The Gourds New Year’s Eve Masquerade Ball

The Luv Doc Recommends

December 29, 2009

When the big ball drops Thursday night, the Aughts will become the shoulda’s. You’re probably planning on spending the evening in quiet, contemplative thought, torturing over the mishaps and missed opportunities of the last decade. There are certainly lessons to be learned. For instance: Presidents of the United States should at least be able to maintain a B average … even at Yale … even if they’re cheerleaders. In retrospect that doesn’t seem to be too much to ask, but sometime in the last decade a lot of people went to the polls thinking that if below average was good enough to sell Amway, drive a semi, work a backhoe, or maintain a plumber’s crack, it should work fine for the Oval Office too. Turns out they were dead wrong. Sadly, a lot of their sons and daughters didn’t have the luxury of being wrong. They were just dead. George Bush and the extended Bush family didn’t contribute any of their bloodline to that corpse pile, nor did most of the rich people in America … nor will they ever. Happily, some rather major advances were made in robot technology in the last decade that are allowing more and more soldiers to pull joysticks instead of triggers. Increasingly, robots and robotic technology are being used on the front lines of the war on terror. The day may soon (perhaps already has?) come when the son of a drywall mudder from Round Rock will be able to fly a remote-control nanobot up Osama bin Laden’s nose which will burrow its way to his heart in a matter of minutes. So we have that to look forward to … as well as all of its terrifying potential abuses. We also learned that when it comes to being abusive, America is in the Top 10 with a bullet. We are, it would seem, some sadistic motherfuckers, given the right circumstances. Actually, we always have been. We just forgot. Vietnam was quite a while ago, and all the guys who beat the shit out of captured Nazis after World War II are mostly dead. We shouldn’t have been surprised about renditions or waterboarding or prisoner abuse though. It’s hard to find people who are willing to kill people, get shot at, and simultaneously maintain compassion, empathy, and understanding for their enemies. Maybe we can build a robot for that, or maybe we shouldn’t try. We also found out in the last decade that we can be blitheringly incompetent. We crashed a space shuttle, botched a hurricane relief effort, and most recently sent the world economy into a tailspin because we let the greedheads run amok in the world of finance. Now we’re 10% unemployed and in the hole for trillions of dollars – most likely to the Chinese. In 2000 we had a $230 billion surplus. Right now the deficit is $1.84 trillion. That’s a $2 trillion swing. Every man, woman, and child are roughly eight grand in the hole. Oh where are you now charming Billy? Leaving out those under the age of consent for rhetorical purposes, you’d be hard pressed to find many average Americans who wouldn’t Lewinski the prez for eight large … at least on the DL, and you have to figure by now Clinton has learned to keep his mouth shut. At least the Chinese are now making enough money to be the largest new-car market in the world. They also will be pumping out an unprecedented amount of greenhouse gases, so your Hyde Park bungalow might end up being beachfront property in the next 10 years. If only you could go in the sun for more than a few minutes without being riddled with basal cell carcinomas. Yes, all of this sounds pretty bleak, but there’s hope. It said so right there on the Obama campaign poster. In fact, the future’s so bright you might be blinded if you look directly into it. Starting on Jan. 1, America is going to begin building a new, green economy that will create millions of new jobs and lead to unprecedented prosperity. This new prosperity will foster social, physical, intellectual, and spiritual enlightenment that will end all war, conflict, and suffering throughout the world. That’s the thing about the future: You can’t say it won’t happen. One thing that will be happening (if it’s not already in the past when you read this) is the Gourds New Year’s Eve Masquerade Ball at the Independent. If history tell us anything, it’s that people really get their freak on when they feel anonymous, and unless you’re one of those people who dresses up in real life, this should be a great opportunity to experiment with being something you’re not. You might even get to do someone you’re not, too. Plus, you’ll be benefiting the brave new world, because the proceeds benefit the YMCA Partner of Youth Campaign, which provides financial assistance for programs and services to deserving Austin families.

Dale Watson’s Annual Christmas Show & Dance

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December 22, 2009

Ideally by now the manic materialist melee of the Christmas shopping season is behind you. There may be a few last-minute convenience-store runs for retaliatory gifting, but hey, you can’t anticipate everything. It’s not realistic to expect gifts from your yoga teacher, your postal carrier, or the person who towels sweat off the equipment at your gym. What the fuck? This isn’t Japan. People should at least be on a bro hug basis before they start buying useless shit for one another. A good rule of gifting is that if a present can be procured at the dollar store, a nice card will probably suffice. Handmade will do, too. You might even get away with a Monk-e-mail. Popping for Uchi gift certificates or weekend stays at the Four Seasons is downright creepy unless you’re a real estate agent or a personal injury lawyer. Even a box of Godiva chocolates is a bit ostentatious for any relationship that doesn’t involve blood relatives, heavy petting, or perhaps some sort of disturbing combination of the two. Otherwise, disproportionate gifting just has one effect: awkwardness. Sadly, as much as you might try to duck and cover during the holiday season, somebody you would never expect will inevitably drop a gift bomb on you. That is why you should say a little prayer of thanks for all the unrepentant heathens who keep their 24-hour convenience stores open year round. You just never know if your reclusive next-door neighbor with foil on his windows is going to drop by with a fruit basket, a cheese ball, or a used pizza box full of pot brownies. Even though you know for an absolute certainty that his heartfelt offering of friendship will soon be clogging up your garbage disposal, you will still feel enough of a tinge of guilt to send you down to the corner store at 9 o’clock on Christmas Eve to buy him an ice scraper and a bottle of 10W-30 motor oil in retaliation. You could get him a sleeve of Donettes and a six-pack of Smirnoff Ice, but you won’t want him thinking you’re trying to get in his pants. Smarter, shrewder types will just leave the giver hanging … not even a thank you note. It’s a ballsy play, but the idea behind that strategy is solid: A giver is like a hungry kitten at your screen door. If you just ignore it, it will eventually go away. In the real world, not everyone has the cold chrome heart it takes to ignore a hungry, mewing kitten – not even a metaphorical one. Money can’t buy everything, but occasionally it can buy some last-minute peace of mind, and sometimes that peace of mind just happens to come through a metal sliding drawer beneath a bulletproof glass window at 3am on Christmas morning – or as the Sikh on the other side of the glass likes to call it, “December 25.” Regardless of what you call it, at least on Christmas Day the pressure is off. You might have done good or completely screwed the pooch with the gifting, but on C-Day there’s no use worrying about it. In the immortal words of Clayton Williams, you might as well relax and enjoy it. “It” ideally would be Dale Watson’s annual Christmas Show & Dance at the Continental Club. If you’re on the fence about country music, Dale will definitely make you a believer. Plus there’s no better way to meet the opposite gender in Austin than knowing how to country dance, so stop being stuck up and give it a whirl.

Master Pancake Christmas Show

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December 16, 2009

At some point this weekend you are going to be stuck on the highway behind some hayseed from that region of Egypt that doesn’t even appear on the map. He will be driving 20 miles per hour below the speed limit and hitting his brakes at random intervals trying to decide if he missed the exit for Sheplers. At this point, your misanthropy might crush your red giant heart into a tiny white dwarf, perhaps even a black hole. You might begin pounding on your horn and screaming expletives with such force and conviction that the inside of your windshield is covered with droplets of spittle. All of this will happen while “‘Tis the season to be jolly” chirps out of your radio. The only thing keeping you from going completely postal is that he doesn’t have a bumper sticker that says: “What’s the hurry? You’re already in Austin.” Here’s a little mantra to get you through the Jesus season: Zen. Yes, you do live in a city full of infuriating retards, but you’re one of them too. You’ve been the one blocking traffic at a green light because you’re sexting your boyfriend, futzing with the radio, or trying to retrieve the french fry that fell under your seat. You’re the oblivious son of a bitch who leaves your grocery cart at a 45-degree angle in the aisle at H-E-B while you painstakingly compare the fiber content of Cap’n Crunch vs. Golden Grahams. You also take 37 items to the 20-item express checkout and then ask the clerk to fetch you a case of Newport 100’s and a lighter from the locked display case across the store. Just remember that shit when you’re screaming, “Die! Die! Die!” at the line of preschoolers clutching one another’s shirts as they slowly shuffle through the crosswalk in front of you. That may be the Easter spirit, but it’s definitely not the Christmas spirit. Those little numskulls are just trying to get through their days same as you, only with a few more wet Pull-Ups and a few less temper tantrums. They aren’t personally trying to fuck over your mad dash to Starbucks. Remember: It’s the season of giving. Instead of giving yourself an aneurysm, give yourself the gift of inner peace. Unstress. Let it slide. The holidays are always fraught with unrealistic expectations: Your daughter wants a Twilight Bella Swan Barbie. Mom wants everyone to go to midnight mass. Dad wants to cut down the Christmas tree himself with a chain saw. It’s been the same for centuries. Mary expected little baby Josh to be the messiah. No pressure there. Somehow, without the benefit of medicinal marijuana, Josh managed to find inner peace (well, except for that one time with the moneychangers). His secret? Forgiveness. So, if you want to really get in the spirit of giving for the holidays, start by giving people the benefit of the doubt – even the assholes. Sometimes what seems to be most evil is really just comical … sort of like Rob Zombie … and laughter is pretty good stress relief. If you want to uncork this holiday season, you couldn’t ask for a better way to do it than Master Pancake’s Christmas Show, a Christmas-clip extravaganza featuring commentary and improv caroling by Pancake regulars John Erler and Joe Parsons, with Santa-holic Owen Egerton joining the cast for this special holiday show. You might want to wear some Huggies. This show is so funny you might actually crap trow. How Zen is that?

Blue Genie Art Bazaar

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December 8, 2009

Ideally by now your house is so completely covered in lights that your next-door neighbor has to wear welding goggles to find his car in the morning. His raccoon-face sunburn is an epidermal shroud of Turin, a moving testament to your profound faith in the One True God. No doubt the baby Jesus would smile upon your handiwork. Not only is he the Truth (although according to his Holiness, the Shaq, that title now belongs to Paul Pierce of the Boston Celtics), he is also the Light. Check the paintings. His head glows like a lightbulb in nearly every one of them. Surely He wouldn’t mind you sucking a few hundred kilowatt hours out of the matrix to let the neighborhood know that you’re on the Jesus team. After all, Christians have been rolling strong since about AD400. It was a long, ugly road from the manger to Vatican City, for the persecuted to become the persecutors, for Christianity to go viral. They needed a flashy marketing campaign to keep that kind of buzz afloat: lots of ostentatious bling, fly vestments, and lots of lights. Everybody likes lights, right? Well, unless they’re being burned as a witch or branded with hot pokers. Yes, Christianity has had at least a few million low points over the last 2,000 years, but it’s also done quite a few good things too. There are just too many children in impoverished Third World countries running around in ironic American T-shirts to argue otherwise. Even still, not everyone is on board the Jesus Bus. For some, Christmas lights are just an external manifestation of the oppression of Western imperialism. That’s not too far of a stretch.You wouldn’t ask someone who was waterboarded at Gitmo to go water skiing, would you? Of course not. Fortunately, there aren’t many people left in our little corner of the world who have a psychotic aversion to ostentatious lighting displays. For the most part, they’re just a sparkly way to further accelerate global warming, but otherwise they’re mostly harmless. That’s because sometime around the turn of the last century the bulb replaced the candle as the primary means of Christmas tree illumination. One can assume it really put the kibosh on the holiday burn ward business … until the invention of flammable polyester pajamas. Really … who knew toddlers would get too close to open flames? So yes, there are probably a few people out there who are terrorized by Christmas lights through no fault of their own (note to acid droppers: You buy the ticket, you take the ride), but by and large people dig them – so the more, the better. We can always build more windmills. Plus, you wouldn’t want to deny all those 10-year-old boys in the neighborhood something to shoot at with their BB guns, would you? Hells no! That would upset the cosmic equilibrium, or at least the ongoing symbiosis between the creators and the consumers. This time of year it always seems like there is a surfeit of consumers, but in reality the creators kick it up a notch as well. For instance, through Christmas Eve, more than 100 local artists will be peddling their wares at the Blue Genie Art Bazaar at the Monarch Event Center. This isn’t just another holiday crafts show to ignore; it’s an especially good one. You’ll be doing yourself a favor by attending. If their stuff doesn’t get bought, they may very well be applying for your job next year, and the only other thing you probably know how to do well is shoot out Christmas lights with a BB gun.

