Month: November 2020

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’

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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

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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 … 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 – but only slightly – 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 … 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 … 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

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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

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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.