Month: February 2019

30th Carnaval Brasileiro

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MON., JAN. 29, 2007

If you’re the type of person who likes to show a lot of skin, February maybe isn’t your month. If anything, February is the month to show your fur … or wool … or plumage – ideally anything that doesn’t shrink or pucker in the cold weather. Face it: Skin doesn’t really look good cold. Goose pimples are humiliating enough on geese, so why would you think you could pull them off? And speaking of pulling off, what better way to honor the sacrifice of these formerly fuller-feathered fowl than by being down with the down? Down is crazy warm and just about anyone would agree you’re better off puffy than pimply. Still, if you absolutely insist on showing skin, why not show skin other than your own? Ideally you’ll want to shop outside the species on this one. Bos taurus is a good choice. You get more skin for your money, plus it’s been said that if you’re caught in a blizzard you can gut one, remove the entrails, and warm yourself inside the steaming carcass. Otherwise pretty much anything within the phylum Chordata will do. If you can make boots out of lizard skin then what’s to keep you from sewing together a duster made of Barton Spring Salamanders? Other than basic human decency and several sections of the Endangered Species Act of 1973? The key is keeping your own skin warm and supple, and if you have go with faux-skin to do it, there’s no shame in that either. There’s always Gore-Tex or polyester fleece or trash bags and duct tape – so regardless of your financial situation, you should never willfully weather the elements au naturel – unless you’re a Polar Bear or drunk and Russian or all three. Indoors, however, is another matter. You gotta let that epidermis breathe sometime, if only to briefly experience what it feels like to be in the Top 8 on God’s MySpace page – along with, of course, Tom, Tila Tequila, and some random metal band from L.A. If you’re tired of walking around the house in a thong and feather boa and want to expose your alabaster winter veneer to those of a like mind, you might want to cab it over to the Palmer Events Center this Saturday for the 30th Carnaval Brasileiro. Even if Latin music doesn’t twist your nipple, you’ll still find plenty to engage your senses at Carnaval. Expect a full night dancing, drumming, drinking, sweating, painting, and plumage … lots of plumage.

Spike and Mike’s Sick and Twisted Festival of Animation

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MON., JAN. 22, 2007

Holy shit, it’s winter! Of course, that doesn’t mean you should try and pitch an ice fishing tent on Town Lake, but it does mean you finally have a quasi-legitimate excuse to rock some socks with your Crocs. Note to sloth: There is no legitimate excuse, so don’t get cocky, crock jockey. Just because in Austin you can wear gym shorts and flip-flops 12 months out of the year doesn’t mean you should. There is comfort and then there is the pig-headed need to prove a point – sort of like when Yankees drive during an ice storm. Yes, the roads are passable, but once every 10 years or so Austin gets to have a snow day, and just because you consider yourself a skillful driver in inclement weather doesn’t mean you have to fuck it up for the rest of us. We’re all pissing ourselves with the prospect of sliding down muddy, ice crusted slopes on soggy pieces of cardboard, so if you’ve intrepidly motored your way into the office, keep it to yourself. There’s a gold star and a fluorescent orange hall monitor vest in your future. If the vest doesn’t keep you warm, your smug superiority will. With exception of the thong, most clothing items don’t make sense in Austin for about eight months out of the year, but even Leslie will throw on some hose and a stewardess jacket when it gets chilly. If you’re one of those types who is insistent on trying to wish away the weather by dressing like you’re headed to a rave in Ibiza, you might want to consult the man who pioneered the 12-month thong look in Austin: Leslie. He may be homeless, hairy, and liver-spotted like George Bush Sr. in the ’92 presidential debates, but he’s also a one-name local celebrity (except when he’s running for mayor). Recently he’s leveraged his cult status with his own dress-up magnet set and MySpace page (www.myspace.com/44499851). Impressive, eh? Point is, no one is more in tune with the shortcomings of fashion slavery than a crossdressing, beer swilling homeless guy, and if Leslie is willing to sacrifice his look for a little warmth, it probably wouldn’t kill you either. You don’t need to read the thermometer. Look at your nipples poking through your wife-beater. Baby it’s cold outside. Either layer up or stay indoors. If you choose the latter, you might want to do it at the Alamo Drafthouse this weekend because Spike and Mike’s Sick and Twisted Festival of Animation is back in town. S&M’s Sick and Twisted is a compendium of cartoons you won’t see on Saturday mornings. Subjects range from insane to obscene and everything in between. This year’s festival includes classics from Dr. Tran and Happy Tree Friends as well as a Schoolhouse Rock style send-up called “My First Boner,” among others. Funny stuff. You might laugh so hard you’ll pee in your thong.

FronteraFest: Best of the Week

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MON., JAN. 15, 2007

The beautiful thing about January is that the gyms are full of pasty chubbsters looking to get their fit on. It’s beautiful because they annoy the shit out of the full time narcissists who sometimes forget entirely that there are other people in the world. Other people come in all shapes, sizes, and types – one of those types are the people who park their shopping carts perpendicular in the aisle at the grocery store while they loiter at the sample table. These are the same ones who bogart the treadmills (set on “crawl”) at the gym. Yes Narcissus, there are other people in the world, and recent statistics show that 60% of them are overweight. That’s a disturbing figure to be sure, but since the majority of the exercise most people get these days is the digital dance their fingers do on their keyboards, it’s not surprising. Maybe someday we’ll evolve into something resembling a jellyfish, but for now we have to deal with a physiology that’s behind the evolutionary curve. If our bodies were evolving as fast as our minds, each of our hands would have ten fingers and our asses would be huge (come to think of it, maybe our bodies aren’t that far behind the evolutionary curve after all). Truth is, life in the third millennium doesn’t take a lot of physical effort, but fortunately we have technology to counteract the effects of technology. Treadmills, stair-steppers, stationary bikes, rowing machines, weight machines, and countless other ingenious contraptions make our bodies do what they were designed to do: move. Used to be people were able to move without the assistance of machines, but as the world gets smaller and people get larger, it’s probably best we have machines that can work us into a lather without taking up the valuable space of a basketball court, soccer field, or an 18 hole golf course. Maybe in the future we’ll just be working out to keep our bodies fit so that we can work out some more. No drama, no competition, just repetition. Bor-ing. Better enjoy the drama and competition while you can. For the next few weeks Hyde Park Theatre is hosting FronteraFest, a monthlong festival of fringe theatre that includes nearly every kind of performance imaginable: dance, improv, multimedia, music, films – you name it. This Saturday is the first Best of the Week, a night of performances selected as the best by audiences from each night of the previous week. Performances are short and snappy, clocking in at 25 minutes or less – about the same amount of time you would spend on a treadmill at the gym but less repetitive.

Star of Texas Tattoo Art Revival

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MON., JAN. 8, 2007

If you could put anything on your body, what would it be? Whipped cream, chocolate syrup, and the Budweiser Bikini Team? Almond oil and the Wilson brothers? A gimp suit and a ball gag? Or maybe you’re looking for something more permanent, something that says something about who you are and what you believe in. If you can condense all that into a two dimensional piece of art that fits nicely on your bicep, abs, or the space just above your asscrack, you’re probably a good candidate for a tattoo. Here’s the deal: Tattoos are cool – at least for the first 30 years or so, and after that, who wants to look at your body with the lights on anyway, right? But now, while you’re relatively young and smooth and open to suggestion, a colorful, inspirational message at the base of your spine seems like just the ticket to lure a hesitant lover to take a trip down the Hershey highway. Something like, “Bottoms up!” or “Next” or “Serenity now” could surely be incorporated into a breathtaking floral/Asian animé design. Don’t let your tabula rasa friends give you grief. Just because you have a tramp stamp above your whale tail doesn’t mean you’re a hoochie mama. It might just mean that you like to stand naked with your back to the mirror and your neck twisted around like Linda Blair in the Exorcist right before she cuts loose with the pea soup. Some people do yoga, right? Besides, tattoos can be pretty even if you’re a front loader. Who hasn’t dallied with the idea of a pretty red rose growing out of their treasure trail or turning their tallywhacker into a ferocious, fire breathing dragon? Really, the possibilities are as endless as the consequences are permanent, but if you need to see to believe, you’re going to want to make a trip down to the Palmer Auditorium for the Star of Texas Tattoo Art Revival, a three day extravaganza honoring the illustrators and the illustrated. In addition to an art gallery of tattoo designs, a tattoo contest, Suicide Girls, and Feature Car exhibits, expect to see lots of skin and ink: the good, the bad, and yes, the ugly. Here’s the happy news however: If you’re looking for someone who’s not afraid of commitment, people with tattoos are right up your alley, even though your alley might be a little scary.

Viva Las Vegas Feast and Elvis Birthday Combo

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WED., JAN. 3, 2007

It seems perfectly reasonable that you should get lucky in ’07, so let’s run with that. Hey, maybe everybody will get lucky in ’07. Wouldn’t that be freaky? Then again, something like that might be a sign of the impending apocalypse, a sort of Godly reach-around for the flesh-loving heathens right before the rapture. He could at least give you that, couldn’t He? Or maybe you don’t believe in luck at all. Maybe you’re one of those people who make their own luck – one of those firm handshaking types with bleached teeth, an encyclopedic knowledge of self-help books, and a fitness regimen that requires setting your alarm clock for 4:30 in the a.m. You don’t need luck. You’re already lucky. You’ll probably live to be 120. Oh joy, oh sweet, sweet bliss. The rest of us, however are fluffy white feathers being buffeted by the winds of fortune until we come to rest next to Forrest Gump’s shoe. Yes, life is like a box of chocolates, as long as some of the chocolates taste like shit and have rocks in the middle. Even the most irrepressible optimist has to admit it’s not all sweet. Most people have to eat a lot of shit before they get to the sweet stuff. Maybe that’s why the moments of sweetness are often attributed to luck. Of course, luck depends a lot on your perspective. If you’re able to get right with waking up at 4:30 in the morning (which most people might see as eating one of those shit-covered rocks) you can probably twist your mind into believing damn near anything, including believing you’re lucky. That, as nearly as anyone has figured out, is the key to luckiness: Feeling lucky. You probably have a lot of reasons to feel lucky, so just consider the ’07 thing icing on the cake. Who knows, it might be the thing that puts you over. Or it could be the Viva Las Vegas screening at Alamo Drafthouse Downtown this Monday. Elvis’ birthday is the biggest post-holiday celebration in Austin, and this Alamo screening features an Elvis impersonation contest (the lucky winner gets a bucket of beer) plus an optional Elvis feast that includes fried peanut butter and banana sammiches, corn bread soak, and meatloaf. Later, if you can shake off your carbo coma, you can attend the Dale Watson Elvis Birthday celebration at the Continental Club – all for one low price of $26. If you can’t feel lucky about that then ’07 may not be your year.

New Year’s Eve with K-Tel Hit Machine and Tosca Strings

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WED., DEC. 27, 2006

This year, New Year’s Eve falls on the Lord’s Day, which is surely happy news for recidivist 12-stepping alcoholics, but for the rest of us, it requires an extra step of irksome planning. Part of the fun of New Year’s is that last-minute run to the liquor store to grab a frantic armload of hooch for the evening – liquors you purchase by color rather than label or name; those last remaining off-brand bottles distilled in tin-sheds by toothless hillbillies in remote hollers in Arkansas, Tennessee, and West Virginia; the kind of stuff you don’t take out of the paper bag until your friend screams incredulously between convulsive fits of projectile vomiting, “What was that shit?!” Of course, that’s only part of the fun, but if that’s the fun you’re into – that being a profound state of drunkenness nearly worth the wicked hangover – you’ll need to cross the threshold of a liquor store no later than 8:59pm Saturday night. Texas is God’s country, and God, according to Texas statutes, don’t roll on the Yom Rishon. He don’t get his drink on neither – except in certain counties like Travis, home of Austin, the “Sodom of the Southwest.” Bottom line is that if you procrastinate like most respectable alcoholics, you’re going to end up underserved come Sunday night. That ain’t right. You don’t want to be wearing the elastic banded cone paper party hat sober. You don’t want to blow the duck whistle without wetting your own. You can’t do justice to a garbled Gaelic clusterfuck of lyrics like “Auld Lang Syne” with a blood alcohol content less than .10, and you certainly won’t want to engage in a spirited tonsil hockey match with a total stranger at the stroke of midnight unless the booze has got your back. Roger? Of course, you could do all the preceding sober, but then the fun onus is on you. You’d have to dream up something pretty spectacular to wipe out the memory of being a designated driver. Chin up DD, the Drafthouse has something for you. New Year’s Eve they’re hosting a skate party at Playland featuring the K-Tel Hit Machine and Tosca Strings covering tunes from the Electric Light Orchestra. Skating goes from 9-11pm and a dance follows. Seventies disco attire is recommended, skating drunk is not, but oh, the memories.