Opal Divine’s Whisky Festival

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December 2, 2009

Truly one of the best things about the holidays is that they are an excellent and generally accepted excuse to enjoy a little recreational intoxication. Yes, you, Jesus, and Krissy Kringle can all make a solid case for the spirit of giving, but inevitably materialism is the road to ruin. It may look like a lot of fun when everybody gets a new car on Oprah or when Skeeter wins the lotto and buys an aboveground for his double-wide, but there is a darker, uglier side to materialism, and not just that chest-crushing moment when you find out the big box under the Christmas tree with your name on it contains a Texas Longhorns Snuggie. Ohhhhhh, you better not pout. Here’s a suggestion: If you actually do manage to nurture your white, hot rage all the way to the North Pole, make sure you’re packing a sidearm with enough caliber to drop a polar bear in less than six rounds. Rumor has it that when those bitches come up out of the water they are insane with hunger … and that Texas Longhorn Snuggie is going to stick out like a sore thumb. Santa Claus, on the other hand, should give you much less trouble … unless you’ve already emptied your clip on a polar bear. Needless to say, it would take a lot of hate to pistol-whip Santa in front of the elves, reindeer, and Mrs. Claus. To summon that kind of fury you would have to binge-drink Starbucks and listen to Gorgoroth all the way to the North Pole. A few days of that evil shit and you’d be ready to strangle the baby Jesus, so putting the beatdown on Santa would almost feel like a mercy killing. But really, if you’re going to binge-drink, why squander your money on the dark side? Why not imbibe something that warms your heart and makes you launch into I-love-you-man soliloquies for random people such as your postman, your boss, and that surly, liver-spotted old lady behind the counter at your dry cleaners? No, not ecstasy, that shit hasn’t been legal since the Eighties. What you need is Holiday cheer (aka booze!). Sure, there should be some lengthy, ponderous boilerplate here about responsible drinking, but deep in our hearts we all know that truly responsible drinking means not drinking at all. F that S. Humans have been using alcohol to get stupid at least since they could articulate the word “grog,” but very likely a few centuries before that. Even though chemically its effect lacks the subtlety and nuance of pricier and more potent drugs, alcohol is nonetheless the most epicurean because of its countless permutations and means of delivery: Jell-O shots, rum cakes, beer bongs, absinthe, ether. You could spend an entire lifetime pickling your liver with all manner of alcoholic inventions and still not exhaust the supply. Ask Michael Parker from Opal Divine’s. He’s been on an alcoholic vision quest for most of his adult life, and though his journey is far from over, Austin has benefited from his worldliness and willingness to share it. This Thursday, Opal Divine’s Penn Field location is hosting its seventh annual Whisky Festival. From 7 to 10pm you can sample more than 45 of the finest malt whiskies from all the regions of Scotland. You can also nosh on hors d’oeuvres like smoked salmon, smoked meats, and fruits and cheeses, all for the amazingly low price of $45. Even more amazing is that all of the proceeds from the event will benefit Meals on Wheels and More. What a great way to enjoy the spirit of giving and still get your spirit on.

ThunderCloud Subs 19th Annual Turkey Trot

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November 23, 2009

Thanksgiving is like communism: great in theory but often ugly in execution. Of course, the same could be said of Christianity, but that holiday is still a month away, so we shouldn’t get ahead of ourselves, should we? As far as Turkey Day, though, there’s plenty of room for improvement. For starters, the iconography could use a little dressing up. Pilgrims and turkeys. Really? Do we have to choose between religious zealots and birds with a built-in death wish? Both seem to be overly eager to meet their maker, so one can assume they don’t spend a lot of time counting blessings. On the other hand, walking around in high-heeled buckle shoes or with a snood and wattle hanging off your face surely brings some low points. Think about it. If you had to spend the rest of your life as a Pilgrim, you’d probably buy a box of razor blades and start drawing a warm bath. Similarly, if you had to walk around with grizzled, pulpy pieces of flesh hanging off your nose and chin, you might eventually find yourself standing on a folding chair with a noose around your neck. You get the feeling that when a turkey first saw a Pilgrim raising his blunderbuss, he leaned toward the muzzle, thinking, “Bless you kind sir, this goddamned snood was making me cross-eyed!” More than likely, the Pilgrim turned the blunderbuss on himself first, because when your one big feast of the year features turkey as its centerpiece, you’re probably eager to shuffle off your own mortal coil. Regardless of how reasonable that scenario sounds, we can only assume that turkeys are suicidal. We can’t be absolutely sure. After all, turkeys are rumored to be stupid, and ignorance is bliss. The Pilgrims might have been suicidal as well, but they were too busy fending off disease, pestilence, wild animals, and peace-loving American Indians to take reasonable stock of their situation. In fact, it is within the realm of possibility that any Pilgrim who survived more than six months of that brutish existence was pissing himself with glee … if only because he had the option of choosing a better exit than having his head used as a chew toy by a mountain lion. This, in essence, is the philosophical foundation of the Thanksgiving – the part that works. Every once in a while it’s good to take a quiet moment and reflect on how things could be much, much worse. It’s easy enough, just let your imagination run wild. If your life actually got as bad as you can imagine it could be, you’d be absolutely giddy at the thought of eating dried fish, turkey, and yams with Squanto. However, in the real world it’s hard to keep your eyes on the rhetorical punishment. Sometimes just sitting down with your relatives and hogging on some Butterball can seem like the seventh level of hell, when in reality it’s not nearly as bad as say, being torn to pieces by bloodthirsty hyenas or, a little closer to home, being waterboarded at Gitmo. It’s all a matter of contrast, really, and if you can bend your mind into a decent hypothetical perspective, you’ll probably find that you’re living fat and happy – though you might want to take care of that toenail fungus situation. Maybe you can drop by the drug store on your way back from the 19th annual ThunderCloud Subs Turkey Trot, which starts at Waterloo Park at 9:30am on Thanksgiving Day. Not only is the Turkey Trot a great way to feel better about the orgy of gluttony and sloth the modern Thanksgiving has become, it’s also a great way to meet a lot of ostensibly healthy people and see what they look like when they’re sweating. Most importantly, it’s a relatively easy and fun way give back to the community, because the race proceeds go to Caritas of Austin, an organization that fights hunger, homelessness, and poverty in the Austin area.

Sick

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November 18, 2009

Hear that? That’s the sound of the holiday clock ticking toward C-Day. Another week and you’ll have to beat the dust out of your flashing Bobbie Brooks Rudolph sweater and plug in the string of Christmas lights that’s been permanently attached to your house for the last three years. Sure, Thanksgiving is just around the corner, but what used to be a gentle road bump on the superhighway to material excess is now a big, white, one-way arrow. After all, if you don’t have any things, what are you going to be thankful for? Health? Happiness? Love? This is Austin, Texas, America, not an ashram. You might be able to somehow monetize your health – say, if you’re a day laborer or a sex worker, but love and happiness aren’t going to put spinny rims on your Hummer or crust your grill with ice. Really, what good are love and happiness if you can’t rub them in other peoples’ faces? After all, happiness in the absence of external validation is very often mistaken for insanity. You can’t just wander around in a state of bliss for no reason without checking someone else’s opinion. You’re not Kierkegaard. Life is much uglier and meaner than that. You have to occasionally check in with friends and neighbors and complete strangers to make sure they recognize your happiness as genuine happiness and not some freak chemical imbalance. When you proudly open the door of your crawl space to reveal the piles of corpses, it’s probably a bad sign if your friend recoils in horror. It’s an even worse sign if you don’t have any friends with whom you can share your crawl space. People need people … if only to make sure they haven’t gone off the deep end. This system of external checks and balances doesn’t always work. Sometimes abominations slip through. For instance: People still engage in hardcore, sloppy tongue-kissing sessions at shopping malls. They still take out second mortgages to lease PT Cruiser convertibles. They still wear nugget jewelry and Ed Hardy prints. They still launch into tedious long-form soliloquies about their fitness regime at cocktail parties. Actions such as these are basically cries for withering social criticism. It’s how society evolves. Sure, solitude has its perks. Everyone needs a little downtime – but not everyone is John the Baptist, Hank Dave Thoreau, or Jeremiah Johnson. Increasingly, people are forced to show their asses 24/7 whether they like it or not. These days you never really know if your innocent, back-alley beer piss is going to end up going viral on YouTube or whether you’ll be tagged in a Facebook photo with a wrinkled nutsack resting on your sleeping forehead. Welcome to the fishbowl. “All the world’s a stage, and we are merely players” … with no green room. Will it force us into a morally homogenized lifestyle, or will it simply make the aberrations seem commonplace? Stay tuned, the plot thickens. If you want to catch a little old-skool theatre, you can find it at the Hyde Park Theatre this weekend as Capital T Theatre continues its run of Sick, Zayd Dohrn’s comedy about a family of germophobes trying their best to retreat from the dangers of the outside world. Spoiler alert: People mess it up.

East Austin Studio Tour

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November 11, 2009

This Saturday East Austin will be teeming with art lovers, or at the very least people who want to believe they are. Expect to see clusters of trendy looking people wandering around trying to read the East Austin Studio Tour Google map on their iPhone. Statistically there should be a corresponding bump in hit-and-runs and muggings, but the Eastside has become so gentrified in recent years that the biggest crimes seem to have more to do with architectural design than they do with personal injury. The latter gets more press understandably. It’s very rare that an Austin Police Department officer riddles a tangerine-and-teal postmodern condominium quadplex with a hail of gunfire – regardless of how much it deserves it. He might upchuck a little bit of doughnut in the back of his mouth when he’s driving by, but as far as a voluntary corrective action, nada. It’s probably all for the best. You definitely don’t want to cross the Austin arts community – even if you’re strapped. There are nearly as many artists in Austin as there are musicians. You might be able to take out some of the first wave (and what makes the first wave so formidable is that all artists consider themselves to be in it), but eventually your clip will be empty and you’ll be overwhelmed with an relentless tide of bitterness and resentment. Hey, it could be worse. You could be a music critic. Now there’s a suicide mission. Devoting your life to making compelling arguments on why people should suppress their urge to create is a thankless job to say the least. Fortunately, most visual artists don’t mail in copies of their artworks for review. More often they’re likely to have a website with a memory-hogging flash intro followed by 7-point text at the bottom of the page that says, merely, “enter.” If you’re willing to squeeze your waning interest through the eye of that cyberneedle, you’re probably ready to experience the artist’s work in all its two-dimensional, pixilated, broken-linked glory. What did you expect? Internet art can’t be a fulfilling substitute for the real deal. If that were the case, you would be totally satisfied with Internet porn. You have to admit, as truly awesome as Internet porn is, to get the payoff you still have to do the dirty work yourself. It’s pretty much the same thing with art. Seeing a 360-by-420 JPEG of dogs playing poker is a horrible substitute for the real thing – even if the dogs are really just bad taxidermies with spotty fur and creepy poker faces. To see real art, sometimes you have to get up and leave the house rather than just buying on it on the Home Shopping Network. Of course, if you’re going to have to go traipsing all over the Eastside just to look at art, it had better be some good shit … or at the very least you should be able to get some nice snacks out of the deal. Well, there’s a good chance of getting a little of both this Saturday when the East Austin Studio Tour kicks off its sixth year. Print yourself a map and spend the next two weekends visiting the 154 studios, 20 exhibition spaces, 49 happenings, and 30 programs that make up EAST. If you somehow manage to tick off every box on that to-do list, you’re a true art lover … and you have way too much time on your hands. Perhaps you should be come an artist yourself?

