Undie Run

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May 4, 2011

By now you’ve probably had quite a few Osama Bin Laden death video links posted on your Facebook wall. You know the one: It was censored by the Obama administration due to its level of violence? Well, curiosity might not have killed the cat but it certainly fueled a fairly successful Facebook scam, didn’t it? Now all your friends are going to think you’re some sort of sick freak who masturbates to snuff films. Ouch. That’s a bit unfair. You’re not a monster. You’re not even Michael Vick. Word on the street is that Michael Vick isn’t even Michael Vick. Who knows? People can change. It’s possible that last Saturday morning Osama had a huge epiphany. He might have rolled out of bed refreshed from a great night’s sleep and decided that those American infidels that he once thought of as evil oppressors were, in fact, a decent, peace-loving people worthy of respect and admiration. If he did, we’ll never know because later that evening he had his head and chest ventilated by a team of Navy SEALs. Sometimes when you think the black helicopters are after you, they really are. In this case it was for a very good reason. Osama may not have been evil incarnate, but he did plan and carry out terrorist attacks that caused the deaths of thousands of Americans. Barbaric as it seems, that kind of behavior earns you a free ventilation courtesy of the U.S. government. Sure, there are those who will say that killing doesn’t justify killing or that violence only begets more violence, and they are mostly right. It’s entirely possible that Hitler might have eventually been defeated by compassion, prayer, and peaceful meditation. After a while, he might have eventually been smitten by the love bug, but isn’t it wonderful that, thanks to the serious ass-kicking laid on him by the Allies, Hitler chose to check out early with a cyanide capsule and a Luger to his temple? Martin Luther King Jr. once said that you can kill the thinker but not the thought, and there are plenty of neo-Nazi Aryan supremacists still around to prove that point, but history has also shown that if you kill enough bad thinkers, bad thoughts tend to die out as well. The big, overriding question, then, is: Who determines what makes a thought bad? Tricky isn’t it? Was it morally justifiable to cause the deaths of more than 100,000 Iraqis (that being roughly 33 times the number of casualties from 9/11) on the basis of specious intelligence about weapons of mass destruction? Was it OK because President Bush and Congress thought they were doing the right thing? Perhaps if Osama bin Laden had merely exclaimed, “Whoopsy! My bad! I thought I was doing the right thing!” after 9/11, we might have given him a pass. Probably not. And chances are black helicopters won’t swoop down out of the sky in the middle of the night and ventilate George Junior for being a monumental fuck-up, but rest assured there are thousands of people in Iraq and throughout the Middle East who probably wouldn’t mind taking a crack at it. In the end, the ugly truth is that they couldn’t do it even if they wanted to, which only proves that moral superiority isn’t worth a bucket of warm spit unless you have the power to back it up. America certainly has plenty of power, but we’re still a little shaky on moral superiority. The death of Osama bin Laden inspired a lot of fist-pumping and flag-waving, and rightfully so. It’s one of those rare occurrences in the past 10 years where America’s power and righteousness seem unquestionably in sync. Make no mistake: Killing Osama bin Laden was the right thing to do. He was a confessed mass murderer and a sworn enemy of the United States. Like Hitler, he surely knew he had it coming, but what Americans should be celebrating is not vengeance – America is surely due some of that itself – but the fact that because Osama bin Laden is dead, Americans can feel just a little bit safer, a little bit freer, a little bit closer to that invincibility we felt before we ever heard his name. We should probably get out and enjoy it before our chickens come home to roost. You can do just that in a very American way this Friday by joining in the 2011 Undie Run, a nearly naked fun run that collects clothes for local charities. The Undie Run starts at 7pm on Friday in the parking lot behind the University Co-op and includes a photo booth, prizes by Bettysport and Forbidden Fruit, as well as free body paint and glow sticks for the first 500 runners. Best of all, it’s free, just like America.

