Month: April 2022

Dudley & Bob’s Pleasure Fest

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February 8, 2010

Aces Lounge

It’s still not too late to break up with your significant other in order to avoid dropping a lot of coin on a Valentine’s present. In these tough economic times, buying lavish gifts that symbolize your love seems a bit irresponsible when you could just write a haiku or maybe shave off your ironic Rip Van Winkle beard. Yes, your girlfriend may say you look like Devendra Banhart, but that’s just love putting lipstick on a pig. Deep in her heart she’d like to wrestle you to the ground and shear you like a cashmere goat. Think of it this way: Would you like it if her cooch looked like Moses? And no, it wouldn’t help if she paired it with skinny jeans, a dirty canvas messenger bag, and some really thin-soled shoes. If you absolutely insist on walking around with a ZZ Top soundtrack playing in your head, you might want to consider upping the ante on the Valentine’s gift. At the very least, you should ditch the haiku for something more epic: perhaps a love sonnet or a Damien Rice/Ray LaMontagne/Michael Buble/James Blunt mix CD. Even if she despises them as much as you do, she will at least give you props for suffering through the selection process, although in the end you might feel less emasculated by shaving the beard. If you’re really broke and need to hit a home run, you could go for the grand gesture. Of course the key to the grand gesture is to think big. Standing under the window holding a jam box blaring Peter Gabriel is a bit cliché, but if you’re a paint-by-numbers type, it’s not a bad way to go. Merely the fact that you’re willing to piss off all her neighbors with such an embarrassingly unoriginal stunt has to be worth something. Plus, she will surely be intrigued by whether or not you had to strangle a homeless person to score a jam box. If you’re an adrenaline junkie, nothing says love like spray paint on the side of a water tower. Ideally, you’ll want to save time by painting a heart symbol with an apostrophe “S” rather than spelling out the actual verb. The apostrophe will let her know that even though you’re an idiot, you’re not stupid. If you’re feeling a lot of anxiety about what to get your boyfriend/husband for Valentine’s Day, don’t. The greatest gift you can give him is an outright denial that Valentine’s Day is a valid holiday to begin with. If you can’t muster that kind of resolve, there is always plan B, which involves an act of selflessness and a five-minute time slot on your day planner. If you want to throw in some candy hearts, that’s sweet, but otherwise, Valentine’s Day accomplished. This isn’t rocket science. It’s easy enough to figure out how to handle the dude side of the Valentine’s equation, but it can be maddeningly frustrating to figure out what a girl wants. What you might see as thoughtfully sexy underwear, she might see as an implication that she is a low-rent whore. On the other hand, you would be foolish to assume you can buy her something practical for V-Day … like a vacuum cleaner or a 36-piece ratchet set. She’ll just point at you and say she already has a tool. If you’re going to be wrong (and there’s about a 50% chance you will be), you might as well be wrong in a way that might turn out right. To help you in this awkward endeavor, the KLBJ Dudley & Bob Morning Show is hosting Pleasure Fest, an evening of adult-themed activities and products that will surely offer a variety of ideas on how to either make or ruin your Valentine’s Day. Besides, if you’re dumb enough to buy her a tool, it might as well be something she can use.

