Author: The Luv Doc

Austin Chronicle Hot Sauce Festival

The Luv Doc Recommends

August 19, 2008

If you are what you eat, wouldn’t you rather be hot? Exactly. The hotter the better. There will be plenty of time to cool off when you’re dead, so you might as well peg your needle to the red. Food is no exception. There’s nothing wrong with mashed potatoes, roasted chicken, and banana cream pie. They’ll keep you alive, but they aren’t very exciting – well actually, banana cream pie can be interesting with the right models and photographer, but the same could be said of a pitcher of milk. There is a place in the world for blandness – probably somewhere in Kansas or Nebraska or Iowa – but Austin is a little closer to the edge … of the continent. We bump and grind against other cultures a bit more than the folks in the soft middle, and we like it. Our preference for mixing things up carries over to our food as well. We put garlic and pepper in our mashed potatoes, jalapeños in our cheeseburgers, and pretty much anything that isn’t still moving in our tortillas. Most importantly, we put chips in our hot sauce – again and again and again. So many times that we’re often too stuffed for the entrée. You might ask yourself, “Why do we call it hot sauce instead of salsa?” Answer: We’re south, but we’re not that far south. Our tortillas are still mostly flour instead of corn. We like cheese and sour cream on our tacos too, but when it comes to salsa, we like it hot, which may be why we can’t seem to consistently call it by its true name unless we’re trying to bridge a language barrier. We got the love, though. Austinites will forgive a frightening amount of culinary ineptitude as long as the hot sauce is decent. If you’ve ever bought a day-old sausage-and-egg taco out of a cooler in the back of a dented Toyota pickup truck with a camper shell, sold by someone with dirty fingernails who counts out your change entirely in Spanish, you truly understand the importance of good salsa. When it’s made right, salsa is the culinary correction tape of the Southwest. You can burn your brisket, overboil your beans, steam your rice into a soggy paste, but if you can make a good hot sauce, all is forgiven – bonus points if you can back it up with a decent margarita. There are plenty of Austin restaurants that have built their clientele on those two items alone. Where else in America can you peddle saltines and government cheese and stay in business for more than a week? It could be that Austinites just need more sweat and vitamin C than other blander burghs, or it could be that we’re simply a city of masochists. Whatever the case, hot sauce is unquestionably the most important element in Austin cuisine, even though it’s rarely listed on the menu. If you don’t believe it, come down to Waterloo Park this Sunday where more than 10,000 of your fellow Austinites will prove their love in the withering August heat. Sample hot sauce from some of Austin’s favorite restaurants, or bring a batch of your own to enter in the contest. And, since this is Austin, there will be plenty of beer and music by Girl in the Closet, Fingerpistol, Jungle Rockers, Band of Heathens, and Black Joe Lewis & the Honey Bears. Best of all, admission is free when you bring three nonperishable food items for the Capital Area Food Bank.

Madonna 50th Birthday Sing-Along

The Luv Doc Recommends

August 8, 2008

This Saturday, Madonna turns 50. That means Blondie must be hobbling around on a tennis-ball walker somewhere. Or maybe she’s launching a comeback tour under the name “Grayie.” She’s probably doing the Four Seasons Retirement Home circuit, playing back-to-back shows at 8:30 and 10:30am, croaking out, “Once I had prunes, and they gave me gas” for her big encore, which is inspired by the soft patter of well-medicated hands. Polite applause is about the best you can hope for anyway. You don’t want the Q-tips pelting you with lingerie purchased out of a medical-supply catalog. Titter if you want, but working the activities center stage (well, to be accurate, it’s not really a stage but generally the most well lit corner of the room – usually where they keep the fake Ficus) is a tough gig. So respek, yo. Madonna, on the other hand, probably just finished wet-nursing baby Banda last week – and not just for pleasure. If 50 is the new 30, Madonna is still 25. She could cougar a 12-year-old if she really wanted to and if it were legal, which it might actually be in England. Plus, any Italian chick who routinely pisses off the Vatican in order to sell more records is infallibly hot. Why? Because she knows her hell ticket’s already punched. So really, what’s a wild night on a Motel 6 vibrating bed with a midget, a goat, and a couple of gallons of Vaseline? Does she care? Hard to say. The pope gets to spend eternity in heaven with Jesus and His Dad, but Madonna played Seven Seconds in Heaven with Britney Spears and Christina Aguilera on national TV. There hasn’t been a pope with that kind of mack since at least the 11th century. Jealous anyone? It’s a nonissue anyway, considering the current pope is probably a huge Blondie fan. It’s easy to ride the high horse of celibacy when you’re an octogenarian, but that doesn’t mean you need to piss holy water on the head of every fishnet-wearing pop star who incorporates masturbation into her stage show … unless … it’s mutually consensual. More than anything, Madonna is a globe-straddling (yeah, that’s hot too) icon of her hedonistic, self-absorbed generation who turned all preachy once she popped out a couple of guppies (and then borrowed one from another fishbowl). You get the feeling that if you were to attend a high tea with her and Bono, they would bore you to death with their hot-winded bullshit – right up until you whipped out the Bolivian marching powder and cranked up the Erasure. At that point, all bets are off. Just cover your exposed holes, and try not to give the paparazzi a decent angle. If you’re like most people who haven’t been permanently crossed off the pope’s “nice” list, you don’t need that kind of scenario to have a good time. Some good music, beer, and a roomful of fun-loving people should do the trick. You can get just that this Friday night when the Alamo Drafthouse hosts the Madonna 50th Birthday Sing-Along. Get into the groove with a Madonnalicious night of revelry celebrating the birth and, more importantly, the dogged resilience of one of America’s … scratch that … England’s greatest pop-culture icons.

Second Annual Austin Ice Cream Festival

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August 5, 2008

Yes, of course it’s hot. You’re in Austin. It’s August. Every day when you walk outside it feels like you’re standing in front of oven … an oven with a big steaming bowl of water in it. Even the breeze feels like a Labrador panting on the back of your neck. This is the time of year when you ask yourself, “How boring is San Diego … really?” Sure, there are plenty of other places with a milder climate: Hawaii, Miami, L.A. (those 13 million people don’t live there because of the Mexican food and the smog), but all have their drawbacks. Hawaii, along with having too many vowels in its name, also has Hawaiian shirts, which even on people like Tom Selleck are an unforgivable blight on the landscape. Sadly, most are worn by dudes who look like Wilford Brimley. Imagine if Texans went around wearing shirts with bluebonnets and Indian paintbrushes on them. Same difference. Miami would be cool – especially if you could turn off the Sound Machine and just lay out on the beach all day without having to watch the leathery funbags of European tourists bounce by above your head. El Lay? Seriously? Eventually those 13 million people are going to figure out a way to fuck up the sweet climate, too. They’re already off to a great start. The irony is that the valley holds in the smog like a huge, toxic bong hit – a veritable red-carpet treatment for the grim reaper. There’s plenty of fresh air in places like Montana and Alaska, but you have to weigh that against half a year of nipple/nut shrinking cold. Just when you start to develop those sexy tan lines you have to wrap them up in Gore-Tex or goose down until the spring thaw. It gets cold in Austin, but you never have to dig a snow tunnel to your driveway or sleep with your sled dogs to fend off frostbite. Generally staying warm isn’t much of a problem at all, unless you pass out on a park bench in mid February and your mangy, homeless, canine companion (wearing the obligatory Bobby McGee, “dirty red bandanna”) doesn’t wake you up by licking the vomit off your face. If you ever needed reassurance that Austin’s climate is nicer than, say, Minneapolis, just compare homeless populations. Ever been annoyed by a squeegee-wielding homeless man on a Minneapolis street corner in February? Right … because there aren’t any. They’re all down in Austin working on their winter tans. Of course, the payback comes in August when the challenge is staying cool. It’s not as tough as it sounds. City pools are free and frio. There’s also Barton Creek, the fountains at Palmer, and if things get really ugly, Waller Creek. If you’re one of those fortunate people whose résumé isn’t printed on a piece of cardboard, you have the option of cooling down in a more genteel setting. Perhaps an Evian spritzer poolside at the Four Seasons? If you want to try something a little more modest but equally decadent, head down to Waterloo Park this Saturday for the second annual Austin Ice Cream Festival. Cool down with ice cream from a variety of different vendors, and enjoy a variety of games, activities, and contests, as well as live music by acts like the 3 Balls of Fire, Loose Cannons, Chad Thomas & the Crazy Kings, and the Biscuit Brothers. Admission is $2, but you’ll want to bring an extra wad for the ice cream. Sometimes being cool can be costly.

Erotica 2008

The Luv Doc Recommends

July 29, 2008

There is so much porn on the Internet these days, really, why even bother with an erotica art show? Perhaps you have a beef with representationalism? Maybe you like your body parts all angled and askew and akimbo like a Picasso cubist nude? Or maybe you’re into Bambi-eyed hentai bimbos with huge, shiny, watermelon boobs and hairless nethers who straddle anaconda-sized penises spewing ropy fountains of shimmering jiz? Maybe you’re especially fond of the ones where the girls have furry bunny ears and hooves instead of feet? With animé, anything’s possible. Same with Photoshop. If you haven’t taken a nude picture of yourself and then pasted Johnny Wadd’s tally-whacker (enlarged 1000% so it’s roughly the girth of a duffel bag) over your shrunken tadpole, you’re not really utilizing technology to its fullest extent. If you do it right, people will be asking you, “What’s that giant mushroom in the foreground of your MySpace photo?” So what if you can’t deliver the goods in meatspace. Real life is just a consecutive series of crushing disappointments anyway, isn’t it? Besides, imagine having to schlep around a duffel-bag-sized penis all the time. The carnies would tease you mercilessly. You’re much better off packing your spandex banana hammock with a baby-arm-shaped wad of biscuit dough. Sure, it might start smelling a little yeasty down there after a while, but people expect that from someone wearing a spandex banana hammock in the real world. Rocking a slingshot on the Internet, however, is considered kitschy, especially if you’ve grafted your head onto Arnold Schwarzenegger’s 1967 Mr. Universe photo. Of course, you shouldn’t miss out on all the fun just because your Y chromosome is on permanent sabbatical. Imagine how many Facebook friend requests you’d have if your profile photo featured a Dolly Parton-sized cleavage crevasse? Having a plastic surgeon load that kind of baggage on your fragile desk chair spine would be insane, but the Internet is a zero gravity environment. Even if you decide not to go top-heavy, at the very least you should drop in a Marilyn Monroe beauty mark. Passing up an opportunity like that is just being lazy. With just a little more effort, you could also throw a little digital collagen into those lips and pencil in some butterfly eyelashes. First impressions go a long way, and really, expecting people to live up to their image on the Internet is sort of like expecting all radio DJs to look like Ryan Seacrest. And really, for all you know, Ryan has three nipples and a wicked case of toenail fungus. Reality isn’t always pretty, even when you dress it up and hit it with an airbrush. People are inevitably imperfect – even Jenna Jameson doing a muff-n-duff with a couple of well-greased Gold’s Gym night managers is still going to reveal a few moles and stray hairs. Art, on the other hand, is always perfect because it’s always the embodiment of the artist’s ideal. That doesn’t mean it isn’t butt-ugly a lot of the time, it’s just that it’s as good as it could have possibly been at the time and under the circumstances in which it was created. Porn may be exhibitionistic, but certainly no more so than any other kind of art. The artist exposes his or her idealism to the rest of the world, and the rest of the world gets to appreciate it or mercilessly ridicule it, as the case may be. It’s a sort of porn of idealism. So really, art and porn aren’t even distant cousins. It’s just that when art gets sexy, it’s called erotica, and there’s usually not a money shot. That doesn’t mean it isn’t interesting and worth a peek. Maybe you should relax your grip on your joystick and head down to Gallery Lombardi, where this Saturday night from 7pm to 11pm they’re opening Erotica 2008, an exhibit of 50 erotic works from area artists. Along with erotica you can actually meet real people, who, although they’re imperfect, are much more interesting and erotically satisfying than porn could ever be.

Rodgers & Hammerstein’s Oklahoma!

Luv Doc Writings, The Luv Doc Recommends

July 22, 2008

Say what you will about our shoeless neighbors to the north, you have to give them one thing: Their state song kicks our state song’s ass. Go ahead and piss and moan and beat your chest all you want, but deep, deep in your heart of Texas, you know it’s true. By comparison, Texas’ state song is a plodding funeral march. Plus, if you want to get down to the ugly truth of the matter, it’s a little braggy: Texas, our Texas, all hail the mighty state!/Texas, our Texas, so wonderful, so great! Sounds like a state with a chip on its shoulder. Sounds like a state trying to hide its inadequacies. Oklahoma, on the other hand, is a study in stately humility: You’re doing fine, Oklahoma. Oklahoma, OK! Notice the omission of superlatives like “boldest” and “grandest.” Really, there’s no need to make Kansas and Rhode Island feel shitty. You’re doing best, Oklahoma? Not even Okies are that gullible. They will, however, concede that the “wind comes sweepin’ down the plain” (that ain’t bragging; it’s the brutal truth) or that “the wavin’ wheat can sure smell sweet.” Can sure smell sweet – meaning, it’s conditional. There are plenty of situations where it doesn’t smell sweet – like when your wheat field is downwind from a seaboard hog processing plant. If you live next to one of those babies, the wind coming right behind the rain is about the worst possible thing that can happen to you – well, short of actually working in the bastard. But still, it’s not really fair to compare Texas, our Texas, with Oklahoma! The former was an amateur work composed by British-born TCU choir director William J. Marsh, with lyrics by Gladys Yoakum Wright, described by various publications as a “resident of Fort Worth.” Curious, considering she was employed in the office of the auditor of revenues for the Frisco Railway in St. Louis, Mo., when she accepted her half of the $1,000 prize for writing Texas’ state song. Who knows how that collaboration went down, especially since it ended with Gladys taking the train to St. Louis, but most disturbing is the fact that she apparently didn’t have access to a rhyming dictionary – seriously: state with great? Are you fucking kidding? Sounds like something an auditor would come up with. Oklahoma, on the other hand, is a skillfully crafted American masterwork penned by a talented team of Broadway composers who probably never set foot in Oklahoma. All you can say is, point Oklahoma for fielding a pro team. Similar things have been said about Oklahoma’s football program, but either way they’re winning. And lest you think that Oklahoma wasn’t saddled with dog of a state song, keep in mind that until 1953, their state song was Oklahoma, a Toast, which included lyrics like “fairest daughter of the West” and “fruit trees greet with a burden sweet” and ended with the word “quaff.” Theirs was written by Harriet Parker Camden (what’s with the lyricist serial-murderer names?) originally of Kingfisher, Okla., who relocated to Fair Oaks, Calif. Hmm … Clearly Oklahoma was in a similar pickle, but they stepped up and did what needed to be done. Will we be able to say the same of Texas? Maybe Willie will whip one up then move to Hawaii. Regardless, we need to bump this one up to the top of our “to-do” list. If you need a reminder of how the pros work, you can check out Summer Stock Austin’s production of Rodgers & Hammerstein’s Oklahoma! this weekend at St. Edward’s University. Ballsy move to do Oklahoma! in the heart of Texas, but that’s what Texas is all about, isn’t it? Says it right there in our state song: “boldest and grandest.” Surely we can put on the boldest and grandest production of Oklahoma! too. It might even inspire us to be bold enough to change our state song. Wouldn’t that be grand?

First Ever Film Fight Party

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July 15, 2008

When historians finally hammer out a coherent synopsis of post-Eighties America, it will surely be a fascinating paragraph: A couple of Gulf Wars, Branch Davidians, the internet, the dot-com boom and bust, presidential fellatio, electoral thievery, the Twin Towers, the War on Terror, the moron terror (aka George Jr.), global warming, Iraq, Paris Hilton, Britney Spears. Exciting times. All in all however, other than that Internet thingy, post-Eighties America really left some skid marks on the foundation garments of Western Civilization. It’s like the Greatest Generation handed off the ball for a fullback dive up the middle and instead got a swinging gate Fleaflicker that degenerated into a Vaseline-greased naked dog pile with the marching band on the 50-yard line. How did it happen? On our watch? There are only two plausible explanations. Either we were stupid or stoned. Stupidity isn’t a stretch. Given the number of people who claim to have been duped by a low C average ex-Yale cheerleader and his evil oompah loompas, it’s safe to say we’re a nation full of knuckle draggers. Certainly no other civilized country at this point would deny it. When traditional global slack-jaws like Scotland and South Africa start slapping “kick me” signs on our ass, it’s time for a little collective introspection. Unfortunately, Americans don’t have time for introspection because we’re too busy getting stoned and playing video games. Now, some people would claim that getting stoned is pretty much the same thing as being stupid. Not so. Claiming that you’re stoned implies that in your normal, unbaked state you’re not a developmentally arrested fuck-up who collects action figures, comic books, and Escher prints; that were it not for all the THC coursing through your system, your carpet wouldn’t be littered with empty Funyun bags, popsicle sticks, and weedseed; you wouldn’t let your cat shit in your stolen Sonic dope tray; and you would roll out of bed sometime before noon wearing something other than fart-holed boxers and a stained Spongebob T-shirt. Claiming that you’re stoned implies that you might actually amount to something if you weren’t such a hardcore, badass party animal. Otherwise, how could you possibly score 170,000 on Guitar Hero? OK, so maybe we didn’t put our boot up Hitler’s ass (well, outside of Call of Duty), and we didn’t tear down that wall or make the world even remotely safe for democracy, but this generation did bring pop-cultural onanism to breathtaking heights. We may not be able to point out Darfur on a map or give a detailed treatise on why ethanol is fool fuel, but if you want a painstaking analysis of the evolution of Batman from Keaton to Clooney to Kilmer to Bale, torch one up, sit back, and prepare to have your mind blown. We’ll get back to this environmental/geopolitical/economic clusterfuck soon enough. Right now we have work to do. This Thursday night at 7pm, the Chronicle is hosting its first Film Fight party at the United States Art Authority. Film Fight is a monthly online debate featuring Chronicle Film critics Kimberly Jones and Josh Rosenblatt going at it on a variety of film-related topics. Check it out for yourself. This month’s topic: comic-book movies. When you’re done, come down to the Art Authority and find out who won this month’s debate. You can also meet Kim and Josh, enjoy happy hour drink specials, and see a special genre-related film screening. If you’re lucky, you could also win movie passes, I Love Video gift cards, and other assorted swag including superhero action figures. If somebody asks where you got them, you can just say you were stoned.

