“I think that you’re acting like tourists, man…”
Joni Mitchell, Isle of Wight Festival, 1970.
Austin, Jesus. Get a grip on yourself.
First things first. I’ve met a lot of weirdos in my life, and the real weirdos never had to tell me how weird they are. It was an observable fact. Trust me. Conversely, I’ve met a lot of folks who couldn’t shut-up about their own weirdness, and they tended to be the least-weird people I’ve ever encountered. Moreover, when you strip away the non-weirdness of weird-obsessed non-weirdos, what you are left with, frankly, are some of the most insecure and devoutly mediocre people in the world. Supplant the word “weird” with “Liberal sanctimony” and you’re bee-bopping down Congress Ave in Austin, Texas, a once-great town now largely populated by white chicks in dreads selling 90-dollar tee shirts to snobs and celebrities.
That’s right. I said white chicks.
For if Austin is anything, it is WHITE. Whiter than white. Very goddamn white. In fact, Austin is so freaking white, if you rip open a bag of marshmallows on Sixth Street and toss ’em in the air, the damn things will go invisible on you until you feel them bouncing off your forehead. I wouldn’t advise this, of course, because the marshmallows themselves are probably organic, and will cost you around 90 dollars.
Now, I lived in Austin for almost two years, but it wasn’t until I moved to San Antonio (“a step-up,” as my favorite Jewish cowboy said at the time) and married a local Latina goddess that I realized just how white this supposedly ‘diverse’ town is. Walk into any given business on Congress with a Mexican chick on your arm, and you’ll see what I mean. Seriously. You can almost feel the 90-dollar mood ring-adorned fingers reaching for the red buttons under the counter.
As an example of this, I am reminded of a day trip my wife and I took to Austin a couple of months ago. My beloved is a local gal who grew up on the West side and has spent very little time north of Schertz, for no other reason than she loves San Antonio, and rarely feels the need to leave the city. I am beginning to understand this way of thinking.
In any event, we decided to get lunch at a popular Mexican restaurant on Congress Avenue which, for our purposes, shall remain nameless. After ordering some chips and salsa and a shot of tequila for me, I noticed my wife staring off into the distance. When I asked her what was wrong, she asked me, “What’s that music they’re playing? Doesn’t sound like Mariachi.”
Cocking my head like a wiener dog hearing a pan flute for the first time, I tried to focus on the tune above the rabble of diners. “Damn,” I replied, “it sounds like We Are The World.”
It was. Followed by an Air Supply song, which was followed by “Sunny Came Home” by Shawn Colvin.
At this, my wife leaned into me and asked, “Baby, where are all the Mexicans?”
I scanned the crowd. No Mexicans. In fact, the entire wait staff, including the bartender, were all Steam Punk Caucasians with curly moustaches in wrinkled Bob Marley shirts. “Look!” I exclaimed. “There’s one going into the kitchen with a bus tray!”
And I won’t even describe the tortilla soup featuring bits of kale and cubed goat cheese.
I mention this stuff to bring a little perspective to the anti-Trump protests which blocked the First Street bridge yesterday, and, in general, clogged-up an already clogged town. Consider what you are witnessing:
The expensive white children of expensive white people protesting a ‘system’ they say is rigged by expensive white men, in a town largely populated by white people, whose primary industry depends on expensive white people buying expensive crap at expensive boutiques owned and operated by more expensive white people. Kinda invalidates the message of oppression, yes? Hard to stick it to The Man when you are The Man.
What’s even more interesting is that these protests–largely concerned with the racist deportation of Latinos–are occurring in a town that, statistically, is only about 30% Latino, whereas San Antonio, at 60-65% Latino, is experiencing little or no protests at all.
But what the Hell do I know? I voted for Trump, so I’m probably just being racist or phobic or hateful or something.
Still, if you’re in Austin, and you’d like to participate in the anti-Trump marches, just follow the smell of bat shit and hypocrisy. Strangely, they smell about the same.
Jesus loves you and so do I,