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This Is My Chili's Manifesto: Pt. 2

Chief Fun/Fresh/Flavorful Correspondent Macc Spalding

I'll tell you what.

Y'all crossed a dang line with that fire back in Issue 27, and I hoped I'd never have to redraw that line again, using table salt in the booth at the back of the dining section under the big grainy 6th Street sign wallpaper because I'm so bored waiting on my third round of big mouth bites - a line which I will clean before leaving but only because I snort it between presidente margs.

But y'all just couldn't leave well enough alone.

Is nothing sacred? Can we as a society not cherish and protect the one place a man can still go to get greased instead of attending his daughter's middle school basketball game? Don't give me that look - the game is dead anyway ever since the war either for or against gender was invented. Tell me when that nonsense is resolved and I'll start supporting the team again. Not that I ever did before either. I actually couldn't tell you what position she plays or how the season's going or what street the school is on.

But I sure can tell you one thing, and that is that I don't know where I'm going to be going every Tuesday and/or Thursday evening for the foreseeable future because this dang city has been living in sin for too long and now there has finally been a reckoning in the form of a tarnado. Thank the Lord it didn't also hit my home, or the school while the boy's team was playing (they're 11 and 1 this season!), but this has been a blow below the belt all the same.

There's shattered glass all over the entry nook where I used to hold both sets of doors open for my buddy Rick and say "ladies first!"; there's debris all over the section where my waiter Hugh told us about his trip to Mt. Everest (and I remember that detail because debris rhymes with Everest); there's even a ding-dang dong-sized tree branch skewering my favorite bathroom stall. I can't tell you how many memories of bitter defeats and also bitter triumphs irradiated that plywood, but now it's scrap, like tears in southwesterly rain.

Pretty plain to see why, though. Tarnados don't just happen for no reason. And what hurts the most is that I'm partly to blame. I should have tried harder to help this terrible town. I should have driven away when I saw the car I stopped to help had a Bernie sticker, to teach them a valuable life lesson. I should have gotten outside and played more golf to support the environment. I should have driven with more guns. It's almost like I was ashamed. And now it's too late.

Or is it? Better late than never, as my waitress Tammy always tells me after I verbally abuse her for taking too long with the chips (it's really great back and forth banter (but it does affect her tip)). Perhaps this was a wake-up call to get my life on a brighter track. Perhaps there are more framed-and-displayed-for-no-discernable-reason American flags out there than the one which proudly blesses the Chili's bar room and which I am now using as a tourniquet.

When they finally pry this shattered bartop off of my mangled legs and pull the glass shards out of my backside, I think I'll take some time to travel and self-reflect. It's been so long since I've been to Cheesecake Factory.

Matthew McConaughey as the Batman

Chief Justice Correspondent Wendy Fernandez

The hero Austin doesn't want, but the hero Austin deserves.

Veterans of the Newsletter know of my historic feud with Ryan Seacrest. While no one will ever top him as my least favorite celebrity of all time, there is another parasocial relationship I feel I must disclose. Ryan Seacrest is taken at face value as the shrimp of a man that he is, but another rises out of the darkness to vanquish and protect our city like a man with too much money and an affinity towards bats.

If ever a city were to develop a Batman, would it not be Austin? Between the tech startup millionaires, the actual jokers you see roaming around the city keeping it weird, and the Moody skyline view from the Long Center on a stormy night, it's a marvel, nay, a DC that Austin doesn't have a brooding vigilante guarding the city from whatever. Unless of course, there is already one amongst our ranks rising to the call.

The first time I ran into Matthew McConaughey he actually ran into me. I was an Innocent, walking towards the Trail of Lights with an M & M bag in hand, minding my own business. Little did I know I was four hours early on the wrong day to my volunteer shift, but it didn't matter. As I crossed the driveway entrance to JuiceLand, a sliver Lincoln backed into me and slammed on the brakes. Although I have a flair for dramatics, I want to make it clear that it was nothing more than a bump, I left with no injuries and what little pride I have stayed intact.

But who would dare hit a pedestrian? Especially one as innocent as me? I looked up as the driver rolled down the window and nodded apologetically in my direction. It's also important to understand that I occasionally struggle with faces, and celebrities aren't real people so why would I ever expect to know what Matthew McConaughey looks like? But there he was, in his golden whiskey owning glory. I stepped out of the way and let him pass, surely never to see him again, right?

Wrong. It became a sick one-sided game of cat and mouse. I worked at the Long Center the year he accepted the Texas Medal of the Arts award. I was unaware the event would be taking place that day, and I was trapped inside the lobby because the security and paparazzi were so thick I could not exit the building. I had to watch him from the other side of the glass doors posing with his posse. I didn't get home until late that evening, hungry, tired, and knowing that he didn't spot me, his victim.

And then it picked up. I saw him on a golf cart zooming past me late at night. Matthew McConaughey would sometimes pick up SafeWalk shifts on the UT Campus to encourage students to not walk alone, and I would see his golden mop oh hair breezing past me down the sidewalks. I saw him in close proximity at football games, running up and down the field, but he never saw me. Most recently, I saw his car in traffic, and although the windows were tinted, I knew he was in there, I could feel it.

It's not a malicious thing, I like the guy (especially now that he decided to not run for governor). Destiny keeps bringing us together in unexpected ways. He doesn't notice me, but I notice him every single time. So there is only one logical conclusion: we're doomed to keep meeting until I inevitably hit him with my car. It's fate, I must return the favor. I am the unwilling Riddler laughing high in the trees as this brooding southern vigilante below me.

