Author: The Luv Doc

A ‘Hole’ Bunch of Thanks With Chris Brecht & Dead Flowers

The Luv Doc Recommends

November 22, 2011

Well, well, well … what have we to be thankful for? Yes, the world economy’s in the toilet, drought and fires have ravaged most of the local landscape, the Longhorns might be looking at a break-even season, and it’s an inescapable reality that each and every person reading this column is going to die someday, but it’s not like you’re ready to fellate the business end of a shotgun. You’re not Kurt Cobain. Besides, there are some bright spots. How about the Interwebs? Thank you Al Gore for personally paving the information superhighway! Now nearly everyone in the world with access to an electrical socket wakes up knowing that the collective knowledge of thousands of years of human evolution is literally at his or her fingertips. Well done, sir! And yet, instead of taking advantage of the enormous enlightenment, personal growth, and understanding such information might offer, they mostly just surf for porn and post cute kitten videos on their Facebook feeds. Ah well, if you teach a man to fish, you’ll feed him for a lifetime, but if you teach a man to surf the Web, he’ll be surrounded by sticky Kleenex in no time. Regardless, something good is bound to come of this Internet thing besides “Thriller” flash mobs, Rick Rolling, and WikiLeaks postings of U.S. Army snuff films. Here’s something else you should feel thankful about: Obama. Sure, he’s no Billy Dee Williams. Hell, he’s not even Dave Chappelle, but he sure is doing a spectacular job of chapping the asses of cracker conservatives all over America, which is truly worth another four-year stint, even if Democrats have to walk 10 miles barefoot through the snow to the voting booth. Plus, if he gets a second term, Obama can go buck wild and actually make conservatives’ worst nightmares come true: free foreclosed suburban homes for welfare mothers, illegalization of all guns, mandatory free education and college scholarships for all illegal immigrants, government funded abortions for everyone, socialized medicine (that’s insane), and of course, the pièce de résistance, outlawing Christmas – or at the very least replacing it with a Gay Pride parade for aging bears. You know you just got a semi – not necessarily because you’re into burly, hirsute old gay men, but because how awesome would that be? Old, hairy, shirtless dudes in assless chaps disco dancing to Erasure down a street lined with bawling toddlers? Well, keep your fingers crossed. There’s always a chance for a Christmas miracle. Speaking of assless chaps, the weather’s pretty nice isn’t it? That’s something to be thankful for. The icecaps may be melting because we’ve reduced the ozone to just a few molecules of oxygen that bump into one another every now and then, but it’s the end of November and you’re still rocking a rich, St. Tropez tan that makes George Hamilton look like Edward Scissorhands. You’re crushing it. And lastly, you’d be remiss not to be thankful for your smartphone. Really, you have to admit it’s awesome. Remember back in the day when people were worried about Big Brother (aka the government) knowing everything they did in public or in private? Turns out Big Brother could give a shit. Private individuals, on the other hand, are up in one another’s chili like never before, which has created the Facebook standard of public propriety. People no longer ask themselves, “What would Jesus do?” Instead they ask themselves, “What would this look like if it were tagged in a Facebook post?” Thus, we are no longer entertained (as often and pricelessly) by a drunk wearing a lampshade and a pair of beer-stained tighty-whities doing a Riverdance on the coffee table or a potentially crippling backflip off the back of the sofa. Moonings are increasingly rare, and you know, damn … it’s like a fat cop can’t mace a few protesters anymore without having it posted all over the Internet (and Photoshopped into just about every iconic image in the last 2,000 years). You can be thankful for that. Relatively, life is pretty sweet, even if you’re a 99 Percenter – especially if you’re a 99 Percenter in America. You should celebrate. They’re doing exactly that at the Hole in the Wall this Thursday by cooking up a free Thanksgiving meal. All you have to do is show up, buy some drinks, enjoy some great music by Chris Brecht & Dead Flowers, and the Hole will feed you a delicious Thanksgiving feast.

