Zen and the Art of Halfway Done

Happy Birthday to Me. Today I am 48. As I mentioned already, if my grandmother's lifespan (94) is any indication of what I have to look forward to, then turing 48 means that today really is the first day of the rest of my life. I couldn't be more pleased.

For the past several days I have been writing in my heart a long, heartfelt, eloquent post about this occasion. The in-my-head version of how I feel though, is probably not going to see the backlight of a computer screen because instead I am going to hastily dash off a few thoughts, then I am going to hastily dash off and play.

It's barely 8 am and I am so excited I want to pee my pants. I am totally a little kid about my birthday. The universe, anticipating that mine would be a life full of Christmas trauma, attempted to make up for this in advance by handing me an immediately post-holiday celebration I could call my own. Sure, having a birthday right after Christmas means whatever gifts you get come from folks' pile of shit they forgot to return to the store for exchange-- like when I turned 16 and all my friends got birthstone rings except for me, I got a Stretch Monster. But I don't care. I don't even want gifts.

My Birthday Card

You know what I think I love most about today? It's MINE MINE ALL MINE-- mwahahahaha. I don't care how old you get, you can never fully outrun your childhood crap. I have eight siblings, which meant a lot of "sharing." Never mind that's technically it's not sharing if you're forced into it. And yeah, it's totally a first world problem to have to wear hand-me-down pants your whole life. Nonetheless, to have one day a year designated to oneself is a magnificent thing.

I've used this day in the past for all sorts of things-- to drink until vomiting, to honor others with Kick Ass Awards, to order four desserts at Chez Nous. A couple of hours ago, at around 6 am I think, Warren wandered into the bedroom after one of his late night awake spells. "Happy Birthday," he said to groggy me. "What are you going to do?"

I was so out of it I can't be sure what I said, but I think what I said is, "I don't have to do anything, it's like your field of dreams, I can just hang out and pretend."

Let me explain. Warren lives on a couple of acres that I am always proposing we use for one excellent purpose or another-- Let's build me a little house back there! Let's start a goat farm! Let's get a million chickens! Warren often responds enthusiastically to these ideas but after awhile I realize he had no real plans to act on any of them. He said that as long as he keeps those acres blank, he will always have the luxury of looking out on them and they can be something different every time.

Along those lines, I think I could sit in bed all day today and just imagine all sorts of celebration possibilities without actually executing any of them. Besides, I spent the past several days gearing up for today, pre-celebrating. As I've gotten older, and immersed myself more in Buddhist teachings, and deepened my meditation practice, I have tried hard to pay more and more attention to the wonders of my life. I cranked up that attention paying over the weekend festivities, noticing as much as I could every good part of every moment, which has left me plenty to savor today as I just sit here, under the quilts, feeling very, very happy.

On Friday I had dinner with friends who gave me an early birthday card fashioned out of a piece of cardboard so large that, I think, came wrapped around a billboard. Then I went to hear my friend Jim play at Jovita's, prompting a cascade of memories of other times I've heard Jim rock it, and another cascade of memories of all those nights I took Henry to hear Don Walser yodel back when he (Hen, not Don) was three. Henry, in his little vest and red Ropers, used to wander up to the stage with his stringless mini-guitar, stand next to Don, and play along-- easily one of my fondest memories of the first 48.

Paw rocks out on the keytar.

Saturday included-- as all my perfect days do-- a meditation and a long walk. I tried to watch TV since I just got cable turned on as an experiment, and I failed, which I'm pretty sure was not actually a failure. Then, even though I finally managed in 2011 to cut almost all seafood out of my diet, Warren and I went to Tam Deli so I could get a pre-birthday garlic shrimp sandwich, which I refused to feel guilty about-- this is the best sandwich in town and you all need to get one today, this I command you as the Birthday Princess. Post garlic shrimp,  we went to hear Southpaw play a hilarious set at Flipnotics, and here he unveiled the theme song he wrote for my KUT v-blog. Driving home I took a circuitous route so I could see if any Elvis movies were listed on the Paramount marquee (seeing as Elvis's bday was January 8th and they sometimes celebrate him there). No signs of Elvis, but this random route allowed us to bear witness to a massive dance party at the Capitol, where about fifty million people were belting out Bon Jovi's Living on a Prayer-- as if I needed any more reason to love Austin, TX.

