Author: The Luv Doc

Stop Talking About Your Workout. Forever.

The Luv Doc

A great body doesn’t make you interesting, it just makes your dullness slightly more tolerable

April 13, 2012

Dear Luv Doc,
I am still following through on my New Year’s resolution to lose weight (23 pounds so far) but I am still having trouble losing weight in my midsection. Can you recommend any exercises that might help me burn fat in that area?
– Luv Handles

Twenty-three pounds is quite impressive. You may not have lost your spare tire yet, but you’ve already lost a Goodyear RoadHandler’s worth of body weight. Great job! To answer your question, however, the best exercise for someone in your situation is the exercise of self-control. It’s a highly intensive exercise, and it involves a lot of reps. First of all, you’re going to have to exercise self-control about what you eat. To actually get definition in your abs, you’ll probably need to knock your body-fat percentage down to less than 10%. That’s going to take a lot of time and energy that could be expended on a more worthwhile endeavor, but if self-improvement is going to be your contribution to mankind, you might as well walk the walk. You know the drill: energy expended > energy ingested. Exercise/diet, diet/exercise. Yawn. The most important self-control exercise, however, is to stop talking about your workout. Forever. Exercise – at least the narcissistic/selfish pursuit of a better-looking, healthier body – is never interesting to other people. Ever. If it seems like someone is paying rapt attention to your tedious recitation of reps and sets, they’re probably just waiting for you to stop talking so they can ask if you want to go back to their place and bone because you have a hot bod. No, a great body doesn’t make you interesting, it just makes your dullness slightly more tolerable. Incredible as it may sound, it is possible to be physically fit without working out. You can play sports, or if you hated gym class, do “activities” like LARPing, birding, grown-up hide-and-seek, or break dancing. These are things you generally do with other people and then afterward you have a few beers or a huge plate of enchiladas that totally cancel out any health benefits you might have accrued engaging in them. Exercise, on the other hand, is a solitary, shameful, and selfish activity – much like masturbation. As good as it might make you feel, nobody wants to hear you yammer about masturbating for the very same reason they don’t want to hear about your workouts: They’re all pretty much the same. It’s just a matter of how many reps it takes to get the job done.

Parachute Pants and a Kentucky Waterfall

The Luv Doc

A miniature pony is an even awesomer chick magnet than an IROC-Z

Friday, April 6, 2012

Luvdork,
Riddle me this, bitch: I have a 1989 IROC-Z that runs good normally but it sputters when I stomp on the gas. My dad says I should check the fuel system and that it may be a bad fuel pump/filter. What do you think?
– Brad

I could blame it on a deteriorated control arm bushing, Brad, but that would be preposterous. Besides, I’ve never even looked under the hood of an IROC-Z. Why? Because back when I roc’d parachute pants and a Kentucky Waterfall, I couldn’t afford an IROC. These days, I occasionally have a few hundred bucks to throw around, but given the choice, I would probably blow it on one of the miniature horses currently for sale from The Monastery of St. Clare Miniature Horse Farm in Brenham. I’ve had my eye on a 33-inch-tall, two-year-old gray pony named Pepperjack for some time now. Pepperjack stands about crotch high and would be perfect to turn loose on the fairways of my neighborhood golf course (turns out you can’t buy live wolverines over the Internet anyway) or to take for a jog around Ladybird Lake. You may not believe this, but pound for pound, a miniature pony is an even awesomer chick magnet than an IROC-Z. Plus, they’re much, much more reliable. Now I will freely admit, Brad, that life isn’t always as easy as choosing between an adorable miniature pony raised by nuns and the penultimate icon of Eighties douchery (nugget jewelry notwithstanding), but you might want to run a quick cost-benefit analysis and see what you come up with. My guess is that you could sunbathe shirtless wearing neon-green plum smugglers on the hood of your classic IROC for a whole Saturday in the parking lot of Barton Springs Pool and still not get a fraction of the strange that a quick stroll through the park with a miniature nun pony would get you. Your call, Brad. If you want to while away the hours on your back in some dank garage trying to resuscitate your Uncle Rico glory days by cobbling together a rebuild of the car you got your first HJ in, go ahead, but let’s not pretend this is a legitimate attempt at solving your transportational issues; otherwise you would be asking how often you should rotate the tires on your Honda Fit. There is at least hope for you, Brad, because apparently you still talk to your dad, which is uncharacteristic of Camaro owners. Even though there is something less than a half-percent chance your father was OK with your Camaro purchase (and you bought it anyway), you may want to listen to him about the fuel pump/filter thing. Sounds spot on to me. Either that or Pepperjack has an even shorter, cuter buddy named Cimarron who is pretty spicy himself!

