MOVING!!! To MollyKendrick.com

For the next couple of weeks, I’ll be transitioning from this blog to my new site, mollykendrick.com.

I’ve had this blog for around four years, and a lot has changed, and now when I go read my old blogs I feel a deep sense of shame, remorse, and cringe. It’s only natural and I hope it’s a sign I’ve improved.

I’m going to be deleting old blogs, and updating ones I think still have potential and moving them to the new site. My new site also will have my podcast (Yeah, No, Yeah), a more robust portfolio, and will hopefully serve as a better platform for selling myself as a writer.

If you’ve been reading this — thank you! Your attention means a lot.

This picture expresses only a small fraction of the confidence I feel about the future:

Luckenbach Cowgirl

 

 

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The Secret Milk Man? Yeah, I Know Him.

If you only know one thing about me, know this: I’ve made cheese.

My mom sent me my very own cheese-making kit in the mail. This allowed her to give me a gift and simultaneously assign me a character-building chore.

After reading the directions, I learned that while it’s possible to make cheese with regular milk, it’s easier for cultures to develop when you make cheese with raw milk. So I went to a local farmer’s market to check out the dairy scene.

I approached the yogurt stand. “This guy knows his milk,” I reasoned. “He’ll point me in the right direction.”

“Do you know if any stands here sell raw milk?” I asked.

He shook his head and looked a little disgusted. Someone behind me piped up, “You can’t sell raw milk. It’s illegal.”

Yogurt man sniffed, shrugged, and then said nonchalantly: “I know a guy.”

“A guy?” My ears perked up and my secret tail wriggled.

“Yeah. I might be able to give you his number.”

“Oh, wow! I would really appreciate that.”

“His name is Biff,” the yogurt man said, getting out his phone. (Names have been changed to protect identities.)

“Oh, cool! I’ll tell him you referred me to him.”

“Don’t do that,” the yogurt man said. “He’ll kill me.”

It was then I knew I might be in over my head.

I texted Biff.

He texted me back, asking for my email.

Shortly thereafter I received a lengthy email, explaining how the milk drop-offs work, and what’s expected of customers: Keep your goddamn mouths shut. Don’t blab around town, don’t put this shit on social media. This is between you, Biff, and a cow. And the cow isn’t a fucking rat.

“Sounds good :)” I replied.

Next, I got a secret link. Then, I got to make a secret profile. In addition to raw milk, I could order eggs and produce. I added a dozen chicken eggs to my order. Several weeks later, I got an email that I should be ready for the drop-off.

Biff came in and closed the door. He had the panicked air that you would expect from a man with a van full of illegal milk on a hot summer day in Texas. I tried to do some secret journalism. “Do you find customers just by word of mouth?” I asked. He grinned, sheepishly.  “Yeah, we’re under the radar.”

“And you have enough customers to get by?”

“Yeah, yeah,” he said, backing out of the room. No time to chat. He had more milk to deliver.

To my horror, the eggs were all different shapes, sizes, and colors.

2017-07-19 11.07.38

Even worse, when I cracked one open, it was weird inside.

2017-07-19 11.10.00

I screamed. This egg had almost no albumen. Its bloated, dark-orange yolk had a thick, mucousy membrane and a vibe that I can only describe as “fertilized.” “Naw dog,” I kept repeating, as I paced up and down my studio apartment, glancing nervously at the egg. “Naw dog. Naw.”

After a few moments of this, I threw that shit in the trash. I thought about chucking the remaining 11 of its demon brothers just to be safe, but then I remembered how much these eggs cost ($7).

I don’t have the right kind of pot to make cheese. I found a friend with the right kind of pot and used Ted Bundy-esque psychological manipulation to convince her she wanted to make cheese with me. At least, that was my initial plan. Winnie was shockingly on board with me compromising her kitchen for this pain-in-the-ass recipe. The girl loves her cheese! We read the 20-plus steps, donned aprons, and laid out the ingredients.

Immediately, the cheese lulled us into a false sense of security.

It was nice and coagulated, and the curds had reached the “texture of soft scrambled eggs” as the instructions read.

2017-07-19 20.10.24

“Curds” are the milk-fat dream clouds, and “whey” is a yellowish liquid that remains.

When we reached the initial coagulation, we thought we had arrived. But as I pulled the curds to complete the last step, the mass got tougher and tougher.  I bit into a sample curd and it squeaked so loudly I knew everything had gone horribly wrong. My eyes turned black with rage. Continue reading

Follow Me to 5 of Austin’s Weirdest Homes

As a freelance writer, I spend a lot of time screaming at the walls trying to think of articles to pitch.