East Austin Studio Tour

The Luv Doc Recommends

November 18, 2011

Any artist who can afford a studio in East Austin must be doing pretty well, right? Those digs ain’t cheap. If you’re doing the EASTside shuffle this weekend, don’t expect kegs of PBR and Cheez Whiz on saltines – well, unless it’s being served ironically, which is difficult to prove without seeming like a huge dick. More than likely you’ll be treated to a variety of tasty independent craft brews too thick to suck through a beer bong, gluten-free hors d’oeuvres (Seriously: No one gives a shit about glutens or even knows what they are, and if they do they’re probably so neurotic about their health that they’re going to die of an aneurysm anyway), and, of course, the staple of art openings: cheap but serviceable wines. Sometimes they’re wines from places and vintners you’ve never heard of (What? You’ve never had Pirate Pete’s Pinot Grigio? It’s one of the finest wines in all of Somalia!), and sometimes they’re quasi-ghetto wines cleverly redecanted. Then there are the boxed wines. Boxed wines are fair game as long as you get jiggy with it. Just plopping a Bota Box down on a rented folding table is too low rent even for East Austin … even if you’re doing it ironically. True artists know it’s not what’s in the box that matters; it’s how the box looks on the outside. Imagine the Gallo brothers on the label, but with Rollie Fingers-style Movember mustaches and Tyrolean alpine hats Sharpied onto their heads. The cool thing about making art is that you can never be too over the top. Wait a minute … OK, if you’re going to start making masks out of human skin like Leatherface … well … granted … envelope pushed … broken … shat on. On the other hand, if you want wrap a cluster of islands in 600,000 square meters of pink polypropylene or photograph yourself with a bullwhip shoved up your ass, have at it. There is really no bad art, only art stupid people don’t understand. If you’ve ever found yourself staring intently at a Pollock painting thinking, “What the fucking fuck? I could duct-tape a paintbrush to a Chihuahua’s head and do better than this,” don’t get your panties in a wad. It just means you don’t have an art history degree from Bryn Mawr. Some art is done for art’s sake. That means that it’s completely useless for anything other than being a piece of art. Ironically enough, a lot of art for art’s sake ends up being pressed into uses completely unintended and unimagined by the artist. More often than not that use is as a drink coaster or paperweight, but it can involve other things like boat anchors, oil-drip pans, dartboards … really the list is nearly as endless as artistic possibility. Then, of course, there are those pieces of art with similar characteristics that sell for millions of dollars. If this keeps you awake at night, it shouldn’t. Yes, there are generally agreed upon rules and standards in art. For instance: Who doesn’t love a fleece blanket with the airbrushed image of Elvis on it? Crazy people, that’s who. Mostly, however, the value of art is highly subjective and determined by rank emotion and caprice – just like an episode of American Idol. Trying to determine the value of a piece of art is risky business – like betting money on a quarterback named Manning or barebacking a South African prostitute. Buying art should always be done with the same sense of resignation you use to justify an expensive trip to Vegas: You’re probably going to lose money on the deal, but at least the drinks are free. Who knows, you may hit the jackpot and take home the next Picasso or Warhol or Schneider, or Fontenot, or you might just take home an interesting little dalliance that reminds you of the time you got blotto on complimentary boxed wine and wandered around formerly sketchy neighborhoods looking at art on a beautiful Saturday afternoon. How much is that worth? Priceless. If you’re looking to look at some art, you can’t pick a better time than this weekend, which is the last weekend of the East Austin Studio Tour, a chance to get to know more than 100 local artists and studios as well as familiarize yourself with the streets and neighborhoods of East Austin. All you have to do to get started is pick up an EAST catalog at one of the Austin Public Libraries, or go online to the EAST website and download a PDF map of the tour. Go ahead, get your art on.

Sims Benefit Bash

The Luv Doc Recommends

November 31, 2022

If you’re a 99 Percenter (and there’s about a 99% chance that you are), here’s a little secret: You didn’t come out too well in the health care debate either. Long before the banks were tappin’ your ass with usurious fees, penalties, and interest rates, the insurance companies were sucking you dry like big, fat leeches with exorbitant deductibles, greed-driven coverage denials, and obstructive customer service tactics. More importantly, insurance company lobbyists completely framed the debate about how the American health care system (aka “The Finest Health Care System in the World” – well, except for its 37th-place finish in the World Health Organization’s rankings in 2000) should operate. It just may turn out to be one of the greatest PR victories of the 20th century. The notion of a baseline government-run system of health care was dismissively portrayed as recklessly extreme socialism and shelved almost immediately – as was the idea of allowing the government to offer its own competing, low-cost insurance. Instead, insurance companies leaned over the plate and took the huge hit of not being able to deny coverage based on pre-existing conditions (What? We can’t just let people die?) and were made to suffer the further indignity of having to sell everybody insurance. Everybody. Well, “everybody” being everybody who can afford to buy health insurance – which they will be required to do by law. Those unable to pay would of course receive federal assistance to purchase private health insurance. This requirement – aka the “individual mandate” – was an incredibly genius reach-around compromise that made desperate liberal Democrats feel at least like distant relatives of Mother Teresa, but in reality will have at best a minimal effect on overall health care costs as a percentage of gross domestic product, which is the one health care category in which America really does kick everyone’s ass. U…S…A! U…S…A! While Obama was busy grabbing his ankles (or maybe he was tying his shoelaces?) in the name of political expediency, insurance companies were wetting themselves at the prospect of millions of new customers getting lost in their infuriating voicemail labyrinths and trying to make sense of Byzantine billing statements. Really, why should poor people be spared the experience of being driven to the edge of insanity by “the finest health care system in the world”? But wait … there is some silver lining: The Patient Protection and Affordable Care Act (insurance executives get a semi every time they hear that read out loud) includes important mental health coverage provisions, the most notable being that pre-existing mental-health/substance-use disorders can’t be used as a basis to deny coverage. That should be something of a relief for the folks at the SIMS Foundation, who will be hosting their annual SIMS Benefit Bash fundraiser this Saturday at the Austin Music Hall. For more than 15 years, SIMS has provided access to and financial support for mental-health services for Austin-area musicians and their families. Given the staggering number of aspiring rock stars here in the River City (many of whom are at least a little kray-kray), that is a monumental task. If you think the PPACA means that SIMS can just throw in the towel, you are a bit mental yourself. Most of the benefits conferred by the legislation don’t go into effect until 2014, and the law itself doesn’t go into full effect until 2018. That’s a major gap to fill, which is why you should buy a ticket, sponsor a table, or maybe drop some coin on some cool auction items at the SIMS Benefit Bash. Make a night of it. Blow it up. Paying for mental health care will never be any funner than this.