Fun Fun Fun Fest

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November 3, 2009

Halloween is over. Time to put the sparkly unicorn costume back in the closet … at least until Carnaval. Now begins the ugly slog to Thanksgiving, which offers very little in the way of entertainment unless you’re into football, distended bellies, and stale beer farts. Exhibitionism? Forget it. Your two choices are Pocahontas and Pilgrim, and nobody, not even Johnny Depp, can make buckle shoes look cool. Try it. Wear buckle shoes. See if the grade schoolers in your neighborhood don’t hang you on a doorknob by your underwear. If you’re going to roll Pilgrim style, back it up with a loaded blunderbuss. At the very least, you’ll be able to shoot your TV set if the Aggies manage to somehow pull off the upset. Until then, however, you’ve got three solid weeks of fall to grind through – perhaps the greenest fall ever. Poke your head out the window, and you’ll swear little Cinderella birds are going to start landing on your shoulders. This fall may be the best spring Austin has ever had. Time to slam some Allegra and start acting like the fun, outdoorsy person you described in your Facebook profile. You know, the one who likes hiking, biking, camping, running, skydiving … those sorts of things. Yes, it’s true there’s probably an iPhone app for all that shit. There’s also probably an iPhone app that will simulate a hot, ripped bod too, and maybe your iPhone avatar is totally getting laid tonight, but you on the other hand will only be getting fatter, paler, and dumber. The only person currently cashing in on that ugly triumvirate is Rush Limbaugh, and he’s pretty much cornered the market. If you’ve been a little too long jacked into the Matrix, don’t despair. You don’t have to look like an Abercrombie model to enjoy a beautiful day. You could just throw on some sweats and go lie in the grass somewhere. Your first thought might have been Zilker – if only a quick shudder of sense memory recalling the Austin City Limits Music Fest puddin’ people. But Zilker isn’t the only place in Austin where you can sit your ass in some grass. According to the Austin Parks and Recreation Department, there are 206 parks, 12 preserves, and 26 greenbelts in the Austin area. That’s a lot of dogs with bandanas, Frisbee golfers, power walkers, moms with toddlers, and creepy dudes looking for anonymous gay sex. You should be able to find some little patch of green where you can have peaceful commune with Mother Nature. If that fails, you can always join the trampling hordes of hipsters down at Waterloo Park this weekend for Fun Fun Fun Fest, a festival so cool that the headliner is the Jesus Lizard … or maybe Danzig … or Shonen Knife. Then again, a decent case could be made for Brian Posehn or the Whitest Kids U’Know … or maybe U don’t. If none of the preceding ring a bell, then the rest of the lineup will be completely unfamiliar to you unless you’re under the age of 21 or wear shoes that sort of look like athletic shoes but really aren’t athletic shoes because they have too much leather and are available in colors like wasabi, chocolate, and cantaloupe. You might also have an Amish beard and carry a messenger bag even though the only message you’re carrying is on your T-shirt. It says: “Under the Influence of Jesus.” You don’t mean it. You’re 43. You also have Crystal Antlers, Lucero, Hannibal Buress, Gorilla Biscuits, Rat King, and Fuck Buttons in heavy rotation on your iPhone 3G – not because you’re trying to impress people with your musical eclecticism but because you love music. Yeah, that’s it. If you’re someone else, think of it this way: Out of 90 acts you would think at least one has a chance of actually making a name for itself, so, money well spent.

Zombie Ball

The Luv Doc Recommends

October 27, 2009

Hopefully by now you already have your balloon boy costume put together. Good show. Your friends and random acquaintances will surely have a marvelous time secretly trying to burst your bubble. Don’t pout. When was the last time you had so many people trying to poke you? Besides, they appreciate the effort. It’s not like you just scrawled H1N1 in Magic Marker on an old undershirt. Here’s a hot tip for people trying to get laid on Halloween: Don’t dress up as a virus, even and especially if you’re an apathetic slacker who won’t look outside your dirty clothes pile for a Halloween costume. Sends the wrong message. If you’re not willing to wear something embarrassing and uncomfortable every once in a while, it’s a good bet you’re not sitting on a wallet full of unexpired condoms either. A shitty, thrown-together-at-the-last-minute costume isn’t especially scary, but barebacking is, just maybe not in a Halloween type of way. You might as well just scrawl “HERPES” on your T-shirt and be done with it. That way you can spend the rest of the night passing out candy to kids whose parents will slap it out of their hands the minute they get off your porch. Maybe you could offer them a hit off your beer bong instead? Regardless, Halloween is a night of endless possibilities. That’s what makes it so fun. It’s not like you have to bake a turkey; wear a hot, itchy sweater with blinking lights; or break up with your girlfriend so you don’t have to buy her a Valentine’s present. All you have to do on Halloween is pay the ante of at least a bag of cheap Mexican tamarind lollipops and, of course, try not to mow down any grade schoolers wearing poorly lit Harry Potter/Twilight costumes on the way back from your last-minute run to Fiesta Mart. As a general rule, operating a motor vehicle is extra tricky on Halloween – especially if you’re wearing clown shoes, big bird feet, or 4-inch, come-fuck-me pumps (that work perfectly with your crotch-high nurse outfit, fake lashes, and press-on nails). As you surely have already learned by now, drinking only complicates things. Not only is it difficult to fit a Natty can through the mouth of a rubber gorilla mask (smart monkeys drink longnecks), but alcohol also impairs your ability to interact sincerely with children – and really, why should you even make an effort when they’re all jacked up on sugar anyway? Some people would argue that Halloween is for children. Those people are wrong. You can’t expect people to stop believing in ghosts just because they attended four years of college … and maybe did a little post-grad work in paranormal psychic phenomena … that’s just crazy. No, grownups need to celebrate the dead too, ideally by dressing up in completely embarrassing/ridiculous costumes, drinking, and doing something worthy of at least a Facebook video post. Otherwise, why would the dead even pay attention? Aren’t they busy luring little blond girls into televisions? This Saturday and Sunday you can do something that will make the dead stand up and pay attention at the first ever Zombie Ball, a two-day Halloween throwdown sponsored by the folks at Sustainable Waves. The Zombie Ball features three solar-powered stages of live music and a haunted ballroom with Texas’ second largest disco ball … uh … vampire slayer. Make sure to ride your bike. Your rubber-chicken feet may be huge, but at least you’ll leave a smaller carbon footprint.

Extravagasm Fantasy Ball

The Luv Doc Recommends

October 21, 2009

Ever notice how there aren’t any Renaissance faires in Texas in August? Here’s why: Wearing a suit of armor in Texas in August is a surer and perhaps more painful death than anything the armor might repel. A couple of hours in the full sun and the occupant would have the skin tone of a Renaissance faire turkey leg. You might be Sir James the Tumescent putting on the armor, but you’d be taking it off as Slim Jim. Of course, the same could be said of just about all faire wear, be you saucy wench or roguish knave. A bodice (aka “boob bucket”) is a perfectly acceptable means of support in most climates, but around here it’s just a recipe for a big ol’ pail of mam chowder. Really the chillest Ren wear would have to be the monk’s robe, which offers the opportunity to freeball it but wears like a Navajo sweat lodge. Judging by the dress code, you would think that the Renaissance bypassed Central Texas altogether. Not so. As early as the 1500s, Spaniards were sharing the wonders of the Renaissance with the indigenous peoples of the desert southwest: smallpox, measles, whooping cough, and cholera to name a few. They also brought along their co-pilot, God, who navigated them toward gold and glory but instead got the consolation prize of murder and slavery, referred to in history books as “missionary works.” Not surprisingly, the Renaissance isn’t remembered fondly by the locals. Sure, they found Jesus, scored some used blankets, and learned to make the beast with two backs, but all in all they found the juice wasn’t worth the squeeze. They were happier running around in animal skins and feathers, hitting it doggie style, and worshiping the earth. They even have their own Renaissance faires – they’re called powwows, and even though you can’t get a turkeye legge, you can get a turkey leg, in full confidence that it’s authentic, historically accurate, indigenous cuisine. Huzzah! Really you haven’t lived until you’ve spent a weekend camping out, wearing leather, smoking “the peace pipe,” and munching on fried bread. Regardless, American Indian fetish wear is still a niche market compared to real Ren faire wear. Not only did Western Europeans overrun the New World, they cornered the fetish market too, which seems a natural turn of events considering that depravity and debauchery were perfected in the 17th century – probably near ye olde towne of Versailles. “S’wounds I say! Thou shouldst bynde faste ye rodentes’ pawes ere ye shoveth hyme up thy arse!” To this day, for a certain segment of the population, nothing swells the organs lyke the sounde of olde Englyshe and the sight of the tightly corseted torso of a pasty pale wench or pudgy knave. However fetishy it may be, Ren wear, like the Ren faire itself, leaves a lot to the imagination. If only you could sexy it up some how … show a little more skin. Well, happye newes, bytches! This Friday night at 9pm the Extravagasm Fantasy Ball returns at Mixx on Sixth Street. This year’s theme is Erotic Renaissance, which means the ball features all kinds of exciting activities: fire spinners, Hula-hoopers, piercings by Pineapple, belly-dancing by Z-Helene, rope bondage by Bydarra, body-painting by Curvy Canvas, tarot readings by Cat Dancer, and the Siren of Song Ms. Cat Mon Dieu. If you want to be on the ball, make sure to strap on your fetish-influenced fashion and fantastical costumery! Just remember: No blatant nudity, and all genitalia must be covered. Start with your own. Nobody wants to see your turkeye legge poking out of your tyghtes.

Evil Dead: The Musical

The Luv Doc Recommends

October 13, 2009

Really, why shouldn’t Evil Dead be made into a musical? After all, death is quite a showstopper. It worked for Romeo and Juliet. Remember the closing scene where Leonardo DiCaprio eats it (well, drinks a vial of it) and then Claire Danes wakes up, gets all emo, and blows her brains out with Romeo’s custom-made nickel-plated .45? Balls out, Claire! Stunning visual. Queue the Wagner and … scene! Death sure does tidy up the unresolved plotlines, even though it messes up the set. It works for God though, so it must be the right way to go. Death also has a big closing scene in Hamlet … well, except for the Gilligan’s Island version. In the castaways’ production of Hamlet: The Musical, nobody dies at all, although the depressed Dane and his associates are pretty well butchered dramatically. The real Hamlet however, has an impressive body count. In fact, more people die in Hamlet than in Evil Dead. That might change at some point – especially if Rob Zombie decides to tackle the Bard – but those are solid statistics to date. Of course, in Hamlet, none of the dead people reanimate – unless you count Hamlet’s pops, who does stir the turd quite a bit with his whole revenge trip. It’s disturbing to think that in the afterlife old King Hamlet has nothing better to do than backseat drive his son into a murderous rage. Would it kill God to install some slot machines in the afterlife – at least maybe some Tetris? Similarly, the evil dead in The Evil Dead need to get a life too, which they do … apparently so they can pad the guest list of the afterlife. Here’s the basic plot: A group of Michigan State students go to a vacation cabin in Tennessee where they find an old tape recorder in the basement. When played, the tape unleashes evil spirits. First a girl gets raped by trees possessed by the evil dead (really evil dead, possessing vegetables is just beyond slumming), then she gets possessed herself and starts going all white-eyed and stabbing people with a pen. From there it’s all blood and guts, death and dismemberment: chainsaws, axes, daggers, shotguns, fireplace pokers – a veritable tool shed of prop-room implements slathered with gore. Imagine Hamlet, but with Gallagher doing the set direction. It’s easy to see why The Evil Dead would eventually find its way to the live stage. As far as being a musical, that was a natural too. You can’t expect thezbos to suppress all that voice and dance training indefinitely. Eventually somebody is going to have too many cosmos at happy hour and blurt out, “What if we make it a musical!?!?” If it happened to The Grapes of Wrath, then it can happen to anything … Schindler’s List … Requiem for a Dream … Brian’s Song … and you can only imagine the big tap-dancing production at the end of My Left Foot. In contrast, Evil Dead: The Musical doesn’t seem so evil at all. When you really study the evidence, you realize that the dead aren’t nearly as evil as the living – they just have really bad PR. Dead people didn’t try to exterminate the Jews, sew together a bodysuit made of human skin, or author The Bridges of Madison County. Dead people are harmless. That’s why evil living people are always trying to make more of them. And yet, just because life is infinitely tragic doesn’t mean it isn’t infinitely comic as well. In fact, the two are so hopelessly intertwined it’s pointless to try to separate them. Your glass is either half full or it’s half full of blood. Drink up! This Saturday you can belly up to the bloodbath at the Salvage Vanguard Theater: its very own production of Evil Dead: The Musical! Make sure to wear something white and pay the extra $5 for “splatter zone” seating. After Saturday night’s show there is also a special Dead Man’s Party, with live bands, munchies, and more visual gore. How’s that for a good closing scene?

