NYE 1977

The Luv Doc Recommends

December 26, 2011

Saturday night begins the year of the Mayan apocalypse. Time to get your ducks in a row … just in case. It’s true the Mayans did’t invent the wheel or gunpowder or the Internet, but they did come up with the concept of zero and they estimated the solar year to be just slightly longer than 365 days. Chronologically, they deserve at least as much respect as Pope Gregory XIII. Human sacrifice? OK, yeah … mistakes were made. So the Mayans tossed a few slaves into the city water supply every now and then to bring in a good maize crop. Don’t judge. Can you say with absolute certainty that your Whopper doesn’t contain the tip of some Mexican immigrant’s index finger? For all you know, your Whopper isn’t just made by immigrants; it’s made of them. How’s that for transubstantiation? Body of Jesus indeed. Really, how were the ancient Mayans supposed to know that the corn gods wouldn’t be appeased by the blood of innocents? Judging by stone carvings and a few surviving maize scrolls (you call it corn), it would appear that Mayan gods had a serious blood fetish, and they were particularly fond of piercing – tongues … ears … genitalia. That makes sense. There’s a lot of blood down there … at least on warm days and during full moons. And, if you’re cursed with immortality, you’re bound to resort to a little kinkiness after a while. Imagine if Louis XIV had lived a few extra centuries. Rest assured that in that amount of time he would have dreamed up a kink that would have rivaled the Turducken in hedonistic depravity. All the Mayan gods were asking for was an occasional drowned slave and blood drippings from ritualistic piercings. Is that so wrong? Fortunately, like drunken sailors on shore leave, the Mayans were allowed to be seriously F’d up before they got their Prince Alberts (which the Mayans just called “Ouch!”). They smoked wild tobacco and ate mushrooms and peyote (which they also soaked up through enemas because it’s quicker, and after all, what’s an enema when you’re about to spear your foreskin with a stingray spine?). They also licked toads, but before you get on your high horse, make a short list of things you wouldn’t lick if you knew they would deaden the pain of an impending dick piercing. If you’re like most people, you probably wrote down “baboon’s ass” and then scratched it out. Yeah, it’s that short. As long as you’re making lists, now might be a good time to put together a Mayan Apocalypse Bucket List. For instance, if you always wanted a Prince Albert but have been procrastinating, 2012 could be your year. However, you might want to put that on the list right after “morphine enema.” Just sayin’. Whether 2012 is the end of days or just 365 more in an endless succession of days that stretches through the eons, the new year is a good time to reflect, take stock, and plan for the future. Right now though, it’s still the old year, and it’s time to party like the world is about to end. A good place to do that on New Year’s Eve is at the 29th Street Ballroom, where an interesting assortment of local bands will be re-creating the musical magic of the year 1977 by performing songs from bands of the era. Here’s a brief rundown: Party Lines with Johnny Walker will be the Talking Heads, Jason McNeely and members of Flesh Lights will be Cheap Trick, members of Gospel Truth will be Suicide, members of Lola Cola will be the Runaways, Bobby Jealousy will be Blondie, Roky Moon & Bolt will be David Bowie, the Bad Lovers will be the Dead Boys, and the Shivery Shakes will be Television. Wow. That lineup just might be the hallucinogenic cultural enema that precedes the Prince Albert of the Mayan Apocalypse.