Austin Tequila Fest

The Luv Doc Recommends

November 2, 2011

If you’ve ever woken up shirtless with your pants around your ankles, upside down in a stranger’s bathtub with a knot on your head, a missing tooth, a bloody nose, inexplicable bruises, dried snot(?), dirt, and blood splattered across your body, you’ve probability overindulged in tequila. If there were a goat/circus clown/homeless person/transvestite passed out in the tub with you, chances are you’ve sworn off tequila for eternity – or at least until you can save up enough money to get that “Bozo’s bitch” tramp stamp removed. It would be reckless and irresponsible to deny that there’s some indefinable, insidious component of tequila that drives otherwise reasonably sane, well-mannered people to commit acts of stupidity and depravity that would make Charlie Sheen blush. If there is though, it hasn’t been detected. Still, do you think the makers of Girls Gone Wild plied coeds with pot brownies and Smirnoff Ice? Wrong. If you can somehow get a 95-pound Tri Delta to knock back a few consecutive shots of Cuervo, all you need to do is put on your dog attack suit and let the camera roll. Rest assured that some heavy shit is about to go down. If someone were brave enough to do the statistical research, it would probably be discovered that tequila is responsible for a staggering number of unplanned pregnancies, barroom brawls, and embarrassing, vulgar tattoos – not just within the Tri Deltas, but within the population as a whole. One sure sign that your night on the town is about to take a freaky turn through the looking glass is when your beer-drinking buddies decide to kick it into overdrive by ordering shots of tequila. OK, truth be told, it could be reasonably argued that’s the same result as when people start doing shots of anything: whiskey, vodka, rum, absinthe, Jägermeister … although with Jäger you should assume that the night will end with you exploring your sexuality with your frat brothers. There are certain tequila drinkers who maintain that tequila is a stimulant or that it contains trace amounts of mescaline. These people – perhaps from the degenerative effects of binge alcoholism on the cerebral cortex – are stupid. Yes, imbibed in staggeringly prodigious quantities, tequila provides a full load of calories, but those calories are fairly useless as an immediate source of energy. They will, however, provide you with a nice layer of suet that might help you (or maybe your fellow passengers) survive a few extra days if your plane goes down in the Andes. Here’s the bottom line: Just because tequila is made from a menacing looking plant in a dangerous country doesn’t give it special powers; it just gives it a special flavor. The active ingredient is still alcohol – a depressant. Scientifically speaking, there’s nothing stimulating about tequila other than the extreme stupidity that results from overimbibing. Drunks are stimulated by the belief that they can perform ordinary feats of skill and dexterity (and yes, sadly, extraordinary feats of skill and dexterity) while highly intoxicated. The results often produce memories that last a lifetime … or at least a really popular YouTube video. There are plenty of people with just such memories who literally can’t even smell tequila without feeling their digestive system slam into reverse. It’s unfortunate really. Why condemn a whole world of epicurean exploration just because you spent a wild night with a Sig Ep named “Upchuck” in South Padre when you were 19? Sophisticated drinkers know that tequila is the Scotch of the Desert Southwest. There are hundreds of different brands, each with its own unique flavor and aroma. Yes, many of them make a mean margarita, but others were made to be enjoyed neat, like fine single malt. If you want a quick introduction to the wonderful world of tequila, head down to Casa Chapala this Friday, where the Austin Tequila Society is hosting the Austin Tequila Fest, “An Evening of Tequila Tasting, Fun, Food and Music Benefiting the Homeless Coach.” More than 45 tequila selections will be available for sampling, and there will be Mexican food, raffle prizes, and live music with the Jonas Alvarez band. Sound like a fun time? It probably will be, but you may want to take the bus. Sometimes it’s hard to know when to say when.

