Month: March 2019

Austin Ice Cream Festival

Luv Doc Writings, The Luv Doc Recommends

AUGUST 13, 2007

Somewhere back in the hairy-assed Stone Age one of our thirsty, unibrowed ancestors had the audacity to get his milk from an entirely different species. Who knows? Could have been a precocious 2 year old or simply some prehistoric Benny Hill, the point is that regardless of the motivation, it must have been a hard sell to the rest of the clan, not to mention the respective cow/goat/camel/yak/water buffalo. It takes a certain amount of chutzpah to grab the tits of a lactating mother of your own species, but it takes big brass ones to crawl up under the belly of a 1,000 pound hairy beast and start tugging on her mams. One would expect to see more hieroglyphics detailing the hilarious Neolithic bloopers that must have ensued, but apparently history is not written by people with hoof marks in their foreheads or dung in their hair. Suffice it to say that domestication of dairy animals must have been a long and winding road, albeit a necessary one on the journey to modern civilization. Hunting is a decent enough leisure activity (unless maybe you’re bird hunting with Deadeye Dick), but chasing around critters for your daily sustenance can be a frustrating and demoralizing experience, especially if you’re a Buddhist. The Plains Indians (aka indigenous occupants of middle America) made a pretty decent go of it, but they racked up a lot of frequent follower miles in the process. Props to them however for figuring out how to live “off the tit,” as it were for hundreds of years. Sure, you can criticize them for not inventing gunpowder, the wheel, or movable type, but if you’ve ever sidled up beside a full-grown American bison, you’ll never disparage them for not having whipped up a respectable smoked Havarti. Unlike their light-loafered European counterparts, the American buffalo’s ass-kicking switch is always engaged, so milking one is pretty much out of the question, not to mention adult American buffalo bull can weigh more than 2,000 pounds, which can either be seen as a lot of fresh meat or a good reason not to fondle the cows’ teats. Someone might have tried at some point, but the size of his balls surely hindered his escape from the charging bull. Lesson learned. Meanwhile, on the other side of the pond, our European ancestors were growing fat and happy enjoying the advantages of dairy animal domestication: Fresh churned butter, curds and whey, quiches, cheeses, cow tipping. Sitting on a bucket and yanking teats may be hard work, but it’s not like chasing around a thundering herd of bison all day. Eventually, if you make enough cheese, you can turn your attentions to other pursuits like arts, sciences, and oppressing indigenous peoples. The Europeans excelled at all three, so it was only a matter of time before they invented ice cream. Used to be only folks in chillier climes could enjoy this delicacy, but since the advent of mechanical refrigeration, it’s been a special favorite of people in hot places like Texas. Ironically, ice cream doesn’t cool much down except your throat and generally just makes you fatter and correspondingly hotter than you would be had you not eaten it in the first place. Ah, but it sure feels good going down. This Saturday at Waterloo Park, you can cool down, fatten up, and celebrate the domestication of dairy animals at the first ever Austin Ice Cream Festival. Sample ice creams from a variety of local vendors, listen to live music by Nakia & His Southern Cousins, Boxcar Preachers, and Idgy Vaughn, and help raise money for local charities. The festival starts at 10am and ends at 7pm. By that time you should be wanting to get off the tit anyway.