Insufferable Narcissists

The Luv Doc

Just the act of procreative sex is an undertaking of considerable hubris.

March 30, 2012

Dear Luv Doc,
My best friend had a baby two months ago, and now it’s all she ever talks about. At first I tried to be supportive, but now I feel like it’s affecting our friendship. What should I do?
– Ann-oyed

That’s a tough one, Ann. Parents are insufferable narcissists. Just the act of procreative sex is an undertaking of considerable hubris. Yes, God said, “Go forth and multiply,” but he said it to Adam and Eve who, if you trust artist renderings, are pretty fucking hot – even the pudgy Renaissance versions. He also said it to Noah and his sons after he wiped out mankind with a cataclysmic flood. They weren’t all that pretty, but He was in a bind. Regardless, when it comes to multiplying, everyone except Adam, Eve, Noah, Ham, Shem, and Japheth is off the hook and has been for several thousand years. Yay! Pills and condoms for everyone! No more need to look in the mirror and think, “I have to fuck up a whole new generation of that?” Even still, there will be those who stare into the pool of Narcissus and decide that, for instance, the Donald’s hair isn’t too bad or that their daughter will be so pretty they can name her “Rumer.” Whoopsy! It only stands to reason that if you make it to childbearing age without offing yourself, you have a fair amount of self-esteem – either that or you’re too stupid to tie a basic slipknot. What are you going to do? People generally love themselves, and they really love themselves in miniature. Worse yet, they love yammering about the miniature versions of themselves incessantly, even when there’s more important shit to talk about – like whether your forehead is too big or if you should get breast implants. Yes, it’s important to be open and honest with your friends, but in this instance, it’s much, much better to lie. Even if you sincerely try to explain to your friend that there is nothing remarkable about making a baby since obviously billions of people have done it successfully, she is still going to claim it’s a miracle. Yeah, right. So is taking a crap, but that doesn’t mean you have to gush and coo about it. Well, actually you do. You will never convince your friend that her spawn is nothing special. You will just have to let it grow up and prove you right. That, however, is a satisfaction you will have to keep to yourself … unless you want to lose your friend. Besides, your friendship is too strong to let a miracle come between the two of you, right?

Friends

The Luv Doc

March 23, 2012

Dear Luv Doc,
Last week, my friend from St. Louis – who I said could come stay with me during South by Southwest – called and asked if he could bring a “friend” that I don’t even know. I said “yes” because I didn’t want to seem like an asshole, but how do I avoid this in the future? – Bill

Bill, there are two scenarios here, and neither is good. The first is that your friend is a dick. The second is that you are a dick. There may be a third scenario, but I think that involves both of you being dicks, which means you deserve each other. That said, I will admit it’s a bit dickish of your friend to ask for the plus-one after the fact – especially if it’s someone you don’t even know. That’s how pushovers like you get murdered in their sleep: An old friend brings some rando to your house for a music festival, and the next thing you know, you wake up with him perched on your chest in the middle of the night wielding a butcher knife and saying he needs to sanctify your dwelling with the “blood of the lamb.” Crazy Christians … what are you going to do? On the other hand, you might want to ask yourself: How good of a friend does someone need to be to stay in your house? If this is just some dude you used to be a fry cook with at McDonald’s, why did you say “yes”? If, on the other hand, this friend is someone who’s truly had your back, someone who carried your drunken ass into the backyard and sprayed the vomit off your clothes after you overdid it with the wine coolers, someone who woke up at five in the morning to take you to the airport, someone who talked you out of going to clown college, someone who knows your left testicle is plastic and who only teases you about it when he’s drunk – if this is that kind of friend, why the fuck are you sweating him about bringing along a stranger? Don’t be a dick. You know he’s good people. It’s not like he’s going to show up with a scabby, toothless meth head or a crab-infested crack whore, and even if he did, you owe him a fucking solid for that clown college deal. Bottom line, Bill, is that this one’s on you. You either need to grow a spine or pull the bug out of your ass – or both.

