Texas Burlesque Festival

May 12, 2009

No matter how much you pay some people, they still want to take their clothes off. Yes, nudity can be really sexy, but it can also be profoundly disturbing. You can’t smear Vaseline on the lens of reality … well, actually you can smear it on your eyeball, but you’re much better off using K-Y Jelly, or better yet, just look the other way. Even partial nudity can make it hard to hold down your lunch. If you’ve ever spent more than a few minutes in the public showers at Barton Springs, you probably know that Sandy’s frozen custard doesn’t look the same coming out as it does going in. Real bodies are plagued with a mind-boggling variety of liver spots, scars, stretch marks, moles, pimples, cysts, sores, rashes, warts, and calluses; they’re hairy … sometimes furry, saggy, wrinkly, floppy, chubby, bulgy, sweaty, smelly, dirty; they’re disproportionate, misshapen, gnarled, palsied, augmented, amputated, and mutated. Still, there are plenty of people who believe that all God’s bodies are beautiful. Maybe. Any good televangelist would tell you, “God don’t make no junk,” which means that “all that junk inside your trunk” must be the work of the devil … or maybe the Cheesecake Factory. Regardless, the notion that we are all perfect as God created us is as solid as any. Think about it: God has been around presumably for millions and millions of years. It’s understandable that after a while he would want a little variety. In fact, you would expect God to have a serious freak fetish. That’s good news if you have one eye, a third nipple, a sixth toe, a peg leg, and you weigh 450lbs; bad news if you’re Brad Pitt. Mere mortals, on the other hand, aren’t nearly as jaded. For instance, most would happily do Brad Pitt – even with a third nipple, but if Brad Pitt was so big that his shirts were made from sewn together bedsheets, chances are even Angelina wouldn’t boink him, and she’s bumped uglies with Billy Bob “Would you say that to Tom Petty?” Thornton, which pretty much makes her the Mother Teresa of celebrity slummers. Seeing Billy Bob Thornton naked takes a saintly amount of compassion, which is probably why Halle Berry made him go doggy-style in Monster’s Ball: out of sight, out of mind. Sadly, people watching the movie didn’t have that option. They had to keep a laser-accurate, Zen-like focus on Halle Berry to keep from seeing Billy Bob’s old-man ass (aka “OMA,” as in “OMA GAWD!”). Moviegoers with wandering eyes ended up projectile vomiting their Junior Mints into the neck-brace seats. Moral: Never show up late to a Billy Bob Thornton movie. So … not all flesh is suitable for adult audiences, but with careful planning and preparation, nudity can be more than tolerable; it can actually be entertaining. If you’d like to see for yourself, check out this weekend’s Texas Burlesque Festival at Emo’s. Burlesquers from all over Texas and across the nation will converge and compete in categories such as Best Soloist, Best Ensemble, Most Original, Best Costume, Best Gender Bender, and Best Neo-Vaudeville and Miscellany. These aren’t tired old titty dancers just dialing it in for meth money. They’re stripping enthusiasts who do it for the love and the artistry, which makes it cool. Cool enough for Emo’s. Plus, it’s only $15, and there’s no drink minimum. Just don’t expect any lap dances.

A Benefit for Max Moses

The Luv Doc Recommends

May 5, 2009

Getting laid on Mother’s Day is, to say the very least, problematic – unless, of course, you’re actually a mother. Then you can get it pretty much any way you want it as long as you’re not too tired, cranky, or bitter from the memory of having to force an extra-large coconut out of your vajayjay. Cheer up, Mom, at least you know you’ve more than earned your plaster of Paris ashtray with the tiny hand print, the construction-paper flower with Junior’s picture in it, your husband’s thoughtful gift of spiced-pear bath salts from Bed Bath & Beyond. Just think, if the Ghost of Mother’s Day Future had the mercy to lead you down this dark road years ago, you might have ripped out your ovaries with your bare hands … or at least remembered to take your birth control pills. Still, no use crying over spilled placenta, eh? There’s a statute of limitations on postpartum depression. Certainly you should perk up once your bundle of joy starts trying to make his or her own – unless she’s 12 and dating a biker who looks like David Allan Coe. If your kids are younger than that, you’re all set to get freaky. Just wedge a chair under the bedroom doorknob, and hope your ankle-biters don’t fall down an abandoned well or find Daddy’s hair-triggered Glock in the roughly 15 minutes it’s going to take him to drive you to Bliss City. If you’re a dad looking to score on Mother’s Day, tread lightly. Remember your paternal credit rating is based almost entirely on the one good sperm you managed to donate when the time was right, which is why it doesn’t hurt to score a really good dinner reservation. If you don’t have kids, your odds are slightly better but still a far cry from spectacular. Just because you haven’t yet spawned doesn’t mean you don’t have a mother, and she’s probably going to want to know what you’re up to on this special day, very likely at a highly inopportune moment. Try to remember to wipe off the Astroglide before you answer the cell phone, and, more importantly, remember that you’re not going to be able to wrap up the call in time to save the mood, so try to work out some hand signals to let your lover know that he or she might as well slap on a bathrobe and go whip up some French toast. If you actually are one of those happy few who manage to reach climax on Mother’s Day, pause for a moment and give your creator (hairy thunderer or cosmic muffin) props for providing such a wonderful motherhood incentive program. You should give your mom props, too. Even if you forgot to send her a card or a handprint ashtray, it will still probably make her day. Lastly, if you can’t make your own mother’s day, how about making someone else’s? Sunday night Antone’s is hosting a benefit for Max Moses, a 9-year-old who contracted Leukemia back in January. For $15, you can listen to live music by the Calm Blue Sea, Exit, Johnny Goudie, Shane Bartell, John Pointer, Topaz, Uncle Bruno, the Jolly Garogers, and Fort Worth’s Chatterton. You can also bid in the silent auction for things such as Austin City Limits Music Fest passes, vintage clothes, massages, and haircuts. Your mom probably wanted you to get a haircut anyway, right?

Next Up: U18 Showcase

The Luv Doc Recommends

April 27, 2009

There’s a good chance that if you do it enough times and with an opposite gender, you’re going to have a baby. Maybe even several. If you want to up the chances, try one of the following: Drink a few extra Jell-O shots with the rugby team. Buy condoms from a vending machine in the bathroom of a last-chance gas station out in West Texas. Promise to “pull” at the last second. Pray desperately that you don’t have to give birth to the spawn of that loser you picked up at Tangerine’s last night. If none of that works, you might try joining the Catholic Church, moving into a mobile home, or spending your teen years in rural Oklahoma. There’s no hard and fast rule for getting pregnant. Sometimes you can go soft and slow. Sometimes you can get knocked up from behind. You can also get preggers by “making the beast with two backs,” “squashing the deckchair,” “spooning,” or “playing the cello.” Equally effective are the Reverse Asian Cowgirl, the Italian Chandelier, the Thigh Master, the Octopus, and the Piledriver. If all that seems like too much work, you can always get a box of cheap wine and a turkey baster. Surprisingly, the result of all this sordid behavior is often referred to as a “miracle” – at least until the paternity test comes back – and it is, really. Who could believe that doing the work of the devil could produce a little angel? And who could imagine the hell it would put you through? What else could pee in your eye and get away with it? What else could projectile vomit into your breakfast cereal, scream at you all night, and make you wipe its ass several thousand times? Is that not proof of a miracle? Sure, your Sunday football buddies might giggle when they fart or burp obnoxiously, but they don’t sit there bawling in a putrid funk after they drop a load waiting for you to take care of the problem. As the extended stay motel incident in Waco proves, even really smelly farts can seem sufficient justification for stabbing someone in the chest. Imagine if the victim had been screaming petulantly in a pool of diarrhea? Mopping up an acrid blown out diaper at 4 in the morning is just about as close to unconditional love as you can get – well, unless you’re Jesus or something. This is not to say that in those dark hours you might not fantasize about crucifixion, but you’d never actually do it. Why? 1) You’re not God, and 2) if you can’t even bring yourself to shake a baby, there’s no way you’re going to love it enough to nail it to a cross, even by proxy. So yes, children are bona fide miracles, each and every one. Sadly though, the older they get, the less miraculous they seem – especially when they’re dirty, grizzled, and holding up a cardboard sign at a freeway intersection. With any luck however, the fruit of your loins will at least do something interesting and entertaining – perhaps it will make you beam with pride and say something sentimental like, “Not bad for a little fuck stain!” Ah, the joys of parenthood. This weekend a whole bushel of entertaining loin fruit will be playing at the Next Up U18 Austin Music Showcase at Threadgill’s World Headquarters. Next Up is a showcase for up-and-coming bands and artists in Austin who are younger than 20 years old, though most are squarely in their teens. This weekend’s show benefits the Palmer Drug Abuse Program, an support group for teenagers struggling with chemical dependency. For a mere $5, you can see the El Guapos, Chief Rival, AfterMath, the Aviators, Edison Chair, and the Diving Captain. You might even help save a few miracles.

12th Annual Buda Wiener Dog Races

The Luv Doc Recommends

April 21, 2009

Wiener dogs are one of those curious evolutionary oddities that contradict the notion of a loving and benevolent God. Upon further investigation, however, it turns out God didn’t have much to do with wiener dogs – at least not in a direct sense. No, wiener dogs, like sauerkraut, lederhosen, and techno, are the ingenious product of the German mind. Interestingly, they all still make a fairly strong argument against the existence of God – or maybe for the existence of a cruel one. That seems to be one of Germany’s special talents. You might think that the Germans bred the wiener dog to just look fucking ridiculous – remember the lederhosen? But wiener dogs were actually bred for a purpose: badger hunting. Yes, apparently, several hundred years ago, Deutschland had enough of a badger problem (need?) to actually necessitate a special breed of dog that could easily crawl into a hole and drag out a badger. So, either badgers were a scourge or a delectable entrée. Either scenario is frightening. Maybe the badgers back in the 1700s were badass badgers with a taste for human flesh. Perhaps bloodthirsty badgers roamed the German countryside slaughtering chubby-cheeked little Hansels and Gretels with slow 40-yard-dash times. Actually, just the prospect of being eaten by a badger is sufficient motivation to breed a master race of badger-killing wiener dogs, even if the danger of said badgers is completely fabricated. The other equally horrifying possibility is that Germans had a taste for badger meat, which would make them no better than the French, who, come to think of it, are responsible for their own genetic aberration: the poodle. Makes you suspect that somehow Europeans took a few wrong forks in the road in the area of animal husbandry. If badgerschnitzel was truly so delicious, why not breed a race of slow, fat, veal badgers instead of fucking around experimenting with tenacious, stubby-legged, sausage-shaped dogs? Maybe it was a flavor thing. Whatever, animal breeding in Europe isn’t easily explained. The cart doesn’t always follow the horse. One thing is for certain: A dachshund fits down a badger hole like nothing else – save perhaps an actual badger. Crunk genius, yes, but it certainly makes you wonder if in some secret laboratory in the sewers of Paris, gay Frenchmen are breeding legless gerbils with sleek, oily fur. And Bush wanted a moratorium on stem cell research! Unlike Republicans, though, wiener dogs are a friendly and lovable breed, though maybe a bit yappy. They also think their shit don’t stink, but who could blame them? It’s so far away when it happens. Most importantly, because they’re so goofy looking, they’re fun to watch in nearly any activity, which is why wiener dog racing was bound to happen sooner or later – and really, it’s taken more than 300 years to reach this entertaining turn of evolution, so there’s no use being snotty about it. Watching little stubby-legged dogs racing is high-larry-us – at least for the first few races. This Saturday at Buda City Park, the Buda Lions Club will be hosting the 12th annual Buda Country Fair and Wiener Dog Races. This year’s theme is Wienerdog Millionaire. See? The fun has started already. The tension mounts. Who will win? Scooter? Quasar? Dixie? Scamp? Elvis? Cowboy? Dapper Dan? Certainly not Darwin. Don’t forget: There’s also a pet parade, the BudaBee spelling contest, a bake-off, and a cook-off. Don’t hold your breath on the badgerschnitzel, however.

ArtErotica 2009

The Luv Doc Recommends

April 14, 2009

Question is: Who isn’t throwing a festival this weekend? You got your winos (Texas Hill Country Wine & Food Festival), your stoners (Austin Reggae Festival), your hillbillies (Old Settler’s Music Festival), and your rockabillies (Lonestar Rod & Kustom Round Up). Reckless Kelly is even throwing a celebrity softball game and concert out at the Dell Diamond. There are so many white people in town this weekend it’s a wonder Barton Creek Mall isn’t closing down. Of course, any developer with the chutzpah to build a huge shopping mall right over the Edwards Aquifer Recharge Zone isn’t going to close up shop just because it gets overrun with Caucasians. Besides, Barton Creek Mall has been tea-bagging the aquifer now for nearly 30 years, and no one’s dead yet … right? Maybe our descendants will be angling for gigantic two-headed mutant snail darters, but right now we’re sitting pretty. We’ve only had to close down Barton Springs a few times, and really, the mall is nothing compared to the big chemical crap Barton Creek Country Club has been taking upstream. If you want verdant, lush fairways on top of craggy limestone, you have to be macho enough to stir the environmental turd, so to speak, and Barton Creek’s investors have been involved in environmental hellscaping for decades. Check out what Freeport-McMoRan (BCCC’s original developer) has done with riverfront property in West Papua New Guinea, and you’ll begin to understand that Austin is lucky they’re only polluting our swimming holes. If the Barton Springs Watershed had the misfortune of being lined with copper, the BCCC would be a huge strip mine. Freeport goes after copper like a jonesing meth-head, and a few endangered salamanders are light collateral damage compared to the wholesale environmental devastation it would have surely wrought if the value of its property was below the ground rather than above it. Fortunately for us, we scored four championship golf courses and a full-service spa and fitness center instead of 30 miles of mine tailings, contaminated groundwater, and a laundry list of human rights abuses. Whether you’re into it or not, Austin is in dire need of more golf courses and spas. Why? We’re freakin’ lousy with rich people. We have way more than our share. The good news is that the proliferation of rich people can be contained by strategically placed developments – ideally with spas and golf courses. These developments effectively “ghettoize” the rich people and keep them from overrunning the cool parts of Austin. Genius really. Hill Country Galleria? Hells yeah! Anything to keep them from clogging up the queue at Maria’s Taco Xpress or Top Notch or Sandy’s. Plus, if we need them for their money, we can always call them down to Coolsville to drop coin on our charitable causes. As they say in the bene business, “Black tie and priced high!” That way the rich folk get a taste of the local culture but without the grit that comes with it. If you happen to actually be one of those rich people, you should definitely check out the Octopus Club’s ArtErotica event at the Copper Tank this Saturday. ArtErotica is a sex-themed art show consisting of donated works by local Austin artists. It’s also a fundraiser for AIDS Services of Austin (emphasis on “fun”), so you can buy something really expensive and really nasty and feel really good about it – as opposed to say, a copper mine in New Guinea.

