Keepin’ It Weird

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MON., SEPT. 11, 2006

This weekend thousands of middle-class white people will descend on Austin to eat our food, drink our liquor, and dance with our dates. Hopefully we will be as accommodating as we were last weekend with the Buckeyes, both on and off the field. The field this weekend, however, is down at Zilker Park. Normally it’s populated with adult soccer players (mostly hyper-competitive, soft-boned, office-worker creampuffs who make orthopedic surgeons piss their pants with delight) and the occasional miniature choo-choo full of exhausted parents and toddlers with soft-serve mustaches/purple popsicle tongues. The field at Zilker Park is exactly the type of uninspired landscape that demands you make your own fun, whether with a pinch-hitter and a hacky-sac or eight stages and 90 bands. Sure, Austin has its hills and lakes and cricks and rivers and all manner of furry and feathered fauna, but its true charm is its people. No matter how hard Starbucks or Applebees or Wal-Mart or Old Navy or any other tentacle of corporate generica has tried to suck us into its grasp, Austinites have managed to maintain and nourish their individuality, their “weirdness.” Out-of-towners, especially middle-class suburbanites from treeless, sprawling subdivisions find Austin’s civic quirkiness fascinating. They come here ostensibly for the music, or the sports, or the bats, or a first-class education, but they really dig us as much for the freakshow as anything else. On any given week you can run into a swarthy, crossdressing homeless guy in a thong and red heels, a dude who looks like Jesus selling flowers, dogs on a motorcycle, hippies, punks, emos, retros – and the freakiest of all: taco-hatted frat boys on a drinking binge. If you need help locating any of the above, we have ghost tours, duck tours, dork tours (aka those silly Segway tours), and all manner of drinking tours, just follow the frat boys. Whether you’re from here or there, if you want to get a taste of Austin weirdness without inhaling the stench of sweat, stale beer, and urine, you’re in luck: Dave Steakley at Zach Scott has put together Keepin’ It Weird, a play about Austin weirdness culled from more than 200 hours of interviews with real Austin weirdos. Yes, life’s rich pageant all dolled up and done up onstage. What could be more Austin than that?

The Austin Chronicle’s 25th Anniversary Photo Exhibit Receptions

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TUE., SEPT. 5, 2006

This week the Chronicle will be celebrating its 25th anniversary with the opening of a retrospective photographic exhibit at the Austin Museum of Art. This may come as a surprise to some. The Chronicle isn’t exactly Life magazine. In comparison to other alt weeklies around the country, our editorial space is decidedly text heavy. A picture may say a thousand words, but the Chronicle has always been of the opinion that you can fit 2000 words in the same space – maybe more if you use a small enough font. On the plus side, Chronicle readers have been spared, for the most part, from seeing the print journalistic equivalent of the squirrel-on-water-skis video. On the minus side, reading three or four solid pages of even the most riveting copy in six-point type can give anyone a migraine, present text included. Sometimes the Chroniclelooks as if it’s been formatted to fit on the head of a pin. White space? White space is what happens when the printer runs out of ink. Even still, occasionally amongst this dense, baroque tangle of text appear some exceptional photographs, and over 25 years those photographs can add up to an impressive collection. If you’re one of those pictures-more-than-words types, it’s unlikely you’re reading this screed anyway, but if per chance you’re stuck in a waiting room, on a desert island, or on a toilet seat and finally made your way to the meat of this essay, here’s some happy news: This Friday, Saturday, and Sunday from 5-7:30pm, the Chronicle is hosting happy hour receptions at the Austin Museum of Art to kick off our 25th anniversary photographic exhibit. For the price of parking (or free, if you’re hoofing it) you can drink and nosh on the Chronicle‘s dime and check out hundreds of photographs from last 25 years of the Chronicle – the people places and things that helped make Austin the unique community it is. Each night offers something different: Friday you can enjoy Curra’s Mexican and Cazadores margaritas, Saturday is Shiner and food from 519 West, and Sunday is Central Market and Fisheye Wine. Even if you don’t get there for the grub, the exhibit runs through the 24th, and you’re unlikely to see this many Chronicle photos in one place for a long time.

Batfest

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MON., AUG. 28, 2006

Batfest 2006

If you’re one of those people who wake up in the morning and piss burnt orange, this is your weekend. If you’re a Texas football fan, you already know that Saturday the Texas Longhorn football team starts another run for the national championship. If you’re not a Texas football fan and you’re still pissing burnt orange when you wake up, you may want to see a urologist or at the very least back off the multivitamins before bedtime. There is such a thing as too much beta-carotene. If you’re an Aggie fan and you want to piss maroon, you’re going to want to load up on beets – a lot of beets. It may seem ignorant to gorge yourself on beets just to turn your pee maroon, but when in Rome, right? Other than beets, pretty much any other scenario for turning your pee maroon is bad news. Seriously. You could ask your corps buddies to kick you in the kidneys until your urine turns a luscious crimson, but that seems a little bit dimwitted even for Aggieland. Besides, there are plenty of non-urological ways to show your school spirit. Say you’re in the restroom next to a North Texas fan and you’re squirting a high, tight, burnt orange arc onto the deodorizer biscuit (even more impressive if you’re a chick) … wouldn’t it be cool if right at that moment your cell phone popped off with a Texas Fight ringtone? In your face Eagles! Hey, it beats trying to kidnap their mascot. You don’t want any part of an eagle. Kidnap Reveille, but leave the Eagle alone. If the folks at Bat Conservation International have their way, Texas’ mascot may change from the bucolic Longhorn to the Mexican Freetail bat. Wouldn’t that be a cool logo on the side of the helmet? Being the Texas Mexican Freetails wouldn’t hurt the school’s party image either. Mexican Freetails are all about partying. For instance, this Saturday after the big game, BCI is hosting its second annual Batfest on the Congress Avenue Bridge, a celebration of arts and bats. Nearly 20 bands, 125 arts-and-crafts vendors, and around 2 million bats will be on hand to raise money for BCI. There will also be carnival rides, pony rides, a “Batini” contest, and a bat wing eating contest. You might want to pop an umbrella for the emergence. Bats gotta pee too.

Austin Chronicle Hot Sauce Festival

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MON., AUG. 21, 2006

If for some inexplicable reason you moved to Austin and you don’t like Mexican food, leave. Seriously. Go back to whatever culturally impoverished, Applebee’s patronizing, Wonder Bread loving suburb you rolled down from and stop fucking up the office lunch run with your whining about acid reflux. Everyone is tired of you dipping the corner tip of your tortilla chip in the hot sauce, biting down, waving your hand in front of your mouth and declaring, “oooh that’s sooo spicy!” Not even a well-tipped waitress will fake sympathy for that weak shit. Oh yeah, and just because the restaurant is named “Chili’s” doesn’t mean the food is hot … not any more than a fish symbol on a business sign means they won’t fuck you in ways the devil himself never imagined. So, if you don’t like Mexican food, there are at least two northbound lanes on I-35. Ta Ta. Austin didn’t work out for you. Go back whence you came to the place where they spice their chili with cinnamon and nutmeg. Go back to the place where they eat flapjacks and Krispy Kremes for hangovers and pronounce jalapeño with a hard “J.” Don’t hate, emigrate. Leave us crazy Austicans to indulge in our sick, masochistic fetish for capsaicinoids. Leave us to sit sweating over our serranos, anchos, chipotles, piquins, and habaneros – both on the way in and the way out. Mexican food is why we live here. It’s why we came here. It’s why we can never leave. You think you can get a decent plate of migas in Maine? Unlikely. And we won’t be producing any world-class maple surple either, but we do make some mighty fine hot sauce. If you’re not convinced, you should check out this weekend’s Austin Chronicle Hot Sauce Festival, one of the world’s hottest events featuring a sampling of more than 300 hot sauce recipes and four Austin bands: NewBoy, White Ghost Shivers, Guy Forsyth, and the Texas Sapphires, all for a paltry donation of two nonperishable food items. If you don’t like Mexican food, this isn’t the event for you, but that’s OK, you should be busy packing anyway.

White Ghost Shivers

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MON., AUG. 14, 2006

It’s finally weed-out season: that succession of 100-plus degree, rainless days, mid-August through late September where the mythical, travel brochure Austin gets exposed as the merciless, scorching sweatbox it really is. If you’re a doe-eyed Midwesterner or a West Coast high tech transplant who moved down in May, you’re probably wondering what the hell happened to all the verdure. You’re probably wondering why tar is dripping from the roof and the tap water never gets any cooler than tepid. You’re wondering why your flip-flops are sticking to the asphalt or why your Chow keeps dropping laser hair removal mailers in your lap when you come home from work. You might find yourself walking more slowly past the thong section at Target or the giant kiddie pools at Wal-Mart. You might be reconsidering your scotch and sirloin diet or the fondue party you have planned for Labor Day. You might be seriously thinking about trying guacamole, ceviche, or mojitos – not because they sound exotic, but because they look cool. And maybe it’s time to see what the big deal is about Barton Springs, Campbell’s Hole, Deep Eddy, Hamilton Pool, or Hippie Hollow. While you’re at it, maybe you need to revisit the whole clothing question altogether. In August do you really need anything more that a straw hat and a plum smuggler? Check with the folks in HR. Maybe you could get by with nothing more than a light glaze of deodorant and sunscreen. Whatever you do, don’t hide indoors. That’s just admitting defeat. You might as well move back to Sheboygan or Sioux City. If you want to survive, you have to adapt, evolve. Besides, with global warming, August in Austin might be up to a buck thirty in a few years. You don’t want to have wasted your chance to enjoy the cool weather, do you? Of course not. That’s why this Saturday on the deck at Central Market, you should chill with the White Ghost Shivers. That’s right, by the time the Shivers hit the stage, temperatures should be somewhere in the frosty mid-90s, which is a perfect temp to enjoy hot music from the Twenties and Thirties by a freaky, fully clothed band fronted by a 7 foot dude named “Shorty.”

Sticky Fingers Stones Album Hoot

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MON., AUG. 7, 2006

Baby boomers break down into two basic categories: Ones who like the Beatles and ones who like the Stones. No doubt you could come up with a more sophisticated classification system, one that accounts for a Byzantine array of physiological, psychological, and sociological variations (type of PT Cruiser, for instance), but if you want to get a quick read of a boomer’s headspace, the Beatles/Stones thing is a good place to start. Try it sometime. Jump up on the bar at the Donn’s Depot or Eddie V’s and scream, “Mick Jagger kicks John Lennon’s ass!” Never mind the obvious stupidity of the statement, just watch the rhetorical melee that ensues. Stones fans will claim that the Mick is a true blue-collar rock & roller, and Lennon was a pretentious whiner. Lennonites will defend John as the second coming of Jesus (or something even bigger) and say Mick is a fat-lipped, exploitative poser. The truth is, both were skinny Brit kids from middle-class backgrounds. Methodologically however, they couldn’t be further apart. While Lennon aimed for the head, Jagger worked the body. Lennon smoked pot, protested, and sought spiritual enlightenment; Jagger swilled booze and drugs, dirty danced, and rode giant inflatable penises. Neither was particularly genuine in anything other than his love of American roots music. Nonetheless, how you come down on the Stones/Beatles issue says a lot about who you are as a middle-aged white person. Do you go for Lennon’s love-in imaginings or Jagger’s strut and swagger? Do you like tie-dye and sitar or leather and guitar? Or maybe you’re too young to know or even care. That would make you a good candidate for the “Get Yer Ya Ya’s Out With Sticky Fingers” Stones Album Hoot this Saturday at Ruta Maya HQ. If you weren’t even a zygote when the Stones released Beggars Banquet, Let It Bleed, or Sticky Fingers, that doesn’t mean you can’t appreciate the Stones in your own way, especially when you have a diverse and talented group of young bands to reintroduce you to the material. Just a few of the bands playing Saturday include: Coopers Uncle, the Spiders, King Tears, Household Names, Jane Bond, the Arm, and Zykos. Don’t worry, if you’ve never heard of any of the preceding bands, you’ll still know the music … and vice-versa. It’s a win-win for young and old alike, plus it’s a benefit for Jeff Tonn, who is suffering from an undiagnosed illness.