Zombie Ball: The Party To Die For

The Luv Doc Recommends

October 26, 2011

Put your costume on now. It’s go time. It already was last weekend but maybe you didn’t get the memo. As of today, however, there’s no excuse. Everything is Halloween themed. Don’t think so? Even Petco is having a Fur and Fangs Halloween Catstravaganza. You may want to take this rare opportunity to round up all the neighborhood strays, dress them in adorable crocheted pumpkin costumes, and do a drive-by drop and dash. Let the terror begin! Perhaps some local urologist (maybe Dr. Dick Chop?) might want to consider doing a Vasect-o-ween(er) Party. Nothing is scarier that a man in a mask standing over your maximally contracted scrotum with an inch-long anesthetic needle. Boo! The point is that from here on until sometime around 5am the morning after Halloween, you can get away with murder … well, at least fashionwise. Probably the only place you can’t safely rock an awesome costume is a mortuary, and really, if that’s your gig, it’s pretty much Halloween all year round anyway, isn’t it? In fact, you can probably show up at a Halloween party in a suit, and when people ask you what you are, you can say, “I’m a mortician,” and they will say, “Cool … you totally nailed it.” Plus, you can actually be a mortician for the rest of the night and not experience the normal social ostracization to which you’re accustomed. Even if you don’t spend your days working with the recently departed, Halloween is still a great time to really open up and be the real you. Cross-dresser? No need to go costume shopping, eh? Well, unless there’s a really good sale or something. Mime? Hilarious and scary! Doctor, cop, soldier, priest, firefighter, circus clown, Indian chief, biker … Halloween is a slam dunk for anyone whose daily attire would work nicely on a Village People album cover. For the rest of the world, costuming can be a bit stressful. Why? Expectations mostly … your own or someone else’s. Making costumes is hard. That’s why they give out Oscars for people who are really good at it. It’s not just a matter of spending a quiet night at home with a hot glue gun and a box of ostrich feathers. A couple of hours on a throbbing disco dance floor (and if there isn’t one, you’re probably at a shitty Halloween party) and you’ll come undone just like Icarus. Yes, your plunge to Earth may only be metaphorical, but that doesn’t mean it will be less painful. Even the classic no-brainer ghost costume requires a certain amount of premeditation. You can’t just hack out a couple of eye sockets and a blowhole and call it good. You have to find some way to make sure that once you start moving around, your hand-crafted orifices aren’t servicing a different part of your anatomy. Speaking of, one of the primary considerations of the ghost costume is also a difficult existential one as well: commando or no? Sure, it may be tempting to free-ball it all night long – especially in Austin’s balmy climes – but some consideration should be paid to the inevitable curiosity of your fellow revelers. It’s safe to say that some will want to know what’s behind the white curtain enough to actually lift it. Store-bought costumes offer their own challenges – primarily those having to do with ventilation. Remember that wicked awesome ape suit you picked up for a song on Ebay? The one that made you sweat so much that by the end of the night your rubber ape feet were making sloshing noises? Not to mention that for weeks afterward you were coughing up hairballs of synthetic black fur, which, chances are, was made in China by child laborers wearing suits covered in lead dust and weapons-grade plutonium. Party tip: No one wants to fuck the sweat-drenched, synthetic-hairball-hacking occupant of a cheap Chinese ape suit. No one. You could show up at a party in a pair of water-logged Depends and have a better chance at getting laid. Don’t try that costume by the way … it takes a monumental amount of game. If you really want to let yourself off the costume hook, dress comfortably – maybe a light-colored velour tracksuit – and then soak yourself in fake blood (or real blood if you have a pig you’ve been meaning to slaughter). Ta-da! Instant zombie. The cool thing about being a zombie is that you can be a zombie anything: bride, astronaut, bureaucrat, unicyclist, lactation consultant … just let your imagination run wild. If you want to compare notes, head down to ACL Live at the Moody Theater on Saturday for the Zombie Ball, a zombified extravaganza featuring live music (the Bright Light Social Hour), aerialists, burlesque, and a Haunt’d Couture Red Carpet Review (red with blood?!). Plus, you can get your zombie party pic taken by fun folks from the Chronicle. Beats being castrated, doesn’t it?

