Remembering myTunes

I've done a lot of wistful remenescing lately-- mainly because my matriculating class is graduatin' in like a week. They're all selfishly leaving me for a real world ripe with full-time, career-building opportunities while I finish up my BSEE and work part-time mining coal for wages that would upset Human Rights Watch. And while I cope (completely un-bitter, I promise) with the reality of spending one more year at Rice without the familiar faces I've known since my arrival in Houston, I can't help but think about the good ol' days...

myTunes Redux

The little piece of software pictured above, myTunes Redux, was one of the most influential facets of my freshman year. You know, besides the Seniors.

Allow me to weave a yarn: The tale of a ragtag bunch of incoming Rice University freshmen, all assigned to spend their first year in the dingiest digs offered on-campus. These kids were all trapped in Will Rice Long Hall and didn't (apparently) have much in common besides 4-point-ohs and arrogance galore. Sure: They broke the ice with grain alcohol and casual sex just like any collection of close-proximity teenagers, but real friendships started to blossom thanks to a little tool called myTunes.

myTunes allowed anyone with iTunes (Mac or PC) to share their music library across a local network (but not outside that local network). For Long Hall's purposes, that local network was Long Hall. One would simply select a user on the network, pick and choose which songs they wanted, and voila.

Music became a significant common thread along which these hallmates could establish friendships. Some users brought completely unheard genres to the table, such as Louie introducing the Hall to his collection of Houston/3rd Coast Rap. Others (such as myself) used myTunes to identify those with worthy tastes and immediately recognized that Andrew Flowers and Augusta Bartis were the coolest people in the world, ever. Whether used to share or used to judge, myTunes allowed for an expression of individuality that you couldn't find on early Facebook profiles or roommate selection forms.

...and they all lived happily ever after.

Since 2006, myTunes has been more or less defunct thanks to those bastards at Apple blocking network file-sharing in iTunes. Which is a pity, really. I can't imagine my freshman year without the advantage of swapping songs with friends and getting to know people through their respective tastes in music. Nowadays, Rice freshmen probably Tweetup after O-Week or something weird that will probably doom my entire generation forever.

That or Swine Flu in Houston.

Birthday Burger Cupcakes!

THIS IS THE BEST BIRTHDAY EVER.

Update: Cristina baked and iced these bad boys for me this afternoon, before treating me to a night of decedent churrasco. Now I'm off to watch Fringe and eat more burgers cupcakes.

Kyle's bad-for-your-body birthday, Pt. III.

Texas secession reminds me of that show "Jericho"

Jesus, this whole secession thing is funny to me.

I like how Houston becomes "Galtville," which would probably rank #5 among Houstonians if you took a poll to rename the city.

1. Swishaland
   
2. Greater Montrose
   
3. New Shiner
   
4. Bill White's House of Chicken and Waffles
   
5. Galtville
   

Guilt and Valet in Midtown Houston: A savage journey to park my car

My favorite diner-diving duchess, Katherine Shilcutt, is back at it again with a lengthy castigation of valet parking here in Houston. Despite our parting opinions on Crave and late-night sushi [in which I used some colorful, 1940's-era mobster lingo], I completely agree with her contention that valet is a plight on the Midtown dining experience.

But the valet is free! people will exclaim. No, it's not. You still have to tip a dollar or two and, if you're like me, you may not have any cash on you. And that valet service is being paid for by someone. Don't think it's been factored into the cost of your meal at the restaurant? Think again.

I, too, never seem to have the tangible cash-on-hand to tip these cretins. I spend them all on overpriced plantain chips and Chex mix during my stress-relieving spending sprees at the office snack machine. And why should I save my Washingtons for this nonsense? Why should I have to worry about loading my wallet with dollar bills for a service I never ever actually need?

Avoiding the Guilt-- that's why.

Valet Tip Guilt is the spectre that traverses the depths of your stuffed stomach after rocking a bucket of mussels at Reef, rips at your heartstrings, and commands you to fork over your small cash. It is an institution nearly as powerful and pervasive as Catholic guilt. And it's a bitch, too, when you're trying to enjoy your evening out with a lovely lady. I can't count the number of times a valet has looked up at me with a weird mix of stunned surprise and puppy-dog eyes after I indicate (with all unfortunate sincerity) that I don't have any ones to spare. The Guilt drives me to do stupid things like ask my girlfriend to pay the man. Basically, Valet Guilt is killing chivalry and my sex life and my well-being as a whole.

Restaurateurs argue that it's not their fault these useless services are taking over Midtown. Rather they're forced by landlords who cut shady deals with the valet companies and drive up rent (ergo, food prices) accordingly. Whether or not it's technically the restaurant's fault is moot to patrons. I always associate the crushing guilt of being unable to tip a valet with the restaurant, not the poor schmuck trying to make ends meet by parking cars.

Katherine, I'll echo your call to arms: Next time you're out and see that telltale "Free Valet" sign, balls up and say no. Park your own car and end this useless, expanding racket.

[Houston - Eating Our Words - The Valet Problem]