Bring Your Own Blanket

Austin has a plethora of free things to do around town, especially in the summer, most of which I have no idea even exist; I just kind of do what my friends tell me to do.

So when AP asks me to go to Blues on the Green, I'm like, "Yeah, but how do we smuggle in the booze?" But you don't HAVE to smuggle in beer, you just walk in with your blanket and your beer and set up camp with your friends on the beautiful green grass and watch free blues. (Hence, Blues on the Green.)

Enter shit ton of hippies, dogs, blankets, frisbees, drugs and a load of alcohol. They should change the name to Blues on the Drunk. And since it's summer in Austin and it's about 117 degrees Fahrenheit at the park, all you really want to do is lie down on your blanket, pull your shirt up and take a nice little nap. That's about the time your friends take your camera out of your purse and start taking erotic/embarrassing photos of you.

Friends on the Green.

Nap on the Green.

Erotica on the Green.

Mikey.

Trying to regain any dignity before Leaving the Green.

How a Mechanical Bull Can Ruin Your Jealous Relationship

One of my favorite radio stations in town sponsored a free screening of Urban Cowboy at the Alamo Drafthouse last night... so three of my favorite things all rolled into one! They even had free Lone Star and koozies and stuff, so I made a pretty good haul. And the theater didn't fill up but they had bought enough beer for the whole place, so don't worry, I drank what was left over. It's pretty embarrassing having to go to the bathroom three times during a two hour movie.

Then there was this gorgeous man who was also alone who sat directly behind me and I didn't have enough gumption to sit beside him. What a pansy! But I know when I go to the theater alone, it's so I can be alone... so, I didn't want to interrupt his evening by himself. Plus, I shed a tear or two (naturally) and no woman wants a cute boy to see her cry.

Urban Cowboy is simply amazing. Despite the terrible attempt at Texas draws and His and Her floral button downs, it's one of my favorite movies. John Travolta is an old fave of mine; he is the BEST bad guy, and no matter how humiliating it is to hear him hit high notes with Olivia Newton John, I could watch Grease all day long. And of course, Pulp Fiction is right behind Lonesome Dove for me. I think I probably quote PF once a day either to someone who will know what I'm talking about or to myself.

There's so much to say about this movie, too. I miss English classes and gabbing about this stuff with people who care so I have to bore the internet world with my crap about antagonists and protagonists, etc, etc. What's so funny is that neither of the men in the story are all that great; both Bud and Wes knock around Sissy a little bit. And while we all want to hate Pam for being a selfish whore, she's wonderful! Not only is she gorgeous, she has amazing style and in the end, does Bud right by letting him go. What a knockout.

I still feel like she's got nothing on Sissy....

Debra Winger doesn't wear a stitch of makeup in this film and still manages to look beautiful.

I think the reason I love this movie so much is because I totally relate to both Bud and Sissy. Stubborn, hard headed, prideful people who sabotage their own relationships? This is not an unfamiliar story. Sissy is a willful woman who wants to prove her strength and Bud is intimidated to the point of jealousy. Enter mechanical bull...ends badly.

People, don't let a metal bucking machine ruin your lives.

On Anger

I'm not sure if it's because I'm a woman or my mother's daughter, but I have a tendency of bottling up my emotions and keeping them at bay until the most ridiculous occurrence sets them off. I can deal with shit from people all week long (bartender extraordinaire) then come home and my roommate's craft project for her villain costume party will be lying around, right next to a bottle of syrup and Barefoot Contessa homemade cookies, and roommate will be nowhere in sight. Then I flip out. Or I'm putting on my eyeliner and the end breaks off, I flip out. Or a hanger gets stuck on another hanger. Then I really flip out.

What is wrong with me? one might ask. Who knows. I dare say I should work on it. But instead, I've found a seemingly healthy way to deal with my pent up rage. I put on a little classical music on my record player, blast it as loud as the sad little speaker system can allow, and clean the shit out of my house.