Texas Film Hall of Fame

The Luv Doc

Friday, March 16, 2012

There is a lot of anxiety among the townies about being properly credentialed during South by Southwest, and rightfully so. No one is more obstinate than a semiretired junior high school history teacher getting all Barney Fife in his SXSW Volunteer shirt (which, rumor has it, are treated with a topical solution of testosterone, methamphetamine, and gorilla adrenaline). Word to the wise: Don’t cross those crazy bastards. That said, it seems that the Luvdoc is a natural-born volunteer whisperer, because I breezed through every security phalanx in the past few days like Jesus himself. This magic run started at the Texas Film Hall of Fame Awards last Thursday when, because of a rather intense pregame session that involved a bottle of mezcal and some amyl nitrate, I arrived 30 minutes late for dinner and didn’t have the time or sobriety to check in at will-call. Instead, I blew through security amidst a posse of sharply dressed socialites who had all the proper documents and, most importantly, a sense of entitlement. Turns out that if you have hair like Anderson Cooper and the rheumy-eyed swagger of Foster Brooks, you don’t need credentials at all, just a serviceable sports coat and a rich San Tropez tan (actually the remnants of a wicked sunburn, but really, what’s the dif?). I truly did have a ticket waiting at will-call (extorted, of course), which contributed to my own sense of entitlement. That, along with my full head of gray hair, was like pixie dust to the door people, who brushed me through with pleasant smiles. For the next few hours, I terrorized the SXSW and Chronicle tables with the obnoxious, boorish behavior of the unsoaped underclasses and tagged celebrity coup whenever I could: Robert Rodriguez in the men’s room (does that hat creep anyone else out?). Angie Dickinson passing by in a fedora (again with the hats), Barry “Badass” Corbin at the bar, and the rest of the folks at the Chronicle table, who mysteriously evaporated just as I was hitting my stride: Chronicle writer Margaret Moser, actor Ed Hattaway, Dale Dudley, and the scintillating Bob Fonseca, who is a younger version of the Most Interesting Man in the World. Just before I blacked out, I gave my camera to Tina Harrison, who snapped this fetching photo of Chron Ad Manager Mark Bartel, ad rep Elizabeth Nitz, chick singer Suzee Brooks, SXSW stud Jacob Stetson, and Boneboys star Johnny Walter ignoring Grupo Fantasma’s energetic closing set.

TechNERDphilia

The Luv Doc

Here’s a quick rundown of dope shit at this year’s South by Southwest Interactive festival. If you ain’t got a badge, you’re broke and you ain’t got no business being up in there anyway.

FRIDAY, MARCH 9
Smokey Bear Tweetup 5pm, Assembly Room, InterContinetal Stephen F. Austin
Expect a rapt roomful of hirsute gay men and furries as the OG furry Smokey (no homo) shares how he keeps young pyros chill with his tight tweets.

SATURDAY, MARCH 10
Check Yo-Self Before U Wreck Yo-Self: Start-Up Metrics of the Masters 2pm Hilton, Salon C
Reread the name. That’s the real title. Start-up metrics are probably tedious as fuck, but this group of panelists will surely blow the roof off the mother with their fearless use of white Ebonics.

SUNDAY, MARCH 11
Mad CSS3 Skillz 12:30pm, Radisson Town Lake Ballroom
The Lord Almighty has a raging boner for chicks who can whip up a phat UI with CSS3 and HTML5. You will, too.

MONDAY MARCH 12
Race: Know When To Hold It and Know When To Fold It 5pm, Austin Convention Center, Room 9ABC
A panel made up of four black people and a white guy named Scott who “know[s] black hair and can both braid and cornrow” co-opts a Kenny Rogers song title for their panel on diversity. That shit is Country Strong. Bridge = built.

