Last night I slept on the futon in what used to be our dining room so my sister and her boys could use what used to be her room, where I normally sleep. (That was confusing even to me.) Anyway, I think I slept for two hours before my nephew Christopher woke up with a full tank of gas and essentially started crowing like a rooster, at which point my sister said (in the loudest whisper I have ever heard), “BE QUIET. YOUR UNCLE IS TRYING TO SLEEP!”

Trying, of course, was the operative word.

I’m just going to put this out there–I don’t think my nephew really gave a shit. I mean, I used to work at a summer camp. Asking a seven-year-old to be quiet is like asking a newborn puppy to kindly not shit on your brand new shag carpet. Good luck. But I do think my nephew tried–for a moment–and I guess that’s what matters.

There’s a saying in life–know when you’re licked–so I went ahead and got up and made half a pot of coffee for me and my sister. Upon seeing the pot only partially full, she said “That’s cute. You must not have children.” Point taken, lesson learned. While we both drank what coffee we did have, my sister scrambled eggs, and then we ate breakfast together while the boys fussed at each other and the younger one, Ander, got in a fight with the coffee table and lost.

Don’t worry, kids are practically made of rubber.

After breakfast my friend Bonnie picked me up for another road trip to Austin (Yippee!), which is where I am now. I wish I could make the ride down here sound terribly interesting, but there’s only so much you can say about borrowing and drooling on your friend’s neck pillow or buying a bottle of Coca-Cola because it has your name on it–almost.

From now on, you’re welcome to call me “Marco,” but if you think I’m going to answer “Polo,” you’re sadly mistaken.

When Bonnie and I first got to town, we stopped by her daughter’s new Pilates studio, which just opened today. (Part of the reason we’re here is to help decorate the studio.) From there we checked into the Airbnb where we’re staying for a few days. Y’all this is my first Airbnb experience, and it’s so neat. Really swell. I guess they are all different, but this one is part of a lady’s house that’s been sectioned off, and it’s super cute, super eclectic, super Austin. Here’s a picture of the couch. Later Bonnie hung the sock monkey from the chandelier. (Why not?)

Here’s a picture of the front door taken from the couch. The stained glass window has a piece of tin foil on one side, but Austin’s the type of place that makes you think maybe that was part of the design. Bonnie said, “I love that everything is unique. Nothing is perfect. Nothing is too matchy-matchy.” I said, “It’s nothing like a hotel. It feels like home.”

There’s a note on the refrigerator with the WIFI network and password. Get this shit. The network is named “Dogs Against Gentrification.” (Crazy, right? Like dogs give a shit–about politics, that is. I know, I know–Keep Austin Weird.) Anyway, I’m not ashamed to say that I had to look up gentrification, which turns out to be the process by which a home or neighborhood is made to conform to the tastes of the middle-class. (Apparently it’s a big deal here.) Also, gentrification can be the process by which a person is made more refined or polite. (Think about what they did to poor Eliza Doolittle.)

This evening Bonnie and I walked to a restaurant called The Austin Taco Project, and it was ridiculously tasty. One of the advertisements said, “Let’s taco bout it,” so I think I’m going to start using that in all it’s varied forms–Let’s taco bout it–We can taco bout it–I’d like to taco bout gentrification. You know, stuff like that.

Wanna taco bout tacos?

Anyway, earlier today Bonnie and I taco’d bout pet peeves, specific phrases people use that drive us up our respective walls. Bonnie said she hates it when people say, “You’re having too much fun,” as if there’s a limit on how much joy a person is allowed to experience. I said I hate it when people say, “You should be ashamed of yourself,” as if any of us needs any more fucking shame in our lives. Lastly, I said I hate it when people say, “You’re being selfish,” which–rather than being a simple and accurate observation–is more often a technique used to get someone to behave the way someone else thinks they ought to.

At some point while seeing my therapist, I saw a picture on Facebook of a couple of people I don’t particularly like or admire, people I used to hang out with but don’t anymore because shit happens. Anyway, these people had the nerve to be together, in public, apparently having a good time. I mean, they were actually SMILING. (One of my friends tells a story about a movie or something in which one character says, “What? You just expect them to spend the rest of their life poor, alone, and brokenhearted?” To which the other character says, “Is that too much to ask?”) So I told my therapist about this, including the part that I hated that it bothered me at all. I said, “Obviously they can do what they want.”

She said, “Yeah. They’re–autonomous.”

This is a concept I have to keep reminding myself of, and although I don’t know much about gentrification, it sounds a lot like not respecting another person’s autonomy. I mean, it’s easy to do. I make judgments about other people’s behaviors all the time. You’re house needs to look a certain way. You’re having too much fun. You say fuck (more than I do)–you should be ashamed of yourself. Why didn’t you call me back? You’re being selfish. But the fact is that everyone–everyone–gets to decide what’s best for him or her. And so long as it doesn’t hurt anyone else, it’s frankly none of anyone else’s business, including mine. (Ouch. I hate that.)

But the great thing about recognizing someone else’s autonomy is that in so doing you also recognize your own. As it turns out, whenever you give respect, you get respect, at the very least from yourself. And something wonderful happens whenever everyone makes their own decisions and doesn’t conform to what someone else thinks is best. After all, conformity is the stuff hotels are made of. Whereas that’s nice enough for a weekend, who’d want to live there? No, it’s much better when each of us is unique, and the lot of us aren’t perfect or too matchy-matchy. I’m sure the dogs against gentrification would agree–that’s when it feels like home.

Of course, if you think otherwise, we can always taco bout it.