I am not an expert in anything. Technology, science, politics, music — these are all rich veins. While I have closely studied Vegan lifestyle gurus on YouTube, I do not have a niche. I’m what’s known as an Information Free Zone (IFZ).

But I am a “millennial” who lives in “Austin” so that’s something? Anything?

I thought I could convince someone to publish a piece about Austin’s annual Weird Homes Tour. My pitches were violently ignored, but my friend and fellow writer Johnny successfully pitched the same idea to an Irish newspaper. He has a bit of an “in” because he’s Irish, and he’s an Irish guy shaking his dick around in the middle of Texas. Novelty. Niche. Everything I’m not.

We took the tour together so I could think of ways to sabotage him.

Oh look, there he is.

Admiring bathroom mirrors and daydreaming about what he’ll do with all those weird Irish dollars.

Torres Temple BR mirror

I’m still delighted to take the tour. At the end of the day, all I really want to do is rifle through other people’s things.

Chapter 1 The Torres Temple 

The Torres Temple had a master bedroom with a walk-in shrine. Or rather, the walk-in closet had been converted into a shrine. A sign requested that visitors not take photographs of the sacred space.

Scattered around the shrine were small animal skulls, pictures of the owner’s children, stones, and feathers.

I asked the owner what religion he practiced. He cited several Native American religions as inspiration.

Fine, but now where do your shoes go?

(Gotchya.)

If you ask me, a certain kind of person opens up their home, lets you see their shrine, and then asks you not to take pictures. It turns out, that’s also the kind of person who stores a massage table behind their master bed and expects you to let that go without comment.

The kind of person who needs to make a grand entrance from their shower to the toilet area.

Anyone sitting on the toilet is expected to offer a standing ovation.

Torres Temple Shower

Is it just me, or is the Torres Temple trying to start a fight?

I’m riled up. Let’s hope the next house is NICE and NORMAL!

Chapter 2: Under Sea House

CONTENT WARNING: If you have a very specific kind of Irritable Bowel Syndrome where you experience intense diarrhea whenever you see overwhelming clusters of knickknacks, then it’s for the best if you read the next section on the toilet.

In the driveway, you can admire the owner’s art car, which can be yours for the low, low price of spending the rest of your life explaining why you own this car.

Mermaid Car

Behind the house, there is an “Undersea Guest House” which rents for $150 per night on Air BnB. This is also where the owner holds psychic readings.

It has just the right amount Lisa Frank furniture to open a porthole to another dimension.

Undersea Meditation

The owner of this house had a lot to say about how Austin used to be.

Ah yes, the halcyon 1990s. When the knickknacks were still all yours for the taking.

Under sea counter

And a gal could just cover a wall in hats, and not have someone on the internet hassle her for it.

Undersea Wall of Hats

And you could just hork up some mescaline and shut yourself in your glow-in-the-dark, technicolor bathroom and scream until your lungs were tattered paper bags.

Undersea Sink

Undersea House. The Austin I never knew. The Austin I’m pretty sure I couldn’t handle.

Chapter 3 Art Dome

Out of all the places we visited, Art Dome wins for the place that most felt like going to visit a witch in the woods.

And oh, what a witch she was.

Art Dome Outside

Come closer, little one.

Art Dome

Just a brick oven. Just a brick oven in the woods, minding its own business.

Art Dome Altar

Nothing to see here.

Art Dome Rock Garden

Inside, artist Katie Nail let visitors poke around her studio.

Katie Nail's Studio

Nail even gave us a little tour and explained the backstory to some of her paintings.

This piece has turned out to be especially problematic.

Version 2

She expressed dismay that people think that the arborist is going to cut down the tree and murder the beautiful wood spirit. Nail conceived the arborist as the tree’s husband, and the chainsaw is just the right size to fit into the tree’s crevice.

My vagina winced.

The roseate spoonbill, she further explained, is their baby.

In the background, a galaxy is born.

Now do you get it?

Chapter IV Ebba Springs

What’s that, on the lawn at Ebba Springs?

An ominous, fossilized giant toe?

Ebba Springs Bat Mound

Maybe! Whatever! I’m not getting paid to find out!

Inside, some taxidermied wolves let us know that they had counted all the silverware.

Ebba Springs Kitchen

Inside, Ebba Springs serves to showcase the owners life-consuming wool fetish.

Ebba Springs Wool Creatures

The title of this installation is “One Stone, Two Stones, Three Stones.”