50th Annual Zilker Summer Musical – Disney’s Beauty and the Beast

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July 7, 2008

OK, it’s highly unlikely you are going to get laid by attending the Zilker Hillside Theatre’s production of Beauty and the Beast. In fact, it’s probably not a good policy to go trolling for strange at a venue where nearly half the people are under legal age – even by Arkansas standards. However, if you’re the discriminating type – someone who can tell the difference between a South Austin cougar divorcée and a dreadlocked high school hippie chick (hint: check for gray underarm stubble) – you can probably do a little browsing without subjecting yourself to criminal prosecution. Life is full of risks, isn’t it? You could make the argument that going solo to a G-rated play in the park is like cruising past an elementary school in a panel van wearing a clown suit and waving candy, but it isn’t exactly the same. There is legitimate business you can claim to be up to over at Zilker – and not just the choo-choo ride. First and foremost is Barton Springs. Yes, that Barton Springs, the most revered piece of Austin real estate that hasn’t been converted into condos or a shitty theme bar. The thing you need to know about Barton Springs – Austin’s dirty little secret – is that people like the concept of Barton Springs much more than they like the execution. Yes, it’s an idyllic setting with shade trees and grassy hills and the shrieks of little children, but the centerpiece of the whole scene is one motherfucking freezing pool of water. Pay a little closer attention, and you’ll realize that those aren’t just the shrieks of children. Yes, they’re in the same tonal register, but a good many of those shrieks are coming from full-grown adults. It doesn’t matter whether you’re packing fully formed ovaries or big, swinging brass balls, the natural reaction of any normal adult when coming in contact with Barton Springs water is to scream like a little school girl. A token few may be able to stifle the sound or at least throttle it down to an inaudible dog whistle, but regardless of what’s coming out of their mouths, their minds are twisted into an agonizing Edvard Munch painting. If you tiptoe into Barton Springs, your mind will tell you to tiptoe right the fuck back out. You can’t acclimate. The only way to go into Barton Springs is to dive headfirst … ideally not into the shallow end. The benefit of diving headfirst is that your scream will be muffled by the ice water. Jump in feet first, and there’s still a few milliseconds for air to escape past your larynx, which has already contracted to the size of a pinhole. Think about it this way: The lifeguard will be less likely to notice you’ve had a cardiac arrest in the deep end if she is mopping up the blood trickling out of her ears. Do it right. Put your towel down on the grass, walk all the way around the pool to the diving board, dive in, and swim as fast as you can to the other side. Then you can pick up your towel and make your way to the solar-heated, open-air showers, where after a few minutes your balls will descend from the far reaches of your abdominal cavity. Wasn’t that awesome? Barton Springs is such a great natural resource. Now, if your complaint was that going to see a play in Zilker Park in the middle of July would be too hot, rest assured that a quick dip in the Springs will keep you shivering for the rest of the night. It will also serve as a perfectly acceptable excuse for a grown person to stumble into a Disney musical. You can say you always carry a folding chair and an ice chest full of Shiner longnecks in your trunk. Austinites are used to inexplicable eccentricities. The payoff? Well, there’s the strange you aren’t going to get, plus the consolation prize of a damn fine Disney musical, played exuberantly by a talented cast of locals who could hold their own on any stage in America. You don’t have to be a child to enjoy the energy and unrepentant camp brought to this production, but you might have to get over your coolness – if only to keep your teeth from chattering.

Fourth of July Concert and Fireworks

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July 1, 2008

Friday is the Fourth of July, when Americans celebrate the glorious day their forefathers shot the bird at ol’ King George – presumably the American solo bird and not that confusing, two-fingered UK flip-off that’s sometimes tragically mistaken as a peace sign by American tourists who encounter rioting soccer hooligans. The average Yank doesn’t give a flip about Hank 5’s (that’s Henry of Monmouth and not Hank Williams’ unborn progeny, aka “Quincephus”) stirring speech at the battle of Agincourt about the French lopping off the bow fingers of captured English archers. Here in God’s country our bird doesn’t operate on the buddy system. Our bird flies solo. Our bird is an army of one – especially if that army is clutching the joystick of an F-15 Eagle with 23,000 pounds of high tech, laser guided ordnance – think of it as bird-on-bird violence. After all, when you’re pushing buttons, one finger is usually enough to do the trick. Think of how irritating it is when you see foreigners holding up one finger and chanting: “We’re number one! We’re number one!” Everyone knows that’s America’s chant, even though we’re not even in the Top 10 when it comes to health care, education, or human rights. Doesn’t matter. We’re No. 1 in the most important thing: Ass-kicking. Since the revolution, America is something like 11-1-1 … and that’s not even counting Grenada. As long as we don’t piss off China, we pretty much own the planet. We’re No. 1! It even says so right on our coins: “Out of many, one.” Sounds cocky, but cockiness is what independence is all about. It’s why America didn’t sign the Kyoto Accord. America doesn’t need to work with other countries to stop global warming. We can do it ourselves. We’re No. 1. One nation, under one God, with one finger for the rest of the world. Why? Because two fingers don’t represent independence. Two fingers represent interdependence. Two fingers represent reliance and cooperation. That’s not what the eagle is all about. An eagle is a high-flying opportunist, gliding along, waiting for some varmint to make a mad, suicidal scramble for safety – a ritual known to eagles as “supper time.” That’s right, America’s bird is a bird of prey – not some shit-dropping pigeon or screeching goth grackle but a majestic, sharp-clawed killing machine with keen vision and a wingspan like Manute Bol. America’s bird is an absolute fucking terror – which more than just about anything else keeps it independent. Independence is something to celebrate, isn’t it? This Friday you can celebrate America’s independence for free with the Park and Rec’s Annual Fourth of July Concert and Fireworks. Join 100,000 independence-loving Austinites at Auditorium Shores for a rousing rendition of the 1812 Overture (yeah, we won that one, too) and a spectacular fireworks display. Unfortunately, this is one thing you can’t do alone.

Keep Austin Weird 5K and Festival

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June 24, 2008

Keeping Austin weird is full-time work. The weirdness is not like it used to be. It’s on a much broader and more magnificent scale. You can’t just skate along baking pot brownies every morning or wearing glitter mascara and fairy wings when you go to the convenience store. Yawn. Seen it. Weird isn’t just about feathers and body paint and colored hair and dirty-faced children in soiled diapers with balloon animal hats. That kind of sophomoric shit might play in Omaha, but here in New Condonia, you need a couple of million dollars worth of Downtown dirt and a daring dream of building unaffordable housing for people who don’t exist. Now there’s an idea that just might be weird enough to actually work. If you were a loan officer, you would sign off on that, wouldn’t you? Big, crazy ideas aren’t exactly without precedent. A couple of thousand years before Christ, the ancient Egyptians put a lot of money and resources into high dollar housing for dead people. Keep in mind this was before resurrection was all the rage. Surely the pyramids were an insane idea 2500 years ago … they still are now, but you have to give props to Cheops; they are one of the Seven Wonders of the World. Awesome. Why are the pyramids a wonder? Because for the last 4500 years no sane person could look at them without wondering, “What the fuck?” Normal, reasoning people have a similar reaction when they see all the condos being built in Downtown Austin. Those huge monoliths to speculative zeal inspire the same incredulity as seeing Leslie Cochran on a street corner in a dirty thong and torn fishnets. The really weird thing is that Leslie is easier to explain to the tourists. Without a doubt, Austin’s entertainment district has a certain allure – especially for street-walking attention-whores like Leslie, but is it enough to lure some rich, fun-loving rube into dropping 500 large on a glass box with yearly maintenance fees? Maybe. After all, we’re one cute little city and more importantly … we put out. Austin doesn’t have any dry counties or bible belts or entrenched social stratification. This is the city where the mayor dated a local rock singer, where a local rock singer dated a movie star, and where a movie star got busted for getting stoned and playing bongos in the buff. And guess what? He wasn’t even trying to keep it weird. He didn’t try to run that idea past a group of investors and loan officers and city officials and political activists and have them all sign off on the deal. Even though he got a lot of ink, McConaughey was in the bush leagues of weird, which is probably the safest place for weirdness to be. When the weirdos start marching in lock step – that’s when the shit is about to hit the fan. If you’re looking to get your weird on in a mostly harmless way, put on your feathers and body paint (or slingshot and dog collar), and head down to Auditorium Shores this Saturday for the Keep Austin Weird 5K (yes, running is pretty freakin’ weird when you do it and don’t have to) and Festival. Not only can you sweat with your fellow weirdos – before, during, and after the 5K, you can see some pretty weird Austin acts as well: Alejandro Escovedo, What Made Milwaukee Famous, and Black Joe Lewis & the Honey Bears, among others. There’s also a costume contest, but if you’re really keeping it weird, you can’t call that thing a costume, now can you?

Dog Sees God: Confessions of a Teenage Blockhead

Luv Doc Writings, The Luv Doc Recommends

June 17, 2008

Wallflowers get all the wool. There’s a T-shirt you’re never going to see. Sure, there may be a few bashful types who manage to reel in some fish, but you can bet they’re so good looking they can only be viewed directly through welding goggles. If your looks are anywhere short of magnificent, you’re going to have to develop some game. Pretty is good, but pretty will only get you so far. At some point you’re going to have to read a book or run a marathon or do a YouTube remake of First Blood with you playing Rambo. Actually, scratch that. Make it the Tom Hanks role in Sleepless in Seattle. Really, any Tom Hanks role will do, but just remember that if you do Big or Splash or Cast Away, you’re probably overplaying your hand. The point is that if you can’t look like Brad Pitt or George Clooney, you at least want to be interesting like Brad Pitt or George Clooney. When you’re a horse whisperer or an astronaut or a teenage mutant ninja turtle, deal killers like back hair, third nipples, and unibrows aren’t nearly as deadly. Before you drop a lot of money on electrolysis, corrective surgery, or an Abercrombie & Fizzitch shopping spree, you may want to hike the Himalayas or motorcycle through South America. Worked for Che Guevara. Che’s childhood nickname was “El Chancho” (the pig) because he hated fashionable clothing and eschewed personal hygiene – traits he carried proudly into adulthood. Even still, Che was a notorious womanizer, and you can be sure he wasn’t scoring all that strange because of his scruffy beard, rumpled clothes, and cheap cigar breath. Keep in mind, however, that interesting can be a bad thing, too. It is a point of interest that Che was responsible for the execution of hundreds of infidels – some personally – without giving them the benefit of due process. Fascinating yes, but that kind of mojo is usually a negative when you’re trolling for chicas. Sure, there are some women who are turned on by ruthless power, but they’re also the ones you should submit to a bag search and frisking on the first date. Besides, there are plenty of interesting things you can do without capriciously whacking your subordinates, and even if your area of interest is completely uninteresting, you still have one last resort: Enthusiasm. Really, if you can’t get fired up about chess or bass fishing or your remote-controlled airplane, why should anyone else? Enthusiasm is infectious – so is apathy and pessimism. Ever wonder why Charlie Brown never gets laid? OK, besides the fact that he hasn’t reached puberty? (Cue the Debby Downer horn riff.) Other than occasional berating from Lucy, Charlie doesn’t get much love. You can easily imagine Charlie as a jaded, middle-aged bachelor cruising for prostitutes in a weathered PT Cruiser. Of course, you don’t want to cheat yourself by missing Chuck’s adolescence – and you don’t have to. A playwright named Bert V. Royal has already imagined it in an off-Broadway production called Dog Sees God: Confessions of a Teenage Blockhead, the local production of which has been so successful that the Hyde Park Theatre is holding it over for one more weekend. This may be your last chance to see it before it hits the big screen – probably starring Tom Hanks. If you miss it, you’ll just be that much less interesting, won’t you?

Pride Texas Festival

Luv Doc Writings, The Luv Doc Recommends

June 10, 2008

This weekend both the ROT Biker Rally and Pride Texas are knocking knees Downtown. Talk about a summer blockbuster. It’s like Jerry Bruckheimer, Judd Apatow, and the Cohen Brothers had a business lunch at Hooters, smoked a fatty, and dreamed up this weekend. Bikers … gays … lesbians … if the Convention and Visitors Bureau was really on the ball they would have booked a mime festival this weekend too … or better yet, the Southern Baptist Convention (same amount of make-up really, just different technique). Regardless, you can expect about 40,000 bikers, 15,000 gays, 100,000 or so wide-eyed onlookers, and roughly 1.5 million Mexican free-tail bats buzzing around Downtown this weekend. That’s a goldmine in guano alone, but the ROT claims to rev up the local economy by nearly $40 million – the bulk of which surely ends up folded into the g-strings of local tittie dancers. Basic trickle-down theory states that the surplus tittie-dancer cash will make its way into the pockets of meth dealers and all-night day-care centers, which will in turn blow its respective wads on Sudafed and disposable diapers, thereby feeding the vicious cycle of corporate consumerism through which the bikers define their freedom and individuality. Ronald Reagan couldn’t have sketched it up any better … right down to the self-fulfilling prophecy of overinflated economic impact. Bitch about their flatulent, lumbering, gas-sucking anachronisms of modern engineering all you want, Harley riders are superior in at least one way: Brand loyalty. That’s a state of economic Zen that’s hard to achieve in modern society. You really have to ignore a lot of facts and statistics and just go with your gut, which, if Harley riders are any indication, is one of the most lovingly developed parts of the human anatomy. You should be seeing plenty of spectacular ones this weekend – usually stretching out a T-shirt that says, “If you can read this, the bitch fell off” on the back. Of course, fetish leather, chaps, and biker outfits aren’t the sole domain of motorcyclists. Remember that on Saturday Auditorium Shores will be teeming with Pride, Austin’s annual celebration of lesbianity/gayness/bisexuality/transgenderdom that loosely coincides with NYC’s Stonewall Uprising (Google it) of June 1969, aka the summer of reciprocal oral gratification. Pride may not have the shock and awe of ROT (maybe because the parade’s participant waiver form expressly forbids anything racy, or for that matter, gay), but at least you know that the participants are parading ostensibly for LGBT rights and not because they want a venue for their AARP qualifying bitches to show off their boob jobs. Subtle difference but worth noting. In other cities you can see plenty of tit in the Pride Parade (even if you didn’t necessarily want to), but the smart gays here in Austin decided that assless chaps, banana hammocks, and cosmetically unenhanced boobage are not the best way to sell gay rights to the breeders. Thus, the kibosh was put on the exhibitionists, and Pride took on a fam friendlier tone. This is not to say there aren’t still some occasional flashes of freakiness, but don’t expect the parade route be littered with empty amyl nitrate vials, spit-soaked dental dams, and spent condoms. Selling the idea that gays should have the same rights and freedoms as the model citizens out at the Expo Center takes a certain amount of decorum and restraint. If they can just keep it buttoned down long enough to get some gay rights to the hets – maybe someday the LGBT crowd can be as obnoxious as their ROT Rally rivals. Imagine 50,000 gay exhibitionists on Congress Avenue gunning their pastel Vespas and showing off their hairy-legged, braless bitches. That’s worth popping for the $15 entrance fee for Pride, isn’t it? You bet it is. Plus, you get Meshell Ndegeocello and Pansy Division as a reach-around. Could this weekend get any better or what?