Bruce Robison

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MON., JULY 31, 2006

South Austin, Texas, is about the only place in the world where people have the chutzpah to go country dancing in sandals. Part of the reason is that it’s hot down South … crazy hot, hot like flu breath, hot like a Harley muffler, hot like a hooker’s crotch. But it’s hot a lot of places and they still manage to throw together a respectably western ensemble. Just because the sun in Ft. Stockton could cook the skin off a napping lizard doesn’t mean the locals are running down to the Wal-Mart to trade in their Tony Lamas and Wrangler cowboy cuts for Crocs and cargoes. There’s an aesthetic to consider, traditions to uphold. You can’t have a bunch of leftover-salmon stank hippies twirling around the dance floor in tie-dye and dreads butchering the sublime choreography of the sacred Texas two-step. That’s just asking to rip a huge hole the fabric of the space-time continuum. South Austin, it would seem, is just such a wormhole, the kind of place, as David Allan Coe used to sing, “Where bikers stare at cowboys who’re laughing at the hippies.” Of course, unlike the Coe verse, in South Austin they all got high at the afterparty on some gay dude’s ecstasy and made babies. In some places they would call that a clusterfuck, but Austin is a university town and so we call it evolution. The result of this crazy cultural miscegenation is that on any given evening you might see a cat who looks a lot like Jesus in Tevas (either the Christ or the one who sells flowers down on Sixth Street) kicking up dust (maybe toe-fungus spores?) at a honky-tonk with some Patsy Cline wannabe Circle C soccer mom on girls night out … and once the fog of cultural incongruity clears, you might find the answer to the question, “What would Jesus do-si-do to?” If it’s this weekend, there’s a good chance he’ll be dancing to a member of the musical family Robison. Friday night Charlie and Li’l sis Robyn Ludwick will be teaming up at Threadgill’s on Riverside, and Saturday night brother Bruce will be cutting loose at the Spoke. Whether by nurture or nature, all are great entertainers who will surely get your sandals scooting.

Smokin’ Singles Night With the K-Tel Hit Machine

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MON., JULY 24, 2006

All singles events are suspect. Any person/business/organization with a hard-on for playing Yentl probably has an ulterior motive. Know it. Own it. That way, if you should find yourself holding up the wallpaper at the Red Lion Inn cocktail lounge on a Saturday night with 20 or 30 other anxious looking people sporting business casual attire and name tags done up in red sharpie, you can’t claim ignorance. Take a look around you. Is this what it’s come to? Sometimes in your desperation to get laid you only end up fucking yourself. You know better than that. You don’t have to squint to read the signs that say you’re on the road to Squaresville. They’re usually written in bold print: “Singles Night!” And if you find yourself at Cool River, sharing an awkward lunch hour across the table from a cologne-soaked salesman in a Hawaiian print shirt, pleated khaki shorts and sockless loafers, just know that the chirpy ex-stewardess who you paid to set you up with Mr. Cell-phone-on-a-belt-clip maybe doesn’t have your long-term happiness on the top of her to-do list. Maybe the whole premise is jacked. The interesting thing about you isn’t the fact that you’re single and looking to hook up. Your availability is not your defining feature as a human being. If it is, maybe you shouldn’t breed at all. The interesting thing about you is that thing you’re really interested in. It doesn’t need to be much … you don’t have to be curing cancer or saving displaced war orphans. Maybe you do needlepoint, salsa dance, or fix up old cars, or maybe you’re just really fucking nuts about live music. If it’s the latter, then you are in a healthy mental state to attend this Friday’s Smokin’ Singles Night at La Zona Rosa. Yes, Smokin’ Singles Night. Kiss of death? Maybe not. This singles night has a really kickass cover band, the K-Tel Hit Machine that features A-List performers: Trish and Darin Murphy, Johnnie Goudy, Paul English, Mike Belile, Kyle Crusham, and Benjamin Hotchkiss as well as a sensational opening act, Billy Harvey. If you’re the kind of person who can free your inner dork and totally rock out to pop and rock classics from the Seventies and Eighties, this is your show, regardless of your singularity. Plus, it’s sponsored by Lovers Lane. We may be suspect, but we’d never intentionally steer you wrong.

Seven Brides for Seven Brothers

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WED., JULY 19, 2006

Doing a live production of Seven Brides for Seven Brothers in July in Austin is like doing Beach Blanket Bingo in Siberia in December: You gotta have some world-class thespians to sell that kind of incongruity. Flannel is hot enough in the winter, but flannel on the Zilker Hillside Stage in the dead of summer is suicidal masochism, the kind of inexplicable turd in the punch bowl that completely tears down the fourth wall. Fortunately, the hillside is far enough away from the stage (which, to add another stifling hot layer of irony, is painted black, sort of like a huge, Dutch oven) that you probably won’t get drenched during the barn dance scene when the brides and bros start twirling around like human schvitz sprinklers. You’re more likely to see drier wardrobe at a wet T-shirt contest, but certainly not a more spectacular one. Word has it that the costumes in this production are so resplendent that they alone are worth a couple of hours of swelter. As for the performers, who could question the commitment of any actor or actress willing to give so much (measurable empirically, one would imagine, in quarts) to practice their craft? Imagine trying to keep a happy, horny lumberjack smile on your face while your crotch is boiling up some ball soup? Acting like that deserves a Tony … or at the very least a beer bong full of iced Gatorade. Speaking of Gatorade, you should probably bring some yourself. When it comes to outdoor theatre in Austin, hydration is key. The human body is an air- and liquid-cooled engine, and the nice thing about the Zilker Hillside Theatre is that you can bring your own drinks … including hooch as long as you’re not all hillbilly about it. The other nice thing is that the dress code is … well … ”lax” would be an understatement, but suffice it to say that unlike the mountain folk onstage, you could rock anything down to a thong or a plum smuggler and still be mostly legal. And, as ever, it’s always legal to go topless in Austin, but sometimes it isn’t cool to be so cool.

11th Annual Bastille Day Festival

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TUE., JULY 11, 2006

Just because you watched the World Cup finals last Sunday doesn’t necessarily mean you’re a terrorist or a commie or even a foreigner, it only makes you a suspect. That’s OK though, because these days pretty much everyone outside the Oval Office is a suspect, so you’re in good company. Amazing as it may seem, there are some people here in the U.S. who understand and appreciate the game of soccer. Even weirder: a growing number of them are red staters – red not as in “communist” or “menace,” but people from America’s heartland (necks, maybe?) who for some reason want their kids to play a sport that doesn’t demand high doses of steroids, a helmet, or a 42 inch vertical. There is no doubt that soccer’s rise in popularity is a sure sign of the decline of American civilization. Who could defend a sport where America’s best and brightest can get their asses handed to them by a no-name banana republic like Ghana in front of an audience of nearly a billion people? Stuff like that damages America’s rep. Pretty soon all the skinnies will start to thinking that just because we can’t use our feet we can’t point a grenade launcher at a mud hut. What next? The Canadian Army storms across North Dakota? Where does it end? Should we just stencil a big black “WELCOME” across the doormat of America? Fortunately, America has a hero: France. For better than 300 years now, the French have been showing us the way, whether it be the Cartesian dualism of Descartes (Cogito ergo sum) or the irrational symbolism of Zidane, who last Sunday partly revived France’s waning world cup machismo by knocking Italian defender Marco Materazzi flat on his ass with a wicked head butt to the chest. France lost, but what a brilliant display of freedom and independence…albeit the darker side. This weekend at the French Legation The Alliance Française d’Austin will be celebrating French independence with their 11th Annual Bastille Day Festival. The fest features French delicacies, desserts, a silent auction, petanque, and music by Paris 49, an American jazz band with a French twist.

Headbanger’s Call

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WED., JULY 5, 2006

Many people are accused of having head injuries, but only about one in a thousand can legitimately walk the wobbly walk. Just to be safe, however, you probably shouldn’t be too hard on people who act like they’ve been clocked with a two-by-four. People get smacked in the head with two-by-fours and other painful wooden objects all the time: Baseball bats, pool cues, broomsticks, axe handles, tree branches … you get the idea. Fortunately, the skull is amazingly resilient. In fact, many head injuries go unreported – not just because the injured has the wits completely knocked out of them but because getting smacked in the head is a little embarrassing. Think about it. A decent number of the terms used to describe stupid people involve, or at least imply, head injury: knucklehead, blockhead, bonehead, knothead, numbskull … and you don’t want to be any of those (unless you’re into huffing nitrous, which will make you all of the above … and giggly). Even if you’re not doing nitrous it seems like it should be simple enough to keep your noggin out of harm’s way, but we live in a dynamic universe where objects hurtle toward each other at breathtaking speeds. Every once in a while those objects collide, and occasionally one or more of those objects is a skull, a human skull. Snap, crackle, pop … or, as Homer Simpson is always saying, “Doh!” You could probably shave off some probability by wearing a helmet, but unless you’re piloting some sort of vehicle or drinking beer from them, helmets are a little passé. Then again, you might be the kind of person with enough juice to become the new messiah of protective headgear. If so, hallelujah! Otherwise, you might do well to kick a few bucks toward this Saturday’s Headbanger’s Call, a roots-rock show benefiting the Brain Injury Association of Texas. For $5 you get to see the Junglerockers, the Thunderchiefs, Bloody Tears, and Two Hoots & a Holler. That’s a buttload of ear spank for a fin, not to mention you’ll be racking up some karmic brownie points for the next time you lean a little too far over the plate.

The Heart of Texas Red White & Blues Festival

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WED., JUNE 28, 2006

If you’re lucky, Friday begins a five-day weekend. That’s a mess of slack time for the average American. Unlike our 35-hours-a-week French counterparts, Americans get antsy when we don’t have anything to do. We’re not especially good at leisure time. We tend to work even when we’re not working. This Fourth of July, millions of red-blooded Americans will spend hours toiling over a hot grill – making barbecue they’ll wolf down in a few minutes. You can’t really blame them. Properly masticating meat is a lot of work. When was the last time you chewed your meat 40 times? In fact, when was the last time you did anything 40 times … unless you were at work? If you’re like most Americans, you’ll probably bounce it off your molars for a couple of seconds then wash it down with a light beer … all the while screaming at your kids to quit trying to put ladyfingers up the cat’s butt. The result is that your intestines look a lot like the sausage you’re grilling. Hey, nobody said freedom and democracy was going to be pretty. In fact, it could be argued that freedom itself is a cruel farce perpetrated on us by the French … or at least in part by their philosophers. The reality for most Americans is a lifetime of toil, both paid and un, punctuated by intermittent stretches of freedom, which the French call “liberté” (only because they have the free time to enunciate the extra syllable and put the stress mark above the “e”). Americans might as well call freedom “sleep,” because that’s about the only time we get any. In waking life we’re always working for the man or paying the man or both. It’s enough to give you the blues, but sometimes you even have to pay for the blues, like this weekend down at Waterloo Park when Nuno’s on Sixth presents the Heart of Texas Red White & Blues Festival. For $24 you get acts like Big Head Todd, Charlie Sexton, Bob Schneider, Hubert Sumlin, and G.E. Smith of Saturday Night Live. It ain’t free, but in America, what is?