Lebowski Fest

The Luv Doc Recommends

October 6, 2009

It’s been nearly a generation since Rick Linklater’s seminal film established Austin as the center of the slacker universe, a lazy little college town where people mostly just sat around talking about weird, esoteric shit and did little else (except wander off in a sort of ADD tangent to the next vignette). Apparently, a lot of people saw Slacker and said to themselves, “I can do that! I can do nothing!” and moved here in droves. Initially some were old-school hand-to-mouth slackers who came for the cheap booze, drugs, rent, and slutty women, all of which could easily be had by working a 20-hour shift at ThunderCloud. Then came the second tier: folks who identified with the slacker lifestyle and aesthetic but were also able to pony up the increasing rents for slacker havens like SoCo, SoLa, NoFo, and Crestview. These semislackers often held down real jobs and were closet competents, regardless of their full-sleeve arm tattoos and ear pegs. Instead of getting shit-canned on Natty Light, Lone Star, Pearl and PBR, they enjoyed the more moderate, epicurean buzz of boutique brews like Fat Tire, Bootlegger Brown Ale, Sierra Nevada, and Firemans 4. Instead of gut-bombing wicked hangovers at places like the Tamale House, Arandas, Taco Shack, and the occasional construction site roach wagon, they had sit-down breakfasts at places like Güero’s, Curra’s, Maria’s Taco Xpress, Pato’s, and Changos. No shame in those names, quality is quality, but quality isn’t a regular part of the slacker budget. Sometime around the turn of the millennium came the third tier of slackers: the dot-com cash-outs and trust fund babies; late-in-the-gamers who also bought into Austin’s weirdness fully, first with their pocketbooks and then their hearts, so much so that they even created marketing campaigns to keep weirdness from being gentrified … albeit a day late and a dollar short. Their “no worries,” casual Friday approach to slackerdom was genuine – why sweat the small stuff when you truly don’t have to sweat the small stuff? – as was their utter oblivion to the fact that they were pricing the old-school slackers into the hipster wilderness of far East Austin (they eventually priced them out of that as well). For the latecomers, slackerdom is more a destination vacation than a journey of personal discovery. They’ve opened cute, hyperspecialized boutiques; bought overpriced condos; and actually pay for extravagances like valet parking and bottle service. What was unthinkable back in the day is commonplace now. It’s still Austin, just an entirely different Austin. Yes, there are still plenty of unshaven, jort-wearing, tattooed grad school dropouts with part-time jobs who share a rent house with five other overeducated, undermotivated velvet rutters, but they’re feeling the pinch. That East Austin shotgun shack is four times what it was back in the day. You could try to work that early Nineties slacker budget nowadays, but that lifestyle is now called homelessness – and no, you’re not fooling anybody by parking your rusty old shit-beater van down the street from Epoch. Makes you long for the good old days when slackin’ was cheap and your landlord passed out fliers for his interpretive dance performance. Those days may be gone, but you can relive them this weekend when the Lebowski Fest rolls into town on its Speed of Sound tour. For an unslackerly $45, you can attend Friday night’s Big Lebowski screening at Stubb’s and Saturday night’s bowling party at Highland Lanes. This is your chance to feel what it’s like to actually dress up as an old-school slacker … or one of the many other zany characters from this Coen Brothers’ cult classic. So maybe Lebowski Fest is as close as you’ll ever come to actual slacking, but that’s probably a good thing.

Capital City Marching Band Festival

The Luv Doc Recommends

September 29, 2009

This is a big weekend for music lovers – or at the very least for people who like to watch music being made. Unlike a football game, a bullfight, or a tittie-bar pole dance, watching live music demands rapt attention. You don’t want to miss a second. For instance … what if the bass player stops looking at his fretting hand and gives a slight nod to his drug dealer offstage? Twitter that shit, yo. He may not do anything that exciting for the rest of the set. Besides, the dude offstage might not be his drug dealer at all. It might be Matthew McConaughey … baked to his gills! Tuh to the motherfucking weet! “Thrz is zo mrch fn! RcknRpll!” If you find the bass player visually captivating, check out the drummer. He may not be Darren King from Mute Math, but he’s the most animated person onstage. He’s moving his arms and his legs! You could stand there in the dust and the heat for hours and watch him hit that snare drum again and again and again. Fascinating. How does he do it? If you stare at him long enough in gap-jawed wonderment, you’re sure to figure it out. Samesies for the guitar player. You would expect him to stand perfectly still so he can concentrate on his intricate fingering, but no! He’s thrashing around like a crazy person, making weird faces, and flinging his guitar picks out to all the hot ladies. If he were on a street corner doing the same thing minus the guitar, you would probably insist the police take him out with a tranquilizer dart, but instead he’s onstage and you’re throwing him your hotel room key. Why? Because he’s so damned sexy! The crazy thing is that the guitarist isn’t even half as exciting to watch as the lead singer. Now there’s a character! When he reaches out in front of him and grabs thin air and pulls it back into his chest with a clenched fist, you can actually feel your panties sliding down your legs. He must be some kind of magical sorcerer. You are completely under his spell. When he claps his hands above his head, you clap your hands above your head. When he holds out the microphone to the audience, you automatically sing – even if you don’t really know the words! “OMG thid is brdass!” you Tweet. Every morning in the shower, you belt out atonal, wrong-lyric versions of these songs, but that doesn’t hold a Bic lighter to squealing like a spooked sow in the middle of several thousand other sweaty live-music fans. Otherwise, why would you have dropped a couple hundred bucks on a wristband that doesn’t even help cure cancer? That just makes no sense. No sense at all. No, you ponied up the cash because live music is awesomely exciting to watch – sort of like demolition derby only with a much nicer VIP section, and, of course, demolition derby doesn’t last all day. Even still, there are so many bands and so little time. How will you see them all? Well, get to Toney Burger stadium early on Saturday and plant your ass on the 50-yard line. That way you’re sure to get the best possible view of all 25 bands in this year’s Capital City Marching Festival. They might not do a lot of microphone-stand crotch-rubbing, but rest assured: These bands know how to move. In fact, it’s part of their act! Plus, unlike other music festivals, this one actually has a winner. Now that’s American! Here’s the best part: It’s only $7 to get in … oh, and the restrooms have running water!

Fantastic Fest Michael Jackson Dance Party

The Luv Doc Recommends

September 23, 2009

Michael Jackson was one seriously messed up … uh … let’s just say “dude” until the full autopsy gets published … but he produced some badass dance jams. If someone cranks up “Don’t Stop ‘Til You Get Enough” in your immediate vicinity and you don’t start full on moonwalking – or at least a reflexive mook head bob – check your pulse. You’re probably dead. Look around the room. If you see Nicole Kidman, a couple of pasty-faced kids, and a frost-breathing Bruce Willis, you may need to start dancing toward the light. That could be where the Michael Jackson music is coming from. Here in the terrestrial world there is a considerable amount of debate as to where MJ will take up residence in the afterlife. If Michael manages to pull off a “Neverland: Extended Edition,” in heaven it’s safe to say that he should be blissfully content. There seem to be a lot of naked baby angels fluttering around up there – especially if Italian Renaissance paintings are to be trusted, and why shouldn’t they be? Italy is the home of God’s personal PR firm. Yes, if Michael makes it past the pearly gates, he’ll be set: No more need for the petting zoo, amusement park rides, and protracted court cases, just a smorgasbord of pink-skinned cherubim. If, however, MJ spends eternity a little farther south, no problem there either. As Pat Benatar says, “Hell is for children,” and you have to figure that in hell, even pedophilia gets the green light. Of course, the “down” side would be having to listen to Creed 24/7. Looking at it karmically you have to wonder: Does giving humanity “Off the Wall” and “Thriller” earn MJ any credit toward a twisted lifetime of alleged pederasty and general weirdness? Tough call. Yes, MJ was fond of sleeping with children, but so was Jerry Lee Lewis. He was also criminally negligent with the Jheri Curl and the geisha makeup and the plastic elf nose, but did that make him a monster? No, fame made him a monster (with maybe an assist from Diana Ross), and it was fame well deserved. If only MJ’s sexual proclivities leaned toward chubby Jewish girls like Monica Lewinsky instead of prepubescent boys, he might have gotten a pass. In his premutant days, Michael could have shagged anything he wanted – sort of like Elvis or Louis the 14th. Somewhere around the ten thousandth groupie, ennui has to set in. There has to be an inclination to improvise like Thelonious Monk: Animal. Mineral. Vegetable. Chances are MJ was just working through his smooth-skin phase. Had he lived to be 100, he might have gotten into snow leopard cubs or baby seals or something … who knows? And really, unless you’ve been there, it’s tough to throw stones. In the wake of MJ’s death, all we’re really left with is compassion, wonderment, and, perhaps most importantly, an ass-shaking oeuvre. You can enjoy that oeuvre this Sunday night at the Alamo’s new bowling alley/karaoke bar/lounge, the Highball, where boy band sensation Henri Mazza will be holding a Michael Jackson Dance Party as a part of this year’s Fantastic Fest. This is a good chance to see the Highball in all its tuck-and-roll splendor, before it’s grand opening in October, and a nice opportunity to honor the King of Pop through expressive movement.

Mother Truckers

The Luv Doc Recommends

September 15, 2009

Health care. We got it. Then there are those unlucky wretches who happen to have pre-existing conditions: obesity, arthritis, diabetes, depression, pregnancy – really anything short of acute head trauma is grounds for disqualification from most American health insurance programs. The remaining few crazy enough to actually provide insurance coverage for people with pre-existing conditions charge rates just slightly less than the actual medical treatment itself costs. Generally, people with pre-existing conditions are the lepers of the insurance world (and, by the way, leprosy is a pre-existing condition). Why shouldn’t they be? No insurer wants some obese, diabetic, depressed, pregnant chick pissing all over its actuarial tables. That’s no way to make a fast buck. On the other hand, you can’t exactly march all the pre-existing condition cases out to a shallow grave in the woods and pop a cap in the back of their heads either. The bleeding hearts ruined that gambit for Hitler, so there’s no reason to believe they wouldn’t ruin it for Humana too. If Hitler had succeeded, however, his master race would have dressed up German actuarial tables nicely. Imagine what a nation of ruddy-cheeked Aryan Übermenschen would do for health insurers’ profits – especially if they were somehow conned into believing that their health insurance premiums weren’t artificially inflated. Attractive an idea as it may seem, using genocide to fleece up the gene pool is not without its problems. There’s corpse disposal, grieving relatives, and all the lost revenue for the health care industry. More importantly, if you start offing the old and the sick and the feeble-minded, where do you draw the line? Genetic purification is a sticky moral wicket to say the least. Do you start with the coma patients? People on respirators? Dialysis machines? Asthma nebulizers? If you really think about it, old people in general put a huge strain on the health care system. Maybe if you instituted an age limit … sort of like Logan’s Run? You could start modestly at first – maybe say that anyone over the age of 65 gets sent to the woods for “renewal.” If you’re worried about the Rolling Stones, don’t sweat it; they’re English. England loves it some old people. Case in point: Benny Hill. Here in America we’re into youth. We like hairless genitals; smooth skin; svelte, glistening physiques; brash confidence; inexperience and ignorance. People over the age of 65 are sorely lacking in all these qualities (at least let’s pray the Sun City spa isn’t overbooked for Brazilian waxes), so why should we let them drag down the finest health care system in the world? Make no mistake, insurance companies and their greedy shareholders are not driving up the cost of health care; old people are. Old people and the chronically ill are driving this country toward bankruptcy, and the only two choices are Obama’s death panels or spending even more on health insurance and crippling our already fragile economy. There is no other way … well, except for the health care systems in Japan, Italy, Canada, France, Germany, Switzerland, and the United Kingdom. Maybe some Congress members should put in a few long-distance phone calls. Maybe somehow we could come up with a health care plan that covers all Americans for two-thirds of the cost we pay right now – like France. Maybe America could spend some of that extra money on things like drug abuse – which, depending on your health plan, is probably a pre-existing condition. Until then, those with chemical dependencies have to get support and treatment where they can. Fortunately there are organizations like the Palmer Drug Abuse Program, which provides free support for teenagers dealing with chemical dependency. Tonight at Antone’s the Mother Truckers are playing a benefit concert for the Palmer Drug Abuse Program. $10 gets you into the show and gives you an opportunity to help out local youth and, in a broader sense, the overly expensive but ailing American health care system. Remember: It’s either your charity or Obama’s death panels. There is no other way.