Art is great and all, but this next piece made me throw up.

Wool Pod Creature

This Babadook-inspired craft features wool fetuses peering out of a slit in their wool mother.

I don’t want to cheapen my priceless blog with a dirty little .gif, but imagine a gif of a 90s sit-com character, with a really dated haircut, pulling a really, really amusing face mouthing “NOOOOOOOO!!!!”

Some wool is good enough to perch in front of the TV, while other wool gets a place of honor in the hallway.

ebba-springs-deep-rest1.jpg

The title is “The Deep Rest in the Rock.”.

But it’s not all wool and games at Ebba Springs. The owners aren’t afraid to have a little fun.

The sign reads, “The fish says Glub Glub, which means “No Entrance” in fish dialect.”

Fish says Glub Glub

I even got nose deep in their closet, also the set of “VH1 Behind the Music: Wool Are They Now.”

Wool Supplies

And now, here is a picture of some tiny chairs on top of the doorframe.

Ebba Springs Mini chairs

Why?

Because fuck your expectations — that’s why.

Chapter V Riggins’ Cabinet of Curiosities 

This house regularly appeared on Friday Night Lights. The owner didn’t know until after she made the purchase.

The owner used to work in Los Angeles as a crime scene investigator.

Riggins Cabinet 2

She retrieved this police car hood from a junk yard.

Car 54

This is the uniform she wore, complete with her human goo kit. When she first arrived in Austin, she heard members of the Austin Police Department flex their muscles and say, “I’ve been to 10 homicides.”

Riggins Coroner Outfit

During her time in LA, our Weird Homeowner said she attended about 8 homicide scenes per week. That crime scene kit has attended over 6,000 crime scenes.

She has beautiful collections of old medical equipment, prosthetic limbs, small animal skulls, and haunted dolls. As I left, I heard her explaining the skulls to a passerby: “Those are muskrat skulls. I boil them down.”

(For those of you wondering, yes, I did ask, and she is aware of both the TV show “Oddities” and the “My Favorite Murder Podcast.”)

Riggins Cabinet 1

Riggins Bathroom

Her bathroom made me realize that she might miss the old, 8-homicide per week days.

Blood bathroom

That’s what I love about other people’s homes. They don’t keep secrets as well as you do. What you don’t say out loud, your freak-ass domicile says for you.

I Invite You to Laugh at My Failure: Lessons from a Failed Business

FAILURE.

I stink of it.

But, I’m ready to talk now. It is time to show off my fresh thousand-yard stare.

I want to say something like, “I’m telling you this so you don’t make the same mistakes.” But I believe in you, and I think you’re smarter than I am, and you never would have gotten yourself into this shit in the first place.

With the help of some friends, I started a co-working space last year. It lasted 6 months, and I ended up losing money on something  I thought would be an at least somewhat profitable endeavor.

One day I’ll look back on this and laugh. Hopefully that day is tomorrow.

The Allure of the Co-Working Space

A year or so after I started freelancing, I found the crushing loneliness of working from home unbearable. And that’s coming from me, a witch who lives in a cave in the woods. So I decided to “put myself out there” (ew) and join a co-working space.

Lucky for me, there was a co-working space in a warehouse just a couple of blocks from where I lived.

There was a casual atmosphere. It was an atmosphere where you found yourself looking around, wondering what the hell anyone there did to make money. Around 3 pm, most of the members would trickle into the warm embrace of a happy hour. People I can best describe as “Redditors” would slink in after the sunset, asking where they could buy bitcoins.

Soon, management said, they would move us to a nicer warehouse.

But the new warehouse wouldn’t be an ordinary co-working space. Oh, no.

They described it as a self-contained universe where people traded only in Bitcoin and kept everything as off the grid as possible. There would be showers! And a kitchen with a chef! And hammocks! And a woodworking shop! And a recording studio! Why, you’d hardly ever need to leave or speak to your family ever again!

It was a bit much.

So four members decided to strike out on their own. They found an office space that was close enough to downtown to climb onto the roof and pee on some tech startups.

I started sticking my nose into their plans. I wanted to be a part of their world. I wanted to have a tiny amount of power over a tiny amount of people.

“Do you want to be a big dog?” one of the co-founders asked me.

“I’m a big dog,” I told her.

And so I threw my $1,000 dog hat into the ring.

Many co-working spaces are incredibly pricey, and we charged only $100 per month. In this land of Vuka and WeWork, which will set you back at least $200+/mo, we were something of a sweet deal.