2007 National Poetry Slam Individual Finals

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AUGUST 6, 2007

So how did slam poetry begin and where do we have to travel back in time to kill the evil bastard who started it? Questions like these invariably pop into your head when watching slam poetry. Sooner or later you’ll find yourself the victim of some unconscionably self-absorbed free verse soliloquy being performed forte voce by some wildly gesticulating, overly emotional word nerd, and your mind will wander to the hypothetical. Couldn’t all that mental detritus have been attractively assembled on a crisp piece of stationary? Or maybe a creepy looking website with flashing candy-colored fonts, sparkly unicorns, fluffy kittens, and a MIDI file of Ludwig van’s “Ode to Joy” playing in the background? Shouldn’t there be some message inherent in the actual text, some universal truth that needs no further embellishment, or is 90% of all poetic communication nonverbal? Why slam poetry anyway? Isn’t poetry enough? Can one just be a poet who reads his or her work in an overly animated fashion? Admittedly, “slam poetry” does sound cooler than simple, unadorned “poetry.” Maybe slam poets simply refuse to own up to the inherent dorkiness of poetry. There’s no shame in your game (poetry?) if you want to read what you’ve written (versed or un) to an audience, but it’s dorky. Dorky like playing the tuba, scrapbooking, or putting money down on a condo in Second Life. Own it. Just because you bust a sag, furrow your brow, flail around and read with the Tourette’s-like rhythm of William Shatner on PCP doesn’t make you any cooler than say, Robert Frost reading “Birches” in his deadpan New England drone. Adding “slam” to the word “poetry” is the type of spin-marketing mentality that gives us phrases like “extreme sports,” “green living,” and “power yoga.” which are basically flashy antecedents for simple-minded chumps – sort of like when a cop comes in to do an anti-drug rap performance for middle school students: Only the knuckle-draggers and nose-pickers get on board. Everybody else just wonders why the cop thinks they’re stupid. So it’s hard to decide which is dorkier: The Scrapbooker or the Extreme Scrapbooker, but the point is, who cares? If you want to play tuba, play tuba. You don’t need to play extreme tuba or power tuba or slam tuba. If you wanted to be cool you would have learned guitar, and all of the really great guitarists are dorks anyway. In fact, anyone who does anything even remotely interesting is probably a dork of some kind – someone who has committed to a pursuit without regard for what other people think. That kind of courage and focus is something to be celebrated. It doesn’t need to be spun. So, should you go see the 2007 National Poetry Slam Individual Finals this Friday at the Paramount? Hells fucking yes. It’s the National Finals, and these are some of the best poets in the country. You can assume they’ve perfected their craft both on paper and in performance. After all, in the words of the Bard (that’s old-timey talk for “slam poet”), “A rose by any other name would smell as sweet.”

Flaming Lips Hoot Night

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JULY 30, 2007

If you don’t own a Hummer, get one. You deserve it. Plus, it’s really one of the few joys left that poor people still have … other than maybe crystal meth and evangelical Protestantism. All these bourgeoisie tree huggers whizzing around in their godnearlydamned, whisper quiet, 50-mile-per-gallon hybrids are slowing down the apocalypse, which everyone knows is a necessary precedent to the rapture. Once again poor people are getting screwed. They’re the ones who would benefit most from the rapture. Rich people, of course, would be left behind (Matt 19:24 – read it and weep, Robert Rodriguez) to dodge the fire and brimstone … ideally in their tricked-out Hummers, and the middle class would be somewhere in purgatory, which is probably a lot like tooling around in a Prius. Question hybrid drivers: Do you really need a practice lap for eternity? Probably not, which is why you should get the Hummer, either way you go you’ll be bringing down the wrath of something, be it Mother Nature or Our Father. With the big H, you’ll be on the cutting edge of capricious conspicuous consumption, especially if you throw on some spinny rims and a personalized plate that says, “Hum Me,” which either means you like to have your cake and have it eaten too or you simply didn’t have room for the last “R,” which in this case might stand for “Resurrection” – something you don’t need to worry about anyway since you’re getting personalized plates. If you’re going Economy (i.e., the little “h”) you’ll be committing a mortal sin – that of oral sodomy, which, if you’re going to go mortal (or delve into sodomy for that matter), isn’t a bad way to go. Keep in mind however that unless you’re Baptist and can whip out the “Get Out of Hell Free” card of a last-minute confession, come the Apocalypse, you’re going to be earthbound with all the Hummer drivers trying to outrun the Four Horsemen. So, what if the scriptures are wrong (like, really, when has that ever happened?) and Al Gore is right? Don’t worry, Hummers are still the way to go. By sucking all that gas you’ll be forcing the issue of our dependence on fossil fuels (necessity breeds invention, right?) and by being sucked you’ll help control population growth so that fewer people are forced to face the purgatory of owning a hybrid. After all, hybrids are just another way for the man to keep us on the fossil fuel tit for another 20 years or so until the ice caps melt and Dick Cheney’s Jackson Hole ranch becomes beachfront property. Besides, everybody knows that solar powered air cars are the wave of the future and have been for nearly a century. So, how do you get a Hummer? If you want the big “H” you’re going to need to make a lot of money, and generally a lot of money means a lot of work. Yuck. For the little “h” your best bet is to start hanging out with musicians. Yes, it’s dirty work, but somehow the sick clash of ego and sycophancy creates a perfect environment for the little “h” – and not just herpes. Down on Red River this Friday (as ever) there should be a mess of musicians milling around for the Flaming Lips hoot at Stubb’s and the Wilco hoot at Emo’s. Both bands are rock icons so you can’t really go wrong on either end of the street unless you think a Hummer will get you a hummer. If that’s the case you’re better off in a Prius.

