Austin360 blogs > Miss Adventure > Archives > 2005 > November
November 2005
Harry Potter and the Bathtub of Awkwardness
Saw the new “Harry Potter” last night. Not that I’m a big Potterhead or whatever they’re called but since the original Harry Potter was my breakup movie I thought I might give it a go (breakup movie: n. single movie played ad nauseum in complete darkness while viewer mopes, weeps and worries about ending up old, alone and possibly consumed by her own blood thirsty legion of feral cats.)
I wasn’t moved. There was very little joy in the movie, very little of the youthful charm that made the first three movies endearing if not intriguing. This film just missed the mark for me. Alan Rickman, so deliciously stern in the previous two films was wasted in this one and there was an uncomfortable scene with a maturing Harry ostensibly nude in a bubble bath as the objet d’amor of Moaning Myrtle, a predatory flirt of a ghost who haunts the lavatory where she was killed as a schoolgirl.
See? Very. Uncomfortable.
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Happy Birthday Handsome Joel
Sorry that this was posted late. Holidays and all. But the information still works.
I can’t remember the date, or even the year I made my first foray into Austin nightlife, but I remember who helped me along. I was barely 21 and barring annual trips to the Kennedy Center and one journey to the legendary jazz club Blues Alley where, at 13 years old, I accidentally set my hair on fire while waiting for Maynard Ferguson to take the stage, I was a complete novice to the live music experience.
It was seven years later with much shorter hair that I took my maiden voyage into Austin’s live music scene. Wide-eyed and clueless I arrived at Emo’s dressed for “the theattah� in beautifully draped satin pants, a cashmere sweater set and pearls. I took a look at the tattooed and tattered folks inside, and realized with dread these terrifying people (spikes! leather! ill-tailored pants!) would murder me until dead and then probably make off with my pearls, my Volvo or both.
It was Handsome Joel, the sly-eyed doorman with the quick smile and who chatted me up, talked me down and set my mind at ease. We weren’t friends, but he stamped my wrists more than anyone in town and although I’m sure he forgot me, just one in a steady stream of young and clueless, I never forgot the kindness he showed me. In the early morning of Jan. 27, 2003 Joel was hit by a drunken driver just a few blocks from where I’m sitting now. By that afternoon he was pronounced dead. Now love letters to HJ litter ladies room walls all up and down Red River and the lights of the entertainment district are a little dimmer.
I’m not going to go on about how awful drunken driving is, or the fragile ephemeral nature of life itself. You know all that. Instead I’m going to tell you to get out, go dancing and support the Handsome Joel Foundation by attending the Annual Handsome Joel Birthday Bash festivities.
Sat. Nov. 26 - Room 710 with Black Novas & Double Knot Spies
Sun. Nov. 27 - Beerland with Honky & Los Hispanos UK.
(OK, these are over by the time this blog was published, but…)
There will be HJ merch, a raffle and plenty of rock and roll.
Just remember to designate a driver. As a friend of Handsome Joel once said:
“Don’t drink and drive, you might kill somebody cooler than you�
Permalink | | Categories: By Rhiannon Gammill
Home sweet home (a love story with beer)
If I were the sort of girl who kissed things incapable of mixing cocktails I would be lips-to-dirt right now making out with the sweet, sweet Texas soil.
In three days I did serious time in Annapolis, Md. (home of the U.S. Naval Academy, i.e. the only place where it’s okay to wear pure white year round), Washington, D.C., and Richmond, Va. Three places full unto bursting with tradition, culture and really impressive statues of guys in wigs.
Would you like to know what I found out?
There is NO Lone Star beer to be found anywhere! Not even a little. Not a droplet, not a bubble and certainly not an ice cold tall boy which isn’t-technically-even-very-good-but-by-gum-it’s-Texan-so-I’ll-drink-it-darnit.
And thus I have made my way home. Through BWI, an airport bigger than the nation of Peru, through Cincinnati Airport which isn’t even in Ohio, much less Cincinnati, and when I landed in Austin, lovely, wonderful Austin, what did I see but a bearish man wheeling across baggage claim?