Gypsy Picnic Trailer Food Festival

The Luv Doc Recommends

October 18, 2011

First of all, if you’re offended by the term “gypsy,” back off. It ain’t like that. Here in Austin we think of gypsies as freedom-loving people who can’t be tied down – sort of like the homeless people in the Kris Kristofferson song “Me and Bobby McGee.” You know, the kind of folks who aren’t ashamed to hitchhike or carry a dirty red bandana, desperate types with “nothing left to lose.” This, of course, could describe a lot of people of unsavory mien: escaped convicts … psychopaths … terrorists … axe-murderers. But for the generally bourgeois demographic of Central Austin, the gypsy aesthetic is a much more benign and romantic notion. Like communism or gerbiling, having nothing left to lose is much more attractive as a theoretical construct than in actual practice. Being encumbered with nothing is the naive fantasy of those encumbered with too much. We all like to think of ourselves as Bear Grylls from Man vs. Wild … all alone out there in the wild … surviving by our wit and instinct … never even asking the cameraman or sound engineer for a protein bar or a foot massage … really roughing it. Really, Bear Grylls is just like us … only he comes from a much better family and went to Eton College. Regardless, just because we’ve never been “busted flat in Baton Rouge” doesn’t mean we couldn’t handle it, even enjoy it. Really, who hasn’t fantasized about being flat broke and having to hitch a ride in the land of alligators, drunk Cajuns, and David Duke? What’s the worst that could happen? Sure, you might have to send an embarrassing text to your parents from your iPhone to get them to add some money to your checking account so you can get your morning Venti at Starbucks, but hey, that’s just the cost of your gypsy life of freedom, isn’t it? Even Bear Grylls gets tired of eating grubworms, showering in the snow, and shitting in the woods, Bear though he may be. The notion of freedom and self-reliance however, no matter how bankrupt and fallacious, still sounds sexy. Gypsies don’t have to worry about mortgages, car payments, utility bills, retirement accounts, taxes, or even holding down a job. The costumes are pretty fly as well. Think Johnny Depp as Jack Sparrow or maybe Stevie Nicks in her goth phase: lots of dangly bling, tats, and billowy clothing, not to mention the obligatory bandana do-rag. Yes, the nomadic life has its romance and allure – well, at least the European version. Back in the day, Texas and most of the plains states were populated almost exclusively with exotically dressed nomads, until we killed most of them and herded the remainder into reservations. Freedom is just another word for nothing left to lose until you actually lose your freedom. Then it might as well just be another word for wings, antlers, or a 14-inch penis: something you don’t have. So rather than being a pejorative and ethnically erroneous label for the people of Romany, the term “gypsy” really denotes a longing for a romanticized ideal of what we don’t have: Freedom. In the case of the Gypsy Picnic, it’s the ability to roll up your awning, hitch up your trailer, and move it to some more desirable location … perhaps one that isn’t so visible to public health inspectors … or maybe someplace visible to nearly everyone. This weekend that place is Auditorium Shores, where nearly 40 food trailers from all across Austin will set up shop for the Gypsy Picnic Trailer Food Festival. This is a great chance to sample a lot of different, interesting foods without the annoyance of silverware. Along with the food there will also be a craft beer bar with selections from independent breweries, live music (Boy, Alabama Shakes, Dale Watson, Hacienda, and Delta Spirit), and a trailer food cook-off judged by local celebrities including Bryan Beck, Todd Boatwright, and the Chronicle‘s Mick Vann. Admission is free, but bring some folding money because the food isn’t. Each trailer will, however, offer one signature food item for $3. To some that might seem a little steep for something bought off the back of a roach wagon, but this is Austin, so even our trailer food is bourgeois. Don’t fight it. Embrace it. Maybe real freedom is blowing all your money on beer and trailer food.

