here are you, and what are you doing?
I'm a freelance writer. Apparently, that means I write for free. I'm visiting Austin for the week, but I live in Dallas with my boyfriend. Dallas is a place, like L.A., that people love to slag. And like that city, Dallas does have its share of empty-headed glitz, but both cities ain't all that bad. In our neighborhood, there's a couple of great, smoky dive bars, the world's greatest independent video store, and an endless selection of cheap taquerias. Most days, it's fine. Then again, certain parts are very image-conscious. I once wore a hoodie and an ankle-length plaid skirt to a bar, and people sneered at me.

Why did they sneer at you?
People really "dress up" in Dallas. Like their earrings match their pedicure. Like their Botox matches their tummy tuck. Oh, I exaggerate. But here's the rub: In Austin, people spend time and money to seem as though they don't care about how they look; in Dallas, people spend time and money to make sure everyone notices how they look. Vanity is worn on the sleeve, a far less ironic - and arguably less sophisticated - type of vanity. Also, there's definitely more makeup. When I was a kid growing up in Dallas, I never left home without a big fudgy smear of the stuff. Pink gloss, blue mascara, shimmery blue shadow. I even slept in my makeup. These days, I wear my pajamas all day and sometimes, I forget to put on deoderant. Oh shit, that reminds me! Hold on a sec.

So what else is going on?
I've been having strange dreams lately. Three nights ago I dreamt that a longtime Austin music writer held my mother hostage at gunpoint. Two nights ago I dreamt that men draped in white sheets harvested my boyfriend's organs.

And how do you interpret those dreams?
At first, I thought it meant I was hungry. Now I think the whole thing stems from watching Kill Bill, Vol. 1.

And what did you think of Tarantino's bloodthirsty, kung-fu revenge saga?
Honestly? I fell asleep.

Huh, I liked it. Maybe you just didn't "get" it?
Maybe. Or maybe a beautifully shot two-hour contagion of violence becomes numbing and predictable.

Ouch, well, not every movie can be as good as "Jerry Maguire."
Fuck off.

Wait -- what did I say?
Three years ago, I had the temerity to put "Jerry Maguire" on a list of the Top Ten movies of the 90s and I never hear the end of it. Jesus! Just because a film is popular doesn't mean it isn't meritorious --

Gesundheit!
Even AO Scott of the Times called "Jerry Maguire" the best romantic comedy of the 90s, and yet, because the hipsters saw it on television, because people in Omaha loved it, the film is trite. I'm sorry there weren't any dwarves or fog machines. I'm sorry it deigned to have a linear narrative and good actors. I'm sorry the lines were clever. God forbid a movie should seek to inspire, to, to, to touch the soul.

Okay, you're right. You had me at hello.
Oh, shove it.

The human head weighs eight pounds! Cute kid, huh?
Shut up.

I'm just clowning you, homes. We're cool, right?
Yeah, we're cool.

Okay, last question: What's next, Sarah Hepola?
Hard to say. Hollywood? Bollywood? A tasteful line of Target clothes? For now, I'll just keep kicking it.

[cue exit music, Guns N Roses "November Rain"]