Africa Night With Zoumountchi

The Luv Doc Recommends

December 21, 2011

This year the Lord’s Day is on the Lord’s Day – that being Lord Jr. and Lord Sr., respectively, who just happen to be one and the same. Mazel tov! Regardless of the rationalistic quagmire the birth of the Son of God (or for that matter the Holy Trinity) presents, a day of rest isn’t such a bad idea. Truly, everybody can probably use some down time after the insane mosh pit of materialism leading up to Christmas. Somehow, in less than a century we’ve gone from peppermint to pepper spray, from wassailing to retailing, from Christmas cheer to Christmas fear. Celebrating the birth of Jesus is an expensive affair. It can bankrupt you if you’re not careful … which is what Jesus would have wanted anyway, so whip out that credit card and go berserk. At this time of year everyone spends money like they just won the lottery. It doesn’t necessarily mean they’re crazy; it just means they have Christmas spirit – which may be the result of a spiritually enlightened beneficence toward family, friends, and neighbors, or it may be the result of an ingeniously incessant barrage of Pavlovian conditioning concocted by Machiavellian Madison Avenue marketers. Admit it: Every time you hear sleigh bells jingling, you instinctively reach for your credit card. Why not reach for your ankles instead and eliminate the middlemen? Don’t worry, you won’t have to hold that position long. During the Christmas season there is no shortage of bankers walking around with raging hard-ons. It’s the most wonderful time of the year – an invigorating shot of Viagra for the sagging pillars of capitalism. Thank Jesus! Yes, he’s been the reason for the season for nearly the last three millennia – at least since the Romans got on the post-Saturnalia J train. Of course, the three wise men deserve a little credit too, and not just for throwing down with a trifecta of sweet swag for the newborn Jesus – gold (babies love bling!), frankincense (babies like to burn one!), and myrrh (babies love ointment!) – but also for taking the long way home to throw Herod off baby Jesus’ scent (which, one can assume, was fairly pungent after the wise men’s visit). Herod, it turns out, had a hard-on for Jesus (fed by power and greed – sort of like a banker) because folks (wise men included) were claiming that the baby Jesus was the King of the Jews, which would cut in on Herod’s turf. Herod was going to have the wise men rat out baby Jesus, but, as they will in these situations, an angel of the Lord appeared and gave the wise men the 411. Hooray wise men! Hooray angel of the Lord! Except that as a result Herod had every male child in Bethlehem under the age of 2 massacred. “Stormin'” Norman Schwarzkopf would have called that “collateral damage.” Oops. So really, the origins of Christian gift-giving are soaked in the blood of infants and toddlers. At least that explains the red color scheme. The green is just too obvious, and chances are you’ve been coughing it up liberally for a few months now, filling up the empty space beneath your Christmas tree, which may or may not be a metaphor for your soul. The good news is that you’re in the home stretch. There’s daylight on the other side of that Star of Bethlehem, and it’s called January … aka the month of atonement, that meditative time when you figure out it’s who you are not what you have. That’s why the gyms are so crowded. There are other ways to stay in shape that are a bit less narcissistic – dancing for instance, plus with dancing you stand a chance of meeting interesting people. You can do both this Saturday at Africa Night at the Sahara Lounge. That’s when the Sahara’s owner/proprietor Ibrahim Aminou and his band Zoumountchi play a night of high-energy West African dance music. Dance yourself dizzy, meet some fun people, and remind yourself of the roughly 4.6 billion people on Earth who don’t have any Christmas spirit.

Jeff Hughes & Chaparral

The Luv Doc Recommends

December 14, 2011

If you’re too cool to dance country, you’re living in the wrong burg. Pull that stick out and relax, Slick. If you’re that uptight, nobody thinks you’re cool anyway, so you might as well access your inner dork. Yes, Austin may have bottle service, guest lists, and douchey dudes with gelled faux-hawks and tattoos on their shirts, but thank fucking God we’re still in Texas. It’s truly our ace in the hole. Being smack dab in the middle of Texas has its disadvantages, sure, but it keeps our pretentiousness in check. There are still small pockets of authenticity in Austin, even if the authenticity is sometimes so overhyped it makes them seem artificial. The Broken Spoke is one of those pockets. Yes, it’s been called “The Best Honky-Tonk in Texas,” “The Best Country Dance Hall in the Nation,” and a “must-see place when visiting Texas,” which might lead you to believe that Roy Spence is personally handling the Spoke’s publicity, but he’s not. Actually the wizard behind the curtain is none other than owner James White, who, along with his wife, Annetta, has been running the show at the Spoke since the couple built it back in 1964. That’s not a typo; it’s a miracle. Anyone who has dipped a toe in the club business for more than a few weeks knows that it takes a superhuman amount of compassion, love, and patience – the type of God-like qualities that club owners often seek in the bottom of a whiskey bottle or a vial of cocaine. Selling booze certainly invites a hornet’s nest of associated troubles, but it’s a rare breed that has the fortitude and management skills to deal with musicians on a daily basis, much less for 47 years. Imagine if instead of pushing a boulder up a hill, Sisyphus had to herd cats – alcoholic, meth-snorting, pill-popping cats with women problems and car problems and drummer problems and ego problems. In comparison, pushing a rock for eternity is like Zen meditation. To their credit, James and Annetta are Zen enough to keep it simple. They book country dance bands – good ones too. Over the years they’ve had some true legends grace the stage: Bob Wills, Ernest Tubbs, Roy Acuff, Hank Thompson, Tex Ritter, Ray Price, Kitty Wells, Kris Kristofferson, George Strait, and, of course, Willie Nelson. But the Spoke isn’t beloved because it’s a great place for star-watching; it’s beloved because it’s a great place for dancing. Five nights a week, Tuesday through Saturday, the dance floor at the Spoke is generally hopping with all types of dancers: wide-eyed European tourists, adventurous hipsters, starched Wrangler-wearing urban cowboys, blue-collar rednecks, even blue-haired septuagenarians who still like to cut a rug. The skill levels are diverse too, so if you’re not a John Travolta (Bud not Tony), you won’t feel out of place. If you’re polite about it, you can generally find someone to take at least a few spins around the floor. And if you don’t know how to country dance or you’re convinced you just suck at it, show up at 8pm and James and Annetta’s daughter Terri will show you how it’s done … at least enough to give you some training wheels. If you’re still feeling skeptical, carve this Wednesday night out of your schedule and spend it at the Spoke. Get there early, and eat a chicken-fried steak dinner while listening to happy hour regular TJ Bonta. Afterward, head into the big room for dance lessons at 8pm with Terri, so you’ll be ready to roll when Jeff Hughes & Chaparral hit the stage at 9:30pm. Jeff Hughes and his band Chaparral have been country dance favorites in Austin for more than 20 years – and with good reason. They know how to keep the dance floor hopping with a set list that’s as diverse as the city itself: great originals mixed in with cover songs that range from George Jones to Guns & Roses and Conway Twitty to the Cure … yes, that Cure. You’d be surprised at how some songs sound even better with just a little country twang. The same is true of people. Maybe you’re one.

