Geeks Who Drink Pub Quiz

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March 2, 2009

Geeks Who Drink

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

Willie Nelson

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

Beard and Moustache Competition Poster

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

Burlesque for Peace Poster

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

Red Stapler Dude from Office Space

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-HeadKing 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’

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January 27, 2009

The Austin Motel Sign

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

Jo’s Chili Cold Blood Chili Cook Off

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

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January 13, 2009

Bye Bye Bush Poster

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

Carolyn Wonderland

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

Riverboat Gamblers

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.