Austin Music Awards

March 15, 2011

Chances are that by Saturday you’ll want to strangle the shit out of anyone carrying an instrument case, sporting an outrageous hairstyle, or handing out any kind of printed material. “So your steampunk barbershop quartet has a 3am unofficial showcase at the Brixton? Well do-re-mi-fa-so what motherfucker?” By Saturday you’ll be sick of free beer but too broke to buy liquor. You’ll also be craving a salad but still eating free barbecue and Wonder Bread. In fact, by Saturday the only thing keeping your digestive tract flowing will be dangerous overdoses of ibuprofen and promotional vitamin C packages. Cannonball those in the morning with a couple of quarts of water, and you’ll experience a vigorous cleanse – something similar to what you’d get after a couple of weeks ingesting nothing but lemon water and cayenne, or drinking Tijuana sewer water. It’s best to travel light anyway, and by Saturday you will have reduced your club crawling essentials to flip-flops, a banana hammock (or daisy dukes), and a lanyard attached to a plastic pocket that contains your South by Southwest badge, ID, credit card, and a pair of dirt- and wax-covered swag earplugs pungent enough to be used as trolling bait for catfish. If those earplugs are that gamey, imagine what must be going on down in those daisy dukes … the only thing that’s keeping you from being trailed by a herd of feral cats is the fact that there are several hundred thousand other roving tuna canneries throwing them off the scent. Maybe you should take a short walk across the bridge to South Congress and pick up one of those overpriced Mexican sundresses. Yes, they’re the same dresses you can buy at the mercado in front of the Fiesta Mart for $15 a pop, but these have cute shit like hummingbirds and geckos silk-screened on them. Regardless of what you pay, Mexican sundresses offer superior ventilation, and if nature is overly insistent, you can cop a squat in the middle of Sixth Street and not cause a big scene. Easy enough, right? As thousands of doe-eyed musicians prove every year, it’s not easy to cause a big scene during SXSW. You have to be truly remarkable. It’s not enough to be a really awesome band that plays really awesome music. You have to be a really awesome band that plays really awesome music, dances like OK Go, dresses like Lady Gaga, and gives away free cocker spaniel puppies at every show. Why? Because the Perez Hilton party has Madonna performing with Justin Bieber on a leash in a gimp suit, free D.O.M and Beluga, a bouncy castle lubed with Astroglide, and gift baskets that include cocaine-filled Fabergé eggs and mittens made of baby seal fur. Oh yeah … and a tribe of pygmies is going to slaughter a bull elephant with machetes. “What was the name of your band again? Oh … that’s right … who gives a fuck?” By Saturday you’ll probably have that phrase tattooed on your forehead. Like every other SXSW attendee, you started out an innocent lover of music and ended up a bitter, jaded, and exhausted hater. Perfect! You are now ready to experience the Austin Music Awards. This Saturday the Chronicle will honor the bands that made it through the meat grinder of the live music capital of the world and came out on top – no small feat. Austin audiences feel like SXSW attendees do year-round, so when they recognize talent, it’s usually legit. Come see for yourself this Saturday at the Austin Music Hall. Yes, there will be awards, but also sizzling sets by the Wagoneers, Joe Ely, Sahara Smith, Will Sexton, Bubble Puppy, Bright Light Social Hour, the Meat Puppets, Roky Erickson, and the God-stomping, 18-piece orchestra Mother Falcon. If you see Mother Falcon and still want to choke the shit out of musicians, you’ll have your work cut out for you.