Lysts on the Lake Lone Star Open Joust

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April 27, 2011

It seems kind of crazy, but the climate in Austin is perfect for jousting … well, culturally at least. Meteorologically it’s ass. Yes, you can probably tolerate straddling a horse in a metal exoskeleton November through March, but the rest of the year, the heat is more likely to take you off your high horse than a wicked lance to your breastplate. Friday and Saturday the temperature will be in the low 90s, which should test the mettle/metal of any would-be Lancelots as well of the potency of their respective deodorants. There is a reason the Spanish explorer Cabeza de Vaca wandered around Texas buck nekkid – well, at least by 16th century standards. Back then, a varmint pelt over your kibbles and bits wasn’t considered actual clothing – even though these days if you wear a slingshot on the beach in Majorca you might as well be swaddled in a full-length fur coat. Yes, it is commonly thought that ol’ Cow Head sacrificed his clothing to shore up holes in his boat when it wrecked on Galveston Island, but the more likely explanation is that it was insanely hot and he would have sacrificed them for nearly anything: dried fish, dream catcher, peace pipe, or a bad hand of poker. Lesson: It’s too goddamned hot in Texas to be horsing around in a suit of armor – or a suit of any kind for that matter. Of course, that would never deter a hardcore creative anachronist. For those cats, just strolling around the Ren-Faire munching on a turkeye leg and rapping to the laydies in a meticulously rehearsed patois of Aulde Englishe/Old Testament is not enough. They want to get medieval on your ass. No, not like Marsellus Wallace in Pulp Fiction but really, truly medieval … or at least the most historically accurate re-enactment their budgets will allow. For people in economically depressed states like Michigan and Pennsylvania that means building their own smelters, blacksmith shops, or tanneries, and spending long hours meticulously re-creating the clothing and implements of a bygone era. Nerds in Austin just buy their shit online and have it FedEx’d to their cubicles so they don’t have to overtly brag to their office mates about their tough-guy weekend LARPing activities. It takes a monumental amount of game to engage the hot young receptionist at your office in a conversation about the length of your lance or the width of your broadsword – especially when you’re not talking about your Johnson. Of course, if you’re an insanely wealthy game developer like Richard Garriott, you hardly need any game at all. Garriott has enough money to prattle on endlessly to hot chicks about subjects that would earn most people a toilet-bowl swirly or at least a merciless noogie. That doesn’t necessarily mean space flight and pre-17th century European history aren’t fascinating; it just means that they’re more fascinating and when a mutlimillionaire has the floor. Imagine having a lunch meeting with Warren Buffett at which he enthusiastically discloses a penchant for gerbiling. Would you recoil in horror or try to keep an open mind? After all, Warren Buffett probably has the money to really do gerbiling “right.” The bottom line is that Garriott is in the happy position to engage wholeheartedly in all his nerdly passions, which is why he is hosting the first-ever Lysts on the Lake, a three-day exhibition of competitive jousting at the “Village of Castleton,” a fantasy village on the shores of Lake Austin composed of a cluster of quaintly accessorized affordable portables along with a fort, a miniature lighthouse, and (spoiler alert) a pirate ship. Yes, the location alone sells itself, but consider the prospect of nerds going after one another with big wooden sticks wearing sweaty suits of armor. Really, how can you not go?

QueerBomb

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June 2, 2010

ND Austin

Austin is, after all, the state capital and arguably the third gayest city in Texas … at least in terms of numbers.
Why wouldn’t Austin devote a four-day weekend to the life and music of Charley Pride? Anyone who has sold more than 70 million records is worthy of a heapin’ helpin’ of A-Town adoration, but CP did it as a black country singer. That’s like a big slab of improbable sandwiched between a couple of slices of impossible, slathered in unthinkable and garnished with unbelievable. In other words, a lot of “ble” to wrap your head around. Pride knows what it’s like to be a victim of discrimination. Pride knows what it’s like to overcome obstacles. Pride understands the plight of the downtrodden, but he also knows the thrill of victory and the triumph of accomplishment. Did you know that Charley Pride is the only black person ever inducted into the Grand Ole Opry? Ever. Not even EP can say that … especially since … no matter what you read in the tabloids … Elvis is dead. CP, on the other hand, is alive and kickin’ – just attended spring training camp with the Texas Rangers … as he has for the past 30-plus years. Pride knows perseverance. He tried to become a major league baseball player until his fastball lost its mustard due to an arm injury. He ended up playing semipro in Helena, Mo.; working in a zinc smelter; and playing club gigs a couple of nights a week. With the help of a local DJ, he landed on a package show with Red Foley and Red Sovine, who later hooked him up with legendary guitarist and record executive Chet Atkins. The rest is history – a history well worth four days of colorful revelry, remembrance, pomp, and circumstance, and at the very least just one. Hey, if Buck Owens gets a birthday bash, Charley Pride deserves one, too. Sadly however, Charley Pride’s birthday falls on March 18, which is usually smack-dab in the middle of South by Southwest. Of all the damned luck, eh? Sorry, Charley. This weekend is a pretty good weekend for a Pride fest too. In fact, there is a Pride fest this weekend, only this Pride isn’t black, it’s rainbow-colored. Confusing yes, but not for Pride participants. They’re all rock-solid sure of their sexual orientation – so much so they’re proud of it, thus the name. This Pride might not knock out a stirring rendition of “Kiss an Angel Good Morning” (unless it’s a gender-nonspecific remix with a throbbing disco beat), but they will turn out festively and in impressive numbers. Austin is, after all, the state capital and arguably the third gayest city in Texas … at least in terms of numbers. Most importantly, Pride is about reminding the breeders that gay, lesbian, bi, and transgender people are people too … equally deserving of the same rights as their het counterparts, some of which they still do not enjoy. As with any large, diverse group of disenfranchised people, there are varying methods and opinions on how equal rights should be achieved. Some see Pride as a way to show the straight world that GLBT people are the same in just about every way, only freakier in the sack. Others, however, see Pride as a way to celebrate their differences. If you’re into shock and awe, you’ll probably want to hang out with the latter. At least their parties are a lot more fun. This Friday, you can get in on the action at the QueerBomb Rally and Procession, which starts at the ND at 501 Studios and parades through Downtown. After the rally, there will be a “stank throwdown” featuring two DJ’s, as well as performances by Little Stolen Moments, Kings N Things, and Christeene, the world’s most terrifying drag queen and the “lady” most likely to inspire Charley Pride to sing, “Anyplace is all right as long as I can forget I’ve ever known her.”

