The Luv Doc Recommends

How many words can the Luv Doc write that don’t actually pertain to the subject he’s writing about?

PDAP Benefit with Kelly Willis and Patrice Pike

The Luv Doc Recommends

September 9, 2008

If you’re not high on life, maybe you need to take a bigger hit. Suck in hard, and burn it up. Make it glow. Live large. Love strong. You don’t need chemicals for consciousness expansion. Certainly they’ll do in a pinch, but they’re costly and messy … like Bonnaroo. Sure, you can probably cook up a cheap batch of trashcan meth, but in the long run, you’re better off directing that kind of energy into something that won’t rot your teeth out and make you scratch holes in your skin. Open sores are messy, but finding a bloody brown bicuspid in your frozen yogurt is just fucking disgusting. Having something like that happen on a first date is even worse that wearing a belt-clip cell phone – but only slightly – and only if you’re not doubling it up with a Bluetooth. Without a doubt, speed kills, but stupidity definitely chambers the bullet. If you’ve ever purchased meth, you know that it involves a mobile home, vicious pit bulls, the smell of cat urine, and a sketchy, paranoid, tattooed guy named Cody whose wife sits on the couch and leers at you through a recently blackened eye. K-L-A-S-S. No doubt Cody is grabbing life by the balls, but after a normal meth transaction your first Darwinistic impulse should be to immediately enroll in a convent or seminary or at the very least ITT Tech. If you’re feeling all high and mighty because you’re just a pot smoker, bring it on down. It’s probably because you’re stoned. Dope smokers may still have most of their teeth, but they’re not a whole lot higher … up the food chain. Well, maybe the fast-food chain. Yes, there are some highly successful dope smokers, but the same could be said of just about any drug. Hitler was a crank addict. Manson smoked dope. Maybe you’ll be as successful as they were. You may, on the other hand, see yourself as the next Seth Rogen, sitting on your sofa all day getting baked and thinking up wicked funny shit to make into movies. That is an excellent plan albeit with one slight little hitch: You probably didn’t star in a critically acclaimed but canceled TV series. Ouch. Yeah … truth hurts. You probably missed the audition, because you were on the couch getting stoned. Had you been high on life, you might have at least been first in line. They probably still would have picked Seth Rogen, but at least you tried, right? Life is hard, but mostly interesting if you do it right. New experiences can be quite addictive. If you’ve never experienced Kelly Willis, she’s quite intoxicating. This Friday at Antone’s, she, along with award-winning rocker Patrice Pike, will be performing a benefit concert for Palmer Drug Abuse Program, a support group that helps young adults and their parents recover from the effects of mind-changing chemicals. Antone’s alcohol sales might take a nosedive Friday, but this is for a good cause, so somebody is going to have to step up to the plate and knock back a few in the name of sobriety. Could that be you?

Will’s Mad Hatter Boat Party

The Luv Doc Recommends

September 2, 2008

As your burnt-out lawn will attest, it was really hot and dry this summer. Thankfully, it’s almost fall. In a few more months, you may actually have to throw on some leg warmers with those hot pants and heels. It really depends on the look you’re trying to achieve with your Halloween costume. Temperature-wise it will still be hotter than dog shit in a skillet. So, in late October when you’re thrashing through the aisles at Lucy in Disguise with a couple of underarm sweat crescents in full blossom, try to remember that anything involving rubber, fur, or feathers should only be trotted out for effect – ideally in a pay-by-the-hour motel room with the thermostat set on 50. Otherwise, a Wal-Mart bikini, some pink flip-flops, and a Clearblue Easy wand should do the trick (hello … Bristol Palin?). Of course, in Austin, you don’t have to be topical to run around half naked. It doesn’t even have to be Halloween or Election Day. Here in River City, it’s legal to bare your boobs in public … as long as you don’t charge a cover. Same thing goes if you’re sporting moobs. In fact, as long as your boys are cradled in a slingshot or a jockstrap or maybe a bright-yellow banana hammock, you are walking on the right side of the law. That doesn’t mean, of course, that you don’t stand a chance of getting maced, Tased, or nightsticked by our boys in blue; it just means that when your case comes up for a hearing, you can impress the judge with your comprehensive knowledge of state and municipal statutes. She’ll probably still fine you for public indecency, disorderly conduct, or walking around in a bright-yellow banana hammock with your moobs hanging out (all three of which are basically the same thing), but at least you’ll have the legal, if not necessarily moral high ground. The main thing to remember is that in a couple of months, it will actually be pleasant outside – pleasant enough that your clothing won’t feel like a recently steamed tamale husk. By then, you’ll probably want to try out some new fall fashions or at least get some use out of the L.L.Bean stuff in your closet that you wear only three months out of the year. That may sound really nice and Rockwellian right now, but by November you’ll miss all the glistening tanned flesh and the smell of chemically created coconut. Cold weather is much too high a price to pay for pert nipples, so carpe the caliente diem while you can. How about a little recreational boating? This Saturday DJ Will Konitzer will be hosting Will’s Mad Hatter Boat Party on Lake Travis. Starting at Riviera Marina in Volente at 4pm, Will, along wth DJs Joshua Triplet and Rez, and special guest Andrew Parsons will be pumping up the jams on their party boat. Dress code: swimsuits and hats. Beer and hot dogs will be provided, but it’s still BYOB – that goes for booze and bowlers.