Mutton Bustin’ at Rodeo Austin

The Luv Doc Recommends

March 9, 2011

You didn’t spend all that money flying to Texas just to experience the same bullshit blue-state bourgeois brownnosing you were trying to get away from. Even though you knowingly signed up for the largest cultural conclave in the Western Hemisphere – a veritable clusterfuck of desperation, sycophancy, and unbridled egomania – somewhere in some naive corner of your heart you were hoping to walk out of the terminal at the Austin-Bergstrom International Airport and immediately mount a mechanical bull … ideally one with Scott Glenn at the controls, maybe wearing a black-mesh shirt. After all, your travel itinerary said Texas, not Greenwich Village. You came here to drink longnecks, gnaw barbecue off a mastodon-sized bone, and speak with a hostile disregard for the conventions of grammar – maybe even buy a faux-distressed straw cowboy hat for about 15 times what it costs to have some 7-year-old Chinese orphan weave it. Don’t worry about the orphan; think about how fly it will look with your Salvatore Ferragamo side-zipper boots! Besides, Texas is no place to get on your human-rights high horse – especially where kids are concerned. Texans will subject children to just about anything except a good education: kiddie beauty pageants, craft fairs, vacation Bible school, Chuck E. Cheese’s, greased-pig chasing, and perhaps the pinnacle of tough love, mutton bustin’. No, that’s not some obscure porn term like “flying camel” or “reverse cowgirl”; it’s an actual rodeo event in which children between the ages of 5 and 7 (weighing less than 55 pounds) ride bareback on sheep. Yes, you read that right. Hilarious, you say? Youbetcha! Like their older bull-riding counterparts, it’s rare when a brave/horrified little tyke doesn’t get flung haphazardly to the dirt. Rodeo ain’t for sissies. Plus, spectacularly awkward dismounts (rag doll windmills, somersaults with limbs akimbo, wicked face plants) are rewarded with gasps from the crowd, light beer shooting through nostrils, and, in certain instances, a ride in a real ambulance! Rest assured, nothing mans up a little cowboy (or -girl) like a white-knuckled thrill ride on the back of a terrified sheep. In L.A. or New York they might call that type of aggressive parenting abusive, but here in Texas, we call it Country Strong! Go ahead and wipe that condescending smirk off your face. We’re not complete barbarians. Thanks to the worrywarts nowadays, every kid who “chooses” to participate has to wear a helmet and a protective vest. Yes, it’s embarrassing, but it’s not as embarrassing as a rattail, face paint, or a pint-sized Cleveland Cavaliers jersey. Still, regardless of what your mind tells you about mutton bustin’, your gut is probably telling you it’s something not to be missed – like a donkey show in Tijuana, a hash house in Amsterdam, or the grotto at the Playboy Mansion. Yes, you’re going to feel a little dirty and somewhat morally compromised, but in the end you’ll have a memory that will last a lifetime. OK, ready? Time to go make some memories. Take a trip out to the Travis County Expo Center this Saturday for Rodeo Austin. Get your fill of carnival rides, funnel cake, Texas music, and the heady aroma of hay, manure, dust, and cotton candy! Mutton bustin’ starts at 7pm, so beer up early.