Viva Las Vegas

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WED., JUNE 21, 2006

It’s been said that the lottery is a tax on people who are bad at math. True enough. Problem is, some people just feel lucky. Actually, judging by the success of the lottery, a lot of people feel lucky, which is part of the reason so many of them are walking around with sexually transmitted diseases. They clearly didn’t do the math. They didn’t realize that Lucky can be a double-edged sword. Sometimes it’s a pink sword that’s sored. As Shakespeare would say, “There’s the rub” – and he didn’t mean that in a good way. So it could also be said that STDs are also a tax on people who are bad at math. Sometimes when it feels like you’re getting lucky, you’re getting something else entirely: herpes, gonorrhea, syphilis, chlamydia, HPV, HIV – a whole writhing petri dish of microbiological malady. The seedy truth is that when we’re bumping uglies, we’re not the only life forms invited to the party. It’s a huge bummer when you think about it, but pretty much any time you start waving that thing around, you’re rolling the dice. Depressed yet? Here’s something that’ll keep your fabulous fluff from turning into a wrinkly turtleneck: Thanks to modern medicine, contraceptives and education, the odds are still in your favor. It’s unlikely that you’re going to die from having sex. Unlikely. You’re still gambling though, but not all gambling is bad. For instance: This weekend at the Austin Music Hall, AIDS Services of Austin presents its 13th annual Viva Las Vegas fundraiser, a faux gaming themed party featuring gambling, food, drinks, and dancing. Just because it’s the 13th annual doesn’t mean somebody’s not going to get lucky. In fact a lot of people will get lucky from the proceeds of this event, which helps fund ASA as well as their Capital Area AIDS Legal Project, which helps provide free legal assistance to Central Texans living with HIV and AIDS.

Now I’m 64: Paul McCartney’s Birthday Sing-Along

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TUE., JUNE 13, 200

Back in 1968 at the age of 28 John Lennon said, “Never trust anyone over 30.” He was killed 12 years later by a 25 year old. That doesn’t necessarily make Lennon wrong; it just makes the statement ironic. People under 30 are still developing their sense of irony and haven’t yet learned to avoid bold, declarative statements like “The Earth is flat,” “God is dead,” or “Mission accomplished.” They haven’t been around long enough for life to sneak up and yank down their trousers. Back in the Sixties, Paul McCartney worried (maybe fretted?), “Will you still need me, will you still feed me, when I’m 64?” Smart move going with the interrogatory. A question is never wrong, it’s just a question. Apparently, the answer to Paul’s question is “yes” and “yes.” Paul turns 64 this Sunday, and with a net worth of somewhere around $1.5 billion, Paul can buy all the needers and feeders his heart desires. He can also buy his needers and feeders needers and feeders … and so on … a huge, writhing orgy of needing and feeding. When Sir Paul wrote the song he expected to spend his 60s rocking on a porch at the old-folks home rather than actually rocking, but with 1.5 bil in his knickers he should expect to rock it well past the century mark. That means he’s got at least two or three Superbowl halftime shows left in him. This Father’s Day, in an ironic kickoff to Juneteenth, the Alamo Downtown is hosting Now I’m 64: Paul McCartney’s Birthday Sing-Along. The Alamo’s own Henri Mazza and Owen Edgerton will lead the audience in a sing-along/tribute featuring “the greatest Beatles videos of all time.” If your pops is still sentient, there’s a good chance he’s a Beatles fan, so why not show him you still need him and feed him too?

Texas Pride Festival

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WED., JUNE 7, 2006

This week George W. Bush outed himself…as being against gay marriage. It’s not like he had a big gay fan base anyway. Even Log Cabin Republicans are wishing their log cabins had closets these days. With Bush’s approval rating hovering somewhere around thirty percent, Republican strategists took aim below the Bible belt, sucking up to the remaining wild-eyed Christian fundamentalists who are actually euphoric that Dubya’s foreign and domestic policies have put us on the fast track to Armageddon. Smart move too, because it’s becoming increasingly apparent that the God speaking to Bush is the fire and brimstone model from the Old Testament, and we all know how that ends. Like the OTG, Bush isn’t opposed to using flashy theatrics like fire and brimstone every now and then (aka “shock and awe”) to get his point across, but with budgetary concerns and an increasingly intractable Congress, he decided to go with a grand but empty gesture: An Amendment Banning Gay Marriage. Like his failed campaign to rid Iraq of WMD’s that didn’t exist, Bush took a last ditch shot at persecuting gays in the name of protecting families from a threat that doesn’t exist. If Bush really wanted to protect American families, he would get the sons and daughters and mothers and fathers of those families out of Iraq. Here at home, the “threat to American families” is having a big festival down at Waterloo Park on Saturday. Gays from all over Austin and Texas will be celebrating, among other things, their unique contribution to society. The park will be filled with booths from clubs, organizations, businesses, and artists who support the gay community. You can also expect the obligatory music, booze, and food. Bands include: Lisa Richards, Lisa Rogers, Kit Holmes, Flamin’ Desire, Omar Lopez, The Gadget White Band, and Daniel Link. Feel free to bring the family because no marriages are scheduled during the festival.

Gynomite “Breaking the Cherry” spoken word performance

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WED., MAY 31, 2006

Porn isn’t for everyone, but apparently it does the trick (if only temporarily) for millions of people across the globe. If you believe what you read on the Internet (on those rare occasions when you’re not surfing porn), the gross revenues of the porn industry worldwide are somewhere around $57 billion per year, $12 billion in the U.S. alone. That’s more than the combined revenues of all professional football, baseball, and basketball franchises. Clearly ballin’ is big business, and, as it turns out, the most popular ballin’ doesn’t require a uniform or a lot of equipment (unless you’re into that kind of thing). Sports are fun to watch, but they lack a crucial element: interactivity. It’s exciting watching the players on the TV score, but with porn you can score on the players on the TV … you just might want to keep a box of Kleenex handy to wipe off the screen. Interactivity is important, but it’s not the only reason more than 72 million people per year visit porn Web sites. Convenience is a big factor too. Having to get out of the easy chair and drive down to the dingy XXX video store to rent “Slutty Soccer Moms” can ruin anyone’s fluff, but Googling same on a laptop brings up a dizzying pornucopia of onanistic opportunity. Blame it on societal repression, animalistic imperative, or the impending arrival of the apocalypse, but statistics show that more and more people are into porn, and increasingly those people are women. Nearly 30% of visitors to adult Web sites are women, even though they’re less likely to admit it. This Tuesday, feminist porn writer Liz Belile helps bring some of those women out of the closet by showcasing their work from her Gynomite “Breaking the Cherry” erotica writing and performance workshop. First-time gynoeroticists will read their best porn pieces in front of anyone willing to fork over a 10-spot, but it’s not about the money.

BOBaritaville

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WED., MAY 24, 2006

While all the smelly hippies are off at Kerrville listening to folk, smoking dope, making mud pies, and carousing in communal squalor, local not-so-oldies station BOBFM is taking advantage of the extra elbow room by hosting a margarita contest down at Waterloo Park, called BOBaritaville. If you haven’t tuned into BOB, it’s sort of the antithesis of, say, KOOP. BOBFM plays pop hits from every generation that isn’t in a nursing home or dead, whereas KOOP generally plays obscure music from all generations living and dead – along with a culturally diverse hodgepodge of arcane commentary, nerdy nattering, and political polemic, the kind of stuff that occasionally makes you squirm in your seat. BOBFM on the other hand, makes you squirm in your seat, but only because you want to snap your fingers and BOB your head, especially if you’re 25-54 and dance with an overbite. Hey, there’s no shame in embracing the safe and familiar. McDonald’s didn’t serve over 4 billion orders of Moo Goo Gai Pan, did they? Of course not, and it’s a good bet that most people with a decent credit rating prefer “Come on Eileen” over Tuvan throat singing, which, in turn, explains why BOBaritaville’s music lineup features three cover bands: Bakin’ Brownies, the Mark Chandler Band, and LC Rocks. It should be a fun day of drinking and dancing, but if Saturday’s winning margarita leans a little towards the bland and inoffensive, don’t be indignant: It’s what the people want. Just be happy that there are nearly 20 other bars and restaurants serving up margs that may have a little more funk. There should also be plenty of food on hand too, so lay down a base before you start drinking. That way you’re less likely to pass out and end up in a picture on some Web site somewhere with a penis scrawled on your head with magic marker.

Strings Attached Performance of the White Album

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THU., MAY 18, 2006

If you’re not already sick of the Beatles, pay attention. You’ll get your chance. Sooner or later you’re going to hear “Love Me Do” or “Yesterday” or “Let It Be” for the millionth time and you’re going to snap. You’re going to completely lose your shit and blaspheme the most sacred pop cultural icons of the last half-century. Unfuckingcool. Disrespecting the Beatles is a sacrilege equivalent to wiping your ass with the Shroud of Turin. Even your closest friends will turn on you like a pack of hyenas. Regardless of how correct your assertion that the Beatles’ catalog has been beaten like a dead horse, pounded into a veritable grease spot by every oldies station, department store, choir teacher, and wedding band in the Western Hemisphere, you will be treated like a pariah for mentioning it. God forbid you should blurt out something similarly salient like the fact that “goo goo goo joob” makes no fucking sense. Hey, if Jesus could speak in tongues, then surely the Beatles can sing in gibberish, right? After all, they’re bigger than He is, and that’s the point really. No one in their right mind would argue that the Beatles (or Jesus for that matter) aren’t good. They’re damned good (not Jesus; Jesus is blessed good), but it may be possible to have too much of a good thing. For instance: BMI estimates that “Yesterday” has been recorded more than 3000 times and played more than 7 million. Is it time to scream, ”Enough!?” For an astounding number of people, the answer is, “Never,” which is why more than 20 Austin musicians will be going to the University Baptist Church this Friday to help Will Taylor and Strings Attached perform the entirety of the Beatles’ White Album. This certainly isn’t the first take on the material, but it should prove to be an interesting and uniquely local one. You might even meet a Beatles fan or 200.

aGLIFF’s fifth annual Mommie Dearest Roast

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THU., MAY 11, 2006

Mothers. Everybody’s got one. Prerequisite to most peoples’ appearance on planet Earth is a gory luge ride down the vaginal slip-n-slide. To be sure there are those who, like Caesar, emerged from an ad hoc tummy twat in a scene reminiscent of the prison break in Raising Arizona, but the rest of us begin life owing a huge debt to our mother: The kind of fee you might charge someone for passing a bowling ball through your large intestine and out your anus; the kind of fee you would demand up front and then realize too late that you grossly underestimated the cost. So if your mother squirts you out, kicks you to the curb, and runs off to Vegas with the anesthesiologist, you’re still into her for at least a plaster preschool hand print and … oh … maybe a tricked-out Hummer with spinning rims. If she sticks around, you’re really in the red. Before you can even latch onto her teat, you’ll owe her dearly for things like stretch marks, saggy boobs, body fat, belly-button damage, and torn taint. Torn taint? That’s pretty much a beach house in Malibu right there. If she shepherds you through infancy, you’re looking at some pretty steep emotional charges for sleep loss, sore nipples, backaches, ass wiping, projectile vomit cleanup, and decimation of social life. By the time you can coo the word “mama,” you’re already beyond hope of repayment, but, just as a sadistic exercise in existential overkill, mama gets a minimum of 16 more years of indentured servitude followed by a lifetime of nerve-wracking worry. You’ll never pay her back, but that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t pop for a card or some flowers or maybe even dinner. One of the best places to have dinner with your mom is the Alamo Drafthouse. It takes the focus off of you. This Sunday take mom to the Alamo Downtown for aGLIFF’s fifth annual Mommie Dearest Roast. Free wire hangers, a costume contest, and rant-along subtitles. Maybe mommy finally will get some payback.