Great Guitars Rock for Van Wilks and Prostate Cancer Awareness

Luv Doc Writings, The Luv Doc Recommends

June 3, 2008

Austin is a guitar town. You can’t throw a pick into an audience without hitting a guitar player – and he’ll probably just toss it back because it’s not his brand or thickness. Anyway, nice throw because he was standing in the back of the room with his arms folded thinking, “This guy isn’t such hot shit.” After the show he’ll come up to the stage and shove a napkin into the tip jar on which he’s scrawled his MySpace page with his girlfriend’s eyeliner pencil. You can pretty much bet that if you go, there the first thing you’re going to hear is diddly diddly diddly wah diddly diddly diddly. Fuck. He is better than you. What were you thinking? You just got suckered into the musical equivalent of looking at other guys’ dicks in the shower. Turns out your show isn’t nearly as impressive as you thought it was. Lesson learned: Keep your head up. Hendrix kept his eyes turned toward the heavens. Why? Not because he was checking out the competition, but because the only person he had left to impress was God. Besides, as every true guitarist knows, if you have to look down at your fretboard, you’re a hack. SRV kept his eyes closed for entire songs, and on the rare occasions when he did open them, he was playing guitar behind his head – not just cheesy hammer-ons but complicated, jaw-dropping improvisational runs that barely drowned out the collective whoosh of thousands of panties hitting the floor. Why were Stevie Ray’s eyes closed? Because there was this other kid, a hometown hero named Eric Johnson, who was playing a bizarre clusterfuck of jazz, fusion, and rock with New Agey elements tossed in – intricate, technically dazzling, and mathematically precise fretwork that earned hushed respect from metalheads to chicken pickers and everyone in between. E.J.’s lead runs sound like something Steven Hawking would dream up in a sensory deprivation tank. Perhaps even more intimidating is that he looks like he got his clothes and hairstyle at the mall. Seriously, if you’re going to blister like that, you at least need to pop a few buttons on your shirt and throw some scarves around your neck. Being a guitar god in a guitar town ain’t easy. You can’t walk around Mount Olympus in a plain, white tunic and expect that everyone will recognize you as Zeus. Even Redd Volkaert rocks that Notre Dame mascot beard and a leather hobo hat. Truth is, there are just too many awesome guitarists in Austin. Our D-list is an average city’s A-list. If you really want to test your chops as a guitar god, there’s no better place to do it than right here in River City. On any given night, you can see at least five or six guitar slingers who will blow your socks off. For instance, this Sunday Antone’s is hosting Guitars Rock for Van Wilks and Prostate Cancer, a benefit to both raise awareness about prostate cancer and to help with medical expenses incurred by veteran Austin guitarist Van Wilks, who was diagnosed with early stage prostate cancer last Christmas. The heavyweight lineup includes Eric Johnson, David Grissom, Carolyn Wonderland, Derek O’Brien, Chris Layton, Tommy Shannon, the Dave Sebree Band, Joker Fireants, and, of course, Van Wilks. If all that musical talent depresses you just remember: Keep your head up.

Austin Poetry Slam Benefit

Luv Doc Writings, The Luv Doc Recommends

May 28, 2008

If you haven’t bought a cheap piece of East Austin, you’d better get on it. Recession or not, there’s a whole shitstorm of hipsters looking to put a down payment on authentic Austin. Sure, you could blow three-hundred large on a spacious ranch house out in disturbia, but all that gets you is a neighborhood full of truly authentic people who don’t appreciate authenticity. You don’t want to end up sandwiched between a car salesman and a UPS driver. You don’t want their real kids punting soccer balls into your organic vegetable garden or rolling up in front of your house in a Kia with spinny rims blasting Chamillionaire. Worse yet, you don’t want their parents to invite you over for surf and turf only to dry gulch you with an Amway presentation or maybe a meet-n-greet with the cool new pastor of their church. Everybody knows the best neighbors are aging blue-collar types on fixed pensions who can’t afford to upgrade their hearing aids. They might pop out into the daylight every once in a while at six in the morning to pick up the paper or pull aimlessly at random weeds in their lawn, but mostly they stay inside watching soap operas, cooking things in their Crock-Pots, and doing books of crossword puzzles. It doesn’t take much ontological acumen to realize it doesn’t get any realer than that. People who are simultaneously on death’s doorstep and a fixed income tend not to live large – certainly not large enough to get all up in your business. Sure, there may be occasional extravagances like an oil derrick mailbox or windows covered in tinfoil, but nothing as dangerous or frightening as a sullen suburban goth kid whose MySpace page is a homage to Columbine. You may also experience a few awkward, fence-side conversations while enduring the farty stench of an unchanged colostomy bag or maybe Cains coffee breath, circa 1973, but all things considered, your old buddy Carl from next door is not a bad guy, even if he never zips his fly and wears sneakers with no laces. Plus, you can invite Carl to all your parties in full confidence that he won’t show up because he’ll either forget or won’t care enough to put his pants on. If he actually shows up without pants, your party guests will certainly have something to blog about, won’t they? All in all, gentrification is a win-win situation, especially if you’re the gentry. If you’re not, you always have the option of selling that rattrap of a house you’ve been letting deteriorate for the last 40 years and moving into an assisted-living facility. With all the hot meals and Dixie cups full of meds, you’ll think you’re in heaven already. And if some hipster blows a couple hundred thou to remodel your 2-1 post-war tract home into a 3-2 green-friendly urban space, you’ll sleep peacefully knowing that in 50 years or so he’ll be just as cool as you are – maybe even cooler if his nurse parks his wheelchair over the floor vent in the sun room. Point is, if you want to get a piece of authentic Austin, you better get one now while you’re still young enough to bust your ass trying to make it livable. Once the tide of trendiness completely floods East Austin, you’ll have to head out to Pflugerville to look for something real. If you want to dip your toe into East Austin – both what it was and is – make some time to visit the Scoot Inn, a cool little bar at East Fourth and Navasota. Like it’s companion Longbranch Inn on East 11th, the Scoot Inn is an old dive bar dressed up just enough to draw the cool kids but still homey enough for the locals. If gentrification has a best-case scenario, this is probably it. On Saturday they’re hosting a benefit for the Austin Poetry Slam, which takes place Wednesdays at the Scoot. Poets are trendy people for sure, but fortunately they’re generally too broke to outbid you on your East Austin dream shack. Maybe the tide is already turning.

Austin Wine Festival

Luv Doc Writings, The Luv Doc Recommends

May 20, 2008

If you know a lot about wine, good for you. Everybody should have some sort of skill. While other people were busy learning how to knit, play guitar, build model airplanes, and swing golf clubs, you were lolling about drinking bottles of fermented grape juice. Well done. Now your palate is so refined that you can taste the booger on the fingernail of the cooper who built the cask for your bottle of 1995 Château Margaux. Lest you think you’ve wasted too much time and money on your obsession, consider that when it comes to sensory sophistication, you’re right up there with Annie Sprinkle and drug-sniffing border patrol dogs. Congratulations! You are now a resource for the rest of the world who, by and large, can’t tell the difference between a bottle of Champagne Aubry Brut Jouy-les-Reims Premier Cru and a bottle of Boone’s Farm Strawberry Hill. They’re not losing much sleep over it either. The hard truth of the matter is that the Strawberry Hill will get you every bit as fucked up as the Premier Cru and with nearly half the syllables. It will also give you the same wicked hangover. This is the wine drinker’s paradox. As an epicurean endeavor, wine is a fascinating, varied, and rewarding sensory experience. As a drug, however, it ranks somewhere between huffing glue and shitty trashcan meth. Say what you will about the hygienic practices of the toothless hillbillies who cook up meth, you never see them stepping on it – at least not literally – in bare feet. Wine on the other hand rarely smells like cat pee and has the additional benefit of being mostly legal. It also has enough congeners, sulfites, and tannins to adequately punish overindulgers. Is it any wonder Jesus chose to turn the water into wine instead of crack cocaine? Heaven isn’t a very enticing carrot to dangle when you have buckets full of cocaine. With wine however, Jesus could be relatively sure that everyone would wake up the next morning saying, “Jesus, what was I thinking?” Lord knows if you’re going to be drinking wine, it’s best to pound a glass of water every now and then. If you can afford it, you might want to nosh a little too. Don’t worry, there are always plenty of wine-geeks who will advise you on what wine to pair with what animal/mineral/vegetable. How about a glass of Pinot Noir and a dip of Copenhagen? Maybe a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon and an altar boy? Truly, the possibilities are endless, which is one of the things that makes wine such a fascinating bev. If you’ve never tasted wine, there’s really no excuse. Whether you’re a polygamist, a Baylor alumnus, or just a hardcore Muslim, there’s probably a wine that’s right for you. This weekend, you can see for yourself at the Austin Wine Festival, a three-day celebration of Texas wines taking place at the Domain this Memorial Day weekend. Not only can you taste some of the Texas Hill Country’s most popular and award-winning wines, you can nosh at the Whole Foods Market Bistro and listen to music by acts like Walt Wilkins & the Mysterquiros, Autumn Boukadakis, Patrice Pike, the Bellville Outfit, Band of Heathens, Brandon Rhyder, and more. What a great chance to learn a lot about wine, and if you already know a lot about wine, good for you!

Livable Vision Awards Party

The Luv Doc Recommends

May 13, 2008

There must be something like 5K road races in Austin every year. Seriously. Anyone with a working ink-jet printer and a box of safety pins seems to host some value of K. There are even kids’ Ks and dog Ks – which might lead you to ask: What the hell’s up with all the Ks, yo? It’s simple: “K” is short for “kilometer,” and runners don’t have the time or breath to pronounce huge, multisyllabic words like “kilometer,” much less spell them out. Here’s an example: Let’s say you’re a runner, and you’re blowing past some panting, purple-faced quitter who blurts out, “How far is it to the next first aid station?” You could stop and attempt to render assistance but that would shave precious seconds off your finish time, and you would be mortified to come in any lower than 6,543rd place, so instead you simply bark, “2K.” Problem solved – well, that one at least, but there’s also the larger problem of so many people exercising … and even worse … talking about exercising. Sure, exercise is a common thread in the modern human experience but so is breathing and taking a shit, either of which are infinitely more fascinating than hearing some hard-bodied half-wit drone on endlessly about her workout. What happened to the simpler times when exercising was more like masturbation – something to be done privately and in shame? Shame because back in the day a real job demanded a Herculean amount of effort – the kind of backbreaking toil that kept you from flabbing up like a sissy. If you happened to be one of those unfortunate bean counters with an embarrassingly cushy desk job, you spent your weekends doing something productive like chopping wood or digging potholes. Exercising for the sake of fitness alone was the type of limp-wristed bourgeois narcissism best left to Europeans and ancient Greeks. Sure, people still worked out, some even shamelessly and in public, but it wasn’t something you talked about outside of a confession booth. And really, admitting to anyone that you’re trying to sculpt your glutes should be worth at least 10 Hail Marys and a dozen Lord’s Prayers, minimum. No, there’s nothing inherently sinful about the sporting life – if Jesus were alive today, he would probably be on the pro-barefoot skiing circuit – but there’s nothing particularly virtuous about it either. Would the Lord rather see you run a marathon or spend the same energy framing houses with Habitat for Humanity? Admit it, running is a hugely narcissistic endeavor anyway, isn’t it? Unless you’re carrying an important message to your field commander or just shoplifted some food for your starving family, running is all about you. There’s nothing wrong with that of course, but if you feel the urge to share the experience at a cocktail party, stifle it. That’s what blogs are for. Besides, talking about your workout is sort of like patting yourself on the ass for your self indulgence. Every once in a while it wouldn’t kill you to pat someone else on the ass (unless it’s verboten in the employee handbook), would it? Well here’s your chance: This Wednesday, May 21, from 6pm to 7:30pm at the Carver Museum, Liveable City will be hosting their annual Livable Vision Awards Party, which recognizes the contributions of local businesses and organizations in making Austin a more livable community (i.e., and even better place to host a few K more Ks). You’ve always wanted to check out the Carver Museum anyway, haven’t you? It’s right off the bus line, but if you live in Central Austin, it’s only a few K away, so you might as well jog.

Movies in the Park at Republic Square

The Luv Doc Recommends

May 6, 2008

If you’re looking to get laid, it’s always best to have a reliable wingman. You can fly solo, but it amps up your creep factor considerably. Other than a handful of tight-lipped cinematic tough guys like John Wayne, Steve McQueen, and Clint Eastwood, mysterious loner types don’t have a good track record. They’re always stacking bodies down in the crawl space, cooking their victims up with fava beans, luring little kids into windowless vans, and perforating the skulls of innocents with stunbolt guns. Loner chicks don’t exactly inspire a vote of confidence, either. How about Glenn Close in Fatal Attraction? Or Glenn Close in 101 Dalmatians? What is it with Glenn Close and small, defenseless animals? No doubt the casting director figured that if Glenn didn’t mind boiling a bunny, she probably wouldn’t have a problem with stitching up a puppy coat. And really, as crazy as that bitch was, you have to admit the coat was pimpin’, yo. This is not to say that groups of people don’t do some crazy shit on occasion (Bush … twice?), but generally the group dynamic includes a normalizing effect. Maybe if John Wayne Gacy had a few more friends, one of them might have chimed in with “Dude, you definitely have a dead animal in your crawl space” – or maybe one of them actually did and ended up there. Regardless, no matter how pure your intentions, no matter how mentally sound you are on paper, if you roll up to a party in a dented cargo van wearing a clown suit, most sane people will scatter like cockroaches. The only way you’re going to get anyone to come near you is to whip up a breathtaking menagerie of balloon animals. So, yes, at the very least a wingman is important – especially when trolling for strange. Ideally your wingman is a trusted friend and not some homeless person you lured along with the promise of a convenience-store rotisserie hot dog and a 40-ounce malt liquor. People judge you by who you hang out with, which is why your wingman should be cute, but not so hot that people will want to fuck him. He should also know when to keep his mouth shut. That story about the time you had freaky motel sex with that chick with huge hands and an Adam’s apple may be hilarious, but when it comes to impressing the ladies, you might as well be wearing a blood-stained clown suit. It’s hard enough to find good friends, but finding a good wingman is even harder. That’s why a lot of people choose to get a puppy, instead. Everybody loves puppies (with the exception of maybe Glenn Close, who loves them in a different way). Everybody wants to pet them, too. They’re like furry, little magnets for the opposite sex. It’s true that they eventually grow up, get fatter and lazier, and develop halitosis, but even the ugliest dog beats no dog at all – especially if you tie a DayGlo bandanna around its neck. Plus, getting a dog is much easier than making a friend. Finding friends takes a lot of time and effort, but all you have to do to find a dog is visit your local animal shelter. Sure, there’s also the many years of feeding, walking, washing, and following it around with a plastic bag, but if you’re friendless in the first place, it might help with your character development. This weekend you can get further instruction on the care and feeding of your wingman at Republic Square Park, where the Austin Parks Foundation and the Alamo’s Rolling Roadshow are screening Christopher Guest’s classic, Best in Show. This bring-your-wing event also includes dog training demos, dog agility demos, silly pet tricks, and giveaways from Emancipet, the city’s Scoop the Poop Program (huh?), Lofty Dog, and the Austin Parks Foundation. You could come solo, but if you do you might want to bring a pocketful of skinny balloons.

B Scene

The Luv Doc Recommends

April 29, 2008

To say that Texans have a bit of a cultural chip on their shoulders is a gross understatement – sort of like saying there’s not much fresh air in outer space or that the KKK is racially insensitive. The ugly truth is that the folks who settled Texas were pretty much riff-raff: Immigrants, opportunists, criminals, rubes, and other desperate types looking for the big score – sort of like Qua on a Saturday night. Sounds like a lot of fun, until you realize the shark tank dance floor is just chump bait for gold diggers and leased Lexus douche bags with nugget jewelry. Back in the day, of course, clubbing was an entirely different activity, and when people sported nuggets, it didn’t mean they were frontin’, it just meant they had poor hygiene. Most importantly, there wasn’t a lot of high art going on, which is understandable. When you’ve spent the whole day busting sod in the Panhandle, chopping cedar in the Hill Country, or slogging through an East Texas swamp hunting nutria, it tends to put the kibosh on your artistic oeuvre. Though some would have you believe differently, art isn’t a necessity; it’s a luxury. Art is what you do when your stomach is full and you’re not freezing to death or parched with thirst or trying to outrun a vicious mountain lion. Happily, all of that early industriousness and opportunism eventually paid off, and today Texans are able to buy all the art their hearts and tax accountants desire. Except … most Texans wouldn’t know what art was even if it smacked them in the head like an oak two-by-four (which might, in fact, be folk art if it was colorfully painted by a toothless, barefoot Appalachian illiterate). Furthermore, Texans generally don’t care that they don’t know art … until they get some money or some edumacation or both. That’s when things really get ugly, and the cultural pissing match begins. Just because ol’ Jed became a billionaire without the advantage of a high school diploma doesn’t mean he doesn’t have culture. In fact, he’s probably got bigger and better culture than any Art History major from Wellesley – and if he doesn’t, he’s willing to pay for it. Nobody out-cultures a Texan, which goes a long way in explaining why Texas is blessed with some of the finest art museums in the nation. One of them, the Blanton, is right down on MLK. Not only is the Blanton the third largest museum in Texas, it’s also the largest university art museum in the country – might have something to do with the fact that its genesis was a $12 million gift from Houston “Endowment” Inc. Regardless, eat it, New York. Texas wins. We’re crazy sick with culture. If you want to see for yourself, you can for 10 bucks this Friday, at the Blanton’s monthly B Scene party. Not only can you check out the Blanton’s wicked big art collection, you can nosh on complimentary hors d’oeuvres, drink “Blantinis,” watch a sample theatrical piece from the Fuse Box Festival, and groove to the sound of Austin’s own Future Clouds & Radar. This deal is totally worth the money. Aren’t you glad Austin is endowed?

