Best Dining Alone Experience Ever

Her name is Emma. She is definitely super flirty. I wonder if that's her schtick?

Every time I said "Thank you" she would do a 180, look me square in the eye, and say, "No, thank YOU!!!!" And seriously, she was saying it like she meant it. Every time she wasn't serving another table, she would come over and talk to me. She was really excited about my Manhattan Portage bag (she has the same one apparently), and had a good chat about The Men Who Stare at Goats (the book I'm reading). When she brought me the check she got all flustered because someone had just stolen her pen, so I told her not to worry, I had one in my bag. She gently placed her hand on mine and said, "Thank you so much."

Oh well, in any case, I totally fell for it. Left her a 50% tip. Totally going back next Wednesday for more.

92 Octane Produce

There is something very wrong with the world when a major urban gas station adds fresh fruits and vegetables for sale. Perhaps ExxonMobil thinks I'd like to throw a tomato in my tank for the tiger.

GreeneCine -> GreenCine

GreenCine
In the event Netflix lacks your desired selection.... I hear this place is good.

When the Blogger Blogs, Can the Employer Intervene?

When the Blogger Blogs, Can the Employer Intervene?
Or, The New York Times on why you may be unwise to to publish online rants about your workplace. The key words "at-will" employment.

Hip Austin Journalists Fuzzy on Curry

Today, as I was surreptitiously snacking on my co-worker's leftovers in the office kitchen (hey I was hungry and I only took a couple of bites), I noticed a particularly hip colleague left a copy of the new AC publication, the younger, hipper version of the aging Austin Chronicle. I am marginally disturbed by the premiere issue's take on Podcasting, wherein the young scribe devotes an entire paragraph to his disbelief that he can't remember Adam Curry, renowned "godfather of Podcasting," from his days as an MTV VeeJay. Dude, seriously, don't stress. You probably just don't recognize him because he no longer has big frizzy 1980s hair.

Sarah Vowell

I stopped by BookPeople this evening for Sarah Vowell's appearance. Since I arrived a few minutes after the author launched into a reading of her new book about presidential assasinations (can you believe this is a humor book?), the gatekeeper bookseller ushered me to an elevator near the back, clearly a design for latecomers to prevent disruptions. After obsessing about Peter Gallagher's eyebrows for 30 minutes, Ms. Vowell fielded questions from the audience. One woman (whom I could hear but not see because of the sea of bookshelves blocking the way) became quite confrontational and accused her of "blowing her off" in a previous visit when she asked a question about David Letterman. Why would you venture to an author's booksigning only to confront her about a perceived snub from a previous reading appearance? Sometimes people are so inappropriate.

Ms. Vowell asked me if I agreed she had the right to withhold her father's cannon from use in Hunter S. Thompson's funeral (it was announced this week that his estate plans to blow his ashes from a cannon, a concept perhaps popularized in one of Ms. Vowell's published essays). I think my friend was unimpressed that I supported her right to withhold the cannon from the media frenzy of Mr. Thompson's funerary arrangements... but on the other hand, I hope someone records this funeral. I'd like to see Hunter blasted from a cannon. If anyone could get away with that sort of gonzo funeral, he could.

Ode to Toshi

In recent weeks, my cable modem, which I rent from my cable service provider, has provided spotty service at best. Seemingly with a binary mind of its own, my trusty little toshiba box (herinafter sometimes referred to as "Toshi") would randomly, and without warning disconnect itself from the cable connection. Of course, this is one of those annoyances which is somewhere on my to-do list between feeding myself and cleaning my apartment. Probably closer in proximity on this particular list (which doesn't actually exist anywhere but in the rolodex of my brain) to cleaning my apartment.

Today, Toshi finally died. Disconnected from the Great Wide Web World and the poor thing just couldn't find a new connection. So I ripped her lifeline out of the wall, disconnected her umbilical cord from the RJ-45 jack, and rushed her to the emergency room at Time Warner Cable. Unfortunately, for poor Toshi, the doctor diagnosed her condition as beyond repair, and as compensation for my loss, produced a brand new, generic cable modem about the size of a pack of cigarettes. So, after mourning Toshi for 1/2 a second, I rushed home and reconnected this new addition to the household.

My new, as yet nameless, cable modem is at least 3 times faster than Toshi was in the prime of her life. Poor Toshi. You are junk, but you were useful. Welcome TWC2.01. You are my new friend.