Music Under the Star

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JULY 24, 2007

There are so many things to bitch about in Austin, but in the ought seven, the weather isn’t one of them. It’s nearly freakin’ August and we still haven’t cracked the century mark, much less the high 90s. Sure, it’s been a little wet … OK, crazy wet … Girls Gone Wild wet, but if it weren’t for those pterodactyl-sized mosquitoes and the stifling humidity, it would almost be pleasant … and that’s about as much as you’re allowed to hope for at the end of July in Austin: almost pleasantness. So how did we score this sweet meteorological mojo? Did Stephen F. Austin beat Jesus H. Christ in a game of Texas hold ’em? “Read ’em and weep Chuy … royal flush. What? You’re out of chips? OK, how about this: You make it rain at least once a week in Austin for the rest of the summer. Oh yeah, and the temperature can’t go above 95. Either that or you have to take off your loincloth and run around your father’s throne three times.” Highly improbable to say the least, especially considering Jesus holds all the cards – at least in a theological sense, but this weather is highly improbable too. Besides, even if Stephen F. was a bit of a peace creep, he didn’t become “Father of Texas” by showing mercy to losers and deadbeats … well, actually he did, but that’s not why he became “Father of Texas.” He became FoT by sucking up to Mexico until it was no longer in his financial interest to do so. Yes, Austin’s path to glory was a twisted one at best, and highly circumstantial to say the least, but you have to give him props for thinking big. After all, Texas is a big state – a state that takes a certain amount of hubris to govern. No one knew that better than the late Lieutenant Governor Bob Bullock. Bullock was involved in Texas politics for nearly 40 years – just a few shy of Austin’s entire lifespan – and though it’s unlikely his name will be repeated in the same revered tone as Austin’s, it will be repeated nonetheless. In his final term of office, Bullock was instrumental in the establishment of the Texas State History Museum, an $80 million boondoggle/monument to Texas history that bears his name. It also bears a 7-foot-tall bronze statue of Bullock and a video of his career in politics. If only Stephen F. got that kind of play. Regardless, if you’re into Texas History or Harry Potter (the BBTSHM has an IMAX theatre) it’s a fascinating place. If you haven’t checked it out, you might want to drop by this Friday for the finale of Music Under the Star – that being the music series that takes place under the 35-foot bronze star that graces the museum’s entrance. From 6-9pm, you can get lit at the cash bar and groove to the popular Latin dance band Ghandaia. You can also wander around three floors of museum exhibits for free. That’s about as much as you can hope for from an $80 million museum.