Austin Gay & Lesbian International Film Festival

The Luv Doc Recommends

September 9, 2009

In Europe, it’s almost impossible to tell a straight man from a gay man. Everyone carries purses. Everyone walks around in hipster shoes. Everyone wears really tight swimsuits. They’re not even embarrassed about it either. They’ll just stand there casually holding a conversation with a bas-relief of their kibbles and bits bulging out of a colorful spandex slingshot. Europe is a whole continent full of Brunos … not that there’s anything wrong with that, but pretty much everywhere you go your gay compass is spinning like a roulette wheel. You can’t help thinking: “If this dude isn’t gay, why is he still hugging me? What is that intoxicating smell? Sandalwood? With a hint of pepper?” For the average American – gay or het – it’s a confusing continent. If a Frenchman leans in for a kiss, it’s probably just tradition. He may find it confusing if you drop into a sexy, lip-parted swoon like Vivien Leigh in Gone with the Wind. Oh, and uh … ixnay on the onsil hockey tay. What we call French kissing here in the States is not the way people greet each other on the continent – not even on pride weekend, which is the same as just about any other weekend, except that it involves more paint and feathers. You would think that paint and feathers would peg the needle on your gay-o-meter too, but not so. Just because French people love paint and feathers doesn’t necessarily mean they’re gay. Au contraire. Actually, they have quite an American Indian fetish – sort of like the English love queens – so you can’t really judge a Frenchman by his plumage. The French also have a thing for Jerry Lewis, who, even though he was Dean Martin’s bitch, was about as gay as an episode of The Three Stooges. Yes, Europe is a place of perplexing gender-bending extremes. On the hard, butch end of the scale you have female German weightlifters, and on the soft femme side you have Prince Charles. Hard to say who scores more vag, but publicly Charlie gives the German muscle gals a good run for their money, even if he might actually prefer a little man ass on the down low. Damn it all, apparently in the Third Millennium, stereotypical gender traits are not an ironclad bet to determine sexual orientation. What to do? What to do? The healthiest thing to do is to not spend a lot of time worrying about it. People are basically people, but if you’re not occasionally taken out of your comfort zone by the interests, activities, and proclivities of others, you’re probably not living a very interesting life, and that’s a damned shame. That doesn’t mean you should take up skydiving, scrapbooking or gerbiling, but it does mean you should occasionally expose yourself to other ideas. This week you have an excellent opportunity to do just that at the 22nd Austin Gay & Lesbian International Film Festival. If you are gay, aGLIFF is a good opportunity to explore a broad range of issues relating to your lifestyle. If you aren’t, aGLIFF offers you a chance to gain a better understanding of what it means to be gay/lesbian/transgendered, even if it makes you squirm in your seat on occasion.

Out of Bounds Comedy Festival Headliners

The Luv Doc Recommends

September 2, 2009

Sweet. Three-day weekend! Of course, that’s assuming you have a regular job with a set schedule, benefits, and all that. Otherwise, a three-day weekend just means you’re pulling extra shifts to accommodate all those state and corporate drones looking to get their swerve and grub on. You wouldn’t mind it much if they were big tippers who could hold their liquor, but the ugly truth is that your pockets will be sagging with chump change and you’ll be spending a lot of quality time mopping mangorita barf out of bathroom stalls. Happy Labor Day! Bet you’re rethinking that fine arts degree now, eh? All you wanted to do was dance, right? Well, how ’bout you dance your ass down to table 7 and Hoover up that high-chair debris field that Junior laid down while his parents superhumanly ignored his cracker crumb and macaroni temper tantrum? They probably think they can buy you off with a 15% tip and a huge smiley face on your comment card, but for this travesty you’re going to need some serious payback. Sadly, you’ll just have to estimate. You can’t know the real damage until they lift that chubby little fucker out of his high chair and shake him like a can of Parmesan cheese. It’s truly amazing the amount of culinary detritus that can get trapped in a pair of OshKosh B’Gosh overalls: a whole sleeve of saltines, a half basket of tortilla chips – soggy on one end, of course – some Jell-O kernels, and a few hundred Cheerios (brought in by the parents to keep him occupied). Even to the most compassionate of food-service employees, that’s worth at least a couple of lung nuggets and a butt-crack silverware swab, but by the time you’ve properly assessed the damage, they’re already buckling him into the backseat of the Prius. Breath deeply. Hold it in. Visualize the huge bowl of pee soup you’ll be serving them the next time they decide to save money on a babysitter. Your boss and your unemployed dope-dealing roommate like to tell you there’s no room for bitterness or resentment in the workplace. They’re right. There is no room … unless you make room. If America has learned anything from its disgruntled postal workers, it’s that people can endure almost any amount of monotony, abuse, and humiliation in their jobs as long as they can nurture a psychotic revenge fantasy … hopefully one they won’t actually act out … at least not in real life. Besides, that’s what improv classes are for, right? Where else can you mow down an entire office full of co-workers with an AK-47 and get away with it? Maybe even score a few nervous chuckles in the process? You may not think it’s funny, but comedy is an important part of sanity maintenance. Somehow you have to soak up all the injustice, pain, and misery in the world and still manage to turn that frown upside down. It’s not easy. Sometimes you need an assist. This weekend Austin provides one in the form of the Out Of Bounds Comedy Festival, a seven-day “live performance festival that showcases some of the best improv, sketch, stand-up, and filmed comedy from all over the country.” Sunday night, the Independent features Austin’s Get Up and Melbourne, Australia’s Impro Melbourne at 7:30pm, then Chicago’s SCRAM and Los Angeles’ Cackowski and Talarico at 9pm. You might as well make a whole night of it. You probably don’t have to work the next day. If you do, you could probably use some comic relief.

Austin Chronicle’ Hot Sauce Festival

The Luv Doc Recommends

August 27, 2009

It’s going to be hot at The Austin Chronicle Hot Sauce Festival this Sunday. Crazy hot. Maybe like 1,900 degrees … in the shade. Don’t let Jim Spencer or Mark Murray or Troy Kimmel or that bouncy dude on Fox with the shopping-mall hairdo tell you any differently. They might appeal to your sense of idiotic optimism with the promise of a 10% chance of rain – dangle it in front of your nose like a bacon-flavored dog biscuit – but the only thing falling out of the sky on Sunday will be blistering rays of sunshine and dehydrated grackles. In other words, the weather on Sunday will be absolutely perfect for the festival: scorching – the kind of insanely intense heat that should scare away the curious, the delicate, and the apathetic. Besides, anyone who is really into hot sauce won’t let the possibility of 100-plus weather hold them back. They’re coming for the heat. They’re coming to sweat. After all, a good salsa will make you sweat no matter what the temperature. Like a whore in church. Like a pedophile at a preschool. Like the kid in the rat suit at Chuck E. Cheese’s. If the preceding sounds a bit masochistic, it is. The pepper is an acquired taste. Like coffee, it generally needs to be mixed with something to make it palatable: tomatoes, tomatillos, mangoes … anything to soften the blow. You may prefer your coffee black now, but back in the early days of your addiction, you liked it with lots of cream and sugar – the K-Y and Astroglide of coffee consumption. Capsaicin addicts tend to start slowly too. You can’t just shovel a bunch of habaneros into your mouth and expect a happy ending. Au contraire. In fact, you might want to prophylactically apply a topical ointment to your ending if you somehow managed to choke a habanero down your gullet. Perhaps some actual K-Y might do the trick. Regardless, like sex, with peppers your best bet is to work your way up slowly. A good road map is the Scoville scale: bell, pimento, poblano, jalapeño, serrano, habanero, and naga jolokia, which if eaten whole will kill you, your children, and your childrens’ children. Most people tend to put the brakes on capsaicin consumption somewhere around habanero. Really, beyond that you might as well just shoot yourself in the mouth with pepper spray. At a certain point, the pain from the capsaicin completely obliterates any other nuance of flavor. With habaneros, at least you get a few seconds of actual pepper taste before you start looking for a fire hose to spray out your mouth. Serranos are the peppers most often found in traditional red salsa. In the right quantity they can be exceptionally hot as well, but they’re also quite flavorful. The same is true of most peppers if they’re well prepared. That, of course, is the challenge, and the reason the Chronicle devotes one blistering hot Sunday a year to hot sauce and all its varied forms and flavors. It’s an epicurean adventure with a decidedly masochistic twist. It’s also an Austin institution, hell or hot weather. So … are you in?

Rude Mechanicals’ Sci-fEye Ball

The Luv Doc Recommends

August 19, 2009

Balls … seems like everybody has them. They’re the low hanging fruit of the charity business – maybe not quite as low as the benefit concert, but still easy pickin’. You would think it would be easier to scrape together two turntables and a microphone (the electronic retro-phallus of the DJ world) than it is to fill up a seven band bill, but here in Austin we pack in bands like slaves on the Amistad – and pay them even less. With all this musical talent laying around, how hard can it be to find someone who can match beats without sending the dance floor into arrhythmic epilepsy? Yes, a DJ. Live music? Seen it: Foot on the monitor, double devil horns, microphone stand crotch rub, gratuitous drum solo, never-ending narcissistic guitar solo, “What? It’s my turn?” bass solo, sweaty hair throw, insincere “great to be here in …” salutation, breakdown section with Barry White-style let-me-be-serious-for-a-moment voiceover, power chord chorus with above the head hand clap, garage band clusterfuck ending replete with split-legged stage jump apostrophe. Really, how can a skinny kid with a terabyte hard drive and a pirated copy of ACID Pro compete with game like that? Fog machine? Disco ball? LED Strobes? Rhythm would definitely be a start. Seriously. There is only so much shoegazing a city can do, no matter how cool it thinks it is. Yes, lyrically dense, self-absorbed, multisyllabic soliloquies can be set to music … interminable, droning, cacophonous soundscapes that challenge preconceived notions of rhythm and tonality. They can also be thrown in the fireplace. Every once in a while, people need something with a chest-thumping, ass-shaking groove. Ooonnn tssssss ooonnn tssssss ooonnn tssssss. Hands in the air like you just don’t care … or maybe you do care. Maybe that’s why you’ll be attending the Rude Mechanicals’ Sci-fEye Ball this Saturday at the Off Center: Because you really do care about supporting original, innovative live theatre in Austin … East Austin … in a converted warehouse … because that’s the kind of place where original live theatre is done. You care enough about live theatre to dress up in “Retro-Futuresque” attire (think Sky Captain, Buck Rogers, the Rocketeer, only sans the rocket pack, because it can get hot up in that bitch) and brave potential derision and merciless heckling by ungentrified Eastsiders, who will surely be wondering what the fuck you’re doing in a hot-assed spacesuit in 104 degree heat (making Sci-fEye Ball soup, no doubt). Come to think of it, you might want to consider rocking that chain-mail bra and cutoff mesh half-shirt shimmel that Daryl Hannah made famous in Blade Runner. It’s only slightly retro, and it gives you an excuse to try out that flying scissor headlock you’ve been working on. How theatrical would that be? Of course, you don’t have to go costumed – remember, it’s legal to go topless in Austin – but it does show you’re committed to the cause. If you want to go a little lower profile, you could just drop some major coin on the silent auction, which boasts, along with a lot of other cool stuff, a vacation on Vashon Island in Puget Sound. Seriously, how cool is that? Pretty fucking cool. Plus, even if you go on the cheap, you still get free beer and phat jams DJ’d by Austin supercomposer/rock star Graham Reynolds. Even if it is low hangin’ fruit, this ball is still pretty sweet.

Texas Testosterone Festival

The Luv Doc Recommends

August 7, 2009

If you were thinking you could pick up a couple of ounces of pure testosterone at this weekend’s Texas Testosterone Festival, think again. To score the real stuff you’re going to have to go across the border and meet an acne-scarred Russian guy in some seedy cantina in Nuevo Laredo, Mexico. He’s probably going to make you do a bunch of Jell-O shots and take you to the donkey show, but if you want that competitive edge. On the other hand, you could just buy some online at Steroid.com. Hey, it’s cool. You’re not playing right field for the Cubs or defensive end for the Saints. You just want to bulk up a little so you’ll get a little more action down at Oilcan Harry’s. Of course there’s also the side benefit of looking like you could kick your boss’ ass … or tap it if you felt so inclined. Still, when purchasing any kind of drug, there are dangers involved – and they don’t always have to do with your dealer being all methed out and paranoid. More often than not your drug dealer is a multimillion-dollar pharmaceutical company pulling the puppet strings of your personal physician. Can’t sleep? Don’t give up your Starbucks grandes or your Rockstar Energy Drinks or your late-night porn surfing. Just throw back some Ativan or Ambien, and you’ll sleep like the dead. Feeling a little down in the dumps? Don’t give up your daily regimen of habitual pot smoking, couch potatoing, and junk-food binging, try Zoloft, Prozac, or Paxil instead. You’ll feel like you just hung the moon – instead of feeling like your ass is the size of it. So maybe the big pharmaceutical companies aren’t all bad. At least they don’t have scabby skin or rotting teeth like proper drug dealers, but that doesn’t mean they’re less nefarious. Drug companies not only have their hands up the asses of doctors; they’re “directing the American health-care debate” by greasing up legislators, as well. They probably wouldn’t be above recruiting poor Mexican kids to whack consumer health-care activists, but their game is much more polished than that. Americans spend hundreds of billions of dollars a year on legal drugs. In contrast, illegal drugs are chump change. If you think selling crack to school kids is morally reprehensible, you might be able to work up a little indignation at the usurious cost of prescription drugs for elderly people on fixed incomes. It turns out that old age is really depressing, especially when you can’t afford to spend money on anything but the anti-depressants your doctor prescribed to avoid having to figure out what was really wrong with you. Maybe the answer to America’s health-care woes is for old people to start flooding across the border to buy testosterone … and maybe some adrenaline to wash it back with. That might keep the doctors in line. Nothing is scarier than a raging old coot, especially since so many own firearms to protect themselves from drug-crazed teenagers. Maybe they could redirect their rage at profit-crazed pharmaceutical companies. Something good might finally come from too much testosterone. Sounds crazy, though, doesn’t it? Sort of like promoting an event called the Texas Testosterone Festival, which, believe it or not, is happening this weekend at the Palmer Events Center. Yes, the Test Fest is two man-tastic days full of butch stuff: a bikini contest, a model search, a video-game tournament, a fantasy football mock draft, a home-brewing demo, a hot rod show, a poker tournament – the kind of stuff that takes big, hairy balls. Oh yeah, and there’s also a jujitsu tournament. If all this sounds a little douchey to you, maybe you aren’t getting enough testosterone, eh?

