35th Annual Deutschen Pfest

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May 11, 2010

Pfluger Park

Nothing brings people together like a shared enemy – except maybe a shared enema. It’s one thing to share hatred with other people – even complete strangers. It’s quite another to share an enema tube – even with your bestie. It should come as no surprise then that statistically, at least, hatred tops enemas by a large margin. Regardless of President Clinton’s exhortation for Americans to expand the definition of “us” and shrink the definition of “them,” we’re still very comfortable with the hatred. We seem to like getting our panties in a wad. We especially like to hate on our neighbors to the north. Not Canadians. Hating Canadians is like hating Jesus or Santa Claus. Sure, they’re so sweet you get sick of them every now and then, but if you start posting Photoshopped pictures of them having sexual congress with assorted farm animals on your Facebook page – however hilarious they might be – you would, in the end, only be screwing yourself. Besides, people hate a mean drunk. That’s why Billy Joe Shaver could shoot one in the face and still get acquitted. Of course, if you decide to try that in the parking lot of your local shithole honky-tonk, make sure you have plenty of celebrity friends and Dick DeGuerin heading up your all-star, pro bono legal defense team. Canadians may have dangerous socialist tendencies, but it’s universally accepted fact that they’re happy drunks. Plus, you don’t have to travel that far north to hate, just cross the Red River. Okies are as easy to hate as Tim Tebow on a Vegas bachelor weekend. Why? Simple. Oklahoma’s football team has won more national championships than ours. Admit it. In terms of offensive behavior, they could just as well have gang-banged Bevo and broadcast it on the Godzillatron at the Darrell K. Royal-Texas Memorial Stadium. Being better than Texas at football is nearly unforgivable, but Okies somehow manage to up the ante by being equally loud and obnoxious drunks – superseded only by Alabamans, who are even louder, more obnoxious, and completely incomprehensible after a few Budweisers. Is it any wonder they have the most national football championships of all? Still, no matter how ugly a drubbing they gave us in the Rose Bowl, it seems a lot of trouble to cross two states to piss on the Crimson Tide when we have crimson and cream right upstairs. Fortunately, you don’t even have to go that far north to find someone to hate and ridicule – especially when you have Pflugerville just 10 minutes up the interstate. Yes, desirable, affordable Pflugerville. What’s not to hate? First, there’s the galling effrontery of sticking a “silent” P in front of a perfectly good F. F alone isn’t good enough for you Pflugerville? Well, F you with a P on top. Pflugerville also has good schools, huge sports fields, a lake, roomy houses, and the celebrity cachet of having been the filming location for Pfriday Night Lights. Hate you, Pflugerville. Adding insult to injury is its annual Deutschen Pfest, a three-day pfestival pfeaturing pfood, arts & crafts, music (yes, they scored Dale Watson and Bruce Robison), and even a 5K Pfun Run/Walk. You’re probably tasting vomit in the back of your mouth right now, but if you can somehow get over your Central Austin hipster haughtiness, you might find that you have a lot in common with your northern neighbors – if not genetically (really, who in America hasn’t been pfucked by a German?), then perhaps spiritually. After all, you probably come from the ‘burbs just like they do. “Them” really are “us.”

Austin Humane Society’s Rags2Wags Benefit

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October 27, 2008

If you’re spending a lot of time worrying about whether or not you should wear a Halloween costume to work on Friday, quit it. This is Austin. Of course you should. Yes, there are a few exceptions. You probably shouldn’t wear a Barney costume to your job as a fry cook at McDonald’s. Bad idea. If you’re a fireman, you’ll probably want to avoid any costume you can get at Wal-Mart or Walgreens or any other Wal retailer, even and especially if it promises “Wal-o-ween savings.” Wearing one of those cheap bastards is like walking around with a diesel fuel-soaked dead Christmas tree strapped to your back. The tag might say “flame retardant” in English, but the Chinese symbols really read “flaming flower.” Surgeons, on the other hand, should probably avoid three-fingered cartoon characters like Porky Pig and Mickey Mouse … for obvious reasons, and cops should avoid feathers, fringe, glitter and high heels – unless they’re paying for it after hours. Most people however – the kind who have time to pick up this paper (and not just to wash the windows at McDonald’s) – don’t work in a job where they already wear a costume. They fall outside the standard Village People caricature set. For them, Halloween is a slam dunk. In the words of vampire pop icon Gerard Way: “Shit is easy peasy pumpkin peasy pumpkin pie, motherfucker.” In most offices, a festively themed sweater is enough to score you some holiday street cred, but why halfass it in the name of job security? Victory goes to the bold … or more often the bold and slutty. If you can’t rock it like Liberace, at least show enough skin to make a whore blush. This is a once a year deal, a free pass to get your freak on full tilt. Wear the tube top even if it exposes your chest hair. Go for the mini-miniskirt – just make sure your boys aren’t hanging like church bells. That’s probably a line item somewhere in the employee handbook. If you really go over the top, you’ll show your co-workers and upper management that you’re willing to do what it takes … even if it takes sweat lodging it all day in a stinky, sweltering, rented rubber and fur Chewbacca costume communicating only in Wookiee growls. If you roll that strong, you put everyone in the office on notice that you’re willing to boil the bunny. Respek. Regardless of how you decide to go, the important thing is to lose your sense of dignity. Nothing queers a good Halloween costume more than trying to “tone it down a little.” For a costume to really work, you have to feel utterly ridiculous. If you don’t, then maybe you chose something too close to home. Pets understand this concept. Dachshunds are absolutely humiliated to be dressed in tutus, but deep down they know they look hilarious. Otherwise, why would they wear them so often? If after a full day of Halloween indignity, you feel like laughing at something other than yourself, head over to the Austin Music Hall for Austin Humane Society’s Rags2Wags dog and cat celebrity fashion show. Enjoy cocktails and food from Pascal’s Catering Company; a silent auction for trips, spa packages, jewelry and more; plus live music and dancing with Bruce Robison, all benefiting Austin’s only no-kill animal shelter. Boo! Yeah!

Bruce Robison

Luv Doc Writings, The Luv Doc Recommends

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.

Bruce Robison

Luv Doc Writings, The Luv Doc Recommends

FEB. 14, 2002

Back in the days before St. Valentine you might have had the luxury of a fun, freaky partner-swapping penis totem fertility festival bent on mixing up the mating pool, but then Valentine and his ilk came along and saddled us with the whole chaste, romantic love thing – labial color scheme notwithstanding. Bummer. OK, so modern times demand a bit more subtlety. Relax. You can swing it. Just find the person you’ve been obsessing about for the last year, hour, or minute and tell him/her/both (hey, this is the Chronicle remember) that you are prepared to take him/her/both to the Bruce Robison show this Saturday. Bruce is all about subtlety. His latest CD, recorded in velve-tone, is about as smooth as you can get. Give it a shot. Nobody’s going to turn you down for being a Bruce Robison fan – nobody worth dating that is…