Cherrywood Art Fair 10th Anniversary

The Luv Doc Recommends

December 7, 2011

No matter what Jesus said, Christmas is no time to jump off the materialism bandwagon. You may think you’re doing good by feeding the hungry or clothing the homeless, but you’re really just perpetuating the recession by spending money on people who can’t reciprocate. That’s just bad math. Jesus might have been a pretty decent carpenter, but he wasn’t much of an economist. “Sell all your possessions and give the money to the poor.” WTF JC? If poor people knew how to manage money they wouldn’t be poor, would they? They would all be fund managers, loan officers, and stock brokers – the kind of criminals it takes hundreds of billions of dollars to bail out – not the toothless meth heads or crack-smoking welfare mommas you can bail out with obtuse promises of sexual favors or a well-laundered pimp roll of fives and ones with a Benjamin wrapped around the outside. Yes, meth and crack generate income, but drug dealers spend almost as little on taxes as 1 Percenters. At least drug dealers have to keep up appearances. So if you’re planning on dropping some coin during the holiday season, do it on the up and up – ideally on a big-bank credit card with an unconscionably usurious interest rate that has an irresistible cash-back incentive. Cash back? Why would you not want to spend money? You would have to be a complete idiot. Speaking of, make sure you’re blowing your credit-card money on someone who will hit you back with an equally exorbitant gift purchased on an equally usurious credit card. This is how we grow the economy – not by volunteering in soup kitchens or clothing drives or by building houses with Habitat for Humanity but by fully embracing the spirit of giving – even if we have to borrow money to do it. After all, didn’t Jesus say, “It’s easier for a camel to pass through the eye of needle than it is for a rich man to enter the kingdom of heaven?” The good news is that even if you have a Hummer with gold spinny rims, a Rolex Presidential, and a luxury high-rise condo Downtown, as long as you’re over your head in debt, you’re technically poor. You might think you have too much personal integrity to get into heaven on a technicality, but really … if it came down to it … of course you would. Think of those times you got into the VIP section just because you were with a friend. Did you enjoy the top shelf and hors d’oeuvres any less? Did you wish you were slumming it down in the proletarian scrum of the Unimportant People Section? Hardly. A rose by any other pretext still smells as sweet, doesn’t it? Do you think God will know or care if you only buy gifts for people you know will feel obligated to give you something back? Doesn’t it seem a bit arrogant to assume God is checking in on you personally? Doesn’t He have bigger fish to fry? For instance: You gotta figure Kim Kardashian is getting more heavenly attention than you, if only because of media saturation. In fact, she might be sucking up all the creator’s time – just like she does CNN’s. There is a very good chance – in a spiritual sense at least – that you’re flying way under the radar. That’s a liberating thought, isn’t it? Maybe all you have to do to punch your ticket to paradise is make sure your moral compass doesn’t point to hard toward Jersey Shore. Or maybe there’s no paradise at all. Maybe the terrestrial plane is the only plane you get to board and it’s up to you and the rest of the passengers to tidy up the aisles. That last scenario makes a pretty strong argument against buying more shit, but damn it all, it’s the season of giving, and the easiest way to show you’re giving is to actually give something tangible – something you can wrap in paper or at least drop into one of those gift bags that show you’ve had it with gift wrapping. As much as you would like to stimulate the national economy, you might want to reign in your ambition and start local. Selfish as it seems, local stimulation feels pretty good. Try it and see for yourself this weekend at the 10th anniversary of the Cherrywood Art Fair, an annual event that showcases original art from lots of local artists as well as food from local food trucks and live music. This year’s lineup includes Troy Campbell, the Boxcar Preachers, Colin Gilmore, Jeremy Steding, the Coffee Sergeants, and Eric Blakely, among others. That ought to stimulate you well enough.

