Statesman > XL Blogs > Archives > 2005 > June
June 2005
We’ve moved
XL Blogs have gotten a makeover. The folks you’re used to reading here have all broken off into our individual blogs (but don’t worry — we’re totally staying friends).
Keep up with the eclectic and erudite Michael Barnes at Out and About.
Omar Gallaga, to whom I need to return many, many borrowed DVDs, gets all smart and techy at Digital Savant.
Rhiannon Gammill, the living legend of Red River Street, writes Miss Adventure, and Dave Thomas keeps it real at Bottlecaps & Wingnuts
Me? I’m over at Tex and the City.
Also part of our XL blog family are Diane Holloway’s On TV and Matt Thompson’s video-game blog, Pretty Flashing Lights.
If you’ve been reading us on a news aggregator, please change your feed. Because we’d miss you if you didn’t. Here’s a handy list of all the feeds:
Bottlecaps & Wingnuts http://www.austin360.com/blogs/content/shared-gen/blogs/austin/bottlecapsandwingnuts/index.xml
Digital Savant http://www.austin360.com/blogs/content/shared-gen/blogs/austin/digitalsavant/index.xml
Miss Adventure http://www.austin360.com/blogs/content/shared-gen/blogs/austin/missadventure/index.xml
On TV http://www.austin360.com/blogs/content/shared-gen/blogs/austin/tvblog/index.xml
Out & About http://www.austin360.com/blogs/content/shared-gen/blogs/austin/outandabout/index.xml
Pretty Flashing Lights http://www.austin360.com/blogs/content/shared-gen/blogs/austin/videogames/index.xml
Tex & the City http://www.austin360.com/blogs/content/shared-gen/blogs/austin/texandthecity/index.xml
Permalink | Comments (1) | Categories: By Sarah Lindner
Follow the trail
Meant to attend an art opening at Shoreline Grill, but missed the bulk of it, so landed instead at McCormick and Schmick’s. The long bar, with its busy, upbeat attendants, is perfect for street-watching (the restaurant is below sidewalk level), sipping a Tito’s with lemon and sampling the seafood appetizers.
Peeked into Glass, the new upscale bar at Fifth and Congress, which, in fact, is swathed in heavy fabric, while Fabric, the new gay bar that shares the same building, is all clean lines and cool lighting. Huh. Lingered at Fabric, which feels like a cross between Oslo and Apple (the owners of Apple launched this spot, with its great, curving bar, comfy lounge niche and enclosing dance floor).
Then it was off to La Zona Rosa for the Dennis Quaid Charity Weekend opener. The first band (I’m pretty sure it was Dan Dyer) was very good, but wrong for such a big hall — and a downer. Then came Buddy Quaid’s roots/country/rock band, which proved eminently competent, but uninspiring. Finally, out come Dennis and the Sharks, thrashing, growling, raising the audience’s temp to a boiling point. Ducked out before guests such as Robert Rodriguez joined him onstage. Hard to believe Dennis is 51.
Permalink | | Categories: By Michael Barnes
The cruise report
So here’s the recap of the Alaska cruise. Seven nights. Three ports. Many Dramamine.
Life’s sweetest reward: There is a misconception that one spends a cruise rolling naked in prime rib, burying one’s face in giant creampuffs. Nothing so decadent happened on my watch. The food was decent, though — and certainly scads better than on my first cruise. We ditched the formal dining room, which means that somewhere there’s a very angry waiter who wanted out tips, and went to the casual cafe every night. I was pleased with the tasty soups, salads, antipasti and stir-fry, and flat-out enraptured with the suspiciously decadent low-fat frozen yogurt. But there were some surprising misfires. I revised my rule that in a ramekin=good. And how do you mess up just a plain old hunk of cheese? Sarah confused. Head hurt.
Come aboard, we’re expecting you: Want to see our ship? Pretty cool, eh? There was even actual art all over the ship, and it touched my heart my heart that someone went to the effort to make this happen.
An irrational pet peeve of mind is that various places onboard had names and, the cruise line tried to convince us, unique identities. As if someone had decided to open up a hot new nightclub and it just happens to be on Deck 13.
