July 28, today, is my 22nd anniversary since moving to Austin. Twenty. Two. At the dumb, hopeful, stupid age of 28 I drove my broke ass to this town to sleep on a futon and have dreams. Now at 50 I sit my fat ass on my futon and wonder where my dreams got off to as every creative drive gathers dust in the closet of my collected hobbies.
Austin, what have you done to me (that I haven’t already done to myself)?
At this point, I wonder if I’ll ever press Eject and pop this tape out to play it in some other town elsewhere. I just don’t know, really, what options there are for old fucks like me other than to fade off to a flyover county and occupy a bar stool next to the swamp cooler at the end of a cinder-block box and read novels in the dim buzz of an animated beer sign, hoping no one calls my ticket number before it’s time.
Ah man. What has this place done to me.