Bob Marley Birthday Party

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February 3, 2010

Flamingo Cantina

Last Thursday Willie Nelson canceled his show in Kenansville, N.C., because of pain in his hand. Shortly before the announcement, six members of Nelson’s band and crew were charged with possession of moonshine and possession of marijuana by local law enforcement officers. The rest of the world understands implicitly that the pain in Willie’s hand was really in his ass, metaphorically speaking, much in the same way the rest of the world knows that if you search one of Willie’s buses, you’re going to find pot, maybe even some corn squeezins. The real question is why law enforcement officers were on the bus in the first place. As insane as it sounds, there are a few possible explanations: Rip Torn might have left his hat and boots outside Willie’s bus door. That would be a red flag for sure. Apparently Torn has been tooling around lately with a loaded .22 caliber revolver in his pocket. Doesn’t sound too lethal until you consider the fact that he once hit Norman Mailer in the head with a hammer for being a shitty director. A hammer. Yes, Mailer probably had it coming, if only for sheer hubris, but even still we don’t want to risk Torn getting ripped on white lightning and emptying his clip on Willie, who everyone knows is a pacifist, despite his duets with Toby Keith. You might also have to call out the Barney Fife Brigade if Osama bin Laden were rumored to be on Willie’s bus. Yes, he would have to be a complete moron to hide out on what has essentially become a rolling lightning rod for every frustrated ex hall monitor-turned-assistant deputy, but it still has the allure of being one of the last places a reasonable person might look. Besides, lose the turban and Osama pretty much looks like any other dude at Mohawk or Liberty … especially if he could fit into some skinny jeans and master the facial memes of middle-class irony. Then again, there could have actually been a fire on the bus. That might explain why North Carolina Alcohol Law Enforcement officers rushed to the scene. Maybe they were first responders. Maybe they saw a plume of smoke rising from Willie’s bus door and saw an opportunity for heroism. Could you blame them if their hopes were crushed when all they found were a bunch of stoned geezers drinking moonshine – a geriatric analog of Spicoli’s van? Nothing is more depressing than finding out that old people are having more fun than you are – especially when they’re making several times your salary doing it. Why do you think Tommy Chong ended up doing time? You can’t just walk around all the time with a shit-eating grin and not expect to get hassled by the Man. You can, however, ease your anxiety about getting hassled by staying constantly baked. That probably explains why when Bee and the crew were asked to turn over the drugs they did so immediately and without protest. Maybe they even invited the A.L.E. agents to burn one. You never know. Regardless, you can’t bust Willie and his acolytes for smoking pot. It’s un-American. Even Toby Keith would say so. Busting Willie’s people for pot is like sending undercover narcs to a Bob Marley festival: fish in a barrel. There’s no honor in that … barely even any sport. Speaking of, the Flamingo Cantina is celebrating Bob’s birthday this Saturday starting at 9pm with the Mau Mau Chaplains, Don Chani, Subrosa Union, and Winston’s Caribbean Kitchen. You should go down and celebrate with them, but maybe, just to be safe, leave your moonshine at home.

Hope for Haiti Benefit

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January 26, 2010

Antone’s CLOSED

That breathtaking pinkish sunrise is not a good sign. Yes, it’s pretty – the kind of daybreak that appears in all your better Southwestern tourist brochures – but it also can be the harbinger of an ugly day for allergy sufferers. Cedar pollen is a sure sign that Adam and Eve really screwed the pooch with the whole forbidden fruit incident. The realization that they were naked was only a very small portion of the package of affliction and misery the Old Testament God had in store. There is so much bewilderingly evil and nasty shit in nature it can only be explained by a malevolent and vengeful God. No doubt cedar pollen is solidly on the list, but there are plenty of other menacing phenomena that top it by far. For instance: porcupines. Jesus, what the fucking fuck? A varmint entirely covered in needles. It’s like an animal designed by prank-store employees. Really, God? Is that some sort of sick payback for the apple? Then of course you have skunks, which look exactly like something you might want to pet … right up to the point when they lift their cute bushy tails. Piranha? Piranhas would maybe make a little sense if Eve had been caught strangling puppies or gerbiling or something, but even still, piranhas seem like a gross over-reaction. At most, an apple is worth an earwig or some bot flies or maybe an ugly case of herpes. Yes, it could be argued that the Lord was acting on principal when he cast A&E out of the garden. In fact, the real punishment for eating from the tree of knowledge is knowing that your God thought it was OK to create a menagerie of other creatures that can eat you, maul you, sting you, strangle you, clobber you, maim you, and hurt you in ways too bizarre for any mentally healthy person to imagine. Crocodiles? Why? Imaginative, yes, but couldn’t all those fish, varmints, waterbucks, zebras, and the like just have died of old age? Must baby fawns be torn to pieces by packs of wolves? Is that really necessary? A world with so much violence and treachery makes a strong argument for either a maniacally sadistic micromanager or a scatterbrained absentee landlord – somebody who drunkenly jizzed in a tide pool then flew off to another galaxy in his silver spaceship. Neither of these models is entirely satisfying, but the latter is much more comforting. Knowing that God was actually pulling the levers when more than 150,000 Haitians were crushed in an earthquake two weeks ago doesn’t really bode well for the afterlife. Would you want to eat at the same Taco Bell where a bunch of people died from E. coli the week before? Even though it’s on a comically smaller scale, the whole cedar pollen problem raises similar questions. Isn’t there a less obnoxious way for trees to mate? Do we have to be covered in a monthlong toxic pink pollen money shot? Do we even need cedar (aka mountain cedar, Juniperus Mexicana)? All it’s ever brought us is nasty pollen, brush fires (proof of a benevolent God?), and shitty bases for glass-topped coffee tables. If you stay awake trying to answer these questions, you probably can’t sleep because your head is pounding with sinus pressure – either that or you’re going insane. Same difference. Trying to understand why cedar trees exist is a pointless exercise – sort of like trying to understand why Taco Bell chose the Beefy 5-Layer Burrito for its 89-cent special. You will never understand that type of insanity unless you’re insane yourself, and the juice probably isn’t worth the squeeze. All you can really do is react to it in a way that seems sane and responsible. That’s exactly what some generous musicians will be doing this Sunday at Antone’s when they perform for the Hope for Haiti Benefit, a fundraiser for victims of the Haitian earthquake. $15 gets you a night of music from Love at War, Johnny Goudie, Suzanna Choffel, Nina Singh, Kathy Valentine, and Savannah Welch, and it might at least help ease someone else’s misery.

