infobong.com the absurd courts the vulgar

Today I picked up a copy of Vice Magazine’s “Guide to Austin”¹ and discovered that for once I’m ahead of the curve! One of the advertisments at “the front of the book” featured a photograph of a designer calculator watch. I’ve been wearing a calculator watch as a semi-ironic fashion statement for over a year, so it felt nice to see that someone thinks kids these days would think a calculator watch is cool.² The Paul Frank calculator watch looks suspiciously like my Timex 1440, but it costs three times as much. I think my authentic Timex watch is hipper than a designer version, but the young whipper-snappers of today seem to have little regard for authenticity.

1. Although I think Vice is a truly despicable publication, I have to admit that their SXSW compilation last year was quite good and introduced me to a bunch of semi-mainstream bands that I heard a lot over the year. If you can get your hands on the sampler (I found mine in Dobie Mall) pick it up.

2. I do think people in their early 20s are too young to remember calculator watches. My students last year had never seen one before. One student asked, “Did you order that from the back of Mad Magazine?”

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I’m sitting along the drag on Little City’s patio. Three burly college-age white guys dressed in thug style strutted past, looking tough. I noticed one was swinging a liter bottle of San Pellegrino mineral water as if it were a 40 or perhaps a bottle of Cristal. It was clearly a prop to extend his “thug” self-presentation. Yup, mineral water, that’s hard.

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This afternoon I was stopped at the intersection of Bannister Lane and the 290 access road, when I heard a particularly loud and rude honk. A disgusting duallie full-size pickup pulled up next to me. The driver had rolled down the passenger side window and shouted at me, “Packsaddle!”

I wondered if this was some kind of site-specific Dada performance poetry, but I switched off my radio and looked over at the man. “I’m sorry, what!” I shouted over the roar of the freeway.

“Packsaddle Pass!” he shouted again.

This made absolutely no sense, and the guy wasn’t helping me much. I asked again “What?” straining to hear him over the highway noise.

He looked very angry and frustrated and said, “Packsaddle!”

It occurred to me he might be lost. I calmly asked, “Are you looking for directions?”

“Yes! Packsaddle!”

“I’m sorry,” I explained, “I don’t know this part of town very well.” I was telling the truth. I had no idea where “Packsaddle” was. The man appeared to be very angry at me, grunted something unintellible, then slammed the gas, and stopped in the middle of the crosswalk. People who stop in the crosswalk really annoy me, and it didn’t help that this idiot was driving a full-size pollution-mobile. I mean, if he’s got the cash to buy a big, expensive truck, can’t he afford to buy a map? Or have the cultural capital to stop at a gas station for directions instead of harassing other motorists? Well, he’s obviously a creep for driving such a huge vehicle.

The light changed and traffic moved forward. I saw him get into the U-turn lane to head eastbound. Less than a quarter-mile later, I saw a green highway sign that read “Packsaddle Pass next signal.” If ole boy had a little bit of patience, he would have found his road anon.

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I was over at BookPeople looking for Bruce Sterlings’ Shaping Things earlier this afternoon, and just now I noticed that there’s a BookPeople sticker crookedly slapped on my bumper. I don’t know if this part of a guerilla marketing strategy on the part of BookPeople, or some juvenile delinquent stuck it on there for kicks, but I don’t really want a BookPeople sticker on my truck, especially when they couldn’t find my book. It won’t be too much trouble to peel it off, but this strikes me as uncool.

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I’m doing some work at The Green Muse, a coffeeshop in South Austin. I ordered a coffee for here and a side of hummus. The pretty young woman at the counter rang it up, and, with tax, it came up to be $4.04. “That will be four-oh-four,” she said.

While fishing through my wallet, I asked, “are all of your prices palindromes?”
She paused to think, smiled, and then said, “Oh yeah! I wish!”
She said that palindromes actually pop up quite a bit at the coffeeshop. “I’ll bet they follow you around, don’t they.”
“Only because I’m insane,” I explained.
“I find that the number fourteen follows me around,” she revealed, “Do any numbers follow you around?”
At this point, I wasn’t sure if she was making silly small talk, or if she genuinely thought numbers follow people. I told her that the number sixteen might follow me.
After asking me about my birthday, she told me she would bring my hummus out to me.

After setting up camp at a seat by the window, the woman came by with my hummus. She told me, “It’s good that you’re insane because sane is good and you want to be in sane, not out sane.”

“If this woman is kidding, she is really funny,” I thought to myself, “if she’s not, she’s pretty darn kooky.” I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to laugh or not, so I just smiled and nodded.

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Jon Lebkowsky has scanned and uploaded to Flickr a few images from his Fringeware days. Seeing the magazine covers brings back memories from college, when I used the magalog as a source of information about cyberculture and the Internet issue. I remember both issues seven and nine floating around my apartment in Norman. I think I picked them at the Hastings newstand, where I also got Might and Mondo 2000, both of which had an enormous influence on my interests and cultural viewpoint.

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I’m over at Clementine Coffee Bar, a new place that opened a block from my place on the East Side. I waited for its opening with bated breath, and I’m pretty disappointed. One of my biggest problems with the place is that it doesn’t provide enough room for people doing school work or using laptops; on the weekend it’s pretty much useless for doing work.

The temperature is also uncomfortable - as soon as I sit down I want to take off clothing to cool off. I walked in tonight and complained about how hot it is, the dude acted confused, saying “it’s only 74?” My mama always told me to keep the thermostat at 68F to save energy. I guess we’ve got America’s working class over in Iraq so Clementine can keep their shop yuckily warm. Turn off the heat and open a window!

During the day, there’s this barista who insists on trying to flirt with me. She’s cute, but I just want my damn cup of coffee.

The staff plays distractingly bad music: all of the music comes from a satellite radio receiver, ensuring our ears are treated to only the finest in corporate crap.

Finally and worst of all, it seems like the owners are trying to attract a gentrifying crowd. I still miss Sacred Cup and resent the awful El Chile for painting over the awesome “Our Lady of the Working Class” mural near the restroom. Clearly, Clementine is not my kind of place, and I should stop giving them my cash.

Update: I forgot to add that the coffee isn’t very good.

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