Sunday I went to the funeral of my friend's mom. And even though funerals are, by their nature, tinged with sadness and full of mourners, this service was so beautiful. Incredible. Leona had been a Rockette, among other things. The tributes paid to her were many and gorgeous, in particular words spoken by her granddaughter who opened with a Rilke quote and eloquently went on to capture her grandmother's memory. May I recommend, as an annual exercise, that all of you attend a funeral right around your birthday, a good reminder that this is not a dress rehearsal. Post funeral I did East Side Yoga with some friends and then, as a counterpose to that, we ate East Side Pies-- if you haven't tried their curry pizza, you should get one of those right after you eat a garlic shrimp sandwich from Tam Deli.

Henry and his lady friend joined me for rainy day yoga-- K made me an amazing lemon  bday cake.

Monday I took my time getting up, using the rain as an excuse to hang out in bed with the dogs and read some more of Buddha Standard Time, a wonderful book that spells out clearly and smartly ways you can stop feeling rushed and start truly digging the moment. It was in that book that I read something Jung said about how we spend the first half of our lives developing ego and the second half is... uh... well I'm too lazy to go dig up that passage in the book, but what I took from it is that the second half is about setting that ego shit aside and getting out there and serving others and figuring out this Higher Self shit.

Toward that end, I had a lovely meeting with my friend Owen, who is crazy talented and hilarious and thoughtful. Owen volunteered with Hospice for years, and I was getting ready to turn in my application to work for Hospice, so I wanted to quiz him. He cheerfully offered up some tales about how, no matter how mightily you fly into a death-related situation with your superhero cape on, as in other stages of life you'll encounter plenty of the mundane in dying. Which doesn't mean there aren't profound moments-- and, if you think about the way we Westerners are fed the notion of death (resist, resist, resist!), having an opportunity to discover the mundane and see that it's part of the process just like the rest of living, well you know, that sounds pretty profound to me.

And speaking of mundane, after Owen and I parted ways, I headed to the laundromat. For the past couple of years I have lived dryer free, this despite jokes and bets by Warren and Henry that suggest I am going to break down and buy a new dryer one day. I am not. I love my clothesline. I love hanging up clothes. I love watching clothes dry while I wash the dishes (by hand, no dishwasher). I love smelling line-dried clothes. And given the drought, I hardly ever run into problems using the sun as my dryer. Yesterday was an exception and, eager to start my new year with all clean clothes and sheets, I decided I would go ahead and go to the mat to get that done.

I went to the laundromat over there at 43rd and Duval in Hyde Park. For years I used to live right across the street on Park Boulevard. That old rental house, now literally falling down, is where Henry spent his most formative years. And though we lived in several different places, I think, looking back over his life, that will be the place he most identifies as his childhood home. We used this laundromat countless times. And I remember when he was first old enough to cross the street and go check on drying clothes himself. That laundromat, like the Hancock HEB, is packed with old ghost memories for me, the spirit of little Henry everywhere. Far more than my own aging process, thinking about my son growing up-- from the little sack of potatoes I used to lug around and silence with a tit to the 6'2" young man who has to bend down to let me kiss him-- this is so much more a palpable measure of the passing of time for me than my own life, a wicked vivid signal of how very fast time truly passes.

Being in that laundromat moves me so much. Really, it was the perfect place to spend the last day of 47, the washer with its cycles and the dryers with all that tumbling lending cheesy but nonetheless apt metaphors for where I've been and where I'm going.

Happy My Birthday to You. It is so good to be alive.

Dear, Dear Time Warner: Fuck You! Love, Spike

FUCK YOU TIME WARNER!

Dear Time Warner,

I am writing this note to kill some time while I am on hold with your annoying automated system. I realize now, entirely too late, that when I was asked why I was calling by the Robobitch that picked up, I made a grave mistake in revealing the truth to her robo ears. “CANCEL SERVICE!” I shouted, and I admit there was a gleeful tone to my proclamation.

Robobitch, immediately getting even, dumped me into the queue where I was informed that call volume was very high and probably I should call back later. But you know what? I’m not calling back later. I don’t care if you put me on hold for forty-seven fucking hours. I will wait. I can’t wait to tell somebody that I will no longer be using your services.

In fact, as I type this, the extremely nice Grande guys are busily installing that service. Now, mind you, I know Grande is also a big company. And I also know if I have any hope of even finding a road sign indicating that enlightenment is just fifty million light years up that path, this will involve letting go of the Internet altogether. Admittedly, I’m not there yet. And so, lesser of evils, I have selected Grande.