Lone Star State Jam

The Luv Doc Recommends

April 22, 2008

It’s a good thing Texans were smart enough to put in all those toll roads before gas got so expensive. We probably couldn’t even afford to build them now what with the economy swirling down the toilet. Imagine what it would cost to haul all that concrete these days. Fortunately, folks around here were farsighted enough to plan for the future, which is why we built six lanes of toll road access to pastureland out in Manor. Fuck it. People are eventually going to get tired of those breathtaking West Austin Hill Country views and demand to live downwind from the dump and closer to the flea market. Sooner or later, those happy rubes out in Lakeway are going to grow weary of driving their Hummers and Escalades up those steep grades and swap them for Smart Cars and solar-powered manufactured green housing. It’s only a matter of time. Meanwhile, think of all the money and gas we’re saving as we whoosh down those huge empty concrete slabs in our Tex-tagged, half-ton four-wheel drive extend-a-cabs on the way to the office. It’s a long, lonely drive, but when you own a rugged half-acre of well-graded, treeless suburbia, you need a vehicle with a headache rack, a chrome-plated brush guard, and all-terrain mud tires that can negotiate a 5% incline driveway and tow your his-and-hers Sea-Doos out to the boat ramp at Carlos’n Charlie’s. Yes, it’s painful to have to shell out the better part of a hundie every week at the Tiger Mart, but it beats the indignity of having to share personal space at the Park-n-Ride with all those state worker commuter chumps. Plus, where would you put your matching “Bud” and “Sissy” personalized Texas license plates? And do you think that those new light-rail commuter trains are going to have gun racks, spittoons, or deer-poaching spotlights? Think again. They’ll probably have Internet access, though, which will be really nice when gas hits $10 a gallon and the only economical way to get to your big suburban spread will be by train or mule. Now might be a good time to get right with public transportation – maybe learn to interact with real people on a daily basis, learn how to be friendly again. That’s what Texas is all about anyway, isn’t it? Friendliness? Isn’t that our state motto or something? It’s also a town in Texas, but you probably can’t afford to drive there. Instead, you could take the bus down to Waterloo Park this Saturday for the Lone Star State Jam, a full day of Texas and Red Dirt (code word: Oklahoman) music benefiting Young Texans Against Cancer and the Dell Children’s Medical Center. Tickets are $32.50, but that’s way less than you’d spend driving to Friendship, and you get to see these exciting acts: Kevin Fowler, Cross Canadian Ragweed (the other CCR), the Eli Young Band, Cory Morrow, Roger Creager, Wade Bowen, Bleu Edmondson, Adam Hood, Ryan James, and the Bart Crow Band. And if it makes you feel any better, most of these acts will be arriving in buses, too.

ColdTowne Improv and All-Night Sixties Dance Party

The Luv Doc Recommends

April 15, 2008

Comedy is hard. Not everyone can be Moe, Larry, Curly … or even Shemp. Some people are just born without a funny bone. It’s not a completely debilitating handicap. Look at how well Deadeye Dick Cheney has done for himself. Funny as he is, Donald Trump is never intentionally so. Marilyn Manson is a laugh riot who never even cracks a smile, and if you’ve ever been pulled over for doing 90 in a school zone with an open container, you probably share the suspicion that the only cops with a sense of humor are the fictional ones in Police Academy (which, unfortunately, cannot be said of all six sequels to Police Academy). Still, the world is full of humorless wretches who, like the Tin Man in The Wizard of Oz, set off on a journey to find their missing part. Some of them make their way into the clergy or politics or the funeral home business, and some (thankfully just a few) end up in improv troupes. It’s unavoidable, really. People, on the whole, are basically good, and it takes a real asshole to jettison the dead weight that’s dragging down a comedy team. It’s much easier to send them out to get coffee or have them play an inanimate object like a chair or a footstool. Ever wonder how mimes got started? “Just shut the fuck up, Marcel, and go stand behind that imaginary glass wall.” Watching a mime is always an uncomfortable situation, but watching unfunny improv can be every bit as unsettling. At least Cirque du Soleil’s tent is roomy enough to offer a reasonably discreet exit when things get too creepy, but most improv theatres aren’t big enough to avoid direct, soulful eye contact with the performers. Mimes might be sad, but seeing an improv comedy troupe bomb at close range is as emotionally exhausting as watching someone strangling baby bunnies. Therefore, when it comes to improv – or rather, if it must, you should always take care to choose a troupe composed of people you’re not employed by, rooming with, dating, or paying rent to. Sounds easy enough, doesn’t it? Sure helps if you live someplace like Copperas Cove; otherwise there’s statistical probability someone on stage works with you at Party Pig. Fuck it, you’ve got to roll the dice every once in a while. Why not this Saturday at ColdTowne Theatre behind the I Luv Video on Airport? Starting at 10pm comedy troupes ColdTowne and Look Cookie throw down with an hour and a half of High Larry Us improv. ColdTowne has won numerous awards including two Chronicle “Best of Austin” awards, so chances are you’ll spend at least part of the evening convulsed … with laughter. Don’t bust a lung, though; starting at 11:30pm is the Mod Party, an all night Sixties dance party that lasts until 6am – just in time for a healthy donut breakfast at Mrs. Johnson’s. Cover for the improv and the dance party clocks in at under $16, but it’s BYOB, so you know the drinks are going to be stiff.

Sex Toy Coming Out Party

The Luv Doc Recommends

April 8, 2008

As interesting as everyone makes it out to be, sex is one of the most unoriginal things you can do as (or with) a human being … ditto for just about every other vertebrate as well. You had sex. Big whoop. We’re supposed to applaud? Do you expect a big pat on the back for breathing, taking a whiz, or going No. 2? Yes, sex is an activity you share in common with Brangelina, George Clooney, and Heidi Klum, but you also share it with Rosie O’Donnell, Donald Trump, and that guy with the plumber’s crack who works the suck hose on the honey-dipper truck. Get some. Birds do it; bees do it; even educated fleas do it. What makes you think you’re so special? Really, the amazing thing – the anomaly is when you’re not doing it. As any priest will tell you, abstinence takes balls. You really have to not want to. You have to be absolutely unwilling to take matters into your own hands. You have to get right with the harebrained notion that nature will just take its course and hop right in your lap – and with ample lubrication. Not even Jesus could pull that off, so why should you? And yet, even if you’re not pulling it off, regular sex can get monotonous after a while. Even Dr. Ruth would agree that for the most part, it’s just in-out, in-out, until the right amount of friction/stimulation is achieved. Of course, sex is much more complicated than that, especially when explored in an HBO special. In the real world, however, people don’t need a lot of whistles and bells to pop off – at least not the first few thousand times. Once you have the hang of things, though, the general consensus is that it’s good to mix it up a bit, maybe bring in some vegetables or a well-manicured hamster or a goat or a monkey or maybe even the entire Sugar’s lunch shift. Some magazine articles will tell you that the best sex organ is your imagination. That may be right, but the more likely explanation is that they just don’t want to show the pictures. Everybody knows that pound for pound, the best sex organs are the kind that end with an “is.” Ask Clinton. He liked his is wrapped in a Lewinsky. Unfortunately, not everyone is lucky enough to have an intern under their desk or a sugar daddy who’ll use them as a makeshift humidor. The vast swath of humanity has a different fall-back plan: Objects that stimulate the ises – inanimate pleasure slaves that fit in the nightstand or maybe your Dooney & Bourke. Until recently (the day before Valentine’s, to be exact), those objects were considered to be “obscene devices” according to Texas Penal Code. It took us 27 years to loosen up, but we finally did, and to celebrate, Forbidden Fruit is having a Sex Toy Coming Out Party this Saturday, April 12, from 2pm to 6pm. Enjoy live music from Heather Bishop’s Graceful Riot and Tribella, and witness the ceremonial removal of signs and release forms from the obscene devices. There will also be lots of free stuff and a drawing for a “rabbit habit,” which, though it has a little hare on it, doesn’t need to be manicured.

15th Annual Louisiana Swamp Thing and Crawfish Festival

The Luv Doc Recommends

April 1, 2008

Crawfish look like dark, runty lobsters – exactly the type of desperate, freaky cuisine expressly forbidden in the Old Testament. It’s like the Lord was saying that if you’re willing to stoop that low on the food chain in order to survive, you weren’t looking forward to heaven anyway, right? Have some dignity, mortals. If man truly was made in God’s image (woman, too, only on the nights when He’s cross-dressing), then you can probably bet that He doesn’t want to see mini replicas of Himself drunk on Bud Light and covered with saltwater and bug innards. “Levi, take that out of your mouth this instant, and go eat some matzo.” Of course, God seems to have slacked up on the rules a bit in the last couple of thousand years, otherwise Mother Teresa would have had to leave Calcutta one week a month so she could experience the shame of her menses in isolation and seclusion. Sucks to be unclean, yo. Well, at least in a biblical sense. Eating crawfish is filthy too, and in the most genteel of worlds, people would only do it in isolation and seclusion – say, up some remote backwater bayou you can only get to with a fan boat and a machete. Plus, as any Cajun will tell you in a nearly indecipherable patois, when you eat crawfish, you have to “suck the head.” They even make T-shirts about it – which somehow end up sleeveless before the cash register even rings. Why? Because it’s steamy on the bayou, and the phrase “suck the head” sounds nasty even if you’re doing it to a dead freshwater crustacean. And really, if you’re willing go down on a mudbug, you deserve to have it publicized on your T-shirt. In fact, all crazies should be clearly marked. At least marathoners recognize this and pin huge numbers to their chests to let everyone know they’re fucking bat-shit insane from all those surging endorphins. Say what you will about crackheads, stoners, and assorted other dope fiends; not a single one would run 26 miles to get a buzz on. True nutjobs like that should be avoided like Ebola – maybe even outfitted with orange prison jumpsuits. If you’ve ever been trapped at a cocktail party listening to some health nut’s workout soliloquy, you fully understand and appreciate the need for early detection and avoidance. In terms of vices, sucking mudbugs barely even rates as a misdemeanor. You have to ask yourself: Which is worse? A parking lot full of sweaty, mud-fingered drunks or a street full of sweaty, Jamba Juice-swilling bores? If you’re on the fence, maybe you should consider the musical lineup. The Swamp Thing has George Clinton and Parliament Funkadelic. George Clinton is entertaining even when he’s sleeping. Plus they have other fun acts with fun names: Cowboy Mouth, Chubby Carrier, Bonerama, Dirtfoot, Dr. Zog, Big Chief Kevin Goodman, a burlesque troupe, and zydeco dance lessons, which is how Cajuns purge when they don’t want to stick a muddy finger down their throat. Ahh, laissez les bons temps rouler!

Nancy Coplin’s Big 6-0 Benefit for HAAM

The Luv Doc Recommends

March 25, 2008

There is so much money in Austin. It’s crazy, isn’t it? All those penthouse condominiums, lakeside estates, and hillside mansions that stretch all the way to the horizon and beyond have to be owned by someone, right? Who are these people? Where do they come from? And most importantly, where did they get all that goddamned money? Austin is the Live Music Capital of the World, so naturally you would think that the majority of Austin’s high-dollar real estate is owned by scruffy, tattooed, coke-snorting rock stars who sleep past lunch and spend their afternoons wallowing in coconut oil greased kiddie pools filled with Girls Gone Wild. The ugly truth of the matter is that there aren’t any musicians in Austin who fit that bill. In fact, only Billy Gibbons could make that type of thing happen (OK, maybe Britt Daniel, but he doesn’t really seem like he’s into that scene). Sadly, Billy Gibbons doesn’t even live in Austin unless you count his occasional sojourns at the Four Seasons – swank digs, to be sure, but lounging poolside with a mangorita while a dude in a white coat brings you treys of cold washcloths and spritzes you with a mist bottle full of Evian doesn’t really rank as a double-devil-horns-type, rock & roll experience, even if you’re chilling in a colorful knit cap and sporting the beard of Methuselah. At some point you have to get amped up enough to defenestrate a TV set or something. Just saying. In reality, the working musician in that scenario is probably the guy in the white coat pulling the trigger on the spritzer. Life is full of vicious ironies isn’t it? Maybe “Live Music Capital” should be amended to the more appropriate “Live Music Capital (Loss) of the World.” Let’s not pull anyone’s chain. Musicians in this town are cheap whores – at least the successful ones – the rest are just sluts trying to work their way up to being whores. Sounds a trifle insulting on the surface, but at least a slut does it for love, and isn’t that the best reason to make music? Of course it is, but the payments on those new high rise condos aren’t going to be built from the tip-jar cash at the Mean Eyed Cat – at least not until the inevitable real estate bust. Until then, artistic types will have to depend on the monetary largesse of the people who enjoy the benefits of their artistic largesse. After all, those Downtown condos didn’t spring up so people could enjoy the pretty office buildings and corporate culture, did they? Nuh unh. So, Austin, how do you afford your rock & roll lifestyle? Here’s how: By supporting organizations who support the musicians who make Austin such an interesting and desirable place to live. For instance, this Sunday you can attend Nancy Coplin’s Big 6-0 Benefit for HAAM at Antone’s on Fifth Street. Coplin, whose primary job of recent years has been supporting Austin music by booking bands into actual paying gigs at Bergstrom Airport, is celebrating her 60th birthday with a benefit for the Health Alliance for Austin Musicians, which provides low cost primary health care services for uninsured professional musicians in the Austin area. Even if you’re not overwhelmed with gratitude, the lineup for this gig is well worth the $15 cover. Acts scheduled to perform include Marcia Ball, Delbert McClinton, Wendy Colonna, Shelly King, Sunny Sweeny, Ray Wylie Hubbard, Ricky Trevino, Ruben Ramos, and Stephen Bruton. It’s not a kiddie pool full of GGW, but it should be a great show since they’re all doing it for love.

KOOP Easter Sunday Soiree

The Luv Doc Recommends

March 18, 2008

Here’s hoping your band got signed last week so you can peel off those skinny jeans and let that thing breathe for a while. Your privates don’t need to be sealed up like a Nazi treasure cave or Christ’s tomb. It was 95 degrees last Friday. Heat like that demands a certain amount of ventilation, so unless you’re cooking up a big batch of cooter stew, you can untruss yourself and just … by God … let it flap around a little. Plus, if the sales associate at Urban Outfitters wasn’t tea-bagging Mammon, she would have done you a solid and had you turn your ass to the mirror so she could point out the areas where you and the anorexic model in the Lucky Magazine ad diverge morphologically. It’s so hard to get good service these days that honest service is just a pipe dream – sort of like your skinny jeans. Same deal for your drummer. Tell him he doesn’t always have to dress like he did in the picture on your MySpace page. You were going for that brooding goth look, which dovetails rather nicely with the climatological idiosyncrasies of the Pacific Northwest, but to survive in the music business, you have to adapt. Get out some scissors. Carve up some evil looking Daisy Dukes. Don’t worry that the world can see all your ingrown leg hairs. We were already imagining them. It’s OK to be all funereal and whatnot, but trolling around in a black hoody, leather pants, and Dr. Frank-N-furter mascara in the middle of a sunny afternoon in the ATX isn’t goth, it’s just fucking silly, and being silly is pretty much anti-goth – at least as anti-goth as the Visigoths and Ostrogoths, who were more about kicking ass than shopping at Hot Topic. Point is, you can unbutton, unbuckle, and undo now because there isn’t anyone left in town to impress. No matter how we tried to front last week, Austin is still Austin, after all, and even the sharks in the dance floor at Qua could care less about your high-dollar, ghetto-girl wardrobe. Shit, they’ve been staring up into the eye of God for so long now they’re blind to the window dressing anyway. So just relax, let your hair down and have a noncorporate sponsored beer of your choosing. You might have to pay for it out of your own pocket, but karmically at least, it’s much less expensive. Sometimes free isn’t really free at all. Take radio for instance. You can either pay for it up front (Sirius, XM) or pay for it on the back end by having to listen to annoying ads. Ever find yourself humming the jingle for a plastic surgery center? Yeah, you’re going to hell, but before your flesh is consumed in an eternal lake of fire, you might want to drop by Ruta Maya International HQ this Easter Sunday to support the resurrection of KOOP, Austin’s free community radio station that was the victim of a recent arson attempt. Starting at 8pm you can rock out to a truly Austintatious musical lineup including Wendy Colonna, Carolyn Wonderland, Shelley King, Dave Madden, Dan Dyer, and Guy Forsyth. Wear your skinny jeans if you want, but just remember: No one will care.

SXSW Free Concert

The Luv Doc Recommends

March 10, 2008

OK, let’s do this. Cue the intro vocals to Starship’s “We Built This City.” You feeling that? Are you ready to throw hair and pump fist? Is the fist wrist accessorized with a colorful bandana? After all, this is the Starship we’re talking about, not Axe. Otherwise you’d be rocking something in stainless-steel spiked leather, right? Let’s pump it up, yo – take this thing to the next level. This is Austin, Texas, baby: Home of South by Southwest – the largest music festival in the known universe. Instead of a couple thousand bands fighting a chain-link grudge match just to get booked in a handful of venues for low/no pay (after all, Austin is the “Live Music Capital of the World” every day of the year and not just the four days in March when the weather’s actually tolerable) this week there are like a zillion bands scratching and clawing to play anywhere they can for anyone at any time: the street, back yards, living rooms, tailgates, parking lots … and sometimes in actual SXSW venues … which are basically any place you can run an extension cord and hang a banner whose names and addresses appear out of thin air on the SXSW schedule. Habana Calle 6 Annex Backyard? Creekside EMC @ Hilton Garden? Sure, we know where Habana is, but where is the annex? And the annex has a back yard? What does EMC stand for? Entirely mentally constructed? WTF SXSW? There are thousands of musicians all over the world with fond memories of playing in an Austin club that never even existed. “Hey dude, if you ever get down to Austin you need to book a gig at the Habana Annex Backyard. I don’t remember the address, but they have really ass-kicking mojitos.” Of course, if you think the folks at SXSW are the only ones crapping venues out of midair, think again. Pretty much every place in town with something to sell seems to clear out a space to put a crappy PA and daylong lineup of desperate musicians. It’s certainly OK to try to hack off a piece of Austin’s biggest cash cow, but as usual, the musicians are usually the ones who end up getting chumped. No matter what the owner tells you, having a “showcase” at an antiques store in Kyle during SXSW is not the same thing as having a SXSW showcase. Sure, you could argue the dubious merits of either, but the former only has a highly tangential relationship to the latter – similar to the way Dwight Schrute is “assistant to the manager” rather than “assistant manager.” Whatever. Part of becoming a playing musician is getting played every now and then. Still, as often as not, the users get used as well. It’s hard to say whether providing free music, barbecue, and booze to several hundred slackers, musicians, and SXSW volunteers during a day party provides any real boost to a company’s long-term viability, but it sure makes for a nice buzz that day. The same could be said of the free SXSW concerts at Auditorium Shores. Those big-name sponsors may not be feeling it on the back end, but the locals seem to appreciate the fact that SXSW is giving them a reach around. If the word gets out, this Saturday’s concert should be one of the bigger ones in recent years. The lineup features big name acts like Lyrics Born, Talib Kweli, and Ice Cube. SXSW might have built this city on rock & roll, but Saturday night they’re definitely going to burn it up with some rap.