5X5Y: 25 Years of SXSW Music

The Luv Doc Recommends

March 2, 2011

If this year’s Academy Awards taught us anything, it’s that no matter how many successful flights you’ve had, you can’t just put the plane on autopilot and go take a nap in the back. Sure, it might work out … but there’s also a really good chance you’ll leave a charred crater in some wheat field in South Dakota. Last Sunday’s Oscars ceremony was a spectacularly ugly crash – at least metaphorically speaking. A few minutes after the now obligatory introductory montage, you could hear the air hissing out of the tires. It’s not that the hosts weren’t fascinating and charming. James Franco brought his trademark Cheshire-cat-holding-in-a-bong-hit smile, and Anne Hathaway brought her Disney princess looks, eight spectacular dresses, and more bubbly enthusiasm than any host in recent memory, but it still wasn’t enough to drag the dead horse of the Oscars across the finish line. No, that was left to a bunch of public school kids in T-shirts. T-shirts? WTFingF? It’s the Academy Awards, not Tosh.0. Surely the Academy has enough petty cash lying around to pimp each and every one of those kids out like Liberace … or at the very least Jay-Z. Instead, they were dressed like they were hired to pick up trash on the side of the interstate. Stay classy Oscar. Worse yet, the T-shirts had each kid’s respective chorus section printed on the front. Wow. Apparently the Academy thinks that kids who go to public schools in Staten Island must be too retarded to know where to stand without looking at the front of their T-shirts. Saving money by hiring a couple of noobs to host the awards is almost understandable (hey, with the type of sharp, pithy writing the Oscars are known for, a trained monkey could host, right?). In these tough economic times you have to think outside the box, but going cheap on the big closing number is just unforgivable. Those poor kids sang their hearts out, and all they got was a lousy T-shirt? Somewhere over the rainbow the dreams that you dare to dream really don’t come true … well, unless maybe you’re Charlie Sheen, who somehow managed to overcome the hardship of being born the son of a Hollywood celebrity by transforming himself into a tiger-blooded, bitchin’ rock star from Mars with the ability to turn tin cans into pure gold. Talk about pulling yourself up by your bootstraps … even if it is just to snort a line of coke off a porn star’s bare ass. If the Academy truly wanted an entertaining Oscars ceremony, it would have hired Charlie “Chuckles” Sheen. It would have cost the Academy a few million dollars and a briefcase full of blow, but it would have been a psychotic laugh riot of Alex Jones Show magnitude. Instead, the Academy got cocky (not unlike Sheen himself) and slaughtered its cash cow. The same could never be said of South by Southwest, the little local music festival that blossomed into the world’s largest – seemingly overnight. Well, not exactly. This year marks a full quarter-century of SXSW’s existence, and through all that time, the oversight of SXSW’s directors has been vigilant, perhaps even psychotically obsessive. It could easily be argued that this obsession fueled not only SXSW’s prolific growth, but Austin’s emergence as the cultural mecca of the Southwest. This Saturday at the Austin History Center you can hear two of SXSW’s directors, Roland Swenson and Louis Black talk about the last 25 years of the Festival in a panel discussion moderated by Texas writer Joe Nick Patoski. There will also be musical performances by locals Why Not Satellite, whose members actually played in the first SXSW, and Austin Music Award winners Schmillion, whose members weren’t even born yet. Later in the evening in Wooldridge Square Park will be a preview of the upcoming SXSW documentary Outside Industry: The Story of SXSW, as well as a screening of 1943 documentary Austin: The Friendly City.

That Takes the Cake! Sugar Art Show & Cake Competition: Caked Crusaders

The Luv Doc Recommends

February 23, 2011

Sure, you’re probably looking to hook up with someone who has an insatiable appetite for crazy monkey sex, but that kind of thing only lasts for a couple of decades or so … at most a half-century. After retirement age, the monkey won’t be able to hang upside down with a banana in its hand without throwing out its back. Worse yet, it probably won’t want to even if it can. Been there, done that, and really, even the biggest and best bananas get mushy after a while. Here’s something else to consider. Humans aren’t monkeys. Yes, they may share the same branch of the evolutionary tree, but humans are much weaker, fatter, and clumsier than monkeys. On the plus side, they have a lot less back hair. Intelligence? Questionable. Monkeys can’t tap out a text message while doing 40 mph in the passing lane on I-35. Then again, maybe they’re just fucking smart enough not to. Monkeys at the zoo sometimes fling their shit at people – which sounds dumb, but if you had to endure an endless parade of slack-jawed suburban manatees and their snot-nosed, cotton-candy-sticky-fingered rug rats every day, you’d start flinging poo too. Monkeys probably feel the same way about humans as basketball players feel about a 7-footer who can’t dunk: disgusted. All that wasted potential. Still, as lithe and athletic as monkeys are, you shouldn’t consider them the go-to source for monkey sex, even though – in Texas at least – what you and your monkey, donkey, or manatee do behind closed doors is your own damn business. We’re progressive like that. You might want to consider casting the net a bit wider than that when looking for a significant other however. You don’t have to set the bar too high, but perhaps consider a mate that doesn’t require a leash and a pooper-scooper. Don’t paint yourself into a corner just because you can’t think outside the crotch. How about someone with a more diverse skill set? A sense of humor is nice – especially for those awkward post-coital moments when your face is smashed into a drool-soaked pillow or you’re still dangling precariously in your fuck harness. Patience is a virtue. So is honesty … as in: “I honestly don’t know how to get this thing unbuckled. We may have to call the Fire Department.” How about cleaning skills? There is only so much you can cover with plastic and latex. Intelligence is always handy. It can sometimes get you out of sticky situations when physical dexterity can’t. It also greatly enhances conversational skills, which become more important as time goes on. Lastly, don’t underestimate the value of a good cook. Having someone who can fix you a decent sammich or a scintillating coq au vin may not seem that important now, but remember that many, many years from now, when your sensory bouquet mainly involves aches, pains, blurred vision, and muffled, indistinct sounds, the mouthwatering flavor of an exquisitely baked cherry pie may be the only thing that drags you out of bed in the morning. Monkey sex is a great way to fire out of the blocks, but cooking skills will get you across the finish line. If you can find someone who likes to bake, sweet! Just remember to not overindulge, or your monkey sex will start to look like hippopotamus wallowing. If you’d like to find someone who can bake but don’t know where to start, drive up to the North Austin Event Center this weekend for the Capital Confectioners’ Sugar Art Show & Cake Competition. From 10:30am to 6pm, cake-makers and sugar artists from the capital area will showcase their best work. Cakes from a variety of categories and divisions will be on display as well as superhero-themed cakes made by contestants from TLC’s Next Great Baker series. There will also be classes, demonstrations, raffle prizes, and a people’s choice award, as well as a special dinner-theatre screening of Kings of Pastry, a documentary about chef Jacquy Pfeiffer, who will also be in attendance. If you’re looking for someone who really knows what to do with a banana, check it out.