Armadillo Christmas Bazaar

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MON., DEC. 18, 2006

Rudolph the Red-Nosed Dillo

If Abercrombie and Fitch wanted to really be controversial, they would put up a huge billboard next to I-35 featuring Santa’s shirtless, unripped, extruded pink torso in some red denim hip huggers with the fly unzipped…just enough to expose his snowy white treasure trailhead, but not enough to free the salty Cyclops, as it were. That, would be controversial. That would be a billboard worth getting rear-ended under (pause here, meditate on your compulsive need to pop off with some sort of anal sex bon mot). Instead, this holiday season A&F has taken the high road, pushing well-defined, shirtless torsos; taut, hairless, bas relief renditions of the type of fundamental abdominal musculature we all possess, albeit under several inches of luxurious adipose insulation. Kudos to A&F for focusing on what’s really important: our similarities. Instead of adopting a divisive “we-are-all-snowflakes” marketing mentality like other companies, A&F is saying, “Regardless of all the cellulite, hair, stretchmarks, moles, and poorly thought out tattoos, deep inside we’re all the same … we’re all ripped.” Genius. Ralph Lauren must be suicidal for not thinking of it first. Just because you almost never see a shirtless, svelte twentysomething pimping an unzipped parka, doesn’t mean it couldn’t happen. This is Austin. We may be a little light on parkas, but any town where Matthew McConaughey routinely parks his trailer is ripe for shirtlessness. Give A&F some credit: they could have gone for some slick, CGI animation of bare, bloody musculature, but instead they went classy and used only slightly photoshopped models with smooth bronzed skin, smoldering, steely eyed gazes and perfectly round, tiny brown nipples. If you can’t see yourself in an A&F model, maybe you aren’t looking hard enough, or maybe you need to look somewhere else entirely. How about the Armadillo Christmas Bazaar? Anywhere you go shopping during the holidays you’re going to encounter a disturbing cross-section of humanity, but the Bazaar boasts a disturbing cross section of old Austin hippie humanity, which though wrinkly and long-winded is at least colorfully noncorporate. Plus you get the classic Austin reach-around of live music. Christmas Eve features Django’s Moustache, a Hot Greezy Gonzo Reunion, and the Texana Dames. Admit it, you weren’t planning on doing your shopping until then anyway, were you?

Merry F***king Xmas

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MON., DEC. 11, 2006

Jerm Pollet as a sexy f**king Santa

How can Christmas get you laid? Good question. A holiday predicated on immaculate conception doesn’t exactly scream crazy monkey sex. Sure, there are elves, assorted jingly livestock, sprigs of mistletoe and hot toddies throughout the season, but that doesn’t necessarily mean you’re going to end up in a Motel 6 with a grease gun full of K-Y and a combination of any of the preceding. You have to work for that kind of scenario. A lot of people like to rev up their mack at the office Christmas party. Why not? Getting drunk with co-workers is always a win-win situation right up to the morning after. And, as the song says, there has to be one, so you might as well do something that will earn you at least a year’s worth of hushed murmurs as you walk by the water cooler. If there is one occasion where it’s nearly appropriate to unleash a drunken, maudlin soliloquy about your undying love for the hot blonde in personnel, the OCP is it. Or, maybe it’s time you let that stud in accounting know that loose lips may sink ships, but they perform some other pretty amazing feats as well. Don’t hold back, nearly all questionable behavior is forgivable when you’re drinking on the company dime, so if you get caught in the supply closet dry-humping the boss’ wife, make sure to mention right up front that you are cursed with an alcohol dependency disability that is covered by your group health policy. Remember: The first step is admitting that you have a problem. The second step should be quick and to the right – to avoid your boss’ wildly thrown right-cross haymaker. In the workplace it’s always best to have a strategy for success, especially when you’re drinking. Nonetheless, if you’re one of those overly cautious types who doesn’t like to shit where you eat, other opportunities abound. For instance, this Friday at the Coldtowne Theater, Jerm Pollet of the Sinus Show is hosting Merry F***king Xmas, a screening of Christmas-themed porn films with analysis and commentary by Jerm himself. Think of it this way, if you can’t get laid this Christmas, at least you can watch. If you want to get drunk however, you’ll need to BYO toddie.

Whole Foods Rooftop Skating Rink

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MON., DEC. 4, 2006

Austin isn’t much of a winter wonderland. Sure, we get a little cold snap every now and then – just enough to make the green thumb paranoids cover their flora with moving/dog/smallpox blankets and old HEB bags; just enough for annoying small children to pretend like they’re smoking imaginary cigarettes; just enough to turn a respectably sized penis into a tiny, wrinkled, shriveling turtle neck or full supple nipples into the shape and texture of mechanical pencil erasers; but we never get the kind of lip welding arctic blasts enjoyed by our northern neighbors. That’s OK. Chances are you didn’t move here for the ice fishing. What we do have in garish profundity however is holiday decoration. Lights, in particular. Lights in general. Lights infinite. Where your bigger, generic burbs tend to express their schmaltz with huge, inflatable lighted replicas of Christmas characters like Santa, Rudolph, Frosty, and the dear, sweet, 8 pound, 6 ounce newborn baby Jesus (pre-inflated), Austinites decorate like they just smoked a bag of Maui and beer-bonged a quart of mushroom tea: Lights everywhere. On the house, the shrubs, the trees, the lawn, the car, the cat, and the holiday themed, blinking Bobby Brooks sweater (purchased at Goodwill, of course – buying it new would be … just … so … pathetic). Also, unlike our suburban sprawling red state relatives, we keep our lights up year round, not just because we’re still stoned but because we’re also lazy and we don’t give a shit. Besides, lights are pretty year round, and if you buy the kind that look like little jalapenos, you get a pass for the other 11 months – especially if you own a Mexican restaurant. So, what we lack in chilliness we make up for in artsyness, and if we seem misty-eyed about the holidays, it’s only because we just squirted on some eye drops so we could go take a toasted twirl under the Zilker Christmas tree. Hey, some holiday traditions are hard to shake, especially when they involve breathless spinning. That may explain why Whole Foods’ rooftop ice skating rink is back again for a second year. Of course, it might also just be ruthless greed whoring capitalism, but whatever the case, it’s nice to be able to lace up and test your triple lux, even if it’s 85 and balmy. Hey, if you can’t live in a winter wonderland, buy one! One caution: If you’re going to mack at the skating rink, don’t try to act all cool. The only thing more hilarious than busting your ass on a public skating rink is being pissed off about it.

John Aielli’s Capitol Tree Lighting & Holiday Sing-Along

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MON., NOV. 27, 2006

Spending the holidays broke and homeless was good enough for Jesus, but here in America that dog won’t hunt. We have an economy to think about. We have an $8.6 trillion deficit. We can’t spend the holiday season staggering around, wassailing, singing carols, and swapping spit under the mistletoe. December was meant to be spent spending – not at tittie bars, porn shops and racetracks, but at shopping malls and big-box behemoths like Ikea and Best Buy; places where we can get cheap, foreign-made consumer goods and pay for them on credit. Peace and joy are all well and good, but peace and joy don’t keep our boys in body armor, tax dollars do, and the best way to increase tax dollars is to kick-start the economy with rampant, mindless spending – the same kind of fiscal irresponsibility that gave us an $8.6 trillion deficit. Shit, Jesus wouldn’t even know what to do with that kind of money. Fishes and loaves? Please. Try blowing $8.6 trillion on fishes and loaves. You couldn’t spend $8.6 trillion on caviar and crackers, and even if you could, people would be too bloated and sleepy to even start a decent food fight, much less a full-scale insurgency. Besides, feeding the hungry isn’t how the American government rolls. Think about it this way: You can teach a hungry man to fish, but that takes a lot of time, energy, and patience. However, if you shoot a hungry man, he stops eating for the rest of his life. Bottom line is that humanitarian aid requires too much customer service and has very limited profitability. Halliburton has never received a no-bid contract to run soup kitchens in Mosul and it’s unlikely the Pentagon will ever pay $400 for a Salisbury steak. Sure, you might be able to win hearts and minds with humanitarian aid, but the only way to be sure you’re winning hearts and minds is to zip them into body bags. Body bags, and the ordinance to fill them up cost a lot of cheese, so spend, spend, spend. It’s a great way to get into the holiday spirit … or you could join John Aielli Saturday night for his holiday sing-along and tree lighting ceremony at the Capitol. John was born around the time of Jesus himself and he’s an accomplished vocalist, so he knows what he’s doing. That alone is a rare commodity at the Capitol. Also, unlike shopping, the sing-along is free, but you’re encouraged to bring money or food donations for the Capital Area Food Bank so they can hand them out to the broke and homeless and save a few bullets.

Thundercloud Subs Turkey Trot

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MON., NOV. 20, 2006

Thanksgiving is the most American of all holidays – not because it reminds us of how the Native Americans (sometimes referred to by the Freudian phrase “Naive Americans”) welcomed the white men with open arms and saved them from starvation (a small kindness white men repaid with disease, famine, and genocide), and not because it is a holiday that reminds us to be thankful for what we have (approximately 3.7 million square miles of prime real estate previously inhabited by said Native Americans). If you buy that shit, you truly are a naive American. No, Thanksgiving is the most American of all holidays because it is all about the thing America does best: eating. Whether or not we’re really thankful for it, this Thursday Americans will be gorging themselves with heaping piles of food, stretching their intestines like sausage casings with criminally bland cuisine: turkey, potatoes, green bean casserole, cranberry sauce, rolls, and stuffing (which, ironically, is suitably descriptive of all the preceding). With the exception of a few hypercompetitive, skinny Japanese guys with hot dog fetishes, Americans eat more than just about anybody else in the world. We’re big people with big appetites, and Thanksgiving is America’s superbowl of gluttony. We eat all day and when we’re not eating we engage in an impressive amount of sloth. Combined, these two (in)activities create luxurious folds of body fat. Seriously, take a long, slow waddle around the mall on Friday with the other 200-million-or-so bargain hunters, and you’ll think you’re at a sumo wrestling tournament. It may seem like they’re out to knock off their third deadly sin, avarice, but really they’re just getting too big for their clothes. Most Americans, like their cell phone plans, have rollover. How do we solve the problem? Do away with Turkey Day? Not hardly, but maybe a quick jog Thanksgiving morning wouldn’t hurt. Fortunately for Austinites Thundercloud Subs sponsors their annual Turkey Trot, a 5K fun run benefiting Caritas, a local charity that fights poverty, hunger, and homelessness. You might not get rid of your rollover in a 5K, but you should feel a little better about engaging in some gluttony and sloth.