And I had a lot of trouble finding my way around the ship. I went upstairs when I should have gone down. Sometimes I had to circle around a few times to find the exit to the cafe. But the cruise line cannot be blamed for this.
Fellow travelers were occasionally problematic. After we spent the day in Juneau, my dad overheard two other passengers pondering what the capital of Alaska was. They decided it was Anchorage.
One evening, we sailed into prime whale-watching territory. Suddenly, everyone was Captain Ahab, freely tossing around phrases like “He’s breaching!” I also heard a lot of this: “Hey, there’s one … oh, wait. That’s a wave.”
Your ship’s crew: My stateroom attendant’s name was Vaughan. I kept him expecting him to turn to me and say “My name isn’t really Vaughan …” and then get smashed by a breaching whale.
At first, I thought Vaughan was emotionally withholding because he wouldn’t fold my towels into animal shapes, but on Thursday, there was a little towel dog waiting on me. Or maybe it was an elephant.
Constantly haunting me was the disembodied voice of Allan, our cruise director. Really, by the second day, he could have just begun his announcements with “Hey, it’s Allan, what’s up?” but he never failed to remind us that he, Allan, was our cruise director. I was worried that Allan, my cruise director, had been up for about three weeks solid, concocting exciting shipboard activities for me, but not worried enough to actually partake of them. Not the art auction, not karaoke, not even Strippers of the Sea, which I feared might involve seeing way too much of Allan, my cruise director.
On a friendly shore: Off the ship, our fate was often in the hands of tour guides, and that was indeed a gamble. I missed this, but I’m told that one of the guides instructed the group to do “moose waves” This apparently involved sticking your thumbs in your ears and flapping your hands as if they were moose antlers. I know — it makes no sense to me either. This is the kind of thing that will win you the enmity of my family. Later, we took a blood oath to destroy the guide and her people, no matter how many generations it might take.
I think I was the sole Lindner grumpy enough to be bugged by another guide, whose every sentence had both unnecessary pauses and ended on an up note, as if it were a question. Like this: “We …are the rainiest … city in the nation?” Wishing very, very hard did not make my iPod Shuffle fly to me from the ship.
On the other hand, low-key Ian, who walked us through a rainforest, had appropriate inflections and did not try to make anyone dance the hokey-pokey or something like that.
And the helicopter pilot my brother and I had on our glacier tour totally rocked. My mom, who was in another copter, said it looked like he was being more daring than her pilot, which made us feel quite “Top Gun.”
Set a course for adventure: I have a lot of problems with how often cruise lines use the word “adventure” to try to get you to take cruises. I’m not trying to disparage the experience at all, but I think for an adventure you need a pickup truck and guns.
That said, you can do some neato things on a cruise. We saw four glaciers on the helicopter tour, which was amazing (a couple of amazement points were deducted because the tour company force-fed us Enya on our headphones). One of the glaciers was called The Hole in the Wall, but I hear it used to be better.
We got out and walked on one of the other glaciers. I know you’re holding your breath here, but I didn’t fall. Or even almost fall. This at least partly due to the “Napoleon Dynamite”-type boots we slipped on over our regular shoes. It kind of made me want to dance on the glacier, but there was no point pushing my luck.
I did have one moment of fear. I went in the Interpretive Center at one of our stops, thirsting for knowledge, and the only thing in the room was taxidermied animals. You know that one part in “Sin City”? Yeah.
Let if flow — it flows back to you: I liked visiting Alaska — how else would I have found out that Juneau has tanning salons? — but I was awfully happy to see Texas again. Stepping off the plane, I felt a blast of hot, humid air — and of pure joy. My John Cusack Medal of Honor-winning boyfriend picked me up and we spent the next day shopping, eating and couch-sitting. Home rules, even if there aren’t any towel animals.
Permalink | Comments (3) | Categories: By Sarah Lindner
Beer me: I’m headed for the produce section
Shannon and I are not much for crowds.
If it’s the in place, you won’t see us there. In April we read a Dale Rice review of the semi-new restaurant Freddie’s Place and the first five words were all we needed: “Cars circled the parking lot…”
Yogi Berra is quoted as saying “Nobody goes there anymore; it’s too crowded.” Lots of people find that to be funny, but I know exactly what he meant.