Lyndon Lambert Memorial Easter Pet Parade Costume Contest

The Luv Doc Recommends

April 7, 2009

When you think about it, what better way to celebrate Easter than a parade? After all, Easter itself started out with a rather colorful (especially if you’re into crimson) parade up the Via Dolorosa. There weren’t any huge inflatable cartoon characters, floats made of roses, or insightful commentary by Kathie Lee Gifford, but credit the Romans for at least having a flair for spectacle. It would have been easy enough to just let the Pharisees take Jesus out back and stone him to death, but Pontius Pilate needed to set an example lest some other blissed out upstart from the provinces ride into town on an ass and start flapping his jaws about being the son of God. Regardless of all the arm-twisting by the townies, Pilate was smart enough to know that Caesar didn’t keep gold rims on his chariot by letting his tax base erode, so he gave Jesus the thumbs down. Were it not for the money, he might have let Jesus off with just a scourging. That would have spoiled the whole resurrection and in turn undermined the foundation of Christian faith. It’s unlikely God would have resurrected Jesus for a simple scourging – well, maybe if they had whipped him to death like Clint Eastwood in High Plains Drifter – but then Jesus would have had to come back from the dead in a vengeful, whiskey-drinking, ass-kicking, date-raping mood. He would have appointed the town midget as sheriff and insisted that the Pharisees paint Jerusalem red. Not being Jewish himself however, Pontius didn’t have full buy-in with the Pharisees. Like any smart politician, he chose a solution that buttered his bread, and Christianity was saved. Plus, being Easter and all, the weather was probably perfect for outdoor activities. Thus, Jesus began his slow, torturous slog toward Golgotha. Slow indeed. No doubt he lacked motivation. It’s hard to keep a spring in your step when you know the journey ends with having your feet nailed to a plank. Jesus took his time. He talked with his mother. He had his face wiped by Veronica. He comforted the ladies. He stumbled a few times. All in all, he dragged out the spectacle to a memorable extreme – Godlike even. Turned out to be a win-win situation for Romans and Jews and eventually Christians, too. Apparently, parades are a good way to promote your cause. The Animal Trustees of Austin certainly feel that way. This Saturday, along with Jo’s on South Congress and Hotel San José, they’re hosting the Lyndon Lambert Memorial Easter Pet Parade Costume Contest. To cut to the chase: It’s a parade of pets in costumes. Who couldn’t get behind that? The parade begins at noon, starts at Annie and South Congress and ends at Jo’s. Prizes will be awarded for best-dressed pets. If you dress your Shih Tzu in a blood-splattered loincloth and place a crown of thorns on his head and an old rugged cross on his back, you might capture the spirit of Easter, but don’t count on winning any prizes. You dog will probably hate you too, but that was probably going to happen anyway.

Fourth Annual Urban Music Festival

The Luv Doc Recommends

March 31, 2009

When you’re out and about this weekend, you may notice a preponderance of black people. No, Austin is not the new Atlanta. We’re not Houston or Memphis or Detroit or even New Orleans, even though we are working pretty hard on building our own Bourbon Street. Austin may be a cultural Mecca, but it certainly isn’t for black people … at least not for 360 days of the year when the Texas Relays aren’t happening. This weekend they are, however, so if you should mount the stair to Momo’s this Friday expecting to see a twangy alt.country act and instead feel your chest crushed by the heavy bass thud of a house mix, just roll with it. It’s only temporary. Austin will revert back to Hooterville hippie chic next week. Don’t expect the Texas Relays fans to hang around. They don’t share the naiveté of, for instance, South by Southwest attendees. They’re not snowed in to relocating to Austin by the nice weather, friendly people, and great entertainment. They know the nice weather won’t last, that the clubs aren’t always full of famous DJs, and the friendly people get cranky when the asphalt starts to melt. They don’t go back home thinking they’d like to move here. They go home thinking, “Nice place to visit.” Austin is to Texas Relay fans what Sturgis, S.D., is to bikers, and understandably. Austin isn’t exactly the standard bearer for black culture. Our two biggest blues legends are Stevie Ray Vaughan and Clifford Antone. Badasses to be sure but missing one crucial element. This is not to say that Austin is entirely bereft of black culture. We have Bavu Blakes, Mitchie’s Gallery, the Carver Museum & Cultural Center, Huston-Tillotson University, and more than our share of dreadlocks – both East and West of I-35 – but all that is a drop in the bucket compared to places like Atlanta, Houston, or Washington, D.C. For now, Austinites have one weekend a year to dip our big toes into the unfamiliar waters of black culture. Might as well get in and splash around a bit. The easiest way to do that this weekend is to head down to Auditorium Shores on Saturday for the fourth annual Urban Music Festival. This year’s fest has one of the best bills ever, featuring crossover acts Cameo, Boyz II Men, and members of the Sugar Hill Gang. OK, so maybe those names are a little bit “last millennium,” but back in the day, they were all huge. Don’t even try to act like you can’t throw down at least a couple of verses from “Rapper’s Delight.” If you’re looking for something a little fresher, BET on-air talent Toccara Jones from America’s Next Top Model will be on hand as well as LeToya Luckett, a founding member of Destiny’s Child. If you really want to get cutting edge, go early and catch local acts Musik Hertz, Spirit Groove, All U Need, Ha-Style, and Bavu Blakes, who will be working double time at the Urban Music Festival afterparty later that night at Antone’s along with Neckbone and Gary Clark Jr. You might want to pop by the house, shower up, and rethread before going to the afterparty. It will surely be grown and sexy.

Holy Cross Sucks!

The Luv Doc Recommends

March 24, 2009

Loud music and shitty beer: Over it. You probably also feel the same about lukewarm catered barbecue, nutrition bars, and sickly sweet energy drinks – at least until your plane goes down in the Andes. Then again, offered the choice, you might actually opt for frozen human flesh. Morality aside, it would surely be the healthiest way to go. If you’re thinking you could survive off Red Bull, think again. You might as well just have the other remaining passengers pee in your mouth. At least you’d stay warmer that way, and if you actually do make it out alive, you’ll have a fetish skill that might earn you a little income on the side. Act indignant if you want, but in these hard economic times, it’s good to have a fall-back plan. Hopefully you didn’t spend a lot of money at South by Southwest. You need to stay flush for the lean months ahead. Besides, you’re supposed to leave the heavy spending to the out-of-towners. SXSW rule of thumb: Always let the guy with the bleached highlights and the square-tipped shoes pay for dinner. He wants you to believe he rolls like that even if he lives in the backseat of his leased BMW. It’s OK if you dropped a 10 spot on a CD by some perky Canadian pop band, but if you blew a few large at the Levi’s Fader Fort on jeans that fit really great until the first wash, you’re fucking up SXSW’s economic impact estimates. Besides, Austin deserves a reach-around for the sheer, relentless cacophony of SXSW – all the dueling parking-lot showcases with pegged amps, crashing symbols, and farting, cone blowing bass lines. Your auditory nerve endings are so trashed that you just want to curl up in a little ball in your bedroom all week and listen to Iron and Wine … on low. We’re also due a little payback for the litter of promotional materials: posters, flyers, handbills, stickers, and business cards – a virgin rain forest worth of wasted marketing salted by the sick, desperate sweat of frenetic fame-seekers. It’s a good thing you walked around for three days with that colorful, glossy Japanese music showcase postcard flapping out of your back pocket, otherwise you might have forgotten a week later (when you pulled it out of your Maytag’s filter) that you forgot about that Japanese showcase and went to Kanye West. Listen closely. Somewhere in the Amazon, a Yanomami tribesman is revving up his chainsaw … then again, maybe you’re just having a death metal showcase flashback. It’s a fortunate thing for your central nervous system that Austin isn’t a one-trick pony, artistically speaking. We have musicians, artists, filmmakers, and actors, and the latter three only get on your nerves at cocktail parties, otherwise, they’re pretty quiet. If you want to tone it down a bit this weekend, check out Holy Cross Sucks! at the the Vortex this weekend. Holy Cross Sucks! is an award-winning one-man comedy performed by Austin’s own Rob Nash that explores being in high school in the Eighties. If you made the rounds last week, you know that the Eighties are back in a big way. Exciting times indeed. Don’t worry; If this theatre thing doesn’t work out, the loud music and shitty beer will still be waiting for you.

Elvis Perkins in Dearland, Cold War Kids, and M. Ward

The Luv Doc Recommends

March 16, 2009

You can break South by Southwest attendees down into basically two categories: people who think they’re cooler than you and people who actually are cooler than you. Both categories are goddamned annoying. In fact, it is a huge struggle not to sulk around all week in a misanthropic funk, brooding like Robert Pattinson in Twilight, tortured by the idea that other people are at better parties with better drugs, better liquor, better music, and richer, better looking people. Damn you, Bobby Bones! Dig deep, Sparky. Go to your happy place. Think back to those simpler, unjaded years when going to see live music was more about seeing the band rather than being seen seeing the band. Sure, it’s awesome to say you were at the show where Billy Corgan played backup bagpipe in a crotchless kilt (thank God for Twitter, right?), but sometimes the buzz band gets drowned out by the buzz. In all likelihood the buzz is coming from your cell phone, because you’re getting tweeted that Jack White, Dolly Parton, and the Dalai Lama are sitting in with Daniel Johnston at Emo’s. Doh! And you just blew your bankroll on the pedicab ride to the Corgan spectacle! As any hipster will tell you (if you can somehow get them to make eye contact), staying on top of what’s cool is fucking exhausting. It’s 24/7 obsession, except for the parts where you’re sleeping or making sandwiches at Thundercloud. If that’s how you like to roll, SXSW provides ample opportunities. More than likely however, you’ll just be just setting yourself up for disappointment. Here’s a pearl of wisdom that they don’t drop into your registrant’s bag: The truly wonderful thing about SXSW isn’t that you have the opportunity to go see bands you’ve been hearing about, it’s that you can stumble into bands you’ve never heard of and be absolutely amazed. To do that, however, you’re going to have to open up your heart and mind and embrace the unknown – not just unfamiliar music but unfamiliar people, as well. Just because a band is playing the Cabana Calle 6 Patio doesn’t necessarily mean they won’t blow your mind as much as the headliner at Stubb’s – especially if they’re buzzing hard on crank and standing next to you at the urinal. If that actually happens, make sure to remind him that Cabana Calle 6 Patio isn’t an actual venue the other 361 days of the year. It may save them a few awkward phone calls. There are plenty of other “venues” as well – nearly 100, especially if you count unofficial showcases – and most of those have urinals, too, or at least an obligatory full-to-the-brim Porta-potty. Urinal or no, you’ll have plenty of chances for interaction at SXSW: musical, cultural, and even carnal (if you like to roll the dice with your privates). Keep an open mind. Anything can happen, and if you run into a few buzz bands on your voyage of discovery, try not to let it harsh your groove. Sometimes bands are popular for a reason. You can investigate that premise this Thursday night for free at SXSW’s Auditorium Shores concert series. You may not have heard of them, but Elvis Perkins in Dearland, Cold War Kids, and M. Ward are bands with considerable buzz. They’ll get a chance to justify it before several thousand music lovers at SXSW’s largest venue. Who knows? You might start buzzing about them too.

SXSW Screening of ‘Sweethearts of the Prison Rodeo’

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March 10, 2009

Texas did away with its prison rodeo back in 1986. It wasn’t because Texans drank the PETA punch and had some sort of animal rights epiphany. No, believe it or not, the state of Texas was reacting to budgetary shortages that resulted from a sudden collapse in oil prices in 1986 (yes, this isn’t the first time Texas has been the economy’s prison bitch). In 1986 the rodeo arena in Huntsville needed repair, and the Lege just wasn’t willing to cough up the half-mil needed to fix it. Think about that for a minute. Remember the Frisbee golf course on the city of Austin’s economic stimulus package wish list? That was going to clock in at nearly $900,000 … but … it was going to create four new jobs, thereby taking the same number of perpetually baked trustafarians off the street to man the clubhouse and keep the squirrels from making the beast with two backs in the disc baskets (or “pole holes,” as they’re referred to by their glossy-eyed users). A prison rodeo arena, on the other hand, wouldn’t create any new jobs, because all the employees work for free, unless you count the “I Got Fatally Gored in the Texas Prison Rodeo and All I Got Was This Stupid Bloody T-Shirt” T-shirts the losers received as a consolation prize. Besides, no legislator of sound mind is going to spend money on something that benefits an education and recreation fund for prisoners, no matter how popular or entertaining it is. Thus, Texans, in 1986, were deprived of the brutal spectacle of prison rodeo. Nowadays, if you want to see prisoners tossed around like a rag doll by a 2,000-pound bull, you’ll need to go to either McAlester, Okla., or Angola … not the one in Africa but the one in an even stranger and scarier place: Louisiana. Oklahoma at least has a reasonable claim on rodeo culture: Will Rogers, Gene Autry, Lane Frost, Freckles Brown. Louisiana? Maybe alligator-skin boots? Throwing a Cajun in a rodeo ring without a frog gig, fishing pole, or broken Budweiser longneck to defend himself is cruel sport indeed: fascinating, gory, heartbreaking – similar to feeding Christians to lions – but it ain’t rodeo. On the other hand, Oklahomans’ familiarity with the genus Bovinae makes even hardcore Texans a bit uncomfortable. It’s only natural they would pony up with a prison rodeo of their own … which they did, a scant nine years after Texas started throwing its convicts to the bulls in 1931, Oklahoma followed suit. They’re still at it 68 years later, and to spice things up, they added chicks to the mix a few years ago. Backward as they may seem, at least Okies aren’t sexist when it comes to exploiting their inmates by subjecting them to senseless violence. Is it worth the drive? Maybe not, especially when you can head over to the Paramount on Saturday for the 11am world premiere of Sweethearts of the Prison Rodeo, a documentary about the Oklahoma Prison Rodeo by acclaimed Okie filmmaker Bradley Beesley, whose previous works include Flaming Lips documentary The Fearless Freaks and the definitive primer on barehanded sport fishing, Okie Noodling.

