Meet me at the corner of 19th and Guadalupe near the old Night Hawk and I'll whisper it in your ear.
Austin natives live in the city's faraway past--the late '80s--and often are considered mythical creatures by the steadily multiplying crowd of transplants.
Imagine a world where favorite local country performers are actually yankees (Junior Brown, Indiana; Jerry Jeff Walker, New York!), where the guy who writes a South Austin bubba column for the newspaper is from Maine, and where people who figure Packer Jack must play for Green Bay fear Austin has lost its charm since they moved here in December.
Welcome to my personal hell. I'm an Austin native, but my accent is so faint I've been accused of the ultimate sin--being from California. That's normal in a city that houses a humongous state university and thus invites a steady stream of strangers who dilute the mix, y'all. But other than preparing me for a career as a TV anchorman, it has little benefit.
It's enough to make me a stranger in my own home town, and lately the situation has gotten out of hand. I notice I give directions in a historical code only other native Austinites and retirees can decipher ("Now, go down three miles to where the Armadillo used to be and take a left by the old Holiday House, you know, the one that had Charlie the alligator in a caged pond out front ").
Sometimes I feel like I'm starring in yet another remake of "Invasion of the Body Snatchers." It's only a matter of time until my pod takes over and absently trashes my extensive collection of Jake Pickle squeezable campaign pickles.
You see, being a native Austinite means knowing too much. Just ask the person to whom I gave directions and instructed to turn on 19th Street. She made endless circles between 18th and 20th, always ending up on this MLK Boulevard. I think she was an Aggie.
When two or more Austin natives get together, our eyes turn misty as we fondly recall hurling in the parking lot of Jorge's after a few margaritas, blowing chunks in the Stallion's restroom after a triple chicken fried steak, passing a doobie down the row at the Armadillo World Headquarters because we didn't inhale but didn't much care if others did.
My Yankee friends (who else am I supposed to hang out with?) used to kid that I always ran into at least three old buddies whenever we went out. Now those old buds are lost in a crowd of pod faces. These days my new foreign pals grimace and shake their heads as I regale them with yet another tale of stripping down and streaking along Mopac in junior high (the road opened a few months later).
But maybe their crinkled brows are a Pavlovian response to any mention of Austin roads. Hard to believe, but the capital city of pot holes used to be renowned for its laid-back drivers. The state motto was "Drive Friendly" and motorists waved while driving Onward Through the Fog down the highway. True Texans learned the ultra-cool index finger wave. These days pod-people drivers waggle a different finger, snicker when the schools close for a light snow ("Why back home we'd sunbathe in weather like this. Just ask my good pal No Toes."), and inch along the highway with a death grip on the steering wheel when it rains.
Am I bitter? Yes, but I find some comfort in an essay E.B. White wrote in the '40s about the three types of New Yorkers. Of course, E.B. forgot a fourth variety: New Yorkers who move to Austin and then get upset when they can't find "New York-style" pizza. Get a rope.
The three categories, while not without their exceptions, fit neatly with my idea of the crowded Austin of today.
First there are natives like me. We know facts that elude our newer neighbors. For instance, did you know that 1st (ahem, Cesar Chavez) and 2nd streets were made one-way streets TEMPORARILY in the late '70s while the then batless Congress Avenue Bridge was repaired? Trust me. But while we have the knowledge of what was, natives aren't apt to take advantage of all of the trendy new stuff that hits town. Native New Yorkers don't go to the Statue of Liberty; native Austinites don't go to cigar bars.
Second are the artist�s. They moved here to become rock stars, to take film classes at U.T., or to paint graffiti under bridges. We're talking slackers the way Richard Linklater explained them--people who live on the edge or at least pretend to. Artist�s not only go to cigar bars, but they pass out in them, building memories to sustain them in future years. These folks add a certain life and vitality to the city, and fortunately can't afford cars, so they are to be forgiven for their annoying tendencies to open vintage junk stores and smoke clove cigarettes.
Third are the commuters (gulp! Since I wrote this I've become one!). Let's put parameters on this that any true Austin native will understand. If you live north of 183 or south of Ben White, sorry to break the news, you are indeed a commuter. If you work at Dell and regularly dine at a Kerbey Lane Cafe not actually on Kerbey Lane, you're a commuter. Face facts, seek counseling, write mom in California.
Commuters often work in Austin proper, but they drive directly back to Round Rock, Georgetown or Pflugerville at the end of the work day without taking advantage of anything Austin has to offer save tailgating and that new-fangled finger waving.
If you're a commuter, you're likely one for life, but past that the lines of definition can blur. If you're an artist� who's tired of starving, commuting and penny loafers may be in your future. If you're an unemployed native, congratulations, you can be an artist� with the right clothing! And, yes, if you live here long enough to know too much, you can become an honorary native. But we'll never quite trust you, so watch your step.
What have we learned from this? Not much, so let's take a quiz.