And don’t get me started on tourist season. Ah spring, when this young man’s fancy turns to “Get the (expletive) out of my way.” I much prefer summer, when the students have gone home and the Yankees and most everyone else are hiding inside their refrigerated boxes.
All this helps explain why we haven’t been to the new Whole Foods megalopolis. Too many people, most of them way too proud of themselves for being there.
But my attitude changed Wednesday when I read in the XL section — thank you, Moira Muldoon, bar girl and investigator of alcohol hotspots — that you can drink beer while shopping at Whole Foods.
Now that’s shopping I can get on board with.
Permalink | Comments (1) | Categories: By Dave Thomas
Bluegrassy ‘Black Star’
You could do many worse things to your iPod than installing upon it Gillian Welch’s very nice cover of Radiohead’s “Black Star” (remember back from the days of “The Bends” when Radiohead did simple melodic rock?), which has become a staple on KGSR lately.
The woodsy cover of the song has yielded opposing opinions in my household, from “It’s nice” to “I don’t like her voice.” It is a bit “O Brother, Where Art Thom Yorke?” but I can’t think of a better example of why I like KGSR than Gillian Welch covering a prog-rock-but-electronica band from England.
Her Web site offers the song, recorded last year live in Minneapolis, for direct download (99 cents, cheap) and goes so far as to offer it to you in your choice of AAC (iTunes format), MP3 or FLAC format (best for listening to Roberta Flack songs). You can even pay for it with Paypal.
Go to the Download section and check it out under “Latest tracks.”
Would that all songs you like on the radio could be acquired this easily.
Permalink | | Categories: By Omar Gallaga
More Quaid memories
John Harris, formerly of the American Statesman, writes in response to the XL cover story on movie star and new Austinite Dennis Quaid:
Enjoyed your story on Dennis Quaid’s early years. You knew him in college; I knew him mostly in elementary school and in our neighborhood and shared what might have been a couple of his first performances: traipsing around the playground during recess in probably the first grade, arm in arm, pretending to be drunk and singing “How Dry I Am� with fake hiccups; and performing in a fourth-grade play about none other than the Alamo. I last saw him in 1982 at our 10-year Bellaire High reunion, where he was friendly and down to earth and gracious, as you described.
Permalink | | Categories: By Michael Barnes
Another closing
It is with sadness that we report the demise of Sidekicks, the lesbian and gay venue at Riverside Drive and South Congress Avenue. The combination sports bar and dance club enjoyed a healthy run and was home to many benefit shows. At least it lasted longer than some predecessors at the cursed location. The closing leaves the lesbian community, especially, without a centralized social spot.
Sipped martinis and sampled tender calamari with Fortunate vanguard Mary Margaret Farabee at the new, cool, curvy 7 bar on South Congress Avenue. This extension of the seven-seas themed 7 restaurant includes an affordable appetizer menu and some generous happy-hour deals. What did Farabee spill? It was all off the record, but eminently entertaining and educational.
Permalink | | Categories: By Michael Barnes
Cami crisis continues
Response to Wednesday’s camisole blog:
— First, I got an e-mail that seemed to be from an an actual, real-live reader, and I was all set to treasure it for the rest of my life (because that is what I do with e-mail and comments). But upon further examination, it seemed to be from someone whose job it is to promote a particular brand of camisoles. It was not the brand of camisoles that I wear, which was decried in the e-mail as “cheap and tasteless.” That’s me, friends.
— I also received this comment from reader Lisa:
I don’t understand this at all. What are you talking about?
An explanation: I was trying to make fun of Lucky magazine’s declaration “Who isn’t at a turning point with her lace cami?” To me, this was a very funny thing for Lucky to say, as if all of womanhood were seized by worry about how to wear lace camisoles. I don’t think Lucky meant this to be funny at all. I imagine that a lot of productivity has been lost at Lucky because staffers have been unable to think about anything besides what they’re going to do with their lace camis. Most of us who do not work at Lucky are not at a turning point with our lace camis. Most of us thought turning points occurred only in relationships with humans, not fashion items. Anyway, I was attempting to have some fun at the expense of Lucky’s seriousness about lace camisoles. I apologize for being baffling.