Whip In 20th Anniversary Party

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THU., MAY 4, 2006

At the very, very least, relaxing immigration will broaden and deepen the dating pool … so thumbs up, right? So thought the Wampanoag Nation until they found out that Pilgrims didn’t put out. Not only that, but Pilgrims were pretty much useless at anything except freestyle theology and moral condemnation. Either the Wampanoags were greatly impressed with firearms or just plain sick and tired of staring at each other across the campfire and wanted some company…probably the latter. To add injury to insult, the Wampanoags got diseases and Jesus without the benefit of a reach-around. The lesson to be learned is that Americans, native and non-, are rightly suspicious of immigrants who refuse to assimilate into the existing culture. Sure they bring alcohol, firearms, and funny hats, but they also shoot up all your buffalo and steal your land. Thanks, but no thanks. Things might have been different had the Pilgrims been less stuck up. Maybe they could have offered to translate the Wampanoag National Anthem into English, or cleaned the longhouse, or maybe took a turn or two on the leaf blower, who knows? The point is that ever since the immigrant Europeans exterminated and subjugated all the Native Americans, immigration has turned out to be a good thing in America. Why stop now? America is a mutt, not a wimpering, anemic purebred. We should celebrate the fact that our flavor is in the mix. This Sunday, you can celebrate it with the Topiwala family, owners of Travis Heights’ famous Whip In convenience store. For 20 years these Indians have been selling alcohol to the white man, and they’re celebrating it at the Continental Club with a multiethnic extravaganza that includes bands like Rumbullion, Combo Mahalo, James McMurtry, Heybale!, and the Texas Sapphires, among others. Don’t be stuck up. Whip in.

Eeyore’s 43rd Annual Birthday Party

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THU., APRIL 27, 2006

Here’s an activity that’s not on the schedule out at Circle C: Eeyore’s Birthday Party – not that they don’t appreciate Pooh in the C, surely they do. It’s just unlikely that folks out in the ‘burbs would pay homage to a down-in-the-dumps donkey who mopes around like he just swallowed a shit sandwich. They’re more likely to be on the Tigger bandwagon: The bouncy, dimwitted, overly optimistic, dangerously oblivious, well-meaning closet cokehead who always leaves a trail of destruction in his wake. Tigger may seem like a cheap-shot personification of Prez George the Second, but it’s unlikely A.A. Milne had that kind of foresight. The safer bet is that Tigger is a personification of a whole bundle of American traits that Europeans find both lovable and obnoxious – first and foremost our egotism. The wonderful thing about Tigger is that he’s the only one! The same could be said, of course, about Eeyore. The only thing worse than an egotistical, overbearing, thick-headed cheerleader is a black hole of pessimism, depression, and self-loathing like Eeyore. Imagine a whole Circle C full of Eeyores: Time to whip up a big batch of Reverend Jim’s Jonestown party punch. So why Eeyore? Who knows? But it has something to do with hippies – dirty-footed, face-painting, costume-wearing, drum-circling, pot- and patchouli-scented hippies that swarm Pease Park like sugar ants on a lemon drop; hot, sweaty hippie chicks in halter tops; tattooed trustafarians; old, bald hippies percolating Pease porridge in the bottoms of their banana hammocks; dust, feathers, dogs, beer, breasts, butt bags, tie dye, Thai Stick, skin, sunscreen, stilt walkers, crossdressers, jugglers, maypoles, music, and motherfucking mayhem – all free, all day Saturday. If you’re really concerned about Austin’s waning weirdness, you might want to check this deal out before you buy your bumpersticker.

Hell’s Belles with the Addictions

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THU., APRIL 20, 2006

Whether you know it or not, every once in a while you need to rock. That’s right, just like getting your teeth cleaned, your eyes checked, your pap smeared, or your colon scoped, it is essential that you occasionally attend a fist-pumping, hair-throwing rock show, the kind of ear-spanking, cheek-flapping, insanely high SPL hell that flattens the foam in your earplugs, recedes your hairline, and leaves you with a minor heart arrhythmia. It’s not enough to put the Strokes in light rotation in your iTunes. It’s not enough to finger your white iPod’s areola until the volume indicator is a solid blue bar…so high that the neurotic bitch in the next cubicle is driven into a blind fury by irritating ssss ssss ssss from your earbuds. The sad truth is that you can crank those earbuds until your tympanic membranes rupture and bleed, until your white collar of corporate conformity is stained with the red badge of rock & roll rebellion, but it will still never equal the chest-crushing thump of an 18” subwoofer beating you into spiritual submission. You’ll never achieve a truly transformational level of emotional catharsis through a pair of tiny white wires. You need the kind of overwhelming auditory experience that purges your anxieties and fills you with the hot white glow of sensory overload – at least every once in a while. So where can you get that kind of experience this weekend? Antone’s. Saturday night all-girl AC/DC tribute band Hell’s Belles will channel Angus, Malcolm, Cliff, Phil, Bon, and Brian in a retrospective of the Australian supergroup’s legendary career. Big balls? Maybe not, but you can expect a respectable cover thereof. Joining the Belles will be Austin rockers the Addictions and the Quick and the Dead, both of whom feature their own energetic female singers. For those about to rock…without a cock… we salute you!

13th Annual Austin Reggae Festival

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THU., APRIL 13, 2006

Easter: The Sybil of holidays. Do you celebrate the pastel color-schemed ode to the ovum, the fuzzy chicked, furry bunnied festival of rebirth? Or, do you observe the more macabre offering of the resurrection of Christ, which happily though it may end, is a gauntlet so bloody and violent that it just barely makes eternal life look like a decent payoff. Props to the Romans for bringing a savagely deranged creativity to capital punishment that has yet to be equaled on so large a scale. Given the choice, it’s no wonder most people paint eggs. Imagine rolling down the Easter aisle at HEB filling up your Easter basket with crowns of thorns, scourges, and crucifixion nails – sounds like the kind of holiday you might conveniently forget one year and then never … uh … resurrect. Fortunately, the early Christians were smart enough not to throw out the baby with the bathwater. They hitched their Debbie Downer of a resurrection holiday to an ancient pagan festival called Eastre, which celebrated the return of spring. Thus, a perfectly understandable springtime celebration became the confusing, mixed up mutant of a holiday that it is today. So how should you celebrate Easter? Well, if you’re too old to get excited about collecting pastel-painted eggs, you might want to change your color scheme to something a little more irie, say red, green, and yellow for instance. Those colors should be in relative abundance down at Auditorium Shores this weekend for the 13th Annual Austin Reggae Festival. Formerly known as the “Bob Marley Festival,” the Austin Reggae Festival features reggae music from both local and national acts as well food, ethic crafts, drum circles, and the occasional unsanctioned waft of ganja smoke, without which a reggae festival can’t be officially festive.

Urban Music Festival

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THU., APRIL 6, 2006

Austin needs another music festival about as much as Dallas needs another chain restaurant; as much as Houston needs another refinery; as much as San Antonio needs another pro sports arena. We sure don’t need another music festival, but that doesn’t mean we can’t or won’t support one. Austinites are huge chumps for anyone with the wherewithal to rent some park space and erect some stage scaffolding. It doesn’t matter that the headlining act is the musical equivalent of Gary Coleman/Danny Bonaduce/Jamie Farr and the openers sideline in Chapman Motor ads; it’s really more about giving the cultural hoi polloi a few hundred square yards of dusty terra to work their stuff – ideally shirtless or halter-topped, glistening with a bronze patina of sweat, sunblock, and pulverized caliche; clutching the warm, backwash remains of a light beer, and ripping off a deafening two-finger whistle whenever the guitarist goes into one of those masturbatory diddly-diddly riffs. Who says the only talent is on the stage? Still, if you’re one of those rare Austinites who hasn’t experienced the sublime catharsis of music fandom, maybe Austin hasn’t been playing your tune. This weekend the tune will get a little funkier – not just because the Texas Relays will be bringing more than 40,000 African-Americans to Austin from all across the state and nation, but because in conjunction with them, Austin will host its first-ever Urban Music Festival, an outdoor concert at Auditorium Shores featuring Chaka Khan, Ray Parker Jr., Michael Henderson, members of Parliament Funkadelic and the Brothers Johnson, rapper/singer/actor/BET host Ray J, and comedian Joe Torry, as well as local artists like Blue Mist, Bavu Blakes, Les and the Funk Mob, Nook, and All U Need. Rest assured that if the Relays don’t keep you busy, the UMF will.

Joe Nichols At Rodeo Austin

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THU., MARCH 30, 2006

News flash for the CMT crowd: Lil’ Bow Wow is no longer Lil’, he’s just Bow Wow. Woof! He’s all growed up. Doesn’t matter. You missed him anyway. He blew up the Tuesday headliner spot this week at Rodeo Austin, aka.the Star of Texas Rodeo. Nice change. Rodeo Austin feels homier … plus they knocked five whole syllables off the name. Nobody hates syllables more than cowboys. Cowboys, like cavemen, are notoriously conservative with syllables. Maybe it’s because they talk slowly and don’t want to spend all day flapping their yaps. Rappers, on the other hand, are all about the syllables. The more the merrier. Sometimes they use so many syllables they run out of words and have to freestyle with syllables alone … sort of like Mel Tillis without the music. So kudos then, to Rodeo Austin for extending a hand across the cultural chasm and pulling Bow Wow a little closer to the cowboy way. Of course, Rodeo Austin isn’t the first to tap into the goldmine of cross-cultural marketing; it’s been working for NASCAR too. For some time now they’ve been successfully pimping motorsports to urbanites in the Northeast – people who still think Copenhagen is the Capital of Denmark. Maybe this is what Clinton was talking about when he said we need to expand the definition of “us.” Great idea. With the success of Brokeback Mountain, a natural next step would be “Rainbow Rodeo” night. Really, what’s a few more dudes in tight Wranglers? Speaking of dudes in tight jeans, this Friday country heartthrob Joe Nichols brings plays the rodeo’s arena stage. You might know Joe from hit songs like “Size Matters” and “Tequila Makes Her Clothes Fall Off.” If you don’t, you’re probably not into country music, but you might be into a guy who looks like Matt Dillon’s hotter younger brother.

Southpaw Jones’ First Annual 29th Birthday & CD Release

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THU., MARCH 23, 2006

Here’s a dirty, filthy, shameful little secret: Austin is lousy with poets – not the free-versing, in your face, theatrically emotive, gangsta-gesticulating slam poets. They’ve already outed themselves. They’re upfront about their embarrassing little literary obsession. No, more insidious and pervasive are the poets who attempt to deny the intrinsic dorkiness of their craft by disguising it as something cooler: music. They call themselves songwriters. It’s no wonder. Historically, poets don’t get much for their efforts except poverty and misery. You can bet your ass that America’s current Poet Laureate, Ted Kooser, doesn’t have iced-out bling and a sick crib with a boom boom room like Big Boi from OutKast. More than likely he’s shivering in a mud hut on the windswept plains of Nebraska scrawling arthritic elegies to rusty, abandoned farm equipment, hoping his Pulitzer pays for a few more months of precious propane. That’s, as Sinatra sang, the “top of the heap” of the poetic world, and he probably can’t even afford Bono’s deli tray. It’s no surprise then that songwriters are notoriously cagey about owning up to being word geeks, but they are – word geeks in the worst way. While the rest of the literary world abandoned rhymed verse about a century ago, songwriters keep hammering it out ad nauseam. For a lot of songwriters, music is the lipstick on the pig of shamelessly bad poetry, but occasionally you find a songwriter who is a brilliant synthesis of musician and word geek, who within the strict framework of structured verse and musical meter manages to transcend both. Southpaw Jones is one of those songwriters, and he is celebrating his First Annual 29th Birthday tonight at the Cactus Cafe with Erin Condo, the Ginn Sisters, Spike Gillespie, Jon Greene, Matt the Electrician, Seela, Bill Passalaqua, and others. Poets? Songwriters? You decide.