Geeks Who Drink Pub Quiz

The Luv Doc Recommends

March 2, 2009

It’s a good thing you spent all that time, money, and effort earning that college degree. So maybe you don’t use your bachelor’s degree in applied anthropology as often as you’d like to in your job as a phone support specialist, but at least you get it when your officemate wears his “Jews for Cheeses – Fight Lactose Intolerance” T-shirt. Priceless – easily worth your $20,000 in student loans, final-exam stress ulcers, and your embarrassing experimentation with bisexuality. Hey, who could have known the field research for your Comparative Anthropology of Ancient Greece class would lead you to hot-oil wrestling night at the Boyz Cellar? College is about expanding your horizons anyway, isn’t it? And even though your event horizon may have been a little sore the next day, you still rocked a solid B on that paper … and memories to last a lifetime. Plus, now you’re a walking repository of hopelessly arcane information. You’re the guardian of a collection of knowledge that is, although fascinating, an excruciatingly painful conversational stretch to reach. You could wait around all night for just the right moment to pop off with a pithy bon mot about the dating rituals of Paraguayan Mennonites, and in the end you’ll still sound like some know-it-all prick. Do you think Stephen Hawking goes around randomly croaking out theoretical physics equations at cocktail parties? Well, maybe. Hawking’s horizons were expanded so much in college that his black hole actually radiates. Doh! It’s safe to say that in mixed company, some information is best kept on the inside. Of course, once you, Hawking, Rain Man, and Good Will Hunting get ushered over to the nerd couch, you can chat it up all you want. Go buck wild. Create a unified field theory, just don’t unleash your torrent of intellectualism on people trying to act vapid enough to actually get laid. The only thing worse than a garrulous egghead is a garrulous egghead who is unintentionally cock-blocking. Yes, it may seem harsh to hate on people who are innocently trying to shake out their mental detritus, but if you look at it in the cold, hard light of objectivity, they’re no better than someone trying to drive while talking on a cell phone. Oblivion is not an excuse. This doesn’t mean you have to completely cordon off the arcane wing of your mental library; you just need to be judicious about when you choose to unhook the velvet rope. You need to find the right setting. Maybe you should see if Opal Divine’s Geeks Who Drink fits that bill. Geeks Who Drink is an English-/Irish-style pub quiz that happens every Sunday at 7pm at Opal Divine’s Freehouse. Teams of up to six people can win bar cash and glory just by knowing shit other people don’t. Plus, if it turns out you’re really stupid, you can blame it on the booze. Genius!

2009 Texas Heritage Songwriters’ Homecoming Concert

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February 24, 2009

Twenty years from now, when you look back on the time you spent in Austin (and this is, of course, assuming that the polar ice caps have melted and you own a beach house in either Amarillo or Oklahoma City), what do you think you’ll remember most – that time you dropped $600 on the We Own the Night package at Qua or the Wednesday nights you spent at the Continental Club with Guy Forsyth, Jon Dee Graham, and James McMurtry? Take some time on that one, Sparky. Let it simmer. Here’s the thing: A bottle of Cristal, a few shots of Patrón, and a night of fluorescent-toothed-overbite disco dancing with guys in baroque-print polyester shirts and frosted tips is some heady shit indeed, but that memory will burn out about the time your hangover headache kicks in the next morning. And is that the taste of K-Y in your mouth? Maybe another shot of tequila is in order, or maybe you could use a slight cultural adjustment. As much as some people would like it to be, Austin isn’t South Beach or Vegas or North Dallas. Not yet. If that’s your bag (the one with the hose hanging off of it?), those places have plenty of openings. Here in Austin, however, we’re still mostly free of valets, velvet ropes, and muscled dudes in tight shirts with clipboards. We don’t try to keep the riffraff out, because we know deep down inside we are the riffraff. We clean up well enough, sure, but we’re not on a first-name basis with the guy behind the counter at the dry cleaners. We look a little ruffled and frumpy, and we just don’t care. Why? Because we got game, yo. We’re interesting riffraff. We can hold a conversation about something other than last night’s TMZ, the Kardashians, or the Christian Audigier shirt we just bought that looks like a bunch of tattoos engaged in a spirited clusterfuck. For better or worse, the Austin aesthetic is a little more flip-flops, boxer shorts, backyard barbecues, and bong hits – it’s more about being than looking. Most importantly, Austin looks like a big, world-class city, but it’s really not. There will always be some boisterous, booze-breathed old hippie or redneck who will violate the sanctity of your VIP section and then … goddamnit … actually turn out to be a VIP. Maybe he’ll serve as a gentle reminder to unpucker that starfish and really enjoy yourself instead of just acting like it. Four fellows that nicely fit that description will be appearing at the Paramount this Sunday for the 2009 Texas Heritage Songwriters’ Homecoming Concert: Willie Nelson, Guy Clark, Allen Shamblin, and Michael Martin Murphey. All are ingenious and accomplished songwriters from Texas, even though they may not necessarily live here, and all, with the possible exception of Shamblin, look like they could be the squeegee guy on the corner. They’re also all into country music, which may not be your thing, but you don’t have to be a blood relative of that banjo pickin’ kid from Deliverance in order to appreciate their artistry. In fact, if you’re a little stuck up about your music, this might just be the thing that pops your cork.

‘Misprint’ Magazine’s Third Annual Beard & Moustache Competition

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February 17, 2009

Suppose you finally decide you want to lose that middle-age hipster nut-duster. Here are some options: You can cream it, wax it, pluck it, or shave it … with one, two, three, four, and even five blades. Want to make your privates smooth and shiny like a polished apple? Semipermanently? You can hire someone to burn down that jungle with a laser. Then again, you may want to retain some vestige of your primordial muff … maybe a landing strip or an inverted pyramid or some sort of wacky, Edward Scissorhands pubic topiary art piece. Go for it. The world is your oyster, and with a dab of baby oil, your clam can glisten like one too. Truly, it’s amazing people still have eyebrows anymore. Nonetheless, if you look around, you’ll see that there are plenty of stalwart holdouts who refuse to give in to progressive pressure. Ahoooo … werewolves in Austin. You’ve seen them running down the hike and bike trail, chest hair shimmering with sweat, tufts of wiry black strands Adam’s apple high, never threatened by Gillette. Girls got it going on, too. If you keep your nose to the ground, every once in a while you’ll see an earth mama rocking some Clydesdale length leg hair. No shame in that game. It’s the way God made her – plus, it distracts you from obsessing over her dirty toenails. In fact, part of the danger of letting your hair grow is that you create the perception that you’ve let yourself go … sort of the hygienic equivalent of walking around in sweatpants and house slippers all the time. Sure, it may be easy … comfortable even … but most people like to think you put in a little effort on their behalf. Is that so wrong? You could make the argument that society has twisted something that is perfectly natural into something shameful, but really, are you willing to jump that far off the evolutionary bandwagon? Would you prefer that everyone walk around au naturel, with their junk clanging like church bells, dropping turds willy-nilly and copping squats whenever their bladders start to bulge? Before you traipse off into that deep end, spend a week at Kerrville. Of course, this is not to say that you can’t have body hair and still be treated as something that doesn’t smear itself with feces. There are plenty of men (and drag kings) who maintain a nicely manicured beard or moustache. Some would even argue that body/facial hair is an attractive and admirable characteristic. After all, there is a long list of facial-haired famous people to make their case: Abe Lincoln, Ernest Hemingway, Jerry Garcia, Tom Selleck, Robin Williams, ZZ Top, Frida Kahlo, and tragically, at times, Keanu Reeves. So clearly, you can make fur your friend, and you need not necessarily grow a Billy Gibbons-length, desert island Moses mop to do it, though admittedly, looking like you’ve shared a jail cell with Charles Manson probably has its benefits. Why else would the folks at Misprint magazine organize a whole beard and moustache competition? Yep, this Friday at the Mohawk, Misprint is hosting its third annual Beard & Moustache Competition. The event is hosted by local comedian Matt Bearden and features live music by Cavedweller, as well as DJ’d music by DJ Andy and DJ Huge Cock. Prizes will be awarded for Best Groomed, Fiercest Chops, Ladies, Freestyle, Sweetest Moustache, and Gnarliest Beard. Don’t even pretend you don’t want to go.

Burlesque for Peace’s Valentine’s Day Extravaganza

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February 10, 2009

Saturday is Valentine’s Day. No shit. Surely you would like to strangle the knucklehead who scheduled this holiday on a night that is already overrun by grandstanding douche bags, but stay your hand. Your anger will miss its mark. To get to the “heart” of the problem, you would ultimately have to choke either a saint or a pope. Choking the pope is a popular activity (if the graffiti on Catholic school boys’ restroom stalls has any veracity), but the pope you would need to choke (Gregory XIII) died about 400 years ago. Saint Valentine is dead too. He clocked out more than 1,700 years ago. Well, actually he was beaten with clubs, stoned (the bad kind) … and beheaded. Even if you built a time machine and traveled back to the third century to personally choke him, you really would only be doing him a favor. Back in the here and now, you’re still screwed. It’s like Friday the 13th is being held over for one more show … at least the bad luck part. Say you’ve got a hankerin’ for some Italian food: Well, unless you can be satisfied with pizza at Chuck E. Cheese’s (hint: the “E” stands for “Ebola”) or a can of Spaghetti-O’s, it(alian) ain’t happening. French cuisine? Seriously? If the French food you’re looking for ends in “fries” or “dip” or “dressing,” you have a shot. Otherwise, pas de veine! For whatever reason, the French have appended their language, cuisine, and culture with the phrase “of love.” Maybe it’s the result of Louis XV’s Deer Park pleasure romps, or maybe it’s simply because France has been the doormat for most of Western Europe for hundreds of years: “Be our guest, be our guest! Put our service to the test!” Regardless, French cuisine is officially the food of love. With all that butter, how can it not be? Italian comes in a close second. Maybe the olive oil? As far as other cuisines go, it’s pretty much a crapshoot, but you’ll probably have the best luck at places with horrible Zagat ratings. Barbecue isn’t a bad bet … especially if it’s served on butcher paper or a Styrofoam plate … but try to avoid places with actual silverware and cloth napkins. Any place where you feel inclined to open the restroom door with your shoe is probably going to have open seating, and don’t overlook places where sullen people in hairnets and plastic gloves serve food from behind a glass sneeze shield. Nothing queers romance like a queue of geriatrics pushing tennis-ball walkers and dragging plastic trays of bland, lukewarm food. Depressing though it may sound, the line moves quickly … faster than the line of white SUV limos at Pappadeaux’s. (Pssst: Don’t tell the dudes in the gothic-print shirts with highlighted hair that Pappadeaux’s isn’t actually French. That would just be cruel.) Truth is, if you’re single you’ll be lucky to get fed at all on Valentine’s Day. Not only that, but it’ll be hard to keep it down witnessing all the lovey-dovey schlock sentimentalism. Maybe you should chase dinner with something a little more raw. How about Burlesque for Peace’s Valentine’s Day Extravaganza at the United States Art Authority? For a paltry $20, you can spread peace by viewing partial nudity. What better end to a day devoted to love? Afterparty starts at midnight.

‘Office Space’ 10 Year Anniversary Reunion!

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February 3, 2009

One of the great ironies of American society is our notion of freedom. We’re free to do just about anything we want as long as it doesn’t seriously impinge on someone else’s freedom. And yet, even though Americans have this tremendous gift, paid for by the blood and toil of preceding generations, we choose largely to ignore it. Instead, we willingly shackle ourselves, in the name of materialism, for 40-plus hours a week. No shame in that game, but it does involve a humbling amount of compromise. For instance, back when you were in college mastering the intricacies of calculus, chemistry, physics, biology, and binge drinking, you never imagined that after graduating, eight hours of your day would be spent at the whim of a pudgy, nerdy college dropout with a black hole of an ego. You were going to work in a really cool office, remember? And your boss was going to be really cool, too. That might actually be the case … especially if you have to wear layered clothing in July because the office thermostat is set on 50 and your boss is an evil bitch. Cool and cooler. Check. In college you were much too cool to compromise your integrity by doing the type of job you’re doing now. You would have rather whored yourself for real, except that whoring, like Forrest Gump’s life, is like a box of chocolates. Work is pretty much the same, except that all the good chocolates have been eaten: Aspen, Colo., has more ski instructors than it can use. Matthew McConaughey already has a personal assistant. The H.O.R.D.E. tour isn’t hiring. Hef doesn’t need pool boys. Like many people, an endless, soul-crushing search for employment finally led you to the conclusion that you are OK with spending eight hours a day in a fluorescent-lit corporate cubicle. You’re no different than most Americans. You do an honest day’s work for an honest dollar. So what if you’re just a tiny cog in a huge machine … or maybe just a spare cog … or maybe the tiny drop of lubricant on the spare cog … it’s hard to say from your perspective. The important thing is that you’re free. You have all that time after the whistle blows to do just what you want, minus the 45-minute commute home, the hour you burn at the gym trying to work off those desk-jockey mud flaps, and the 30 minutes you spend trying to scrape together something to eat that’s not utterly repulsive. No problem, that still leaves you four hours (nearly 17% of your day) to just chill and do the things you really want to do … unless you have kids or dogs or an AA meeting. Don’t worry. You’ll find some down time somewhere … probably right before you fall asleep watching a Seinfeld rerun. At least America is still home of the brave, right? How else could we face this kind of existence? Here’s how: We make fun of it, and no one does that better than Austin’s own Mike Judge, creator of Beavis and Butt-Head, King of the Hill, and the cult classic movie Office Space, which is celebrating its 10 year reunion this Sunday at the Paramount. Join Office Space mastermind Mike Judge himself, along with cast members and crew as they relive a story so real, we only wish it were unreal. Get your tickets quick. You’re not the only desk jockey in town, you know.

FronteraFest Long Fringe’s ‘The Dick Monologues’

The Luv Doc Recommends

January 27, 2009

Consider the possibility that you don’t know dick. You might think you do … rather intimately even. Some people might have mistaken you for a dick once or twice. In fact, you might have actually been one at some point or another. Even if you haven’t been a dick, there’s a small chance that your name is Dick. No shame there. Richard sounds a little pretentious anyway … especially if you’re French and put all the emphasis on the back end. If you’re not a dick, there is a (roughly) 50% chance you’re at least attached to one – not necessarily by marriage, but by arteries, erectile tissue, epidermis, and the like. Being attached to a dick doesn’t mean you have to write it love letters. In fact, writing love letters to your pecker is kind of dickish, really. That doesn’t mean you can’t possess some affinity toward it however. After all, if you have a dick, you know that your dick leads you around on some rather exciting escapades. Such adventures are bound to engender a sense of bonding. You might even feel a certain camaraderie with your little downstairs neighbor. After all, you seem to share so much in common. You have the same taste in women … or men. When he’s overworked, you both get really tired. Sometimes he’s awake when you’re asleep. Sometimes he’s asleep when you’re awake. Sometimes he might need a pill to stay peppy. Sometimes he’s so … out there … it’s downright embarrassing. On occasion your dick needs correcting. Like a wayward child, at times he needs to be pointed in the right direction. Some dicks need constant adjustment – not just the dicks on major league pitchers and gangsta rappers but also dicks on big-bellied rednecks in Bermuda shorts and overly curious toddlers. After all, you’re never too young to learn that even though your dick might not always live up to your expectations, he’s always an available and willing playmate. If you’re like most people attached to a dick, you probably feel like you know it pretty well. You’ve spent a questionable amount of quality time exploring its ins and outs. You might even feel like you’re something of an expert on the dick. Well, get over yourself. It turns out that nearly everyone is a specialist on the dick, whether they have one or not. Take FronteraFest’s Dick Monologues, for instance. You might think a show so named would be a veritable sausage fest. Not so. A full nine of the 11 members onstage lack a member themselves (unless, perhaps, there’s an incredible Crying Game plot twist). Can they make up for their dicklessness with oral acumen? Very likely. Members include writers Spike Gillespie, Sarah Bird, Diane Fleming, Robin Chotzinoff, Sarah Barnes, and Marrit Ingman, plus performers and bons vivants Laura Lane, Kristine Kovach, and Jaycee Wilemon. If you feel like you’re missing the meat, don’t worry. Dick Monologues throws you a couple of bones with songwriter Southpaw Jones and actor/performer Rudy Ramirez. How can hilarity not ensue?

