James Brown Live 1968

The Luv Doc Recommends

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

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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

Luv Doc Writings, The Luv Doc Recommends

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.