Truth is, I actually called AT&T first, before I called Grande. Let me tell you about that. The other week, when you sent some dude out to turn the cable off at the house because I overlooked a $57 bill? And the dude turned the cable off even though I’ve been paying y’all out the ass for sixteen years? Well I don’t know if AT&T was listening in on my phone calls or what, but within a day or two of that exchange, they had a nice special offer in my mailbox—Internet for just $14.95 per month!

Even though I actually sometimes engage in marketing work to pay my bills and so should know better, I confess I fell for this bait-and-switch offer. I called up and proceeded to get wrapped up in a labyrinth of a discussion with the rep who said well actually… and before you know it, I had agreed to sign up for Uverse at around $80 a month for the first six months and then, I think, $8000 a month after that.

I guess if I were to be totally honest, I was kind of a prime candidate for this bait-and-switch. I made that phone call on one of the last days of 2011, and knowing that 2012 is an election year I admit I have been slobbering for access to the Daily Show. I don’t want to watch it on Hulu either. If I’m going to suddenly become all Stereotypical American and start watching TV, I want to do it right. I want what I want when I want it. And I WANT IT NOW!

Actually, it’s possible that the whole TV thing won’t last more than a month. I have tried so hard over the years to become a dedicated TV watcher but without the aid of a six-pack to keep my ass in the chair, I’m must more of a pacer. I like to wander the house. Being in one place for 28 minute stretches seems like too much (unless we’re talking about real stretches, as in yoga, in which case I can do 28 minute stretches). Still, I want to try this TV thing again. I have fond if slurry memories of my last foray into TV watching, as I was recovering from my hysterectomy, stuck in bed for weeks. It did dawn on me, around week six of recovery, that I only “needed” a Vicodin at around 4, the same time that LIFETIME played one of those movies with a plot involving a recently divorced or widowed middle-aged woman and the stranger she rents a spare room out to, a guy who invariably turns out to be a killer that she ultimately must dispatch swiftly with a rusty old handgun left behind by her husband, thus sparing other unsuspecting widows and divorcees. Oh I loved getting so high, eating a pint of ice cream, and clinging to the predictable but thrilling plotline.

But there was a problem. You see, my partner Warren is a TV addict. When that thing was on, he’d watch it constantly. Until one morning, when I walked into the bedroom to find him clutching it to his groin. When he saw me, he quickly muttered, “Uh, I was just going to move this to another room.” But a friend pointed out to me a more probably truth—Warren was trying to make love to our little television set. Understandably shaken to learn this, that’s when I killed cable TV last time.

Now, though, now here I go again. I can’t help it. The thought of hearing what Jon Stewart has to say about the Republican presidential candidates is too tempting. So yeah, I agreed to get Uverse. They said they’d send a dude right out, the very next day, between 1 and 3.

At a little before noon, dude calls to say he has arrived. I know it is totally a First World Problem to have a utility worker arrive EARLY, more so considering that usually they don’t show up at all, this after you cancel every single other appointment you have just to be there waiting, like the ugly girl on prom night who didn’t realize the guy who invited her was JUST KIDDING so she sits by the window til dawn, weeping into her frothy polyester dress. Any joy I had that he managed to show up at all was tempered by his early arrival and, more so, his attitude. (Aside: Hey, I wonder if ATT ever noticed those are the same first three letters in ATT-itude? Maybe that’s why their employees are so condescending?) Anyway, there I was, more annoyed than relieved that the AT&T guy wanted me to let him start work early. I had arranged my day to be there for the 1-3 slot, knowing I would have to stick around for at least 4 hours. Thus he was interrupting my schedule. When I suggested he go get some lunch and come back at the proper time, he informed me that he had lunch in a very, Look bitch, it’s now or never, kind of way.

FUCK YOU AT&T!!

Well, well, well can you say Mister Unpleasant? Mind you, he wasn’t a flat out raging asshole or clear-cut lunatic—this upsetting in its own right since I so enjoy pigeonholing people. But there was something annoyed and self-righteous about him, a vibe he gave off like I was so LUCKY that he deigned come by my house to do HIS JOB. Then he said I had to trim the bushes, something the woman on the phone never mentioned. I pointed out that, it being New Year’s Eve, the odds of getting a landscaper out to trim these bushes (that were so overgrown they were more like Redwood trees) were probably slim. He just stared at me like I was an idiot.