Jo’s Third Annual Chili Cold Blood Chili Cook Off

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January 20, 2009

Kind of hard to wipe that shit-eatin’ grin off your face, isn’t it? We’re only a couple of days into the new administration, and you’re still expecting cash and Ecstasy to start falling out of the sky … followed maybe by Osama bin Laden’s corpse … but let’s not get ahead of ourselves, eh? With so many problems looming, it’s nice to take a break and remind ourselves that things could be a whole lot worse. Sure, we’re on the brink of financial ruin, our infrastructure is increasingly decrepit, and most of the Third World hates our guts (maybe because our guts are so much larger than theirs?), but when it comes to riding out great depressions, even Kansas is preferable to places like Somalia or Sudan, if only by a small margin. Plus, unlike Somalis, Kansans actually speak our language … often better than we do and without an annoying accent. Yes, it’s good to be an American. It’s good to be able to whine about the high price of gas. It’s good to be pissed off that some evil, greedy bastard on Wall Street gutted your retirement account. It’s good to be able to criticize the ineptitude of our government to the point of libel. In Somalia, none of those things seem to make it on the to-do list. People mainly just sit around all day listening to their stomachs growl, waiting for Osama bin Laden’s corpse to fall out of the sky. Really any protein source would do, but asking for Rush Limbaugh almost seems a little too greedy. Fortunately, thanks in no small part to the good ‘ol U.S. of A., food does fall out of the sky in Somalia and Sudan, and with a much more reliable frequency than if left to … say … Somali warlords. If the God of Moses had amber waves of chemically enhanced grain and a fleet of C-130s, he might have hooked the Israelites up similarly. Nonetheless, this year and in the years to come, we might have to take a few steps back in order to go forward. Needless to say, it’s going to take lots of time and ceaseless ingenuity to get those solar-powered air cars off the ground, but think of the money we’ll save in road maintenance. On the energy conservation front, we’ll probably have to completely cover the state of Nevada with wind turbines just to light up Vegas. That should create a few jobs. Getting off the health-insurance tit will take Herculean resolve, as well. In fact, that job may have to wait until Jesus himself becomes president. In the meantime, until sobering reality sets in, it’s time to eat, drink, and be merry. You can do just that this Saturday at Jo’s third annual Chili Cold Blood Chili Cookoff. Starting at noon, you can sample chili, enjoy beverages, and listen to music by Chili Cold Blood, Tina Rose & the Jo’s House Band, DJ Chicken George, Honeybread, Woodsboss, and more. Chow down. No one will be able to tell if your shit-eatin’ grin is really just from the chili.

Bye Bye Bush

The Luv Doc Recommends

January 13, 2009

It’s very likely that sometime around 3am on Jan. 20, a fleet of black helicopters will descend on the White House lawn, their speakers blaring the Star Wars Evil Empire theme, and Bush and Cheney will begin their sad, dark perp walk into the annals of infamy. The only thing left for historians to squabble over is whether Bush was some sort of Machiavellian supervillain or just a nitwitted, bungling simpleton like Barney Fife. If only Clinton, à la Andy Griffith, had been wise enough to drop a single bullet into George Jr.’s shirt pocket at the beginning of his term with the admonition: “Use this only in case of an emergency.” The most likely scenario is Bush shooting a hole in the floor of Air Force One. Worst-case scenario involves a Kenedy County quail-hunting trip with Deadeye Dick. Then again, there are those who will say that beneath Bush’s aw shucksy faux country boy persona is a criminal mastermind – the type of pure evil who pronounces “nuclear” as “nucular” on purpose. That way, he can honestly say that he never said that Saddam had nuclear weapons. Saddam might have been hiding WMDs, but our WMD (Word Mispronouncing Doofus) was right out in the open for everyone to see, and it took us eight years to get rid of him. Maybe Clinton should have given Cheney the bullet, although Clinton is smart enough to know that such a close encounter with Cheney is probably something like the scene in Poltergeist where the little girl touches the TV and is sucked into an evil netherworld. That’s probably not really the case. After all, Cheney lives in Jackson Hole, Wyo. J-Hole is wicked cold in the winter, but it could hardly be called a netherworld. It isn’t particularly scary either, except for the fact that the town square features four arches made from thousands of Elk antlers. One is left to guess how many contributors met their fate at the business end of Cheney’s quail gun. Would it be that much of a stretch to discover that the entrance to Cheney’s ranch is an arch made out of the bleached bones of dead Iraqis? When you’re the shadow vice president and former CEO of Halliburton, pretty much anything is possible. That’s why even at 3am on the morning of Bama’s inauguration, Bush and Cheney will still be living like kings, even though their lives will feel a bit more like a deposed dictatorship. Don’t worry, Bush won’t be carting off White House memorabilia, unless maybe it’s tapes of his cabinet meetings. Keep your fingers crossed. With any luck, when those black choppers take off from the White House lawn, they’ll drag all the darkness, cynicism, and secrecy away with them. We won’t have King George II to kick around anymore either. Bush’s departure might actually be the “death of sarcasm” that all the Republican pundits were flapping their jaws about after 9/11. With all the hope and optimism in the air, will anyone even want to make snide comments about Eagle One? Only time will tell. Until then we can look only back at what a fertile time the last eight years have been for political criticism. You can get started on that this Saturday at the Hideout when the Latino Comedy Project revives its popular Bye Bye Bush, a revue of sketch comedy, videos, and music that pays tribute to our nearly departed 43rd president. Go ahead. Bury the hatchet one more time.

Eldridge Goins Benefit Concert

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January 6, 2009

Damn, maybe you shouldn’t have voted for Obama. Think of all the great benefit concerts that won’t ever happen if he somehow manages to pull a universal health-care rabbit out of his hat. You really screwed the pooch on that vote, didn’t you? Imagine if the next time an Austin musician gets leukemia, hep C, or hit by a car, all he or she has to do is just go to the doctor. Weird. Besides, the current system is clearly working: The ailing musician hopes that their friend or manager calls a benevolent club owner, a publicist, and some really kickass musicians and begs them all to donate time and services to put on a free concert to defray medical expenses. Hey! Health care in Austin rocks! Imagine if we blew the $200 million a day we’re spending to foment Iraqi hatred on keeping Americans healthy? Yeah, it does seem a little shortsighted and simplistic, doesn’t it? Don’t worry, getting Congress to vote against their insurance lobby constituency would be a Jesus-sized miracle, to say the least. You can’t fly to the French Riviera on the gratitude of voters. Really, the best we can possibly hope for is some sort of taxpayer funded überinsurance, very likely underwritten by a subsidiary of a shadow corporation owned by Dick Cheney. Lest you recoil in horror, remember that, regardless of how recent indiscretions in the financial sector have torpedoed the economy, America still runs on money. If we can’t make enough of it here, we just borrow it from China or Japan or Germany or some other chump B-list country that doesn’t have the guns to collect. You can’t expect the U.S. government to run on the power of love either. This isn’t Cuba or France or even Canada. It’s nearly impossible to get a doctor to roll out of bed for less than a hundred large a year. If it’s a surgeon … fahgeddaboutit. Surgeons drop about half that per annum just paying malpractice insurance, and if you think you can get an insurance executive (other than Warren Buffett, aka the Mother Theresa of insurance and investment) to roll out of bed for less than a million a year, you need to get back on your meds. Seriously. With the recent shakedown of the investment and insurance industries, the best way to keep the economy strong is to keep taking drugs. We can’t have Pfizer, Johnson & Johnson, and Abbott Labs taking a nosedive. Think of how that would affect Celebrity Rehab With Dr. Drew. What to do? What to do? For now, you can continue to prop up the status quo and support musicians by going to benefit concerts until Obama ruins it all with his progressive agenda. You can get started this Sunday by attending the benefit for Eldridge Goins at Antone’s. Eldridge is a truly phenomenal drummer who just underwent expensive surgery to remove a tumor in his chest. Fortunately he’s got an all-star cast to help him out. This Sunday’s performers include Carolyn Wonderland, Guy Forsyth, Drew Smith’s Lonely Choir, and Suzanna Choffel as well as other surprise guests. Cover is only $10 and won’t cancel out your vote for Obama, but it sure will do Eldridge and Austin music a solid.

Riverboat Gamblers

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December 29, 2008

Prediction: In ’09 free will be the new rich. It always has been, really, but this year while millions of Americans are trying desperately to dig their way out from a mountain of debt, just being able to break even and walk away will seem a huge luxury. It’s small consolation that the government is in the same boat. Hey, weren’t they supposed to be smarter than us? The good news is that that best things in life are supposedly free, which means Gulfstreams, Bugattis, Bolivian marching powder, $1,000 hookers, and GameCubes off the list. Wow, there must be some free shit out there that’s really spectacular – stuff that’s not included in the gift bags at the Academy Awards or with the Presidential Suite at the Waldorf. Damn! If only there were an online catalog! No, not YouPorn, but something a bit more comprehensive, perhaps even metaphysical. Here’s something: Love. You can’t put a price tag on that, can you? Sure, you can probably buy something amazingly similar. For instance, if you tucked a couple of billion into Charlize Theron’s waistband, she could probably pretend to be a convincing soul mate. Seriously. Did you see her in Monster? Of course, she probably wouldn’t lay on a grenade for that kind of money, but if you can afford to buy a couple of billion dollars worth of fake love, you should be able to stay out of hand grenade range. Dick Cheney seems to manage on his measly government pension. Dick probably has a cut-rate fake soul mate, too, but you have to think that Deadeye Dick doesn’t stay awake nights worrying about whether he feels loved. Another freebie is friendship. It doesn’t get the same respect as love, but it’s nearly as hard to cultivate. You don’t necessarily need to roll with a Suge Knight-sized posse. A few friends are better than none at all. Real friends will stick with you regardless of the situation. Whether you’re standing in a soup line or snorting rails with supermodels in the back of a stretch limo, good friends will always be there for you: holding your hair back when you vomit, taking the B team on the double date, making bail, pointing out the hot chick’s Adam’s apple … you can’t put a price on that … at least not with anything on the gold standard. Lastly there is the beauty and splendor of the world itself. Yes, that’s largely a matter of perspective. It’s easy enough to find beauty in majestic mountain ranges, breathtaking coastlines, sweeping plains, and the like, but most people experience the world on a much more limited scale: deteriorating privacy fences, lots overgrown with weeds, car alarms, barking dogs, the smell of urine on the sidewalk, ShamWow ads. If you’re somehow able to see beauty in a plastic bag swirling around in a whirlwind, you’re as rich as the pope, spiritually speaking at least. Either that, or you’re really stoned and wasting videotape. Point is, you don’t need money to enjoy life, but you do need a certain amount of freedom. This year it looks like money will be in short supply. Good thing some of the bars in the Red River District are having free week to start off the new year. Between Jan. 2 & 10, the Mohawk, Club de Ville, Red 7, Beauty Bar, Emo’s, and others will be presenting free shows. This Saturday at the Mohawk, you can see the Riverboat Gamblers for absolutely nothing. That’s really spectacular. Get on it.

Hayes Carll and the Band of Heathens

The Luv Doc Recommends

December 22, 2008

In the immortal, drug-addled words of the Grateful Dead, “What a long, strange trip it’s been.” Tough year. Ugly ending. Now, poised on the precipice of what will surely be the most rigorous, white-knuckled anal rogering of the American populace in decades, it’s difficult to look back on the Bush administration with anything but bitterness and contempt. After half a decade of dropping roughly $300 million a day fucking up somebody else’s country, America finally looked inward and found that it was fucking itself in the process. In the past few months, American citizens finally let out a well-deserved, collective “Doh!” Of course, easy as it is to engage in hindsight finger-pointing, assigning blame is unproductive. Ultimately, the finger of blame points squarely at the American electorate. We were all busy having the time of our lives, racking up credit-card debt on crappy consumer goods so worthless they probably even disgusted the child laborers who manufactured them. Now that the orgy of misplaced materialism is sputtering out, Americans need to pull together. Maybe we should print up some brand-new Uncle Sam posters featuring an old, gray-haired, slightly Asian-looking dude standing with his pockets pulled inside out, the zipper of his striped pants undone, with a caption that reads “I WANT YOU … to kiss the bunny.” Yes, we’re all going to have to put in some quality knee time servicing the enormous Asian debt we’ve pumped up. So begins the long, slow slog back to fiscal responsibility. Work local; pay global. It’s pretty much the model we’ve unwittingly been living under for the past five years anyway. The good news for Austin is that our economy will probably fare better than most. We have the government, the university, and very shortly lots and lots (buildings and buildings, too) of brand-new condos. In fact, just a few long years from now, Austin might set the record for the city with the most available affordable housing and the highest number of homeless people. We’ll probably still be the live music capital of the world, though. There’s no reason to think that musicians won’t keep moving to Austin in droves. If you’re going to be broke anyway, you might as well be broke in a city where you can do something you love for no money. Musicians will probably be attacking cars on street corners like squeegee men and streetwalkers. On the bright side, it might be kind of cool to drive around with a shoe-gazer indie band as your living hood ornament for 50 cents an hour. Until then you’ll have to pay at the door, just like everyone else. Might as well support live music in Austin while you still can. This Saturday, you can do just that by taking your folding money to Antone’s, where local faves the Band of Heathens and Houston songwriter Hayes Carll share the bill. It’s been a long, ugly year, but both acts’ fortunes seem to be on the upswing. Who knows? Maybe Obama will toss a fourth quarter Hail Mary and put America on an upswing, as well.