Texas State Arts Festival

The Luv Doc Recommends

February 25, 2008

If you don’t think laser hair removal is an art, think again. It’s not all about carving landing strips and bisecting unibrows. There may be occasions where a customer requests to have his back hair depilated in a facsimile of C.M. Coolidge’s Dogs Playing Poker or his butt rug burned into Escher’s mirror ball. Exacting craftsmanship like that requires a steady laser hand and a finely honed aesthetic. Just because they don’t offer laser hair removal classes at the École des Beaux-Arts (which is, of course, pure conjecture based on the idea that the French are both stuck up about their art and huge body hair fetishists) doesn’t exclude laser hair removal from the arts entirely. Similarly, art made in Texas isn’t necessarily automatically relegated to a starving artist sale in the basement of an interstate Ramada. There are plenty of Beaux Artistes here in Texas – and not just the ones selling painted driftwood on the side of the road next to the beef-jerky stand. There are gobs at the flea markets and in the booths in front of the Fiesta Mart. After all, what would the world be without dream catchers and rope dragons and sea shell art and wind chimes? And what about chain-saw sculpture? Why fuck around with a chisel and knife when you can lay into your art with 3.5 horsepower of ozone-depleting artistry? Want a log that looks like a bear? Want another one? How about a set? Maybe a coffee table made of tree trunk slices? Imagine Rodin trying to sculpt The Thinker with a screaming, bucking 40cc Poulan “Wild Thing?” Wouldn’t happen. Chain-sawing, even as an artistic outlet doesn’t involve a lot of deep thinking. The chain saw is surely an ingenious feat of engineering, but like NASCAR, the guy running the machine usually isn’t the brains of the operation. Ol’ Leatherface was crafty enough to outsmart a few teenagers, but he was still a far cry from a Mensa membership. Nonetheless, the happy news for chain-sawers – and Texans too for that matter – is that art isn’t a brain-heavy endeavor. At its core, art is about communicating emotionally rather than intellectually – sort of like George W. in a presidential debate. Artistic genius is, to say the least, a different type of genius. Pollock splattering canvases with paint or Mapplethorpe shoving a bullwhip up his ass or Christo wrapping islands in pink polypropylene takes a certain amount of noodle, no doubt, but it’s not like they were designing fusion reactors. So in other words, when it comes to art, the pressure’s off – intellectually at least, which makes Texas a great place for artists of all stripes, many of whom will be in residence at this weekend’s Texas Arts Festival, a two-day art and fun filled event celebrating Texas independence and art. Not only will there be nearly 100 booths filled with arts, crafts, food, and drink, there will also be live music from morning to night by diverse artists like Sunny Sweeney, American Graveyard, Ray Wylie Hubbard, and Grupo Fantasma. All told, 28 bands will take the stage Saturday through Sunday. At a $5 cover, that comes to just under 18 cents per band. When was the last time you saw Ray Wylie Hubbard for 18 cents? You don’t need to be a scientist to see that’s a damn good deal. Maybe you can take all the money you saved and get your cooter depilated to look like the Mona Lisa.

Spring Salsa Dance Festival

The Luv Doc Recommends

February 19, 2008

“You’re painting by numbers/Connecting the dots/They don’t have to tell you you don’t call the shots/You jump when they say jump/and you don’t ask how high/’cause painting by numbers they know you’ll get by – James McMurtry, “Painting by Numbers” Salsa dancers look at their feet a lot. For the dancers themselves, this might just be a comfort mechanism, a way of mentally rehearsing the steps before they happen – the peace of mind of knowing what’s just ahead. For the wallflowers, whose primary solace is making catty comments about the grace of the chosen, this type of foresight is both annoying and dull – comparable to watching someone who moves their lips when reading. Like karaoke or NASCAR or ice-skating, the thrill of watching people dance is not derived from how well the participants perform, but rather from how badly they screw up. Sure, it’s a blast doing the “white-man’s overbite” or the “sorority-girl step through” or the “broken-armed robot,” but watching someone butcher any of the aforementioned is even funner. This is precisely why dancing is so popular, not just because it’s entertaining for the people who do it well, but because it’s equally entertaining for the people who don’t. Why? Because dancing is something nearly everyone has tried at one time or another. They might have failed miserably at it themselves, but even the most horrible dancer has just enough dance experience to be an excellent critic. Should you let this stop you from dancing? Absolutely not. You should, in fact, embrace it. Ridicule is an excellent forge of character. If you’ve never endured the merciless ridicule of friends and peers, you probably aren’t living. At some point you have to decide whether you’re going to live your life crippled by self-consciousness and doubt, or at least occasionally give yourself over to bouts of wild-eyed abandon. Or, maybe you just need some training wheels for those fits of wild-eyed abandon. If so, Salsa dancing might be just the ticket for you. For many people, even having fun demands some guidelines, a framework in which to be wild and crazy. Salsa dancing looks pretty wild and crazy. You can find out for yourself this Friday at the Texas Union Ballroom, where UT Informal Classes is hosting the Spring Salsa Dance Festival 2008 featuring salsa, merengue, cha-cha, and probably a lot of other dances you don’t know anything about. Don’t sweat it. From 8 to 9pm there will be free salsa lessons. Once you’ve got the whole salsa thing nailed, one of Austin’s favorite and long-standing latin flavored bands, the Brew, will be cranking out dance music until well after midnight. Even if you think you’re a shitty dancer, it wouldn’t hurt to give this deal a try. If nothing else, it brings the shoegazing thing to a whole new participatory level, that’s for sure.

Harold and Maude

The Luv Doc Recommends

February 11, 2008

If there is a god in heaven, you weren’t even a zygote in 1971, otherwise you’re one of those hags or geezers who are dragging the Chronicle’s demos north … as in up I-35 toward Sun City. As far as the publishing business goes, that’s a death march – certainly for the alternative press, whose advertisers like to think they’re tapping into an age range where “MySpace” means a web page and not a burial plot. Apparently the older and looser you get, the more your purse strings tighten (unless, of course, you want to buck the trend and blow a lot of money on vaginal reconstruction). Really, the alternative press should be nothing but thankful for the enthusiastic support of the “me” generation. They brought us into this world and they will very likely take us out of it. With any luck however, their children will get hooked on us like Starbucks or trailer-trash crank and we can blather on for a few more years – at least until the rapture. If you were actually alive and sentient in 1971, you probably don’t need to be told why Harold and Maude is perhaps the second most important American movie made that year, holding down the silver between gold medalist Billyjack and bronze medalist Shaft. Yes, there were other noteworthy contenders that year like Academy Award winner The French Connection (aka the un-American Connection), and runners up A Clockwork Orange (too British), Fiddler on the Roof (too Russian), Nicholas and Alexander (ditto) and The Last Picture Show (too Texan). Billyjack wins, of course, because like America, Billyjack wants to be perceived as peaceful, but he pretty much spends all his time kicking ass, not to mention the movie itself is a fist-pumping, peyote-dropping, hippie-loving martial arts flick done up in a Southwestern motif. Fiddler on the What? Harold and Maude, on the other hand is a touching primer on cougaring (Google it) with wicked sick cinematography by John A. Alonzo (who like Gary Oldman and the Oscars, has been inexplicably snubbed for posthumous induction into the Texas Film Hall of Fame) and a whimsical soundtrack by Cat Stevens before he started sucking up to the muslims. Harold and Maude wasn’t the first film to deal with cougaring. 1967’s The Graduate certainly got that ball rolling in fine style, but Harold and Maude unquestionably took cougaring to a freakish extreme by pairing a baby-faced, death obsessed 19-year-old Bud Cort with the grizzled/wizened/hoary but perky 79-year-old Ruth Gordon. To his credit, director Hal Ashby managed to keep from turning art house theatres into vomitoriums by crafting Harold and Maude into a touching seize-the-day parable instead of depraved wallow in granny porn. It’s a feat that may never be so skillfully duplicated again, though many have tried. In fact, right here in Austin a plucky young director named Steve Bilich is bringing Harold and Maude to the stage at Mercury Hall with his mother Sue Bilich playing the role of Maude, just in time for Valentine’s Day. Not even Freud on a coke binge could dream up a scenario this bizarre (i.e., a 16-year-old even faking getting it on with a woman in her 70s), so you’ll surely want to be on hand to take in the spectacle. Maybe you’ll meet a cougar yourself, or maybe by reading the Chronicle you already have.

The Reivers Reunion Show

The Luv Doc Recommends

February 5, 2008

Every once in a while when you’re stuck in gridlock on the upper deck watching some dirty construction worker in the back of a pickup dig a booger out of his nose that looks like a chandelier out of a Dr. Seuss book, you might start to wonder … how did this happen? All these people? All this traffic? All this insane overbuilding? In short: What we got, they ain’t got? It’s not like Austin is tucked away in a scenic valley in the Swiss Alps or nestled in a cove on the French Riviera. For that matter, we’re a couple of shades uglier than most parts of the OC, and the surfing really sucks. The soil isn’t particularly fertile, the trees aren’t very majestic, and the temperature is only mild during allergy seasons. Why all the fuss, yo? Is this urban engine running entirely on hype? Well, yeah, sort of, but we do have a nice river (recently retitled Lady Bird Lake), some cool springs (cool enough to shrink your Willie down to a Bill) and some nice hills – especially if you like your hills liberally sprinkled with million dollar homes. Still, attractive as that trinity may sound, it’s not jazzy enough to spawn the 30-plus condo developments slated to remix the Austin skyline in the next 10 years. No, there’s something deeper and more insidious going on here in River City: nostalgia. Nostalgia because those condo buyers think they’re buying in to a scene – a scene that will be gone long before they crack the packing tape on their moving boxes. It will vanish just like all the scenes that preceded it to be replaced by something newer, more polished, and more expensive. In the same way the cosmic cowboys gave way to the new sincerity, which begat South by Southwest, retrobilly, post punk, shoegazers, and then the shitstorm of bands that made Austin the “Live music Capital of the World,” the current drummer-in-every-ThunderCloud clusterfuck will be squeezed out to more affordable locales. Like their sign says, Waco may just be what Austin was twenty years ago. Even if it’s not, Austin will never return to those halcyon days when condoms were used mostly for water-balloon fights, Ecstasy was free, pot cost something like $1.50 an ounce (but only if you wanted the really good shit) and every obnoxious garage band was sure to redefine the American musical landscape. Such is the stuff of legend … and legends (call them lies if you’re picky) are how condos get overbuilt. The big difference between the 1980s and now is that the musicians make less money – and that’s not even adjusting for cost of living. Sure, there are a lot more places to play. As long as there are trust funders with coke habits there will be venues to fill, but the days of the slacker musician are fast drawing to a close. Trying to scrape out subsistence as an original musician in Austin these days is like taking a vow of homelessness, and regardless of their pure intentions, those eager condopolitans who are plopping down a half mil for a chance to enjoy Austin’s “rich cultural diversity” aren’t going to have a lot of patience for any artistic experimentation outside the covers of a piano bar songbook. Whine about it all you want, the old scene is dead, but if you want a glimpse of what it used to be like, trot on over to the Parish Sunday night for the second, as of yet unsold-out night of the Reivers reunion. Back in the overbuilt Eighties, the Reivers were known as Zeitgeist, one of a cluster of bands associated with Austin’s new sincerity era. They’re all older now and fully schooled in the nuances of irony, but the smart money is betting they can rock it like they still believe. And who knows? If all those condos go bust we might just get the scene they spent all that money trying to exploit. Maybe the next big movement is the new irony, but let’s not get ahead of ourselves.

KLBJ’s Pleasurefest

The Luv Doc Recommends

January 29, 2008

If you can listen to KLBJ’s sausagefest morning show without wanting to put a fist through your windshield, then Pleasurefest ’08 is probably going to be right up your alley, especially if you’re thinking that “up your alley” is some sort of clever homo euphemism for your tradesman’s entrance. Whether you’re willing to admit it or not, by listening to the KLBJ morning show you’re showing solidarity with the devil-horns tongue-flick crowd. You may not drive a louvered window Camaro or a wallet on a chain, and you may not rock it in a wife beater, halter-top, or Kentucky Waterfall, but in your heart of hearts that’s how you’d like to roll. You may not blow your lunch money on Hooters, Bikinis, Twin Peaks, or the surf and turf at Sugar’s, but as long as you’re eating, why not enjoy a little eye candy as well, right? And when it comes to sex, you’re the type who likes to explore every facet of your sensuality – ideally in less than five minutes with your pants at your ankles. What you don’t know or haven’t tried you can surely fill in with a quick visit to your favorite Internet porn site. After all, who could possibly know more about pleasure than porn stars? Anyone who has ever watched porn knows that the actors aren’t really acting; they’re truly wracked with violent, shuddering spasms of pleasure – well, after a few tortuous minutes of obligatorily contrived “need-a-plumber/let-me-see-your-tool” setup. The problem with the Internet is that it involves literacy – computer literacy at the very least – which isn’t your strong suit. You’re the type of person who learns best in a 3-D, interactive environment, which makes Pleasurefest just the ticket for you. Instead of sitting at home painting your desktop monitor with pearl drops, at Pleasurefest you can actually meet and take pictures with porn star Brooke Haven. Is that her real name? Are those things really real? Does she really get into it like she’s acting like she does? Those are just a few of the questions you won’t remember to ask in Dale and Bob’s Ask a Porn Star session. Don’t worry, there’s plenty more to be dumbfounded by as well. There’s also “Miss Maulie” in her giant martini glass, a “gravity defying pole demo” by Mercy Killings, a lingerie show by Tabu, burlesque performances by Kitty Kitty Bang Bang and Southern Sirens as well as cash giveaways and more. All told, there’s probably nothing you’re going to take away from this deal other than some unrealistic expectations about the opposite sex that will undermine any chance at a meaningful relationship therewith, but you’re probably going to have a kickass time anyway. And if the legacy of this fest is you spending more time shellacking your computer screen instead of being out on the streets procreating, then mission accomplished, right?

Austin Air Sex Championships

The Luv Doc Recommends

January 22, 2008

You might be tempted to question the wisdom of Alamo Drafthouse in preceding their Air Sex Championships this Saturday night with a screening of There Will Be Blood. The bill sounds a little “dark ages” – as if the air sex competitors have to hoist a stained sheet to prove they’ve consummated their imaginary act. That would be impressive though, Wouldn’t it? If the promo video is any indication, not all air sex is virgin sex – at least not as it’s pantomimed. The competitors however, are another matter entirely. It’s fairly safe to say that whoever came up with the idea of air sex (well, actually it was the Japanese) didn’t do so as a response to getting bored with the real thing. Apparently if you wait around long enough, even the worst air pocket becomes a reasonable substitute for a meat pocket. We’d like to think American society isn’t nearly as repressed. Here in the states, air sex is traditionally relegated to hack comedy routines, excessive end zone celebrations, and obscene gestures by construction workers stranded on girders. That is, until the culturally co-optive folks down at the Drafthouse dropped air sex into their lineup. It turns out that the Japanese are only air sex dilettantes. The real pros live right here in River City. If you’re swelling with pride about Austin’s previously untapped talent, consider this: It’s not because Austin is teeming with savvy sluts and skilled swordsmen. No, most air sexers get their training just like everyone else: Online. That’s understandable. Unless you’re Ron Jeremy, Traci Lords, Mick Jagger, Pamela Anderson, or Wilt Chamberlin, your real-life experience with visually robust scenarios like double penetration, bukkake, and analingus is going to be relatively limited. However, through the miracle of the internets, even the most undefiled virgin can find a treasure trove of information on the biomechanics of freaky sex – certainly enough to bluff their way through a frenzied pantomime of a muff and duff with a couple of monstrously hung weightlifters or maybe a dizzying ride in a Vietnamese spin fuck chair. Question is: Will that be enough to impress the judges? Hard to say. Then again, maybe it really isn’t about the judges. After all, this is air sex, so you can pretty much start with the supposition that everyone’s a loser and has nowhere to go but up, both figuratively and literally. That kind of sick, sweaty desperation always leads to bizarre and entertaining situations, and you wouldn’t want to miss them, would you? Yes, the competition will be fierce, and There Will Be Blood, but only the imaginary kind which, like the air sex, won’t stain your clothing.

