My Last Post About Austin

I swear.

All I'm asking is for Uchi to ScUchi its way up to the DF-Dub. Gotta love those horribly cheesy Tuesday morning puns. Clever obviously hasn't quite kicked in yet for the week, or the year for that matter.

Regardless, I need this restaurant in Dallas, please. This old house has turned in to one of the top restaurants in Austin, and I fell in love right away. I promise it would thrive. We have plenty of pretentious people in Dallas willing to pay $16 for an appetizer requiring you to cook your own beef. Hell, charge us $20. We'll gladly pay it and snicker at the bill while whispering to one another about how cheap our night out was.
So what are you waiting for? Rolling hills? Gorgeous trees? An actual scene that wasn't created by concrete & credit limits? All the things that enticed you open your doors in Austin in the first place? Hmm. Well... I hear DeSoto has some property for quite a deal. Or maybe Grand Prairie? And are you sure you really need trees? I could fashion you one out of concrete if this really is a deal breaker...

Update on Austin's Coolness: First Pics of Kate Hudson & Lance Armstrong @ Hula Hut

Kate Hudson and Lance Armstrong just walked in to Hula Hut (around 6:15pm) with his kids in tow... A few pics to follow.

UPDATE: Pics below. Blurry, yes. But I didn't major in photography, assclowns, and I hope Perez Hilton & every other celeb blog out there won't care while they rip off my pics. Oh, I feel so used. (Use me, please. Use me.)

That bitch can move. Fast. She has perfected the art of flying by a camera at 100mph so the final shot looks like, well, this. And as the ladies behind me snapped a shot as well when the crew walked in, she mouthed a sweet little "WTF" to her new beau, Lance. I mean, really, Kate? Let's see. You choose maybe the most popular spot to dine in Austin on the Saturday of the UT's graduation ceremony and are shocked when someone snaps your picture upon arrival? Yes, we read celebrity gossip in Texas, too. And no, we haven't forgotten how loudly you cheered AGAINST the Mavericks in last year's short-lived playoff run. So you are lucky I didn't bum-rush your ass on the spot.



Kate seemed to be kissing ass like it was her job with Lance's kids, as she patted them on the head while helping them to some of Hula Hut's famous salsa & chips. Cheers to the soon-to-be former happy couple.

Why Can't Dallas Be...

Austin.

At hula hut, teetee guadaluped, wondering why the hell my zip code sends my mail to the concrete jungle instead of A-town.

Even the fact that I, of all people, just called it A- town proves my point. Good Lord Almighty.

Dear Jackie O, (Week 9)

A weekly (or not so weekly) installment answering your most pressing questions.

Dear Jackie O,
My stock is soaring so, so high!! Tee hee. Can’t you just feel the excitement all the way from up here in Plano? I heart HP. Tee hee.

Eee-mailin,
E to tha D to tha S

Dear EDS/Worst & Most-Overpriced Tech Support Provider in this Great State,
Does this mean HP will take over our IT support? Thank GOD. Now pack up your shit and get the hell out.

All my love,
Jackie O

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Dear Jackie O,
I heard you calling us a nasty word that rhymes with duckers behind us as we got on the plane this weekend. Totally unnecessary, and we had every right to be there. Just so you know.

Cheatin,
Big Huge Giant Seat Stealers

Dear Annoying Identically-Dressed Couple from My Southwest Flight Home Sunday,
Let me explain. B18 is B18. Not B1. I’m sure you probably missed the 8. I get it. Really, I do. Like when I get a tab for $18, sometimes I accidentally only pay $1. Or when I turned 18, I thought my mom screwed up on the cake and was celebrating my first birthday. Totally understandable. But for someone like myself who woke up early on a Sunday to check in online, and beat your ass to the punch, I find it ridiculous of you to think everyone was dumb enough not to notice, other, of course, than the gate agent scanning your ticket whose only job IS actually to notice. Thanks, Southwest. Me and B3-C60 who rode in the biotch seat all the way home ‘preciate it.

All my love,
Jackie O

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Dear Jackie O,
So, when are you quitting your job to have behbies? I mean, I know you aren’t married or anything, and obviously will need countless hours of help not sucking at being a mom, but I’m perfect in every way, so I’ll gladly help you out.