An Evening With Chastity and Alan Jr.

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January 20, 2010

Salvage Vanguard Theater

If it hasn’t happened already, there will come a time in your life when you have to show your ass in public. If you’re lucky, you’ll be really wasted and your face will be blurred when the video shows up on YouTube. The more likely scenario is that you will show your ass in a more metaphorical sense: Expose yourself publicly to the withering criticism and derision of others. Some people like to call this type of vulnerability life. They tend to suck it up and get on with it. Others will try to forestall this eventuality by ducking below the radar. After all, as the saying goes, the tallest blade of grass gets cut first. So, to avoid embarrassment, they bury themselves in remote corner cubicles of sprawling government bureaucracies, spend their days filing mimeographed (that’s right, this is the government we’re talking about here) triplicate copies of mimeographed triplicate copies. Others go entirely off the grid, toiling away on some sustainable organic farm, spending their days plowing, weeding, watering, and milking things like goats, cows, and father time. Then there are those who go underground – hole themselves up for years in the windowless basements of their mothers’ houses, day trading, surfing porn, and playing World of Warcraft. These are all fairly low-risk strategies. Yes, it is risky … brave even … to offer yourself up as a meatshield for your fellow Blood Elves in your skirmish with Skullsplitter trolls in Stranglethorn Vale, but even if you do get gloriously ganked in WoW, you’ll still be alive (although nearly invisible) in the real world. You might even think you’re safe, but it’s just an illusion. Often an uglier fate awaits those who try to avoid fate altogether. As it says in the book of Matthew, “Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth.” Sounds like a halfhearted pep talk for all the suckers getting left behind in the rapture. Awesome. You definitely get some nice real estate in that deal, but you also get places like Mogadishu, Peshawar, and Port Arthur. Thanks for nothing, J-Dawg. Or, maybe the “inheritance” thing is meant to be a confidence builder. People who own a lot of stuff seem to have a limitless supply of confidence and self-worth. Look at Jerry Jones … Mark Cuban … The Donald. Those guys don’t seem to be embarrassed about anything. Imagine the type of arrogant dickhead you would have to be if you owned the earth. You would probably end up walking around like a 2-year-old saying: “Mine! Mine! Mine!” In reality, whether you believe it or not, you do own the earth … at least as much as anyone else does. The big question is whether or not you choose to be a selfish dickhead or a generous caretaker. Ideally you’ll want to peacefully share yourself and the world with others, thereby enriching their experiences and yours. To do so you will have to show your ass on occasion, expose yourself to injury, take some risks. It’s really not so bad, and you may learn along the way that your ass isn’t all that special anyway. Throughout January, Fronterafest plays host to a whole bunch of people hell-bent on showing their asses as it hosts its 17th annual fringe festival, five weeks of fringe theatre from all types of performers from all over the country. At 7:15pm this Saturday, Jan. 23, at the Salvage Vanguard Theater, Chicago comedians Alan Metoskie (Texas expat) and Zoe Schwartz bring you An Evening With Chastity and Alan Jr., a country and western musical comedy revue. Chicagoans doing a country and western comedy revue in Texas is risky, but that’s what fringe theatre … and life … is about, isn’t it?