But why would this mere actor follow in the steps of Bruce- I mean Batman? Matthew McConaughey is a charitable guy. He spends a lot of his time donating money to assorted noble causes, underprivileged youths, and natural disaster relief. He's the minister of culture and the most recognizable celebrity who is always in the news. Although he doesn't have a tragic backstory, his parents are divorced. That's almost something.

He has three children - which is significantly less than good 'ol Batty - but they all live together in the same mansion, and besides having a unique and identifiable style, Matthew McConaughey has an iconic catchphrase and honestly, that's all it takes to be a superhero.

As far as infrastructure goes, Austin has an extensive cave system running under the city; it's not crazy to assume they act as a headquarters for our very own McConaughey. It's a matter of hiding in plain sight, and who is better at that than a well-known celebrity toting around a pair of bongos?

Maybe one day Austin will realize who is actually keeping our city safe, and maybe that's why the police budget is so generous. But until this Riddler catches up to her Batman at the end of whatever cosmic waltz we're doomed to dance, at least he can't be worse than Ryan Seacrest.

Austin's Car Tourism Culture Is Thriving

Picasso

Legend of the Thrustmaster

Chief Hips Correspondent Matt Spradling

I've struggled a little with posture for a long time, like pelvic-tilt level posture that kind of throws everything off. Not super extreme or a big problem; it's mostly just annoying because I have tried seriously to improve it many times and it never seems to work and it doesn't feel like I'm doing anything correctly.

Over the years, I've sporadically looked at dozens of resources and how-to articles and videos, and even gotten advice from the late great Jenna Hay (she's not dead, I just assume she's been late for something at least once in her life and I think it's time to hold her accountable.) Most of these resources will ultimately end up telling you some exercises that will generally help the muscles responsible for your back et al., but - while Jenna did single-handedly cure my blisters and show me a good and painful exercise ball stretch the results of which are forthcoming - these sundry online tips never really make a noticeable difference for me, at least not in terms of posture.

Then there are the descriptions. Online fitness instructors can often be very helpful and great communicators, but sometimes they really feel the need to break out their creative writing degree, and this ultimately obfuscates the entire endeavor. Descriptions such as "bridging x and y muscle," and "aligning your core," and "think of it like you're being pulled by a rope tied around your pelvis" all serve to either be too vague or end up with me somehow doing the exact opposite of what I should. Before I really grasped the concept of what pelvic tilt was I would walk around target actively sticking my ass out as much as possible based on a single summary of advice from somewhere, looking like some old cartoon goose walking with a cane.

These instructions were also often saddled with the apparent burden of very polite phrasing. No PG-13 exercise instructions please; apparently we're trying to teach 11 year olds how to manage recurring stress injuries and the good habits to take into rapidly approaching middle age. Throw in some 401K talk and they're golden. Butts are most commonly referred to as glutes, and sometimes the seat or something vague and benign like that, and as for the groin area - if it must be mentioned at all - we all of us are smooth Barbie and/or Ken dolls.

One evening last week, somewhere in my traveling routine between running and laying in bed for hours typing feverish nonsense, the all-knowing YouTube algorithm (all hail The Algorithm) suggested yet another random running tips video (once you seek out one, they show show up for weeks like raccoons at your door after you got too drunk one halloween and thought one of them was a child and gave them all your candy.) Although not particularly interested, I clicked and let it play while doing something else.

Office Chart

Our Prayer - The Beach Boys

The battle is intense. Your ears are numb to the sound of gunpowder igniting and the clashing of swords. The sunset casts its red light over the deck, drenching friend and foe alike in its glow. Or maybe that's actual blood. Everything smells of salt and iron. You can feel your crew wearing down, you can't take much more. You feel a tingling sensation on the back of your head and twirl around. There, at the opposite end of the ship, is the rival captain. You make eye contact and you both freeze. This is the person you've been tasked with taking down at any cost. But you realize, in that moment, you can't follow orders. After all these years...it's the one that got away. And you know with utter certainty that they'll never get away again.  -Marina

Love It If We Made It - The 1975

This activates the same pleasure centers in my brain as coming up with a really cool and edgy and cryptic facebook status in 2009. Except, in a good way. And then combines that with how it felt to be alive for the past 6 years and wanting to bash your head through a wall. I'm not sure what to say about this song but it's incredible and I got a fever yesterday and it was stuck in my head all night and it didn't even ruin it.  -Matt

Barracuda - Heart

I'm a simple woman. I turn on a dad rock song and I fall a little bit in love with the idea of going full Thelma & Louise. You know what they say: live young, die fast.  -Marina

Wolf Like Me - Lera Lynn, Shovels & Rope

This takes the driving energy of one of the best ever rock songs and makes it better by quieting it down and adding bluegrass. I'm a sucker for dramatic chord progressions played sparsely with just synth or organ or harpsichord or whatever is going on. Lera Lynn's vocals feel like if a warm, spectral hand reached into my body and dislodged and removed some kind of stone or another that was building up in some organ or another and it's uncomfortable but satisfying. It's a normal thought.  -Matt

Images

Banners - Stanley Donwood and Thom Yorke for Radiohead, A Moon Shaped Pool

Horse - The Tik Tok

Chili's - that's just, like, reality, man. But also various local news outlets after the recent tornadoes.

Picasso - I ran that with my feet and knees (and Strava) and almost died