Rock-a-bye,
Behby

Dear Most Annoying Girl in My Bunco Group (yes, I play bunco. I like to drink, so suck it.),

#1 In the words of Whitney Houston, Hell-to-the-No

#2 If you so much as think about bringing up different sizes for breast pumps you tried last week or other ridiculously gross topics such as what your placenta looked like, I will, without a doubt, punch you in the face. And after that, I’ll gladly entertain you with a single gal’s version of that convo.

“So I gave this awesome blow job last week. Did you know there is something called the R Spot on a guy?”

All my love,
Jackie O

Thanks for the Heads Up. I'll Duck Next Time.

Click here for video.

Thank you, Channel 8, for a riveting story about a plane that "could" have had a safety issue based on your expert who actually used the phrase "Good heavens." To that, I respond "Bless his little heart." Regardless, though, what I wonder immediately when I read your headline & watch this video is what the hell happened to this huge-ass metal panel that fell out of the sky from about 20,000 feet? No concerns there? Uh-uh? None? Nope? Mmkay.

Whatever the case, it's late and I don't really care all that much. But thank you for confirming for me I'm not crazy for being nervous living directly underneath Love Field's flight path. It's those warm fuzzies that keep me all snuggle-bunnied in bed at night, as I secretly hope I'm not killed the next day in some freak accident thanks to your airline, or any other carrier, being too damn cheap to put that plane back on the ground.

Just for craps & giggles, I hope one day God decides to change up the jet stream on your asses, then back the next day, then back again, then throws a stink bomb where your reservation systems are housed, then creates an even greater air traffic system that flies higher and loses metal panels that land on your planes instead of me.

So much fun, so little time. Oh, and wave to the camera, kids. Thanks to that last paragraph, we just hit a few keywords to entice an FBI'er or two to pass by the site. Ha row!

& Nite nite.

Pulling a Costanza

So, I have no idea what the hell just happened, but somehow I just set a little So Dallas record today thanks to posting about hockey, of all things. Who woulda thunk it… the first day Jackie O breaks 100 unique visitors is due to posting about the thing I know the least about in Dallas… well, okay, in all fairness, the second least. Non-alcoholic beverages win that race by a nose.

I think I’m on to something here... the whole George Costanza theory of doing the opposite of your instincts just may very well be true... so, Coming Up on sodallas.com, a discussion of fruit juice smoothies and virgin daiquiris. Watch the traffic come pouring in as quickly as vodka typically enters my system on any given Friday or Saturday (or Sunday or Monday or Tuesday or Wednesday or Thursday) night.

Anyway, to all of you random Canadians who thought you were linking to a hockey blog, sorry ‘bout that. But here’s my effort to make you feel at home. Have a fruit smoothie, form a flying V, pull a Triple Deak or two, and stay awhile.

I Don't Really Like Hockey

So why am I still awake at this late hour with an early morning call looming, watching the suspiciously well-tanned FSN Southwest sportscasters pontificate the upcoming 3rd OT of the Stars & San Jose?

As we all know way too well, the Stars, every year, always seem to make the world right for my city... they are the reason many sports fans, like myself, refrain from pulling the suicide trigger after a mind-numbing Mavs playoff series, and pretty much the reason the world doesn't seem to have come off its axis completely each May.

And there's also something oddly comforting about watching replays with Pantera in the background of dudes slamming each other into a wall.

Wait... this just in... suspiciously tan sportscaster just made worst pun-filled joke ever about a hole on the Trinity River bridge causing 30 to be closed both ways... but the Stars and Sharks can't find any holes here tonight. Wow. On that note... I'll set my sleep timer on the TV and hope for the best.

Later skaters.

Cox Suckers

On my way to work this morning, as my brain was on cruise-control while wishing today was Friday instead of Thursday, I was rudely brought out of my stupor when I heard a Creepy Old Man on the radio loudly say a word many of us use for male genitalia. And I remembered I have heard him say it before, many times actually. This morning, however, after a Wednesday night of too much vodka, it was especially annoying.

Then I realized what it was. Of course. Yet another puffed-up, ridiculously pretentious-sounding SMU Cox School of Business MBA advertisement. And fortunately for me, it is always laced with a bit of ironic humor as I think about how some stuffy, 50-year-old director of marketing at SMU likely wrote these ads, and even more likely implored Mr. Creepy in the recording studio to over-emphasize the “powerfulness” of the name SMU Cox, ignorant to the genius comedy he or she was producing for the rest of the Metroplex that very day. And powerful it certainly is. Yikes. Like nails on a chalkboard.