Stool Pigeon Featuring the Stories of Charlie Hodge and Becca Peterson

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January 13, 2010

ColdTowne Theater

Austin spends a lot of time staring lovingly at itself in the mirror, masturbating. Why not? It’s relatively young, good-looking, and well endowed. It’s full of parks, greenbelts, watering holes (both kinds), and lots of exciting live entertainment. Hey, not every city can be pretty and popular. There are also lots of shiny new buildings popping up everywhere. Austin just keeps getting prettier and prettier. For instance, you’d be hard-pressed to find an actual warehouse in the Warehouse District – especially the type of bombed-out, broken-window-paned, graffiti-scrawled anachronisms for which it was named. The only thing industrial going on in Downtown Austin these days is the occasional Ministry song on the Saturday night playlist at Elysium. It’s cool. This isn’t the rust belt; it’s idea city. Amazingly, out-of-town venture capitalists, rich retirees, and fun-loving rubes of all types have bought into the idea of Austin like few other cities in America. Maybe it has something to do with Austin’s incessant shitstorm of hype: Austin is creative. Austin is open-minded. Austin is fun. Austin is friendly. Austin is entertaining. Whether motivated by cunning self-interest or monumental hubris, we Austinites have been pimping our city with evangelical fervor for decades – so much so that people in other parts of the state and country are now doing it for us, gratis. Mission accomplished. Austin is truly one bangin’ burg. The big question now is whether or not the people buying into all those shiny new buildings will buy into the Austin aesthetic as well. Will they go out and get their nails dirty in the grungier side of Austin culture, or will they stick to the places that are cleaner, less cluttered, and culturally homogeneous? If anything, the Austin aesthetic is constantly being redefined, both in a physical sense by the type of businesses that are able to thrive in such a quickly changing cultural environment and by the people who contribute to that culture. Ultimately a lot of the funkiness (whether organic or contrived) of Downtown Austin has been squeezed out into less dense and less expensive areas not within an easy walk of high-rise residents. Those fun-loving condo buyers are slowly being hemmed in by the types of businesses and culture they were presumably trying to escape. Maybe it’s no big deal. Austin is still an excellent place for the rich to go slumming, if only for the fact that Central Austin has very few slums, just areas filled with middle-class suburban expatriates that look slummy. How’s that for a win-win? If you’re one of those fun-loving condo dwellers looking to do a little slumming this weekend, try ColdTowne Theater this Saturday for Stool Pigeon, a series of improv comedy sketches based on the stories of local guest celebs, in this case Geeks Who Drink quiz queen Becca Peterson and Charlie Hodge, the quick-witted quarterback of KLBJ’s Charlie Hodge Rock ‘n’ Roll Half-Time Show.

BCS National Championship at Alamo Ritz

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January 6, 2010

Alamo Drafthouse at the Ritz

Austin is a pretty cool town. Thankfully, it’s not too cool for football. Austinites will dork out for a Longhorn game every bit as much as they will for a Buttnumbathon, a Makers Faire, or an Eeyore’s. Admittedly, Longhorn fans are by far a scarier brand of dork than you will find at most other Austin events. Not only are they usually amped up on adrenaline and testosterone, they’re often holding back some serious pent-up rage, mainly the residual effect of watching four hours of Greg Davis’ offensive coordinating. Dear, sweet, merciful Jesus, for once could you please tell Mr. Davis to just let the big dogs eat? This three-yards-and-a-cloud-of-dust shit may be taking its toll on the opposing defense, but it’s even more exhausting for the fans. Who knows how many aneurysms, broken TV screens, and cases of domestic violence were the result of the 2009 Big 12 Championship game? Sure, the final one second was exciting, but the rest of it was like spending an afternoon at the Department of Motor Vehicles. At least Nebraska fans got the vicarious thrill of watching Ndamukong Suh toss the Texas offensive line around like a bunch of rag dolls. The only thing missing was the eponymous Johnny Cash song as background music. Don’t worry, ABC will surely queue that up at some point in the BCS pregame show. Still, regardless of all the bitching (or perhaps in spite of it) big Greg’s offense put up just enough points to get the Longhorns to the dance once again. Years from now in the historically embellished retelling of the glorious 2009 season, it will be the golden toe of Hunter Lawrence that gets all the glory. And tiny Hunter slew the Goliath Ndamukong with the graceful sweep of his European-soccer-style kick, and the fans burst onto the field and did hoist him upon their shoulders and laud his name. The real story however, took place up in the lonely press box high above the field, where ol’ Greg Davis took off his headset, leaned back in his chair, and as is his custom, said a little prayer of thanks to the Lord for letting him feed off the entrails of Will Muschamp’s defense once again. So, what does all this have to do with you tapping some strange? Next to nothing. Regardless of how it’s portrayed on gay porn sites, football is mostly a sexless endeavor. Those well oiled, accidental, post-steam-bath, locker-room three-ways involving the tight end, punter, and fullback never really happen … unless they actually take place on a porn film set. This is not to say that you can’t get as lucky as Hunter Lawrence and the Longhorns at a football game. Au contraire. In Texas, football is as legitimate a foreplay technique as beaver slapping and tonsil hockey and, ultimately, equally successful. Plus, like sex, you don’t need to know much about football to enjoy it. You just need to be enthusiastic and get your game face on. If you’re one of those few remaining hermits or foreigners who hasn’t decided whether football is for you, a good way to test it out is at the Alamo Drafthouse at the Ritz, where Thursday night it will be shoring the BCS National Championship on the big screen … for free! The theatre should be full of Longhorn fans, but you can reserve a seat by purchasing a $5 food and drink voucher online. With so many people wearing such an ugly shade of orange, you should be able to talk someone out of their clothes. Hey, the Longhorns got lucky. Maybe you can too.