33rd Armadillo Christmas Bazaar

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December 16, 2008

Let’s assume for a moment that you’re growing psychotic from holiday shopping and want to take the edge off your misanthropic rage with a couple of longnecks at the Carousel Lounge. You exit the top ramp of I-35, cross Airport, and head north on the access road where you will cross 51st onto Cameron and hook a hard right on 52nd. You’re so close, but wait a minute … you forgot … in order to get to the Carousel from the I-35 access road, now you have to make a completely unnecessary, asinine detour through the Mueller development. You’ll be driving past Best Buy and Home Depot and Rack Room … all the big, big boxers … plus their hordes of greed-crazed shoppers who drove into town from places like Marble Falls, Elgin, Lockhart, and Smithville – ostensibly so they can go 5 mph in front of you in the left lane, periodically hitting their brakes and turn signal and weaving perilously close to either the curb or the traffic speeding around them. Fortunately, you are sustained through your journey by the knowledge that there is a pawnshop just around the corner on Cameron where you can buy an assault rifle to hunt down the evil dirtbag city planner who signed off on this depraved boondoggle. Surely he will be the one walking around with a huge lump on his ass from a wallet stuffed fat with developer payoffs. He will be the only city worker who drives a Hummer with gold rims and a license plate that reads, “BBOXBUKS.” You don’t actually have to shoot him, but maybe keep a muzzle trained on the security guards while your buddies put the beat down on him with a couple of orange road cones. Scarier still is the possibility that there is some sober rationale behind the design – that perhaps some committee got together over cold bagels and Starbucks and hatched this idea out of thin air. It had to be thin air. Clearly their brains were oxygen starved at the time. Maybe they were exhausted after a full day of replacing four-way stops with traffic roundabouts, the beloved panacea of urban planning – unless you happen to be a bicyclist pasted to the brush guard of a ¾ ton 4-by-4. Maybe that’s what they were going for with Mueller: a huge traffic circle – albeit with stoplights and product placement. You never know when someone is going to get a hankering for a bigass chain-store burrito or some discount child labor sneakers on their long journey back to traveling in a straight line. The concept isn’t new. Highways all over Texas are routed through dying little towns with empty main street storefronts and Wal-Marts the size of football fields. You can’t blame a chamber of commerce for a couple of speed traps and some schmaltzy holiday decorations designed to lure casual travelers into buying fake antiques, chainsaw sculptures, and tooth-breaking peanut brittle, but the Mueller development isn’t some Rockwellian hometown fallen on hard times. It’s a pricy piece of downtown dirt – pricey enough, apparently, to prohibit participation by local businesses. Then again, local businesses would probably have been too ashamed to sign on to such a gallingly deceitful site plan. They’re more likely to dangle the carrot of live music, which is exactly the tack the Armadillo Christmas Bazaar has been taking for several decades. This week’s performers include local favorites like Paula Nelson, Jimmy Lafave, Shelley King, Butch Hancock, and the Eggmen, plus 130 booths of arts, crafts, clothing, furniture, and jewelry by local artisans. Admission is $6, and you have to drive to it, rather than through it, but it sure beats big boxing.

Cherrywood Art Fair

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December 9, 2008

There’s a decent chance your office holiday party is this weekend. Excellent. After 11 months of petty politics, gossip, bickering, and backstabbing, you and your annoying co-workers are going to put the cherry on top with a booze-fueled yuletide blowout. Merry indeed. Still, corny though they may be, office holiday parties are exactly the kind of team-building exercise that upper-management types spend thousands of dollars trying to recreate with overpaid consultancy firms. It really sucks being put in uncomfortable situations where you have to relate to and rely on your co-workers, but at least with the holiday party you get the reach-around of being inebriated. Of course, that is, as long as you do it right. Surely somewhere in a magazine, on a website, through a Sunday sermon, or perhaps even in your employee handbook, you have been warned about the dangers of overindulgence at the office holiday party. And now every time December rolls around, there’s a little white angel on your shoulder whispering in your ear: “Don’t get drunk and say something stupid or embarrassing in front of your co-workers or, gasp! Your boss!” Right? Bullshit. Swat that self-righteous little bitch off your shoulder, and order up an afterparty cab ride home right now, while you’re still sober enough to remember the address. Here’s the dirty little secret the man doesn’t want you to know: The problem isn’t getting wasted at the holiday party. The problem is not planning on getting wasted at the holiday party. Spontaneous alcoholism is cute and all. In fact, it has made for some really interesting Girls Gone Wild video footage, but real drinkers know that like any other potentially dangerous activity, it’s best to observe some basic precautions. Remember: This is the office holiday party. You’re not trying to pledge a frat. First things first, you’re going to need a ride home. Cabs are great, but don’t rule out that unctuous Baptist co-worker who listens to Joel Osteen tapes. On a team, everyone has a role. Hardcore stoners will work too, but be prepared for a long ride home – possibly with a three-taco pit stop at Jack in the Box. Whatever, just work it out in advance. You don’t want to let your crotch arrange for your ride home. Sure, you’re in control now, but a good holiday-party buzz can turn a chaste mistletoe peck into a slobbery game of tonsil hockey. Avoid PDA. You can’t just assume that people will know you’re only bi when you’ve been drinking – especially your boss. Especially when your tongue is down his throat. Really, when you think about it, team building is about learning to trust your co-workers, and nothing builds trust like sharing a really embarrassing secret that probably wouldn’t have happened if you were sober – something the Human Resources Department would have to write you up for. You don’t have to accidentally kill a prostitute or anything, but what happens in a hotel hot tub will probably stay in a hotel hot tub, which is why sober people avoid hotel hot tubs unless they’re sure the hot tub has recently been sterilized. You don’t have to go there. Leading a bunny-hop line with a lampshade on your head will do just fine. Some people might see that as attention whoring douche baggery, but others, mostly the ones in line behind you, will see it as leadership. Ideally, one of them will be someone who can give you a raise. Remember though: Team building isn’t about personal recognition. It’s about doing what it takes to get the job done. That’s a good description of what’s happening at Maplewood Elementary this weekend at the Cherrywood Art Fair, the annual fundraiser for the school’s art and gardening programs, as well as public art projects in East Austin. Buy arts, crafts, and clothing from original Austin artists, plus hear live music from bands such as the Coffee Sergeants, Colin Gilmore, Joe McDermott, and Troy Campbell. Admission is free, but you’ll want to bring a fat wallet to buy some nice gifts for the folks in Human Resources.

A Night of Music From Around the World

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December 2, 2008

Living atop the monolith of American superiority, sometimes it’s hard to remember that there are nearly 200 other sovereign states living in our prodigious shadow. Some are tiny places like Monaco, Lichtenstein, and San Marino, countries you could literally pee across on a full bladder, but there are also sprawling giants like China, Russia, India, and Canada. Yes, that’s right. Canada. It’s sobering to think that there are countries out there with fully developed governments, economies, and cultures that are fundamentally different than ours. Better? Hard to say. You can’t really put a chili dog and tater tots head to head with moo goo gai pan on any rational qualitative scale. Nor can you definitively say that China’s brand of communism is any worse than American capitalism, especially considering China, like McDonald’s, has more than a billion people served. Granted, cheeseburgers are somewhat complicated – especially when you’re using reconstituted onions and frozen meat patties, but providing basic social services for more than a billion people has to involve some impressive, Byzantine, Rain Man-style calculus. As far as religion goes, that’s a wash as well. Sadly, not even Don King himself could get Jesus, Buddha, Krishna, and the ghost of Nietzsche (a serious rhetorical stretch anyway) to throw down against each other in some sort of chain-link death match for moral superiority. As sexy as it sounds, a cage full of blissed out pacifist deities and the ghost of a deranged, syphilitic, coke-abusing German philosopher would probably only muddy the issue even further. Besides, if Nietzsche were to win (assuming he could score some ghost coke before the bout), the fact that he is a spiritual being blows his whole moral construct completely out of the water. In fact, the whole idea is pointless – sort of like following the path of a Möbius strip. Does it lead to infinity or futility? Is there a difference? Fortunately, Americans generally leave the mental thumb-twiddling of philosophy to foreigners anyway. If we can’t kill it, cook it, snort it, smoke it, drive it, buy it, or fuck it, we’re not really all that interested. This mindset has surely slowed our cultural development over the past few hundred years, but it has kept us mean and greedy and on top of the heap – geopolitically speaking at least. Badass as we are however, occasionally Americans pop our heads out of the sand and concede that other countries have something useful to bring to the table. For the Saudis, it’s oil. For the Argentineans, it’s breast augmentation techniques. For Canadians, it’s maddeningly inexplicable perkiness. Whatever the case, the dark, ugly truth of American culture is that ours would be pretty shitty if we didn’t steal so much of it from other places. American culture is a stone soup, and we contributed the stone. If you want to get a taste of some of the ingredients before they hit the pot, head down to Momo’s this Friday at 8pm for A Night of Music From Around the World, a live performance of music from diverse cultures by the University of Texas world music ensembles. Hear music from the Middle East, Mexico, Brazil, Cuba, and other Caribbean countries. Proceeds from the performance help the ensembles acquire new instruments, as well as guest artists and teachers. Might as well pony-up for this deal because that chain-link death match just isn’t going to happen.

Jean-Claude Van Damme Thanksgiving Dinner

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November 24, 2008

Thanksgiving. What an awesome opportunity to sabotage the Rockwellian preconceptions of family and friends. If you’re full of loathing at the thought of this year’s Turkey Day being another endless, boring, bloated, recliner-bound football watching fart fest, don’t despair. You just need an attitude adjustment. You need to get on the right side of Thanksgiving. First, start by meditating on how wonderfully lucky you are to be in America instead of some dust pit like Somalia, whose version of tailgating involves an ultimate fighting death match with a few hundred other motivated contestants for a sack of rice tossed off the back of an Oxfam aid truck. Check. You’re in the plus column there. That alone should be enough to make you want to put on a pilgrim outfit and recite the Pledge of Allegiance, but this is America. You don’t have to attend the pep rally if you don’t want to. All you have to do to get in the spirit of Thanksgiving is to be thankful. That other attendant bullshit is all negotiable. Traditions are swell, but like laws, rules, hearts, and piñatas, they were made to be broken. Just because your Thanksgiving doesn’t look like it leapt out of the pages of Martha Stewart Living doesn’t mean you aren’t doing the holiday justice. You can be equally thankful with malt liquor and chili dogs. Sure, Bo Pilgrim would like you to stuff your gob with gobbler, but that doesn’t mean you can’t whip up a big batch of Bhindi masala or sag paneer. If the pilgrims had run into the same American Indians Columbus was looking for, they would have feasted on that stuff anyway. There’s no reason your culinary expression of gratitude should be the byproduct of the navigational ineptitude of an Italian glory whore. Show your thanks with something you’re truly thankful for. If you can honestly look into your heart and say your favorite dish is oven-roasted turkey with giblet gravy, then rock that shit, yo, but if you’re into sushi or baby-back ribs or baba ghanoush, don’t let tradition con you into buying canned cranberry sauce. Seriously, cranberries are only barely tolerated by people with urinary tract infections. Maybe the pilgrims had a lot of trouble peeing. Who knows? It doesn’t mean they had to lay that trip on you, though. Similarly, if you prefer margaritas or banana daiquiris over white wine or beer. Treat yourself. It might be a little awkward when you show up at your mother-in-law’s house with a quart of hooch and a blender, but she can’t say you aren’t festive. Plus, the tequila should help counteract the Demerol effect of the turkey. After all, nothing says party like a roomful of fat nappers, eh? Then again, you can just blow the whole thing off and be thankful that you’re not one of them. In that case, you’ll want to thank the Alamo Drafthouse for offering up a Turkey Day screening of JCVD, the new Jean-Claude Van Damme flick in which Van Damme plays himself playing himself. Sounds complicated, but it’s really just French. The good news is that even though it’s Turkey Day, you can still order from Alamo’s regular menu, but if you want to pay homage to Bo Pilgrim, you can still preorder and get a full Thanksgiving feast with all the trimmings. Just tell your waiter to wake you up when the movie’s over.

Night of the Moustache

The Luv Doc Recommends

November 18, 2008

Hold it off one more week. Do it for us. We know you’re all ready to take that peppermint-flavored candy cane stick pony ride into the holiday season, but it’s not here yet. It’s not time. You just think it is because the Madison Avenue greed whores are already burning up prime time with yuletide schmaltz, no doubt shitting trou at the thought of millions of Americans staying home for the holidays this year making eggnog and wassailing instead of wearing out the magnetic strips on their MasterCards at the shopping mall. Pretty much everyone except Bill O’Reilly knows that the “X” in “X-mas” stands for mark next to the line on the credit card receipt where you sign your name, and the credit card season starts whenever the ads start airing and the chumps start charging. For now, it’s the day after Halloween, but in a few years the Neil Diamond Christmas Special will be bumping out a tedious, awkwardly uncomfortable hour of the Jerry Lewis Labor Day Telethon. Who loses? The kids. Well, not Jerry’s kids. They’ll at least get to see the Jewish Elvis belt out a soul-stirring rendition of “O Holy Night” instead of watching Gary Lewis phone in his millionth cruise-boat version of “Everybody Loves a Clown” while papa Lewis squeezes out a well-rehearsed teardrop of pride. No, kids all over America will lose because after they’ve whined for four months about Wiis and Game Boys and pee-squirting dolls, their parents will either a) attempt infanticide or b) actually turn to Jesus. Either scenario is a huge money saver for the parents but an even bigger bummer for the kids. Being dead is no walk in the park (unless you’re still haunting one), but being the spawn of a Jesus freak is a one-way ticket to Dullsville. It’s the difference between a white-knuckled car chase in Grand Theft Auto IV and freezing your ass off handing out sack lunches to the homeless. Both are skills that should be useful to children in the hard times ahead, but real homeless people are rarely as entertaining as video-game gangsters. Plus, all that do-gooding will send the wrong message to America’s youth. Capitalism works best when the money trickles upstream to the most wealthy. Turn it around, and the whole model goes to shit. It’s probably just as well for the time being. Philanthropy isn’t going to service all that Chinese debt any more than irresponsible consumerism, but if the economy is going to hell in a handbasket anyway, we might as well help out the home team, right? That’s not a very X-massy sentiment, but Creditmas may not come at all this year. If you want to give this altruism thing a try, you might want to start small, and what better place to do that than at the Tiniest Bar in Texas? This Friday at TBIT a group called Team Spiridon is hosting the “Night of the Moustache,” a benefit for Emancipet, an organization dedicated to preventing animal homelessness, and the Dick Beardsley Foundation, a nonprofit providing grants for people seeking treatment for chemical dependency. The event features a silent auction plus music by Eat a Peach, an Allman Brothers tribute band, and Girl Guitar, a group of up-and-coming female artists.