Concert to Save Town Lake

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JULY 17, 2007

Really, the question is, who wouldn’t want to live in $500,000 condo in a 44-story high rise on the breathtaking shores of Shoal Creek? Imagine leaning over your balcony railing on the 42nd floor and squinting downward at that tiny fissure of green space below and knowing that, just a few miles upstream under a bridge in Pease Park, a homeless man just dropped trow and is squeezing out a three-coiler on the dry creekbed – a pungent pâté of digested pizza rinds and cinnamon sticks from the Mr. Gattis Dumpster. Don’t worry, there’s not enough line in your Pocket Fisherman to get your lure below the 20th floor anyway, much less hit top water, so you don’t have to worry about reeling in a big batch of E. coli. Besides, it’s not like you really want to fish, it’s the idea that you could fish if you wanted to. You like to be close to the water, even if that water is a fetid drainage ditch for Downtown developers. Sign here … and here … and here. After all, you didn’t just spend half a mil on a condo, you bought a lifestyle. You wanted to be able to roll out of bed at 10am, take a quick four minute elevator ride to the ground floor and hire a pedicab to pump you up to Starbuck’s for a Vende Latteccino and a copy of The New York Times. Maybe afterward you could strap on your heavy hands and take your (circle one) Shih Tzu/Pomeranian/Chihuahua/Pekingese for a brisk power walk around Town Lake … but wait … some asshole put a 26-story condo right in the middle of the hike and bike trail. Worse yet, the City Council signed off on the deal. Now, just like the rest of Austin, you’re getting the runaround. Enraged, you shake your fist at the cranes and construction workers and without a trace of irony yell, “Damn you, developers! Damn you!” What kind of livable city is it when you can only enjoy Town Lake from behind the plate glass of an expensive condo? Well sure, it’s livable all right. So is the riverwalk in San Antonio. C’mon, they turned their drainage ditch into a tourism gold mine. With some knee-jerk urban planning and lack of foresight, Austin can turn Town Lake into a similar cement moat – maybe even with flatboats full of fat Midwestern conventioneers. Dare we dream? Maybe. If you want to have a voice in whether Austin will go from River City to Moat Metropolis, show up down at Stubb’s (nestled on the beautiful shores of Waller Creek) for the Concert to Save Town Lake, a fundraiser for Austinites for the Responsible Development of the Town Lake Corridor, an organization with a tough job and even tougher name from which to draw an anagram. Local musicians Bob Schneider, Dale Watson, Stephen Bruton, Jimmy Lafave, and Kinky Friedman will join forces to rock block the potential riverwalk.

Roky Erickson’s 60th Birthday Party

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JULY 10, 2007

People are like puppies: Eventually they stop being young and cute and get old and cranky. At some point you just want to drive them out to a nice place in the country, open the door, and yell, “Look, a rabbit!” Of course, with old people you might have better luck saying something like, “Look, a Luby’s!” or “Hey, is that Wilford Brimley and Angela Lansbury making out behind that tree?” Still, they might fall for the rabbit thing, too, depending on the potency of their meds. If a trip to the country seems a little costly, you might try dropping them off at Whole Foods or Central Market, where old people seem to be able to occupy themselves for days at a time, clogging the aisles with nearly empty shopping carts while loitering around the sample tables. Apparently in the early stages of Alzheimer’s, each new schmear of herbed goat cheese on a cracker tastes deliciously different, even after repeated samplings. Or, it could be that Whole Foods and Central Market are gastronomical gauntlets to the afterlife. Perhaps plowing through a smorgasbord of sample-sized snob cuisine is a one-way ticket to Heaven, or maybe it just tastes like it. Here’s the thing: Old people aren’t going anywhere soon. Yes, they make jokes about not buying green bananas or spending money on their teeth, but with advances in nutrition and medical science, it’s very likely that most old people will be around until you’re old, too. With enough Viagra and Retin A, 80 might be the new 40. There are surely benefits to that, but if you’re planning on surfing DIY porn sites in the future, you’re going to want to invest in some therapy. So, tossing aside “final solution” fantasies like Logan’s Run and Soylent Green, what are we going to do with all those extra old people? Put them back to work? Maybe, but how many Wal-Mart greeters can the world take? Imagine a spindly wall of glad-handing, blue-vested cotton tops blocking your way to the $1.99 Faded Glory sleeveless T-shirts? Time to do a little Billy Jack-style euthanasia. No, the true value of the aged is their wisdom and experience. Old people know a lot and have had a lot of practice. These traits, which are particularly annoying in young people, are what make old people tolerable, even likable. It’s unlikely that an old person is going to take your job or shag your significant other – they’re too tired – and even if they do, you have to admit they have serious, Clint Eastwood caliber game. The old can, however, be highly entertaining and informative, often at the same time, sometimes on purpose. If you need an example of this phenomenon, buy some tickets to Roky Erickson’s 60th Birthday Party at the Paramount Theatre this Friday. Erickson is crazy with wisdom and experience. The leader of the Sixties psych-rock band 13th Floor Elevators, Erickson took the whole ride: fame, drugs, insanity, and redemption. Recently, he’s been rocking harder than ever. Who knows? Maybe 60 is the new 20. Regardless, $36 gets to admission and a copy of the soundtrack to You’re Gonna Miss Me, the 2005 film documenting Erickson’s rise and fall.