Fortunately, Warren and his troubleshooting friend came to the rescue, and offered to use a pair of nail clippers and some kindergarten safety scissors to trim the bushes. I set off on a walk with the dogs to calm my nerves. Then Warren called and said that the dude was now saying he needed access to a neighbor’s yard, and the neighbor wasn’t answering, but there was a dog in the yard, so all bets were off, he was leaving. And he left.

At that point, I was thinking two things:

Thing One: That neighbor is SUCH A BITCH. The day I came home from my hysterectomy, and Rebound busted through the back fence into her yard, I hobbled outside, literally doubled over in pain, to tell the neighbor I just had an organ removed and was sorry about the dog and would fix things as soon as I could stand up straight again. She just glared and said, “YOU NEED A NEW FENCE!” And then she watched while I attempted to nail the hole over with a board, never offering to help. And then, later when I got one, even though it divides both our properties, of course she didn’t chip in. So I knew there was no way she’ ever let the guy in, even if she was home.

Thing Two: Fuck that AT&T guy. I don’t need to put up with his shit. If he so clearly doesn’t want to do his job, then I don’t want him here giving me his shitty attitude.

Which is when I noticed that Grande—also apparently tapping my wires and listening in— had sent a special offer in the mail. Wow! How do these folks do it? So I called Grande and a human answered right away and when I told her what I wanted, she connected me to another human who also answered right away. And when I asked questions, that human knew all the answers. And then they said they’d send somebody out. And the window was from 9 til 1. And the guy got here at 9:15. And then the other guy got here. And they are here right now and they are rocking it. So there, Time Warner idiots! So there AT&T idiots!

DEAR GRANDE, WILL YOU MARRY ME? 

Meanwhile, I did call AT&T to cancel the order and, again, I made the error of telling a roboemployee that I wanted to cancel, which got me dumped into the go-to-hell queue, where I spent about forty minutes of my life I will never get back until I was finally connected to a human. At least when I did connect with her, she acted sympathetic. She even said she would make a note about the shitty attitude of the guy who came out to the house. I told her please do NOT do that because, really, would you want a stranger who knows where you live to know that you got him at trouble at work? Oh no, no thank you. I insisted that she just put down a generic reason for the cancel.

Anyway, Time Warner, since I started writing this, it “only” took y’all 18 minutes to get me through to a service person to cancel my service. And the Grande guys—who were nice and smart and helpful—have already finished up! Now the only thing upsetting me is that I didn’t call them sooner. I am trying to make up for this foolishness by encouraging all of my friends to set aside the necessary time to go ahead and switch internet services, switch banks, switch away from all the businesses that do not give a shit about their customers.

Au Revoir,

Spike

I've Got a Few Spaces Left in the Upcoming Six-Week Writing Workshop

So did you make a resolution to make more time to do what you really want to do in 2012? And does that include FINALLY sitting down and doing some writing like you've been meaning to do FOREVER? If so, I have excellent news for you-- there are a few slots left in my next workshop. Here's some info:


Winter Six-Week Writing Workshop
Dates: 1/5, 1/12, 1/19, 1/26, 2/2, 2/9
Time: 7 - 9 pm
Cost: $300 (ask me about a discount for returning students)
Description: We'll spend six weeks talking about all aspects of memoir/creative non-fiction from process to publication. There are weekly homework assignments, in-class writing as time allows, group feedback and one-on-one coaching via email during the course of the six weeks. Also, I recently added another component-- those interested can participate in a public reading of their work at Hyde Park Theater. See the testimonials page over at Write With Spike to find out what past attendees have to say about their experience. There are only a few spaces left in this workshop. Email me to sign up.

The Year in (Just Twelve) Pictures

I probably took at least 2,000 pictures in 2011. But amazingly enough, I managed to narrow this collection down to just a dozen-- one for each month-- to capture That Which is Most Important In Life. Herewith, my selection. Happy New Year, Y'all-- damn this year went fast.

JANUARY

FEBRUARY 

MARCH 

 

APRIL 

MAY 

JUNE

JULY 

AUGUST

SEPTEMBER

OCTOBER

NOVEMBER

DECEMBER 

A Little Gratitude During this Godforsaken Holiday Crap

As the year draws to a close, I would like to issue thanks to the following:

Dear Everybody Who Knows and Understands How Very Much I Detest This Time of Year, and Recognizes That Holiday Depression is a Real Affliction,

Thank you for taking the time to email me all your kind words of hope, appreciation and reassurance. I wish I didn’t need that sort of thing. I wish I could will the crappy feelings away, knowing as I do that they come and go every year, but I can’t. Your kindness and tolerance of my grinchiness means more to me than I can adequately express.