Or so I thought.

Lesson 1. Have Only Correct Thoughts

We picked our office space based on location. It was on Austin’s East Side, the part of town that has shops that only sell miniature succulents.

How much space do we need?

Not that much, right?

We found something small and affordable. It was a tiny, L-shaped office within a larger suite, right next to a popular cafe called Brew & Brew. (The East Side is very much the ampersand part of town).

It didn’t have windows. But it was so damn affordable!

Who needs windows? You’re there to work, not look out a window like a trust fund baby.

Lesson 2. Do Not Lie About Windows

There were stock photos on our website. We failed to update the photos before our first happy hour that we hosted to attract clients.

A pristine graphic designer that smelled of jasmine and Icelandic spring water said, “I thought those were the actual pictures. This space has no natural light.” And promptly saw herself out.

Lesson 3. Never Underestimate the Modern Passion for Windows

Overwhelmingly, the feedback we got from potential members was: No windows, no deal.

People fucking love windows.

“But the outside world will distract you!” I would reason.

“Natural light,” they would scream.

Ok, we don’t have natural light. But what about inner light?

We started hosting donation-based yoga. Sheer desperation.

Lesson 4. People Can Tell When You’re Using Art to Cover Up the Lack of Windows

Last Days Dark and EmptyJPG

We had a couple of artist friends come and hang some of their stuff. Riding high on their new installations, I started referring to our space as a having a “gallery vibe.” I know that’s annoying, but I’m too much inside my own brain to tell you exactly how. I’m sure you can all let me know.

I thought it looked great.

But check out the competition.

Here are some pictures of a co-working space I visited recently. (Cheapest general co-working membership: $275/month.)

Impact Hub Couch

Crashed airplane furniture

I sat in a corner decorated to look like the cargo of an airplane that had recently crashed in a lush jungle. Which is the type of atmosphere that makes me feel both comfortable and productive!

When I first walked in, a muscular Steve Jobs-type wearing Fashion Glasses™ greeted me. “How do you share your awesome with the world?” he asked, as if that’s something that’s ok to say.

I looked around. Windows for dayyyyys.

Lesson 5. Decide How Hard to Party. Party that Hard, and No Harder

There was some confusion over whether we should drink the wine that I bought for a future event for lunch.

I imposed a new rule: No wine at lunch.

Many of the people who were joining wanted an atmosphere like our previous co-working space. “Let’s haaaaaang!” They said, right around 3 pm.

I spent a quiet afternoon gathering empties and putting them into the appropriate receptacle.

Y’know what? Just no more booze.

“But what if one of our members wants to drink in the middle of the day?”

“I’ll be the bad guy.” I told my co-founders. “Blame the no-booze thing on me.”

Lesson 6. Be Prepared for the Getting Side-Eye from a Member Who Would Like to Drink their Lunch

Nothing else to add here.

Lesson 7. Can’t Make a Honey Pot with No Honey.

The worst idea was definitely the tab. As an incentive, memberships came with an open tab at the coffee shop next door.  All members had to do was mumble our name under their breath, and hey presto, drinks for free.

And where should we advertise this magical tab?  We ended up posting it on our public page. Eventually we discovered that people who were not members were putting their drinks on our tab.

This was, of course, a nuclear holocaust. Do not create a honeypot out of honey that will become radioactive and transform into a honey monster that robs you at gunpoint.

Lesson 8. Spiral Into a Deep Depression And Take Pictures of Sad, Deflated Balloons in the Hallway.

Sad Balloons

Lesson 9. Embrace Death

Four months after we started our space, some other friends opened a co-working space. Their new spot had more of that casual fun that everyone craves. There were even a few windows. Pretty quickly our members started to jump ship and voyage to the new space for a better life.

It’s hard when you make something that people don’t like. But at the same time, the mistakes we made were glaring. Looking back, I’m like, duuuuuuuuuuuh

Lesson learned. Some lessons are more expensive than others.

Lesson 10. Can I tempt anyone with this decorative IKEA plant?

I’ll cut you a deal.

Plants from Ikea

 

 

 

Texas Hill Country

If you look closely at a map of Central Texas, you’ll see the grey wake of a thousand ghosts, their shadows long over the scrubby hills and green rush of the Colorado River.

jkjkjkjkjk

Central Texas has a lot of towns that were settled by sweaty Germans in the early to mid-19th century.

Some have cool names, like Zodiac.

Most have German names, like Luckenbach.