R.A.W. Fridays: DJ Kelly’s Vinylogical Warfare

The Luv Doc Recommends

February 16, 2011

Yes, there are bears in Austin. You might see one wading through the waters of Bull Creek or maybe hiking through the greenbelt, but if you really want to see bears in their natural habitat, your best bet is the Chain Drive on Willow Street. So maybe they’re not the type of bears you were hoping to see, but they’re much less dangerous. Plus, the bears at Chain Drive can dance, drink, and hold intelligible conversations. They also sport plenty of fur, if that’s what you’re into. Of course, Chain Drive isn’t just about bears … or cubs or grizzlies or otters or ewoks or wolves or gorillas; it’s about being comfortable with who you are, even if you’re a jock, a twink, or a queen. There’s some leather too. In fact, Chain Drive might be the closest thing Austin has to a leather bar, but on any given night you can probably find more leather at the Broken Spoke. (Hint to PETA activists: Google that shit, but make sure you roll strong.) That doesn’t mean you shouldn’t rock those assless chaps if you’re so inclined, just know that you’ll probably be rocking them solo if you do. You could probably do the same at the Spoke, but it’s doubtful you’ll make it past the door unless your butt fur has the density and color variation of a palomino pony – and really, if you’re paying your stylist that kind of money, you’re probably not hanging out at the Chain Drive. Why? There’s nothing high-dollar about it. It’s dingy, poorly lit, and has a Goodwill design aesthetic. There’s no dress code, valet parking, or stalls in the bathroom. And it’s perpetually rumored to be closing. In short, it’s exactly what every Austin bar used to be back before the trust-funders and condopolitans started taking over. Yes, they would love the Chain Drive … just enough to suggest maybe cleaning it up a bit, giving it a new paint job, and having a really good interior designer come in and adjust the feng shui. Pretty soon you have a valet stand, a douche in a headset with a list, and a roomful of people trying desperately to impress one another. More importantly, you’re paying $4 for a beer and $8 for a cocktail. Ew. It’s enough to make you want to start growing chest hair and wearing leather. Fortunately, at Chain Drive you don’t necessarily have to … and well drinks and beer are no more than $2 … some nights even less. That’s crazy affordable. Just remember: They don’t take credit cards, and parking is a bit of a bitch. Then again, if you want to party Downtown, parking is always going to be a bitch. Don’t be a hater; be a celebrater. Celebrate the fact that Austin still has a few remaining unpretentious establishments that, instead of hiring a designer to create a weathered look, actually have a weathered look. Woot! This Friday night you can enjoy some unpretentious fun at the Chain Drive with D.J. Kelly’s Vinylogical Warfare, a dance party that features classic rock, Eighties pop, and trash disco spun from original vinyl by a real, live bear! Cheapo drinks and old-skool dance music? Grrrrr!