Organic Gardening

The Luv Doc

Friday, March 2, 2012

Dear Luv Doc, A few weeks ago, my husband and I put a small vegetable garden in our backyard – mostly beans, tomatoes, and spinach. We finally have a few seedlings coming up, but they are being torn up by a cat who poops in the garden and then covers his poop by scratching holes in our garden and destroying the seedlings. How can we discourage this cat from pooping in our garden? – Tested in Travis Heights I would suggest a Remington 220 Swift with a night-vision scope and a 60-grain hollow-point shell for maximum accuracy and spread on impact, but judging by the intensity of your anger, I don’t think you’ll be satisfied by anything less than choking that cat out personally. Be forewarned, however, that strangling a Felis domesticus is risky business – something that would require elbow-length Kevlar gloves at the very least – and Kevlar gets pricey. Plus (and I know it sounds like I’m trying to piss in the punch bowl here), Austin is a “no kill” city that prides itself on the compassionate treatment of animals, which, it pains me to say, extends even to cats who crap in your garden. Therefore, you may want to find a surrogate to do your dirty work for you. I know that goes against the whole essence of gardening, but do you really want a bunch of otter-scrubbin’, Sierra Clubbin’, tree-huggin’ neighbors all up in your chili just because you’ve got a revenge boner? Of course not, but if, for instance, the wild coyote you have chained up next to your garden decides to eat some pussy, he’s just acting on his natural instinct. You can facilitate the healing by scheduling some therapy sessions with the coyote and your neighbors so they can work through their issues. The coyote idea can backfire, however – much like a pair of Acme rocket skates – because coyotes really are wily and yours might eventually escape and do something embarrassing like eating your neighbor’s free-range chickens or mauling their toddler. Besides, I’m not entirely sure it’s legal to chain a wild coyote in your backyard. Maybe a pit bull. They’re pretty safe, but if cat meat makes it deranged by blood lust, what are you going to do? Buy a tiger? That’s just ridiculous. Where does it end? Maybe the thing to do is to buy a Havahart trap and bait it with some Friskies and maybe relocate the cat to a shelter where it can find a new home far away from your garden. And if the trap should bounce off the back of your flatbed on the way to the shelter as you’re driving across the South First Street Bridge at 3am … well, at least you tried, didn’t you?

Toftation Island

The Luv Doc

February 24, 2012

Chronicle parties nearly always degenerate into depraved, drug-swilling freak shows that last into the wee hours. On the one hand, it’s goddamned shameful to see grown adults carrying on in such a reckless, irresponsible manner, but it’s also a lot of fun to watch. Besides, when you’re killing brain cells at such an alarming pace, you want to make memories that are monstrous enough to withstand the denudation of a dozen shots of Old Crow or a paper sack full of glue fumes. It would be easy to blame this behavior on the enormous stress Chron employees are under as standard-bearers for a dying industry, but the truth is we have easy access to media-whoring celebrities with bottomless wallets and a neurotic need for attention. That shit makes for some pretty insane throw-downs. Remember Matthew McConaughey’s drum circle? Last Saturday night was no exception as former Luv Doc proofer/current advernatrix Kristine Tofte celebrated her birthday at the Liberty, a popular night spot on East Sixth. The party was originally planned as a backyard blowout at Tofte’s private residence, “Toftation Island,” but was relocated to the Liberty after the weekend’s torrential rains turned it into exactly that. Rumors were buzzing around the bar that KISS-FM morning DJ and social butterfly Bobby Bones bankrolled the move to the Liberty on the condition that partygoers “get Boned” on his signature drink, the Milk Bone – a frothy mixture of whole milk and butterscotch schanpps. Bearded partiers (which ironically made up nearly half of the Liberty’s clientele Saturday) sported white “bonestaches” for most of the evening. Tofte, in true Chronicle form, augmented her Bone Buzz with a baker’s dozen of whiskey shots followed by a monster hit from a Marley-sized spliff shared by Black Pistol Fire drummer Eric Owen and fellow Canadian/black helicopter spotter Alex Jones – or at least his stoned doppleganger. Not surprisingly, Tofte blacked out around midnight. I must have been really baked on secondary smoke because I swear I saw Tour d’ Unamerica winner Lance “Lefty” Armstrong made a grand entrance in a gold-trimmed litter held aloft by a retinue of towering footmen that included Butthole Surfers fronter Gibby Haynes, Nobel juggler Turk Pipkin, country crooner Bruce Robison, KLBJ-FM DJ Dale Dudley, Texas swinger Ray Benson, and former rock god Robert Plant, who looked exhausted but also greatly relieved that he wasn’t trapped in Patty Griffin’s Hyde Park bungalow baking cookies. Mr. Plant livened up the party considerably when he produced a mason jar full of cocaine. Shortly before sunrise, the jar was finally emptied when Chron proofer/poet/author Sarah Smith and Sports Editor Mark Fagan snorted the last of its contents off Armstrong’s bare torso as he screamed, “I’m a one-percenter, bitches! One percent body fat!” Sure, it sounds kind of dickish now, but you really had to be there.

