Month: December 2020

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.