Cleavage Chronicles: Everybody Loves Boobs

The Luv Doc Recommends

February 9, 2011

Boob is without a doubt America’s favorite palindrome – followed closely by tit. They are often used interchangeably, but unfortunately tit is a much harsher, drier sounding word – the pronunciation of which forces upon the speaker the beginnings of a sneer. Boob, on the other hand, has a full, soft, voluptuous sound. Its elocution resembles the shape a baby’s mouth makes when it is about to nurse. Cute huh? Here’s something even cuter: You can put a nipple on every letter in the word boob (sometimes two, depending on capitalization) and it doesn’t look out of place. In fact, there are very few words in the English language that serve as a better visual reference to the object they represent. Yes, boobs are objects – objects that for centuries have inspired objectification. It’s no wonder. Sometimes when you bump into a pair of 36DDs, it’s hard to remember that they’re attached to a living, breathing human being. Sometimes the only thing that can shake you out of your catatonic fixation is the phrase, “Hey buddy, my eyes are up here!” Even still, you’re probably thinking, “Well, touché, but how did you get yours unglued?” A lot of people don’t know it, but Dolly Parton plays nine instruments. Nine. Chances are you can’t even name one, but you probably know she calls her boobs “Shock and Awe.” Dolly is 5 feet 1 inch tall. Imagine Dolly saying, “My eyes are up here.” It’s hard to believe she would, especially considering that Dolly’s boobs aren’t entirely real – just like Dolly herself. Nine instruments. That’s unreal. The problem with objectification is that you might be missing out on a really interesting person behind the objects. Dolly’s boobs might be spectacular (even though they have objects sewn into them), but they still don’t play nine instruments or hit the high note on “I Will Always Love You.” Just because boobs are sometimes attached to a Pamela Anderson (she calls hers “Pancho and Lefty”) or an Anna Nicole Smith doesn’t mean that boobs are running the show. Sometimes they’re attached to a chubby, sweaty dude named Meat Loaf who is both a talented musician and actor. Technically though, Meat Loaf is rocking moobs, which are neither palindromic nor particularly attractive. Nonetheless, Meat Loaf probably still finds himself saying, “Hey buddy, my eyes are up here.” For whatever reason, be it some primal urge to get back on Mom’s nipple or an overexposure to Internet porn, Americans are fascinated with boobs. Maybe it’s because we get to see them so rarely, unlike, say, Ethiopian tribesman who get to see them all the time. “Did you see her boobs?” Yawn. “Nice enough I guess, but how about that plate in her bottom lip? Yowza!” It’s safe to say there probably aren’t a lot of breast augmentation clinics in Addis Ababa. In fact, plastic surgeons in those parts are probably too busy fixing cleft palates and other facial deformities to worry about installing impressive sets of funbags on the locals. Here in God’s country, however, the size of your rack is only limited by the size of your bank account … and perhaps the size of your self-esteem. Yes, America is breast obsessed, but we’re also obsessed with Jersey Shore, Justin Bieber, and Shape-ups, none of which are sufficient inspiration for elective surgery, unless it’s perhaps a lobotomy. Boobs come in all sizes and shapes, and though they’re fun to look at and play with, they’re just not that big a deal … unless they’re harboring something that could kill you – like breast cancer. That’s a big deal. It’s also a good part of the reason for Cleavage Chronicles: Everybody Loves Boobs, a cabaret-style multimedia musical comedy celebrating women and their breasts that takes place at the Vortex this Saturday. Everybody Loves Boobs boasts an exciting lineup of entertainers: Ruby Joule of the Jigglewatts, Class Act & the Dazzlin’ Dames Tap Dancers, and Miss Continental Plus. Proceeds benefit the making of Cleavage Chronicles: If These Girls Could Talk, a documentary to raise awareness and aid in the fight against breast cancer. It’s not like you need an excuse to look at boobs, but this is a pretty good one.