The Jaw-Dropping Hammer of Thor

The Luv Doc

February 17, 2012

Dear Luv Doc, A few nights ago, I had a dream that I was getting coffee at Spider House, and when I reached for my wallet, I wasn’t wearing pants or underwear. Nobody seemed to notice. What does that mean? – Commando

Maybe it means you were wearing a kilt or a miniskirt, neither of which are particularly uncommon at Spider House. If, on the other hand, you were wearing camo coveralls, a Ducks Unlimited cap, and a pair of Wolverines, then you might raise a few eyebrows. Folks at Spider House are reasonably open-minded, but there are limits. As far as your dream, however, there are a couple of things going on. First, you are apparently buck naked from the waist down. Traditional dream interpretation would suggest that missing such an important article of clothing indicates a fear of being unprepared. You may actually be an ex-Boy Scout, but let’s not rule out the possibility that you have a subconscious desire to expose yourself to apathetic people – or at the very least, disaffected, jaded hipsters who have witnessed everything from Saran Wrap-smashed lesbian breasts and black hole spandex camel toe to the sun-wizened glutes of a cross-dressing homeless man in a leopard-print thong (snap into a Slim Jim!). Don’t take this as criticism, but as far as dreams go, you’re not really stretching yourself much creatively. Why not an adult Bible-study group at Riverbend or contestants in a toddler beauty pageant? Just saying – your plot could use a little punching up. Work on that. In the meantime, consider the possibility that you subconsciously need reassurance that your fun stick, while perhaps not the jaw-dropping hammer of Thor, is nonetheless adequate enough that it doesn’t inspire open mockery and derision. Don’t get smug, Commando. That’s just one possibility. The other factor in your dream is that your wallet is missing. Most dream interpreters would say losing your wallet indicates a need to be cautious about your finances or that you are losing touch with your true identity. Identity loss is some heavy shit, but I wouldn’t dwell on that too much. Losing your wallet might simply mean that you’re broke. No shame in that game. There are plenty of broke dudes with uninspiringly adequate packages – many of whom are reasonably well-known musicians – and they seem to do just fine. Not everyone in the world is a gold digger or a size queen. In fact, just like in your dream, most people are completely uninterested in your situation, regardless of how you stress about it. Let that knowledge be your strength, Commando. You probably have nothing to worry about – at least not in your dreams.

Teenage Drifters and Truck Stop Prostitutes

The Luv Doc

February 10, 2012

Dear Luv Doc,
Whenever I buy Neapolitan ice cream, my roommate eats the chocolate and leaves the vanilla and strawberry. What kind of person does that?
– Sarah

Sarah, your roommate is a sociopath. I don’t mean that in a hyperbolic, drama-queen kind of way. I mean it in a get-out-of-the-house-now kind of way. I could be wrong, but you may want to poke around down in the crawl space just to be sure. Wait a minute … hold off on that idea. Nothing good ever comes from poking around in a crawl space. Trust me. I’ve been there. Your crawl space may not be a catacomb full of rotting teenage drifters and truck stop prostitutes, but rest assured, there’s some scary shit down there: cobwebs, rat turds, mold, rust, roly-polies, and things that drop on your bare neck that feel exactly like a brown recluse and cause you to freak out and start thrashing around like an epileptic. Really, nobody in their right mind willingly goes into a crawl space unless there is some serious pay involved (like the kind of sick cheese plumbers make) or unless their immigration status is questionable. That’s why crawl spaces are popular for stashing corpses. Now admittedly, just because your roommate is a sociopath doesn’t necessarily mean he or she is also a serial-killing psychopath, but really, do you want to roll the dice on that one? Of course not. So before you resort to a drastic measure like inspecting your crawl space, you might want to check something a bit less dangerous, like your roommate’s car. Is it a windowless van with curtains behind the driver’s seat? Are there clowns and balloons and candy painted on the side? Are there Beanie Babies all over the dashboard, bloody handprints on the inside of the windows? If you answered “yes” to any of the preceding, you might want to consider making your roommate selection process a little more rigorous. In fact, if a potential roommate drives a windowless van and isn’t a superhot touring musician, you should politely move on to the next applicant. Same deal for anyone who drives a Hummer or a Camaro, but that goes without saying, doesn’t it? Actually there is a whole laundry list of signs someone might be a bad roommate: Does he/she never blink? Track marks? Rotten teeth? Twitchiness? Extra-long pinkie nail? Pierced tongue? World of Warcraft tattoo? Vibram Fivefingers? Regardless, as far as roommates go, your goose is already cooked. At least you know what you’re dealing with. Your best bet now is to buy a handgun and hire a bodyguard and a food taster.