Second Annual Freak Show Festival

The Luv Doc Recommends

October 12, 2011

Well now that we’ve had some rain, there’s not much to bitch about anymore except the economy. Have at it. Chances are your social circle is far too small and your voice much too weak to reach someone who can do something about it. Like rain, the economy is either going to fall or it isn’t. Sure you can scrawl out a pithy message on a cardboard sign, march shirtless through the financial district, and spew vague, long-winded, accusatory diatribes, but in the end, your words and actions will have about the same effect as a small puff of silver iodide in a nascent rain cloud. Yes, there are some real rainmakers out there, but unfortunately right now they’re comfortable enough to ride out this rough patch and see what happens. You can’t expect America’s billionaires to blow their great-great-grandchildren’s nest eggs on risky investments just because a whole generation of middle-class liberal arts grads can’t pay off their student loans. OK, that wasn’t fair. Fine arts grads are similarly screwed – it’s just that they were expecting a good rogering. At least they have the sense to settle for menial service-industry jobs that make them wish they had majored in Spanish. Of course, some would say that these legions of the overly educated unemployed are an indictment of the utility of higher education. We have Google, goddamnit – isn’t that enough? Besides, educating people doesn’t necessarily increase their happiness or satisfaction. If anything, it only makes them more keenly aware of things like gross financial malfeasance or shocking social inequity. What good does that do for the economy? Protesters aren’t big spenders. Instead of spending their time spending money they spend it rummaging through dumpsters looking for cardboard that doesn’t smell like rotting lettuce. Ultimately, this type of nonconsumerist activity plunges America even further down its wormhole of economic uncertainty. It sort of goes without saying that public protests erode consumer confidence, which, in turn, creates a hostile investment climate. Think Greece. Of course, really diabolical investors – the type of people who made bank on Dow Chemical during Vietnam or on Halliburton during Desert Storm – are probably snatching up shares of Newell Rubbermaid, which owns Sanford Manufacturing Co., the makers of Sharpie-brand permanent markers. You can’t find those in a Dumpster … and even if you could, chances are the juice wouldn’t be worth the squeeze. In fact, Dumpster juice isn’t worth much at all other than being the signature cologne of the pariah. Most people would rather cough up a pint of plasma than go hogging for that kind of needle in a haystack. Plus, once you’ve cashed in on your blood donation, you get an even better buzz from the Sharpie fumes. That could explain the erratic and sometimes incomprehensible nature of some of the protest signs. The same could be said of a lot of the protest rhetoric as well. Being mad at the bankers and businessmen plays well on the evening news, but the bottom line is that they’re not the policymakers. They are simply playing by the rules that they bought. They are accountable to no one but their shareholders. Members of Congress, however, are accountable to their constituents. Sure, you can make a lot of noise barking up the wrong tree, but that won’t put dinner on the table, and eventually you’ll get tired of barking. For an example of how to really occupy a street, check out the Freak Show Festival, “a one-day, outdoor festival combining the Performance Art of the ‘Circus Freak’ with Rockabilly & Psychobilly Music.” The festival will take place this Saturday at Fourth and Waller. Yes, it’s crazy and confusing, but at least they’re selling tickets to it, which can only stimulate economic growth. Isn’t that what we really need? Well, that and a fresh pack of Sharpies. Here’s the music lineup: Mad Sin, Devil Doll, Koffin Kats, Calabrese, Pickled Punks, and the Danger*Cakes. Plus the freaks: 999 Eyes, Brass Ovaries, Dolls From the Crypt, Minor Mishap Marching Band, and Aztlan Arts. Have at it.

Central Texas Paranormal Conference

The Luv Doc Recommends

October 5, 2011

New bumper sticker: Keep Austin Paranormal. That’s pretty close to weird, isn’t it? OK, so maybe not in a dreads-and-tie-dye kind of way or a bike-with-a-really-high-seat kind of way or a whole-body-tattoo-with-whisker-implants kind of way, but you have to admit, ghosts are pretty freaking weird – nearly as weird as people who believe in them. No, not just Christians … all sorts of folks believe in haints: Muslims, Hindus, Buddhists … even Wiccans. Interestingly, leaders in all the preceding religions like to rock flowing robes – sort of like ghosts themselves. Perhaps that gives them some extra spiritual clout. Catholic Christians like to accessorize their ghost costumes with lots of bling. Yo! All y’all indigenous peoples! Catholic heaven is awesome! Check out these gemstones … get a whiff of some of this “incense” … and take a long swig from some of this sacrificial wine! Woot! Buddhists, on the other hand, go for more of a low profile – well at least as far as personal style points. Like ghosts, Buddhist monks aren’t real chatty. Makes sense. Ghosts – at least in a classic, ethereal sense – don’t have vocal chords. Maybe that’s why they’re always moaning or wailing or appearing exasperated with their inability to communicate – sort of like Rick Perry at a Republican presidential debate. Buddhists do have some impressive temples. Of course, the same could be said of Hindus, Muslims, and Christians. There is probably some correlation between the ostentatious architecture of temples, cathedrals, mosques, and synagogues and dazzling, gaudy Vegas casinos, but why throw stones at glass houses? Either way it’s a roll of the dice. At least in a casino you get free drinks as long as you’re gambling. The Catholics have a similar program, but you have to share cooties with the rest of the congregation (don’t trip, there’s only a small chance you might get mouth herpes, syphilis, and a teeming stew of other frightening pathogens by taking a swig from the sacramental chalice). Diseases are nearly invisible and spooky in their own right, but they became not quite as spooky (OK, Ebola excepted) once we could see them under a microscope. Back in the olden days (olden is such an olden word, isn’t it?), people burned incense, bathed in urine, drank pus, and covered themselves with leeches to ward off plague and pestilence. Fortunately, through the miracles of advanced optics and the scientific method, people eventually learned to take a fucking bath, stop sleeping with their farm animals, and stop piling corpses in the streets. Thank God (OK, God, we might have to chalk this one up to science. We’re still cool, right?) people no longer have to anoint themselves with oil, wear talismans, or burn incense anymore, eh? It’s called evolution (although admittedly burning incense is not a bad idea if you’ve been smoking pot in your dorm room). The important thing to remember is that unless your incense is actually a Raid flea bomb, it’s not helping you one iota against the plague. Here’s the bottom line: Stuff you can’t see is often scary, but just because you can’t see it doesn’t mean it’s not there. For instance: Axe body spray = scary, unseen. Yes, we have five senses, and Axe body spray eats up at least two or three of them, but sometimes those senses can’t tell the whole story. If they did, you could do your own MRI. Science and technology may be advancing at a mind-boggling pace, but what we don’t know is still nearly limitless. So when it comes to the paranormal, we should maybe get off our high horses a little. Good news! You’ll have an opportunity to do that this weekend at the Central Texas Paranormal Conference, a two-day event taking place at the Norris Conference Center at Northcross Mall. Speakers include the SyFy Channel’s Dustin Pari (Ghost Hunters International); the Klinge Brothers, from the Discovery Channel’s Ghost Lab; Dash Beardsley, “The Ghost Man of Galveston”; and Aron Houdini, great-nephew of Harry Houdini, among others. There will also be a vendor area with an aura photographer, palmists, a Reiki practitioner, crystal readers, entity clearers, and plain ol’ psychics. If you get your aura photographed, you will definitely have to get off your high horse. You’ll also be keeping Austin paranormal.