Drone: A Border Affair That Crosses a Line

The Luv Doc Recommends

February 2, 2011

Austin is just teeming with people engaged in weird, quirky, and interesting creative endeavors. Wherever do they find the time and energy? How do they put in a full day’s work then go home and work even harder on their art? Here’s a little secret: Some of them don’t even have jobs. How awesome is that? Hey, if you’re truly intent on being an artist, it doesn’t hurt to have a lot of time on your hands, and you can’t spend much time in Austin without some serious money, right? In fact, if you don’t have a lot of money, why are you even here? Nothing sucks worse than being poor in a playground for the rich, so tap into that trust fund and start participating in the ongoing juvenile fantasy of Austin! Stay out late, make the scene, party all night, sleep in, get breakfast tacos at 11am. Austin was made for you. Smoke a lot of dope, play Frisbee golf, ride your fixie, make some home brew, and every once in a while maybe take a crack at that artistic thing you’ve been working on. If you get bored with too much leisure time, you can always start your own business – perhaps a food trailer that specializes in kombucha and raw food? Or how about opening a vinyl record store? Sure only about .0003% of the population actually listens to vinyl records anymore, but market research and business plans are for people who have no true passion for what they do. The most important thing about opening a business is that it’s something that you love, and if what you love is badminton, then rock out with your shuttlecock out. Business might be slow at first, but it’s bound to catch on. Plus, there is probably a space for lease between Geode World and Unicornz “R” Us now that Just Ferrets went out of business. Man … who could have seen that coming? Maybe retail isn’t your bag. Fair enough. Maybe you’re more cut out for the life of a traditional artist. Fucking score, right? Who knew you had talent? No one probably – especially if you’ve never done art before. Don’t let that stop you. Just start painting shit. No, not dogs playing poker or the guy staring into a metallic globe at the reflection of a guy staring into a metallic globe (ad infinitum), but something interesting … like watercolors of kittens wearing clown hats or maybe baby torsos with wolf heads. That should definitely shake up the art world. If it doesn’t, maybe your talents are in the area of sculpting. The only way to know for sure is to buy a welding rig and a couple of tons of pig iron. What could go wrong with that? If all else fails, you could always try performance art. No, not karaoke. Your artistic message is much deeper than that. You’ll probably want to start with an interpretive dance that explores the oppressive totalitarianism of Stalin-era Russia … maybe with some feces smearing worked in, just to add to the sensory bouquet. With theatre, the possibilities are endless. If you can conceive it, you can probably achieve it … at least theatrically. Just open up and let it flow. In theatre as in art, nothing is wrong … just different. ¡Viva la diferencia! If you want to check out some different theatre this weekend, try Friday night’s performance of Drone: A Border Affair That Crosses a Line, a comedic satire about boy and girl drone pilots who patrol the Texas border … remotely as it were. The plot alone sounds awesome, but guess what? It’s a musical! With a live fourpiece band! And it’s brought to you by the Crank Collective, which may or may not have something to do with meth. Either way, it sounds like a teeth-grinding good time!