Many were wiped out either by floods, or by boll weevils that weeviled so fast and so furious that before anyone could say “What the what?!” (in German) there tweren’t nothin’ left but a pile of bugged-up cotton puffs.

Because I have a complicated soul the idea of ghost towns appeals to me. (Liberal arts degree, moved to Austin, “freelance writer”, kale salad — you get the picture.) My hill country road trip took place at the beginning of the summer.

I stuffed my car with all the adventurous ladies I could find.

Katie thought it would be jolly to pick nicknames, and expressed a wish that I refer to her as “Young Lunch Money,” like the corner boys did in her homehood of Harlem. I’m only mentioning this to avoid recriminations for leaving it out. (You don’t know what she’s like).

Annie, aka Lil’ Chicken Sticks (I shan’t explain), would be our guide, as she grew up in in the quaint central Texas town of Dripping Springs, aka “The Dirty Drip,” according to Annie’s friends in middle school.

(Katie helpfully volunteered an alternate title for this post: “BORN TO BE WILD: YUNG LUNCH MONEY, LIL CHICKEN STIX, AND THE CAPTAIN HIT TO ROAD.” For future reference, audience participation is never welcome.)

It had rained heavily the night before our trip, and we discovered our chosen route had flooded. Every year Texans pray for rain to relieve the near-constant drought, and they are punished on an annual basis with biblical floods.

Should we turn around? Or was there another way?

What was it our parents did, once there were no more tears left?

And so we decided to stop at a gas station to look at a map. Surely a map would be more detailed than whatever Apple or Google had slapped together one boozy week night, doing their best to nail a deadline.

While Annie and I puzzled over directions, Katie found time to shop for souvenirs. (This is what she’s like.)

Katie Shopping

As it turns out, maps suck. No wonder all our parents are divorced. (Except mine. Usually I would leave this out, but as we’ve established I’m a coward.)

We set our sights on the ghost town of Luckenbach. Along the way, we kept seeing signs for wineries.

When I picture vineyards, I imagine rolling hills and soft summer rain.

“Mustang grapes,” Annie explained. They thrive on the edges of woods in east Texas’ subtropical climate. Too tart to eat raw, they end up in jams and the very sweet wines of Fat Ass Ranch.

Fat Ass Ranch

We got just drunk enough to drive the rest of the way to Luckenbach. (I’m not backing down from this one.)

All that’s left of the historic town is a post office, a dance hall, and this fried pickle stand.

Luckenback Pickle Stand

It’s not so much a “ghost town” as a concert venue and, like so many small towns in America, a place to display all the nostalgic license plates you could ever want.

I have a question, America.

WHY DO YOU WANT THESE???

Luckenback License Plates

A giant cow caught my eye near the entrance. There was a man standing next to the cow who appeared to be charging $8 to sit on it.

“Can I ride this cow?”

Aprraising Cow

“Y’all not from here?” the cow guardian (is there a name for these????) asked, with classic Texan impertinence.

Out in the country, my Mid-Atlantic jibber-jabber makes the hair on the back of many a sunburned neck stand up. People look at me like I’m Fran Drescher.

I explained, apologetically, that I’m from Maryland, and that Katie has the nerve to hail from New York.

Annie mentioned that she’s from the Dirty Drip. The cow master eyed her fair skin.

“Musta’ not let you get outside much.”

“They did! But slathered in sunscreen,” she demurred.

He furrowed his brows, to the point that his caterpillar eyebrows grazed his walrus mustache.

“You know where all the sunscreen goes when you shower? Into the ocean.”

We chuckled nervously.

“You know what they call the ocean now? A Dead Zone.”

We let that sink in for a second.

Annie decided to take a firm tone. “Both of my parents have skin cancer, so…” She shrugged, half smiling, as if to to say, “I’d rather not die of skin cancer.”

The apparent CEO of Luckenbach Cow Corp was quick with his comeback: “Me too.”

The tension was building. Continue reading

How to Announce Your Breakup (God, I hope my ex doesn’t read this.)

Oh my god, this is going to be so juicy.

I’m spilling the beans like never before.

And I’m going to do it with 27 years of  panache.

When someone is dealing with a breakup, their friends often have to deal with a narrative that, frankly, isn’t all that tight.

But I’m nailing that aspect of the split.

For future reference, you should have a 15-second explanation of your breakup at the ready. Feel free to use this template I’m providing.

  1. We decided we wanted different things.
  2. I’m going to stay with my [friends/parents] until I find a new place.
  3. It was hard, but for the best.
  4. Anyway. What’s YOUR dick look like, homie?