SXSW Free Concert with Spoon & Echo & the Bunnymen

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THU., MARCH 16, 2006

You may not feel it yet, but it’s on. You might be tooling around Pflugerville in your honeydipper truck, hoovering up porta-potty turds and listening to Tom Petty 8-tracks, but down here in the bowels of the city, the SXSW shit has hit the fans. There’s music all over the goddamned place: Sidewalks, trailers, parking lots, back yards, restaurants, coffee shops … it’s only a matter of time before some earnest group of aspiring musicians starts serenading badge-holders in the Hilton crapper … talk about a captive audience … plus the great acoustics. Peers will get to hear condensed radio tracks, and pooers will get the extended club mixes. On the way out the door, lucky listeners will receive breath mints with the band’s logo, a shot of cologne, and a press kit. “Have a nice day Mr. Mottola, and don’t forget the Crotch Rockets’ unofficial showcase 9:30am Sunday morning at the Jiffy Lube on Ben White. They’re totally gonna ROCK, plus you get 15% off your oil change.” Yes, it’s Springtime in Austin, and music is in the air. Well, music and the smell of nervous sweat and desperation. Nowhere else in the world are so many people trying so hard to be loved and trying so hard not to show it. No doubt SXSW is a depraved scene, but anytime art and commerce engage in such a shameless clusterfuck, there’s bound to be a little ugliness. The beauty of it all is that ultimately, music lovers still get the most out of SXSW. Yes, the badge-holders pretty much have the run of the place, but there’s more than enough musical spillover to keep everyone happy. For instance, tonight at Auditorium Shores, SXSW throws a bone to the badgeless with a free concert featuring Mr. Lif, Blackalicious, Music Awards sweepers Spoon, and Eighties post-punkers Echo & the Bunnymen. If these four acts ever share the same stage again, it won’t be on this earth.

SXSW Film Screening of Darkon

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WED., MARCH 8, 2006

You might want to layer up, it’s about to get cool. That’s right, the glamour train of SXSW 2006 arrives this Friday as thousands of unrepentant hipsters from all over the world descend on Austin to revel in our “realness.” Sure, the pressure of having to be real all the time is a bit intimidating. Every once in a while you want to just relax and be fake; slip into the comfortable persona of someone you’re not, but during SXSW your realness has to be on 24/7, so look sharp. Wait a minute … scratch that. You may want to go with something a little grubbier – not some sort of pretentious, faux-skanky alt-rocker look, but a genuinely wack, just-rolled-out-of-bed-and-going-to-get-coffee-and-breakfast-tacos look. Don’t put too much effort into it, but try something frumpy like Old Navy jammy bottoms (ideally with a wildlife theme and an improvised ventilation hole in the gluteal region) fuzzy socks from Target, a pair of bright purple Crocs and a beer-stained T-shirt that says “Kiss Me I’m Irish.” Feel free to improvise, but what you’re aiming for is the kind of postcard-back-to-Monaco “realness” that causes trendy types to convulse in envy; the kind of “realness” that has them scrambling for their Blackberries so they can text-message their PAs about the local fauna. Also, remember to smile and say “thanks,” and hold the door open. Force yourself to be a decent human being. That way, Austin will seem so “real” it’s almost “unreal” … sort of like a reality themepark. If by Saturday, you’re overdosing on reality, you can heal yourself at the Austin Convention Center by attending the 6:45pm SXSW screening of Darkon, a documentary about a full-contact medieval fantasy war-gaming group that has been escaping reality in the Baltimore/Washington, D.C. area since 1985. Eight dollars gets you in unless the badge-holders overrun the place, which is a real possibility, so bring a sense of irony.

Ain’t Misbehavin’ Reunion Show

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WED., MARCH 1, 2006

“What happens to a dream deferred? Does it dry up like a raisin in the sun?” It’s impossible to know for sure, but when Langston Hughes penned the preceding lines, he probably wasn’t talking about aging musicians. Surely he had heavier shit to deal with. Nonetheless, regardless of his intentions, Hughes pretty much nailed it. Somewhere along the line the aging musician realizes that he no longer sounds like a California Raisin, he actually looks like one. Growing older isn’t easy for anyone, but it’s especially hard on the narcissistic. Do you think Mick Jagger likes it when the groupies tell him to leave his leather pants on because they’re the only smooth skin on his body? That has to be a sock in the groin. Seriously … regardless of how much Viagra he’s taking. Sadly for most geezerockers, all the hoary hair throwing and the arthritically gnarled devil horns are just a pro forma paean to the glory days. They aren’t expecting to be swarmed by a backstage bevy of post-menopausal hot flashers. They’ve opened up their catalogue of motivations to a brand new page – the one without the lingerie models. The cold hard truth of the music biz is that if you qualify for an AARP card, it’s freakishly unlikely you’re going to blow up and hit the big time. Either you’re already there or you’re doing it purely for love, and love is where all the truly good stuff comes from. Well, love and Maui. Besides, just because the baby boomers are wearing a different type of diaper these days doesn’t mean their chops have gone to shit. Most can tear it up better now than they did when they were dazed and confused. For instance, this Saturday at Antone’s, Austin jazz/bebop/doo-wop band Ain’t Misbehavin’ plays its third reunion show since the band broke up in 1979. Twenty-seven years is a lot of down time, but they’ve been busy polishing their five-part harmonies, mastering their instruments, and putting together a show that would impress Fats himself.

Asylum Street Spankers DVD Release Party

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TUE., FEB. 21, 2006

Although it can safely be said that not all progress equals improvement, generally, over time, society as a whole walks toward the light. We may in the end find that the light we’re walking toward is the glowing fires of hell – or more likely that extra bright patch of sky where the ozone used to be, but at least we’ll have the comfort of knowing that our hearts were in the right place. Faced with the prospect of an uncertain future, many people pine for the road already taken. They look back fondly on the simpler days of yore, especially those who didn’t have to live in them. Their understanding of yore is more conceptual than visceral – which may explain certain unpleasant fashion trends: Trucker hats, leg warmers, low-rise jeans, nearly anything involving rabbit fur or spandex. As the poet George Santayana once said, “Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it.” Well spoken…but there are times when we must repeat the past in order to remember it. Think about it: Renaissance faires, Civil War re-enactments, Star Trek conventions, roller derbies…and there’s a lot of good stuff too: The Asylum Street Spankers for instance. The Spankers are so old timey they don’t even use microphones. They’re so old timey they don’t even plug in their instruments. They’re so old timey one of them probably has typhoid, but rest assured they all have balls – at least metaphorically, because that’s what it takes to bring it without the juice. Saturday night they’ve invited back a group of former member like Guy Forsyth and Mysterious John to help celebrate the release of their new DVD. Matt the Electrician opens. Bring some cash and a sense of irony.

Lucky Tomblin CD Release

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FRI., FEB. 17, 2006

Last weekend Vice President “Deadeye Dick” Cheney went “Final Fantasy” and declared open season on lawyers. Apparently the V.P. is among those who believe that lawyers, like quail, are an intolerable nuisance that must be flushed out and exterminated with extreme prejudice. Cheney’s birdshot facial of Austin attorney Harry Whittington (a.k.a. “that wascuhwy Hehwy Whittington”) brilliantly underscores the unholy communion of impunity and incompetence in the current administration. After five years of bungling, idiotic governance, the only thing the White House has produced in abundance is irony. This latest example is just a drop in the bucket. As any lawyer worth his salt will tell you, the second amendment isn’t about protecting yourself from thieves, murderers, or even vicious, marauding game birds, it’s about protecting yourself from the government, which in this case is literally a grumpy old codger with a bum ticker (or maybe it’s just too cold?) and an itchy trigger finger. It’s enough to make you join the N.R.A., and even though Whittington is no spring chicken, the fact that he doesn’t buy green bananas is no excuse to move him to the front of the line. There are plenty of more deserving lawyers who could have walked point for the V.P. – Condi Rice for instance – but instead Cheney chose to pick on the old dude. Before ol’ Deadeye mows them all down, you might want to head to the Broken Spoke Friday to check out local lawyer Lucky Tomblin, who will be celebrating the release of his latest CD with an all-star band of country musicians that includes Redd Volkaert, Cindy Cashdollar, Earl Poole Ball, and Sarah Brown. Lucky is right. Lucky he’s not quail hunting with the V.P.

Nuts and Bolts Valentine’s Party

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SAT., FEB. 11, 2006

Tuesday is Valentine’s Day. For single people in the workplace – at least those in a mixed-gender environment – it’s also known as “Awkward Moments Day,” that harrowing eight-hour gauntlet when iPods are worn like garlic necklaces, when diabetic bracelets are flashed like gangsta bling, when the hot receptionist gives the phone-call-stiff-arm Heisman pose all day. Be Mine? Talk to the hand. Here’s the bad news, Sparky: If you’re waiting around until Valentine’s to bust a move, your Love Boat is already sunk. Invest in a blowup doll. Macking on V-Day is about as hopeless as flashing that split-fingered, tongue-flicking cunnilingus sign favored by ogling construction workers and shirtless guys in Camaros. You might as well scrawl a big “L” on your forehead with a red Sharpie. You might as well wear your cell phone on a belt clip, eat Limburger and pickled herring for lunch, and remove your earwax with your car keys. Maybe you’re confused about Valentine’s Day. Understandable. You’ve been getting mixed messages: Hearts, cupids, roses, chocolates, beanie babies, pink, red … forget that shit. V-Day is for closing the deal, not initiating the transaction. If you’re single, you should avoid it like bird flu. Hunker down, order one of those Cheesy Bites pizzas, and resolve to be the dog that hits the track early next year. Of course, if you’re one of those impatient types and want your bunny now, there’s at least one last hope: This Saturday Fadó is hosting a “Nuts and Bolts” Valentine’s party. The idea is that all the men at the party get bolts and all the women get nuts. Then everyone walks around trying to get screwed. Sound crass? Maybe, but it’s much too late for subtle metaphor. If you don’t hook up you can still claim you got screwed

Fronterafest Short Fringe Best of the Week

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SAT., JAN. 28, 2006

It would be a serious chain yank to tell you that you’re going to love everything you see at the Best of the Week FronteraFest show Saturday night at the Hyde Park Theatre. There will be ugliness. There will be a few gaffes, bloopers, and outtakes. There will be quiet, awkward moments when the dramatic ball is dropped, when you feel a vicarious blossom of sweat tickle your philtrim, when the fidgety creak of chairs and muffled coughs provide the only auditory signals that a performance is taking place. Hey, this ain’t 42nd and Broadway, it’s 43rd and Guadalupe. The neighborhood may seem safer, but it isn’t – at least not artistically. FronteraFest is the cutting edge of experimental theatre, and when you’re on the cutting edge, you have to expect a little abrasion. So if the avant garde doesn’t flip your switch, or if you’re not even sure what avant garde is, this may not be your festival. You may want to hold out for Winedale. If however, you don’t mind a little schmutz on your Technicolor Dream Coat or more to the point, if your dream coat is sort of a patchy, rabbit fur jacket kind of affair, you should feel right at home. If you’re on the fence, it should comfort you somewhat to know that Saturday’s Best of the Week show is the crème de la crème of this week’s Short Fringe, so even if it seems really atrocious, you may rejoice in knowing that some unlucky sap had to sit through something even worse earlier in the week. That ought to turn your frown upside down.