Four cases of Lone Star Beer.
God Bless Texas. I’m glad to be home.
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There’s no place like home
Don’t cry for me Austin, Texas. The truth is I never left you. Although technically I did because I’m on the East Coast on vacation. When I return, however I’ll entertain you will great stories of Why Austin Is Better Than Everywhere Else (hint: it involves tequila) and the various nightlives of a few Eastern seaboard towns (see above hint).
Until then I remain your faithful blog-girl,
Miss Adventure
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Live! Nude! Blogs!
I can’t say I’m especially excited about La Bare, the “ultimate ladies club” due to open in the former Sidekicks venue on the currently nightmarish corner of Riverside Drive and South Congress. One, I’m uncomfortable with that much mercenary gyration so close to my place of employment, but mostly I recall the words of William Butler Yeats (or was it Margaret Cho?) “I can get gay men to dance naked in my apartment for free.”
Readers poll (or should I say pole?): Since the shelf-life of a club in that venue is only slightly longer than a particularly robust fruit fly, I don’t think it’s too early to come up with suggestions for the next reincarnation. Could it be the stylish gay bar so clearly missing from the ‘04? Maybe a live music venue along the lines of the Cactus Cafe? Personally, I think it’s high time Austin gets its own permanent burlesque.
What do you think?
I’ll post the most entertaining answers in tomorrow’s blog.
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Must See Monday, Tyrant Tuesday
What’s better than sitting in the dark drinking gin and tonics while watching cult tv shows with your dog? Sitting in the dark drinking gin and tonics while watching cult tv shows with the fine folks at Beerland.
Each Monday evening from 7 to 9 p.m. Beerland shows consecutive episodes of “Twin Peaks” (scary music! strange neighbors! scrunch perms!)and “Carnivale” (I got nothin’. I’ve only seen one episode). Unfortunately I had a date with some pie crust and 4 to 6 pounds of peeled and sliced jonagold apples last night so I missed it.
With all baking behind me, tonight I’ll be part of the fun loving crowd lining up to see Barfield, The self-proclaimed Tyrant of Texas Funk. His version of Screamin’ Jay Hawkins’ “I Put a Spell On You” is one of the sexiest I’ve heard, on par with the definitive cover (if there is such a creature) by legendary Nina Simone.
Barfield plays the late show on Tuesdays in November at the Continental Club on South Congress and the “Barfield Shuffle” alone is worth the $5 cover.
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Wow, you guys put out!
A big thanks to all the folks who submitted their top artists. Many of whom I agree with (Tom Waits), some of whom I don’t (Dave Matthews Band) and one I even dated (not a chance I’m going to tell).
In my highly mathmatical selection procession involving the words eenie and meenie, I am pleased to present the lists of drag performer Toni Gnosis, Red River royal Miss Betty Cash and former Texas Rollergirls Penalty Princess (and new momma) Jill “Hotwheels” Farris.
To see the full list please check the comments area.
Toni Gnosis 1. Flametrick Subs 2. Johnny Cash 3. Morrissey 4. Elvis Costello 5. Nick Drake
Miss Betty Cash 1. Pushmonkey 2. Mingo Fishtrap 3. George Devore 4. The Hairy Apes 5. Blue October 6. Patrice Pike *Betty also listed The Flametrick Subs and The Bloody Tears
Jill “Hotwheels” Farris 1. Jeff Buckley 2. Scissorfight 3. Kyuss 4. The Ramones 5. Duran Duran
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Take your best friend to Hell’s Kitchen
Have you eaten at Hell’s Kitchen? You should. This treehouse treasure of Red River Street looks over the patio at Headhunters and offers surprisingly tasty food with a tiki flare. Hell’s Kitchen is pet and smoker friendly; the decor is Gilligan glam. Last Tuesday a friend and I shared a giant spicy chicken bacon sandwich and pineapple glazed eggrolls and escaped for under 10 bucks, minus tip. They even brought a bowl of water for my pooch, proving despite the tough name these natives really are friendly.