The Art of Andy Warhol

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MON., NOV. 13, 2006

Trolling for strange in an art gallery is, at best, a challenging proposition. Even at the wildest gallery openings, you don’t see a lot of binge drinking, drug swilling, and dirty dancing. It’s a shame really, because artists, by and large, are unrepentant freaks, and you would think some of that deviant behavior would make for a wild time at the gallery, but not so. Art galleries are the business end of the creative process, and whenever there is money involved, there is always someone around to make sure everything is buttoned down tight. Besides, even the craziest artist doesn’t want the hoi polloi projectile vomiting $15-a-bottle screw-top Merlot on his masterwork … well, with the exception of maybe Jackson Pollock (who, by the way, died when he flipped his convertible after a hard day of drinking gin). So maybe a life of excess isn’t for everyone, and doing a high-speed face plant into a tree is surely a tough way to check out, but at least Pollock was smart enough to leave the art back at the gallery where it would eventually make its way into the hands of people like David Geffen, who recently sold his Pollock for nearly $140 million. Needless to say, Geffen isn’t trolling art galleries looking for strange, strange is trolling art galleries looking for Geffen. It doesn’t matter what country you live in, $140 million can buy you love, or something so flawlessly similar you won’t stay up nights worrying about its authenticity. Back here on planet Austin it’s unlikely that you’ll run into David Geffen at a gallery opening gnawing on a cheese cube and knocking back skunky merlot, but that doesn’t mean you should give up your pursuit of art appreciation. There is plenty of eye candy, animate and inanimate, in galleries around town every week, and just because it doesn’t have back or a bankroll doesn’t mean you shouldn’t check it out. For instance, this weekend is the final weekend of the Warhol Exhibit at Art on 5th. If you’ll recall, Andy got his freak on about as well as anyone: Porn stars, drag queens, meth heads, musicians, and movie stars all got it on at the Factory, and in between all the squishing and squeaking and squealing and squirting some pretty decent art got made too. A good bit of it is at Art on 5th through Saturday night. This may be your best shot at checking out some strange at an art gallery for some time to come, so don’t miss it.

Double Exposure

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MON., NOV. 6, 2006

You can go ahead and peel off that “I voted” sticker now. Show’s over. No use sitting by your mailbox waiting for Governor-Elect Friedman’s coke binge/casino gambling/varmint rescuing inaugural ball invite. It would have been fun, but unfortunately, your boxcar was hitched to the little engine that couldn’t: the one with just enough steam to blow the whistle but not enough to get over the hill. Think of it this way: You made a statement. You showed the world you’re willing to stand on principle, even when the principle you’re standing on is sinking like the Titanic, parting the sea, making way for the Two-Headed (and at least one of them is side-parted) Beast of the Apocalypse, Governor Goodhair. Now is not the time to start second-guessing yourself. Just because effectively your vote might as well have been cast for Perry doesn’t mean you weren’t being heard. Think about the sweeping reform brought about by the Nader/Bush voters in 2004 – the primary one being that Bush had to start wearing Depends because he was peeing on himself with glee at the thought of Nader staying in the race. Come to think of it, Perry seems to favor roomy, pleated khakis too, but that doesn’t necessarily mean he’s experiencing happiness-based incontinence himself, it may just mean he has frequent boners. Wouldn’t you if you knew some stogie sucking cowboy crackpot was splitting the opposition vote? As rich as he is on back-room payoffs, Perry can’t afford high-grade Viagra like that. Besides, even if he had the money, no one really believes that Perry would secretly pay Friedman to play the foil, do they? How Machiavellian would that be? He would have had to understudy with Bush for years to pull a stunt like that. Yeah, it’s best not to let your imagination run wild. Politics is for people with vision but not peyote vision. That kind of vision is best left to artistic types – people like David Jewell and Wayne Alan Brenner, the writers, directors, and primary performers in the new Hyde Park Theatre comedy show, Double Exposure. They may not be running for governor, but they have their own two-headed beast thing going on. It involves sketch comedy, monologues, and singing and dancing – sort of like a gubernatorial campaign, but without the sick sweat of desperation. It’s also for adults only, so you may want to leave the “future of Texas” at home with a sitter.

Extravagasm 2006

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MON., OCT. 30, 2006

Before you haul your entire fetish wear collection down to the St. Vincent de Paul thrift store and begin your vow of celibacy as a nun, take a minute and consider the fact that the nun outfit is maybe one of the top five fetish costumes of all time, so you really wouldn’t be departing the realm of kink entirely, just visiting another fiefdom. As religions go, Catholics pretty much dominate the fetish market, and not just because priests historically have introduced so many young people to their first sexual experience. They also have some pretty hot costuming. Sure, you can argue that the loose fitting smocks and vestments were originally chosen precisely for their asexuality, but even though a nun’s habit shares more in common with a burka than a bikini, you’d be hard-pressed to find a decent bikini selection in a fetish shop – kind of ironic considering that ostensibly the Catholic Church has been the vanguard of sexual repression for nearly 2000 years. In fact, (props to the papacy) the One True Church has spiced up sex considerably over the Old Testament drudgery it once was. OT sex, other than some occasional masturbation, buggery, and incest, was pretty cut and dry. Jewish clergy were allowed to marry from the get-go. They were bumping uglies like they were the Chosen, so there wasn’t much need for pageantry. The early Catholics followed suit, but in AD300 the Council of Elvira (not the hot, big-bosomed mistress of the dark played by Cassandra Peterson, but the Spanish town) prohibited Catholic clergy from doing the nasty. Sex has been getting freakier and freakier ever since. Blame it on the Catholics if you want, but kink is here to stay. This Saturday, you can get a whole mess of it at Extravagasm (one “I” short of “Extravagism”), a fetish ball billed as a “celebration of sensuality, eroticism, and creative naughtiness.” This year’s theme is “Carnival of the Senses.” It should be a fun time, but maybe not the best time to begin your vow of celibacy.

The Rocky Horror Show

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TUE., OCT. 24, 2006

Inhibition works for a lot of people. From a purely Darwinistic perspective, it’s best not to stand out. The tallest blade of grass gets cut first; the nail that sticks up gets hammered down … that type of thing. Inhibition is great for survival, but maybe not so good for living. How comfortable can it be to walk through life with the puppet hand of societal conformity stuck up your butt – even if it is an integral part of a performance-art piece you’re doing at the Vortex? The truth is, if you live with something long enough, regardless of how ridiculous it is, it begins to seem perfectly sensible. More often than not, familiarity breeds contentment, not contempt. Remember when your mom said the home styled rat-tail mullet she gave you looked cute but you went to Supercuts anyway and got a fade with frosted tips? Remember how it broke her heart? All you were trying to do was just “be you,” but she insisted you were trying to draw attention to yourself. Nobody likes a showoff. Then again, without showoffs, nobody would ever get shown anything. Every once in a while it’s good to shake things up, and no one is more qualified for thing shaking than your common, run of the mill exhibitionist. Thanks to recent technological advances, exhibitionism has reached a whole new scale. Nowadays we have exhibitionism for the sake of exhibitionism. Here’s a brief, inexact history of modern exhibitionism: Dennis Rodman begat the Soy Bomb guy who begat Girls Gone Wild, Girls Gone Wild 2, Girls Gone Wild “Orgy Island”, Girls Gone Wild “Doggie Style”, and of course Janet Jackson at the ’04 Superbowl (where one nipple begat a whole Beatle). “But wait,” you say, “There had to be something before Dennis Rodman.” Correct, and that something was the 1975 cult classic, The Rocky Horror Picture Show. To date the RHPS has spawned several generations of first-class exhibitionists. All, like the Worm himself, share an unhealthy fondness for black fishnet. Regardless, if you want to get comfortable with getting your freak on, The Rocky Horror is a good set of training wheels, and through Halloween the thezzies down at Zach Scott are putting on a live production of Rocky that competes with the original. Pretty much everybody dresses up for Rocky anyway, but if you needed any extra incentive, the Halloween night performance is billed as a costume party. So what’s it gonna be, fishnet or puppet hand?

Rock & Roll Free-for-All

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MON., OCT. 16, 2006

Paul Minor isn’t just a celebrity, he also plays guitar

Here’s the good news, kids: You pretty much know where everybody’s parents are going to be Sunday night. Your first clue should have been when your dad asked you where his friend could score some “weed.” Or maybe you figured something was up when he dragged his Rick Perry-style leather bomber jacket out of the back of the closet. Don’t dis. That shit looks hot with some pleated jeans and snow white Reeboks. Then again, he might decide to blow it up with the H-bomb: The Hawaiian shirt. (Oh no you di—int!) If pops is a player, he likes it unbuttoned just a little past the sternum – aka the “Treasure Trailhead.” Maybe you overlooked the fact that all of the sudden your mother is bouncing around the house braless in a faded black Stones 1981 American Tour T-shirt you’ve never seen before and scrunching her hair with mousse for that “rocker” look. Speaking of rocking, you might have just noticed Moms is rocking saddlebags and funbags. Shake those bad thoughts out of your head. So what if Sunday night she’s in front of the stage, clamping your dad’s head in a Daryl Hannah Blade Runner headlock, pumping her fist to “Honky Tonk Woman” and giving Methuselah Mick an eyeful of menopausal mammaries? Good for her, right? Life is short (unless you’re Keith Richards, and even Keith has to crawl back into his casket before sunrise) so you might as well rock it, eh? Now shut the fuck up and burn that Sticky Fingers CD like your mom asked you to and maybe get Dad’s PT Cruiser washed while you’re at it. It’s a small price to pay to have Sunday night all to yourself – at least until 10pm when the ‘rents come in reeking of booze, weed, and old people sweat. Save yourself the recap by fleeing to the Hole in the Wall for Paul Minor’s new Rock & Roll Free-for-All featuring special guest Bryce Clifford. The Rock & Roll Free-for-All was one of Austin’s favorite mid-Nineties hangouts for scruffy, up-and-coming bands like Spoon, Fastball, Li’l Cap’n Travis and the like. The new version features only one new band per Sunday instead of several, but Minor’s Superego is still awesome, featuring seasoned veterans Landis Armstrong, Kevin Pearson, and Andrew Duplantis. It’s unlikely that the Mick will choose the Hole for his afterparty, but if he does, your parents will probably be asleep by then anyway.

The Sinus Show: Snakes on a Plane

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MON., OCT. 9, 2006

This Friday is the 13th. If you’re feeling unlucky, consider this: At least you’re not in fucking Iraq. Sure, here in Merka you stand the chance of breaking a mirror or having a black cat cross your path, but being in Iraq is like breaking a mirror and having a black cat cross your path … and then having them both shoved up your ass with a sand-based lubricant. Sounds pretty bad, doesn’t it – especially if the cat has just been sprayed with a garden hose, but either one is preferable to having an IED go off under your hummer. You can bet the average IED packs more explosive power than several gross of black cats – certainly wet ones. That alone (even if you get a stiffy over things like sandstorms, goat kebab, and nation building) makes the ‘Raq one damned unlucky place to be. Of course, it could be worse. You could have the misfortune of being a secret prisoner of the land of the free, duct taped to a chair in some squalid, makeshift dungeon in Afghanistan, fabricating false accusations about your Arab homies back in Detroit to keep the black ops boys from jump-starting your testicles. In contrast, being holed up in a FEMA trailer for 23 months while your vacant house rots, and government contractors stall for more cash seems a lot like winning the lottery, doesn’t it? Luck is such a relative thing. Some people – stuck-up Europeans for example – would claim that Americans are unlucky to live in a country governed by a corrupt or at least criminally inept administration, but luck had nothing to do with it. America voted for the dark side because the dark side blew in its ear and gave it a reach-around right before it began its dirty, painful business. Scary? Yes. Unlucky? Not so much. Unlucky is something that’s out of your control. Something like, say, snakes on a plane. If you find yourself on a plane with 450 deadly snakes, you’re either: A) unlucky, or B) a terror suspect being rendered by the CIA. If you’re the latter, you’re still the former, and if you’re lucky enough to sit on your ass and make jokes about it, you’re an American – at least for the time being. Might as well enjoy freedom while it lasts, eh? This Friday the 13th you can do just that at the Alamo Drafthouse when Mr. Sinus takes on last summer’s blockbuster Snakes on a Plane. Laugh while you can.