Remember to shrug at the end, and don’t overthink it. The sooner everyone knows, the sooner no one will care.

There is, of course, the long version.

I know the modern reader loves other people’s pain, and I would never deprive you. After all, you’re the one I’ve secretly always wanted. Leave your address in the comment section, and I’ll be over once I’m done painting my nails.

Part 1. Chaos

This breakup was a whirlwind. Things were great, and then they weren’t, and our relationship dissolved over the course of a mere 4 days. One minute we were deciding where to put the Donald Trump Piñata, and the next I was shuttling around my Donald Trump Piñata in my trunk, as I crashed at a series of friend’s houses.

This is a stupid problem to have:

Trump Trunk

I spent the next couple of weeks imagining how I would have to change all of my routines to avoid a run-in with my ex-boyfriend.

We used to always get breakfast tacos from the same sweet taco spot. I imagined the people working there saying, “Did you hear? One vegan taco, one avocado taco split up with one vegan, one sweet potato chorizo. They’re going to be ordering separate tacos from now on. God, I’m going to miss that taco order.”

We have a tendency to overestimate how much our breakup effects others.

Someone saw me drop a cabbage while I was at my office co-op. I had a cabbage with me due to a series of logistical problems caused by my nomadic lifestyle.

“Fuck! My cabbage!” I screamed.

Then I self-consciously announced that I had a cabbage with me because of a breakup.

“I knew something was up when I saw your cabbage,” one onlooker said, subtly pointing out that no one cares that you have a cabbage, and no one is interested in your boring broken heart.

Part II. Stifle 

I’ve made a lot of good friends in the past year, and a couple of them let me clog up their houses with my sadness.

I watched 30 Rock and Unbreakable Kimmy Schmidt almost nonstop. It’s important to never give your brain any space to waggle its pain receptors, which can turn into a pretty exhausting routine. “Stifle. And stifle. Keep stifling. That’s it! You’re doing great! Remember, silence is trying to kill you!”

At some point you’ll need to loosen up. Beer is a no. Wine is a hard no. Gin always treats me right, but you’ll have to experiment.

When you drink, you will have a sudden urge to say some very, very mean things to your ex. This brings me to my next point: Tinder has its uses (definitely not sex). Why say something spiteful that you’ll regret, when instead you could say something weird to a stranger?

Choose wisely. You have but one life to live.

Part III. Return to The Birthplace, Much Like a Sea Turtle. 

I went to stay with my parents in my childhood home until it was time to move to my new place.

It’s not until you’re swimming away from the sinking wreck of H.S.S. Love Boat  that you truly appreciate your parents.

Ah, home.

Where you know there will always be a stack of anti-Clinton literature in the bathroom, within easy reach of the toilet.

Bathroom Literature

Continue reading

Trump Piñatas: You Bought HOW MANY?

“When Mexico sends its people, they’re not sending their best…They’re sending people that have lots of problems, and they’re bringing those problems with [them]. They’re bringing drugs. They’re bringing crime. They’re rapists. And some, I assume, are good people.”

My dad called me shortly following the Donald’s speech last summer.

“Have you seen the piñatas?”

I had not.

In the months following Donald Trump’s July remarks about Mexicans, there was an outcry in Austin’s Mexican-American community. This protest mainly took the form of piñatas.

My dad knows that I live in the piñata-rich territory of east Austin. He ordered me to snap one up and send it to him in sad, piñata-free Maryland.

Contemptible Impudence Sr. lives to be politically antagonistic. Lately he’s been bellowing about how he might vote for Trump. I think he’s kidding, but I’m not sure. My father is a complicated man.

This is the first Donal Trump Piñata I spotted one weekend in early July, hanging in the doorway of J&J Liquors on east 11th.

Trump Pinata J&J

I went inside and asked the proprietor of J&J Liquors where he had found this charming specimen. “My friend came in and asked if he could stash it here for a little while. That was last week.” The abandoned Trump’s mouth hung agape. How could someone do this to him? He had done nothing but spread joy!

Soon after I started seeing Trumps in every piñata store in east Austin. On East Cesar Chavez, the neighborhood’s main drag, there are four piñata stores in less than a half mile.

All of the Trump piñatas wear black suits, white shirts, and red ties. The best ones have giant lips and gaping mouths. None of them play up the squinty eyes to my satisfaction, and some of them look downright jolly.

I decided to go to each of the 4 piñata stores in my neighborhood, applying the same rigorous standards of beauty that Donald Trump does to moms and daughters.

Continue reading