Dart Music International Benefit

The Luv Doc Recommends

August 5, 2009

Foreigners … it seems like they’re always coming to America, taking our jobs, stealing our women, and forcing us to endure all that multilingual gibberish when we’re on hold. Why can’t they be more like us? Why can’t they be awesome? Why do they have to wear hipster shoes and carry murses? Why are their swimsuits so tiny and tight? Why can’t they play real sports like football and baseball … sports where you use your hands … like a man? Why do they have to talk in those weird accents? Why do they have sex with their tongues? It’s all so strange. And yet, even though certain rednecks and right-wing pundits would have you believe that America is being overrun by foreigners, the truth is, that hasn’t really been the case for more than 100 years. These days, immigration is just a trickle, but in the beginning, America had a serious immigration problem: boatloads of diseased foreigners cutting down trees, killing wildlife, putting up fences … the kind of dickish behavior that deserved a quiver of arrows in the ass rather than a friendly welcome. Within a couple of hundred years, foreigners had swindled and stolen their way across the continent – in the name of Jesus, of course. On the way, they killed all the buffalo, chopped down the forests, polluted the rivers, and penned up the locals on shitty, unarable tracts of land. Now, that is an immigration problem. It’s taken about a century, but credit the homeboys for figuring out how to turn lemons into lemonade with casino gambling. As luck would have it, the immigrants’ treaties, like their environmental management policies, were short-sighted. Of course, it’s not all hot tubs and bonbons with the natives. Their national poverty rate is still twice that of the immigrants, and one in four American Indians is an alcoholic by the age of 17. That might make it seem like American Indians have a predisposition toward alcoholism, but if you’ve ever spent any significant amount of time on a reservation – other than an all night campout at the blackjack table – you would see that figure is surprisingly low, especially for a group of people whose ancestors were slaughtered by foreigners and then forcibly relocated to far less desirable real estate. (Much love, Oklahoma, but in your heart of hearts, you know it’s true.) Given our country’s genocidal history, it should come as no surprise that Americans have a healthy distrust of foreigners. However, in these days of increasing globalization, it might not be a bad idea to follow the lead of the original Americans and embrace our foreign brothers and find some common ground – ideally through something other than alcohol and smallpox. Music might not be a bad place to start. This Friday at the Scoot Inn, you can get a healthy dose of foreigners and music at the Dart Music International We Should Be Dead benefit show. Topping the bill is We Should Be Dead, a four piece pop band from Limerick, Ireland, along with Austin’s own Black Panda and DJ’s Alan B and Freddie E, who will be spinning tracks from Dart Music International Artists. Just by showing up at this show you will be furthering the cause of multiculturalism, which Dart Music International helps promote by providing logistical assistance to lesser known independent bands from around the world. The result is an even more diverse music scene in Austin and the Southwest – and, yes, a few more pale foreign kids in tiny tight swimsuits at Barton Springs.

How to Secede in Texas Without Really Trying

The Luv Doc Recommends

July 29, 2009

Texas is a really big state. Crazy big. Emphasis on the crazy. We may be the 11th largest economy in the world (according to the Texas comptroller), but look at our gubernatorial candidates. It’s a good thing Moe, Larry, and Curly are already dead and buried or they’d probably end up in the Governor’s Mansion. Oh, the things they could do with some wallpaper and a portly old rich lady. And yet, how could the Stooges ever top the madcap hijinks of Kinky, Kay, and Rick? Two ex-cheerleaders and a class clown? Really? And of course there’s Democratic front-runner Tom Schieffer, anchorman Bob’s brother, former Bush ambassador to Australia and Japan. Yes, the Democratic front-runner. Is there a mass grave outside of Vidor full of intelligent, well-spoken, progressive Texas Democrats? Much love to the Kinkster too, mind you. He may not have the mandate of anyone but himself, but he’s written some very funny songs and some other stuff. He ought to just announce as a Democrat and get on the ticket. He’s much more entertaining than his opponents, mainly because he embraces his Stooginess. It’s one of the things that makes him seem less of a politician and more of a regular guy. Yet, as authentic as Kinky may seem with his Johnny Cash togs and his big Texas ceeegar, he is still as much a politician as any of his opponents. He wants it as bad or worse than they do and very likely has convinced himself, like his opponents, that he is in it for the good and glory of Texas. Altruism is a disease that afflicts just about anyone seeking public office – or a seat at the right hand of the Father for that matter – so it’s foolish to call any of the candidates out on that score. If you consider the candidates’ professed altruism and authenticity a wash, all you’re left with is their ideas, qualifications, and experience. You would think that leaves Kinky dead last (which is a likely possibility come election time), but regardless of his lack of experience and qualifications, Kinky does have some good ideas, ones actually worth giving him your vote. Unfortunately, he also has some crazy fucking shit on his platform that should give you significant pause, regardless of how entertaining a governor he would be. For instance: Kinky wants to repeal all smoking bans. Fair enough, Kink, as long as the repeal has a provision that allows nonsmokers to fart in smokers’ faces in retaliation. Freedom for everyone. Anyone badass enough to fog up a room full of complete strangers with cigar smoke shouldn’t mind a little butt mist on his nose. Kinky also wants to legalize casino gambling to pay for public education. Hey, it worked for Louisiana didn’t it? Whoops! Maybe not. Didn’t we solve our education funding crisis with the Texas Lottery anyway? He also wants to get rid of the TAKS test because teachers are “teaching to the test.” Would the Kinkster prefer they teach to their whim? Surely the teachers in the poorest school districts would hold themselves to the same lofty standards of rich school districts like Westlake or Highland Park. Surely they feel the same sense of altruism he does. And yet, when all is said and done, as goofy as Kinky is he still outshines the pep squad. Yes, it’s preposterous, but as the least of evils, he seems at present the most rational choice. Why? He supports increased teacher salaries, renewable energy, the right to choose, gay marriage, health care for uninsured Texas children, and the legalization of marijuana. The pep squad and Ambassador Tom can’t and won’t match that sort of political lunacy, so it appears our best choice comes with some pretty ugly flaws, which should make for some spirited lampooning in the upcoming months, starting first and foremost with Austin’s own Esther’s Follies, who are currently performing their How to Secede in Texas Without Really Trying, a comedy variety show that pokes fun at the Texas gubernatorial candidates as well as national political figures and celebrities. They also throw in plenty of song, dance, and, yes, even magic – something Kinky’s going to need plenty of if he wants to hang wallpaper in the Governor’s Mansion.

Irish Tunes

The Luv Doc Recommends

July 22, 2009

Admit it. You wish you were Irish – well, except for that kelly green thing … or worse yet the Protestant orange. Damn, Ireland, does someone need to bust out a Pantone color swatch? That’s it? That’s all you got? Makes you appreciate the fashion sense of the Crips and the Bloods. And yet, Irish gangstas are O-tothemotherfucking-G. They’ve been going at it for centuries: first the Vikings, then the Normans, then the British, then one another. Militarily, the color scheme makes sense – well, at least half of it. In Ireland, kelly green is pretty decent camouflage – especially useful considering that the Irish skin tone leans hard toward alabaster even during the summer months. Wearing orange, on the other hand, is just crazy, not only in Ireland but pretty much anywhere in the world – well, except in Texas during deer and football seasons. Otherwise, unless there’s some tacit agreement between all parties involved, it’s like wearing a huge fluorescent sign that says “shoot me.” Not surprisingly, Irish Catholics obliged Protestants by using them as targets for a few hundred years, not just because of their horrible fashion sense, but because surrounded by all that green they were so hard to miss. Fortunately for the Prods, Irish Catholics were so poor they could only afford to throw rocks for the most part. Had they dropped some coin on some guns and ammunition rather than in the collection basket, they could have had themselves a real Donnybrook. Back in the day, the Catholic Church rolled strong. They had expensive vestments, huge cathedrals, and a seemingly inexhaustible supply of altar boys, all provided by the sweat and toil of their mostly poor, mostly illiterate parishioners. Of course, there are worse places to be poor than in Ireland. It’s not some windswept patch of Somali desert. There are plenty of trees, grass, rivers, and rainbows … and the promise of leprechauns and lucre at the end of them. And, even though you might go hungry in Ireland, you’ll never go thirsty. There’s always a pint of stout or a shot of whiskey to keep your stomach from growling and your mind from dwelling on topics like inequity, injustice, and insurrection. There’s also music. Anything you can beat, pluck, or squeeze is fair game in the Celtic tradition – especially if it’s made of dead animal parts. It seems all those years of illiteracy paid off in a musical legacy that’s second to none, Bono not withstanding. Celtic music’s reach extends far beyond the Irish diaspora … as long as that reach doesn’t extend too far beyond white, middle-class people who also don’t mind dropping $8 for a turkey leg at a Renaissance fair. Regardless, Irish music is good fun, not only because it involves drinking, but because everybody gets involved – sort of like a piano bar without the Kenny Rogers songs. Before you start thinking it sounds too creepy for you, you might want to check it out yourself. This Sunday night at 9pm, B.D. Riley’s is having one of its Irish Tunes sessions. Head on down to Sixth Street, and join in the fun. Just remember, check the Lucky Charms voice at the door. You don’t want to end up in a Donnybrook.

Music Man

The Luv Doc Recommends

July 14, 2009

If you’re one of those people who moved to Austin on the basis of that glorious, balmy week you spent here back in March during South by Southwest, you’re probably feeling conned … hoodwinked … bamboozled – like someone slipped you a roofie four months ago and it’s just now wearing off. The verdant, flowered, Hill Country oasis with gentle breezes and crisp, cool mornings that you experienced on the promotional tour has given way to a scorched, rainless, asphalt hellscape with blinding sunlight and oozing roof tar. WT effing F? Even the occasional rain isn’t much help. Rather than a refreshing cooldown, it’s more like water being poured on the hot rocks in a sauna. You didn’t sign up for this shit. You came here for the great live music, delicious Mexican food, and a crack at some cheap rent in one of those new high-rise condos desperate for tenants. But this … this is messed up. You’re starting to understand terms such as “redneck,” “farmer’s tan,” and “raccoon face.” You know that when someone says they’re “going commando,” it’s not a military reference. It means they are “letting their church bells ring.” Otherwise, they would be cooking up some “ball soup” or “clam chowder.” You’ve also learned that the best parking place isn’t the one next to the handicap spot, it’s the one a half-mile away under the paltry shade of a grizzled mesquite tree. Yes, you admit it. You’re not quite sure what a mesquite tree looks like. In fact, there are quite a few mysteries you haven’t solved. For instance, why can’t people agree on how to pronounce Koenig, Burnet, Guadalupe, or Mueller? Where, exactly, is Austin City Limits filmed? The high-rise condos – what were they thinking? Guacamole: What’s up with that? Lone Star: Really? Seriously? Don’t worry, you’ll figure all that out soon enough, but the big question, the one that’s keeping you up at night (along with the deafening cacophony from those annoying live music joints beneath your condo) is, how did they used to do it? How did people live in this place back before there were air conditioners, misters, and Jim-Jim’s Water-Ice? Well, first you have to assume that back in the day the Earth was rocking a bit more ozone than it is currently, so you can probably shave 5 degrees off the temperature just for that. There wasn’t as much asphalt either. In fact, Austin was a modest-sized city with a considerable amount of green space. That couldn’t hurt. But the one thing that kept Austin from being really miserable was (and if you’re broke or homeless still is) Barton Springs. Why? Because even on the hottest day Barton Springs is cold. Jumping into Barton Springs on a hot day will make you shriek like a school girl. It will also shrink your junk to the size of a wart. The good news is that after you spend a few exhilarating minutes in the springs, your body is a veritable ice pack for the next few hours. Not so good if you’re looking to bump uglies (you’ll need an experienced and dedicated fluffer), but it’s awesome if you just want to relax and enjoy a wholesome activity – like the annual summer musical at the Zilker Hillside Theater. Thursdays through Sundays until mid-August, you can see the Broadway classic The Music Man performed live right under the stars for free. Bring your own food, booze, and blanket, and absorb some old-skool Austin culture while you’re waiting for your balls to descend from your abdominal cavity. You’ll swear it’s March again, especially if take a quick refresher during intermission.