Dear Time Warner,

Thank you for sending some guy out yesterday to shut my internet juice off at the house while I was away at work. I know I’ve been a loyal customer (read: internet addict) for sixteen years now and that this does not net me the courtesy of continued service when I overlook a $57 outstanding payment. Whatever pissed offedness I feel to you has been quite offset by the urgent texts from my neighbor who let me know, as I was driving home from work, that maybe my house was being broken into (again). I take so much comfort in the fact that I have such a great neighbor, a comfort I might’ve overlooked had it not been for your thoughtful efforts to get my attention (because I know that without my $57 you’d be teetering on the edge of bankruptcy). I wonder if Grande will treat me similarly when I switch over them as a tangible signal of my gratitude? I can’t wait to find out!

And speaking of utility companies…

Dear AT&T,

I want to also thank you, for giving my other next door neighbor such crappy service. When his phone went out yesterday, he had to come over and use mine, which turned out nicely, since I’ve been meaning to check in on him for weeks but got too busy with my own depression bullshit. His need of my phone and your insistence on putting us on hold for twenty minutes gave us a chance to catch up some. I just love my neighbor— he’s the best I ever had— so this unexpected together time was a real treat. It was also a chance for me to teach him, a 78 year-old technophobe, the wonders of the iPhone. He was able to figure out the elegant GUI in no time flat, and we had a good laugh over that. Plus, since you can’t repair the phone of an elderly man until “at least Monday,” I’m anticipating that we’ll have more time to catch up when he comes by to use mine again. It’s going to be hard not to show him Angry Birds, but I’m not sure if I want him hanging around until he gets to the ten gazillionth level.

Dear Steve Jobs,

Thanks for being the man behind the iPhone and even more for granting Walter Isaacson access to your inside story. I just finished the bio he wrote about you and damn, you really were a supreme asshole, weren’t you, dude? I learned a lot from your life story and I have to say that, given a choice between creating addictive technology that has so many of us constantly absorbed by our shiny little pocket computers and being nice, I really do think I would choose the latter. Powerful lesson, dude.

Dear Dante,

You big silly Labrador, thank YOU for shitting big runny shits from one end of the kitchen to the other last night while I was at an overnight babysitting gig. I realize in hindsight, after filling four poop bags, that I wasn’t even remotely irritated at the task. This was yet another reminder of how much I love you and the other dogs for all the unconditional love you bring into my life.

Dear Other Dogs,

Don’t get jealous over that personal shout out to Dante—I love you, too, and yes I did find those substantially smaller, drier poops you left in the laundry room. And no, those didn’t make me mad, either.

Dear All You Parents Who Allowed Me to Spend Time with Your Kids this Month and Who Acted Like I was Doing YOU a Favor,

To you I say au contraire! What a kindness you did me in allowing me the distraction of making arts & crafts and playing Wii and Lego and everything else. This helped me get outside of my head, the one that was filling up with self-pity and holiday gloom. I mean it when I say I will gladly watch your kids anytime.

Dear Super Cranky Postal Worker Lady,

Thank you for earlier today when I came in to pick up a package. All the times you’ve been a total bitch to me and yelled and were all talk to the hand when I protested your discourteous behavior? Those were, I must admit, slightly mitigated by the fact you were only mildly bitchy today when you mumbled an irritated and insincere Merry Christmas to me. Here’s hoping in the New Year we can both stop glaring at each other.

Dear Darling Son,

Thank you for asking, in a truly hopeful fashion, if I was going to make cheesecakes this year. You know, I really wasn’t going to, but since you put it like that, as I type this, I am making precisely one batch of two cheesecakes. Remember when I used to make thirty or forty each year and the joke was, “Keep the Oven Full at Christmas So There’s No Room for Your Head”? Well as I made those two cheesecakes today, I wondered how the hell I ever mustered the energy to make so many, and I started thinking how, wow, maybe therapy did work, and maybe I am slightly less OCD these days, so that’s cool. I also realized the house smells pretty damn good when I make cheesecakes—all that cinnamon. (But let’s get this straight: you WILL be taking the damn cheesecake home with you tomorrow because I need to stop eating crap.)