Freestyle Jump Contest for Barton Springs

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JULY 2, 2007

Barton Springs is without a doubt one of Austin’s most beloved and memorable landmarks; Beloved because for centuries it has been the coolest place in Austin (in recent years just barely edging out places like Emo’s and Kenichi); and memorable for anyone who has ever been in the public, open-air showers at Barton Springs and seen the shriveled twigs and berries of some dangerously over-tanned, assless nonagenarian. Before you get too cocky about your own package you may want to take a flying leap into the Springs yourself and see if you don’t come up screaming like a schoolgirl and rocking an equivalent amount of Johnson. Barton Springs doesn’t just cause shrinkage, it causes your boys to flee deep into some warm cranny of your ribcage where they’ll secretly devise an exit strategy that involves Bikram Yoga and a blowtorch. Similarly, if you’re one of those women who have been blessed with large, sensuous nipples, you would do well to lash them down with some Kevlar patches and 100 mph tape before entering BS for the first time. Otherwise, you might end up with bullet holes in your bikini. Barton Springs is only cool on the outside – say on a towel on the hillside in the shade. The pool itself however, is MF’n cold. It’s the kind of water where the people who’ve already made the plunge say (through chattering teeth and blue lips), “It’s fine once you get used to it,” which is the same thing the people in hell would say were you to cautiously peer in and ask if it’s as hot as it looks down there. Misery loves company. Never trust the miserable. People who stay in the water at Barton Springs for more than a few minutes are either A) dead, B) training for a swim across the British Channel, or C) wearing the wrong swimwear and too embarrassed to get out. Remember the bullet holes? You might also want to think twice about that bright yellow Speedo slingshot that fits like a sausage casing at the tanning salon. Something dark and baggy should do just fine. Whatever you wear, you will want to enter the water quickly – almost as fast as the speed at which you exit it. That slow, inch-at-a-time acclimation process doesn’t really get it at Barton Springs unless you’re willing to spend an equal amount of time belting out Mozart’s Popoli di Tessaglia. The best way to get into Barton Springs is off the diving board – ideally with the kind of high, graceful acrobatic maneuver you would like to precede a sudden heart attack. If you want some good examples of how to do that, set your alarm clock early for this Saturday when Independence Brewing Co. hosts the second annual Freestyle Jump Contest for Barton Springs. Jumpers from Austin and beyond will compete for the right to have a photograph of their best jump featured on the label of Independence’s Freestyle Wheat Beer. Registration is $25 and runs from 7-8:15am. The contest begins at 8:30am. Jumps will be judged on “showmanship and freestyle-inspired creativity.” If you plan on competing, try not to shriek until you’re under the water, and don’t worry about keeping your swimsuit clean. Nothing’s coming out of that pucker.

