a new blog entry," I sadly discovered I couldn't remember any of it. But all I needed was one image to remember. And then it came to me. The bicycle.

In the dream, I was going to take my bicycle on a long, unfamiliar ride. Perhaps from my house to work. But I ended up starting the ride in my old work neighborhood - in the park behind where the violin shop used to be. I started on the bike, but then, it was no longer a bicycle. I was invisibly hovering over a tiny pair of grooming scissors, and the only way to propel myself forward was to keep snipping. Snip, snip, snip.

For whatever the reason, I needed to cut through a private property. I hovered past a garden covered in a sheath made of dryer fabric softener sheet material. I had to keep snipping, though, so I cut through the sheath, tearing through the material that protected this garden. I kept going until I hit a green, wrought iron fence. At that point, I could no longer snip. I appeared physically in the dream, and I needed to get over the fence.

As I hopped over the fence, I had some trouble hoisting myself up, and I could not do it quickly enough. A cop car drove by and automatically suspected me as a trespasser. He asked me if I was trying to break in. I tried to explain, as logically as I could, that I was trying to get out, and that I was trying to ride my bike and had accidentally cut through this garden.

He did not regard me as entirely innocent, but perhaps my story was bizarre enough that he did not handcuff me. He took me inside the house where I once again tried to explain my story. He seemed somewhat sympathetic, but still uwilling to let me go free. He pulled out a piece of stationery from his pocket. It was a dull yellow with little brown decorative swirls or flowers. Maybe the kind of stationery I would have owned as a little girl in the 1970s. He asked me to write a note of apology to the owner of the house.

As I began writing, I found myself completely absorbed in the notewriting, suddenly inspired to write a masterpiece of an apology. I think I wanted to prove everyone wrong. I wanted to prove the cop wrong. I wanted to prove the homeowner wrong.

It took so long to write, that the homeowner came by. She was a middle-aged woman, upper middle-class, and I think at at first she was surprised to see a stranger and a cop in her house. The cop explained what I was doing, and she seemed comfortable with letting me stay to finish my note. I talked to her, too, and the more I talked to her, the more she found me somewhat amusing. Now the cop felt on the outside of the loop. He kept trying to talk to me authoritatively, and he stole glances at the woman to see if she was empathizing with him or with me. She was empathizing with me. He left the house.

The woman and I talked and talked, even as her family members came home, and she went about making dinner and doing chores. I kept trying to finish my note, and I kept running out of paper. And the paper I'd already written on kept getting thinner, and smaller, wearing away to fragile, brittle leaves.

Toward the end of the dream, I was helping out on the woman's farm that was behind the garden I'd cut through. She explained to me that they were a farming family, and they believed in hard work. Apparently, in order to pay for my garden-cutting crime, I was now in some type of indentured servitude. But I was not working alone. I was working side by side with the woman and her family. Then it began snowing. The snow was thick and dense. The children referred to it as popcorn.

Then the alarm clock went off.

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