Gagarazzi: A Lady Gaga Burlesque and Variety Show

The Luv Doc Recommends

September 28, 2011

Time to head down to the butcher shop so you can start putting your costume together. Meat is fairly expensive, and you’re no pop star, so you might want to go with one of the less expensive cuts – perhaps a flank steak or a skirt steak (a skirt steak miniskirt?) or maybe even something made out of a hanger steak, although with the hanger steak you’re opening yourself up to a heaping helping of extended labia jokes. Chin up, outrageousness doesn’t come without a certain amount of unwanted attention. Besides, every woman has wizard sleeves, it’s just that some are short like the ones on Roger Daltrey’s T-shirt in Tommy, and some are long and dangly like Merlin’s. The important thing to remember is that they’re all magical! In fashion, however, the way your meat hangs is crucial. You can’t just stitch together a bunch of chunks of shoulder steak and call it haute couture. Tim Gunn would pitch a fit. Heidi Klum would fold her arms and wither you with her harsh, Teutonic glare. No, your meat has to drape elegantly and in a way that accentuates your figure, is pleasing to the eye, and makes a confident, innovative fashion statement. Really, it’s a roll of the dice, and you don’t want to play it too conservatively. In fact, you may not want to wear meat at all – especially if you’re a ginger. That’s red-on-red crime. Besides, red meat is becoming increasingly passé because of PETA, mad cow disease, and those adorable Chick-fil-a billboards. Those cowz may be right. Maybe you should switch to chicken … not for the feathers … feathers are so … done, but it’s probably a safe bet that no one has ever fashioned a glamorous outfit out of gizzards – cooked or uncooked. There has to be some use for chicken skin as well … other than, of course, being the best, most flavorful part of a piece of Popeyes’ extra-crispy. Imagine a string bikini fashioned out of chicken skin and tendons … maybe with some wishbone earrings and a neck bone pendant. Breathtakingly accessorized with a chicken claw key chain and wattle coin purse. Being a flightless fowl though, chickens are pretty pedestrian. You might be one of those trendsetters who likes to test limits. If so, you may be better off abandoning the phylum Chordata altogether. If Google is to be trusted, no one to date has ever made an evening gown out of live earthworms. Maybe it’s because the demise of home economics as a high school elective course has cheated so many youngsters out of an ability to sew, or maybe it’s because an evening gown made out of earthworms would be fucking disgusting. Doesn’t matter. If you have the chutzpah to rock a revolutionary look like that, go for it. Just remember you’re going to want to carry around a spritzer bottle. Earthworms tend to dry out in the air conditioning. Sure, an earthworm evening gown would be a showstopper, but it would also be a lot of work … and much of it with a shovel. You might be the belle of the ball for a while, but the shine on your penny will quickly fade once everyone finds out you have the calloused handshake of a lumberjack. As much as the heavenly softness of chinchilla fur argues otherwise, maybe humans have reached an evolutionary stage where we don’t need to use animals for clothing. Or maybe that’s painfully obvious, and wearing animals to protest the wearing of animals is sort of like killing people to show people that killing people is wrong. Seems a little stupid, doesn’t it? Well, we wouldn’t have our pop stars any other way. We don’t ask that they be the brightest bulb on the tree – just the pretty one that flashes the most. Right Lindsay Lohan? You betcha! This Friday night at the HighBall is your chance to do some flashing of your own at Gagarazzi: A Lady Gaga Burlesque and Variety Show. Enjoy drink specials, a raffle, comedy, music, and a dance party that lasts into the wee hours. Most importantly, there will be a costume contest and paparazzi judges who will take your picture and maybe even make you a star! Proceeds benefit Equality Texas, a group that lobbies against discrimination based on gender identity and sexual orientation.