Karaoke Apocalypse

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JUNE 26, 2007

Singers get all the strange. It’s the truth. Look it up. Wikipedia that shit. Yes, there are some exceptions: Eddie van Halen; Tommy Lee; Peter Criss; pretty much any nonsinging member of Blues Traveler, Metallica, or Motörhead, but for the most part, if you rock the mic, chances are you’ll be rocking someone’s world after the show. As a matter of fact, it’s a safe bet that even John Popper, James Hetfield, and Lemmy Kilmister score a disproportionate amount of wool, which is no small miracle considering Popper looks like he sells used cars on Hee Haw, Hetfield’s face has apparently been worked over with a meat tenderizer mallet, and Lemmy is the spawn of some unholy clusterfuck involving the Crypt Keeper, Al Swearengen from Deadwood, the Wicked Witch of the West, and Blaine Cartwright from Nashville Pussy – and that’s being generous. Lemmy by his own account has shagged more than 2000 women, so it’s very likely he doesn’t just look diseased, he actually is. But even if he’s only bagged half that number looking the way he does, it’s a remarkable feat – equivalent to say, Stephen Hawking bringing home Olympic gold in the high jump. The singer mojo isn’t just a man thing either. Think of all the chick singers who have become famous simply because of their T&A – that’s right, talent and ability. Janis Joplin? Chrissie Hynde? Joan Jett? Björk? Courtney Love? OK, so maybe Courtney’s T&A is her T&A, but you have to admit she wouldn’t be seeing nearly as much timber if it weren’t for her Hole performance. Just imagine what Courtney’s love life would be like if she were working the mic at the Jack in the Box drive through. Very likely it would involve hamburger grease and a mop handle. Of course, sex appeal isn’t the exclusive property of singers, they just have a big piece the market. You can certainly work your financial-analyst mack or your systems-integration-engineer seduction techniques (you might also want to familiarize yourself with how to inflate a blow-up doll), but if you really want a technique that makes the underwear hit the floor, singing – even bad singing – is a better bet than most. If you’re not convinced, head down to the Hole in the Wall this Friday for Karaoke Apocalypse. Yes, it’s karaoke, which is pretty much the demolition derby of singing, but the difference with Karaoke Apocalypse is that you get to sing with a live band. In this case, the Dead Motley Sex Maidens, a crack crew of veteran Austin musicians with an extensive repertoire of pre-Nineties hard rock, punk, metal, and new wave and an obviously masochistic bent. Think about it: All the glamour and glory of rock stardom without the long rehearsals, heavy lifting, ego-tripping, and band-van beer farts. Time to drag out those tiger striped spandex leggings, visit the cucumber stand at the farmers market, and practice your Gene Simmons devil horns tongue flick. It’s time to rock. Hard.