Permalink | Comments (3) | Categories: By Sarah Lindner
The camisole crisis
Back from vacation, I’m trying to get caught up on everything, and by “everything” I mean “reading magazines.”
Last night, I found a sentence in Lucky that is the zenith of Lucky-ness. It may be my favorite sentence ever.
It is:
Who isn’t at a turning point with her lace cami?
Who indeed.
I am. Your mom is. Hilary Duff. Hillary Clinton. Jennifer and Angelina. All of us. Lucky has been brave enough to expose the pain that dared not speak its name.
We wanted to tell you, but we didn’t know how. You don’t understand the pain of it, all the restless nights wondering “What am I going to do with my lace camis?”
So if we’ve been distant, if we’ve been irritable, if we, say, have run off and claimed to be kidnapped when we really just didn’t want to get married, that’s why. It’s not you. It’s our lace camis.
Hold us.
Permalink | Comments (1) | Categories: By Sarah Lindner
Herzog, ’Horns
Every sentence of Saul Bellow’s 1964 novel “Herzog” makes me hurt with envy. The recently deceased Nobel winner can pack more meaning into a descriptive paragraph than most writers can in an entire book. I’m reading the story of a unraveling scholar very, very slowly in order to savor every syllable.
This is the only time of year I pay much attention to baseball, whenever my ’Horns are in the running for the College World Series. (In almost every sport, college athletics are more interesting than professional games, because more is at stake, emotionally.) The suspense during the final innings of the elimination game against Mississippi on Monday nearly killed me. Don’t call during the games this weekend.
Permalink | | Categories: By Michael Barnes
Banjos and bass
One of my favorite musical experiences in Luckenbach — and in the old days there were many — was watching two German tourists play in the blacksmith’s shop.
This was back in the mid-’90s (the blacksmith shop washed away in the Great Flood of 2002). These two guys had taught themselves bluegrass music, they had a banjo and a guitar and were having one heck of a time playing “Dueling Banjos.”
I don’t know if they had seen “Deliverance” or were even aware of how the movie had given this particular bluegrass instrumental a whole new meaning. To them — and to me at that moment — it was just great music.
I thought about this as I was making myself a bluegrass mix CD the other day. And I included the song.
So there I was, this week, sitting at the stop light at William Cannon and I-35. Windows rolled down, “Dueling Banjos” blaring from my ‘98 Chevy’s sound system. To my left, was a guy in a low-rider, windows rolled down, very serious rap music booming from his stereo.
I don’t know what the song was, but judging from the lyrics I heard, it’s something that Bill Monroe would not have approved of.
So I looked at him. And he, well, he didn’t look at me, because I’m sure he could have heard nothing short of thermonuclear warfare, what with the way his car was vibrating.
Still, I’d like to think we shared a moment there. Then the light turned green, and it was just me and the banjos once again.
Permalink | | Categories: By Dave Thomas
Nancy clone!
Astute reader and supporter of justice Kat points out the resemblance between Nancy Grace and ex-“SNL” cast member Melanie Hutsell.
Permalink | | Categories: By Sarah Lindner
Nancy
So, I made it back from Alaska and I’ll tell you all about that, but right now, there’s something timely we need to discuss.
And that is Nancy Grace.
Now, you know I love me some Nancy, but it’s reached a whole new level of awe.
I am grateful I have a boyfriend with the presence of mind to tune to Nancy on Court TV when we found out the Michael Jackson verdict was in. Left to my own devices, I probably would have settled obliviously on CNN, and that would have been tragic.
In the long lead-up to the reading of the verdict, Nancy went absolutely feral, shedding her already thin facade of sanity. By turns, she berated and cozied up to her cadre of associates, mostly vaguely stripper-ish fellow lawyers, depending on whether they agreed or disagreed with her about whether Jackson was guilty, really guilty or guilty as sin.
But that was nothing compared with what happened after the verdict.
We thought for a moment that the medics had to be called to take Nancy out, but it was just time for Catherine Crier’s show to start. Calm, competent Catherine Crier. Where’s the fun in that?
We caught up with Nancy later on her Headline News show. You could say that Nancy wasn’t handling the verdict well. You could also say that she was spitting and snarling like a cat with mental problems, which I can tell you is also accurate, because I’ve seen just such a thing.