Now it’s your turn!
In my last blog I revealed my musical trinity (Johnny Cash, Lou Reed and Mitch Ryder) and now I want to know yours. Who are the three bands or artists you hold above the rest? Can’t pick just three? Give me five. I would have added Leonard Cohen and Lux Interior to my list with Nina Simone coming barely missing the top 5.
So sock it to me and I’ll list a random selection of entries on tomorrow’s blog!
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(Bloody) Tears of Joy
The pantheon of my musical religion is guided by a holy trinity of artists, Johnny Cash, Mitch Ryder and Lou Reed — so talented and innovative, it’s rare for me to compare any modern act to their legendary ones. So it’s with great gravity that I say The Bloody Tears is the closest I’ll ever come to seeing Mitch Ryder and the Detroit Wheels circa 1965. These guys are trouble; all sharkskin soul with a powder keg punch that’ll knock you out and leave your tail feather shaking long after the set is done. Their next show is at Maggie Mae’s on Dec. 17 and I highly recommend it.
That being said I feel it’s my journalistic duty to reveal The Bloody Tears’ harmonica player Randall “Freaklip� Stockton has given me beer. In fact, he gave me my first beer.
Back to the days of yore (2002) a wide-eyed blogger set out one Saturday night and made her first excursion to the happiest place on Earth: Beerland, Texas. Back then I was but a foolish creature who did silly things like arrive at places before midnight and wear open-toed shoes in the presence of drunken guys in boots. The bar was nearly empty and armed with nothing but a charge card, and naïveté, I sidled up to the bar and asked for “a beer.�
“What sort of beer?� asked Randall.
I didn’t know. I had been put off by beer since I was 16 and did a tour of duty in a house full of German physics students who brewed their own stout in the tiny shared kitchen and filled the house with awful smells.
Back to Beerland. Randall set out a dozen little cups and proceeded to fill them with anonymous beers while I chose my favorite from each group. After several minutes of sipping (and one outburst of “why?! why would you give that to someone?!) I decided on the one I liked the best; a creamy Guinness stout, thick as sin and twice as heavy. I ordered a pint and thanks to Randall, started what I hope to be a long and glorious career in the imbibing arts on the right, albeit inappropriately shod foot.
None of this has anything to do with his performance as part of the Bloody Tears, but I’d like to think it speaks to Randall’s nature and exactly how far he’s willing to go to ensure folks have a good time; a passion the entire Bloody Tears ensemble seems to share.
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Secrets and speeches
I try to keep this sort of thing out of my blog because I don’t really feel it’s appropriate, but desperate times call for desperate bloggers and well, I am one, so here; I’m about to come out. Ready?
I am not a Democrat.
I’m not. I didn’t vote for John Kerry, I harbor a semi-secret crush on Donald Rumsfeld and I really really dig free market capitalism. I worry about family values and have hopes to some day become an Episcopal priest. In short, I am exactly the sort of person whom you might think would have supported Proposition 2, outlawing gay marriage.
But I’m not, and I did not. Why? Because while I have an inexplicable crush on our pal Rummy (maybe a touch of the Stockholm?) I have a full out hearts-on-binders LOVE for Thomas Jefferson. You know, the good-looking guy on the nickel whose greatest hits include the Declaration of Independence, the Louisiana Purchase and the Library of Congress?
Now, I’m not going to get all eighth-grade civics class on you, but I’ve spent a large chunk of my life in Virginia (you know, where the history comes from* **), and while there I developed a healthy appreciation for TJ, especially his 1801 Inaugural Address. It’s a beautiful work and when he outlines the “essential principles of our government� he mentions first and foremost “Equal and exact justice to all men, of whatever state or persuasion.�
I don’t pretend to be an expert on Mr. Jefferson nor do I imagine for an instant that he was thinking sexual preference when he chose the word persuasion, but to me it doesn’t matter. Equal and exact justice. That’s it. That’s enough.
