I’ve never written a blog before. That’s a lie. I scribble some on my MySpace page whenever I get the proverbial “wild hair” up my proverbial “ass.” But now I think that I’ve got a whole bunch of wild hairs up my ass and it’s time I share them with the world.

Example of wild hair, but mine are up my ass.

A little about me, I’m a lot like a Manwich, simple but complex. More than a meal, but not worthy of Grey Poupon. You can use a fork and a knife, or just dive on in. I don’t care. In future columns, I’ll be sharing my take on the world, my thoughts on getting married, and my celebration of the general idiocy that parades in front of me on an almost daily basis. But since the four of you who read this page demand more biographical information on your favorite LCP member, I suppose I should let you know about how my relationship with our fair city all started.

I came to know Austin as a kid in the 80s shortly after my dad decided that heading north on 35 from the Rio Grande Valley to the Capital city was his destiny. I traveled up to visit in the summers after my parents divorced. He wasn’t the best dad, in fact he was a real prick, but he showed me Austin in all of it’s Slacker/Bubba laden glory. Back then we had festivals that were a bit low-fi in comparison to ACL Fest. Splat the Cat was a festival that celebrated the painting of a dead cat on one of the major roads in Austin. Aquafest was a big ol Austin style hoot nanny with boats, Frisbee catching dogs, and live music. I remember heading back to the Edinburg thinking “Why can’t we have festivals about crappy city services or a festival on a lake with no real point to it?” I was smitten. Shit yeah!

Oooh. Data.
Those days are gone now, and after having spent the last 15 years in this city as an adult, I’ve noticed that the people have changed. The locals that have grown up here are in hiding because a buttload of uncool people, much like myself, have invaded their stomping grounds. I’ve personally kept a tally of all the native Austinites I’ve met in person since 1992. My count is up to 17. Actually, I met a girl the other day who made 18.

Bubba is lost. I feel you, my brother.

Back in the day I would hang with the local young hip folk of the city at NorthCross Mall believe it or not. We were all playing video games at the Gold Mine, watching movies, ice skating, and playing basketball at the Oshman SuperPlex thingy. Today, they are building a Wal Mart there. It also doubles as the saddest mall in the world. Every city has one of these, but not one that I know of has fallen from grace so violently as has NorthCross.

El Centro Mall in Pharr TX was the mall that boasted “Come Walk a Mile, at El Centro Mall” after a fancier shopping center called La Plaza Mall opened just down the street in McAllen. They didn’t even want you to shop at El Centro. At this point, they just wanted you to come and get in some cardio to keep the employees from hanging themselves, or gorging themselves on Orange Julius and pretzels.

NorthCross in 10 years. Gacho!
Had NorthCross just employed some sort of fitness outreach program, perhaps things would be different? Today, what’s left of it serves as the home to 2-3 decent businesses and a great place to see a wicked match of Magic: The Gathering or Pokemon.

That’s it.

Hooray for progress? I guess. But take a long look at the “warehouse district.” Gone are the stoner slackers, alt-punk rockers, and salt of the earth types. In their place are a bunch of merlot sipping out of towners that look like Nordstroms ralphed on them. In a lot of ways it looks like Dallas took a dump in downtown Austin. Don’t even get me started on The Domain.

The Domain: Austin Release 2.0
My lordy. The Domain. If there was ever a place to practice your hand grenade tossing skills. That would be it. Did you know that you can live there? Seriously. You can live in an open air mall. Buying a condo above the Gap just west of JC Penny’s inside Barton Creek Mall isn’t too far off.

The sad thing is that such a place today would sell in this city for about 350k.

I miss the bubbas. I miss the frantic pursuit of skipper pins for Aquafest. I miss the time when we didn’t take ourselves so damn seriously. Why should we? Nobody else does.

“Keeping it Weird” never felt so put on. Let’s hope “Keepin It Typical” doesn’t end up on a tie dye shirt anytime soon.

Ooops. Too late.

Halloween fell on a Wednesday this year and like a lot of other couples all over the world, I had the age-old debate of whether I should go out that night without my boyfriend (who, unlike me, had to be at work early the next morning) or not to go out. You know what I say to that? Sure, go out… but be careful!

The nice thing about going out with your significant other is that you can look out for each other and, maybe, even have a safe ride home. Well, that night I had neither of those things. I did, though, know where the party was. And there’s nothing this girl loves more than a house party with good music.

Now, I have heard urban myths about people putting razor blades in apples; but, frankly, that really just seems very unlikely.

Plus, all it would do is slice your mouth open. That kind of thing heals. Poison, on the other hand, seems much scarier.

The only candy at this party was Tootsie Rolls (which are lower in fat than other chocolate candies) located in the original bag inside the freezer. So, I ate two. Two Tootsie Rolls that I came to find out had been tampered with- not with poison, exactly, but with hallucinogens.