But that isn’t even the entertaining part to me. As I continue to listen to exaggerated statements about how powerful this education is, and how it is the only place where the “Dallas Business Elite” have gone to obtain their MBAs, I'd say my CEO of a $5B company would disagree, and I have to wonder just how “elite” the likely 20-30% of those who graduated last May feel as they continue to search for that elusively prestigious, high-paying job they were promised upon acceptance.

I can just see it now, as each one of them received their acceptance letters many months or years ago, so excited about the promise their careers held as Creepy had conveyed to them on the radio before they accidentally stumbled into a 670+ GMAT score. Then came the whirlwind of Harvard case studies, lectures from professors with no real-world experience all day, and adderall-induced dreams of future CEO fast-tracking all night.

And then, Creepy surprised me. He finally, at the end of the ad, spoke truth. He let his listeners know that the kind of education you choose says a lot about who you are as a person. And he is so very right.

And those are the exact same sentiments I might have to assume the CEO of my company had when choosing his MBA… SMU = $85,000? Or almost any other public school in Texas, one just 15 miles up Central Expressway, for half the price and a better ranking?

I’m not sure what the latter decision might do for me during a chat over cocktails at Fearings, but I do know what the former would do for me as a CEO one day whose decision to spend twice as much on something I could have gotten for half the price would likely send me into retirement by my board much earlier than anticipated.

So, yes, Mr. Creepy Old Man. The education you choose does say a lot about you. And for your non-scholarshipped graduates, it boldly proclaims their proud foray into the wonderful world of Dallas Debt, in an effort to actually monetize & purchase social status and business acumen.

I guess I’m just not so sure that is a selling point you want to over-emphasize… maybe just stick to the male genitalia line. That at least woke me up this morning more than coffee ever could. And I’d pay a lot more than $85K over my lifetime for that to happen each day… mainly because I’m debt-free, so I can, Coxsuckers.

It Was All A Dream…

I used to read Word Up magazine, Salt N’ Peppa & Heavy D up in the limousine… As the voice of the late Notorious B.I.G floated throughout the pulsating room, whose thick velvet drapes have seen more interesting things in under two years than many of those entering those doors will see in a lifetime, I couldn’t help but smile.

It’s a rare night indeed if Parker’s MacBook Pro doesn’t find its way to this classic song… and it’s always my bass-intensive signal that it’s about time to put the drink down and get the hell out. But of course, I stay… and watch in amazement as many of those bleach blondes & token light-blue striped, un-tucked buttondowns in attendance only know this song, that was likely released when they were pre-teens, because they have heard it here, amidst the smoke and lights and core-shaking bass. Amidst a world perfectly and specifically manufactured for us.

And this is typically the point in the evening when I realize where I am, and who I have become. A sell out.

Many years ago, I was called the same. On a college campus, joining a left-wing group of satirical-writing individuals in their crusade… I sat in the haze and in the lights back then, just as I was now, taking tequila shots while wearing the uniform. Back then it was thrift-store t-shirts and punk attire that were the antithesis of what my private-preppy school’s MO so emphatically was. These days it was high heels, dark eyeliner, tan legs and, of course, my gold clutch purse. The antithesis of who I really am. But the drug… the drug will get you every time.

And instead of the Crack Music Kanye so geniusly pontificated, this is a crack lifestyle. A crack state-of-being. A theoretical drug I have tried to wean myself off of this year… I tried to accept that as I continue to climb the corporate ladder, I will conversely continue to step down from the list of people you expect to see out until 2am every time, and even sooner my body will no longer be able to handle these kinds of weekends preceding and following 60 hour work weeks.

Yet this weekend, as I sat perched in observation, sipping my vodka tonic with a lemon, not a lime, I realized I had taken another hit of the drug. And my dealer, Mr. Giese, sat nearby, likely checking his bank account’s growing sum via iPhone throughout the evening.

As I glanced over, I had to mentally applaud. He has found a way to strategically manufacture a business filled with smooches on the cheek, name-dropping, bill-slipping and effervescent tonic bubbles that go on for almost as long as my hangover. A hell-centric heaven of sorts where sex in a bathroom is a little more acceptable, where connections to your drug of choice are a little more easily accessible, where local celebrities come to feed their egos. ‘Tis a crack lifestyle, my friends. A crack state-of-being.