Billy Joe Shaver and Adam Carroll

The Luv Doc Recommends

November 11, 2008

If you’re new to Austin, consider this: You can’t really call yourself an Austinite until you’ve spent some quality time in a South Austin back yard – ideally one decorated with Christmas lights, old beer signs, and a liberal scattering of dogs, mosquitoes, and dirt-smeared children. There should also be an makeshift stage – perhaps a piece of plywood laid on the grass or maybe the corner of a back porch or a rusty old flatbed U-Haul trailer that somehow never made its way back to Grand Blanc, Mich. On the stage should be a man of indeterminate middle age – somewhere between 40 and 70 – whose skin appears to have been slow-cured for decades by a combination of relentless sun and unfiltered cigarettes. He should be wearing an old snap shirt – not vintage, but some faded, half-polyester turquoise and brown job that was purchased at a Montgomery Ward back in 1979. It will have wear holes and a few buttons missing. He may or may not be wearing a sweat-stained, straw cowboy hat too, but if he is, he’ll be wearing sandals instead of boots, or maybe some old Payless running shoes. If he is actually wearing boots, they are older than you – maybe even older than your parents and your parents’ parents. Still, in spite of the fact that he looks like he has raided the Crypt Keeper’s wardrobe, he will be playing a really expensive guitar – probably a Taylor or a Guild or maybe an ancient Martin that was signed by Willie or Waylon or Townes – well, maybe Townes. It’s hard to say, because the signature trails off at the end. In the midst of all the conversational murmur, children’s squeals, dog barks, and airplane/traffic noises, he will unobtrusively be playing a song. If you actually pay attention to it, you might find that it is the most beautiful and true song you’ve ever heard. You might be absolutely shocked you’ve never heard it before. Incredulous, you might turn to the person next to you and ask who wrote it, and they will respond, “He did.” You won’t recognize his name. He’s nobody special, but when you finally hear that song, you’ll be able to call yourself an Austinite. More importantly, you can carry that beautiful memory with you when some pretentious fuckstick doorman jacks you up about not wearing proper attire. This is Austin motherfucker. We are playing a much bigger game here. Like Billy Jeff Clinton used to say, “We are expanding the definition of us and shrinking the definition of them.” That’s what makes this town special. So maybe you haven’t gotten the South Austin Backyard Dirt-Patch Party e-vite. Don’t sweat it. Your time will come. You just have to start mixing it up with the right people. Try Ruta Maya HQ this Friday. Somehow a wormhole opened up somewhere in the space-time continuum and is dropping country songwriting legend Billy Joe Shaver smack dab in the middle of one of Austin’s biggest hippie havens. That’s OK. He could use a little more peace and a little less war these days. If you haven’t seen Billy Joe, you need to put him on your bucket list before he finishes up his. Shaver is one of the finest living American songwriters. See him now at Ruta Maya, so you won’t have to watch the PBS documentary about his life and wish you had.

Fun Fun Fun Fest

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October 4, 2008

Oh sweet, sweet, glorious victory! Finally we’ll have somebody in the White House who doesn’t pronounce “nuclear” like a kindergartner. Seriously. How fucking hard is it? Not nearly as hard as bringing lasting peace to the Middle East or hunting down Osama bin Laden, but you have to start somewhere – ideally in kindergarten. Kindergarten would have been the perfect time for George Sr. to give Junior a crisp rap to the head with his 1948 Yale class ring and say, “It’s nooo-cleee-eerrrr!!!” Didn’t happen. Then Andover dropped the ball and subsequently Yale, and here we are several decades later with a president whose best attempt at intellectualism is a furrowed brow. Thanks, Ivy League, shall we grease up another hole? Sure, in retrospect it seems nitpicky, especially with all of the relatively apocalyptic shit that’s been going down in the last few terms, but you can’t slack off on the wealthy. You never know if some silver-spooned, coke-swilling frat boy is going to wake up some morning and decide he wants his grubby palms on America’s joystick. It’s been painfully illustrated in the last eight years that being among America’s financial elite isn’t a sufficient prerequisite for running the show – no matter what Donald Trump thinks. There is a certain amount of intellectual rigor involved in governing a country of 300 million people – even more to govern them well. Eagle One should at least be in the Top 10%. Who could argue with that? Who could make the case that our president shouldn’t be one of the 30 million smartest people in America? That still leaves a staggering amount of leeway. We’re not necessarily asking for Stephen Hawking, just someone who doesn’t rely on fingers and toes to do arithmetic. You could make the cut, and there could still be 29,999,999 people smarter than you are. That doesn’t seem stuck up at all, does it? Also, emotional intelligence is charming but not a sufficient substitute for real intelligence. It has been said that Bush has a high emotional IQ, but apparently it didn’t help him understand why the ice caps are melting or why mindless consumerism isn’t always the best response to national crises. Maybe a presidential aptitude test is in order, or maybe not. Regardless, we’re off the hook for another four years. All we have to do now is weather the upcoming depression and figure out a diabolically genius way to drag ourselves out of this Bushhole we dug in the last two elections. Education would be a good start. If W was able to slip through the cracks of the crème de la crème of American scholastics, imagine what must be coming out the other end. Frightening, isn’t it? For now, however, we can celebrate the fact that America pulled its head at least partially out of its ass for the first time in eight years. Boo yah! Strike up the band, Tito, and let’s get the party started. Where? How about down at Waterloo Park this weekend at Fun Fun Fun Fest? Sure, the promoters spent about as much time on the name as Bush spent on planning the Iraq war, but at least this event has a decent payoff. Some of the many acts scheduled to perform include Dead Milkmen, the National, Clap Your Hands Say Yeah, All, Atmosphere, Bouncing Souls, Dan Deacon, and Clipse. If you blow your money on this, you won’t have to watch it whither away in the next great depression.

Austin Humane Society’s Rags2Wags Benefit

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October 27, 2008

If you’re spending a lot of time worrying about whether or not you should wear a Halloween costume to work on Friday, quit it. This is Austin. Of course you should. Yes, there are a few exceptions. You probably shouldn’t wear a Barney costume to your job as a fry cook at McDonald’s. Bad idea. If you’re a fireman, you’ll probably want to avoid any costume you can get at Wal-Mart or Walgreens or any other Wal retailer, even and especially if it promises “Wal-o-ween savings.” Wearing one of those cheap bastards is like walking around with a diesel fuel-soaked dead Christmas tree strapped to your back. The tag might say “flame retardant” in English, but the Chinese symbols really read “flaming flower.” Surgeons, on the other hand, should probably avoid three-fingered cartoon characters like Porky Pig and Mickey Mouse … for obvious reasons, and cops should avoid feathers, fringe, glitter and high heels – unless they’re paying for it after hours. Most people however – the kind who have time to pick up this paper (and not just to wash the windows at McDonald’s) – don’t work in a job where they already wear a costume. They fall outside the standard Village People caricature set. For them, Halloween is a slam dunk. In the words of vampire pop icon Gerard Way: “Shit is easy peasy pumpkin peasy pumpkin pie, motherfucker.” In most offices, a festively themed sweater is enough to score you some holiday street cred, but why halfass it in the name of job security? Victory goes to the bold … or more often the bold and slutty. If you can’t rock it like Liberace, at least show enough skin to make a whore blush. This is a once a year deal, a free pass to get your freak on full tilt. Wear the tube top even if it exposes your chest hair. Go for the mini-miniskirt – just make sure your boys aren’t hanging like church bells. That’s probably a line item somewhere in the employee handbook. If you really go over the top, you’ll show your co-workers and upper management that you’re willing to do what it takes … even if it takes sweat lodging it all day in a stinky, sweltering, rented rubber and fur Chewbacca costume communicating only in Wookiee growls. If you roll that strong, you put everyone in the office on notice that you’re willing to boil the bunny. Respek. Regardless of how you decide to go, the important thing is to lose your sense of dignity. Nothing queers a good Halloween costume more than trying to “tone it down a little.” For a costume to really work, you have to feel utterly ridiculous. If you don’t, then maybe you chose something too close to home. Pets understand this concept. Dachshunds are absolutely humiliated to be dressed in tutus, but deep down they know they look hilarious. Otherwise, why would they wear them so often? If after a full day of Halloween indignity, you feel like laughing at something other than yourself, head over to the Austin Music Hall for Austin Humane Society’s Rags2Wags dog and cat celebrity fashion show. Enjoy cocktails and food from Pascal’s Catering Company; a silent auction for trips, spa packages, jewelry and more; plus live music and dancing with Bruce Robison, all benefiting Austin’s only no-kill animal shelter. Boo! Yeah!

Scare for a Cure’s World of Horrorcraft

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October 21, 2008

West Coasters who visit Austin for the first time – those who spend a few days getting to know the place – often remark about how people here are “unpretentious” or “genuine.” It’s basically the same thing people from Austin say about people in Giddings or Lampasas – the same thing that could be said about a huge swath of America, the Western hemisphere, or even the world. But really, what’s the point of saying the people of Tikrit are down to earth? Does it mean that they have nothing left to eat but dirt? Does it mean somebody just screamed, “Incoming!”? Or, could it simply mean that they’re too busy scraping out a subsistence to worry about what anyone else thinks? Here in Austin, we’re hardly scraping out subsistence. In fact, we get along well enough that we have plenty of free time and energy to engage in all sorts of dorky pursuits, and we do so shamelessly. We’re so immersed in our dorkitude, in fact, that we sometimes forget that anyone is paying attention to us at all. We’re basically a town full of nutty professors, wandering around in a daze with our heads crammed full of arcane facts about things like Frisbee golf, hallucinogenic mushrooms, zombie movies, minor league soccer, interpretive dance, and Townes Van Zandt. Not only that, we’re willing to share this information with anyone unfortunate enough to meet our gaze for more than an instant. Sure, it may seem like earnest sincerity to the uninitiated, but really it’s just psychotic self-absorption. Is that an admirable quality? Who knows? What people really mean when they say Austin is “authentic” is that we embrace our dorkiness instead of hiding it. We’re unabashed. We go to the grocery store in spandex biking shorts and hiking sandals; we freely admit to attending renaissance fairs, sci-fi film festivals, and drum circles; we ride Segways, dance salsa, and participate in live action role-playing, then talk about it over beers at Opal Divine’s. It’s precious, really, until your landlord hands you a flyer for his experimental performance art piece at the Off Center. The upshot of all of this unrepentant dorkiness is that it’s really hard in Austin to be a bigger dork than everyone else. You have to really work at it, and that’s just not the Austin way. So, you can pretty much revel in all the dorky shit your heart desires. This weekend you can do just that when Scare for a Cure opens its World of Horrorcraft (no, that’s not a misprint) haunted house at the Elks Lodge on Dawson Road. For $20 you can scream your lungs out and dirt your trousers in support of local cancer-related charities. After all, a pretend haunted house is scary but not nearly as frightening as cancer, which is about as unpretentious as you can get.

Keep Austin Young: Celebrating the Life of Danny Roy Young

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October 14, 2008

Sunday night’s Keep Austin Young concert at the Music Hall might be a little misleading. A quick scan of the lineup reveals that pretty much everyone on the bill qualifies for an AARP discount … or soon will. Surely this irony wasn’t missed by the promoters. More likely they embraced it because the Keep Austin Young concert isn’t a scenester rave or a Methodist youth rally. It’s a celebration of the life of Danny Roy Young, a man who would have appreciated the title’s irony more than most. Young, who died in August at the age of 67, was the owner of the now defunct Texicalli Grill, a restaurant that in its later years occupied a converted Taco Bell on Oltorf next to Curra’s. Unlike its corporately homogenized predecessor, the Texicalli was a uniquely Austin establishment. The walls were cluttered with Young’s collection of music memorabilia, and the tables were usually filled with his colorful collection of friends: musicians, politicians, bubbas, hippies, and slackers. All came to eat good food, drink, and swap stories. Young was as much a raconteur as a restaurateur, and a good part of the charm of the Texicalli was the outgoing, good-natured banter of its owner, the “Mayor of South Austin,” an honorary title that was the result of Young being named Best Mayor for the City of South Austin in the Chronicle’s 1992 “Best of Austin” issue – partly for his political activism opposing expansion of South Lamar (where the original Texicalli was located) and partly because Young was so beloved by his unofficial constituency. As with any true South Austinite, Young was also a musician – a rubboard player for several bands: Ponty Bone, Texana Dames, and perhaps most famously with the Cornell Hurd Band. During their Thursday night residency at Jovita’s, Hurd would often refer to Young as the “Lord of the Board.” In true South Austin style, Young’s rubboard was handmade, played with leather gloves that had mercury dimes glued to the fingertips – exactly the kind of thing you might come up with while stoned at a South Austin back-porch jam session. Although Young retired from the restaurant business a couple of years ago, he continued with his rubboard career as well as his role as a South Austin icon, emblematic of an era when Austin valued creativity and talent more than money and style. The fact that Young’s benefit is at the Austin Music Hall piles on further irony. All the rapacious development – those towering new condos and sleek new businesses were built on the bones of the scene that greedless good timers like Danny Young created. It’s fitting that Young’s family should benefit from them in turn, if only indirectly. If you didn’t know Danny, you still have plenty of reason to pay your respect. He’s part of the reason you and thousands of other people live in Austin. If that’s not reason enough, how about several hours of music from the crème de la crème of Austin’s old guard musicians: the Texana Dames, Ponty Bone, Marcia Ball, Ray Benson, the Cornell Hurd Band featuring Teisco del Rey, Floyd Domino, Blackie White, the Antone’s House Band, and perhaps the finest songwriter in the known world, James McMurtry.

Apocalypse Wow!

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October 7, 2008

It makes sense that Francis Ford Coppola would make a respectable wine – not just because he’s Italian and lives in San Francisco but because he’s unquestionably enjoyed some bacchanalian excess. Over the years, his body has become a huge, hairy dirigible advertising the dangers of la dolce vita. Ironically, Coppola is carrying roughly the same weight Marlon Brando was when he played Kurtz in Apocalypse Now. No need to throw stones, but perhaps the paparazzi should shoot Coppola entirely in the shadows – like he did Brando in the movie (well, at least the scenes where he wasn’t using a manatee as Brando’s body double). Really, when you’re paying a couple of million dollars for a sweaty sumo wrestler with a speech impediment, what’s a few hundred thou more to maintain a saltwater stock tank full of hydrilla and turtle grass? If a manatee contract rider seems excessive, maybe you’re not cut out for Hollywood. Movie-making isn’t for the faint hearted. Ask Martin Sheen. At 36, he suffered a heart attack during the filming of Apocalypse Now – probably because at some point he found out what Brando was being paid. That might also explain the drunken, improvised Elvis-kwon-do hotel room scene at the beginning of the movie – the one where he breaks the mirror with his fist while Jim Morrison slurs the apocalyptic lyrics to “The End” in the background. Sheen should have probably won an Oscar for that scene, but unfortunately, he wasn’t acting. It was his birthday, and he was depressed and alcoholic. Plus, it was fucking monsoon season for Christ,s sake. Coppola himself threatened suicide on several occasions, not only because Brando gave him a frightening vision of his physiological future, but because back in ’78, $30 million was a lot of money to flush down the toilet on an ego trip. Of course, how could he know that nearly 20 years later Kevin Costner would make that figure look like chump change with his idiot-epic Waterworld (aka Fishtar), which tabbed out at $176 million, a stark illustration of what happens when you trade Thai Stick for blow. As a result, no one in Hollywood returns Costner’s calls anymore, not even Flavor Flav. You can see how after more than 200 days of slogging around the Philippines in monsoon season, Coppola would get serious about stomping grapes. Who could have guessed he would blow up like one? Big as he is, Coppola’s films are even bigger, and Apocalypse Now might be the biggest of all. If not, it’s at least the most ambitious. Bottom line is that art takes balls … unless, of course, you’re a burlesque troupe, in which case balls aren’t a requirement. You still need moxy, chutzpah, nerve, and cheek, though, and nowhere will you find more cheek than the Kitty Kitty Bang Bang burlesque troupe. This Saturday at 9pm, they will be performing a new show called Apocalypse Wow! at the Compound, which sounds like the set for a Rambo movie, but it’s really just a performance space next to the Scoot Inn on East Fourth. Apocalypse Wow! pairs the Bangers with Tom Waits Peepshow cohorts the No Salvation Army Band in an “apocalyptic musical romp” that may be the most artistically ambitious thing you’ve seen that doesn’t involve killing a water buffalo.