Bastille Day Celebration

The Luv Doc Recommends

July 6, 2009

Here’s a helpful hint if you’re putting on a festival in the next few millennia: Whatever it is, whoever it benefits, no matter how wonderful the cause or how awesome the party, don’t turn it into a “-palooza” – even if you’re Perry fucking Ferrell himself. No. Seriously. Unless you’re putting on a music festival in Chicago, drop it. Roll another fatty, and get back into brainstorming mode. If you find yourself even remotely entertaining the notion, try this instead: Dig yourself a deep hole, fill it with lime, lean over it, and shoot yourself in the head. That may sound a little harsh, but even though you’ll be dead, you won’t be nearly as dead as the aforementioned beaten-into-a-grease-stain suffix, which has been cooling on a slab in the cultural catchphrase morgue since about 1997. The thing to remember about Lollapalooza was that it was a corny old phrase back when Ferrell stole it from the Three Stooges and used to promote his band’s farewell tour. Jane’s Addiction was cool – well, at least that song with the dog sample intro. Using “-palooza” to pimp your event – “jazz” it up, so to speak – isn’t. Recognize. You might have hired the Jim Rose Circus Sideshow, the Shaolin monks, and a truckload of plate-spinning orangutans riding midget ponies, but the bottom line is that “Herpescreeningpalooza” is still a bummer. The same could be said of “Worshipalooza,” “Mathapalooza,” “Mazdapalooza,” and “Taxapalooza,” but it doesn’t need to. Yes, it may be that there is still someone left in the world who is a sucker for a “-palooza,” some wretched, unfortunate soul who has been in a coma since 1996, has been doing missionary work in the Congo for the past 15 years, or who just moved to town from Wichita, but do you really want to make that your core demographic? No one is saying you can’t still have the sword swallowers, midget ponies, and orangutans. Hell, you can turn your parking lot into a midget-pony-poo Slip ‘n Slide, but try to resist the urge to call it “Ponypoopalooza,” because even if it raises several hundred thousand dollars for breast cancer research, that shit is still just wrong. You might even unwittingly force someone to dig a hole and fill it with lime for you. The safer bet is to just stay on topic and maybe have an open bar. It’s a tried and true formula that has worked for centuries. If an open bar is a bit out of your reach, you can always have live music and a cash bar, just remember that describes just about every other event going on in Austin on any given week. So if your event is for breast cancer awareness, the band better be topless – which in Austin you can make happen for an extra 10-spot. Either that or you can hire a really kickass band, like the one at the Bastille Day celebration at the French Legation Museum this Saturday night. Along with a live auction, pétanque, and French food and wine, the Alliance Française d’Austin is celebrating French independence day with the music of Olivier Giraud and his band Continental Graffiti. Austin’s Hot Rhythm Jumpers will also be on hand to demonstrate vintage dances from the Thirties. Proceeds from the event benefit the Alliance Française d’Austin’s Frédérique Moinard Scholarship Fund and the French Legation itself. This party should be a real lollapalooza even if it isn’t so named.

Austin Symphony July 4th Concert & Fireworks

The Luv Doc Recommends

June 29, 2009

Keep your head down this Saturday. There’s going to be a lot of ordnance whizzing through the air. You might even want to just wet your clothes down before you go outside … oh, wait a minute … you won’t have to – at 100-plus degrees your clothes should be soaked shortly after you step outside. July through September in Austin is just one long wet T-shirt contest anyway, so if you’re a little bashful about showing off your b(m)oobs, you might try sporting something synthetic – some sort of petroleum-based fiber that claims to “wick away the moisture.” Question is: Away to where? All that sweat isn’t exactly itching to hop into the atmosphere. It seems much happier forming a rivulet down your ass crack. In fact, if anything “wicks away the moisture,” it’s gravity. Synthetic fabrics treat moisture like an ugly baby. They just keep passing it along hoping they’re not the one that ends up holding it. Even if you do drop some coin on some space age sportswear, you’ll still probably be rocking a matching pair of underarm crescents at the very least. After all, this ain’t Phoenix, a place where people can live their entire lives without ever knowing what it feels like to actually sweat. If it’s summertime in Austin and you’re outside and not sweating, there’s a really good chance that you’re dead … or perhaps reincarnated as a dog. Either way, that’s particularly bad news this weekend because dogs tend to be skittish around fireworks, and dead people, though unfazed by sudden loud noises, are pretty much useless for anything other than holding the punk steady and being easy scapegoats for smelly farts. You’re better off sweating buckets. Besides, it’s the popular thing to do. Just make sure to replenish your fluids, even if it takes a hose and a funnel to keep up. Hey, nobody’s forcing you to bong beer (even though sometimes your frat brothers make you feel that way). You could be a rebel and throw in an occasional can of sparkling water. You’d get the same gnarly burp, torrential pee stream, and tepid, flat, backwash finish, plus maybe save yourself that bangin’ headache the next morning. Still, if you choose to inhale nothing but Natty Light through a tube all day, that’s your business (Anheuser-Busch isn’t going to complain either). Sure, it will decimate your motor skills and analytical-reasoning ability (remember the $634 you spent on fireworks last year?), but beer-bonging is one of those inalienable American rights you have to exercise to keep from losing – sort of like chain-smoking and Roman candle fights. It’s also an irrefutably efficient form of beverage delivery, and no one loves efficiency more than Americans – well, except Germans, who love beer and efficiency perhaps too much. That’s a dangerous combination, especially when you combine it with fireworks, which is a good reason to turn over the pyrotechnics to sober professionals. This Saturday pretty much every hamlet and bedroom community of Austin is throwing some sort of fireworks display, so you should only have to stumble out onto your front lawn to enjoy the show. Here in Austin, your best bet is to bus it down to Auditorium Shores, where conductor Peter Bay and the Austin Symphony will be blowing it up right along with the fireworks with their stirring rendition of Tchaikovsky’s 1812 Overture accompanied by 75-millimeter howitzer cannons from the Texas National Guard Salute Battery. Sounds awesome, right? OK, but there’s one catch: If you bring your beer bong, you need to keep it on the downlow, because alcohol and glass containers aren’t allowed in the park.

Poodie’s Picnic

The Luv Doc Recommends

June 23, 2009

Sometimes it seems like you’re the only person in Austin who hasn’t gotten high with Willie Nelson in the back of his tour bus. Why the dis, Willie? Just because someone comes across a little bit straight edged doesn’t mean they’re not willing to make the bowl glow like a thousand suns … in the right circumstances … and what circumstances could be righter than the back of the Honeysuckle Rose IV, a biodiesel chugging Amsterdam on wheels where ex-football coaches, preachers, and even asshole rednecks check their sanctimony at the door? Hell, even people who have never tried pot are happy to get their ganja cherry popped by the Red Headed Stranger himself. It’s not like shooting heroin with Boy George or snorting meth with Courtney Love. There’s a certain Zen involved – a high tolerance, if you will. Why else would chick-hater Toby Keith get to burn one with His Willieness, even though he claims he’ll never smoke weed with Willie again? Criminal. At least he got the offer … and don’t think for a minute that given a second chance he won’t be sucking on Willie’s spliff like a Detroit crack whore. Why wouldn’t he? It’s no secret that Willie’s weed is some really awesome shit – good enough to justify a second residence in Maui maybe? Who knows? Well, everybody except you apparently, and just because your plumber, your hairdresser, Matthew McConaughey, and that pimply-faced kid who checks your receipt at Guitar Center have all gotten stoned to the bejesus belt with America’s favorite write-in presidential candidate is no reason to be all sulky. Willie ain’t stuck up. More likely it’s just that your timing is off. Don’t worry, Willie has clearly negotiated some sort of Keith Richards deal with the devil (or Jesus?) and will likely be around long after you and your progeny are dead and gone. He also knows the secret of the immortal: If you live long enough, all your friends die, so you damn sure better keep making new ones. Tragically, one of Willie’s oldest and most beloved friends just died back in May, so there’s a huge space left open. Poodie Locke, voted in 1952 the Most Beautiful Baby in Waco, was Willie’s longtime stage manager as well as the owner of Poodie’s Hilltop Bar & Grill in Spicewood. Not only was Poodie a truly nice guy and the very definition of a bon vivant, he was a true ambassador and representative of Williedom for those not quite lucky enough to make the inner circle. Poodie welcomed everyone, consistently paying forward Willie’s good vibe. When he wasn’t on the road, he was at the bar drinking tequila, listening to music, sharing stories, and a bit more clandestinely, Willie’s intoxicant of choice. Not surprisingly, Poodie’s circle of friends was huge and devoted and included a lot of musicians, both famous and not. This Sunday at the Backyard, they’re throwing a concert to celebrate his life. The show, called Poodie’s Picnic, is a nine-hour musical extravaganza that is worth far more than the $20 admission. Included on the bill are Joe Ely, Reckless Kelly, Cross Canadian Ragweed, Cory Morrow, Billy Joe Shaver, Ray Wylie Hubbard, Gary P. Nunn, Bobby Boyd, James Hand, Billy Bob Thornton & the Boxmasters, Carolyn Wonderland, Paula Nelson, Folk Uke, Waylon Payne, Scotty Emerick, and more. Plus there’s always that chance the Honeysuckle Rose IV might roll into the parking lot and make your day.

Party at the Moontower

The Luv Doc Recommends

June 16, 2009

Sunday is Father’s Day. You might be a real bastard, but it doesn’t mean you don’t actually have a dad. It’s just that sometimes they’re a little hard to track down without a summons or ironclad DNA evidence. Being fatherless has some advantages. First, you save the money on the Father’s Day card … and more importantly, you save the time it takes to pick out the goddamned thing. The greeting-card aisle is an express ticket to an aneurysm – nearly as effective as chain-smoking, binge-drinking scotch, and eating bacon … all while hanging upside down in gravity boots. Loitering in front of the greeting-card section looking for a special sentiment that in any way remotely sums up your complicated relationship with your father is a good way to make your head explode. Should you go cute or funny? Maybe you could buy something syrupy and sentimental. How about a musical card that chimes “Wind Beneath My Wings”? Dad always was emotional. In fact, he’s so emotional that he might actually punch you in the teeth if you buy him a sissy greeting card. You’re on much safer ground with a set of grilling tools, even if your dad doesn’t grill. Similarly, your father may not fish, play poker, or golf, but chances are he won’t be insulted if you think he does (well, maybe the golf thing). This is not to say your father can’t appreciate Pablo Neruda, scented candles, or a hot-pink exfoliating sponge, it’s just that when it comes to Father’s Day presents, you’re better off going with something completely useless like a Sports Illustrated football phone or a beer hat – if only because it will provide hilarious evidence to his drinking buddies that his kid is an idiot. Yes, priceless. If money is no object and you’re really intent on brown-nosing pops (and don’t mind pissing off your mom), you can always spring for a Shiatsu massage chair, a Budweiser Clydesdale, a 1972 Dodge Challenger, or maybe the Green Bay Packers. They’re not the best team in the league, but they’re scrappy, and their fans are as rabid as that stray dog in To Kill a Mockingbird. Of course, you might be asking, “What did my dad ever do for me that deserves a Clydesdale?” After all, this is the man who let you and your brothers roll around untethered in the back of his Suburban, encouraged you to have Roman candle wars with the kids across the street, and made you pee behind a cactus patch in broad daylight on the side of I-10. If CPS had a watch list, he was probably on it – not because he used to call you “Chubby Butt” in front of your friends or because he once threatened your prom date with an empty service revolver but because of his criminal negligence in applying sunscreen. Still, just because you spent your childhood summers with a Jackson Pollock mottle doesn’t mean your pops doesn’t deserve some props. After all, he did manage to bang your mom. That’s an accomplishment. He also got you to and from all sorts of boring childhood activities where he was forced to hide his liquor. And lastly, he brought home the bacon … maybe not a lot, but if you didn’t have some to use as a distraction for his pit bulls when you took out the garbage, you might not be here to thank him for all the stuff he did for you that you’re having trouble remembering. Speaking of bacon, that’s not a bad idea for a Father’s Day gift either. If it’s on a cheeseburger, even better. You can get just that this Saturday night at the Party at the Moontower at the Trailer Park & Eatery on South First, a Seventies-themed BYOB benefit for American YouthWorks based on the moontower party from Richard Linklater’s classic Seventies film, Dazed and Confused. What dad doesn’t love Wooderson, trailer parks, tacos, burgers, Seventies music and videos, muscle cars, cutoffs, and hazing? If yours doesn’t, maybe you should look into the bastard thing again.