Dear All of You Who Inexplicably Seem to Enjoy this Miserable Time of the Year,

While I would ask that next year maybe you lay off the reindeer antlers on your car roof, I want you to know that I am trying (really, really I am) to understand that we all have different perspectives and that you are entitled to like this overblown, commercialized holiday. To you I say Merry Christmas, and honestly, my tone is at least slightly less irritated than that of the Super Cranky Postal Worker Lady.

Dear Santa Claus aka Carl Anderson,

Let me say to you, and not in a begrudging fashion, that what you said at the Dick Monologues show about your job for the past thirty years as the most popular mall Santa in the universe really did fill my heart. I seriously appreciate your insight.

And finally,

Dear the Rest of You Who Share My Disdain,

I totally understand, I know it’s a total double suck you/we are going through, to not only hate the holiday but to be subjected to so many misguided people who want to “cheer you up!” and make you “get into the spirit!” Please believe me when I tell you that I’ve been going through this for nearly fifty years now, and we really, really are going to get through it. Less than two days to go.

GODSPEED through the fog,

Spike 

Office of Good Deeds Asks You...

Hey Y'all,

So let's see-- the economy is in the toilet, it's the holiday season during which we pressure ourselves to spend money we don't have on crap we don't need, and...

Oh wait, I'm being glum and you're not supposed to be glum when soliciting good deeds. Okay, let me try that again. Take Two:

Hi Y'all!

Isn't it the most WONDERFUL time of the year?! Well I have a way for you to make it more wonderful. This past year, I found out about Casa Marianella, this amazing homeless shelter in East Austin that, for 25 years, has been providing food, shelter, English classes, social services and legal advice to immigrants seeking asylum. Folks find Casa M often after terrifying journeys that include fleeing homelands where they have been tortured, and detention centers here in the U.S. where they have been kept, like prisoners, for months or years at a time. 

You'd think a place like Casa might be full of the broken-spirited but that's not the case. There really is a lot of hope and optimism going on. I got to spend some time over there this summer with my friend, Sarah, a lawyer who does pro bono work helping these folks out. I was so excited to find out about this resource and, having some Office of Good Deeds funds hanging around looking for the right place to land, I hooked the residents up with a really awesome badminton set. Because, you know, it can totally suck just sitting around, unable to work due to legal constraints, waiting for a shot at asylum and a life that is free of brutality and oppression. 

To speed up the process from badminton-playing, legally-mired immigrant to free and productive citizen, Casa Marianella has started a new legal clinic. Okay, here's the part where I hit you up for some dough.  Can you spare $5? Tell ya what-- you can forgo getting me a Christmas gift AND a birthday gift (what, you forgot my birthday is in two weeks?) and just earmark a portion of what you would have spent to buy me a new chicken coop and spinning wheel on helping these folks out. 

Five bucks. That's all I'm asking. You can donate online here.  Please indicate that your donation is for the new legal clinic. 

Thanks,

Spike

Rupert Holmes Salon Part 2! Wednesday, 12/21. Be There or Be On My Shit List!

So Kathy Kehoe and I have been grandly scheming to create another stunning Salon de Rupert Holmes for y'all. For those of you who missed the last one, the idea is that we want to provide a setting for folks to meet, a setting that doesn't rhyme with Ratch Dot Pom or Me Farmony. A setting that isn't about jello shots. A place where you can admit to loving books and that is a good thing.

We were sort of focusing on this Make it For Singles thing. But as we continue to re-shape the PlayDough, we have decided, WTH, why not just open it up to all? So that's this month's experiment. ALL of Y'ALL are welcome and you better show up OR ELSE. We'll meet tomorrow at The Snug, which is actually located INSIDE OF Tom's Tabooley on the Drag. Cover is $5. We start at 8 and end at 10. Here's what you do:

Show up, maybe even a little early. Order up some awesome yet reasonably priced food and/or beverages (yes, they have beer and wine) on the Tom's side, then head on over to the Snug side and grab a seat at our Big Dinner table. We'll chat and eat for the first hour. Then we'll have some amazing entertainment. This month, that means the brilliance of:

Kathy Kehoe!
Terry Bowman! (who flew in from SF to entertain you people!)
Paul Klemperer! An avid REEDER (who knows if he'll show up with sax or clarinet. Maybe both!)
Richard Steinberg aka Mr. Smarty Pants, he of Chronicle Fame!

Please join us! Please tell your friends! This is a safe harbor for book lovers, holiday haters, and all ye of good cheer AND sourpusses. Our only rule: no assholes! Isn't that easy and refreshing?!

See you WEDNESDAY DECEMBER 21, 2012 at THE SNUG!