Texas Freedom Network’s 13th Annual Celebration

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September 30, 2008

It would be really awesome if Jesus returns to earth in a tricked-out intergalactic spaceship with chrome trim, rocking George Clinton party-colored dreads and sparkly, high-heeled, Funkadelic zip-up disco boots. That shit would be fly. Maybe throw in a little acid house woofing out of some wicked monster subs screwed on to the chassis – something like a skanky, bass-heavy remix of “Love Train.” Jesus shimmies down the landing ramp, throwing ass, thrusting crotch, flashing his godly white overbite, grooving like the son of the inventor of groove itself. Oh, and don’t forget the 18-carat diamond encrusted dollar-sign money clip. What would Jesus do? You have to think God would be whispering in his ear, mimicking the voice of Lil’ Wayne, rapping, “Got money, and you know it. Take it out your pocket and show it; and throw it, that a way, this a way … And of course G Junior would be flinging handfuls of hundreds to the unsoaped, outstretched hands of the poor, because really, what does God care about scratch? He invented that shit too – both denomination and devil. The poor will be all cheerful, patting themselves on the back knowing they were smart enough to stay meek so they could inherit the kingdom of heaven. After all, they’ve been holed up for years home-schooling with legions of other knuckle-draggers and slack jaws, learning creationism and how the hip bone connected to the thigh bone and all that, but mostly hoping Jesus shakes a leg and brings on the Rapture before they end up in the same dead-end, minimum wage shit jobs as their parents. After all, Jesus was a carpenter, so you’d think he would show up for the job early. He did the first time around, but (also like a carpenter) he knocked off early and left us to finish His work. At first it was all, just love each other and hope you don’t get slaughtered by the Romans, but then the Romans got hold of the Bible and plunged Western civilization into the Dark Ages, which sadly seems to be when most Christian fundamentalist textbooks were approved. Fundamentalist dogma is pretty much the same today as it was back then. It’s easy to cast aside a couple of thousand years of scientific advancement and social progress when you’re a dumbass, and fundamentalists seem particularly talented at churning them out – if only so succeeding generations of dumbasses can continue to make their way to textbook approval committees and school boards. In America, we attempt to be polite to hair-brained fundamentalist knuckleheads, mainly because our country was founded by them. That doesn’t mean we have to agree with them or adopt their simpleton textbooks however. Even if the Moral Majority really is a majority, it would truly be immoral of the immoral to let them set the educational agenda. Soon enough, we’d all be wearing pilgrim hats and buckle shoes and fucking through holes in blankets. Thankfully, here in Texas, we have the Texas Freedom Network, a watchdog organization that presents a mainstream voice to counter the regressive agenda of the religious right. This Saturday they’re having their 13th annual fundraiser at La Zona Rosa. You can nudge along the progress and enlightenment of Western civilization simply by eating delicious food, bidding in the silent auction, and dancing to Ian McLagan & the Bump Band and fiddle prodigy Ruby Jane Smith. Or, you could just sit around waiting for the Rapture.

Austin City Limits Festival

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September 24, 2008

This weekend will be an epic smackdown: burnt orange vs. Birkenstocks. 100,000 football fans vs. 60,000 music fans – some of them might even be from Arkansas, but don’t assume they are just because they’re standing barefoot in front of the Drive-by Truckers stage making hog noises. Trying to clear the sinuses of a day’s worth of Zilker Park dust and ragweed pollen can make anyone sound like a 1,200 pound Berkshire, even if it’s just a 90 pound emo kid. If it rains, there’s a good chance the Foo Fighters mosh pit will greatly resemble a hog wallow as well, but just because people are half-naked and covered in mud doesn’t necessarily mean they’re from Arkansas. It’s a pretty good sign, yes, but it’s not a lock. Think about Woodstock and Bonnaroo and Kerrville. Those people were dirty and smelly, but they couldn’t have all been from Arkansas. Sometimes outdoor music festival fans just look like they’re from Arkansas. For instance, those really cute, sexy shorts you normally only wear with open-toed sandals? Can’t do that at ACL. You could rock that combo at, say, the Longhorn game, even though it’s not necessarily wise considering you’ll be dragging them through the garbage slough underneath the bleachers while trying to get to your seat, but there’s at least a chance you might make it home without coating your piggies in Skoal spit, popcorn husks, and nacho cheese. At the Austin City Limits Music Festival, however, wearing open-toed shoes is sheer fucking lunacy. Unless you’re superhuman, at some point you’re going to have to expose your bare dogs to a porta-potty floor – or worse yet, negotiate the sewage swamp that leads to it. Maybe you can get right with that, but traditionally only the dirtiest of dirty hippies (not to be confused with people from Arkansas) can walk that walk. Going open-toed at ACL takes a mind either brave or simple enough not to be troubled by things like E. coli, hookworm, tetanus, impetigo, or the condemnation of more fastidious friends. Fortunately, for most people, pragmatism takes hold and those cute, sexy shorts get paired with something really dorky like hiking boots, track shoes, or Crocs, which technically are open-toed but have the advantage of holding up well to a pressure washer. Even still, if you wear Crocs to ACL on Saturday, you can rest assured that by the time Robert Plant and Alison Krauss break into a rousing, hillbilly banjo pickin’ version of “Black Dog,” the song title will be a reasonably accurate description of either of your feet. Later, if you should have the audacity to ask your date for a post-festival foot rub, be prepared to have your feet splattered with the regurgitated remains of a fried-avocado wrap. Fortunately at ACL, most people keep their eyes turned upward. What’s happening onstage is usually more exciting and less nauseating than what’s going on down at foot level. This year, the ACL lineup is particularly spectacular, so there shouldn’t be much shoe-gazing going on. Get your pass while you can, or you may end up with all those shoeless Razorbacks at Darrell K. Royal-Texas Memorial Stadium.

Fantastic Fest Rolling Roadshow Screening of ‘The Road Warrior’

The Luv Doc Recommends

September 16, 2008

There are a variety of ways the apocalypse could go down: We could be smashed … by a giant asteroid. We could particle accelerate ourselves into a black hole. We could catch a nasty virus, fry in a solar flare, or get a wobble in our axis. There is also the possibility that aliens could land and save us from the preceding calamities … or instead, they might just conquer and enslave us. You think your boss is a bitch now, wait until you get one who can chew your ass out with seven scaly heads full of razor-sharp teeth and slimy, acrid smelling saliva. You’ll be praying for the days when you got dressed down by a menopausal state worker with a bead-blinged ID lanyard and wicked coffee breath. If the apocalypse does occur, it’s not going to arrive with a whimper. By definition it’s going to involve shock and awe; people running through the streets screaming, fire and brimstone. Otherwise it’s not really an apocalypse; it’s just a shitty turn of events. If a couple of investment firms file bankruptcy and the stock market plunges, that really sucks, but it’s not the apocalypse. Unemployment? Inflation? High gas prices? All are certainly turds in the punchbowl, but to truly be apocalyptic, the situation has to deteriorate beyond measurable statistics. You can’t just nickel and dime your way to an apocalypse. President Bush has been trying to bring on the end of days for some time now but, like his father, hasn’t quite gotten the ball across the goal line. Why? Well, contrary to popular opinion, he’s not the Antichrist. Sadly, no matter what Alex Jones tries to tell you, Bush just didn’t have an Antichrist grade point average. Plus, here’s a really important point: The Antichrist would never try out for cheerleader. Pom-pom maybe, but never cheerleader. So, how will you know when the world is coming to an end? Well, that’s the kicker. You probably won’t, and that’s probably a good thing. If an asteroid the size of Hawaii slams into the Earth, you’ll probably have just enough time to say, “What was tha…?” In the Sudan, they call that mercy. Similarly, with a black hole you won’t have to worry about whether you left your iron on. You won’t have time to to be thankful that it was a black hole that did you in rather than, say, a death star. The ugly truth of the matter – the higher probability – is that somehow mankind is going to fuck things up and drag out the suffering unnecessarily. We’ll deplete the ozone or poison the oceans and air or procreate ourselves into one big, teeming, filthy, rugby scrum clusterfuck of a planet. That’s not the traditional view of the apocalypse, but it’s probably the most spot on. There probably won’t be a postgame. We won’t be tooling around the empty outback in a supercharged Ford Falcon saving little fur-vested, mulleted kids from gas hording thugs in shoulder pads. That’s a best-case scenario – a fantasy – the kind of stuff Hollywood does really well, but nature can’t seem to put together … even with an unlimited budget. This Friday you can live the fantasy right in the middle of Republic Square Park when Alamo Drafthouse’s Fantastic Fest hosts a special Rolling Roadshow screening of The Road Warrior, starring a younger Mel Gibson and the even younger aforementioned kid with the even more spectacular mullet. You could be in a much worse place if the world actually does come to an end.

PDAP Benefit with Kelly Willis and Patrice Pike

The Luv Doc Recommends

September 9, 2008

If you’re not high on life, maybe you need to take a bigger hit. Suck in hard, and burn it up. Make it glow. Live large. Love strong. You don’t need chemicals for consciousness expansion. Certainly they’ll do in a pinch, but they’re costly and messy â€¦ like Bonnaroo. Sure, you can probably cook up a cheap batch of trashcan meth, but in the long run, you’re better off directing that kind of energy into something that won’t rot your teeth out and make you scratch holes in your skin. Open sores are messy, but finding a bloody brown bicuspid in your frozen yogurt is just fucking disgusting. Having something like that happen on a first date is even worse that wearing a belt-clip cell phone â€“ but only slightly â€“ and only if you’re not doubling it up with a Bluetooth. Without a doubt, speed kills, but stupidity definitely chambers the bullet. If you’ve ever purchased meth, you know that it involves a mobile home, vicious pit bulls, the smell of cat urine, and a sketchy, paranoid, tattooed guy named Cody whose wife sits on the couch and leers at you through a recently blackened eye. K-L-A-S-S. No doubt Cody is grabbing life by the balls, but after a normal meth transaction your first Darwinistic impulse should be to immediately enroll in a convent or seminary or at the very least ITT Tech. If you’re feeling all high and mighty because you’re just a pot smoker, bring it on down. It’s probably because you’re stoned. Dope smokers may still have most of their teeth, but they’re not a whole lot higher â€¦ up the food chain. Well, maybe the fast-food chain. Yes, there are some highly successful dope smokers, but the same could be said of just about any drug. Hitler was a crank addict. Manson smoked dope. Maybe you’ll be as successful as they were. You may, on the other hand, see yourself as the next Seth Rogen, sitting on your sofa all day getting baked and thinking up wicked funny shit to make into movies. That is an excellent plan albeit with one slight little hitch: You probably didn’t star in a critically acclaimed but canceled TV series. Ouch. Yeah â€¦ truth hurts. You probably missed the audition, because you were on the couch getting stoned. Had you been high on life, you might have at least been first in line. They probably still would have picked Seth Rogen, but at least you tried, right? Life is hard, but mostly interesting if you do it right. New experiences can be quite addictive. If you’ve never experienced Kelly Willis, she’s quite intoxicating. This Friday at Antone’s, she, along with award-winning rocker Patrice Pike, will be performing a benefit concert for Palmer Drug Abuse Program, a support group that helps young adults and their parents recover from the effects of mind-changing chemicals. Antone’s alcohol sales might take a nosedive Friday, but this is for a good cause, so somebody is going to have to step up to the plate and knock back a few in the name of sobriety. Could that be you?

Will’s Mad Hatter Boat Party

The Luv Doc Recommends

September 2, 2008

As your burnt-out lawn will attest, it was really hot and dry this summer. Thankfully, it’s almost fall. In a few more months, you may actually have to throw on some leg warmers with those hot pants and heels. It really depends on the look you’re trying to achieve with your Halloween costume. Temperature-wise it will still be hotter than dog shit in a skillet. So, in late October when you’re thrashing through the aisles at Lucy in Disguise with a couple of underarm sweat crescents in full blossom, try to remember that anything involving rubber, fur, or feathers should only be trotted out for effect – ideally in a pay-by-the-hour motel room with the thermostat set on 50. Otherwise, a Wal-Mart bikini, some pink flip-flops, and a Clearblue Easy wand should do the trick (hello … Bristol Palin?). Of course, in Austin, you don’t have to be topical to run around half naked. It doesn’t even have to be Halloween or Election Day. Here in River City, it’s legal to bare your boobs in public … as long as you don’t charge a cover. Same thing goes if you’re sporting moobs. In fact, as long as your boys are cradled in a slingshot or a jockstrap or maybe a bright-yellow banana hammock, you are walking on the right side of the law. That doesn’t mean, of course, that you don’t stand a chance of getting maced, Tased, or nightsticked by our boys in blue; it just means that when your case comes up for a hearing, you can impress the judge with your comprehensive knowledge of state and municipal statutes. She’ll probably still fine you for public indecency, disorderly conduct, or walking around in a bright-yellow banana hammock with your moobs hanging out (all three of which are basically the same thing), but at least you’ll have the legal, if not necessarily moral high ground. The main thing to remember is that in a couple of months, it will actually be pleasant outside – pleasant enough that your clothing won’t feel like a recently steamed tamale husk. By then, you’ll probably want to try out some new fall fashions or at least get some use out of the L.L.Bean stuff in your closet that you wear only three months out of the year. That may sound really nice and Rockwellian right now, but by November you’ll miss all the glistening tanned flesh and the smell of chemically created coconut. Cold weather is much too high a price to pay for pert nipples, so carpe the caliente diem while you can. How about a little recreational boating? This Saturday DJ Will Konitzer will be hosting Will’s Mad Hatter Boat Party on Lake Travis. Starting at Riviera Marina in Volente at 4pm, Will, along wth DJs Joshua Triplet and Rez, and special guest Andrew Parsons will be pumping up the jams on their party boat. Dress code: swimsuits and hats. Beer and hot dogs will be provided, but it’s still BYOB – that goes for booze and bowlers.