Silver Thistle Pipes and Drums’ Burns Supper

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SAT., JAN. 21, 2006

When was the last time you stared into the dark, gaping maw of your own mortality? Maybe it was that time you had a few too many rum drinks at Louie’s Backyard in South Padre and nearly lost your drunken brawl with the undertow? How about that pocket of wicked turbulence over the Rockies on the redeye back from Vegas? Both browned your knickers quite nicely, no doubt, but the face of death you can’t shake belonged to the leathery skinned, blue haired lounge lizard giving you the skunk eye from across the $3 blackjack table at Binion’s Horseshoe: Liver spots, smoker’s cough, wheezing, watery-eyed cackle, vintage 1970s polyester leisure suit offering up a pungent olfactory memoir of every soaked-up scent of the last 30 years. While you were out doing the dew he was already dewing the done. In your mind you see him willfully plunging into the abyss with roughly 40 years of belay rope strung between you. Eventually that slack will play out and you’ll be yanked down with him. Scary ain’t it? Old folks are so scary and they don’t even know it. They dig old timey music like the Stones, the Beatles, and the Eagles, wear black leather jackets and Hawaiian shirts, and drive PT Cruisers and Harleys. They’re also really hard drinkers and relentless raconteurs: fun to hang out with as long as you’re not doing anything aerobic. This Saturday at the Senior Activity Center on Shoal Crest (that’s not a typo), you can chill with the Q-tips at the Silver Thistle Pipes and Drums’ Burns Supper. The STPD is a Scottish bagpipe and drum band with kilts and caps and even those little Braveheart fanny packs – dope plaid pimpin’. Not surprisingly, the Burns Supper honors Robert Burns, the national bard of Scotland and not Montgomery Burns, diabolical geezer from the Simpsons. It involves Scottish food, drink, dancing, singing, poetry, and plenty of bagpiping. If you’re into haggis, Ed Miller, and pipers in kilts, it’s suppertime. Don’t let the blue hair scare you.

Star of Texas Tattoo Art Revival

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THU., JAN. 12, 2006

Just about everybody at some point in life gets wasted and does something stupid. What else explains the population explosion? The Macarena? Low rise jeans? Gerbiling? George W? All of these things seemed like a perfectly good idea at the time…well, except for the gerbiling and George W. The wonderful thing about life though, is that the painful memories of the thrashing and the clawing and the muffled squeaks and the bleeding eventually fade away. Ideally we learn from our mistakes, evolve and achieve a higher state of consciousness. This is not to say we don’t slip up on occasion. Bush is a prime example: an unfettered rodent still thrashing around in the collective rectum causing ugly and irreparable damage. Of course a stupid metaphor doesn’t last nearly as long as a stupid president and it isn’t nearly as dangerous. Some people believe that stupidity makes a great argument for sobriety, but that’s a bankrupt premise. The world is full of stone sober simpletons that make even the most reckless inebriate look like a genius in comparison. Point is, you don’t have to be wasted to do something stupid, but it certainly helps. A lot of people get wasted before they get a tattoo, but that doesn’t necessarily mean tattoos are stupid. Like Bush, they may be hard to get rid of, but a lot of people would say they are an art form. This weekend, those people will be staying at the Red Lion Inn, the site for the Star of Texas Tattoo Art Revival. Tattoo artists from all over the world will be on hand to show their work and maybe make a lasting impression or two. Go wasted if you dare.

Saturday Free Show at Emo’s

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SAT., JAN. 7, 2006

Enough with the goddamned football already. You may still be jacked up about the Longhorns’ crushing defeat of the mighty Trojans of USC, still basking in the heady glow of victory, still gleefully humming the glorious strains of “Texas Fight!” but it’s over. Time to move on. Time to wash off the huge, burnt-orange “T” you painted across your luxurious carpet of chest hair, the stem of which follows the dense treasure trail that traverses the summit of Mount Beergut, the “T” that was your personal, alphabetical contribution to the undulating “T-E-X-A-S” spelled out in stark contrast against the pasty white fanflesh of you and your drinking buddies, a sweaty, stanky spelling guide for slow-witted color commentators and bored cameramen. It was a stroke of genius, no doubt, and no one would ever question your school spirit, but you might want to get after that thing with some Go-Jo and a loofah before it gives you a rash. Rashes generally turn USC red before they go burnt orange, and you don’t want that hanging on your conscience. You’ve had a good run. In the eloquent words of former Texas gubernatorial candidate Clayton Williams, relax and enjoy it. Take some time off. Let the light beer, nachos, hotdogs, and their noxious byproducts and preservatives leech out of your system. You might even want to take up some sort of hobby, although the only way you can replicate those four-hour-long butt-numbing sessions in front of the TV is to take up an equally sedentary pursuit – maybe bass fishing? Golf? Sleeping? Hey, the world’s your oyster. Shuck it and suck it. Here’s an idea: Instead of coming early (which is pretty much a faux pas in every culture and meaning but Longhorn), being loud (this is Texas, right?), and wearing orange (once described as the “black of the Nineties”), maybe you can wean yourself by doing something where you come late, wear something dark, and generally act antisocial. A really good place for that type behavior is Emo’s, where, as luck would have it, they’ve been offering free shows all week long. Holy shit! You win again! This Saturday is a spectacular lineup featuring I Love You but I’ve Chosen Darkness, Zykos, the Lemurs, and Lord Henry on the outdoor stage, and What Made Milwaukee Famous, Glass Family, the Fall Collection, and Crash Gallery on the indoor stage. Make an effort to just drink Guinness. It’s pricy, but dark as a politician’s heart, and it serves as a decent meal in the absence thereof. Also, if you and your friends insist on painting something on your chest, you may want to go with Zykos instead of I Love You but I’ve Chosen Darkness.

New Year’s Eve Spectacular with the White Ghost Shivers and the Small Stars

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SAT., DEC. 31, 2005

New Year’s Eve is pure bullshit, start to finish. It’s hype stacked on hype stacked on hype … ad infinitum. Not even Vegas blows as much smoke up the collective ass. Scratch that … not even the White House press secretary … well, you get the idea. One arbitrary digit flips and the whole world’s supposed to swap spit, spray champagne, rattle, whistle, honk, and holler? Well, actually not the whole world … just certain time zones in the Western hemisphere. After all, time is relative. In fact, it could be argued that time doesn’t really exist at all – that it’s just a philosophical framework we’ve superimposed on the physical world. Of course, as any philosophy major will tell you, that kind of thinking doesn’t get your timecard punched, but it sure might get you punched. People, Westerners in particular, like their time in a straight line. That way they feel like they can get a better glimpse of the end. Surely we weren’t blessed with consciousness just to chase our tails. Other peoples’ tails, well that’s something entirely different, and if you’re chasing tail on New Year’s Eve, it really pays to at least pretend to buy into the hype. Besides, the party is only as good as what you bring to it anyway, right? This Saturday Austin bands the Small Stars and the White Ghost Shivers are bringing circus freaks to their New Year’s party at the Blue Genie. Talk about putting your “Keep Austin Weird” money where your mouth is. It’s not like the Shivers didn’t have a serious Carnivále vibe going anyway, but pair them up with the Small Stars and you’ve got a three-titted bearded lady of a bill to say the least. Adding circus freaks to that mix is like spraying whipped cream on cheese fries: It might be good, but is it healthy? You should definitely go find out for yourself.

Jerm Pollet’s Merry F%@#ing Xmas

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SAT., DEC. 24, 2005

Last week the president of Iran called the Holocaust a myth. His statements were a huge shock to a world that expects slack-jawed idiocy of this sort to come primarily from American fundamentalists, the same thick-headed hayseeds who believe that evolution is a crock cooked up by Satan’s minions. Sure, Ahmadinejad’s comments were a bit over the top, especially since there are plenty of Jews in the Holy Land with numbers tattooed on their arms who would be more than willing to set him straight, but true, profound ignorance has never been bullied by empiricism, has it? What makes ignorance so scary is that you don’t even have to work for it. You can just trust somebody else to know shit for you. Certainly takes the pressure off the slow learners, but the problem with that model is that occasionally the person doing the thinking for you turns out to be Hitler. President Ahmadinejad is no Hitler, but his style of revisionist rhetoric is exactly the pile of crap from which issues the mushroom of atrocity. To his credit, President B swiftly and vociferously denounced President A’s comments, citing them as a prime example of Iran’s unsuitability as a keeper of the nuclear flame. It was a bold statement coming from a C student with a God fetish responsible for knocking off close to 30,000 people on the basis of bogus intelligence, but at least he was feinting in the direction of truth and justice. He probably missed the irony of Ahmadinejad’s freshly created myth coming a week before the Western world celebrates its oldest and most cherished one – a myth responsible for more deaths and misery than Hitler could ever conceive. Even if Bush got it, it’s unlikely his epiphany would have resulted in a swift condemnation of all myths. Myth busting is dangerous business. Fortunately there are a few brave souls who are on the side of truth and righteousness. One of those is Jerm Pollet, Mr. Sinus cast member, rock musician, and, as it turns out, cultural historian, who on Christmas Eve will be showing the final installment of Merry F%@#ing Xmas, his special Christmas porn show that exposes the pagan origins of Christmas. Go to this show and you’ll never see Christmas the same way again … unless you go to next year’s show.

Trail of Lights 5K

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SAT., DEC. 10, 2005

Nobody likes a health nut. Nobody wants a sinewy, sportive, high-on-life, idiot-grinning endorphin junkie getting all up in their chili, talking about waking up at 5am so they can get in their hour and a half of high intensity cardio. On the conversational thrill meter the workout recap raps up somewhere between shop talk and church chat, which is to say the needle barely twitches above zero. If you have a problem with needing to share the mundane details of your unexceptional existence, learn to hold them inside – like a dirty, shameful secret or maybe a deep, expansive bong hit. You’re not doing anyone a favor by recounting your neurotically obsessive fitness regimen – no matter what wonders it’s done for you. In fact, while it may seem that you’re engaged in a mutually beneficial dialogue, the net result is something more like Narcissus gazing into the reflecting pool. You might even find that the recipient of your self-absorbed soliloquy will lose focus and wander off to the smoothie bar. Consider it a sign. Maybe the cocktail party invites have been tapering off since right about the time you personally took it upon yourself to share with the world the wonders of the low-carb diet. Good for you, Sparky, but realize that the self-help section is only a small part of the bookstore – the part most people avoid like a bloody-eyed Ebola monkey. Fitness, like religion, is something you do instead of talk about. If you’re bored shitless exercising so that you’ll be healthy enough to be bored shitless exercising later in life, cut your losses and check out now. If however you’re one of those people who view their bodies as simply a means to engage the world and all its wonderment, then you’ll probably want to show up for the Trail of Lights 5K, a nighttime fun run that winds its way through the Zilker Park Trail of Lights Saturday night. Finally a workout you can talk about…

X-Mas Unwrapped! A Holiday Burlesque

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FRI., DEC. 2, 2005

You know what Christmas doesn’t have enough of? Nudity. Cold weather notwithstanding, Christmas just isn’t a very skin-centric holiday. Oddly, even Jesus isn’t wearing his birthday suit in most nativity scenes. He’s all swaddled up like a mummy. Can’t have the baby Jesus spazzing out and doing the Macarena or thrashing around trying to latch onto Mary’s milkbags. That would be unGodly, wouldn’t it? Really the only ones going native in the nativity scene are the cherubim, who appear to be blissfully freeballing despite a humiliating degree of shrinkage. Maybe it’s because they pioneered arrested development. Of course, back in the BC angels couldn’t just send off for a complimentary trial-sized sample of Levitra. They had to get their bone on the old-fashioned way, and a mangerful of farm animals, wiseguys, hay and placenta probably wasn’t doing the trick. Angels just aren’t freaky like that anyway. Remember Sodom? The original Sin City? Lot tried to offer up his daughters to keep the randy citizenry from “knowing” the angels he was hiding in his house. Wow. Talk about literally leaning over and taking one for the team. Without a lot of theological stretching, it can be safely deduced that angels don’t vacation in Amsterdam or Thailand and that they’re pretty much chill about not rocking big timber. Clearly God is not a size queen, but back in the day He had a thing against tan lines. Adam? Eve? Garden? Serpent? Quince? Yes, God loves us, but he loves us better naked. So, if you’re looking to add a little holiness to your Holiday season, look no further than the Hyde Park Theatre, where this Friday the Jingle Belles will be performing X-Mas Unwrapped! A Holiday Burlesque. Think about it: All the shameless schlock of Christmas dressed down and done dirty by six bawdy burlesque babes. Hallelujah!