At one point, Nancy held up an enormous hunk of bread and meat and claimed she was “eating a crow sandwich.” Actually, it looked more like turkey, but I wouldn’t have told her that. When she sank her teeth into it, I imagined she was thinking of defense attorneys’ arteries.
We’re still contemplating what we experienced. Jeff just sent me Nancy stuff from Wikipedia and Time, which is really above and beyond, considering that yesterday he understood my need to eat nothing but Tex-Mex after I got back from the cruise. But the trip is a whole other story, and it involves people in moose suits, and we will leave it for another day.
Permalink | Comments (2) | Categories: By Sarah Lindner
Tri and tri again
Off work at 11 p.m. Saturday night, awake at 4 a.m. Sunday morning, load up the truck with enough gear for an expedition, wait in traffic at 5:30 a.m. outside the Expo Center … this triathlon stuff is hard work.
And I wasn’t even the one in the high-dollar spandex.
That would be Shannon, standing there at the swim start, looking a little nervous. There were thousands and thousands of triathletes at Decker Lake on Sunday, most of them looking a little nervous.
At 8:15 a.m., Shannon was off and swimming, and I was off and running — trying to gather her friends, co-workers and family into one cohesive cheering section.
One hour and 58 minutes (and four seconds) later, she crossed the finish line, with all of us miraculously in place to cheer her on for the last sprint. She was tired, but far from overwhelmed. We hadn’t left the course before talk turned to the next one.
I could go on about how the Danskin is such a great event, very empowering and challenging and fulfilling and whatnot. But you can hear that better from the women who actually run it.
Me, I’m just one proud husband.
And inspired. Count me in for the Dilloman Triathlon in September.
Permalink | | Categories: By Dave Thomas
Austin needs a new Mexican restaurant like …
I take that back. El Borrego de Oro, recently moved to South Congress Avenue and Ben White Boulevard, is a welcome addition. The queso flameado swirled together savory sensations, while the beef enchiladas and fresh tortillas notched in well above the Austin average.
We’ve been sliding through the third season of “Six Feet Under” on DVD. The tone is mellow, in comparison to the edgy first two seasons, more about enmeshing relationships, less about comic melodrama and talking corpses. I know, I know, we’re two seasons behind, but I like marathoning the best series like this.
Permalink | | Categories: By Michael Barnes
Homestar Runner unmasked
Even before you saw the sign that read, “Homestar Runner Live” on the marquee at the Alamo Drafthouse Downtown, you could tell you were in the right place when you saw the twentysomething computer-tech-looking digerati going through the front doors wearing T-shirts from the popular Atlanta-based Web site featuring retro toons that eschew Internet-level lewdness for the cute and clever.
The event promised a live confab with the Brothers Chaps, the creators, animators, voice talent and spinoff wizards behind such characters as Homestar Runner, Strong Bad, The Cheat and the ever-evolving half-man/half-dragon Trogdor the Burninator. (In a short time, Trodgor, in full meta mode, has gone from a Web cartoon character’s drawing to a videogame-within-a-cartoon, to a fake movie-trailer-based-on-a-videogame-within-a-Web-cartoon phenomenon. He was also mentioned on the last episode of “Buffy the Vampire Slayer,” something that still seems to blow away Matt and Mike.)
Unfortunately, just as seeing Dan Castellanetta will never approximate actually meeting Homer Simpson, Matt and Mike Chapman couldn’t possibly hope to approximate five years or so of continually churned-out animated entertainment in the two hours they were allotted to show a few clips, offer some funny behind-the-scenes live-action videos and take questions from the audience. The whole enterprise seemed to move a bit too quickly, too quickly even to show all the prepared clips. (Two bits of audience-participatory karaoke were thrown in. One was of a song from the duo’s mock-hair-band Limo(lightning bolt)Zeen. The other, the Strong Bad classic, “Everybody to the Limit ” was done complete justice by a woman from the audience.)