Fleetwood Mac Hoot Night

The Luv Doc Recommends

November 30, 2011

Like Joe Paterno jokes, Christmas is just … too soon. Yeah, yeah, broken record. Every year the schmaltz piles thicker and thicker. Maybe if it was somehow discovered that Santa was a child molester … wait a minute, that story is a broken record too. Santa has probably been busted for child molestation countless times. Good God … the elves alone point to some sort of sick, stunted development fetish, but you can bet that no matter how many times Santa ends up in a police lineup it’s never the real Santa. Of course, the same could be said of countless guys named Jesus who would love to be forgiven their transgressions too, but apparently, God doesn’t speak Spanish or post bail. There’s no telling how many legions of pedophiles over the course of history have donned Santa costumes. The thought is staggering … like googol (the number) … or the grains of sand in an hourglass … or the extras cast of Spartacus – the last scene of which, incidentally, was an excellent example of what used to happen when a large group of people claimed to be someone famous. These days the punishment is much less severe. Yes, identity theft is a crime, but it’s not like the mayor of Las Vegas is lining the Strip with crucified Elvises (yes, that’s the plural form, otherwise it would be Elvii, which could just as easily refer to Santa’s little white-knuckled “helpers”). Regardless of the suspiciously nocturnal ramblings of the red-suited, rosy-cheeked, right jolly old elf, no one seems to want to call him on the elves issue. He could probably leash his reindeer to a windowless van with clowns and ice cream painted on the side. It wouldn’t matter. Americans, and arguably the rest of the world, are still “all-in” when it comes to Christmas. There’s no turning back now. Overzealous Christians and profit-grubbing corporations have the largest part of the Western Hemisphere suckling intently on the tit of greed. Sound pessimistic? All right. Fair enough. Christmas is the season of giving, but guess what? By Christian standards, so is the rest of the year. It’s just that the rest of the year all you get out of the spirit of giving is a profound sense of compassion and humanity which inevitably leads to smug self-righteousness, superiority, and a car that doesn’t even have a gas tank. What it never leads to, however, is a Nintendo Wii under a garishly decorated conifer in your living room and stockings stuffed with sweets and swag. Christmas in July is called Meals on Wheels, and even though fat people may still deliver the goods, it’s a totally different vibe. When you give gifts expecting something back, it’s called Christmas. When you give gifts and expect nothing back, it’s called charity. Nobody wants charity, but everybody wants Christmas. Yes, even the Grinch. Remember when his heart grew to three times its size and busted out of its frame? You were there. Wahoo floray motherfucker. There are no charity carols (OK, maybe the theme song on that Sarah McLachlan Debbie Downer dog commercial), charity lights, or charity trees, but there are, thankfully, charity parties. Why? Well, with charity parties you get something back. Is that so wrong? This Friday a seriously fun charity party is happening over at Club de Ville. This party benefits the Health Alliance for Austin Musicians with a Fleetwood Mac Hoot Night. A whole slew of talented entertainers will be on the Mac like a moth on a flame. Plus, there’s a Fleetwood Mac costume contest with an Uchi gift certificate for a grand prize. Here’s the beauty of this deal: If for some reason you don’t feel cool enough to hang out at Club de Ville, relax. This is a Fleetwood Mac Hoot Night. Dork it up all you want. You’ll fit in nicely.

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

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November 22, 2011

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

East Austin Studio Tour

The Luv Doc Recommends

November 18, 2011

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

Sims Benefit Bash

The Luv Doc Recommends

November 31, 2022

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

Austin Tequila Fest

The Luv Doc Recommends

November 2, 2011

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

Zombie Ball: The Party To Die For

The Luv Doc Recommends

October 26, 2011

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