Wild Weekend Power Pop Festival

The Luv Doc Recommends

August 26, 2008

If you read this paper, chances are you’re not engaged in real labor – at least not on a daily basis. Good for you. Sure, you may occasionally spend an hour behind a push mower or a weekend helping your buddy move out of his ex-girlfriend’s apartment. You might even spend 36 hours of horrible, agonizing, blood-splattered labor having your taint torn to shreds by a 12-pound-melon-headed freak of nature you’ll someday refer to as “the love of your life,” but that’s still a one-off, even if you get mad props for bearing down and gettin’ ‘er done. More than likely you bide the bulk of your time with your ass planted in a plush, ergonomic office chair designed with extra width to give that burgeoning badonkadonk some room to grow. Yes, you can go to spin class, water aerobics, Jazzercise, and krav maga; you can do Pilates, take yoga, lift weights, and run and run and run and run, but you’re always fighting an ugly battle with eons of evolutionary conditioning and genetic predisposition. Hey, isn’t it wonderful that you don’t have to work all day in the unmerciful sun busting rocks like Spartacus? Rest assured that even though Kirk Douglas looked totally ripped in that role, the real Spartacus would have pissed himself at the prospect of fattening his ass surfing porn, sucking down Red Bull, and eating Little Debbie snacks. Aside from being able to do his laundry on his abs, Spartacus probably didn’t benefit much from the lean, ropy, Abercrombie model look back in the days of the Roman Empire. Back then being fat was a sign that you could afford to lay around all day at the spa drinking wine, popping grapes in your mouth, and practicing wanton acts of pedophilia and bestiality. That may not particularly be your cup of tea, but it’s a safe bet that just about any Roman slave would have preferred fucking a lion to being eaten by one. The ancient Greeks … well, they were kind of kinky. Anyway, the point is that you’re probably not out on the range digging potholes, and that’s a good thing. In fact, you will probably get more exercise celebrating Labor Day weekend than you do on an average day at work. Part of the credit for that goes to some truly backbreaking labor done by some of your ancestors (Yes, that even includes folks like Kennedys and the Astors. Their progeny may have run liquor and chased beaver, but they surely didn’t have to work as hard at it). Regardless of how mentally, psychologically, and spiritually challenging your job is, you still have it pretty sweet, all things considered. By all means, celebrate! If you’re particularly removed from the blue-collar, chain wallet, Docs and Dickies crowd, you might appreciate the Wild Weekend Power Pop Festival going on Friday and Saturday at Beerland and Mohawk, respectively. Check out awesome skinny tie bands like Paul Collins’ Beat, Pointed Sticks, Nikki Corvette, and the Boys, plus relative latecomers Grand Champeen, Power Chords, Poor People, and Luxury Sweets. Night shows at Mohawk are a paltry $25 a night, and the day shows at Beerland are free. So if you’re employed or even if you’re unemployed, there’s a show for you.

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

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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

The Luv Doc Recommends

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

Luv Doc Writings, The Luv Doc Recommends

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

Luv Doc Writings, The Luv Doc Recommends

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.