All American Rejects, Rooney, The Action Is

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FRI., NOV. 25, 2005

Thanksgiving, like communism, cat bathing, and anal sex, is much better in concept than execution. The idea is great: Take some time off … reflect on all the good things that are going on in your life. Everybody has something to be thankful for, right? Even Osama bin Laden has to at least give it up for portable dialysis. It’s probably safe to say that if his glass is half full, it’s half full of bile. About the only thing that’s going to turn his frown upside-down is a roll in the heavenly hay with 72 virgins, which seems like a mess of holy hymens to bust, but we are talking about eternity … Of course, Muslims who have actually spent quality time with a real virgin know that Allah could sweeten the deal considerably by offering a couple of thousand-buck-an-hour Vegas hookers instead. The savings on laundry alone would make the decision a no-brainer for most deities, but clearly Allah is marketing to a dumber demographic: people impressed by big numbers like 72. If all goes as planned, successful terrorists will be condemned to an afterlife full of tentative, whimpering, missionary sex followed by post-coital sulking. If they’re really lucky, they might occasionally score a fumbling, half-shafted, tooth-dragging, blow-job … a sort of metaphorical maraschino cherry on their payback sundae: looks great, but mostly it’s just disappointing. Some people set themselves up for disappointment, you know? For instance: Making a relatively bland, mentally challenged, mildly narcotic bird the center of a thanksgiving feast seems a bit of slip-up, doesn’t it? Pumpkin pie? Maybe the Pilgrims were thankful, but they sure came up with a lazy, uninspired way to show it. Besides, the Pilgrims couldn’t have been the only grateful immigrants. Surely there were thankful Italians or Mexicans or Haitians somewhere down the line. Run the numbers. It’s pretty much a lock. Think about it: A more festive color scheme, better food … and the drugs? Tryptophan vs. Haitian zombie weed? Are you kidding? Still, even though turkey day in practice is a gut-bombing, couch-potatoing, carbo-coma of a holiday, you have at least one reason to be thankful: It only happens once a year. You can spend the other 364 days shaking it out of your system. A good way to get back into your swing swing is Friday’s All-American Rejects show at La Zona Rosa. Since their first and last big hit, the Rejects have taken long, creative nap and coughed up a catchy new album, Move Along. They’ll be sharing the evening with L.A.-based popsters Rooney and Austin alt-rockers The Action Is (formerly Hotwheels Jr.), so expect a healthy contingent of screaming young girls. You might even think you’ve gone to heaven, but be thankful. This is Austin. They’re probably not all virgins.

Dr. Seuss: An American Icon

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SAT., NOV. 19, 2005

Back in 1931 a 27-year-old cartoonist named Ted Geisel illustrated his first book. It was called Boners, and it received lackluster reviews. The illustrations however, were roundly praised. Mind you, this was a simpler time, when boners were something you committed rather than popped, so instead of deft renderings of turgid phalli, bulging purple veins, and little flesh-colored German infantry helmets, the book is filled with illustrations of students’ schoolwork gaffes: mistakes, malaprops, and the like. For instance, the sentence “Catherine the Great’s husband was hung by her supporters” is humorously enhanced by a cartoon depicting a regally dressed man dangling from the straps of a corset. OK, maybe that doesn’t tickle your funny bone, but consider that at the time, America was ass deep in the Great Depression, so rich people getting snuffed was high humor. Funny or not, Boners inspired Geisel to write his own books, which he did under the nom de plume “Dr. Seuss.” Actually, Seuss was Geisel’s middle name, but he wasn’t a real doctor. If anything, he was a surreal doctor, an avant-garde savant who drew up whimsical, curvy cartoonscapes populated by freaky-looking, rhyme-rapping creatures like the Grinch and the Lorax. In all, Seuss wrote and illustrated 48 books and is the best-selling children’s author of all time – definitive proof that children can assimilate weird shit more easily than adults. Maybe Geisel knew this all along. Regardless, can you imagine Boners as a book full of Seussian penises? Sort of a McElligot’s Pool primer on the various shapes and sizes of the erect human phallus? That would be scarier than anything by Maurice Sendak, wouldn’t it? So what, do you ask, does the good Dr. have to do with you breaking off a piece this weekend? Here’s what: Dr. Seuss is beloved by nearly everyone with the exception of a few hateful psychopaths, and while it is considered obnoxious to quote more than a few choice lines of any Seuss verse, an appreciation of Dr. Seuss’s work is a sure sign of a well-rounded individual, and well-rounded individuals are more fun to boink – even if they look like the Lorax. If you need to fill out your Seuss, you’ll want to make it over to the Austin Museum of Art Saturday night for “Dr. Seuss: American Icon,” a lecture by author and Kansas State professor Philip Nel, who will be holding forth on the doctor as well as showing some little-known Seuss films – perfect stuff with which to work your stuff.

James McMurtry

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FRI., NOV. 11, 2005

It says a lot that on a Friday night when you could be out trying to get laid you’re at the Continental Club watching James McMurtry. Sure, you could be dirty dancing at some theme club down on Sixth Street, poppin’ that ass, throwing back Jello shots, getting your mack on…because yeah, you occasionally roll like that, but sometimes you also like to peel back the skin from the onion that is you and reveal a deeper, intellectual layer, that smirking bastard spawn of erudition and irony who appreciates a well turned phrase nearly as much as the lure of tawdry disco sex. In fact, if you could figure out a way to sell the sizzle of that whole “interesting person” steak you’ve been cooking up, you might just find yourself swimming in sex, but be forewarned that most of your thoughtful, bookish types – let’s call them “readers” – generally have to be led by the hand to the dark, dense delta of the promised land. This is not to say that it’s absolutely impossible to find hot sex at a James McMurtry show. Weirder shit has happened, but you may have to massage your definition of “hot” a bit. Probably wouldn’t kill you to do that anyway, would it? Here’s the thing: You may not share bodily fluids with any of the people at the Continental Club Friday, but by the end of the night you will share the common belief that James McMurtry is one of the finest songwriters to ever stumble into this burg. Sure, he’s got pedigree, but he also has the decency to not waste it. If anything, James’ songs pack as much meaning into a few verses as the several hundred page tomes of his father. There is refinement at work here; evolution. Even still, the younger McMurtry won’t be trumping the elder with sales records anytime soon. Dense as they may be, McMurtry’s lyric laden songs still clock in several minutes longer than commercial radio’s attention deficit 3 minute pop song format. They’re packed with carefully observed details of the commonplace ingeniously woven through with larger themes – the kind of stuff that rolls around in your head for years and pays you unexpected visits like acid flashbacks. Can you dance to them? Yeah, maybe. James has a thunderous, ass kicking rhythm section (Ronnie Johnson and Darren Hess, a.k.a. the “Heartless Bastards”) and has some impressive guitar chops his own self, but more than likely you’ll be too frozen in slack-jawed awe to bust a move. That’s all right. You can impress the hotties some other night. Maybe you can live with not getting laid. Maybe sometimes it’s enough just to have your mind blown.

Spike Gillespie’s Free Sex In Public

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SAT., FEB. 14, 2004

If here was ever a hell night for the relationship inhibited, Saturday would have to be it. Going stag to any event on Valentine’s takes an extra amount of moxie. Even intelligent couples don’t go willingly out in public on V-Day unless their love is on the rocks in the first place. Valentine’s is king of all amateur nights. Every decent restaurant in town is packed with wide-eyed love bunnies dragging their dinners out to just short of eternity by pitching woo, holding hands, exchanging gifts and lingering interminably over one dessert with two spoons. The spectacle alone is nauseating enough, but if you’re sitting at the bar with an empty stomach knocking back highballs and developing an eye twitch waiting for a table, it can sour you on romance forever. Don’t worry. Romance isn’t dead, it’s just being suffocated by people with preconceived, unrealistic expectations. Maybe the problem is that instead of looking for love, you should be looking for something more easily attainable, like sex. This Saturday, local author/raconteur/bon vivant Spike Gillespie will be hosting her annual “Free Sex in Public” party over at Book People. For two hours, from 7 to 9pm, local poets, musicians, writers and such will celebrate the more titillating, biomechanical aspects of love. Don’t worry, it can’t get too freaky. After all, it’s in a Bookstore. If it does, well, won’t that be a night to remember? Here is just a short rundown of the talent expected to be on hand: Mr Smarty Pants (of Chronicle fame) who will be donning the guise of his alterego “Mr Sexy Pants” and dispensing tidbits of sex related triva; Feminist poet/Gynomite author Liz Belile; local spoken word slammer Genevieve Van Cleve-age; red haired chanteuse Laura Freeman; poet/writer Diane Fleming; author Faulkner Fox(y); real live astrologer Ben Poliakoff as well as musical guest Tom Benton and his inspirational band The Polished Skull of Jackie Collins. There will also be a re-enactment of Janet and Justin’s Superbowl breast bearing and well as eats and drinks. You might expect to pay huge sums of money for pageant and spectacle like this, but Spike’s Free Sex in Public is exactly what the name says: free. The sex thing may be a little harder to pin down, but isn’t it always?

Rock and Roll at Ruta Maya

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SAT., FEB. 7, 2004

Usually when a beloved Austin institution moves and sets up shop in new and shinier digs, there issues a chorus of complaints about how it’s not as cool as the old place, or that the supposed institution has sold out. It’s the truth as often as not. Old Austin is characterized by its freakiness and funk. Newer places tend toward a more generic, less cluttered, culturally homogenized appearance that appeals to the largest possible demographic. Old Austin, to the uninitiated, is a little intimidating. Take Ruta Maya Coffee House for instance. The original Fourth Street location was a barely converted, un-air-conditioned warehouse filled with aging, mismatched furniture and an even more mismatched clientele. The porch was nearly always filled with dreadlocked, pierced, tattooed, alternative types smoking cigarettes and giving the skunk eye to starched-collar yuppies who dropped by for a pick-me-up after visiting ritzier places like Sullivan’s and Cedar Street. Inside was an equally intimidating gauntlet of noise, steam, smoke, and eclectic music whose terminus was a well-graffitied, two-stalled unisex bathroom with no lock on the outer door. Good times. Ruta Maya’s new location at Penn Field (actually, not so new anymore, having been there now for nearly two years) has same-sex bathrooms, air conditioning, a huge stage, and a great sound system. In short, other than the same-sex bathrooms, it’s a vast improvement over the old Ruta Maya. Why? Because it still possesses all of the elements of the old location, but in a larger, more accommodating space. Drawbacks? It’s more isolated for one thing. The only foot traffic these days is the occasional Exposé titty dancer who strolls up the hill for a cup of joe. Otherwise, it’s a drive-to destination, albeit one with ample parking and a pretty wicked view of St. Ed’s and downtown Austin from the back patio. Most importantly, Ruta Maya still buys its coffee from an organic farming cooperative in the highlands of Chiapas, Mexico, which helps improve the living condition of the cooperative’s participants and the region in general by promoting sustainable agriculture. If you’re going to feed your addiction, why not help feed people with it as well? This Saturday, Ruta Maya is host to Rock and Roll at Ruta Maya, a benefit for the Mayan Communities Fund which provides health care and social services to people in southern Mexico and Guatemala. For $3 you can enjoy six hours of glorious rock & roll from six Austin acts: Primordial Undermind, Beecher, the Band With No Name, Dum Dum & the Smarties, Madamimadam, and the Amazing CJ. That’s an attractively priced 50 cents per band, so you should have plenty of jack left over for some Mayan homegrown. If you’re not a coffee achiever, relax. Ruta Maya has plenty of other libations, both alcoholic and non, to get you through the night.

