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COPYRIGHT 2006 Texas Monthly, Inc.
It's long past time that I thank Texas--that I thank all the Czechs and Germans and Mexicans and cowboys, both real and urban, who made this the dancingest state in the union. With out them I might never have gotten married. While I'm at it, I should probably thank the heat as well The hellish, hellish heat.
August. Austin. 1979. AC goes out in bachelorette pad. Roomate suggests vacating premises for Aqua Fest: giant drunk on banks of Colorado River where strangers--many of them members of fraternities--throw up on one another's feet. Could not pay me enough to attend. Then varnish on furniture bubbles and linoleum on floors melts. Aqua Fest becomes tempting alternative. More uncharacteristic behavior follows. Ask cutest boy in all of Aquafestlandia to dance polka_ Boy maintains iris a waltz. Twenty-seven-year argument ensues.
An astute reader recently pointed out that my new novel, The Flamenco Academy, and my last one, The Yokota Officers Club both featured introverted heroines transformed and...
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