aGLIFF Closing Party

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MON., OCT. 2, 2006

You don’t have to be gay to appreciate the Austin Gay and Lesbian International Film Festival any more than you have to be straight to appreciate a gun and knife show, but it sure doesn’t hurt. It’s safe to say that the average breeder isn’t going to be queuing up for screenings like Eating Out 2: Sloppy Seconds, or 20 Centimeters (video rentals, on the other hand, might be another story – oh, and by the way, for you size queens, that’s roughly 8 inches). Regardless of the titillating titles, if you’re under the opinion that AGLIFF is just a compendium of lesbo/homoerotic sex romps, you may want to check the schedule. It turns out there are aspects of homosexuality you can film without harsh lighting, a wide-angle lens, or a fluffer. In fact, many of aGLIFF’s films deal with more universal issues – the type of stuff you might find in standard film fare – albeit informed with a gay perspective. The latter is pretty much a death knell for distribution deals in America. The moviegoing public may have seen Brokeback Mountain, but it isn’t moving there just yet. Fortunately, Austin has aGLIFF to remind us there is more out cinema out there than Hollywood would have you believe. Each year the festival gets bigger and the films get better. This year’s festival is nearly over, but there are still a few days worth of screenings left. You could catch Cruel and Unusual, Another Gay Movie, and Do I Look Fat? among others, or, if you like your gay films really out, as in outside, aGLIFF is hosting a closing night Rolling Roadshow featuring music from Amy Cook, performances by Queertown, comedian Stephanie Howard, and a screening of Outlaugh, a concert film showcasing some of the “funniest queer stand-up comics and queer sketch groups working in America today.” If all this sounds a little too gay, you might want to hold out for the gun and knife show.

Texas Freedom Network’s 11th Anniversary Celebration

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MON., SEPT. 25, 2006

For several years now the current administration has been engaged in a pitched battle against fundamentalist extremists. Billions of dollars and thousands of lives have been spent in the war on terror, the result of which, it seems, is that the U.S. has buried its head in someone else’s sand rather than its own. This might seem like a good thing because America has a big head and Iraq has a lot of sand, but as the body bags pile up, the body politic is going to demand that the administration pull its head out and come up with a different strategy for the war on terror. Easier said than done, right? Still, there is no doubt that the $200 billion spent so far on the war in Iraq could have gone a long way toward winning hearts and minds were it spent on social programs rather than shock and awe. Of course, trying to get dirt farmers from the Midwest to sign off on something like foreign aid in the name of national security is political lunacy, but no crazier than the idea of bombing Pakistan back to the Stone Age. Unfortunately, the ideological climate here at home doesn’t exactly foster enlightenment and understanding. For all our complaining about the benighted people of the Muslim world, there are millions here in the U.S. who profess the belief that the universe was created in seven days and the entire human race descended from one couple, half of which was formed from the rib of the other half. Clearly, if we’re going to wage war on fundamentalist extremists, there’s still plenty to do here at home. One group doing just that is the Texas Freedom Network, an Austin-based grassroots organization that advances “a mainstream agenda of religious freedom and individual liberties to counter the religious right.” TFN has helped defeat religious right initiatives like school vouchers, textbook censorship, and faith-based deregulation. This weekend they will be celebrating their 11th anniversary with a fundraiser at the Austin Music Hall featuring hors d’oeuvres from several Austin restaurants, a silent Auction, and music by Guy Forsyth and Carolyn Wonderland. Tickets are $50, but you’ve already spent about $700 on changing the hearts and minds of Iraqis, so what’s a few extra bucks on the fundies here at home?

Fantastic Fest 2006

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MON., SEPT. 18, 2006

One of the great things about becoming an adult is that you can fully embrace your nerdiness. You don’t have to live in fear that some musclebound meathead will yank your tighty whiteys over your head just because you occasionally like to pretend you’re Luke Skywalker. In fact, if you pop your head up out of your cubicle every once in a while you’ll probably find that there are lots of other people with the same sick fetishes you have. They’ve probably even formed an association or a support group or at the very least a Web site with a highly emotional discussion thread. You might be into Latin, or chess, or ornithology, or Barbie dolls, or puppets, or weiner dogs, or radio controlled cars, or dressing like a panda bear and doing the nasty with your stuffed animals, but rest assured that no matter how bizarre and unseemly your interests, you are not entirely alone. It’s just that sometimes it seems like you’re the only person in your department (or for that matter your whole building) who’s into scrapbooking. Don’t stress: It’s a rare bird indeed who is willing to spend time with someone who might someday frame their picture with pastel balloons. Nerdiness can either be a blessing or a curse when it comes to dating. There’s no more effective chastity belt than informing a potential mate you’re into Dungeons & Dragons and yet, there are actually D&Ders who have defied the laws of probability and hooked up – and not just in a virtual gaming scenario. Fortunately if you’re going to let your freak flag fly, Austin is the place to do it. You can’t swing a jousting stick without un(fake)horsing a nerd in this town: Tech nerds, word nerds, band nerds, film nerds … all of which should be in abundance this week at Alamo South for Fantastic Fest 2006, a seven-day festival of sci-fi, fantasy, horror, and genre films that runs through Sept. 28. Some offerings this weekend are: Beach Party at the Threshold of Hell, Terry Gilliam’s Tidewater, The Hamster Cage, Blood Trails, and Texas Chainsaw Massacre – a little something for everyone. If you can’t find something for you, maybe you should start a Web site.

Keepin’ It Weird

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MON., SEPT. 11, 2006

This weekend thousands of middle-class white people will descend on Austin to eat our food, drink our liquor, and dance with our dates. Hopefully we will be as accommodating as we were last weekend with the Buckeyes, both on and off the field. The field this weekend, however, is down at Zilker Park. Normally it’s populated with adult soccer players (mostly hyper-competitive, soft-boned, office-worker creampuffs who make orthopedic surgeons piss their pants with delight) and the occasional miniature choo-choo full of exhausted parents and toddlers with soft-serve mustaches/purple popsicle tongues. The field at Zilker Park is exactly the type of uninspired landscape that demands you make your own fun, whether with a pinch-hitter and a hacky-sac or eight stages and 90 bands. Sure, Austin has its hills and lakes and cricks and rivers and all manner of furry and feathered fauna, but its true charm is its people. No matter how hard Starbucks or Applebees or Wal-Mart or Old Navy or any other tentacle of corporate generica has tried to suck us into its grasp, Austinites have managed to maintain and nourish their individuality, their “weirdness.” Out-of-towners, especially middle-class suburbanites from treeless, sprawling subdivisions find Austin’s civic quirkiness fascinating. They come here ostensibly for the music, or the sports, or the bats, or a first-class education, but they really dig us as much for the freakshow as anything else. On any given week you can run into a swarthy, crossdressing homeless guy in a thong and red heels, a dude who looks like Jesus selling flowers, dogs on a motorcycle, hippies, punks, emos, retros – and the freakiest of all: taco-hatted frat boys on a drinking binge. If you need help locating any of the above, we have ghost tours, duck tours, dork tours (aka those silly Segway tours), and all manner of drinking tours, just follow the frat boys. Whether you’re from here or there, if you want to get a taste of Austin weirdness without inhaling the stench of sweat, stale beer, and urine, you’re in luck: Dave Steakley at Zach Scott has put together Keepin’ It Weird, a play about Austin weirdness culled from more than 200 hours of interviews with real Austin weirdos. Yes, life’s rich pageant all dolled up and done up onstage. What could be more Austin than that?

The Austin Chronicle’s 25th Anniversary Photo Exhibit Receptions

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TUE., SEPT. 5, 2006

This week the Chronicle will be celebrating its 25th anniversary with the opening of a retrospective photographic exhibit at the Austin Museum of Art. This may come as a surprise to some. The Chronicle isn’t exactly Life magazine. In comparison to other alt weeklies around the country, our editorial space is decidedly text heavy. A picture may say a thousand words, but the Chronicle has always been of the opinion that you can fit 2000 words in the same space – maybe more if you use a small enough font. On the plus side, Chronicle readers have been spared, for the most part, from seeing the print journalistic equivalent of the squirrel-on-water-skis video. On the minus side, reading three or four solid pages of even the most riveting copy in six-point type can give anyone a migraine, present text included. Sometimes the Chroniclelooks as if it’s been formatted to fit on the head of a pin. White space? White space is what happens when the printer runs out of ink. Even still, occasionally amongst this dense, baroque tangle of text appear some exceptional photographs, and over 25 years those photographs can add up to an impressive collection. If you’re one of those pictures-more-than-words types, it’s unlikely you’re reading this screed anyway, but if per chance you’re stuck in a waiting room, on a desert island, or on a toilet seat and finally made your way to the meat of this essay, here’s some happy news: This Friday, Saturday, and Sunday from 5-7:30pm, the Chronicle is hosting happy hour receptions at the Austin Museum of Art to kick off our 25th anniversary photographic exhibit. For the price of parking (or free, if you’re hoofing it) you can drink and nosh on the Chronicle‘s dime and check out hundreds of photographs from last 25 years of the Chronicle – the people places and things that helped make Austin the unique community it is. Each night offers something different: Friday you can enjoy Curra’s Mexican and Cazadores margaritas, Saturday is Shiner and food from 519 West, and Sunday is Central Market and Fisheye Wine. Even if you don’t get there for the grub, the exhibit runs through the 24th, and you’re unlikely to see this many Chronicle photos in one place for a long time.

Batfest

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MON., AUG. 28, 2006

Batfest 2006

If you’re one of those people who wake up in the morning and piss burnt orange, this is your weekend. If you’re a Texas football fan, you already know that Saturday the Texas Longhorn football team starts another run for the national championship. If you’re not a Texas football fan and you’re still pissing burnt orange when you wake up, you may want to see a urologist or at the very least back off the multivitamins before bedtime. There is such a thing as too much beta-carotene. If you’re an Aggie fan and you want to piss maroon, you’re going to want to load up on beets – a lot of beets. It may seem ignorant to gorge yourself on beets just to turn your pee maroon, but when in Rome, right? Other than beets, pretty much any other scenario for turning your pee maroon is bad news. Seriously. You could ask your corps buddies to kick you in the kidneys until your urine turns a luscious crimson, but that seems a little bit dimwitted even for Aggieland. Besides, there are plenty of non-urological ways to show your school spirit. Say you’re in the restroom next to a North Texas fan and you’re squirting a high, tight, burnt orange arc onto the deodorizer biscuit (even more impressive if you’re a chick) … wouldn’t it be cool if right at that moment your cell phone popped off with a Texas Fight ringtone? In your face Eagles! Hey, it beats trying to kidnap their mascot. You don’t want any part of an eagle. Kidnap Reveille, but leave the Eagle alone. If the folks at Bat Conservation International have their way, Texas’ mascot may change from the bucolic Longhorn to the Mexican Freetail bat. Wouldn’t that be a cool logo on the side of the helmet? Being the Texas Mexican Freetails wouldn’t hurt the school’s party image either. Mexican Freetails are all about partying. For instance, this Saturday after the big game, BCI is hosting its second annual Batfest on the Congress Avenue Bridge, a celebration of arts and bats. Nearly 20 bands, 125 arts-and-crafts vendors, and around 2 million bats will be on hand to raise money for BCI. There will also be carnival rides, pony rides, a “Batini” contest, and a bat wing eating contest. You might want to pop an umbrella for the emergence. Bats gotta pee too.