Yesterday, I found something on Facebook that made me want to cry and scream, but I couldn't (what is that, when you can't cry?) and instead of going to work angry and destructive, I evoked this little method and soon enough, after a bit of shoving clothes into my drawers, the fit was over and all's well that ends well.

On a lighter, less angry note, I joined match.com.

Whaaaaaatttttttt?????

I know. My roommates made me. Let's just say it's going to be a little experiment. And plus, being a pretty girl and all, I just kind of have to sit back and see what happens. Or who presents themselves. It's like online shopping. And instead of going to a bar where T.I. is bumping and you might end up talking to some joker wearing an Affliction shirt, (or if you're me, get into a fight) you don't have to waste your time with said joker for twenty minutes, only to find out that he adores Lady Gaga and has three chihuahuas.

So all you ladies who are curious, I'll let you know how the experiment is panning out. So far, only about a dozen creepers have "winked" at me, but three Baldwins have emailed me. However, that's out of the nine, most of which were fairly redneck.

Who would have thought that I would attract a redneck?

...Googled "redneck" to add to this post, here are just a few findings. Good stuff, these rednecks.

Redneck timeout.

Rednect protest.

Wedding announcement. Didn't use match.com

Shell Station Slash Pet Groomers

Been running on empty for about eight days now so I decided it might be time for a "fill 'er up." So I stop at the Shell station on the way home from work.

My family and I have an affinity for nice gas stations. I guess because Hometown is a big truck-stop town and the gas stations are mostly huge and luxurious. And there aren't any "NO LOITERING" signs around. Feel free to loiter your ass off. Alyssa and Kerley will spend twenty to thirty minutes at a nice gas station. Gas, Copenhagen, Slim Jims, lottery ticket, and playing grab-ass at the pump; I've never seen them get along so well as when they are at the station.

Der Kleine familie Kerley...

So needless to say, based on my rearing, I am accustomed to spacious stations; and upon moving to Austin and discovering that most gas stations are small pieces of shit, I try not to spend too much time in any of them.

And here's why: Shell Station #4115 (or whatever) on North Lamar is also moonlighting as a dog washing and grooming store. Or so it would seem, for when I stroll up to the counter to pay for my $26 in gas, the Asian store owners are cleaning a shih tzu in the sink and there's Kibbles and Bits snacks on the counter by the register. But based on the large amount of watermelon rinds on the barstool and laundry scattered around, one might think that Mom and Pop Shell are taking up permanent residence at the gas station.

"There's a Snake in my Boot!"

It's always nice to get all dolled up and go out to dinner and drinks with your boyfriend, so when you don't have a boyfriend, why should one be pried of this luxury? You shouldn't.

I recently won one hundred big ones from a beer selling contest at work and my good friend Keith was forced into drinking said beers for one whole month (instead of the comfort of his usual Miller Lite), so I decided to take him out to dinner and show my appreciation for his friendship.

Right before he came to pick me up, a passing lawn maintenance man knocked on the door and asked roomie if he could mow the lawn (my job), to which she replies no thanks. On his way off, he says, "Oh by the way, there's a black snake in your yard."

Roomie seems to show no kind of emotion toward this conversation and goes on to her room where she shouts "Bye, have fun! There's a snake in the yard!"

Me: "Pardon me?"

Big black snake, to me, means chicken snake. Not okay. But why on earth would there be a chicken snake in my jungle yard? Are there chickens nearby? I have no idea. People have been starting their own coops in town, it's been a big issue in the paper, so perhaps it could be a chicken snake. What if it's a black mamba? Just kidding, but for real. I don't like where this is going. I've had a few encounters with snakes before, namely large black ones, and I hate to see history repeat itself.

Roomie (from Michigan, I might add): "What's the big deal? This is Texas. There are snakes in Texas."

Me: "Yes, but not in my yard."

I go out and grab a shovel. This sonofabitch is going to die. Dangerous or not, no snakes allowed in MY yard. Poor Keith pulls up to my house to find me, baby doll dress on, yielding a shovel and standing perched on the porch overlooking the yard in hopes to find this self-entitled bastard of a snake and chop its stinking head off. It's a good thing this wasn't a blind date.