The Austin Outhouse Reunion

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April 7, 2010

Giddy Ups

You’ve probably heard the old folk tales about the days when Austin was dirt cheap, scruffy, and unpretentious. They’re mostly lies. Yes, it’s true that back in the day you used to be able to buy a six-pack of Texas Pride for $1.25 at the H-E-B … and yes, the Whip In convenience store on Burton Drive used to sell packages of nitrous oxide … and it’s true that hookers – real, skanky, foul-mouthed hookers – used to troll SoCo nightly. However, unless you like beer that tastes like it’s been left out in the sun all week (Texas Pride should have been called “Texas Perseverance”), and unless you like waking up with a menagerie of inexplicable bruises (no, you can’t run through brick walls, even if you’ve been huffing), and unless you’ve been accosted by a female prostitute who looks like a dude who let a 4-year-old apply his/her lipstick, then even in the softest lens of retrospect, it would be hard to call the old days better times. Cheaper times, yes. If you go back far enough, you can probably find a time when you could buy a pound of skunk weed for fitty cent, a bottle of Coke for a penny, or maybe even a paint pony for an eagle feather, but there are down sides to everything. You would probably have had to get the skunk weed from an old hippie who smelled like patchouli and dried urine and had brown teeth and a case of toenail fungus that belonged in a science exhibit. The paint pony would probably come complete with a smallpox laden saddle blanket, and the Coke, while refreshing, would be spiked with actual cocaine, which everyone knows is a gateway drug to being a huge asshole. Old Austin however (that being the Austin you weren’t around for) had its pluses. For instance, back in the day there were no douches. This is not to say there weren’t self-important, nugget jewelry wearing, beauty salon mullet rocking, T-top Camaro driving douche bags. Yes, there were. But mostly they were called pricks, dickheads, and assholes, and they mostly hung out at places like Confettis or the Roxy on East Riverside. Really, every town needs a disco – if only to act as flypaper for all the fronters trying to work their game. Otherwise, their impact would be more immediately felt. It’s bad enough to have a couple of Hummers (the modern-day equivalent of the T-top Firebird) parked across two spaces at the H-E-B, but imagine a whole parking lot full of them. How about a few tables of obnoxious cigar smokers at your local coffeehouse? You get the picture. Fortunately, back in the old days there were plenty of places holding down the other end of the scale – places where pretense got checked at the door. Perhaps the least pretentious of all was the Austin Outhouse. As you can imagine, a bar named after a shitter probably isn’t too concerned with the social status of its clientele. That’s what made the Austin Outhouse such a special place. It took all comers, not only regarding its clientele but its booking policy as well. On any given night you could see anything from youthful avant punk to leather-skinned Texas songwriters, and through it all, the scenery never changed: wood paneling festooned with old license plates, band stickers and assorted memorabilia, a few neon beer signs, wooden tables, a motley assortment of questionably homeless looking people permanently installed at the bar, a few dogs, and a genuinely wonderful guy named Ed running the place who would occasionally get up on stage and play a mean harmonica. Was it better than anything we have these days? Maybe not, but it was pretty damned good back then – reason enough for a celebration too. This weekend at a similarly unpretentious bar out on Manchaca Road called Giddy Ups, they’re hosting a star-studded Austin Outhouse Reunion with a whole bunch of old-timers and a few new ones thrown in as well. People like: Calvin Russell, the Rhythm Rats, Lost John Casner, Gurf Morlix, Lloyd Maines, Ted Roddy, Shelley King, Terri Hendrix, Herman the German, Leti de la Vega, and many others. Proceeds benefit the Health Alliance for Austin Musicians and Save the Cactus Cafe. Think about it this way: You may never have a better reason to go to Manchaca Road.