Austin Chronicle Hot Sauce Festival

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MON., AUG. 21, 2006

If for some inexplicable reason you moved to Austin and you don’t like Mexican food, leave. Seriously. Go back to whatever culturally impoverished, Applebee’s patronizing, Wonder Bread loving suburb you rolled down from and stop fucking up the office lunch run with your whining about acid reflux. Everyone is tired of you dipping the corner tip of your tortilla chip in the hot sauce, biting down, waving your hand in front of your mouth and declaring, “oooh that’s sooo spicy!” Not even a well-tipped waitress will fake sympathy for that weak shit. Oh yeah, and just because the restaurant is named “Chili’s” doesn’t mean the food is hot … not any more than a fish symbol on a business sign means they won’t fuck you in ways the devil himself never imagined. So, if you don’t like Mexican food, there are at least two northbound lanes on I-35. Ta Ta. Austin didn’t work out for you. Go back whence you came to the place where they spice their chili with cinnamon and nutmeg. Go back to the place where they eat flapjacks and Krispy Kremes for hangovers and pronounce jalapeño with a hard “J.” Don’t hate, emigrate. Leave us crazy Austicans to indulge in our sick, masochistic fetish for capsaicinoids. Leave us to sit sweating over our serranos, anchos, chipotles, piquins, and habaneros – both on the way in and the way out. Mexican food is why we live here. It’s why we came here. It’s why we can never leave. You think you can get a decent plate of migas in Maine? Unlikely. And we won’t be producing any world-class maple surple either, but we do make some mighty fine hot sauce. If you’re not convinced, you should check out this weekend’s Austin Chronicle Hot Sauce Festival, one of the world’s hottest events featuring a sampling of more than 300 hot sauce recipes and four Austin bands: NewBoy, White Ghost Shivers, Guy Forsyth, and the Texas Sapphires, all for a paltry donation of two nonperishable food items. If you don’t like Mexican food, this isn’t the event for you, but that’s OK, you should be busy packing anyway.

White Ghost Shivers

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MON., AUG. 14, 2006

It’s finally weed-out season: that succession of 100-plus degree, rainless days, mid-August through late September where the mythical, travel brochure Austin gets exposed as the merciless, scorching sweatbox it really is. If you’re a doe-eyed Midwesterner or a West Coast high tech transplant who moved down in May, you’re probably wondering what the hell happened to all the verdure. You’re probably wondering why tar is dripping from the roof and the tap water never gets any cooler than tepid. You’re wondering why your flip-flops are sticking to the asphalt or why your Chow keeps dropping laser hair removal mailers in your lap when you come home from work. You might find yourself walking more slowly past the thong section at Target or the giant kiddie pools at Wal-Mart. You might be reconsidering your scotch and sirloin diet or the fondue party you have planned for Labor Day. You might be seriously thinking about trying guacamole, ceviche, or mojitos – not because they sound exotic, but because they look cool. And maybe it’s time to see what the big deal is about Barton Springs, Campbell’s Hole, Deep Eddy, Hamilton Pool, or Hippie Hollow. While you’re at it, maybe you need to revisit the whole clothing question altogether. In August do you really need anything more that a straw hat and a plum smuggler? Check with the folks in HR. Maybe you could get by with nothing more than a light glaze of deodorant and sunscreen. Whatever you do, don’t hide indoors. That’s just admitting defeat. You might as well move back to Sheboygan or Sioux City. If you want to survive, you have to adapt, evolve. Besides, with global warming, August in Austin might be up to a buck thirty in a few years. You don’t want to have wasted your chance to enjoy the cool weather, do you? Of course not. That’s why this Saturday on the deck at Central Market, you should chill with the White Ghost Shivers. That’s right, by the time the Shivers hit the stage, temperatures should be somewhere in the frosty mid-90s, which is a perfect temp to enjoy hot music from the Twenties and Thirties by a freaky, fully clothed band fronted by a 7 foot dude named “Shorty.”

Sticky Fingers Stones Album Hoot

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MON., AUG. 7, 2006

Baby boomers break down into two basic categories: Ones who like the Beatles and ones who like the Stones. No doubt you could come up with a more sophisticated classification system, one that accounts for a Byzantine array of physiological, psychological, and sociological variations (type of PT Cruiser, for instance), but if you want to get a quick read of a boomer’s headspace, the Beatles/Stones thing is a good place to start. Try it sometime. Jump up on the bar at the Donn’s Depot or Eddie V’s and scream, “Mick Jagger kicks John Lennon’s ass!” Never mind the obvious stupidity of the statement, just watch the rhetorical melee that ensues. Stones fans will claim that the Mick is a true blue-collar rock & roller, and Lennon was a pretentious whiner. Lennonites will defend John as the second coming of Jesus (or something even bigger) and say Mick is a fat-lipped, exploitative poser. The truth is, both were skinny Brit kids from middle-class backgrounds. Methodologically however, they couldn’t be further apart. While Lennon aimed for the head, Jagger worked the body. Lennon smoked pot, protested, and sought spiritual enlightenment; Jagger swilled booze and drugs, dirty danced, and rode giant inflatable penises. Neither was particularly genuine in anything other than his love of American roots music. Nonetheless, how you come down on the Stones/Beatles issue says a lot about who you are as a middle-aged white person. Do you go for Lennon’s love-in imaginings or Jagger’s strut and swagger? Do you like tie-dye and sitar or leather and guitar? Or maybe you’re too young to know or even care. That would make you a good candidate for the “Get Yer Ya Ya’s Out With Sticky Fingers” Stones Album Hoot this Saturday at Ruta Maya HQ. If you weren’t even a zygote when the Stones released Beggars Banquet, Let It Bleed, or Sticky Fingers, that doesn’t mean you can’t appreciate the Stones in your own way, especially when you have a diverse and talented group of young bands to reintroduce you to the material. Just a few of the bands playing Saturday include: Coopers Uncle, the Spiders, King Tears, Household Names, Jane Bond, the Arm, and Zykos. Don’t worry, if you’ve never heard of any of the preceding bands, you’ll still know the music … and vice-versa. It’s a win-win for young and old alike, plus it’s a benefit for Jeff Tonn, who is suffering from an undiagnosed illness.

Bruce Robison

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MON., JULY 31, 2006

South Austin, Texas, is about the only place in the world where people have the chutzpah to go country dancing in sandals. Part of the reason is that it’s hot down South … crazy hot, hot like flu breath, hot like a Harley muffler, hot like a hooker’s crotch. But it’s hot a lot of places and they still manage to throw together a respectably western ensemble. Just because the sun in Ft. Stockton could cook the skin off a napping lizard doesn’t mean the locals are running down to the Wal-Mart to trade in their Tony Lamas and Wrangler cowboy cuts for Crocs and cargoes. There’s an aesthetic to consider, traditions to uphold. You can’t have a bunch of leftover-salmon stank hippies twirling around the dance floor in tie-dye and dreads butchering the sublime choreography of the sacred Texas two-step. That’s just asking to rip a huge hole the fabric of the space-time continuum. South Austin, it would seem, is just such a wormhole, the kind of place, as David Allan Coe used to sing, “Where bikers stare at cowboys who’re laughing at the hippies.” Of course, unlike the Coe verse, in South Austin they all got high at the afterparty on some gay dude’s ecstasy and made babies. In some places they would call that a clusterfuck, but Austin is a university town and so we call it evolution. The result of this crazy cultural miscegenation is that on any given evening you might see a cat who looks a lot like Jesus in Tevas (either the Christ or the one who sells flowers down on Sixth Street) kicking up dust (maybe toe-fungus spores?) at a honky-tonk with some Patsy Cline wannabe Circle C soccer mom on girls night out … and once the fog of cultural incongruity clears, you might find the answer to the question, “What would Jesus do-si-do to?” If it’s this weekend, there’s a good chance he’ll be dancing to a member of the musical family Robison. Friday night Charlie and Li’l sis Robyn Ludwick will be teaming up at Threadgill’s on Riverside, and Saturday night brother Bruce will be cutting loose at the Spoke. Whether by nurture or nature, all are great entertainers who will surely get your sandals scooting.

Smokin’ Singles Night With the K-Tel Hit Machine

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MON., JULY 24, 2006

All singles events are suspect. Any person/business/organization with a hard-on for playing Yentl probably has an ulterior motive. Know it. Own it. That way, if you should find yourself holding up the wallpaper at the Red Lion Inn cocktail lounge on a Saturday night with 20 or 30 other anxious looking people sporting business casual attire and name tags done up in red sharpie, you can’t claim ignorance. Take a look around you. Is this what it’s come to? Sometimes in your desperation to get laid you only end up fucking yourself. You know better than that. You don’t have to squint to read the signs that say you’re on the road to Squaresville. They’re usually written in bold print: “Singles Night!” And if you find yourself at Cool River, sharing an awkward lunch hour across the table from a cologne-soaked salesman in a Hawaiian print shirt, pleated khaki shorts and sockless loafers, just know that the chirpy ex-stewardess who you paid to set you up with Mr. Cell-phone-on-a-belt-clip maybe doesn’t have your long-term happiness on the top of her to-do list. Maybe the whole premise is jacked. The interesting thing about you isn’t the fact that you’re single and looking to hook up. Your availability is not your defining feature as a human being. If it is, maybe you shouldn’t breed at all. The interesting thing about you is that thing you’re really interested in. It doesn’t need to be much … you don’t have to be curing cancer or saving displaced war orphans. Maybe you do needlepoint, salsa dance, or fix up old cars, or maybe you’re just really fucking nuts about live music. If it’s the latter, then you are in a healthy mental state to attend this Friday’s Smokin’ Singles Night at La Zona Rosa. Yes, Smokin’ Singles Night. Kiss of death? Maybe not. This singles night has a really kickass cover band, the K-Tel Hit Machine that features A-List performers: Trish and Darin Murphy, Johnnie Goudy, Paul English, Mike Belile, Kyle Crusham, and Benjamin Hotchkiss as well as a sensational opening act, Billy Harvey. If you’re the kind of person who can free your inner dork and totally rock out to pop and rock classics from the Seventies and Eighties, this is your show, regardless of your singularity. Plus, it’s sponsored by Lovers Lane. We may be suspect, but we’d never intentionally steer you wrong.

Seven Brides for Seven Brothers

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WED., JULY 19, 2006

Doing a live production of Seven Brides for Seven Brothers in July in Austin is like doing Beach Blanket Bingo in Siberia in December: You gotta have some world-class thespians to sell that kind of incongruity. Flannel is hot enough in the winter, but flannel on the Zilker Hillside Stage in the dead of summer is suicidal masochism, the kind of inexplicable turd in the punch bowl that completely tears down the fourth wall. Fortunately, the hillside is far enough away from the stage (which, to add another stifling hot layer of irony, is painted black, sort of like a huge, Dutch oven) that you probably won’t get drenched during the barn dance scene when the brides and bros start twirling around like human schvitz sprinklers. You’re more likely to see drier wardrobe at a wet T-shirt contest, but certainly not a more spectacular one. Word has it that the costumes in this production are so resplendent that they alone are worth a couple of hours of swelter. As for the performers, who could question the commitment of any actor or actress willing to give so much (measurable empirically, one would imagine, in quarts) to practice their craft? Imagine trying to keep a happy, horny lumberjack smile on your face while your crotch is boiling up some ball soup? Acting like that deserves a Tony … or at the very least a beer bong full of iced Gatorade. Speaking of Gatorade, you should probably bring some yourself. When it comes to outdoor theatre in Austin, hydration is key. The human body is an air- and liquid-cooled engine, and the nice thing about the Zilker Hillside Theatre is that you can bring your own drinks … including hooch as long as you’re not all hillbilly about it. The other nice thing is that the dress code is … well … ”lax” would be an understatement, but suffice it to say that unlike the mountain folk onstage, you could rock anything down to a thong or a plum smuggler and still be mostly legal. And, as ever, it’s always legal to go topless in Austin, but sometimes it isn’t cool to be so cool.