Or at least it should be.
*Yes I know they had Yankee history too, but seriously, Shakers and whatnot? Boring. Their furniture is overpriced and I don’t really even like quilts.
**Again, Eddie Izzard, if you’re reading this, don’t be mad I stole another one of your jokes. Just come and visit me. We can go make-up shopping and watch “The Italian Job” in French.
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Holly Holy Cow, it’s the Diamond Smugglers!
The Diamond Smugglers, tonight (Thursday) at the Continental Club. Seriously, go.
I’m not going to try to make this entry clever or smart or funny because there are some things just too important for literary coquettishness and a Diamond Smugglers show is one of them. First of all, it’s a Neil Diamond tribute band, but not just any Neil Diamond tribute band, no it’s a Neil Diamond tribute band that walks the line between full-out rock show and fetish-tinged performance art as fast as tight pleather pants and cream blush can carry them.
The Diamond Smugglers rarely play more than two shows a year. The only “steady” gig I know of is their SXSW showcase, always the final show of the festival at Emo’s, where the crowd, mostly exhausted South-by staff and veteran volunteers get together for the last hurrah and thank the Lord for the nighttime.
The band is tight, Neil is not so much an impersonator as a posturing, pouting force of open-shirted nature and I won’t even begin to tell you about the Smugglettes, the two sadistic background singers who bicker, sneer and snarl their way out of their costumes and into your hearts.
Do NOT miss it. In fact, you may want to come early because the Continental Club is built for speed, not size. Oh and be prepared to sing along, you know you’ll want to.
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5k closer to the cure
Sunday Morning, Nov. 6. It’s hazy but cool and I’m gathered with 20,000 of my closest personal friends at Auditorium Shores to participate in the Susan G. Komen Race for the Cure 5k. Everyone was jumpy and chipper and not at all hung over, doing strange stretching maneuvers and mainlining “Fitness water” like they were extras in some overly health-conscious version of “Trainspotting”. This was my first 5k and next to all these freshly-scrubbed folks in nylon shorts and gleaming white t-shirts gathered from 5k’s past I felt like Winona Ryder at the end of “Heathers”, only not as put together. Oh, and there was crying. Not the wail of a girl who slept straight through brunch and is cruelly forced to make her own eggs Sardu, which is the typical style of tear I shed on a Sunday, no, there were actual real tears of human emotion. Crazy, but true.
See, both of my grandmothers are breast cancer survivors, and even though I say they beat it because they’re both too mean to die I know it’s not true. They were smart; annual mammograms led to early detection, but they were also lucky. As I milled around the starting grounds I saw names written with black sharpie on bright pink squares pinned on the back of the racers; many were the names of women who weren’t so lucky. The sweetest most heartbreaking ones were on the back of teenagers, gangly and awkward among so many thousand people. The squares simply said “In memory of MeeMaw” or “Baba.” I thought of my own silly names for my grandmothers (Grandmama and Gammie) and I got a little misty. Then came the Survivor march, the high pink flags floating in the air and hundreds of women walking behind it. I cried again in memory of the women who didn’t make it, in honor of those who did and from pride of being a part of something so important.
I know it’s trendy to be disenchanted with first-world humanity right now, and I’m not saying it’s completely wrong but last Saturday a dozen silly sad little members of the Ku Klux Klan, misguided and full of vitriol, came out to exercise their rights to free speech in support of Proposition 2, which would define marriage in the state of Texas as a union between one man and one woman. The next day over 20,000 people banded together to run and sweat and raise more than a half a million dollars for breast cancer research and treatment.
With odds like that I can’t help but think we’re on the right track. Let’s keep running.
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It’s not just for pirates anymore
Dear Reader,
How long do you suppose it would take one perfectly healthy blogger, prone to acts of ginger tea and leafy greens, to develop, through the exclusive and heartfelt consumption of Halloween-themed “fun size” candy bars, what is almost assuredly a mild case of the scurvy?
I say to you: four days. Definitely four days … and now I need an orange.
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