Wild Weekend Power Pop Festival

The Luv Doc Recommends

August 26, 2008

If you read this paper, chances are you’re not engaged in real labor – at least not on a daily basis. Good for you. Sure, you may occasionally spend an hour behind a push mower or a weekend helping your buddy move out of his ex-girlfriend’s apartment. You might even spend 36 hours of horrible, agonizing, blood-splattered labor having your taint torn to shreds by a 12-pound-melon-headed freak of nature you’ll someday refer to as “the love of your life,” but that’s still a one-off, even if you get mad props for bearing down and gettin’ ‘er done. More than likely you bide the bulk of your time with your ass planted in a plush, ergonomic office chair designed with extra width to give that burgeoning badonkadonk some room to grow. Yes, you can go to spin class, water aerobics, Jazzercise, and krav maga; you can do Pilates, take yoga, lift weights, and run and run and run and run, but you’re always fighting an ugly battle with eons of evolutionary conditioning and genetic predisposition. Hey, isn’t it wonderful that you don’t have to work all day in the unmerciful sun busting rocks like Spartacus? Rest assured that even though Kirk Douglas looked totally ripped in that role, the real Spartacus would have pissed himself at the prospect of fattening his ass surfing porn, sucking down Red Bull, and eating Little Debbie snacks. Aside from being able to do his laundry on his abs, Spartacus probably didn’t benefit much from the lean, ropy, Abercrombie model look back in the days of the Roman Empire. Back then being fat was a sign that you could afford to lay around all day at the spa drinking wine, popping grapes in your mouth, and practicing wanton acts of pedophilia and bestiality. That may not particularly be your cup of tea, but it’s a safe bet that just about any Roman slave would have preferred fucking a lion to being eaten by one. The ancient Greeks … well, they were kind of kinky. Anyway, the point is that you’re probably not out on the range digging potholes, and that’s a good thing. In fact, you will probably get more exercise celebrating Labor Day weekend than you do on an average day at work. Part of the credit for that goes to some truly backbreaking labor done by some of your ancestors (Yes, that even includes folks like Kennedys and the Astors. Their progeny may have run liquor and chased beaver, but they surely didn’t have to work as hard at it). Regardless of how mentally, psychologically, and spiritually challenging your job is, you still have it pretty sweet, all things considered. By all means, celebrate! If you’re particularly removed from the blue-collar, chain wallet, Docs and Dickies crowd, you might appreciate the Wild Weekend Power Pop Festival going on Friday and Saturday at Beerland and Mohawk, respectively. Check out awesome skinny tie bands like Paul Collins’ Beat, Pointed Sticks, Nikki Corvette, and the Boys, plus relative latecomers Grand Champeen, Power Chords, Poor People, and Luxury Sweets. Night shows at Mohawk are a paltry $25 a night, and the day shows at Beerland are free. So if you’re employed or even if you’re unemployed, there’s a show for you.

Austin Chronicle Hot Sauce Festival

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August 19, 2008

If you are what you eat, wouldn’t you rather be hot? Exactly. The hotter the better. There will be plenty of time to cool off when you’re dead, so you might as well peg your needle to the red. Food is no exception. There’s nothing wrong with mashed potatoes, roasted chicken, and banana cream pie. They’ll keep you alive, but they aren’t very exciting – well actually, banana cream pie can be interesting with the right models and photographer, but the same could be said of a pitcher of milk. There is a place in the world for blandness – probably somewhere in Kansas or Nebraska or Iowa – but Austin is a little closer to the edge … of the continent. We bump and grind against other cultures a bit more than the folks in the soft middle, and we like it. Our preference for mixing things up carries over to our food as well. We put garlic and pepper in our mashed potatoes, jalapeños in our cheeseburgers, and pretty much anything that isn’t still moving in our tortillas. Most importantly, we put chips in our hot sauce – again and again and again. So many times that we’re often too stuffed for the entrée. You might ask yourself, “Why do we call it hot sauce instead of salsa?” Answer: We’re south, but we’re not that far south. Our tortillas are still mostly flour instead of corn. We like cheese and sour cream on our tacos too, but when it comes to salsa, we like it hot, which may be why we can’t seem to consistently call it by its true name unless we’re trying to bridge a language barrier. We got the love, though. Austinites will forgive a frightening amount of culinary ineptitude as long as the hot sauce is decent. If you’ve ever bought a day-old sausage-and-egg taco out of a cooler in the back of a dented Toyota pickup truck with a camper shell, sold by someone with dirty fingernails who counts out your change entirely in Spanish, you truly understand the importance of good salsa. When it’s made right, salsa is the culinary correction tape of the Southwest. You can burn your brisket, overboil your beans, steam your rice into a soggy paste, but if you can make a good hot sauce, all is forgiven – bonus points if you can back it up with a decent margarita. There are plenty of Austin restaurants that have built their clientele on those two items alone. Where else in America can you peddle saltines and government cheese and stay in business for more than a week? It could be that Austinites just need more sweat and vitamin C than other blander burghs, or it could be that we’re simply a city of masochists. Whatever the case, hot sauce is unquestionably the most important element in Austin cuisine, even though it’s rarely listed on the menu. If you don’t believe it, come down to Waterloo Park this Sunday where more than 10,000 of your fellow Austinites will prove their love in the withering August heat. Sample hot sauce from some of Austin’s favorite restaurants, or bring a batch of your own to enter in the contest. And, since this is Austin, there will be plenty of beer and music by Girl in the Closet, Fingerpistol, Jungle Rockers, Band of Heathens, and Black Joe Lewis & the Honey Bears. Best of all, admission is free when you bring three nonperishable food items for the Capital Area Food Bank.

Madonna 50th Birthday Sing-Along

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August 8, 2008

This Saturday, Madonna turns 50. That means Blondie must be hobbling around on a tennis-ball walker somewhere. Or maybe she’s launching a comeback tour under the name “Grayie.” She’s probably doing the Four Seasons Retirement Home circuit, playing back-to-back shows at 8:30 and 10:30am, croaking out, “Once I had prunes, and they gave me gas” for her big encore, which is inspired by the soft patter of well-medicated hands. Polite applause is about the best you can hope for anyway. You don’t want the Q-tips pelting you with lingerie purchased out of a medical-supply catalog. Titter if you want, but working the activities center stage (well, to be accurate, it’s not really a stage but generally the most well lit corner of the room – usually where they keep the fake Ficus) is a tough gig. So respek, yo. Madonna, on the other hand, probably just finished wet-nursing baby Banda last week – and not just for pleasure. If 50 is the new 30, Madonna is still 25. She could cougar a 12-year-old if she really wanted to and if it were legal, which it might actually be in England. Plus, any Italian chick who routinely pisses off the Vatican in order to sell more records is infallibly hot. Why? Because she knows her hell ticket’s already punched. So really, what’s a wild night on a Motel 6 vibrating bed with a midget, a goat, and a couple of gallons of Vaseline? Does she care? Hard to say. The pope gets to spend eternity in heaven with Jesus and His Dad, but Madonna played Seven Seconds in Heaven with Britney Spears and Christina Aguilera on national TV. There hasn’t been a pope with that kind of mack since at least the 11th century. Jealous anyone? It’s a nonissue anyway, considering the current pope is probably a huge Blondie fan. It’s easy to ride the high horse of celibacy when you’re an octogenarian, but that doesn’t mean you need to piss holy water on the head of every fishnet-wearing pop star who incorporates masturbation into her stage show … unless … it’s mutually consensual. More than anything, Madonna is a globe-straddling (yeah, that’s hot too) icon of her hedonistic, self-absorbed generation who turned all preachy once she popped out a couple of guppies (and then borrowed one from another fishbowl). You get the feeling that if you were to attend a high tea with her and Bono, they would bore you to death with their hot-winded bullshit – right up until you whipped out the Bolivian marching powder and cranked up the Erasure. At that point, all bets are off. Just cover your exposed holes, and try not to give the paparazzi a decent angle. If you’re like most people who haven’t been permanently crossed off the pope’s “nice” list, you don’t need that kind of scenario to have a good time. Some good music, beer, and a roomful of fun-loving people should do the trick. You can get just that this Friday night when the Alamo Drafthouse hosts the Madonna 50th Birthday Sing-Along. Get into the groove with a Madonnalicious night of revelry celebrating the birth and, more importantly, the dogged resilience of one of America’s … scratch that … England’s greatest pop-culture icons.

Second Annual Austin Ice Cream Festival

The Luv Doc Recommends

August 5, 2008

Yes, of course it’s hot. You’re in Austin. It’s August. Every day when you walk outside it feels like you’re standing in front of oven … an oven with a big steaming bowl of water in it. Even the breeze feels like a Labrador panting on the back of your neck. This is the time of year when you ask yourself, “How boring is San Diego … really?” Sure, there are plenty of other places with a milder climate: Hawaii, Miami, L.A. (those 13 million people don’t live there because of the Mexican food and the smog), but all have their drawbacks. Hawaii, along with having too many vowels in its name, also has Hawaiian shirts, which even on people like Tom Selleck are an unforgivable blight on the landscape. Sadly, most are worn by dudes who look like Wilford Brimley. Imagine if Texans went around wearing shirts with bluebonnets and Indian paintbrushes on them. Same difference. Miami would be cool – especially if you could turn off the Sound Machine and just lay out on the beach all day without having to watch the leathery funbags of European tourists bounce by above your head. El Lay? Seriously? Eventually those 13 million people are going to figure out a way to fuck up the sweet climate, too. They’re already off to a great start. The irony is that the valley holds in the smog like a huge, toxic bong hit – a veritable red-carpet treatment for the grim reaper. There’s plenty of fresh air in places like Montana and Alaska, but you have to weigh that against half a year of nipple/nut shrinking cold. Just when you start to develop those sexy tan lines you have to wrap them up in Gore-Tex or goose down until the spring thaw. It gets cold in Austin, but you never have to dig a snow tunnel to your driveway or sleep with your sled dogs to fend off frostbite. Generally staying warm isn’t much of a problem at all, unless you pass out on a park bench in mid February and your mangy, homeless, canine companion (wearing the obligatory Bobby McGee, “dirty red bandanna”) doesn’t wake you up by licking the vomit off your face. If you ever needed reassurance that Austin’s climate is nicer than, say, Minneapolis, just compare homeless populations. Ever been annoyed by a squeegee-wielding homeless man on a Minneapolis street corner in February? Right … because there aren’t any. They’re all down in Austin working on their winter tans. Of course, the payback comes in August when the challenge is staying cool. It’s not as tough as it sounds. City pools are free and frio. There’s also Barton Creek, the fountains at Palmer, and if things get really ugly, Waller Creek. If you’re one of those fortunate people whose résumé isn’t printed on a piece of cardboard, you have the option of cooling down in a more genteel setting. Perhaps an Evian spritzer poolside at the Four Seasons? If you want to try something a little more modest but equally decadent, head down to Waterloo Park this Saturday for the second annual Austin Ice Cream Festival. Cool down with ice cream from a variety of different vendors, and enjoy a variety of games, activities, and contests, as well as live music by acts like the 3 Balls of Fire, Loose Cannons, Chad Thomas & the Crazy Kings, and the Biscuit Brothers. Admission is $2, but you’ll want to bring an extra wad for the ice cream. Sometimes being cool can be costly.

Erotica 2008

The Luv Doc Recommends

July 29, 2008

There is so much porn on the Internet these days, really, why even bother with an erotica art show? Perhaps you have a beef with representationalism? Maybe you like your body parts all angled and askew and akimbo like a Picasso cubist nude? Or maybe you’re into Bambi-eyed hentai bimbos with huge, shiny, watermelon boobs and hairless nethers who straddle anaconda-sized penises spewing ropy fountains of shimmering jiz? Maybe you’re especially fond of the ones where the girls have furry bunny ears and hooves instead of feet? With animé, anything’s possible. Same with Photoshop. If you haven’t taken a nude picture of yourself and then pasted Johnny Wadd’s tally-whacker (enlarged 1000% so it’s roughly the girth of a duffel bag) over your shrunken tadpole, you’re not really utilizing technology to its fullest extent. If you do it right, people will be asking you, “What’s that giant mushroom in the foreground of your MySpace photo?” So what if you can’t deliver the goods in meatspace. Real life is just a consecutive series of crushing disappointments anyway, isn’t it? Besides, imagine having to schlep around a duffel-bag-sized penis all the time. The carnies would tease you mercilessly. You’re much better off packing your spandex banana hammock with a baby-arm-shaped wad of biscuit dough. Sure, it might start smelling a little yeasty down there after a while, but people expect that from someone wearing a spandex banana hammock in the real world. Rocking a slingshot on the Internet, however, is considered kitschy, especially if you’ve grafted your head onto Arnold Schwarzenegger’s 1967 Mr. Universe photo. Of course, you shouldn’t miss out on all the fun just because your Y chromosome is on permanent sabbatical. Imagine how many Facebook friend requests you’d have if your profile photo featured a Dolly Parton-sized cleavage crevasse? Having a plastic surgeon load that kind of baggage on your fragile desk chair spine would be insane, but the Internet is a zero gravity environment. Even if you decide not to go top-heavy, at the very least you should drop in a Marilyn Monroe beauty mark. Passing up an opportunity like that is just being lazy. With just a little more effort, you could also throw a little digital collagen into those lips and pencil in some butterfly eyelashes. First impressions go a long way, and really, expecting people to live up to their image on the Internet is sort of like expecting all radio DJs to look like Ryan Seacrest. And really, for all you know, Ryan has three nipples and a wicked case of toenail fungus. Reality isn’t always pretty, even when you dress it up and hit it with an airbrush. People are inevitably imperfect – even Jenna Jameson doing a muff-n-duff with a couple of well-greased Gold’s Gym night managers is still going to reveal a few moles and stray hairs. Art, on the other hand, is always perfect because it’s always the embodiment of the artist’s ideal. That doesn’t mean it isn’t butt-ugly a lot of the time, it’s just that it’s as good as it could have possibly been at the time and under the circumstances in which it was created. Porn may be exhibitionistic, but certainly no more so than any other kind of art. The artist exposes his or her idealism to the rest of the world, and the rest of the world gets to appreciate it or mercilessly ridicule it, as the case may be. It’s a sort of porn of idealism. So really, art and porn aren’t even distant cousins. It’s just that when art gets sexy, it’s called erotica, and there’s usually not a money shot. That doesn’t mean it isn’t interesting and worth a peek. Maybe you should relax your grip on your joystick and head down to Gallery Lombardi, where this Saturday night from 7pm to 11pm they’re opening Erotica 2008, an exhibit of 50 erotic works from area artists. Along with erotica you can actually meet real people, who, although they’re imperfect, are much more interesting and erotically satisfying than porn could ever be.

The Pleasurecraft

The Official Luv Doc Web Site

Month: November 2020