So we went on to wine and dine, (the snake never showed his lousy neck) downtown at Sullivan's and Perla's on South Congress. Oysters, calamari, vodka, crab cakes, and steak later, we called up our pals to meet us at the saloon and overall had a rip-roaring time.

At the end of the night, my Michigan roommate beat your very own country girl in a thrilling game of arm wrestle, I am ashamed to admit. Let's blame it on the booze.

A chicken snake. Bastard.

Bar Tales from the Crypt

Per my Roommate #2's request, I am going to start relaying hilarious bar stories. The people that hang out at my bar are a bunch of characters. So why not write about and take advantage of their unfortunate lives?

To begin, or really just as a sneak peak, Brad and Eric and I were discussing ideal ways to die. There's the ever popular death in your sleep of course (too good to be true), drowning; peaceful as well, but how do we really know this, it's not like anyone can vouch for it... and then there's stabbing, shooting, burning alive, and the less popular, death by Marky Mark.

?

I have no idea.

And have no idea how any of these conversations get started. Much of them: "remember that time we took acid in Arizona and stopped at that bar..." I hear a lot. And now, I'm going to share those much coveted stories. Aren't you excited? More to come.

Also, you think Mark Wahlberg conveniently forgot he used to drop his pants at every concert, not to mention, rap?

Grazing: Good for Cattle, Bad for Bartenders

Before I begin, its important to know a couple of things about me (which if you know me, you already know very well).

One, I like to eat. Anything and everything. I get pretty excited about food.

Two, I am not a huge fan of the marijuana. I've done the whole college thing; been there, done that, not a fan. That's not to say I hate pot, it's just not my thing. Smoke your heart out, I'll drink a beer or two with you. Pick your poison.

So this weekend I had a lot going on: friends and sister in town, Willie Nelson's Fourth of July Picnic on Sunday, sun poisoning, dehydration, etc, etc. And Monday, I had to get up and go to work at what felt like 4:00 AM (actual time, 10 AM). My shift turns out to be pretty dull, not a lot going on, so I start cleaning wildly; throwing away things that I think have been at the bar too long, finding lost bar tools... a veritable cleaning frenzy. Along the way I find a perfectly cut, rectangular, homemade fudge brownie. I become elated.

Me, by myself, upstairs at the bar: "Hell yes! Some dumbass left their freaking brownie up here and I am going to eat the crap out of it! Allllriiiiigghhhhhtttt."

Ask around, "Does anyone know whose brownie this is, cause I'm gonna EAT it."

No one seems to give a rat's ass about the brownie, so I dig in. It's delicious. About half-way through the best brownie I have ever eaten, I begin to hear a small voice inside my head.

Conscience: "Brynnan? What the hell are you doing? Are you suddenly the dumbest person alive? Where did you get this brownie? That's right, you FOUND it. Who eats a 'found' brownie? Put the brownie down. Dumb. Ass."

Two hours later, I fumble down the stairs to head out to a movie with ex-boyfriend, and receive a text from fellow co-worker: "You bitch, you ate my brownie!"

Not good. This can only insinuate that this brownie was some sort of "special" brownie. And here is when I go through the stages one feels after eating something one thought was harmless and turns out said food is laced with drugs.

Denial: No way that was a pot brownie. It didn't smell like anything strange. And anyway, I feel fine! Don't I feel fine? Why am I stomping the ground like this and jerking my arms around?

Anger: WHY ME?! WHO LEAVES A POT BROWNIE AT THEIR PLACE OF WORK?! WHY DID I EAT A STRANGE BROWNIE I FOUND AT THE BAR!? WHO DOES THAT?!

Bargaining: Maybe if we go back upstairs, ex-boyfriend can eat the rest of the brownie and in two hours, he will feel equally as strange as I do right now.

Depression: I just want to go home and lie down. My life is pointless right now. This movie is going to suck. I can't concentrate on anything right now. I would sooner die.

Acceptance: Screw it. This is going to be a good night.