11th Annual Bastille Day Festival

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TUE., JULY 11, 2006

Just because you watched the World Cup finals last Sunday doesn’t necessarily mean you’re a terrorist or a commie or even a foreigner, it only makes you a suspect. That’s OK though, because these days pretty much everyone outside the Oval Office is a suspect, so you’re in good company. Amazing as it may seem, there are some people here in the U.S. who understand and appreciate the game of soccer. Even weirder: a growing number of them are red staters – red not as in “communist” or “menace,” but people from America’s heartland (necks, maybe?) who for some reason want their kids to play a sport that doesn’t demand high doses of steroids, a helmet, or a 42 inch vertical. There is no doubt that soccer’s rise in popularity is a sure sign of the decline of American civilization. Who could defend a sport where America’s best and brightest can get their asses handed to them by a no-name banana republic like Ghana in front of an audience of nearly a billion people? Stuff like that damages America’s rep. Pretty soon all the skinnies will start to thinking that just because we can’t use our feet we can’t point a grenade launcher at a mud hut. What next? The Canadian Army storms across North Dakota? Where does it end? Should we just stencil a big black “WELCOME” across the doormat of America? Fortunately, America has a hero: France. For better than 300 years now, the French have been showing us the way, whether it be the Cartesian dualism of Descartes (Cogito ergo sum) or the irrational symbolism of Zidane, who last Sunday partly revived France’s waning world cup machismo by knocking Italian defender Marco Materazzi flat on his ass with a wicked head butt to the chest. France lost, but what a brilliant display of freedom and independence…albeit the darker side. This weekend at the French Legation The Alliance Française d’Austin will be celebrating French independence with their 11th Annual Bastille Day Festival. The fest features French delicacies, desserts, a silent auction, petanque, and music by Paris 49, an American jazz band with a French twist.

Headbanger’s Call

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WED., JULY 5, 2006

Many people are accused of having head injuries, but only about one in a thousand can legitimately walk the wobbly walk. Just to be safe, however, you probably shouldn’t be too hard on people who act like they’ve been clocked with a two-by-four. People get smacked in the head with two-by-fours and other painful wooden objects all the time: Baseball bats, pool cues, broomsticks, axe handles, tree branches … you get the idea. Fortunately, the skull is amazingly resilient. In fact, many head injuries go unreported – not just because the injured has the wits completely knocked out of them but because getting smacked in the head is a little embarrassing. Think about it. A decent number of the terms used to describe stupid people involve, or at least imply, head injury: knucklehead, blockhead, bonehead, knothead, numbskull … and you don’t want to be any of those (unless you’re into huffing nitrous, which will make you all of the above … and giggly). Even if you’re not doing nitrous it seems like it should be simple enough to keep your noggin out of harm’s way, but we live in a dynamic universe where objects hurtle toward each other at breathtaking speeds. Every once in a while those objects collide, and occasionally one or more of those objects is a skull, a human skull. Snap, crackle, pop … or, as Homer Simpson is always saying, “Doh!” You could probably shave off some probability by wearing a helmet, but unless you’re piloting some sort of vehicle or drinking beer from them, helmets are a little passé. Then again, you might be the kind of person with enough juice to become the new messiah of protective headgear. If so, hallelujah! Otherwise, you might do well to kick a few bucks toward this Saturday’s Headbanger’s Call, a roots-rock show benefiting the Brain Injury Association of Texas. For $5 you get to see the Junglerockers, the Thunderchiefs, Bloody Tears, and Two Hoots & a Holler. That’s a buttload of ear spank for a fin, not to mention you’ll be racking up some karmic brownie points for the next time you lean a little too far over the plate.

The Heart of Texas Red White & Blues Festival

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WED., JUNE 28, 2006

If you’re lucky, Friday begins a five-day weekend. That’s a mess of slack time for the average American. Unlike our 35-hours-a-week French counterparts, Americans get antsy when we don’t have anything to do. We’re not especially good at leisure time. We tend to work even when we’re not working. This Fourth of July, millions of red-blooded Americans will spend hours toiling over a hot grill – making barbecue they’ll wolf down in a few minutes. You can’t really blame them. Properly masticating meat is a lot of work. When was the last time you chewed your meat 40 times? In fact, when was the last time you did anything 40 times … unless you were at work? If you’re like most Americans, you’ll probably bounce it off your molars for a couple of seconds then wash it down with a light beer … all the while screaming at your kids to quit trying to put ladyfingers up the cat’s butt. The result is that your intestines look a lot like the sausage you’re grilling. Hey, nobody said freedom and democracy was going to be pretty. In fact, it could be argued that freedom itself is a cruel farce perpetrated on us by the French … or at least in part by their philosophers. The reality for most Americans is a lifetime of toil, both paid and un, punctuated by intermittent stretches of freedom, which the French call “liberté” (only because they have the free time to enunciate the extra syllable and put the stress mark above the “e”). Americans might as well call freedom “sleep,” because that’s about the only time we get any. In waking life we’re always working for the man or paying the man or both. It’s enough to give you the blues, but sometimes you even have to pay for the blues, like this weekend down at Waterloo Park when Nuno’s on Sixth presents the Heart of Texas Red White & Blues Festival. For $24 you get acts like Big Head Todd, Charlie Sexton, Bob Schneider, Hubert Sumlin, and G.E. Smith of Saturday Night Live. It ain’t free, but in America, what is?

Viva Las Vegas

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WED., JUNE 21, 2006

It’s been said that the lottery is a tax on people who are bad at math. True enough. Problem is, some people just feel lucky. Actually, judging by the success of the lottery, a lot of people feel lucky, which is part of the reason so many of them are walking around with sexually transmitted diseases. They clearly didn’t do the math. They didn’t realize that Lucky can be a double-edged sword. Sometimes it’s a pink sword that’s sored. As Shakespeare would say, “There’s the rub” – and he didn’t mean that in a good way. So it could also be said that STDs are also a tax on people who are bad at math. Sometimes when it feels like you’re getting lucky, you’re getting something else entirely: herpes, gonorrhea, syphilis, chlamydia, HPV, HIV – a whole writhing petri dish of microbiological malady. The seedy truth is that when we’re bumping uglies, we’re not the only life forms invited to the party. It’s a huge bummer when you think about it, but pretty much any time you start waving that thing around, you’re rolling the dice. Depressed yet? Here’s something that’ll keep your fabulous fluff from turning into a wrinkly turtleneck: Thanks to modern medicine, contraceptives and education, the odds are still in your favor. It’s unlikely that you’re going to die from having sex. Unlikely. You’re still gambling though, but not all gambling is bad. For instance: This weekend at the Austin Music Hall, AIDS Services of Austin presents its 13th annual Viva Las Vegas fundraiser, a faux gaming themed party featuring gambling, food, drinks, and dancing. Just because it’s the 13th annual doesn’t mean somebody’s not going to get lucky. In fact a lot of people will get lucky from the proceeds of this event, which helps fund ASA as well as their Capital Area AIDS Legal Project, which helps provide free legal assistance to Central Texans living with HIV and AIDS.

Now I’m 64: Paul McCartney’s Birthday Sing-Along

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TUE., JUNE 13, 200

Back in 1968 at the age of 28 John Lennon said, “Never trust anyone over 30.” He was killed 12 years later by a 25 year old. That doesn’t necessarily make Lennon wrong; it just makes the statement ironic. People under 30 are still developing their sense of irony and haven’t yet learned to avoid bold, declarative statements like “The Earth is flat,” “God is dead,” or “Mission accomplished.” They haven’t been around long enough for life to sneak up and yank down their trousers. Back in the Sixties, Paul McCartney worried (maybe fretted?), “Will you still need me, will you still feed me, when I’m 64?” Smart move going with the interrogatory. A question is never wrong, it’s just a question. Apparently, the answer to Paul’s question is “yes” and “yes.” Paul turns 64 this Sunday, and with a net worth of somewhere around $1.5 billion, Paul can buy all the needers and feeders his heart desires. He can also buy his needers and feeders needers and feeders … and so on … a huge, writhing orgy of needing and feeding. When Sir Paul wrote the song he expected to spend his 60s rocking on a porch at the old-folks home rather than actually rocking, but with 1.5 bil in his knickers he should expect to rock it well past the century mark. That means he’s got at least two or three Superbowl halftime shows left in him. This Father’s Day, in an ironic kickoff to Juneteenth, the Alamo Downtown is hosting Now I’m 64: Paul McCartney’s Birthday Sing-Along. The Alamo’s own Henri Mazza and Owen Edgerton will lead the audience in a sing-along/tribute featuring “the greatest Beatles videos of all time.” If your pops is still sentient, there’s a good chance he’s a Beatles fan, so why not show him you still need him and feed him too?

Texas Pride Festival

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WED., JUNE 7, 2006

This week George W. Bush outed himself…as being against gay marriage. It’s not like he had a big gay fan base anyway. Even Log Cabin Republicans are wishing their log cabins had closets these days. With Bush’s approval rating hovering somewhere around thirty percent, Republican strategists took aim below the Bible belt, sucking up to the remaining wild-eyed Christian fundamentalists who are actually euphoric that Dubya’s foreign and domestic policies have put us on the fast track to Armageddon. Smart move too, because it’s becoming increasingly apparent that the God speaking to Bush is the fire and brimstone model from the Old Testament, and we all know how that ends. Like the OTG, Bush isn’t opposed to using flashy theatrics like fire and brimstone every now and then (aka “shock and awe”) to get his point across, but with budgetary concerns and an increasingly intractable Congress, he decided to go with a grand but empty gesture: An Amendment Banning Gay Marriage. Like his failed campaign to rid Iraq of WMD’s that didn’t exist, Bush took a last ditch shot at persecuting gays in the name of protecting families from a threat that doesn’t exist. If Bush really wanted to protect American families, he would get the sons and daughters and mothers and fathers of those families out of Iraq. Here at home, the “threat to American families” is having a big festival down at Waterloo Park on Saturday. Gays from all over Austin and Texas will be celebrating, among other things, their unique contribution to society. The park will be filled with booths from clubs, organizations, businesses, and artists who support the gay community. You can also expect the obligatory music, booze, and food. Bands include: Lisa Richards, Lisa Rogers, Kit Holmes, Flamin’ Desire, Omar Lopez, The Gadget White Band, and Daniel Link. Feel free to bring the family because no marriages are scheduled during the festival.

Gynomite “Breaking the Cherry” spoken word performance

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WED., MAY 31, 2006

Porn isn’t for everyone, but apparently it does the trick (if only temporarily) for millions of people across the globe. If you believe what you read on the Internet (on those rare occasions when you’re not surfing porn), the gross revenues of the porn industry worldwide are somewhere around $57 billion per year, $12 billion in the U.S. alone. That’s more than the combined revenues of all professional football, baseball, and basketball franchises. Clearly ballin’ is big business, and, as it turns out, the most popular ballin’ doesn’t require a uniform or a lot of equipment (unless you’re into that kind of thing). Sports are fun to watch, but they lack a crucial element: interactivity. It’s exciting watching the players on the TV score, but with porn you can score on the players on the TV … you just might want to keep a box of Kleenex handy to wipe off the screen. Interactivity is important, but it’s not the only reason more than 72 million people per year visit porn Web sites. Convenience is a big factor too. Having to get out of the easy chair and drive down to the dingy XXX video store to rent “Slutty Soccer Moms” can ruin anyone’s fluff, but Googling same on a laptop brings up a dizzying pornucopia of onanistic opportunity. Blame it on societal repression, animalistic imperative, or the impending arrival of the apocalypse, but statistics show that more and more people are into porn, and increasingly those people are women. Nearly 30% of visitors to adult Web sites are women, even though they’re less likely to admit it. This Tuesday, feminist porn writer Liz Belile helps bring some of those women out of the closet by showcasing their work from her Gynomite “Breaking the Cherry” erotica writing and performance workshop. First-time gynoeroticists will read their best porn pieces in front of anyone willing to fork over a 10-spot, but it’s not about the money.