Still, even with a Homestar Runner puppet in tow and clips from Austin (highlights: Homestar Runner using the Frost Bank tower to trim his nose hairs and mistaking the Stevie Ray Vaughan statue for one of Joe Satriani), it didn’t carry the same magic as discovering the toons for yourself online and going through the brothers’ voluminous archives. Again, it’s not the Alamo’s fault or Mike and Matt’s. They’re just these two guys, in three dimensions. How can that compete with a dude in a Flash-animated Mexican wrestling mask answering his e-mail every Monday?
Permalink | | Categories: By Omar Gallaga
Parties, theater, clubs and comedy
Inspired fundraising: a Sunday afternoon presentation by the Long Center for the Performing Arts to the African American community at the Carver Museum. Organized by patron saint Ada Anderson, the event featured performances by violinist Quinton Morris, jazzist Pam Hart and gospel/pop diva Judy Arnold. About $25,000 was raised through the Seats of Honor program.
Talk about cute: Austin Playhouse’s “The Mystery of Edwin Drood” is an audience pleaser and probably the best musical director Don Toner has ever produced. Standouts among the performers at AP’s Penn Field theater included Tom Parker, Jill Blackwood and Rick Roemer.
The themed club multiplex Graham Central Station opened with a weekend-long bash. The country dance floor is the biggest draw, along with an active karaoke room, tiered live music space, bikerish bar, rock/hip-hop bar and sandwich shop. This complex just outside Pflugerville on Grand Central Parkway is bound to be a hit.
Margaret Cho was on target like an Exocet missile at Bass Concert Hall. Cho has rarely been so explicit in her humor, which won thunderous response from the full house. The UT-PAC has talked a lot about moving into the pop realm. Well, this was pop performance and then some.
Permalink | Comments (1) | Categories: By Michael Barnes
Mescal, dramaturgs and ‘Batboy’
Sipped single-village mescals with features editor Ed Crowell, who plans a guest Spirits column on these highly flavored drinks, which match the best tequilas for complexity and variety.
Mingled with literary managers, dramaturgs, playwrights, scholars and patrons at the Nokonah pad of UT professor extraordinaire Oscar Brockett. The occasion marked the opening of the Literary Managers and Dramaturgs Association conference in Austin. Super arts backers Greg and Mari Marchbanks were there, as were award-winning playwright C. Denby Swanson and performance studies star professor Jill Dolan.
I have longed to see the musical “Batboy” since it opened off-Broadway a few years ago to much buzz. Inspired by a tabloid article about a cross-bred boy, it’s darker and less campy than its clear predecessor, “Little Shop of Horrors.” Naughy Austin’s cast sounded and looked good, depsite faulty amplification and lighting. The show continues at Arts on Real.
Permalink | | Categories: By Michael Barnes
To sleep, perchance to showtune
Today is Judy Garland’s birthday. I know today is Judy Garland’s birthday because my dear friend Todd who lives in Provincetown, Mass. where it is a national holiday, told me so. Well, he didn’t so much tell me so as he drunk-dialed me at 11:30 in the morning with a slurred yet enthusiastic rendition of “The Trolley Song.� This in itself would not have been so bad had I not been taking my lunchtime nap. See, I was in the midst of an extremely pleasant dream involving Lou Reed, two neon green “krazy straws� and a case of 2001 Tudal Cabernet.
There are precious few things worth ending a dream like that. Armageddon comes to mind, a chance to raid Eddie Izzard’s closet is another. Having “Clang! Clang! Clang!” trolleyed into my eardrum by a guy who lost my favorite pair of blue glitter go-go boots at a circuit party my sophomore year of college most certainly does not.
Not even on a holiday.
Permalink | | Categories: By Rhiannon Gammill
Ready to give it a tri
I guess it began this time last June when Shannon, inspired by her best friend completing her third Danskin Triathlon, said “I’m gonna do this next year.”
But June and July dragged by and progress was measured in terms of queso and fries and buffalo wings — we were going the wrong way.
Then came August. Shannon had just figured out all of her nice clothes no longer fit when she got the phone call. The nurse actually asked Shannon to sit down and then told her that her cholesterol was in the range typically reserved for dead people.
To be fair, high cholesterol runs in her family, but we knew what the problem was: Our diet consisted of red meat, alcohol and fried foods. And you can bet that if we could have fried red meat in alcohol, we’d have done it.
Shannon said she was joining Weight Watchers. She asked me to join with her.