Beard Prom

The Luv Doc Recommends

January 26, 2011

American Legion Hall

Your beard may look ridiculous, but here’s some good news: You can shave it off. You can’t say that about your My Chemical Romance armband tattoo. Sure, you might have been a cutter, but you probably don’t have the sack (or unexpressed emotional pain) for a bloodbath like that. Maybe it’s best that you stick with grungy long-sleeve shirts, ratty jorts, and the type of beard Moses brought back with the Ten Commandments. After all, God has a beard, and He made us in His image, right? Of course by that reasoning, God must have an uncircumcised penis, an appendix, and possibly a disturbing amount of back hair. Jesus, on the other hand, was circumcised, but only because circumcision is prescribed in the Bible, which, it turns out, is the word of God. How perfect is that? Jesus also rocked a beard, but unlike God, his was more of a high school guidance counselor beard – the kind you wear to show you have feelings. As for back hair – apparently that went out with the Old Testament. If current trends are any indication, however, back hair is poised to make a comeback. No one could have imagined that so many seemingly intelligent young men would willingly abandon thousands of years of personal grooming evolution just so they could hide their ironic smirks. That would be crazy … especially now that the Gillette Fusion ProGlide is available. Five blades, motherfucker, five blades! Not even Axe’s ball scrubber can outshine that type of brilliance. One blade lifts. One blade cuts. The other three define the term “redundancy.” Oh those scruffy-faced, dirty-sacked old-timers with their twin blades and shower puffs! Such crude and ineffective implements are enough to make men abandon grooming altogether. Maybe that explains why so many young men these days look like Tom Hanks in Cast Away. Then again, maybe it doesn’t. There is a certain hipster cachet in sporting a look that says, “I’m just too lazy to give a fuck,” even when you aren’t. And really, the harder you work that angle, the more it seems like you’re trying. You think Billy Gibbons just woke up one morning and said, “What is all this shit?” Well actually, considering the copious amounts of drugs ZZ Top probably has access to, that’s a real possibility, but if you’re walking around sporting Ambrose Burnside-style mutton chops or a Rollie Fingers handlebar mustache, you’ve fully crossed the Rubicon of mindless sloth and into the territory of consciously cultivated narcissism. No shame in that game, just own up to it. Better yet, flaunt it. This Confederate generals facial-hair craze isn’t going to last forever. Soon enough Gillette will invent a pre-lubed razor with seven blades, and we’ll all be as smooth and hairless as a baby’s ass. If you’re running short on places to flaunt your chin varmint, you’re in luck this Friday, because that’s when the Austin Facial Hair Club is throwing its first-ever Beard Prom, a full evening dedicated to the celebration of that which makes you look more heterosexual than you really are. You know … facial hair. Check it: Appetizers, raffle tickets, prom photo booth, DJs from Second Sunday Sock Hop, and, most importantly, an open bar. That alone is worth growing a quick George Michael.

Austin Gorilla Run

The Luv Doc Recommends

January 19, 2011

City Hall

Jogging is uncomfortable, time consuming, hot, sweaty, boring, and, most of all, exhausting, but jogging in a gorilla suit is just fucking silly. Really. There’s no way to sugarcoat it. Not even a gorilla would jog in a gorilla suit … and not just because it would be creepy, but because gorillas, being primates, are smarter than that. Unlike those of us higher up the primate order, gorillas know what it’s like to actually wear a gorilla suit, and there are just certain things you don’t do in a gorilla suit. One of those is jog. Beat your chest? Check. Jump up and down with your arms curled at your sides? Yep. Swing through the trees on vines? Of course. Delouse your buddies? Definitely. Jog? Nuh-uh. Why go to all that effort when you could be lollygagging around in the grass munching on foliage? Gorillas can run, yes … on their hind legs even. They max out at about 20 feet – which is plenty enough distance for even the most ambitious primate. Why should humans in gorilla suits be any different? Besides, you don’t need to run in a gorilla suit to realize it’s a bad idea. Just put one on and wait a few minutes. There’s nothing like polyester fur and black rubber for working up a prolific schvitz. As long as you’re at it, you might as well pop some peyote and make it a real sweat lodge experience. You may not cross the finish line, but once the mescaline kicks in, you won’t even remember you were racing to begin with. Look at it this way: Anytime you wear a gorilla suit, it’s a vision quest, so you might as well make it official. Those eyeholes don’t offer a lot of peripheral – just enough of a window to let in a little fresh air, a margarita straw, or the wet tongue of a mischievous friend. After all, if you’re wearing a gorilla suit, you pretty much have to expect to get pranked. It’s part of the territory. You can’t go sashaying around town in a gorilla suit without consequences. What self-respecting gang of disaffected adolescents would allow you to pass within a stone’s throw and not chuck a few at you? You should expect a fair ration of slaps on the ass, “kick me” signs, and occasional mountings by Great Danes … or even just plain Danes. Danes are fetishy like that. Oh well, if you’re going to draw attention to yourself, you have to expect some of it to be negative, right? One thing is for certain, a big (or even small) group of gorillas, whether fake or real, is going to attract attention, and that’s the point, really. The plight of the mountain gorillas in Central Africa doesn’t get a lot of play here in Central Texas. We’ve got our own species to endanger and enough genuinely good causes to keep us impoverished until kingdom come. A city can only do so much, right? Austin may be nearly tapped out philanthropically, but when it comes to a sense of irony and a love of dorkiness, our wealth is limitless. This is exactly what makes Saturday’s first-ever Austin Gorilla Run so ingenious. It might be difficult to get a few hundred people to fork over money for endangered mountain gorillas that are half a world away, but getting people in Austin to run around in gorilla suits? Slam dunk! That’s exactly the type of ridonkulous nerdfest that whips the locals into a lather. This Saturday you can join those locals as they run, walk, skate, and bike their way through the streets of Austin in support of the mountain gorillas. Plus, after it’s all over, you get to keep the gorilla suit … and maybe even all the new silly friends you made.

