Every gripe, obituary, and love letter to old Austin in one place. Filter by series if you want a recurring format, or jump into a topic if you’re chasing one specific civic wound.
The fastest way to follow one Austin theme across the archive.
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Reverse-chronological Austin complaining, exactly as God and local resentment intended.

Composite character Kade Sonnenfeld rides the elevator to the 16th floor of 701 Brazos with a $7.50 croissant and the unshakable confidence of a man who discovered transformers last week, then explains them to the woman who co-wrote the original paper.

A 7:42 a.m. Zillow rent comp sheet for Mosaic at Mueller ($1,880 one-bedroom) and Aldrich 51 sits beside last quarter's Mueller POA notice on the counter; cross-referenced against the 2004 Master Development Agreement for the old Robert Mueller Municipal Airport site, with one $28 plate of rigatoni entered as Exhibit B.

Deadpan notes from the Parmer-to-Cesar Chavez run on Loop 1, where 2017's "managed lanes" still leave general-purpose traffic in the 35-60 minute range and every extended idle translates into another $6.50 Veracruz All Natural taco you'll skip at the finish line.

Breaking down Sno-Beach's current menu at the purple trailer on Sterzing Street where a small hits four dollars and the jumbo tub seven, set against late-90s pricing that matched a gallon of milk, all while tracking the 3 p.m. elementary school rush and post-pool family math near Barton Springs.

Dropped in on a weeknight at the Broken Spoke where the chicken fried steak runs $16.95, the two-step lesson costs ten bucks and fills by 7:30, and the condo cranes now peer over the tin roof from the back parking lot like uninvited guests.

He bought 40 acres in Dripping Springs and now has opinions about cedar.

They removed 34 affordable housing units and replaced them with 34 luxury tiny homes with a communal kombucha tap.

He's never been to West, Texas. He has opinions about lamination.

His algorithm has tasted ten thousand quesos. It has learned nothing.

South Congress used to be weird. Now it's weird that anyone can still afford to be there.
We mapped every corporate activation zone in downtown Austin during SXSW. It took three days and most of our will to live.

The glass towers crossed I-35 and nobody even pretended to be surprised.

The free stuff used to be good. Then it was fine. Now it's a QR code printed on a napkin.

Meet Chadwick, who thinks the real problem with breakfast tacos is that they lack a decentralized ledger.

Riverside Drive used to be where you lived when you couldn't afford anywhere else. Now you can't afford Riverside Drive either.

Before it was a parking lot and then a high-rise, it was the room where rednecks and hippies decided to get along.

Rainey Street used to be a quiet block of house-bars where you could drink a Lone Star on a porch. Now the porches are in the shadows of 40-story towers.

We counted the porta-potties so you don't have to. The findings are damning and poorly ventilated.

They closed in 2008. Congress Avenue has never fully recovered. Neither have we.

Before it was Austin's shiniest open-air mall-suburb, The Domain was just a bunch of nothing next to an IBM campus nobody talked about.

The original Emo's wasn't a venue. It was a bruise you were proud of.

You used to dig through a bin for a $3 tee. Now someone digs through the bin for you and charges $45.

A tactical guide for Austinites who want to survive SXSW by doing the only sane thing: avoiding it completely.

It's survived everything Austin has thrown at it, which at this point is basically a siege.

Barton Springs was free, then $3, then $5, then $9. The water stayed the same. We didn't.

Parking used to be an afterthought. Now it's a second mortgage.

They tore it down in 1999 and put up an office building. The bass notes are still in the soil.

Austin's signature food used to be cheap fuel, not a lifestyle brand.

From $50 wristbands to $1,900 platinum passes — a love story between Austin and your empty wallet.

The Lone Star tallboy was a civic institution. Now it's a 'retro selection' on a craft menu.
Comedic Austin nostalgia satire. We remember when this town was weird for free.
This is satire. We love Austin — even the parts we complain about. All characters are fictional composites. No tech bros were harmed in the making of this website.
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