Month: February 2019

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.