James Brown Live 1968

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January 15, 2008

Monday is MLK Day. If you’re one of those fortunate 33% of Americans who actually get the day off, knuckles, yo. You deserve some extra shuteye. Nothing wears a body out like a grueling eight-hour shift in some faceless bureaucratic sinkhole. You have to work three times as hard when everything has to be done in triplicate, right? Just maybe not three times as fast, and one less day shuffling down fluorescent-lit corridors at a sleepwalkers pace for no other apparent purpose than to generate static electricity in your orthopedic shoes is reason enough to get on the civil rights bandwagon, isn’t it? Not to mention you can work that same slow, shuffling gait past all those sucker furniture salesmen and department store clerks who are surely wishing they could hitch a ride on the government gravy train too. Sadly, that’s about the limit of possible MLK Day merriment. Sure there are political rallies, a smattering of marches and parades, a lecture or two, but ultimately, MLK Day lacks the festivity of a St. Patrick’s Day or Valentine’s Day or even a Cinco de Mayo. This may have something to do with the fact that it’s wicked cold outside in January. It could also have something to do with the fact that MLK Day is a relatively new holiday – a holiday memorializing a man who got shot in the head by a stupid cracker – or maybe a conspiracy of stupid crackers, depending on who you believe. Regardless, it’s hard to find a party angle that doesn’t seem a little disrespectful. Given enough time however, you can bet that Anheuser-Busch, Miller, and Coors will come up with something to put the PAR-TAY in MLK. That’s the bottom line: MLK Day hasn’t made it to prime time because corporate America hasn’t figured out how to make money off it. Give the Madison Avenue product pimps enough time and pretty soon the shelves at Walgreens will fill up with Martin Luther King Cakes, I Have a Dreamcatchers, Civil Right Guard, Selma-Nilla Wafers, and Montgomery Bus Boycottage Cheese. That’s when the real party starts. Until then you’ll just have to make do with relatively somber, reverent memorials to one of America’s greatest civil rights champions. Or, you could go to Alamo Drafthouse Downtown where, as a part of their usual Music Monday series will be featuring James Brown Live 1968, a recording of a live, televised broadcast of the James Brown concert at Boston Garden that took place less than 24 hours after the Martin Luther King assassination. City leaders felt that televising the concert would keep attendance down and thus limit the possibility of rioting in the downtown area. They were right. Only 2000 people showed up for the concert in a venue with capacity for 14,000. True to form, Brown still put on a blistering performance. The legacy of the concert however, is an extraordinary recording of Brown at the peak of his abilities and a moving historical document of the times. If you’re still revved up after the show you can attend an afterparty at the The Jackalope sponsored by Dewar’s featuring music from the film. Sounds like a crazy cultural clusterfuck, maybe not the promised land Dr. King described, but at least a little bit closer.

Rock & Roll Party

The Luv Doc Recommends

Jan. 8, 2008

If you did them up right, the holidays should have packed a couple of extra pounds of suet on your frame. Don’t freak out and buy an expensive gym membership just yet. Anything could happen. You might swallow a tapeworm. You might go on a hunger strike. Your soccer team’s plane might crash in the Andes. Besides, more and more people are getting right with chubbiness anyway. Take a quick stroll along the drag and you’ll realize that your anachronistic prejudices about body image don’t trouble the youth of today. You won’t see any hint of the roomy, asexual styles of yesteryear. Mostly what you get is clothes that truss the body like sausage casings, split with intermittent herniations of white, doughy flesh. In ill-fitting clothing, nearly anyone can look voluptuous. Take “skinny jeans” for instance. They might make your legs look skinny – especially if you could throw a poncho over your upper torso – say like Clint Eastwood in High Plains Drifter, but the average pair of skinny jeans these days has belly fat oozing out of the top like dough from a broken can of biscuits. Perhaps it’s Eurocentric designers taking revenge on Bush-voting red states, but clothing seems to be tailored for people who spend their days in the tailgate mosh pit of Oxfam trucks, not for pudgy middle Americans whose most physically demanding tasks are fingering their remotes and cracking the pull-tops on cans of Red Bull and Rock Star. If people aren’t leaving their houses as much (and they aren’t) there really isn’t much need for them to look presentable, but they could at least look and feel comfortable. It’s really sad to think of a whole nation of teenagers passing out, popping buttons and splitting seams in the comfort and privacy of their own homes just because they don’t have enough self-esteem to buy their clothes in the “husky” section of J.C. Penney. If wishes were horses, they probably wouldn’t try to fit into Greyhound harnesses, would they? Ah, but how to change the demented mindset of a whole generation? Fuck that, you’re probably better off buying an Ab Lounger and training for ultra marathons. Or, you could have your mouth wired shut. Before you do, you might want to check in with Jennifer Marchand, who is the beneficiary of a rock & roll concert this Friday at Ruta Maya. Marchand who runs Bleu French Laundry productions, a promoter of musical events like the Zeppelin hoot night and the Stones Sticky Fingers album hoot, was hit by a car in November and suffered, among other things, a broken jaw, which required her mouth to be wired shut for four weeks. This Friday’s show will help cover some of her medical expenses and get her back in business, so to speak. Acts scheduled to play include: Amplified Heat, Chili Cold Blood, the Alice Rose, the Summer Wardrobe, Ralph White, the Murdocks, Carolyn Wonderland, Tony Scalzo, Jade Day, Paul Minor, and surprise guests. The Ruta Maya should be packed tighter than a pair of skinny jeans, but that doesn’t mean they won’t be able to squeeze you in.

The Latino Comedy Project’s ¡Loco Año Nuevo!

Luv Doc Writings, The Luv Doc Recommends

JAN. 1, 2008

It’s 2008! Whatever. The Earth makes another lap around the sun; the odometer of life rolls up another digit. You don’t need numbers to remind you that your mortal coil is unraveling. Every time you look in the mirror you see more fat, more moles, more wrinkles. Yes, it’s time to get your shit together, but then again, it was time to get your shit together years ago. All those resolutions you made in 2003 are pretty much the same ones you’ll be making this year: Lose some weight, get a raise or a better paying job, find a soulmate, learn Spanish – at least well enough to order your breakfast tacos without sounding like a total honyak. Those are all noble undertakings to be sure, but given your record of irresolution, maybe you should set the bar a little lower. Aiming for the stars works OK as an empty platitude for motivational speakers, but most of us are equipped with a pair of Wyle E. Coyote spring shoes at best. We’re lucky to be able to even touch net, much less throw down a nasty Dwyane Wade tomahawk dunk. Still, just because you’re in the meat of the bell curve when it comes to human achievement doesn’t mean you shouldn’t try to tweak your performance every now and then, if only to make sure you’re not some sort of superhuman who accidentally got bogged down smoking pot, eating Flamin’ Hot Cheetos, and watching Lost reruns all day. Maybe trapped inside you is a Nobel Prize winning nuclear physicist or a concert pianist or an angry little girl who can start fires with her mind. Point is, you’re never going to find out if you don’t occasionally mix it up a bit, and failing to meet the same lofty goals and standards every year isn’t helping your confidence any either. How about reining it in a bit? Maybe instead of losing weight you resolve to buy looser fitting clothing. That’s an achievable goal. You don’t have to buy a whole new wardrobe, just piecemeal it. Besides, what if you gain more weight? You need to be able to adjust on the fly. A raise or a better paying job takes a lot of effort, time, and energy. Instead, you might want to use those resources to examine your sick dependency on materialism. Hey, no one is going to nag you about that, are they? As for finding a soulmate, why not earn your training wheels by finding someone with a pulse who’s willing to look at you naked without strapping on a pair of welding goggles? Maybe the only thing that stands between you and a regular, thorough rogering is your impossibly high standards. Those standards are going to fall sooner or later, so why not get ahead of the game and let them slide right now? As for learning Spanish, you could start by resolving to hang out with more people who speak it. Before you overcommit and stake out a spot in the Home Depot parking lot, you might want to shell out 20 bucks and hang out at Esther’s Pool instead. This weekend they’re hosting ¡Loco Año Nuevo!, a compendium of sketch comedy performed by the talented members of the Latino Comedy Project. They don’t all hablo español. In fact, the show comes with just a smattering of Spanish, but that’s OK. You don’t want to overtax your resolve.

White Ghost Shivers

Luv Doc Writings, The Luv Doc Recommends

Dec. 21, 2007

Christmas is over. Nice to finally shake that dog off your leg, right? Nothing like sitting around all day after the presents are opened drinking eggnog and listening to grandpa fart into his recliner. Now you’ve had a couple of days to contemplate what to do with that Indonesian-made green Wal-Mart sweatshirt your uncle from Missouri mailed you in a duct-taped Quaker State Motor Oil box. It’s the thought that counts, right? And even though he left the partially torn “$6.99 Clearance” tag tethered to the neckline so you would know how much it set him back, your guilt will only extend as far as a Goodwill collection bin. Of course, if you’re smart, you’ll take a picture of yourself in it and Photoshop that picture into another photo where people are doing something interesting – maybe smoking pot with Willie or building houses with Habitat for Humanity – something with a little voyeuristic pizzazz. He doesn’t get out much, you know. Besides, just because your uncle still thinks you’re the same size you were when you were 14 doesn’t mean you have to be a dick, especially since the sweater cost nearly twice as much as the can of Fix-a-Flat he sent you last year. So OK, maybe you didn’t get everything you wanted for Christmas, big deal. What would you do with an iPhone anyway? Surf YouPorn and send MySpace questionnaire bulletins? How embarrassing would it be if you died in a car wreck with your iPhone logged onto Bestiality.com? You’re better off staying hungry and keeping the eye of the tiger (not just because you made sweet love to the empty socket) and both hands on the wheel. It’s only a couple of days until 2008. You’ve got a whole list of resolutions to put together, plus you need to scare up a date for New Year’s Eve. If you play your cards right this weekend you might just find someone to help you iron the wrinkles out of your penis on that special night (unless, of course, your penis is an innie). But where can you hunt up some willing strange this late in the game? Well, there’s always Tangerines over at the Stouffer (aka the “Cougar Cage”). Just a couple of pumps of Axe Body Spray before you troll across the dance floor and you’ll have fur hanging off you like Jeremiah Johnson. If you like to keep it central, however, the Continental Club is your best bet, even though it might not be your target demographic. If like your meat aged and tenderized, the Continental Club offers an impressive selection, and this Friday, when old-timey juke jumpers White Ghost Shivers take the stage, the room should be jiggling with folds of white, sweaty flesh. Just remember: The dance floor is a little like Christmas, you may not get what you want, but you might just get what you need.

Armadillo Christmas Bazaar

Luv Doc Writings, The Luv Doc Recommends

DEC. 18, 2007

If you’re unable to spend Christmas in Vegas, try not to be pissy about it. Neither did Jesus, and he had crazy connections. Besides, plenty of people manage to make do with Austin’s relatively amateurish attempts at garishness and schmaltz. We have 37th Street, a dazzling ode to excess that’s just a few bong hits shy of becoming a Binion’s or a Bally’s. It’s singularly impressive, but for some reason the residents are either too chintzy or too stoned to comp drinks. You would think that might affect their draw, but every year 37th Street is overrun by lumbering herds of slack-jawed touristas just like the Vegas Strip. Amazing. Ditto for the Zilker Trail of Lights. Even though the ZTOL is strung up by underpaid city workers (probably with a jaded enthusiasm not unlike the dollar blackjack table cocktail waitresses at the Horseshoe), it nonetheless sparkles with the same sweaty palmed, attention whoring desperation of a Circus Circus or Flamingo, and most amazingly, does so without a profit motive. Say what you will about the Vegas casinos’ unconscionable waste of water and electricity, at least they’re contributing to the local economy by bringing in busloads of cash. ZTOL on the other hand, brings in busloads of stoned high school kids, homeless winos, traffic jam masochists, and those scary people who finish their holiday shopping by mid July. Jackpot. Your tax dollars at work. With just a little more investment the city could surely erect a nice Greyhound track on the soccer fields at Zilker and recoup some of the cost. Talk about a win-win: In one fell swoop the city could suppress the insidious influence of un-American sports and encourage the unbridled lust for materialism that made this nation great. When it comes right down to it, all that Christmas spirit isn’t worth a bucket of warm spit if it doesn’t fuel holiday spending. A couple hundred thousand people milling around Zilker marveling at the pretty lights are a few hundred thousand people not out Christmas spending their hard-earned cash. Is that really the Christmas spirit? Shouldn’t all those gaudy holiday decorations stand for something more than just a warm, fuzzy feeling? If you really want to get in the Christmas spirit and you haven’t already booked a flight to Vegas, you can still salvage the season by heading down to the 32nd Armadillo Christmas Bazaar at the Austin Convention Center. This weekend and up until 11pm Christmas Eve, the Armadillo Christmas Bazaar will offer all manner of artsy knick-knacks, whatsits, and whys to turn your Christmas list from to-dos to tadas! And, like any local event worth its salt, the Armadillo Christmas Bazaar has live music by the van-load. For a paltry $3 ($6 after 7pm) you can see acts like Sara Hickman, Ruthie Foster, the Eggmen, the Derailers, Van Wilks, Heybale, Shelley King, and Ponty Bone & the Squeezetones – a veritable who’s who of Austin music. Now that’s the spirit of Christmas giving. If only they would just comp some drinks.

Misprint Magazine’s Office Christmas Party

Luv Doc Writings, The Luv Doc Recommends

December 11, 2007

If you were planning on wearing a lampshade as your drunken coup de grace for the annual office holiday party, you might want to put together a backup plan. Lampshades are getting harder and harder to come by – not just because environmentalist killjoys like Al Gore have made the incandescent bulb passé, but because lamps themselves have become victims of modernist feng shui. Pity, most office workers could benefit greatly from muted lighting, and the lampshade would be hilarious camp, but there are plenty of other ways to pad your reputation as the office party animal. Most of them unfortunately involve getting wasted. Think of it this way: Of the many challenges you encounter in the workplace, sobriety is a relatively easy one. Sure, you could probably come up with some crazy shenanigans while stone-cold sober, but they will only look forced and insincere. When you’re trashed, your botched attempt at yanking the tablecloth out from beneath a table full of wineglasses will be forgiven as the antic of a fun-loving lush, but try the same thing sober and you’ll only be known as a (pick an expletive) idiot. The difference is subtle but important. No one will fault you for knocking back a few too many in order to have a good time, and rather ironically, that same insobriety can be used as a “blank check” excuse to operate completely outside the conventions of normal behavior. How about a little broom-closet tonsil hockey with your hot boss? Has everyone seen your awesome tramp stamp? In context? Maybe you’ve been itching to take a poke at that asshole in accounting or give the kid from the mail room a swirly. Isn’t it about time everyone heard your a capella version of “My Sharona”? And shouldn’t you once and for all put an end to the rampant speculation about whether or not those huge knockers are really real? Wanna feel? Haven’t you always wanted to make a color copy of your privates? Or leave a ruby-red lipstick print on the company president’s collar? And at the very least, you should share with your co-workers the magic of dance – ideally the ever-popular broken-armed robot or maybe a spectacularly inept attempt at the “Soulja Boy.” Oh, and feel free to unburden yourself of that shockingly racist/sexist/fundamentalist/paranoid conspiracy theorist rant that you’ve been successfully keeping pent up for years. Rest assured the preceding has only scratched the surface of what you can imagineer with the proper blood alcohol content. Two warnings, however (one is printed right on the bottle): stay away from automobiles and all other heavy machinery and don’t talk shop. The only thing more boorish than a drunk co-worker is a drunk co-worker who wants to talk about work. If shop talk is really your bag, at least do yourself the favor of attending the holiday party of a place that does interesting work. This Friday Misprint magazine is having their company Christmas party at Scoot Inn, and it’s open to the public. That’s not a huge risk for Misprint, considering the magazine only appears when they can commandeer an after-hours office copier. But regardless of the psychotic art direction and ADD-inspired editorial focus, Misprint (in)consistently comes out with wicked funny shit, which is more than can be said of certain other out-of-town publications, who swing a big bat but rarely hit it out of the park. Will they be funny in person? Depends on your bar tab, but if they turn out to be room clearing bores in the flesh, you can still enjoy live music from local bands Red Leaves, Hot Pentecostals, and Stay Gold. Should be fun, but you may have to BYOLS.

‘Checking It Twice’

Luv Doc Writings, The Luv Doc Recommends

DEC. 3, 2007

Fasten that sprig of Mistletoe to your belt buckle, the season is upon us. For the next few weeks your schmaltz meter will be pegged hard into the red. Just give in. You’re totally outnumbered. Even that weird-assed pagan/druid/wiccan/communist/anarchist co-worker who won’t spell “women” without replacing the “e” with a “y” is wearing a Bobbie Brooks Christmas sweater with a flashing Rudolph nose. Yes, she’s wearing it with a withering look of sarcasm, but after a few hours of walking around in that fluffy ode to Christmas magic her smirk will melt away and she’ll bear an amazing resemblance to your third-grade teacher. You can’t buy regression therapy like that. Well, actually you can, but it’s going to cost you about $7.99 off the rack at Goodwill. If you’re a more progressive type you’ll probably want to start drinking heavily about now. A healthy buzz can really take the edge off all the bright lights, clangy carols, and greed-crazed, obnoxious children – especially if they’re your own. If you’re smart, you’ll replace phrases like “for the next two weeks I’ll be ramping up my alcohol dependency” with “during the holiday season I try to maintain a healthy amount of good cheer.” It won’t do you much good as a preamble to your breathalyzer test but it will help you explain how you passed out in your boss’ bathtub. Extra points if you happen to have a pair of furry antlers strapped to your head. In fact, ridiculous holiday attire/accessories can provide crucial cover for whatever depraved activities you might normally enjoy under the cloak of privacy. Dying of auto-erotic asphyxiation in a pair of skinny jeans and a black Anthrax tee shirt is just … really sad, but if you punch out the same way wearing a big, red Santa suit, people will assume you got overly adventurous from one too many toddies – either that or the elves ditched you when things got too freaky. The point is that you can’t go wrong with holiday excess because it’s all so insanely wrong to begin with. If the tiny little 8 pound, 6 ounce baby Jesus could have known that someday his birth would be used as an excuse to pimp Guitar Hero III, he would have strangled himself with his umbilical cord – maybe even while masturbating in a red Santa suit. After all, he’s God, and God can make bizarre shit like that happen. If you’re into bizarre shit, you will probably want to check out Checking It Twice a compendium of Christmassy comedic sketches from the talented yet tainted minds of the St. Idiot Collective. The show runs this Thursday, Friday, and Saturday at the Hideout and all proceeds benefit Lifeworks, a shelter for homeless children. Admission is $6, which isn’t a lot to pay for some real holiday cheer.