FronteraFest Short Fringe

The Luv Doc Recommends

January 12, 2011

Hyde Park Theatre

Not all silence is awkward. Some silence is golden. Some silence is blissful. Some silence is deadly – especially the silence that happens in the Car2Go after a gluttonous, hog-trough-feeding binge at Mr. Natural. Raise the little white flag and roll down the window. Some people are silent – sometimes, we are told, a majority of them. Others are singularly silent, often for reasons unknown to anyone else. Some people just like to keep people guessing. Confucius once said, “It is better to remain silent and be thought a fool than to speak and remove all doubt.” It’s a good bet that some wiseass at the back of the room followed that platitude with: “Hey Confucius! Shut the fuck up!” Ironically, the Confucian silence quote is also attributed to Abraham Lincoln, who could have used a little less silence at Ford’s Theatre. If only someone would have shouted: “Duck Abe! He’s got a gun!” It probably seemed like a foolish thing to shout at the time, what with the play going on and all. Some silent people are thoughtful and intelligent; others are just plain stupid. It’s sometimes hard to tell them apart. Some silent people are scary, which is an excellent argument for not encouraging silence. With silent types, you really never know what’s bouncing around up there. It might be the cure for cancer or an elegantly proven grand unified field theory, but it might be a screenplay for The Human Centipede. The scary truth is that there are some things in life you may not want to know but probably should before it’s too late. Terrorists aren’t particularly chatty – neither are Mafia hit men. Why would they be? Dead people don’t talk. If they did, the first thing they would probably say is, “I wish someone would have said something.” After all, isn’t the hallmark of evolutionary advancement the ability to communicate? Isn’t that what separates us from the rest of the animal kingdom? Who knows? Oysters might be some wicked-smart motherfuckers, but until they learn to use their words or, to set the bar slightly lower, develop a brain stem, their lot in life is to be served on the halfshell. Being able to build your own home and make your own jewelry isn’t proof of intelligence – no matter what Martha Stewart would have you believe. Where does that leave the starfish? Let it speak for itself. The important thing is that everyone should speak up so we know who the stupid, crazy, and scary people are. That, in essence, is the genius of the First Amendment: Calling out the crazies so we can keep an eye on those bastards. Censorship only drives the nut jobs underground – where they’re more dangerous. So the next time you hear something spoken that is completely, abominably outrageous, make sure to send up a hearty hurrah! Help keep all the crazies in the open so they don’t sneak up and stab us in the back. Support free speech in all its glorious and disturbing forms. Speaking of, you can get a bit of both at FronteraFest, Austin’s own fringe theatre festival. The Short Fringe runs through Feb. 12 at Hyde Park Theatre, and the Long Fringe runs through Jan. 30 at the Salvage Vanguard Theater and the Blue Theatre. This Thursday you can catch a full night of Short Fringe performances at the Hyde Park Theatre. Check out Elevator Action, a comedic journey on an improvised elevator; The Priceless Slave, the true story of an antebellum slave architect; Dirty, Nerdy and Unemployed, poetry by Jacob Dodson; Route 307, an autobiographical sketch about the life of a mailman; and a sketch comedy performance called 4 Hole Punch. Rest assured, if there is silence on this night, it will probably be awkward.