Queensrÿche

The Luv Doc Recommends

September 21,2011

You may be one of those whippersnappers whose image of the Eighties looks a lot like Arnold’s Drive-In: Richie, Potsie, and Ralph Malph sitting around sipping cherry cokes concocting crazy schemes on how to get to second base with girls who sadly lacked the benefit of reliable birth control. The most dangerous person they know … a diminutive “grease monkey” named Fonzie who rides a motorcycle … occasionally drops by, smiles, gives them the thumbs up and says, “Ayyyyy.” Why is he so happy? Because even though he’s a high-school dropout, he’s at least smart enough to date slutty girls who know how to French kiss. Anyway … yeah … that was the Eighties. Pretty much. There were some notable exceptions, of course. In the Eighties, the drugs were much better and more plentiful – not just the aforementioned birth control (knucks to Planned Parenthood on that deal) but even funner drugs like Ecstasy (I love you, maaannn!), expensive drugs like cocaine (I can take your fucking bullets!), dangerously addictive drugs like crack (I’ll suck your dick for a dollar!), and, of course, what may end up being Time‘s “Idiot Drug of the Century,” meth (Dude, what happened to your teeth?!). Despite the Partnership for a Drug-Free America’s inspired frying egg PSA (“This is drugs. This is your brain on drugs.”), sales were up in the Eighties. If anything the PSA should have said: “This is your egg. This is your egg on progesterone.” Yes, people were doing staggering amounts of drugs in the Eighties, but they were also getting it on like chinchillas, and the pill certainly had its part in greasing that orgy of mindless, irresponsible sex, metaphorically speaking. In the early Eighties, the worst consequence of having unprotected sex was herpes. Sure, there were other diseases that would rot your crotch with greater rapaciousness, but ultimately they were all curable … well, after you made the obligatory series of embarrassing phone calls demanded by the clinic. Herpes however, while lacking the flesh ravaging spectacle of say, syphilis, was incurable and permanent – like an obnoxious personality. Herpes was (and still is) a one-way ticket to the Island of Permanently Damaged Toys. However, most people find that once they get there, island living isn’t so bad, and given that one in six Americans has genital herpes, it’s a bumpin’ party – both figuratively and literally. However terrifying the prospect of herpes might have been, it was no deterrent whatsoever to the roiling, drug-greased clusterfuck of the early Eighties. Fortunately, there were other deterrents that had some success in that area. For instance: Preppy fashion made a valiant attempt at covering America’s Me Generation hedonism with a respectable Victorian veneer. Call it a reactionary backlash against the buckskin-halter-top, free-love hippie days of the Seventies, but Eighties preppy style drove sex off the runway and back into the bedroom where it could really get freaky. The only thing remotely sexy about walking shorts, wool sweaters, or Weejuns was how desperately you wanted to take them off. It’s understandable that preppy fashion couldn’t keep America’s libido caged for long. Soon enough America began a torrid affair with ripped clothing and spandex. The emergence of spandex as a fashion statement will very likely someday be considered a prime indicator of the decline of Western civilization. Initially a revolutionary synthetic praised for its utility and elasticity in a variety of applications, this once-worthy fabric quickly became an easy way to show off your junk without having to walk around in trench coat. Not surprisingly, this aspect of spandex was fondly embraced by rock musicians who wanted a way to showcase their biggest and perhaps only muscle. Soon enough, spandex became the go-to look for rock bands of the Eighties, some of whom, it could be argued, had little else to offer. Not so of the band Queensrÿche, who managed to fuse spandex, musicianship, and skillfully crafted heavy metal arrangements into a career that spans three decades and includes 20 million in worldwide album sales. You can’t go back and live the glory days, but fortunately Queensrÿche will bring them to you this Sunday in a fist-pumping, devil-finger-throwing rock concert at Emo’s East. Expect an arena show that’s in your face … and maybe a mooseknuckle or two.