Man Fest

Luv Doc Writings, The Luv Doc Recommends

NOV. 27, 2007

What does it take to be a man? Scrotum? Check. Nads? Yuppers. Johnson? Well, it is sort of iconic. Facial hair? Yeah, a scruffy stubble will man you up a bit, but facial hair on some dudes just makes them look like Frida Kahlo … or worse yet, John Waters. Take away the basic sports package, however, and manliness gets a little harder to pin down. For instance, pretty much everyone has nipples, even if you can’t milk them. A lot of dude nipples look like big, hairy, asymmetrical, precancerous moles – the type of areolic abominations that not even a rabid wolverine would latch onto, but they’re nipples nonetheless – certainly enough to suffice for a prison bitch or a four martini metrosexual. Boobs aren’t limited to just one gender either, nor are full, pouty lips, luscious lashes, or shapely legs – two out of three of which can be scored over the counter at Walgreens. Clearly manliness isn’t defined solely by physiological characteristics. Richard Simmons may have the chest hair of a lumberjack, but Rosie O’Donnell es mucho mas macho, and her chest is smooth as a baby’s butt. Don’t believe it? Check out Garry Marshall’s 1994 classic, Exit to Eden where she and Dan Ackroyd play cops sent to a Caribbean sex resort to track down plum … uh … diamond smugglers. Fast-forward to the scene where Rosie sports fishnets, a garter, and what can only be described as a high-test brassiere version of assless chaps. Game on, bitch. As Ro so brilliantly illustrates, a huge pair of knockers doesn’t necessarily preclude entry into the man club. Remember Meatloaf in Fight Club? Bad fucking ass. He was rocking EEs and an empty nutsack and he was still able to channel his inner warrior. OK, he cried a lot and got his ass kicked by Ed Norton (who is hairless and slightly more fem than Andy Dick on the masculinity scale) but give him props for manufacturing testosterone out of thin air. Ask yourself: If you met Meatloaf in a dark alley, would you have the huevos to man up and throw down? And if you pinned him on his back would you rip off his shirt and motorboat those huge fun bags? Of course you would. And would that make you less of a man? Questions like these have been plaguing manly philosophers since the ancient Greeks, who occasionally dabbled in heterosexuality when they weren’t carving penis sculptures and nude oil wrestling. In recent years, civilization has fallen off the wagon when it comes to celebrating manliness and men. In fact, some ball-draggers would even claim that being “festive” is essentially unmanly. Well, balderdash. What could be manlier than celebrating men? Not sure? Well, you can see for yourself this weekend when Birds Barbershop and plucky online zine PartyEnds.com host Man Fest, a butchy event featuring arm-wrestling competitions, a lumberjack photo booth, shoe shines, confidence rock (google it) DJ sets, and live music by the über-manly Golden Bear, whose lead singer Chris “Grizzle” Gregory is a cross between Bright Eyes and Hank Williams Jr. Man enough for you? If not, there will also be free scotch from Dewar’s, free beer from Steamworks Brewing Company, and wieners – lots and lots of wieners.

Wayne Hancock’s Annual ‘Dance Yer Stuffing Off’ Turkey Trot

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NOV. 19 2007

The Thanksgiving turkey is a perfect metaphor for the way you inevitably feel after indulging in America’s No. 1 feast: like someone covered you with butter and rammed some starch up your ass. Too bad the Pilgrims couldn’t order Chinese takeout. Of course, the turkey the Pilgrims brought to the table was a far cry from the force-fed, ’roid raging superbirds of today. Old timey turkeys were leaner, ropier, and maybe even slightly smarter than their contemporary counterparts who, rumor has it, don’t need much more than a brain stem and an open feed hole to subsist. Pilgrim birds were hardly veal grade. You can imagine that after spending a few hours picking blunderbuss birdshot out of a stringy turkey carcass, Squanto probably just threw up his hands and said, “Who wants popcorn?” After all, if you’re going to crack your teeth on something, it might as well be organic, right? Turkeys are good for headdresses and feather dusters and making silly noises for hillbillies to imitate, but as far as flavor goes, you won’t see turkey bumping filet mignon off menus anytime soon. Admit it. The very best turkey – even when it is most succulent, be it deep-fried Cajun style, hickory smoked or honey glazed – is never much better than an average cheeseburger. That is why you never see fast-food restaurants with names like Butterball Tom’s Turkey and Stuffing House or Triptophantastic Turkeys To Go. Yawn. Yo quiero Taco Bell! And yet, even though turkey is remarkably bland, it does have a certain gustatory je ne sais quoi that precludes its inclusion in other dishes. Sure, there’s turkey tetrazzini and turkey chili and turkey burgers, but the word “turkey” appended to the front of those dishes serves as a functional disclaimer that says, “this won’t taste like it normally does.” Even though it has feathers, a beak, a wattle, and claws like a chicken, turkey never tastes like a chicken, which is amazing considering that damn near everything tastes like chicken if you cook it right. This doesn’t make turkey bad, it just makes it both unique and unremarkable at the same time. That kind of zen essence is not an easy thing to pull off, which is just another reason the turkey is the perfect centerpiece for America’s yearly homage to gluttony. So go ahead, shovel it down and stretch your gut, you have the other 364 days of the year to titillate your tastebuds. When you’re done, loosen up that belt another notch or two and waddle on down to the Continental Club where Wayne “the Train” Hancock is hosting his annual “Dance Yer Stuffing Off” Turkey Trot. Starting at 9, Wayne will be belting out his original blend of “Honky Tonk, Western Swing, Blues and Big Band” that should work you into a big, steaming butterball. Hawt!

Wash Hamilton Tribute and Benefit Concert

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NOV. 13, 2007

Sometimes it’s so hard not to sweat the little stuff. No matter how many times your grizzled old geezer relatives try to tell you the only important things in life are your friends, your family, and a rigorous regime of dental hygiene, you never seem to get the message. What do they know anyway? They’re already ravaged by senility, hair loss, osteoporosis, cataracts, tooth decay, and wicked halitosis, which makes it all the more uncomfortable when they ask you to lean in closer so you can hear what they have to say. Besides, it’s difficult to take advice from someone who shares more in common with the Crypt Keeper than say, George Clooney or Julia Roberts, especially when you’re transfixed by a huge, hairy mole, turkey jowls, or a spectacular dowager’s hump. Focus, damn it. They’re trying to tell you something, even if it’s a seemingly trite cliché like “don’t sweat the details.” People standing on death’s doormat don’t have a lot of time to fumble around for clever turns of phrase. They do however, have a certain amount of wisdom and a sincere wish to share it before it’s snuffed out entirely. They know that bad haircut will grow back, that asshole will quit tailgating you, your evil boss will retire, and that soft-porn amateur video you made with your last boyfriend probably won’t be getting as many hits on YouTube as you think it will – and even if it does, the important thing is that you had fun. So just chillax, yo. Pull back the handle on your zen recliner and look at the big picture. Maybe that fresh cat turd on your lawn isn’t really a cat turd at all but rather a pungent reminder to appreciate the fact that, for the most part, your life doesn’t stink. What a relief that your lawn isn’t entirely filled with cat turds. Of course, if it is, maybe that turd is a reminder that your cat has nearly used up its nine lives. Unlike cats, humans only get one life, and any old toothless coot will tell you to enjoy it while you can, though probably through some hackneyed phrase like “gather ye rosebuds while ye may.” This Sunday you can do just that at the Wash Hamilton Tribute and Benefit Concert, an eight hour extravaganza of music, memories, and merriment honoring one of Austin’s favorite bass players, who is currently dealing with end stage prostate cancer. Acts scheduled to perform include Ponty Bone & the Squeezetones, Shelley King, Zeke Jarmon & Friends, Jane Bond, Mandy Mercier, Boomer Norman, Los Jazz Vatos & the Sunset Valley Boys, plus surprise guests. There will also be a silent auction featuring donations from Wash’s friends. A $10 donation gets you in the door and scores you a mess of good karma.

Bob Dylan Hoot Night

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NOV. 6, 2007

A Bob Dylan hoot night is a genius idea. Damn near anyone can do Dylan better than Dylan: Bobcat Goldthwait … Fran Drescher … Jaleel White … Stephen Hawking – pretty much any voice that’s remotely intelligible and doesn’t sound like chicken fat being fed into a garbage disposal will do the trick. This is not to say that Dylan doesn’t have talent. He’s monstrously talented. Freakishly talented. Dylan’s oeuvre looms so large it overshadows the instruments of its delivery (including Bob himself). Dylan could squat and shit on the stage and the mojo from his previous work would likely score him a standing O. It probably takes a monumental amount of effort for Bob not to phone it in. It is either his blessing or curse to be in an eternal self-esteem building workshop. Imagine going through a day where everyone from aging hippies to college coeds to flying nuns slaps you on the back and insists that you’re something just short of the Second Coming of Jesus. Just because Bob often sounds like he’s speaking in tongues doesn’t make it true. Imagine the pressure he must feel and the restraint he must exercise to not just scribble out some trite little ditty like “Mary Had a Little Lamb,” claim it’s a metaphorical epilogue to “All Along the Watchtower” and then go skiing in Aspen on the royalties. Dylan’s songs have been covered by everyone from Accidental Porn to Zombie Girlfriend and all acts in between – many of which you’ve actually heard of. That’s currently 20,000 covers and counting. Most of it is exceptionally beautiful songwriting, but by that standard Leonard Cohen would also be stacking mad mounds of mailbox money. No, there is something else at work here. There are clearly a staggering number of people who hear Dylan sing and think, “I couldn’t murder that song any worse than he already has,” and it’s exactly that kind of pathos that butters his songwriting bread – or at least keeps him swimming in it. Think about it. No one covers Rush, Journey, or Queen songs for the same reason unless they’re in a wedding band, a piano bar, or on a drunken karaoke binge. However, if you can string together three simple chords with any semblance of rhythm you’re probably going to be knock knock knockin’ on heaven’s door. Does it mean you’re going to do it well? Not at all, it just means you’re probably going to sing it better than Dylan. The challenge is to give the song the treatment it deserves, not the treatment it has already gotten. Tonight local musicians from revered bands like Zookeeper, Zykos, the Stillwater Pioneers, the Idiot Winds, Mustangled Up in Blue, and the Tunnels will be attempting just that at Emo’s Lounge. In between bands DJ Jester the Filipino Fist will be filling the voids. Really, the question is: Who isn’t afraid to cover a Dylan song? Well, maybe Tom Waits, but his hoot is Friday night.

Master Pancake Theatre

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OCT. 30-, 2007

Admit it. Sixth Street is one of the reasons you came to Austin. Sure, you can blow a bunch of smoke about getting a degree or taking advantage of that exciting high tech job opportunity, but in your heart of hearts you know you fantasized about spending your nights on Sixth Street sucking down Jell-O shots and hitting on college hotties. Of course, once reality set in and you discovered that the college hotties were actually high school hotties with fake IDs and the Jell-O shots had a tendency to stain your carpet when they came up the next morning, you started talking about the Greenbelt, the hike and bike trail, and Austin’s eclectic culture. In other words, you got all stuck up. Maybe it’s time you loosened up and celebrated the fact that Austin has one of the finest alcoholic theme parks in middle America. That big-ass convention center isn’t there because of art galleries and shopping. Those fat conventioneers didn’t fly in to ride the choo-choo at Zilker. Those high-rise condos aren’t being overbuilt to house pasty-faced state workers. No, this city was built on booze – sort of like Vegas, only without all the classy neon. You may not find it on a bumper sticker anytime soon, but Austin is the Sodom of the Southwest. We are currently overstocked with hedonists, weirdos, and freaks and more keep moving here every day. Why? You can chicken-or-egg it all you want, but Sixth Street is a central component – as are the Warehouse District, Red River, and South Congress. Austin’s geography and climate aren’t all that spectacular, our traffic sucks, and we dress like we just rolled out of bed, but we have a really super personality … or maybe just a superslutty one. Nowhere else in Texas can you find such a concentration of unbridled hedonism (Spring Break at South Padre excluded), and people literally come from miles around to revel in it. Love it or hate it, Sixth Street is as precious a resource to Austin as Barton Springs, the Hill Country, the Capitol, or the university. Don’t deny it, hate on it, or try to pretend it doesn’t exist like your meth dealing uncle who’s in prison in Arkansas. Celebrate it, and yes, occasionally (without bitching about the parking, the smell of dried urine and vomit, or the Dawn of the Dead panhandlers) revel in it. If you have always wanted to support Sixth Street but don’t want to risk getting roofied by one too many sexes on the beach and making an inadvertent amateur porn in a hotel stairwell, now is your chance. Alamo Drafthouse has finally opened their Ritz location. Now you can finally drink beer on Sixth Street without wondering whether someone is going try to snap a cell phone picture of your cooter or pick a fight with you because they don’t like the look on your face. Ironically enough, this Friday at the Alamo at the Ritz, Master Pancake Theater is spoofing Roadhouse, the classic Eighties bouncer movie starring Patrick Swayze. A screening of a movie about bouncers … on Sixth Street? That may just be a little too cerebral. Don’t worry. Alamo will find its groove.

Extravagasm VI ‘Return to Eden’

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OCT. 22, 2007

As much as we hate to admit it, there is a certain truth in the phrase, “Turn ’em over and they all look alike.” While there are countless variations in the size, shape, color, and coiffure of the human anatomy, the basic plumbing is pretty much all the same – has been for several thousand years, minimum. Same ‘ol, same ‘ol. It’s amazing we get worked up about one another in the first place. Imagine if you lived for hundreds of years … like Noah, who apparently clocked in somewhere between 500 and 1,000. After a couple hundred years of connubial bliss, it’s very likely that Noah’s wife just held up her hand and muttered, “seen it” every time he whipped out his baby-maker. Makes you wonder if Noah collected all those animals because of a sign from God or just because after all those years he wanted to try something new. Really, Noah’s ark probably makes a lot of sense to the average 500-year-old – sort of a freaky interspecies Carnival Cruise ship with Noah walking the Lido deck wearing a Hawaiian shirt and carrying a tranquilizer gun and a jar of bacon grease. The “male and female of each species” thing should come as no surprise either. It’s a safe bet that after five or six centuries, you’d be exploring bisexuality too. Maybe the idea of bestiality on such a huge scale seems a little over the top. Some might even call it an abomination, but you have to admit that engaging in a ménage à trois with a pair of full-grown grizzlies is one sure way of “keeping it fresh,” plus it gives the hamsters a chance to stretch their legs and unwind. Maybe Noah was onto something other than dry land. Most experts say that the key to having a fulfilling sex life is to try new things – keep it interesting. Problem is, not everybody is easily amused. In fact, in a world of ever increasing sensory overload, getting a rise out of the average person is getting harder and harder. It’s not enough to just buy some colored underwear or shave your nethers into a landing strip. These days you need an encyclopedic knowledge of the Kama Sutra, the body of a gymnast, and a briefcase full of silicone power tools if you want to compete with the freakshow of the internet. Currently, meat-space holds the edge, but only tenuously. Soon enough computers will cough up something warm and squishy and the human population will decline like the Barton Springs Salamander. Until then you need to keep on your toes – or someone else’s – and keep it interesting. If you’re running out of ideas, check out the sixth annual Extravagasm ball this Friday. The theme of this year’s ball is “Return to Eden” and features the Kitty Kitty Bang Bang Burlesque troupe, pole performer and arialist Ms. Mercy Killings, belly dancers, fetish sideshows, a costume contest, and the usual assortment of kink and perversion presided over by Mistress of Ceremonies Lady Lynn. Unlike previous Extravagasms, this year’s ball is off Sixth Street – as in far North Austin – but the venue is a roomy, 9000-square-foot swingers club called Allure. Maybe if you go to the ball you’ll get some, and that’s the point, isn’t it?

Austin Haunted Forest

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OCT. 16, 2007

Haunted Houses are like assholes. Everybody has one and most of them are pretty scary. If you’ve ever been in one, you know it involves a lot of moaning and screaming and blood, and very likely you’ll want to get out just as soon as you go in. You might even wonder why you wanted to go in at all. If you haven’t been in one, you’re probably at least a little bit intrigued by the idea, but why? Life is scary enough, why would you want to subject yourself to additional terror? And pay for it? Just a quick scan of evening news stories reveals some of the most depraved shit imaginable: A man sexually assaults and hangs a 6-year-old girl in her garage; a college girl is killed and dismembered by her boyfriend; a mother puts her three daughters in a bathtub and sets them on fire – and those are just here in Texas. There’s plenty of grisly shit that goes on every day in places like Iraq, Afghanistan, Myanmar, and Darfur. When it comes to pain and suffering, the human race seems to take an if-we-can-conceive-it-we-can-achieve-it approach. Sure, getting mauled by a bear or eaten by a shark sounds really horrifying, but those are mercy killings compared to the average torture session during the Spanish Inquisition. We may like to think we’ve evolved somewhat in the last 500 years, but there’s no conclusive proof. Having flesh torn from your body with hot pincers may indeed be more painful and terrifying than being waterboarded or having electrodes attached to your testicles, but we’ll never know for certain. For most people such scenarios remain completely hypothetical, and maybe that’s the point. If the only true terror in your life comes from some schmaltzy holiday tradition like a haunted house, you’ve got it pretty good – maybe too good. Maybe your body occasionally needs that hair-raising, heart-pounding adrenaline rush of terror, if only to counterbalance the increasing torpor of modern existence. If your greatest fear in life is something like public speaking, leaving your fly open, or getting a pimple on your forehead, you’re probably underterrorized. Fortunately, here in America you can remedy this problem without having to drive around with a cougar in your back seat or volunteer with Oxfam in Mogadishu. How about the sheer terror of being in a dark room and having your hand plunged into a bowl of peeled grapes or spaghetti? Or maybe having something pop out at you unexpectedly even though you were pretty much expecting something to pop out at you unexpectedly? With enough planning and financing, opportunities for terror abound – opportunities like the Austin Haunted Forest, a quarter mile of “twisted performance art, wicked art installations, and totally freak the bejesus out of your soul.” In addition to their homemade haunts, this year the AHF features the Life Size Mousetrap, a “16 piece, 50,000 pound interactive kinetic sculpture set atop a 6,500 square foot game board complete with a Vaudevillian carnival show, musical score, and can-can-dancers” imported all the way from San Francisco, one of the scariest places in the world. What kind of sick freak would build such a monstrosity? It’s too frightening to even consider.