Like the jingle says…”Whatever it is I think I see…becomes a Tootsie Roll to me.”

At least there weren’t babies inside!

Moral of the story? Get to know your host. Ask questions. Don’t eat things that can be unwrapped and re-wrapped with no indication of such. Some urban myths are based in truth. And go out and go home WITH your boyfriend.

On another note, I came across this- which cannot be real but is nonetheless sickly amusing.

I hope you all had a fun and safe Halloween.
Stay tuned for my next adventure!

Always,
Danu

My wife and I had a baby a few months ago (don’t ask me when; what am I, your detail-keeper?). We were warned during the pregnancy, a bit late really, that having kids was a sure way to kill any comedic talent I might have cultivated over the years with LCP.

What comedian do you know that got funnier after they had kids? Bill Cosby? All right, Theo was OK, but Lisa Bonet, Vanessa, Rudy and that girl that was Rudy Lite later in the series were dead weight. Think how much funnier Bill Cosby might have been if instead of telling long-winded stories about grounding his children and making faces for the pudding-eating set he’d been riffing on banging hot chicks and doing lots of heroin? That would have been the best sitcom ever.

The thing is, people like Mical Trejo (motto: “I hate that”) gave me the same warnings before I got married, before I bought a house and before I let a man deep inside my heart. (It was Matt Saracen from “Friday Night Lights,” if you must know.)

I don’t think I lost my sense of humor just because I got older and did grown-up things. In fact, I added to my repertoire. Check this out:

Knock knock

Who’s there?

FHA loan

FHA loan who?

FHA loan at a fixed 30-year rate. Beeyatch.

See? Hilarious. I still got it.

Anyway, the reason I’m not so worried is that soon, I won’t be alone. Guillermo is having a kid any day now and knowing what I know about the ladies of LCP, I can’t imagine they won’t all be knocked up within weeks.

Trejo’s getting married next year, Nick is practically living out the sitcom Mad About You (you may not have heard of it; white people used to watch it), and I have no doubt that Adrian has a string of bastard children in every state in the Southwest.

We are Latinos (even Nick). We can’t help but have a bunch of babies. Our sperm is coated with a special adhesive that bonds to any nearby Latina egg for miles. You know those Scrubbing Bubbles from those old TV commercials that attacked everything in site? That is what our sperm acts like!

So I take comfort in the fact that I won’t be the only unfunny fucker in this comedy troupe. In fact, we’re on track to be the unfunniest group of performers since Cedric the Entertainer’s sketch show went off the air.

Halloween passed through my house this year with nothing more than a yawn. I watched some lame NBA game while my fiancée’ studied. We could hear one kid scope out our place since they saw lights on, but they decided to move on to homes that had crap in their yard announcing “free candy.”  For some people, there is no choice. Some people can’t give out candy even if they wanted to. I don’t speak of the poor, but a class of people much lower on the totem poll. I speak of the second class citizens in our neighborhoods known as “Registered Sex Offenders.”

More ticks than treats here.

Fox News (always good for a laugh) told us of the plight of RSOs everywhere. Halloween is a apparently a busy time for probation officers as they scurry to RSOs homes to make sure they are not celebrating Halloween in any form whatsoever. No candy, no costumes, no answering the door (which must make check ups difficult), no decorations to lure unsuspecting children into their homes via Bit-o-Honey, or some “fun sized” chocolate bar.

A perv’s potential calling card

It doesn’t matter if you were tricked into oral sex with a minor (believe you me, it’s difficult to tell these days) or perhaps you were caught stuffing sheep hooves in your boots at an A&M pep rally? You get no trick or treat. You get a quiet night alone in your home while your entire neighborhood celebrates a pagan holiday.

Busted!!

Some probation officers check round the clock on RSOs as if to suggest that once the officer leaves their home, the RSO might hurry to the restroom to slap on a costume and begin molesting kids instantly. How shitty is your life if you spend Halloween checking up on others to make sure they are not celebrating it? Fuck that. I wonder if the probation officer calls up these RSOs and says “Hey, I just wanted to make sure you’re still a miserable sack of shit, and not scoping out all these cute kids outside your door. It’s crazy out here!”

Going to this house? Perfectly legal.

I could argue that there is no better time to visit your local RSO than Halloween. Don’t children usually have parents with them when they are trick or treating? If little Timmy wanders over to an RSO house, do you think that RSO is going to just abduct him in broad moonlight? C’mon. These guys are pros. There is a fine line between shooting fish in a barrel and stepping on a land mine. RSOs know the difference. Trust me.

So, next year when you walk around your neighborhood and your wee one says “let’s go to that house without any lights on. It looks scary.”  Explain to them that there is no candy to be had there, but gently rap on the door anyway. I’ll be on the other side listening, wishing I could give your kid a full sized Butterfinger.

Jump the fence kid. I gots candy!