Now I consider myself a manly sort of guy. I own a post-hole digger. I like football. My pickup has a name.
Heck no. But secretly, I’d been looking at the photos from our vacation. “Who is that fat guy with my wife?” was my first thought when I saw ‘em.
I reluctantly agreed to go — just to be supportive, you know. Now I’m not going to go into the details of how it works. You just need to know two things: 35 “flex points” per week equals 17.5 light beers, and sometimes the crashing waves of estrogen at those meetings is almost more than I can handle.
Does it work? I’ve not fully participated, but still managed to lose 25 pounds. Shannon? She’s still gung-ho. She’s been counting points and swimming, cycling and running like a madwoman. She’s lost 40 pounds.
Forty.
The Danskin Triathlon is Sunday. We’ll be there. She’s ready.
Permalink | | Categories: By Dave Thomas
Dave Thomas: Pseudo-athlete
I’ve been giving careful thought to this billboard I see every time I take I-35 to work. It shows the torso of a guy, divided vertically. On one side, he’s a shirtless, volleyball-playing, Corona-drinking fellow with the stereotypical “perfect beach” in the background.
(Odd, how there’s no European guys in Speedos in the background of the white sand/blue water beach — they’re always there when I’m there. On our honeymoon in Mexico, Shannon and I actually saw a guy like that doing handstand pushups on the beach. He knew he’d have to peel off the ladies.)
On the other side of the billboard, the guy is in an obnoxious bowling shirt, holding a can of “light beer,” with a bowling alley in the background.
Now, Corona’s advertising money is lost on me, because every time I look at this billboard, I think “Man, it’s been awhile since I went bowling.”
Heck, I love bowling. It’s in that fantastic subset of pseudo-sports (including darts and billiards) where beer is a performance-enhancing agent — at least up until a point. Shannon and I might be the only couple you know who can actually bowl themselves broke. We get to competing (she’s better) and the games fly by. And who can resist those Bud Light bottles shaped like bowling pins?
Then again, I actually played volleyball this morning (with no beer, Corona or otherwise). I played, and, well, I’m just not the market that Corona is pursuing.
At one point, I ran to the net, jumped, soared magnificently for a good few inches, stretched out my arm and completely missed the ball, which hit me in the forehead.
I did keep my shirt on. Maybe I should’ve worn a bowling shirt.
Permalink | | Categories: By Dave Thomas
Sometimes, they come back (jerks, I mean)
Sarah Lindner’s on vacation, so I can’t compare notes with her on the sheer bundle of narcissism and amazing jerkosity that is Jonathan Antin, the $500/haircut empresario featured on Bravo’s brilliant “Blow Out”, which came back for a second season starting Tuesday night.
Jonathan is launching a line of hair care products, and they have to be the best. No, you don’t get it, mister. THE BEST! Better! Best! Get to it, man!
Jonathan gets mad at chemists in Baltimore who don’t understand that in Beverly Hills, good won’t cut it. That conditioner has to be the conditioneriest conditioner that ever made a person’s hair go all creamy. BEST! MOIST!
When he’s not being amazingly arrogant to people trying to help (or people who are, God forbid, trying to show an actress jewelry or hem up a saggy dress on Golden Globes night), he’s being whiny and petulant, an overgrown girl-child with a put-on butch voice who purrs about how much he loves meeting hot women on the job (minutes before introducing his girlfriend).
Then he cries in therapy.
First of all; dude, you’re letting them film your therapy?
Second: DUDE! The Best!
Jonathan is an amazingly effective reality show star, a guy so full of himself that you watch just to see the psychic holes he tears in everyone else’s calm.
Oh, Jonathan. Cell phone-throwing, temper tantrum throwing, wussy tattoo-sporting Jonathan.
At being the conditioner that keeps “Blow Out” teased-up and frizz-free, you are THE BEST!
Permalink | Comments (2) | Categories: By Omar Gallaga
Encounters with musicians
Met Austin musician Daniel Link in the canary-colored quiet of Flightpath Coffee House at 51st and Duval streets. His new CD, “The Color of Rain,” will be released Sunday. It’s a richly produced melange of pop-rock and spiritual meditations, well worth more than a few listens.