FanFare Friday

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JUNE 18, 2007

Skip work Friday. You deserve it. Really. And besides, what if a giant asteroid slams into the Earth during rush hour on Friday and obliterates everything? On the plus side, the war on terror would effectively be won, but on the minus side you just pissed away the last few hours of your existence in a soul-sucking “team strategy” meeting fantasizing about calling 911 and telling the operator you think you may be dead because time is moving really, really, really slowly. Here’s a tip: Next time you’re in an office meeting suggest to everyone that they should tape it and put it up on YouTube. Follow that statement up by holding your hand in the air like you’re about to get a round of high fives. Don’t worry; recognition of true genius is often preceded by long periods of awkward silence. Don’t think it through too much. The inevitable outcome of too much thought is inaction – usually well-justified inaction. For instance, if you put the team strategy meeting up on YouTube you’ll be Karmically fucking yourself because you will inadvertently be putting undue stress on the suicide-hotline people. Their jobs are tough enough as it is, right? Similarly, you don’t want to overthink ditching work. Sure, there is probably some byzantine logarithmic formula by which the wheels of commerce will grind to a halt because of your absence, but the law of averages dictates that the real consequence of your ditch will be that someone gets an extra stale doughnut – and you will have made their day. Now there’s an inspirational poster to hang in the conference room: “Capricious Irresponsibility: Pass it on.” Own that shit. You only have what? 40? 60? 80 good years left? Maybe a buck fifty if scientists get off their asses and figure out how to rig you up a new chassis out of stem cells. Point is, carpe the friggin’ diem. See what it’s like to be one of the nonworking stiffs they’re building all those Downtown high-rise condos for. Roll out of bed late, put on some crocs, jammies, and a wife beater; and head on over to Threadgill’s for KGSR’s FanFare Friday. Starting at the uncharitably early hour of 8am, KGSR will be hosting a full day of high caliber musical entertainment that will benefit Family Eldercare’s annual Summer Fan Drive. The talent train is long and goes something like this: Bobby Whitlock & CoCo Carmel, Seth Walker, Billy Harvey, Guy Forsyth, Ruthie Foster, South Austin Jug Band, Dale Watson, Ray Wylie Hubbard, a special surprise guest, Charlie Sexton, and Elana James & Hot Club of Cowtown. Plus, each $12 donation buys a new fan for a low-income elderly or disabled person and (as if doing good isn’t good enough) enters you in a drawing for a $6,000 high efficiency air and heat system. Seeing that you’ve skipped work, if you win you may want to throw that into the Eldercare kitty too, just to yin your yang.

Keep Austin Weird Festival

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JUNE 12, 2007

Remember how jacked you were when you could finally buy authentic Seattle grungewear in the Dillards casuals section? You ran over to the mall and picked up a “distressed” flannel vest with t-shirt sleeves sewn into it so it looked like you were layering to fend off the dank, cold, cloudy Austin weather. Good choice. Perfect for watching the salmon fight their way up the icy Colorado to spawn. Now you probably feel just a little bit guilty that you might have been part of the reason St. Kurt chose to martyr himself with a scattergun. Then again, maybe the whole grunge thing missed you entirely. You might have been into old-school punk like the Sex Pistols, the Ramones, and the Misfits – bands whose t-shirts can most easily be found at Hot Topic, the best place to pick up band merch for bands who never had band merch. You have to give them credit, at least Hot Topic figured out how to identify and merchandise a punk “look.” Unlike the unbranded punks of yesteryear, Hot Topic execs aren’t hamstrung by some half-cocked, anti-consumerist, nihilist ideology. They understand that when it comes to rebellion and belligerent individualism, most people like a well-defined road map – ideally one that leads to prime retail space at the local shopping mall. Hot Topic isn’t sweating whether or not they’re perceived as authentic. With $13.6 million in net profits last year, they don’t have to prove their authenticity to anyone (least of all their shareholders). Hot Topic has clearly tapped that punk ass. Not surprisingly, the benefits of appropriation marketing haven’t been lost on the Austin business community. Awhile back local businesses caught on to the fact that Austinites were loosely opposed to the corporate homogenization that turns unique communities into generic, big-box developments. Someone (quite ingeniously) coughed up the phrase “Keep Austin Weird” as an opposition rallying cry. Yes, Austin is weird, but it’s more of a case of contrast. Weirder that what? Plano? Regardless of how you feel about the phrase, “Keep Austin Weird” has already moved a lot of beefy tees, and if businesses decide to use a catchy slogan to vitalize the local economy and celebrate Austin’s unique character, where’s the harm in that? Why not get on the bandwagon this weekend at Republic Square Park, when AT&T and HEB along with a variety of local businesses bring you the Keep Austin Weird Festival, a 5K fun run, costume contest, and concert that benefits the RunTex Foundation. Here’s your chance to do the grunt work of weirdness: Run around dressed up like a weirdo, eat, drink, and watch a great lineup of bands: The Steps, Patricia Vonne, South Austin Jug Band, Alejandro Escovedo, Soulhat, and Bob Schneider.