I'm not surprised that it finally happened. But what does it mean for us, who make our meager wages at Chrysler dealerships?

Customers have been calling in to check if we are still here. We are. They want to know if their warranties are still valid. They are.

The sales people here don't seem worried. Why should they be? There are still a lot of cars to sell. Gino strolls through the dealership with a closed mouth smile. He's excited that Italian company, Alfa Romeo is buying Chrysler. "Today is a good day," he cheerfully says. Gino is Italian himself, and so I suppose he feels a sense of pride. It puts me at ease.

But then there are the ominous signs. The Meeting. Upstairs. Between the managers of every department of our dealership. Service, Parts, Sales, Office. All of the boss folk are going up into that room. We, on the first floor, stare up with trembling eyes, wondering what ill news they will bring down with them. Even Gino takes a brief moment to stop at my desk and wonder what is going on up there. "Maybe restructuring," he tells me.

Our dealership is filled with classic cars, which tell a story of the history of Chrysler. I guess they are here to attract customers, who enter our dealership in a state of awe. I always hear, "You don't see that every day." Well, yes I do. Though I think the classic cars are interesting (especially the 1924 Depot Hack), I can't help but see them as symbols of past ideas that no longer apply to today. The monstrous, gas-devouring, road-hogging, cars from the fifties are offensive to me. Not the cars themselves, but the unsustainable and shortsighted way of life for which they stand. I recently read an essay on the nature of collecting, and how it was characteristic of groups or individuals near the end of their life span. This thought makes the presence of so many classic cars at the dealership trouble me. It's as if my desk is in the center of a whirlwind of fragmented memories, a life flashing before Chrysler's eyes.

The meeting is ending as I am writing this. The suits are filing out quietly. The sales people are leaning around my desk, talking about what might happen. Nobody is too worried. Sales is a "here today, gone tomorrow," kind of business. Salespeople come and go fast. Losing your job is part of the job. Let's just hope its not the only part.


Would You Rather Spit or Swallow?

Hey class act!
Are you craving you nico-fix, but worried that cigarettes are losing their cool?
Do you love to chew, but are sick of having to hide your blackened saliva in empty Coke cans and potted plants?
Well now you can buy a product that will discreetly infuse nicotine into your bloodstream while flavoring your spit at the same time!
-One can definitely understand the need for a product that makes the act of feeding a nicotine addiction more secretive and less smelly and gross. However, this product is nothing more than flavored spit. Fucking tacky. Smokers will just stick to smoking.


Mistakes and Apologies

No issue of TalkHard is without its share of blunders, but this issue's blunder takes the entire cake and sets it on fire.

We placed an article in this issue written by Matthew Duncan (a regular TalkHard contributor) without crediting him in the issue. Matt, I'm sorry about the mistake. I didn't even notice it until all of the issues had been distributed. We are running a second print of this issue with the error fixed. I apologize.

All you readers out in Austin land may have noticed that the zine is almost gone from shelves. Cool, huh? Don't worry, we will have a second run of the issue coming out this and next week. We'll keep you posted on where to find one.

Oh, and if anybody wants a copy mailed to them, send us an email.



TalkHard Delivery!

I'm putting TalkHard issues at the following places!

-The Hideout Coffee House
-Ruta Maya Coffee
-Book People
-Waterloo Records
-(this one coffee shop on manor that nicole used to live by.

But I need more places to distribute!

Anybody have any ideas?


Dropping the Mike

My first reading at an open mike was last night. Ruta Maya. By the strip club. Nerves, shivering hands clasping crumbled paper, I looked up at the poets on the stage with the same big-eyed fascination as when I first searched for the sky through the majestic skyscrapers of Manhattan.
My choice was an essay I wrote for issue two of TalkHard called Something is Rotten in the City of Austin. I'll add it to this post later. My choice of reading was a response to all of the poets whose verse was entirely focused on the obstinate beauty of their drug hazed party scenes. I wanted to call them out on it.

It went very well. They laughed at the funny parts. I dropped the microphone at one point, but it didn't change anything. They applauded as they do, and a pretty young girl with silver earrings and a boy's curly hair cut told me that she liked my piece. Satisfaction. Next week, we'll do it again.


I'll bet you are excited. I know I am. There will be a staple party soon, so if anybody wants to spend some time talking, drinking, and stapling, give me a call. I will probably do it this Saturday.

There will be a special blog on the process of creating this issue posted soon this week.