Yet over time, as more and more get addicted and capacity remains the same, as the matches get cheaper and the drinks slightly weaker, as the guy:girl ratio rule continues to be one of the smarter myths the doormen perpetuate, there is a method to the madness, and I can’t help but respect that.

And as Biggie & Parker let us all know every weekend around 1:40am, it really is all a dream, just not our own... One created for us. One we pay for. One we love. One we crave. One we are retarded for not thinking of first.

See you next weekend, Mr. Giese. And happy early birthday. I’ll be the one in pink.

Dear Jackie O, (Week 8)

A weekly (or not so weekly) installment answering your most pressing questions.

Dear Jackie O,
You? Me? Green Papaya? Cheap Viet hippie food is so urban-chic. You know you want it. I’m so hot you’d be lucky to be seen in public with me.

Slummin’ it on Oak Lawn,
Ponied Up

Dear SMU’er Driving Parentally-Purchased Rover w/ “2 Long” Plates,
First of all, who lied and told you it was cool to not only have an SMU sticker on your car, but to also purchase custom SMU vanity plates… setting aside for just a moment the vanity plate lettering that you should be punched in the ovaries for.

That’s right. The ovaries.

It’s the same feeling I get when I see the ghetto-ass letters all over the back of a car spelling out a last name, or a fine community group like Ride 'R Dirty as you can see here. Someone, at some point, in some social circle had to imply that last names in the shape of a half-moon were not only socially acceptable, but also something worth paying for. Your group’s influencer has apparently done the same thing, and I’d like to punch him or her in the ovaries as well.

Now, all you need is a Lake Kiowa sticker and a glove compartment full of AAC platinum parking passes to round out the “I make up for my deep insecurities from my childhood days, when popularity wasn’t based on my parents' checkbook, by flaunting said checkbook to which I contribute nothing... not a damn thing” superfecta. Go get ‘em, tiger.

All my love,
Jackie O

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Dear Jackie O,
You gonna watch me on that there color box this Wednesday? It’s going to be the least politically-motivated manifestation of an agenda you will have ever laid your eyes on!

Makin’ Waves,
Tom Tom

Dear Mayor Tom Leppert,
I saw the press release. Looks interesting. But riddle me this… I know in those looks-to-good-to-be-true downtown development renderings it’s a piece of cake,
but how do you Photoshop out all the drunk hobo SWAG & underage Purgatory regulars (the more shameful of the two I’m not sure) in a tv show?

All my love,
Jackie O

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Dear Jackie O,
Whaaa…what happened? Why am I in jail?

Dizzy in Dallas,
3-to-Fiver

Dear This Guy,
Because not only did you drive drunk, but you were dumb enough to subsequently slam into a building and injure some SMU chick whose dad is likely a partner at any one of the illustrious law firms in this great city. The funny thing is, I’d put a ten-spot on the fact that you yourself also attended SMU. And if you had been fortunate enough for some older jackass of a drunk driver to pin you to a wall & sue the pants off of him when you were a sophomore, you would likely have never ended up a depressed 24-year-old working for the family biz, realizing you actually don’t have an ambitious bone in your body, & getting so bored you were forced to get tee-tee gonzalezed and slam into an apartment. Orrrr… you were just simply wasted. It happens.

All my love,
Jackie O

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Dear Jackie O,

You hear about our new Tony Hawk ride opening in May? Come on out & I'll give you a free season pass!

Still Dancin',
Weirdest Choice for a Brand Icon Ever

Dear Six Flags' Creepy Old Dancing Man,
Unfortunately for me and my dorky self, I already have a season pass for this year. So, no thanks. And until your park, the childhood memories of which were so very different, stops smelling like pee & attracting the most white trash crowd of overweight, sweaty, creepy...

Okay, okay... fine. You got me. Here's the truth. Rides make me nauseous. Bottom line. Used to not be that way. Now it is. Sue me. I'm a realist these days. I respect gravity. And as long as thin cables and tiny bolts are the glue holding some of those rides together, I fear they will always create a little nausea party in my tummy.

So... to answer your question two paragraphs later... no. Freestyle skateboarding while moving 40mph & spinning upside down simply ain't my cup of tea.

But Mini-Mine Train? I'm rowdy rowdy, 'bout it 'bout it.

All my love,
Jackie O