Spike & Mike’s Sick & Twisted Festival of Animation

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FRI., JAN. 30, 2004

January is Austin’s coldest month. It would be something worth bitching about if the average high in January weren’t 60 degrees. Compare that with our unofficial sister city, Austin, Minn. (aka Spamtown, USA), where the average daily high is 17, and you start to realize that things could be a lot worse. We could be called Spamtown, USA, for instance. Nonetheless, we still have our chilly days, those rare occasions that demand socks in the Birkenstocks, felt instead of straw, and thermals under the cutoffs. Better yet, you could just stay indoors. One of the best places to stay indoors this weekend is the Alamo Drafthouse, where Spike & Mike’s Sick & Twisted Festival of Animation 2004 has set up shop. It used to be that the calling card of Spike and Mike was that they brought us Beavis and Butt-head – either a blessing or a curse depending on which side of that fence you fall, but these days they’re more widely recognized as discoverers of innovative and interesting animation, stuff that falls outside of the mainstream fare delivered on Saturday mornings or the Cartoon Network – stuff like Southpark. While only a butt head would argue that Southpark is sophisticated animé, it does, nonetheless, offer something most popular animé does not: biting social commentary mixed with crass, lowbrow humor. If anything, at its best, Southpark animation is sophisticated satire wrought with construction paper and at its worst, juvenile potty humor with paper dolls. Currently the Sick & Twisted Festival is home to “The Spirit of Christmas,” Matt Stone and Trey Parker’s wacky animated Christmas card that pits Jesus and Santa Claus in a pitched battle to decide who is king of Christmas. “The Spirit of Christmas” is the genesis of Southpark and even features a couple of the characters from the series. Other animators whose works have debuted in the festival include Eric Fogel (MTV’s “Celebrity Deathmatch”) and John Dilworth (creator of “The Dirdy Birdy”). Regardless of what you see, you can count on it being at the very least interesting and more often than not hilarious. The down side, if you can call it that, is that you might find some of the images disturbing and even offensive. As the promotional material warns: “This show is not recommended for those of a delicate constitution.” Powerpuff Girls it ain’t, but it’s still well worth the trip. Besides, how often do you get to watch cartoons without a bunch of obnoxious kids throwing popcorn in your hair?

FronteraFest Short Fringe Best of Show

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SAT., JAN. 24, 2004

If you have been here long enough, you probably already know it, but if you haven’t, here’s Austin’s dirty little secret: There are a lot of bad musicians in this town. No, really – a lot. For every Eric Johnson, Redd Volkaert, and Rich Brotherton, there are literally hundreds, possibly thousands of blundering hacks who, through ego, love, or a dangerous mixture of both, keep plugging away in relative obscurity. In this respect, Austin isn’t all that different than the rest of America or even the world. What makes Austin anomalous is that, by and large, we embrace the ugliness, even celebrate it. Why? Because, metaphorically speaking, you have to go through a lot of oysters to find that rare pearl. From the outside it seems that Austin is somehow disproportionately blessed with a wealth of talent, musical and otherwise, but the reality is that other places just aren’t willing to open the oysters. Austin has the reputation (deservedly so) of a place that is willing to try new and different things. Probably this is because so many people move here because they want to create something new and different. The price we pay is swallowing all of those oysters – so many in fact that we learn to appreciate the oyster as much as the pearl. That is the quintessence of the Austin aesthetic and generally it carries across all of our creative endeavors. If you can’t appreciate that, you’re probably living in the wrong burg. If you think you’re on that train, but aren’t sure, you can prove your mettle this weekend at the 11th anniversary FronteraFest. FronteraFest is Hyde Park Theatre’s festival celebrating theatrical performance of all kinds: monologues, plays, dance, improv, music, multimedia – a veritable hodgepodge of dramatic arts. The festival is primarily held in two venues: the Blue Theater in East Austin, which hosts the Long Fringe (works up to 90 minutes in length), and Hyde Park Theatre, which hosts the Short Fringe (works up to 20 minutes in length). The timid may find the Short Fringe more palatable if only for the fact that if it’s bad, it’s only 20 minutes of bad. Plus, for those with a short attention span, the Short Fringe tends to be a little faster paced and at times over the top as performers go for the quick, big payoff. There is also one additional venue called the BYOV (Bring Your Own Venue) whereby performers provide their own venue. This weekend’s is at the garage apartment next to Sandy’s Custard. You may not have the sand to dive in at that level yet, and that’s OK. Fortunately for you, Hyde Park Theatre’s Short Fringe offers a Best of the Fest show on Saturday that reprises the best performances from that week’s festival. It’s a great way to tiptoe into the Austin aesthetic gingerly and with a healthy amount of reservation. After all, oysters aren’t for everyone.

Third Annual Rabble-Rouser Roundup and Fat Cat Schmoozefest

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SUN., JAN. 18, 2004

Sincere, earnest, well-meaning people almost always deserve a swift kick in the ass – if only because they’re showing up everybody else. That in and of itself is pretty obnoxious social behavior. Very few people are as irritating as someone with an agenda and no sense of humor about it. Politicians are the worst. Take Howard Dean for instance: Never has there been a Democratic presidential front-runner more in need of a colonic irrigation since … well … Al Gore. Fortunately Al received an electoral enema in 2000 courtesy of Georgie Junior and ever since has been on a wild-eyed hippie spirit quest that has proven to be a quantum leap in Gore’s personal development. Now that he’s condemned to walk the Earth like Cain, all bets are off. These days Gore is genuinely engaging, with a sense of humor nearly worthy of his Harvard degree. No more superficial hand gestures, eighth-grade vocabulary, or artificial empathy with the plight of the downtrodden. The new Al Gore casts a tight net, and if you don’t get it, there’s another honorarium waiting down the road. Someday Howard Dean might plug into that sort of peace of mind and hopefully it won’t be after he’s already lost the election. George Bernard Shaw once said, “It is dangerous to be sincere unless you are also stupid.” Unquestionably the president has both covered nicely. If Dean is as smart as he is earnest, he will unknit his eyebrows and discover that America still has a sense of humor. Sometimes the truth is easier to swallow when leavened with wit, and right now very few politicians are delivering the goods. For that reason, Texas is blessed to be served by The Texas Observer, a local biweekly devoted to reporting on issues ignored by the mainstream press and politicians alike. For years the Observer has turned out great writing and writers, winning numerous awards and becoming one of the most respected publications of its kind in the nation. This weekend, the Observer will be hosting its Third Annual Rabble-Rouser Roundup & Fat Cat Schmoozefest, a yearly fundraiser hosted by Molly Ivins and Jim Hightower featuring great music by local Austin artists. This year’s formidable lineup includes Joe Ely and David Grissom, Lloyd Maines (yes, that’s Bush-bashin’ Natty’s daddy), Jimmy Pettit, Davis McClarty, Jimmie Dale Gilmore & Colin Gilmore, Terri Hendrix, and Grupo Fantasma. The show is $20 in advance and $25 at the door and for an extra 50 you can drink with Jim, Molly, and other Texas Observer writers, editors, and staff at the preshow Schmoozefest from 6 to 7pm. You could probably drink with Jim and Molly for less somewhere else, but then you wouldn’t be a fat cat, would you?

Tribute to the King

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FRI., JAN. 9, 2004

If you were planning on sitting home this weekend getting lubed and quietly celebrating Linda Lovelace’s birthday with a private screening of Deep Throat, think again. Linda isn’t the only deceased entertainer celebrating a birthday this weekend. People the world over are also commemorating the birth of an even more popular entertainer: Bob Denver. Wait a minute. Bob’s not dead. That’s right, Jan. 9 the skipper’s little buddy will turn 69 – most likely without the aid of Linda Lovelace who would have been a relatively spry 55. One thing is for certain: When Gilligan turns 69, you can bet he will be wearing his first mate’s hat and maybe even his red shirt with the white collar. If he’s lucky, maybe Maryann will send him another ounce of pot in the mail. Keep your fingers crossed, Bob. Sixty-nine is better than the alternative – the one currently being experienced by one Elvis Aaron Presley, who checked out more than a quarter-century ago, ostensibly because of an “erratic heartbeat.” Elvis would have turned 69 on Jan. 8, but chances are the King had a more than passing familiarity with the number, having lived an impressively full life even at the age of 42. Elvis may not have been bigger than Jesus (actually, technically speaking he was; it is unlikely that Jesus clocked in anywhere close to 225), but he ran a close second, and he undoubtedly got more play – air and otherwise. Even in death, the Kang still gets much love. This weekend he gets even more as Ted Roddy & His King Conjure Orchestra host their annual Tribute to the King Friday and Saturday at the Continental Club. Since 1986 Roddy has produced a yearly Elvis birthday tribute with veteran Austin musicians that features a full horn section, backup singers, and all of the flash and panache you would expect from the Kang himself. The show has become so popular that it is now a two-night extravaganza that includes an early, nonsmoking performance at 7pm, then a vice-friendly version at 11pm. Time to dig up that velvet Elvis T-shirt and start TCB. The Kang is only going to turn 69 one more time, but if you’re lucky, who knows?

The Diamond Smugglers

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WED., DEC. 31, 2003

This year New Year’s Eve falls on hump day. Larry Flynt couldn’t have dreamed it up any better himself. The electric buzz of indefinable expectation that always accompanies New Year’s will have an additional sexual subtext this year – as if the pressure of copping some lip at midnight weren’t enough. Don’t sweat it. People are supposed to hook up on New Year’s. If you’re single and planning on staying home, it’s time to take some stock in your initiative. New Year’s Eve is the spawning season of the doe-eyed optimist, a veritable shooting gallery of the willing. If you’re not making serious plans to work your stuff Wednesday night, maybe it’s time to throw in the towel and adopt a houseful of cats. At least that way you’ll be assured of getting to touch some pussy every now and then. Crass jokes aside, it’s go-time for the relationship inhibited. No other holiday is fraught with so much misplaced sexual and emotional urgency. Valentine’s is for lovers, St. Patrick’s Day is for drunks, Halloween is for freaks, but New Year’s Eve is prime time for the unattached. It’s the only holiday that is predicated on drinking, dancing, kissing, and staying up past midnight. Everyone knows that nothing wholesome happens after midnight, so you’ll definitely want to get in on it, whatever it is. One of the most unwholesome things happening Wednesday night is the Diamond Smugglers show at Stubb’s. Neil Diamond has always been a crassly attired emblem of the moral and cultural decay of American society, but the Diamond Smugglers take that decadence to a whole new level by paying homage to the sequined superstar in a variety of inventive and at times disturbing ways that nearly outschmaltz the Neil himself. This is no mean task for even the most talented Diamond disciple, but frontman Steve McCarthy is unquestionably touched by the spirit and has the chops to channel it. The rest of the band is filled out by equally talented veteran musicians like John Ratliff, Davy Jones, Dave Mider, Hunter Darby, Julie Lowery, Ernie Ernst, and Steve’s brother Kevin McCarthy, the other half of Steve’s (other?) band, the Fighting Brothers McCarthy. Fortunately, other than the whole Neil Diamond cover band thing, they use their powers mostly for good and not evil, and even the evil is pretty damned good. Think of it this way: If you don’t find a tonsil hockey partner for a midnight make-out, you’ll still have a ball with the Diamond Smugglers. What more could you ask for on hump day?