An Evening With Chastity and Alan Jr.

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January 20, 2010

Salvage Vanguard Theater

If it hasn’t happened already, there will come a time in your life when you have to show your ass in public. If you’re lucky, you’ll be really wasted and your face will be blurred when the video shows up on YouTube. The more likely scenario is that you will show your ass in a more metaphorical sense: Expose yourself publicly to the withering criticism and derision of others. Some people like to call this type of vulnerability life. They tend to suck it up and get on with it. Others will try to forestall this eventuality by ducking below the radar. After all, as the saying goes, the tallest blade of grass gets cut first. So, to avoid embarrassment, they bury themselves in remote corner cubicles of sprawling government bureaucracies, spend their days filing mimeographed (that’s right, this is the government we’re talking about here) triplicate copies of mimeographed triplicate copies. Others go entirely off the grid, toiling away on some sustainable organic farm, spending their days plowing, weeding, watering, and milking things like goats, cows, and father time. Then there are those who go underground – hole themselves up for years in the windowless basements of their mothers’ houses, day trading, surfing porn, and playing World of Warcraft. These are all fairly low-risk strategies. Yes, it is risky … brave even … to offer yourself up as a meatshield for your fellow Blood Elves in your skirmish with Skullsplitter trolls in Stranglethorn Vale, but even if you do get gloriously ganked in WoW, you’ll still be alive (although nearly invisible) in the real world. You might even think you’re safe, but it’s just an illusion. Often an uglier fate awaits those who try to avoid fate altogether. As it says in the book of Matthew, “Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth.” Sounds like a halfhearted pep talk for all the suckers getting left behind in the rapture. Awesome. You definitely get some nice real estate in that deal, but you also get places like Mogadishu, Peshawar, and Port Arthur. Thanks for nothing, J-Dawg. Or, maybe the “inheritance” thing is meant to be a confidence builder. People who own a lot of stuff seem to have a limitless supply of confidence and self-worth. Look at Jerry Jones … Mark Cuban … The Donald. Those guys don’t seem to be embarrassed about anything. Imagine the type of arrogant dickhead you would have to be if you owned the earth. You would probably end up walking around like a 2-year-old saying: “Mine! Mine! Mine!” In reality, whether you believe it or not, you do own the earth … at least as much as anyone else does. The big question is whether or not you choose to be a selfish dickhead or a generous caretaker. Ideally you’ll want to peacefully share yourself and the world with others, thereby enriching their experiences and yours. To do so you will have to show your ass on occasion, expose yourself to injury, take some risks. It’s really not so bad, and you may learn along the way that your ass isn’t all that special anyway. Throughout January, Fronterafest plays host to a whole bunch of people hell-bent on showing their asses as it hosts its 17th annual fringe festival, five weeks of fringe theatre from all types of performers from all over the country. At 7:15pm this Saturday, Jan. 23, at the Salvage Vanguard Theater, Chicago comedians Alan Metoskie (Texas expat) and Zoe Schwartz bring you An Evening With Chastity and Alan Jr., a country and western musical comedy revue. Chicagoans doing a country and western comedy revue in Texas is risky, but that’s what fringe theatre … and life … is about, isn’t it?