BOBaritaville

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WED., MAY 24, 2006

While all the smelly hippies are off at Kerrville listening to folk, smoking dope, making mud pies, and carousing in communal squalor, local not-so-oldies station BOBFM is taking advantage of the extra elbow room by hosting a margarita contest down at Waterloo Park, called BOBaritaville. If you haven’t tuned into BOB, it’s sort of the antithesis of, say, KOOP. BOBFM plays pop hits from every generation that isn’t in a nursing home or dead, whereas KOOP generally plays obscure music from all generations living and dead – along with a culturally diverse hodgepodge of arcane commentary, nerdy nattering, and political polemic, the kind of stuff that occasionally makes you squirm in your seat. BOBFM on the other hand, makes you squirm in your seat, but only because you want to snap your fingers and BOB your head, especially if you’re 25-54 and dance with an overbite. Hey, there’s no shame in embracing the safe and familiar. McDonald’s didn’t serve over 4 billion orders of Moo Goo Gai Pan, did they? Of course not, and it’s a good bet that most people with a decent credit rating prefer “Come on Eileen” over Tuvan throat singing, which, in turn, explains why BOBaritaville’s music lineup features three cover bands: Bakin’ Brownies, the Mark Chandler Band, and LC Rocks. It should be a fun day of drinking and dancing, but if Saturday’s winning margarita leans a little towards the bland and inoffensive, don’t be indignant: It’s what the people want. Just be happy that there are nearly 20 other bars and restaurants serving up margs that may have a little more funk. There should also be plenty of food on hand too, so lay down a base before you start drinking. That way you’re less likely to pass out and end up in a picture on some Web site somewhere with a penis scrawled on your head with magic marker.

Strings Attached Performance of the White Album

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THU., MAY 18, 2006

If you’re not already sick of the Beatles, pay attention. You’ll get your chance. Sooner or later you’re going to hear “Love Me Do” or “Yesterday” or “Let It Be” for the millionth time and you’re going to snap. You’re going to completely lose your shit and blaspheme the most sacred pop cultural icons of the last half-century. Unfuckingcool. Disrespecting the Beatles is a sacrilege equivalent to wiping your ass with the Shroud of Turin. Even your closest friends will turn on you like a pack of hyenas. Regardless of how correct your assertion that the Beatles’ catalog has been beaten like a dead horse, pounded into a veritable grease spot by every oldies station, department store, choir teacher, and wedding band in the Western Hemisphere, you will be treated like a pariah for mentioning it. God forbid you should blurt out something similarly salient like the fact that “goo goo goo joob” makes no fucking sense. Hey, if Jesus could speak in tongues, then surely the Beatles can sing in gibberish, right? After all, they’re bigger than He is, and that’s the point really. No one in their right mind would argue that the Beatles (or Jesus for that matter) aren’t good. They’re damned good (not Jesus; Jesus is blessed good), but it may be possible to have too much of a good thing. For instance: BMI estimates that “Yesterday” has been recorded more than 3000 times and played more than 7 million. Is it time to scream, ”Enough!?” For an astounding number of people, the answer is, “Never,” which is why more than 20 Austin musicians will be going to the University Baptist Church this Friday to help Will Taylor and Strings Attached perform the entirety of the Beatles’ White Album. This certainly isn’t the first take on the material, but it should prove to be an interesting and uniquely local one. You might even meet a Beatles fan or 200.

aGLIFF’s fifth annual Mommie Dearest Roast

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THU., MAY 11, 2006

Mothers. Everybody’s got one. Prerequisite to most peoples’ appearance on planet Earth is a gory luge ride down the vaginal slip-n-slide. To be sure there are those who, like Caesar, emerged from an ad hoc tummy twat in a scene reminiscent of the prison break in Raising Arizona, but the rest of us begin life owing a huge debt to our mother: The kind of fee you might charge someone for passing a bowling ball through your large intestine and out your anus; the kind of fee you would demand up front and then realize too late that you grossly underestimated the cost. So if your mother squirts you out, kicks you to the curb, and runs off to Vegas with the anesthesiologist, you’re still into her for at least a plaster preschool hand print and … oh … maybe a tricked-out Hummer with spinning rims. If she sticks around, you’re really in the red. Before you can even latch onto her teat, you’ll owe her dearly for things like stretch marks, saggy boobs, body fat, belly-button damage, and torn taint. Torn taint? That’s pretty much a beach house in Malibu right there. If she shepherds you through infancy, you’re looking at some pretty steep emotional charges for sleep loss, sore nipples, backaches, ass wiping, projectile vomit cleanup, and decimation of social life. By the time you can coo the word “mama,” you’re already beyond hope of repayment, but, just as a sadistic exercise in existential overkill, mama gets a minimum of 16 more years of indentured servitude followed by a lifetime of nerve-wracking worry. You’ll never pay her back, but that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t pop for a card or some flowers or maybe even dinner. One of the best places to have dinner with your mom is the Alamo Drafthouse. It takes the focus off of you. This Sunday take mom to the Alamo Downtown for aGLIFF’s fifth annual Mommie Dearest Roast. Free wire hangers, a costume contest, and rant-along subtitles. Maybe mommy finally will get some payback.

Whip In 20th Anniversary Party

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THU., MAY 4, 2006

At the very, very least, relaxing immigration will broaden and deepen the dating pool … so thumbs up, right? So thought the Wampanoag Nation until they found out that Pilgrims didn’t put out. Not only that, but Pilgrims were pretty much useless at anything except freestyle theology and moral condemnation. Either the Wampanoags were greatly impressed with firearms or just plain sick and tired of staring at each other across the campfire and wanted some company…probably the latter. To add injury to insult, the Wampanoags got diseases and Jesus without the benefit of a reach-around. The lesson to be learned is that Americans, native and non-, are rightly suspicious of immigrants who refuse to assimilate into the existing culture. Sure they bring alcohol, firearms, and funny hats, but they also shoot up all your buffalo and steal your land. Thanks, but no thanks. Things might have been different had the Pilgrims been less stuck up. Maybe they could have offered to translate the Wampanoag National Anthem into English, or cleaned the longhouse, or maybe took a turn or two on the leaf blower, who knows? The point is that ever since the immigrant Europeans exterminated and subjugated all the Native Americans, immigration has turned out to be a good thing in America. Why stop now? America is a mutt, not a wimpering, anemic purebred. We should celebrate the fact that our flavor is in the mix. This Sunday, you can celebrate it with the Topiwala family, owners of Travis Heights’ famous Whip In convenience store. For 20 years these Indians have been selling alcohol to the white man, and they’re celebrating it at the Continental Club with a multiethnic extravaganza that includes bands like Rumbullion, Combo Mahalo, James McMurtry, Heybale!, and the Texas Sapphires, among others. Don’t be stuck up. Whip in.

Eeyore’s 43rd Annual Birthday Party

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THU., APRIL 27, 2006

Here’s an activity that’s not on the schedule out at Circle C: Eeyore’s Birthday Party – not that they don’t appreciate Pooh in the C, surely they do. It’s just unlikely that folks out in the ‘burbs would pay homage to a down-in-the-dumps donkey who mopes around like he just swallowed a shit sandwich. They’re more likely to be on the Tigger bandwagon: The bouncy, dimwitted, overly optimistic, dangerously oblivious, well-meaning closet cokehead who always leaves a trail of destruction in his wake. Tigger may seem like a cheap-shot personification of Prez George the Second, but it’s unlikely A.A. Milne had that kind of foresight. The safer bet is that Tigger is a personification of a whole bundle of American traits that Europeans find both lovable and obnoxious – first and foremost our egotism. The wonderful thing about Tigger is that he’s the only one! The same could be said, of course, about Eeyore. The only thing worse than an egotistical, overbearing, thick-headed cheerleader is a black hole of pessimism, depression, and self-loathing like Eeyore. Imagine a whole Circle C full of Eeyores: Time to whip up a big batch of Reverend Jim’s Jonestown party punch. So why Eeyore? Who knows? But it has something to do with hippies – dirty-footed, face-painting, costume-wearing, drum-circling, pot- and patchouli-scented hippies that swarm Pease Park like sugar ants on a lemon drop; hot, sweaty hippie chicks in halter tops; tattooed trustafarians; old, bald hippies percolating Pease porridge in the bottoms of their banana hammocks; dust, feathers, dogs, beer, breasts, butt bags, tie dye, Thai Stick, skin, sunscreen, stilt walkers, crossdressers, jugglers, maypoles, music, and motherfucking mayhem – all free, all day Saturday. If you’re really concerned about Austin’s waning weirdness, you might want to check this deal out before you buy your bumpersticker.

Hell’s Belles with the Addictions

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THU., APRIL 20, 2006

Whether you know it or not, every once in a while you need to rock. That’s right, just like getting your teeth cleaned, your eyes checked, your pap smeared, or your colon scoped, it is essential that you occasionally attend a fist-pumping, hair-throwing rock show, the kind of ear-spanking, cheek-flapping, insanely high SPL hell that flattens the foam in your earplugs, recedes your hairline, and leaves you with a minor heart arrhythmia. It’s not enough to put the Strokes in light rotation in your iTunes. It’s not enough to finger your white iPod’s areola until the volume indicator is a solid blue bar…so high that the neurotic bitch in the next cubicle is driven into a blind fury by irritating ssss ssss ssss from your earbuds. The sad truth is that you can crank those earbuds until your tympanic membranes rupture and bleed, until your white collar of corporate conformity is stained with the red badge of rock & roll rebellion, but it will still never equal the chest-crushing thump of an 18” subwoofer beating you into spiritual submission. You’ll never achieve a truly transformational level of emotional catharsis through a pair of tiny white wires. You need the kind of overwhelming auditory experience that purges your anxieties and fills you with the hot white glow of sensory overload – at least every once in a while. So where can you get that kind of experience this weekend? Antone’s. Saturday night all-girl AC/DC tribute band Hell’s Belles will channel Angus, Malcolm, Cliff, Phil, Bon, and Brian in a retrospective of the Australian supergroup’s legendary career. Big balls? Maybe not, but you can expect a respectable cover thereof. Joining the Belles will be Austin rockers the Addictions and the Quick and the Dead, both of whom feature their own energetic female singers. For those about to rock…without a cock… we salute you!

13th Annual Austin Reggae Festival

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THU., APRIL 13, 2006

Easter: The Sybil of holidays. Do you celebrate the pastel color-schemed ode to the ovum, the fuzzy chicked, furry bunnied festival of rebirth? Or, do you observe the more macabre offering of the resurrection of Christ, which happily though it may end, is a gauntlet so bloody and violent that it just barely makes eternal life look like a decent payoff. Props to the Romans for bringing a savagely deranged creativity to capital punishment that has yet to be equaled on so large a scale. Given the choice, it’s no wonder most people paint eggs. Imagine rolling down the Easter aisle at HEB filling up your Easter basket with crowns of thorns, scourges, and crucifixion nails – sounds like the kind of holiday you might conveniently forget one year and then never … uh … resurrect. Fortunately, the early Christians were smart enough not to throw out the baby with the bathwater. They hitched their Debbie Downer of a resurrection holiday to an ancient pagan festival called Eastre, which celebrated the return of spring. Thus, a perfectly understandable springtime celebration became the confusing, mixed up mutant of a holiday that it is today. So how should you celebrate Easter? Well, if you’re too old to get excited about collecting pastel-painted eggs, you might want to change your color scheme to something a little more irie, say red, green, and yellow for instance. Those colors should be in relative abundance down at Auditorium Shores this weekend for the 13th Annual Austin Reggae Festival. Formerly known as the “Bob Marley Festival,” the Austin Reggae Festival features reggae music from both local and national acts as well food, ethic crafts, drum circles, and the occasional unsanctioned waft of ganja smoke, without which a reggae festival can’t be officially festive.