Texas Burlesque Festival

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OCT. 8, 2007

If you really want to look at naked people, they’re all over the place. No more so than on the Internet. If you don’t believe it, try typing the word “bazookas” into Google’s image search. The result is a cross between a carnival freak show and a chiropractor’s wet dream. Nobody in your office probably remembers it, but there was a time when looking at naked people at work involved drilling a peephole into a restroom wall. You can still make that kind of thing happen, but unless you’re willing to wait quietly in the janitor’s closet for an inadvertent money shot, you’ll probably want to take advantage of digital technology – if only to install a web cam in the peephole. But really, why go to all the trouble? You don’t have to work nearly that hard. There are literally millions of pictures of spectacularly endowed, relentlessly turgid, beautifully air-brushed naked people on the Internet and you barely need to lift a finger to get at them. It’s every schoolkid’s fantasy come true – like finding a whole Dumpster full of nudie mags. Of course the down side of the whole deal is the inevitable real-world letdown of finding out that most real people don’t have rock hard, toned physiques, glistening, hairless nether regions, double D breasts, or 10-inch peckers. In fact, most naked bodies fall well short of the Internet standard, even on the Internet. You don’t have to drive out to Hippie Hollow to see cellulite, saddlebags, leathery skin, faded tattoos, or wild, unkempt tangles of pubes. There are plenty of sites devoted solely to amateur exhibitionists who apparently don’t have access to a soft-focus lens or acne medicine. Gone are the days of crouching in the bushes beneath the neighborhood MILF’s bedroom window every night hoping she’ll lotion the razor burns on her privates. Thanks to the internet you can tell her how to shave and where to apply the lotion, as long as you have a working credit card and a box of tissues within reach. Not surprisingly, with the increase in readily available porn on the Internet has come a corresponding interest in and acceptance of porn in real life. More people than ever are taking control of their sexuality and trying to actually live out the crazy donkey/goat/monkey/gerbil/midget/Vaseline/rope swing/jackhammer/gimp mask/gorilla suit fantasies they see online. It could be society is paving a landing strip for the four horsemen of the apocalypse or it could be that it’s merely pulling a big bug of Victorian repression out of its ass. Either way the end result is more skin for everyone – at least until it’s burned off in the lake of fire. Until then, expect things to get a whole lot freakier – sort of like this weekend when local burlesque troupes Kitty Kitty Bang Bang and Burlesque for Peace present the Texas Burlesque Festival. Over 50 performers and nine troupes from Texas and beyond will be baring their wares on Friday and Saturday night at the Parish and Antone’s respectively. If you like to unwind with a little bump and grind, this is definitely your festival. In between performances will be seminars on how to burlesque for success: makeup, hair, choreography, costuming, and chutzpah. Who knew showing off your bazookas involves so much smoke … and mirrors? Don’t worry, somewhere underneath it all is some live, naked flesh worth your money.

TFN’s 12th Anniversary Celebration

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OCT. 2, 2007

Texas is a really big state, especially in the minds of its citizens, whose heads, for the most part, are large enough to comfortably accommodate its immense geography. Nowhere else in America will you find a citizenry so convinced of their home state’s superiority, even and especially in the absence of any substantiation. Outside of Texas there are those who find this hubris entertaining (pride inevitably precedes the type of ass-crack-revealing fall that makes the finals on America’s Funniest Home Videos), but more commonly, unTexans just find it obnoxious. Sure, it might seem like Texans’ heads are big enough to enjoy a certain amount of open-mindedness, but that doesn’t necessarily follow. You cannot have an open mind if it’s packed full of bullshit, and to fill up a space as big as Texas, you have to start packing at a young age. Fortunately, the Texas legislature is up to the task. Back in May they voted 124-5 to put the words “one state under God” into the Texas pledge, presumably to let the ’tards in the other 49 know whose side God is really on. Apparently the “one nation under God” in the national pledge (the one that immediately precedes the Texas Pledge) doesn’t provide the amount of God coverage Texas needs. Only three other states have even adopted an additional pledge: Alabama, Mississippi, and Louisiana. That puts Texas in very select company – what some might even refer to as America’s brain belt – although to give ‘Bama credit, their pledge doesn’t double dip on the deity. Think about it. Texas is currently holding down a spot usually reserved for Arkansas or Oklahoma. Now there’s something to brag about. Admittedly, bashing the Texas lege for idiotic behavior is cruel sport – sort of like making fun of a first grader with a rat tail haircut: You know he wasn’t born with it, but it wasn’t entirely his choice either. Somewhere along the line someone gave him the idea that a rat tail was a perfectly acceptable hairstyle. What’s done is done. We can’t jump into a time machine and fly back to the Eighties or for that matter the Alamo. We have to fix things here in the present. Rat tails can be remedied by a sharp pair of scissors, but backward-assed legislation can only be remedied by sharp minds. One way to ensure Texas minds don’t get any duller is to support organizations like the Texas Freedom Network, a nonpartisan, grassroots organization formed to counter radical fundamentalist legislation sponsored by the religious right. This Saturday they are having their annual fundraiser at La Zona Rosa. This year’s celebration features a live auction, food from local caterers, and music by folk favorite Ruthie Foster and Austin celebrity cover band, Skyrocket. Tickets aren’t cheap, but ignorance is even more expensive.

WFTDA Championship

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SEPT. 22, 2007

If you’re into helmet sports, this weekend is shaping up to be a humdinger. Not only are the wacky Longhorns testing their mettle against an actual conference opponent, there are big doings down at the Austin Convention Center, as well. You probably didn’t know it, but here in Merkuh we have something known as the Women’s Flat Track Derby Association, and they’re having their championships at the Convention Center this weekend. That’s “Derby” as in “Roller,” which, in the modern/vintage version at least, is a sort of WWF tag-team match on roller skates. The WFTDA (pronounced, one would assume, “woof-duh”) is composed of 38 Roller Derby leagues representing nearly every state in the nation. Damn. That’s a lot of pissed off Sonic carhops. You’d be mad, too, if you had to wait on an endless stream of Suburban-driving soccer moms, vodka-toting teenagers, ass-slapping rednecks, and outright pervs for a couple of bucks an hour and a pocketful of pennies. Roller-skating around a drive-in might look like fun on American Graffiti or Happy Days, but after you’ve rolled through a few patches of chili-dog/cherry-limeade upchuck and bussed a parking lot’s worth of ketchup-smeared window trays, getting clotheslined by an Amazon in fetish wear in front of a few thousand drunk crackers seems like a dream come true. Sure, you could channel your rage into other activities like garnishing cheeseburgers with lung nuggets and pubic hairs, but that’s so McDonald’s. Besides, if the Lord blesses you with a talent, you sort of have an obligation to use it. Where would we be if people like William Hung, Kevin Federline, and Paris Hilton chose to ignore their god-given abilities? Exactly, so if a girl takes the time to learn how to do amazing things on roller skates, she should have the opportunity to utilize those skills in something other than a porno movie starring Dirk Diggler. Thanks to the resurgence of trailer-trash camp, Roller Derby and the WFTDA are alive and well, and this weekend Austin is ground zero. Teams from far-flung locales like Seattle; Chicago; Kansas City, Mo.; Detroit; Tucson, Ariz.; Raleigh, N.C.; and New York City (do they even have Sonics in New York City?) will be going at it on the Convention Center’s flat track to decide this year’s champion. You should probably check it out, but before you go, you might want to put on some temporary tats and a pair of Dickies. It probably wouldn’t hurt to get some steel-toed work boots and maybe one of those wallets with a big-ass chain. After all, dressing up like you’re working class is a lot more fun than actually being working class, and Roller Derby fans in Austin like to kick it blue collar. Even though Roller Derby is technically a sport, Roller Derby fans aren’t especially sportive. You’re more likely to see beer guts and plumbers cracks than ripped abs and rock-hard calves. They also prefer punk rock over jock jams and tend to take a lot of cigarette breaks. You get the sense that ultimately they’re just there to watch chicks in fishnet and helmets duke it out on roller skates. Rest assured the Derby girls will give them what they paid for.

Ink Fest Tattoo & Piercing Convention

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SEPT. 18, 2007

After three full days of slogging through the dirt, sweat, noise, and smell of Austin City Limits, you’re probably experiencing a touch of “acute anxiety” just like Meg White. You might feel extremely anxious about going outside again. In fact, you might just want to stay in the shower all day scrubbing yourself vigorously with a loofah sponge – not just because you spent last weekend lathered in other people’s sweat, but because you need to remove the remaining dead sunburned skin so it doesn’t look like you’re wearing a bikini even when you’re not. When you take your top off you should get credit for it, and not just from the people who are close enough to tuck dollars into your G-string. Besides, if you wanted a permanent design you would have gotten a tattoo, right? Maybe one of those cool armband tats that look like the headgear Jesus sported on his power walk up to Calvary. Or, you could go with the sure-to-please “tramp stamp,” which is like a St. Louis arch over your ass crack, a visually alluring gateway to the dirty South. You don’t want to cheap it on the tramp stamp. It should be something ornate and elaborate – something that shows potential lovers that you’re not opposed to spending a considerable amount of time on your stomach enduring pain. Hawt. Most of all, a tattoo should say something about you. Well, actually all tattoos do that in a sort of general, stereotypical way, but a good tattoo says something specific … personal. For instance, if you’re a sailor, you might want to get a tattoo of a boat anchor or maybe a Polynesian girl in a grass skirt – a totally unique design that sets you apart from all the nonsailors. If you’re into Lord of the Rings, you could tattoo something in Elvish on your alabaster chest. Try something playful like “T.C.B” or “Mama, fry me up a banana sammich.” If you insist on getting a name tattoo, try to stick with blood relatives. That way your painful divorce won’t include the agony of removing “Alexandra” or “Bartholomew” from the heart on your chest. Of course, those are just general guidelines that you’ll probably be too drunk to remember when you get your first tattoo. That’s OK, the key to getting any tattoo is not to overthink it. Like our president, you don’t want your steadfast resolve clouded by indecision. After the deed is done, you’ll have a lifetime to come up with a brilliant rationalization of your decision. If you’re one of those people who are still on the fence regarding tattoos, you can do some further investigation this weekend at the Austin Convention Center. Friday, Saturday, and Sunday illustrators and the illustrated will converge for Inkfest, a whole convention dedicated to body art. Check out live tattooing and piercing plus contests for “Best Ink of the Day,” “Best Ink of the Weekend,” “Best Body Art,” and Ms. Inkfest 2007. Oh yeah, and there’s live music too. Best of all, it’s indoors and air-conditioned, so even if there are many scary-looking people like there were at ACL, at least they won’t sweat on you.

Austin City Limits Music Festival

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SEPT. 11, 2007

Bill Clinton is doing a booksigning at 11am on Friday at BookPeople. Coincidence? Maybe, but it’s safe to say that “Butter Smooth” Bill is only a phone call or two away from a VIP plus 20 to the Austin City Limits Music Festival. Chances are he’ll be phoning it in Friday morning, limiting his Q&A responses to a thrifty 20 minutes each and hurriedly scribbling autographs so he can get over to Zilker and get his geezer groove on. Imagine our greatest living president doing the white man’s overbite backstage during the Dynamites’ set, pumping his fist (albeit vertically with the thumb turned unthreateningly upward) and playing air saxophone. Yeah, that’s some messed up shit, but you know you would skip your project planning session or at the very least sixth-period biology to witness such an historic moment. You’re probably still kicking yourself for having missed Ben Kweller’s famous nosebleed tampon incident of ACL 2006. Could you really blame Blow Job Bill for wanting to get in on that action? It’s like Tony Montana is in charge of the backstage buffet. If you’re one of the less fortunate 100,000 dirt magnets on the other side of the barricades, you’re probably not going to get a chance to deviate your septum – unless maybe you’re willing to mule a couple of balloon pellets past the security gate – in which case you’re going to need a tampon for more than just your nose. Otherwise, there is plenty of unreasonably priced beer and the occasional communal spliff inexplicably produced by some string cheese trustafarian whose dreads look and smell like skunkweed. If you could find the wherewithal to rock that look, you too could be playing tonsil hockey with a tramp stamped, toe-ringed, hairy-ankled hottie. Of course, not everyone at ACL looks like they just got back from Burning Man. There will be plenty of middle-aged white guys in Hawaiian shirts, Birkenstocked NPR listeners, yuppie condopolitans, college kids, high schoolers, grade schoolers and even sweaty babies in strollers. Yeah, babies like to rock too. Simple math should tell you that your chances of rubbing up against your soulmate at ACL are infinitely better than sitting at home on your couch playing Halo, though maybe not quite as hygienic. One of the things that makes ACL unique is its undeniably multigenerational appeal. Like its namesake public TV show, ACL is all over the demographic map. Unless you’re into frog-throated death rock, you will probably find something you like that you didn’t expect to like. Failing that, you can always count on the big closers like Björk, Dylan, and the White Str– uh … Arcade Fire.

Beer 101

Luv Doc Writings, The Luv Doc Recommends

SEPT. 4, 2007

Why beer? Seriously. There are plenty of different ways to get D to the rerunk that don’t involve farting, peeing a river, or wiping “head” off your lips. Highest on the alcohol pyramid would be ether. Ether’s some good shit if you can put your hands on it. Like most people, your only experience with ether was probably in Curious George Goes to the Hospital. Props to H.A. Rey for dealing with drug abuse in such an honest and forthright manner. You don’t see George running around in terror flailing at frightening hallucinations or riding his bike with no hands (the latter, in fact, is covered in Curious George Rides a Bike, but George isn’t drunk on anything except maybe pride); no, after George hits the ether he is one blissed out, messed up monkey. It was like H.A. was saying, “Kids, you got to get yourself some of this shit!” Sadly, preschoolers don’t have the mental capacity to bookmark quality intoxicants like ether and therefore its stock among adult buzz seekers is fairly low. That’s probably a good thing. One of the big drawbacks to ether is that it’s highly flammable, so if you’re a drinker who likes to smoke, it’s definitely not for you. Just ask Richard Pryor. Next highest alcohol content is Everclear. If you have ever found yourself arched over a toilet at 3 in the morning firehosing purple vomit so hard it feels like it’s trickling out of your eye sockets, you probably have experience with Everclear. The big “E” can be found in a variety of concoctions: Trashcan Punch, Purple Passion, Hairy Buffalo, Cowboy Kool-Aid, Thunderfuck, and perhaps the most appropriately titled, Stupid Juice. All employ basically the same formula: Everclear and something sugary that makes it easier to choke down. In essence, this same simple formula can describe just about any mixed drink, but for whatever reason, Everclear seems to evoke a particularly lowbrow mixology favored by high schoolers and B-list sororities. With a modicum of intelligence and restraint, Everclear can be an effective and relatively pain-free buzz management solution. Unfortunately, people with intelligence and restraint never buy Everclear. Sliding further down the pyramid you’ll pass a dizzying array of rums, whiskeys, vodkas, gins, tequilas, and other liqueurs that run the range from flammable to unconscionable. Most will do the trick nicely as long as you don’t pair them with something like Red Bull or Jell-o cubes, in which case you’re better off cracking yourself on the head with the bottle they came in. Wines? Are you fucking kidding? Bad hangover plus purple zombie teeth? They’re nice in extreme moderation – maybe with some foie gras or a tenderloin or some French people, but if you’re looking to get your buzz on you might as well snort meth. Beer on the other hand is more forgiving. Beer is the solid foundation of the alcoholic pyramid because it has the least amount of alcohol. This is not to say you can’t get crunk on beer, you just have to work a little harder: Maybe stand on your head with the tap in your mouth or drink it through a huge funnel. Otherwise beer is an effective buzz management strategy: You always know what you’re getting … as long as you know your beer. Some beers stick to your ribs like oatmeal, and others run through you quicker than you can open your zipper. All give you something to do with at least one hand at a party. Who knows? Your beer hand might be groping strangers or giving unsolicited shoulder massages if it weren’t otherwise occupied. If you want to get to know beer, you could do a lot worse than this Sunday’s Beer 101 class at Whole Foods on Sixth and Lamar. Sure, there’s a good chance the Wholies will get all epicurean and fail to address the important medicinal properties of America’s intoxicant of choice, but knocking back brew samples at noon on a Sunday might be good pregame for cruising the produce aisles.