Keep Austin Weird 5K and Festival

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June 24, 2008

Keeping Austin weird is full-time work. The weirdness is not like it used to be. It’s on a much broader and more magnificent scale. You can’t just skate along baking pot brownies every morning or wearing glitter mascara and fairy wings when you go to the convenience store. Yawn. Seen it. Weird isn’t just about feathers and body paint and colored hair and dirty-faced children in soiled diapers with balloon animal hats. That kind of sophomoric shit might play in Omaha, but here in New Condonia, you need a couple of million dollars worth of Downtown dirt and a daring dream of building unaffordable housing for people who don’t exist. Now there’s an idea that just might be weird enough to actually work. If you were a loan officer, you would sign off on that, wouldn’t you? Big, crazy ideas aren’t exactly without precedent. A couple of thousand years before Christ, the ancient Egyptians put a lot of money and resources into high dollar housing for dead people. Keep in mind this was before resurrection was all the rage. Surely the pyramids were an insane idea 2500 years ago … they still are now, but you have to give props to Cheops; they are one of the Seven Wonders of the World. Awesome. Why are the pyramids a wonder? Because for the last 4500 years no sane person could look at them without wondering, “What the fuck?” Normal, reasoning people have a similar reaction when they see all the condos being built in Downtown Austin. Those huge monoliths to speculative zeal inspire the same incredulity as seeing Leslie Cochran on a street corner in a dirty thong and torn fishnets. The really weird thing is that Leslie is easier to explain to the tourists. Without a doubt, Austin’s entertainment district has a certain allure – especially for street-walking attention-whores like Leslie, but is it enough to lure some rich, fun-loving rube into dropping 500 large on a glass box with yearly maintenance fees? Maybe. After all, we’re one cute little city and more importantly … we put out. Austin doesn’t have any dry counties or bible belts or entrenched social stratification. This is the city where the mayor dated a local rock singer, where a local rock singer dated a movie star, and where a movie star got busted for getting stoned and playing bongos in the buff. And guess what? He wasn’t even trying to keep it weird. He didn’t try to run that idea past a group of investors and loan officers and city officials and political activists and have them all sign off on the deal. Even though he got a lot of ink, McConaughey was in the bush leagues of weird, which is probably the safest place for weirdness to be. When the weirdos start marching in lock step – that’s when the shit is about to hit the fan. If you’re looking to get your weird on in a mostly harmless way, put on your feathers and body paint (or slingshot and dog collar), and head down to Auditorium Shores this Saturday for the Keep Austin Weird 5K (yes, running is pretty freakin’ weird when you do it and don’t have to) and Festival. Not only can you sweat with your fellow weirdos – before, during, and after the 5K, you can see some pretty weird Austin acts as well: Alejandro Escovedo, What Made Milwaukee Famous, and Black Joe Lewis & the Honey Bears, among others. There’s also a costume contest, but if you’re really keeping it weird, you can’t call that thing a costume, now can you?

Austin Air Sex Championships

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January 22, 2008

You might be tempted to question the wisdom of Alamo Drafthouse in preceding their Air Sex Championships this Saturday night with a screening of There Will Be Blood. The bill sounds a little “dark ages” – as if the air sex competitors have to hoist a stained sheet to prove they’ve consummated their imaginary act. That would be impressive though, Wouldn’t it? If the promo video is any indication, not all air sex is virgin sex – at least not as it’s pantomimed. The competitors however, are another matter entirely. It’s fairly safe to say that whoever came up with the idea of air sex (well, actually it was the Japanese) didn’t do so as a response to getting bored with the real thing. Apparently if you wait around long enough, even the worst air pocket becomes a reasonable substitute for a meat pocket. We’d like to think American society isn’t nearly as repressed. Here in the states, air sex is traditionally relegated to hack comedy routines, excessive end zone celebrations, and obscene gestures by construction workers stranded on girders. That is, until the culturally co-optive folks down at the Drafthouse dropped air sex into their lineup. It turns out that the Japanese are only air sex dilettantes. The real pros live right here in River City. If you’re swelling with pride about Austin’s previously untapped talent, consider this: It’s not because Austin is teeming with savvy sluts and skilled swordsmen. No, most air sexers get their training just like everyone else: Online. That’s understandable. Unless you’re Ron Jeremy, Traci Lords, Mick Jagger, Pamela Anderson, or Wilt Chamberlin, your real-life experience with visually robust scenarios like double penetration, bukkake, and analingus is going to be relatively limited. However, through the miracle of the internets, even the most undefiled virgin can find a treasure trove of information on the biomechanics of freaky sex – certainly enough to bluff their way through a frenzied pantomime of a muff and duff with a couple of monstrously hung weightlifters or maybe a dizzying ride in a Vietnamese spin fuck chair. Question is: Will that be enough to impress the judges? Hard to say. Then again, maybe it really isn’t about the judges. After all, this is air sex, so you can pretty much start with the supposition that everyone’s a loser and has nowhere to go but up, both figuratively and literally. That kind of sick, sweaty desperation always leads to bizarre and entertaining situations, and you wouldn’t want to miss them, would you? Yes, the competition will be fierce, and There Will Be Blood, but only the imaginary kind which, like the air sex, won’t stain your clothing.