The Jump at the Capitol

The Luv Doc Recommends

June 8, 2009

This weekend the Republic of Texas Biker Rally is coming to town to take a big ol’ trailer-trash shit on the Austin aesthetic. Chain Drive notwithstanding, sweaty leather, stretched tattoos, and farting Harleys don’t dovetail too well with the Austin state of mind. It’s like your obnoxious, foul-mouthed, ex-con uncle from Pasadena just showed up and asked if he and his old lady can crash on your couch for the weekend. He’s really a great guy to have around if you’re rebuilding your carburetor, going out to score some meth, or doing shots of Tequila in a Mexican whorehouse, but you really don’t want him moving in with you, even if he is on the same branch of your family tree. Bikers are a generally fun loving lot, which is a big part of the reason they’re such crappy houseguests. They always seem really intent on having a good time even and especially if their idea of a good time doesn’t necessarily coincide with yours. That devil-may-care attitude might help explain the ROT Rally events schedule, which is either an awesome, kickass good time or a nightmarish, lowbrow carnival, depending on your tattoo count. Here are some of the good times in store for motorcycle enthusiasts: Xtreme Fight Championship (don’t let that stick in your craw – bikers don’t lose a lot of sleep over spelling), midget wrestling (as if regular wrestling were just a bit too politically correct), biker comedienne Bag Lady Sue (was Larry the Cable Guy not available?), Biker Games by Buda (these include the Fuzzy Ball Race, the Weenie Bite, the Keg Push and the Panty Race – is it still Pride Weekend?), the World Famous Wall of Death (nothing screams fun like death), wet T-shirt contests (really, it’s hot enough that the real contest is to see who can keep their T-shirt dry and their nipples perky), and the “longest parade of motorcycles known to mankind” (especially if you’re trying to cross Congress). Of course, the pièce de résistance (the maraschino cherry on top of the peanut-buster parfait?) will be Kaptain (again with the spelling) Robbie Knievel’s Jump at the Capitol. As part of his Farewell Tour, the Kaptain will be jumping his motorcycle over three Budweiser semis. Yes, three. Simmer down. You might remember that a year ago he jumped over 24 Coke Zero trucks, but they were lined up side by side. The Budweiser trucks will be end-to-end, which should make it easier to read the logos while the Kaptain flies 180 feet over them, and if you’re watching it from the right perspective, the Capitol dome as well. With Knievel’s jump, ROT Rally organizers are hoping to attract more families to Congress Avenue, even though they have banned anyone under the age of 18 out at the Expo Center – perhaps to cut down on statutory rape or to make sure they’re getting truly authentic midgets. Friday night on Congress however, “the Man” can’t keep you or your children from witnessing first-hand the blessings (curses?) of freedom: Fat, hairy dudes wearing “fuck you, you fucking fuck” T-shirts, septuagenarian biker bitch boobage, meth-rotted tooth gaps (oh, that ROT Rally), and a seemingly endless array of sleeveless denim, leather, and sweat-stained DayGlo. The good news is that if you aren’t struck hysterically blind by all this, you’ll get to see a truly spectacular array of beautiful and lovingly cared for machines, plus the daredevil antics of the Kaptain himself.

Who Is Your Daddy? Little Lounge Lizards’ June Dance Party

The Luv Doc Recommends

June 2, 2009

Every once in a while you come across an event that is so fucking crazy that you just have to go check it out, if only to make sure you didn’t dream it. Austin has more than its share of them: Chiggerfest, Spamarama, Eeyore’s Birthday, Harry Knowles’ Butt-Numb-a-Thon, O. Henry Pun-Off. Austinites aren’t particularly scared of weirdness, but sometimes “keepin’ it weird” can turn a little creepy – especially when honest, decent, earnest people with good intentions are involved. In fact, some of the most heinous atrocities in human history were committed by people who were utterly convinced they were doing the right thing. The folks loading up the boxcars for Nazi death camps or the ones poisoning the punchbowl in Jonestown weren’t doing it just to be assholes – well, at least not all of them – no, they drank the punch metaphorically long before they did so literally. Unfortunately, they lacked the types of sociological/psychological checks and balances most people take for granted. One of these is humor, chiefly propagated by the wiseass. When everyone seems to be marching in lockstep (reason enough to start feeling skittish), there is always one heroic individual (or sleazy and self-aggrandizing dickhead) who will pop off with a bitingly sarcastic bon mot like, “Wow, can’t the Swiss steal their own gold teeth?” or, “Sorry, punch makes me gassy.” In most heavy situations, the wiseass gets stomped into a grease stain by the brownshirts or their equivalent, and the machinery of evil grinds on, but in certain instances, a subversive idea takes hold and festers long enough to spoil the party, be it Nazi, Commie, or Tupperware. After all, crazy ideas, like food, stay freshest when sealed in a vacuum. Pop the seal, and they just might rot…or flourish. Regardless, it’s always best to air them out and see what happens. For instance, having a dance party at Qua for “for cool kids ages 10 and under and their groovy grownups” sounds like a Bad Idea jeans commercial, especially considering the music is being provided by DJ Sicko, but hold your judgment. You may not know the whole story. Maybe somewhere in Austin there is an 8-year-old who will roll out of bed Saturday morning and say: “Hey, Pops, what do you say we blow off the swimming pool today and throw some Axe body spray, Ed Hardy togs, and nugget jewelry, and head over to Qua and dance our asses off! Who knows? You might even meet a hot single mom!” Maybe there is even more than one. More likely there are plenty of parents who aren’t averse to using their kids as an excuse to troll for strange on a Saturday afternoon. No shame in that game, as long as you and your kid are on the same page. If that’s the case, Saturday’s Who’s Your Daddy? dance party at Qua may be just your thing: live shark tank dance floor, disco lights, aquarium, and complimentary Clif Bar snacks. Here’s the catch: All adults must be accompanied by a child, so if you’re a nonbreeder looking to score, you’re going to have to borrow a nephew or something.

Pachanga Latino Music Festival

The Luv Doc Recommends

May 27, 2009

Good move Pachanga! What better place to have a Latin-party music festival than in a place called Fiesta Gardens? Waterloo Park is nice and all, but it’s a little Limey sounding and ultimately doesn’t have the zest of “fiesta,” does it? The “gardens” thing is also a bit confusing. What’s with the pidgin? Would it really have been that challenging for the city to just go whole hog (swine?) and call it “Fiesta Jardines?” Yes, it’s exhausting reading that much Spanish strung together, but Austin is a fairly open-minded city. We’ve been spitting out Auditorium Shores for years now – same number of syllables plus two extra letters. That may not seem important in the big picture, but when you need your sorority sisters to come rescue you from a Porta-Potty disaster, Auditorium Shores is an egregious amount to text. It’s really difficult to tap in “I HV SHT MYSLF N PP @ AS. HLP ME” on your Razor and have people actually understand what you mean – especially when it’s dark, you’re literally shitfaced, and there’s a decent chance they’ll read the first half of your text and decide to pretend not to understand it even though they did. Wouldn’t you? Of course you would. After all, Auditorium Shores is a big place that affords a certain amount of anonymity. At most it’s only a 200-yard dash to Lady Bird Lake. Even with the wind in your face and wearing flip-flops, you should be able to make it to the water in less than 30 seconds – faster if you’re barefoot and buck naked, plus you’ll get extra cool points for keeping it weird. You could do the same at Fiesta Gardens in less than 20 seconds, but there are a few more obstacles. Most importantly, you’ll need enough hops to clear the reeds and flotsam at the water’s edge, because that’s where the snakes and flushed pet alligators hang out. Or do they? Don’t sweat it. Chances are if you avoid the refritos con chorizo and really low-rent tequilas, you won’t have any Porta-Potty emergencies. After all, you may be at a Pachanga Festival, but it’s not like you’re actually en Mexico. Musically, however, you should be pretty close. Headlining the bill are Tejano star Michael Salgado and Mexican Institute of Sound, aka “the Mexican Moby,” aka Instituto Mexicano del Sonido – which is infinitely more poetic than its American counterpart. Salgado and Instituto are miles apart musically, but will be only a few hundred yards from each other geographically this Saturday. The same is true of the rest of the festival, which offers a diverse array of artists sharing their unique take on Latin music: Los Bad Apples, Chris Perez, Brownout, Charanga Cakewalk, and David Garza, among others. And if you can’t get your Latin fix without seeing musicians in matching costumes, Mariachi Altenas, Texas’ all-female mariachi band, are scheduled for the Pavillion Stage at 7:30pm. This might just be the event that changes the gardens into jardines. Regardless, it will definitely be a fiesta.

Austin Chronicle Adult Spelling Bee

The Luv Doc Recommends

May 20, 2009

Last week a pun-off and this week a spelling bee? Good Lord, Austin really is Nerdvana. All those years you spent woodshedding with your Oxford English Dictionary are finally starting to pay off – both for you and your optometrist. Who knows? Someday you might even get paid for all those two-dollar words you’ve been collecting. You know, those anachronistic, multisyllabic vocabulary bombs you accidentally let drop at the auto parts store, the dry cleaner’s, or the cash register at Dairy Queen: “I’ll have a Cappuccino MooLatte, and by the way, young fellow, your company really sets the bar when it comes to ingenious culinary portmanteaus!” Careful there, word nerd: You’re just a couple of syllables away from a brand-new hairstyle via the men’s room toilet bowl. You think you’re smarter than everybody else? You think you’re something special? OK, maybe not. You just possess a vocabulary that allows you the luxury of being either painstakingly precise or obnoxiously verbose – perhaps both. It doesn’t necessarily make you the pretentious dick the kid behind the counter thinks you are; it just makes you seem like one, which is why you can find it in your heart to forgive his withering look of floccinaucinihilipilification. Sadly, he’s mostly right. Although impressive to a twisted few, an exhaustive vocabulary is pretty much worthless for the mundanity of everyday life. Language is mostly about communicating and not so much about making people Google shit on their iPhones. This doesn’t necessarily mean you have to dumb things down to an idiotic extreme. It just means that in order to avoid getting hung up by your tighty whiteys, you have to be able to switch lexicological gears every now and then. You have to be sensitive to your environment and keep that shit buttoned down … unless you’re at a Mensa meeting, a renaissance fair, or a Star Trek screening – and not the cool, sexy, new Star Trek either. The point is, you made your bed, and now you have to lie in it – most likely alone. Why? Because when it comes to attracting members of the opposite sex, a huge vocabulary operates as a figurative force field for all but a select few. Therefore, when you’re mackin’, it’s best to throttle it down to two syllables or fewer, unless you’re whipping out one of those embarrassingly idiotic, woo-pitching portmanteaus like, “Baby, I’m sexilicious!” Nonsensical hormone-infused prattle like that shows that even though you’re mentally well endowed, you’re not stuck up about it. The truth is, no one really minds if you’re a nerd as long as you don’t let it go to your head. In fact, Austin is chock-full of nerds, geeks, and eggheads who by some aberration of nature or nurture aren’t laboring under the misconception that their defecation isn’t odiferous. It’s one of those intangibles that makes Austin such a charming place. Tonight you can experience some of that charm at the Chronicle’s Adult Spelling Bee – a boozy, informal competition to crown Austin’s next spelling genius. You don’t have to be a word nerd to be entertained. A good part of the fun is watching the geniuses try to hold it together like normal people. Winner takes home a spectacular trophy and certificate good for a beer a day for a year at Threadgill’s. A brain that big could probably stand to lose a few cells anyway, right?