Urban Music Festival

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THU., APRIL 6, 2006

Austin needs another music festival about as much as Dallas needs another chain restaurant; as much as Houston needs another refinery; as much as San Antonio needs another pro sports arena. We sure don’t need another music festival, but that doesn’t mean we can’t or won’t support one. Austinites are huge chumps for anyone with the wherewithal to rent some park space and erect some stage scaffolding. It doesn’t matter that the headlining act is the musical equivalent of Gary Coleman/Danny Bonaduce/Jamie Farr and the openers sideline in Chapman Motor ads; it’s really more about giving the cultural hoi polloi a few hundred square yards of dusty terra to work their stuff – ideally shirtless or halter-topped, glistening with a bronze patina of sweat, sunblock, and pulverized caliche; clutching the warm, backwash remains of a light beer, and ripping off a deafening two-finger whistle whenever the guitarist goes into one of those masturbatory diddly-diddly riffs. Who says the only talent is on the stage? Still, if you’re one of those rare Austinites who hasn’t experienced the sublime catharsis of music fandom, maybe Austin hasn’t been playing your tune. This weekend the tune will get a little funkier – not just because the Texas Relays will be bringing more than 40,000 African-Americans to Austin from all across the state and nation, but because in conjunction with them, Austin will host its first-ever Urban Music Festival, an outdoor concert at Auditorium Shores featuring Chaka Khan, Ray Parker Jr., Michael Henderson, members of Parliament Funkadelic and the Brothers Johnson, rapper/singer/actor/BET host Ray J, and comedian Joe Torry, as well as local artists like Blue Mist, Bavu Blakes, Les and the Funk Mob, Nook, and All U Need. Rest assured that if the Relays don’t keep you busy, the UMF will.

Joe Nichols At Rodeo Austin

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THU., MARCH 30, 2006

News flash for the CMT crowd: Lil’ Bow Wow is no longer Lil’, he’s just Bow Wow. Woof! He’s all growed up. Doesn’t matter. You missed him anyway. He blew up the Tuesday headliner spot this week at Rodeo Austin, aka.the Star of Texas Rodeo. Nice change. Rodeo Austin feels homier … plus they knocked five whole syllables off the name. Nobody hates syllables more than cowboys. Cowboys, like cavemen, are notoriously conservative with syllables. Maybe it’s because they talk slowly and don’t want to spend all day flapping their yaps. Rappers, on the other hand, are all about the syllables. The more the merrier. Sometimes they use so many syllables they run out of words and have to freestyle with syllables alone … sort of like Mel Tillis without the music. So kudos then, to Rodeo Austin for extending a hand across the cultural chasm and pulling Bow Wow a little closer to the cowboy way. Of course, Rodeo Austin isn’t the first to tap into the goldmine of cross-cultural marketing; it’s been working for NASCAR too. For some time now they’ve been successfully pimping motorsports to urbanites in the Northeast – people who still think Copenhagen is the Capital of Denmark. Maybe this is what Clinton was talking about when he said we need to expand the definition of “us.” Great idea. With the success of Brokeback Mountain, a natural next step would be “Rainbow Rodeo” night. Really, what’s a few more dudes in tight Wranglers? Speaking of dudes in tight jeans, this Friday country heartthrob Joe Nichols brings plays the rodeo’s arena stage. You might know Joe from hit songs like “Size Matters” and “Tequila Makes Her Clothes Fall Off.” If you don’t, you’re probably not into country music, but you might be into a guy who looks like Matt Dillon’s hotter younger brother.

Southpaw Jones’ First Annual 29th Birthday & CD Release

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THU., MARCH 23, 2006

Here’s a dirty, filthy, shameful little secret: Austin is lousy with poets – not the free-versing, in your face, theatrically emotive, gangsta-gesticulating slam poets. They’ve already outed themselves. They’re upfront about their embarrassing little literary obsession. No, more insidious and pervasive are the poets who attempt to deny the intrinsic dorkiness of their craft by disguising it as something cooler: music. They call themselves songwriters. It’s no wonder. Historically, poets don’t get much for their efforts except poverty and misery. You can bet your ass that America’s current Poet Laureate, Ted Kooser, doesn’t have iced-out bling and a sick crib with a boom boom room like Big Boi from OutKast. More than likely he’s shivering in a mud hut on the windswept plains of Nebraska scrawling arthritic elegies to rusty, abandoned farm equipment, hoping his Pulitzer pays for a few more months of precious propane. That’s, as Sinatra sang, the “top of the heap” of the poetic world, and he probably can’t even afford Bono’s deli tray. It’s no surprise then that songwriters are notoriously cagey about owning up to being word geeks, but they are – word geeks in the worst way. While the rest of the literary world abandoned rhymed verse about a century ago, songwriters keep hammering it out ad nauseam. For a lot of songwriters, music is the lipstick on the pig of shamelessly bad poetry, but occasionally you find a songwriter who is a brilliant synthesis of musician and word geek, who within the strict framework of structured verse and musical meter manages to transcend both. Southpaw Jones is one of those songwriters, and he is celebrating his First Annual 29th Birthday tonight at the Cactus Cafe with Erin Condo, the Ginn Sisters, Spike Gillespie, Jon Greene, Matt the Electrician, Seela, Bill Passalaqua, and others. Poets? Songwriters? You decide.

SXSW Free Concert with Spoon & Echo & the Bunnymen

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THU., MARCH 16, 2006

You may not feel it yet, but it’s on. You might be tooling around Pflugerville in your honeydipper truck, hoovering up porta-potty turds and listening to Tom Petty 8-tracks, but down here in the bowels of the city, the SXSW shit has hit the fans. There’s music all over the goddamned place: Sidewalks, trailers, parking lots, back yards, restaurants, coffee shops … it’s only a matter of time before some earnest group of aspiring musicians starts serenading badge-holders in the Hilton crapper … talk about a captive audience … plus the great acoustics. Peers will get to hear condensed radio tracks, and pooers will get the extended club mixes. On the way out the door, lucky listeners will receive breath mints with the band’s logo, a shot of cologne, and a press kit. “Have a nice day Mr. Mottola, and don’t forget the Crotch Rockets’ unofficial showcase 9:30am Sunday morning at the Jiffy Lube on Ben White. They’re totally gonna ROCK, plus you get 15% off your oil change.” Yes, it’s Springtime in Austin, and music is in the air. Well, music and the smell of nervous sweat and desperation. Nowhere else in the world are so many people trying so hard to be loved and trying so hard not to show it. No doubt SXSW is a depraved scene, but anytime art and commerce engage in such a shameless clusterfuck, there’s bound to be a little ugliness. The beauty of it all is that ultimately, music lovers still get the most out of SXSW. Yes, the badge-holders pretty much have the run of the place, but there’s more than enough musical spillover to keep everyone happy. For instance, tonight at Auditorium Shores, SXSW throws a bone to the badgeless with a free concert featuring Mr. Lif, Blackalicious, Music Awards sweepers Spoon, and Eighties post-punkers Echo & the Bunnymen. If these four acts ever share the same stage again, it won’t be on this earth.

SXSW Film Screening of Darkon

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WED., MARCH 8, 2006

You might want to layer up, it’s about to get cool. That’s right, the glamour train of SXSW 2006 arrives this Friday as thousands of unrepentant hipsters from all over the world descend on Austin to revel in our “realness.” Sure, the pressure of having to be real all the time is a bit intimidating. Every once in a while you want to just relax and be fake; slip into the comfortable persona of someone you’re not, but during SXSW your realness has to be on 24/7, so look sharp. Wait a minute … scratch that. You may want to go with something a little grubbier – not some sort of pretentious, faux-skanky alt-rocker look, but a genuinely wack, just-rolled-out-of-bed-and-going-to-get-coffee-and-breakfast-tacos look. Don’t put too much effort into it, but try something frumpy like Old Navy jammy bottoms (ideally with a wildlife theme and an improvised ventilation hole in the gluteal region) fuzzy socks from Target, a pair of bright purple Crocs and a beer-stained T-shirt that says “Kiss Me I’m Irish.” Feel free to improvise, but what you’re aiming for is the kind of postcard-back-to-Monaco “realness” that causes trendy types to convulse in envy; the kind of “realness” that has them scrambling for their Blackberries so they can text-message their PAs about the local fauna. Also, remember to smile and say “thanks,” and hold the door open. Force yourself to be a decent human being. That way, Austin will seem so “real” it’s almost “unreal” … sort of like a reality themepark. If by Saturday, you’re overdosing on reality, you can heal yourself at the Austin Convention Center by attending the 6:45pm SXSW screening of Darkon, a documentary about a full-contact medieval fantasy war-gaming group that has been escaping reality in the Baltimore/Washington, D.C. area since 1985. Eight dollars gets you in unless the badge-holders overrun the place, which is a real possibility, so bring a sense of irony.

Ain’t Misbehavin’ Reunion Show

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WED., MARCH 1, 2006

“What happens to a dream deferred? Does it dry up like a raisin in the sun?” It’s impossible to know for sure, but when Langston Hughes penned the preceding lines, he probably wasn’t talking about aging musicians. Surely he had heavier shit to deal with. Nonetheless, regardless of his intentions, Hughes pretty much nailed it. Somewhere along the line the aging musician realizes that he no longer sounds like a California Raisin, he actually looks like one. Growing older isn’t easy for anyone, but it’s especially hard on the narcissistic. Do you think Mick Jagger likes it when the groupies tell him to leave his leather pants on because they’re the only smooth skin on his body? That has to be a sock in the groin. Seriously … regardless of how much Viagra he’s taking. Sadly for most geezerockers, all the hoary hair throwing and the arthritically gnarled devil horns are just a pro forma paean to the glory days. They aren’t expecting to be swarmed by a backstage bevy of post-menopausal hot flashers. They’ve opened up their catalogue of motivations to a brand new page – the one without the lingerie models. The cold hard truth of the music biz is that if you qualify for an AARP card, it’s freakishly unlikely you’re going to blow up and hit the big time. Either you’re already there or you’re doing it purely for love, and love is where all the truly good stuff comes from. Well, love and Maui. Besides, just because the baby boomers are wearing a different type of diaper these days doesn’t mean their chops have gone to shit. Most can tear it up better now than they did when they were dazed and confused. For instance, this Saturday at Antone’s, Austin jazz/bebop/doo-wop band Ain’t Misbehavin’ plays its third reunion show since the band broke up in 1979. Twenty-seven years is a lot of down time, but they’ve been busy polishing their five-part harmonies, mastering their instruments, and putting together a show that would impress Fats himself.

Asylum Street Spankers DVD Release Party

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TUE., FEB. 21, 2006

Although it can safely be said that not all progress equals improvement, generally, over time, society as a whole walks toward the light. We may in the end find that the light we’re walking toward is the glowing fires of hell – or more likely that extra bright patch of sky where the ozone used to be, but at least we’ll have the comfort of knowing that our hearts were in the right place. Faced with the prospect of an uncertain future, many people pine for the road already taken. They look back fondly on the simpler days of yore, especially those who didn’t have to live in them. Their understanding of yore is more conceptual than visceral – which may explain certain unpleasant fashion trends: Trucker hats, leg warmers, low-rise jeans, nearly anything involving rabbit fur or spandex. As the poet George Santayana once said, “Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it.” Well spoken…but there are times when we must repeat the past in order to remember it. Think about it: Renaissance faires, Civil War re-enactments, Star Trek conventions, roller derbies…and there’s a lot of good stuff too: The Asylum Street Spankers for instance. The Spankers are so old timey they don’t even use microphones. They’re so old timey they don’t even plug in their instruments. They’re so old timey one of them probably has typhoid, but rest assured they all have balls – at least metaphorically, because that’s what it takes to bring it without the juice. Saturday night they’ve invited back a group of former member like Guy Forsyth and Mysterious John to help celebrate the release of their new DVD. Matt the Electrician opens. Bring some cash and a sense of irony.