Who gives the perfect party? Karen Kuykendall — actress, singer, real estate agent, diva — who entertained friends of part-time Austinites Lorne Loganbill and Sterling Price-McKinney in her near-Clarksville home. The party-goers included recent Cannes celebrity Cyndi Williams and husband David Jones, critic Robert Faires and wife/actress Barbara Chisholm and former American-Statesman theater critic Diana Claitor. After a dinner of wild salmon and pasta salad, cooled by various white wines, we heard Price-McKinney sing new songs at the baby grand, then Kuykendall joined her former cabaret partner for some oldies (with lyrical help from fans in attendance).
Permalink | | Categories: By Michael Barnes
Cowtown countdown
Given that Willie Nelson’s Fourth of July Picnic is less than a month away (26 days and 19 hours as I write this), I’m a bit excited.
And given that I’ve been to eight of these picnics (I’m no old-timer yet, but I’m working on it), I’m inclined to make a few Willie Picnic predictions …
One: It will be hot (call me Nostradamus). But not as hot as the 1996 picnic in Luckenbach.
Two: Ray Price (who at 374 years of age can still knock ‘em dead in a nice concert hall) will look and sound completely out-of-place in the 100-degree twilight of the picnic.
Three: There will be an artist I’ve never heard of whom I will inadvertently pay attention to, be very impressed by, and completely forget about by July 5.
Four: Leon Russell (who is, I’m pretty sure, the only artist besides Willie to appear at every single picnic since the beginning in 1973) will look just as unthrilled to be there as he usually does.
Five: At least one Bob Dylan fan will wander in too early in the afternoon, drink too many beers, pass out and miss Bob’s entire set.
Six: Ray Wylie Hubbard will get four songs. He will perform “Snake Farm,” “Conversation with the Devil,” “Wanna Rock and Roll” and “Redneck Mother.” In that order.
I don’t know about you, but I’ll be counting the minutes soon enough.
Permalink | | Categories: By Dave Thomas
Roller redux
I don’t want to die wearing fishnet tights. I don’t. I don’t want to meet my maker with waffle-print thighs and besides, they’ll probably run and I’m just not punk rock enough to carry off the whole torn-fishnet look. I can just imagine Saint Peter (who for the purposes of this fantasy is played by my fabulous beyond-all-reason hairdresser Doug) looking me up and down, arching a one heavenly coiffed eyebrow and whispering “Oh girl, no,� before plummeting me into the loathsome gaping maw of eternal misery (which for the purposes of this fantasy is played by the state of Oklahoma).
This is why I don’t roller derby.
Fortunately, The Hotrod Honeys and three other teams comprising The Texas Rollergirls don’t feel the same way. They risk gruesome multiwheeled death just for your entertainment, and if you haven’t seen them skate the flat track at Playland then you are missing some of the best action to ever involve mascara, mouth guards and a heavily pregnant Penalty Princess named Hotwheels.
Each team has a theme: The Hotrod Honeys are pink and black bad girls with gasoline in their veins, while the disco-themed Hustlers are best described as “Studio 54: Beyond the Thunderdome.â€? The league’s only undefeated team, The Honkytonk Heartbreakers are devils in denim and the less said about The Hell Mary’s school girl outfits the better. Although suffice it to say that when they were on the track my gentleman companion, who went through 12 years of Catholic school, would not have noticed had I sprouted giant lobster claws and burst into a tower of raging flames in the seat right next to him.
Of course there were casualties. Eighty-two bruises, five cuts, 18 softball-sized knots and one permanently damaged white fluffy cottontail, previously belonging to The Hell Mary’s Bunny Rabid.
Oh sure, you say, it’s all fun and games until someone loses a tail. That’s right, it is, and after that it only gets better.
Permalink | Comments (3) | Categories: By Rhiannon Gammill
Table unreserved
What I like most about awards ceremonies, when they click, is the unpredictability factor. Not long into the Austin Critics Table Awards party at Cap City Comedy Club on Monday, writer/director Carlos Treviño rose to warn the full house that he saw cars towed from the far end of the club’s parking lot.
A quarter of the attendees, myself included, filed quickly out of the club to check their rides. Luckily, master of ceremonies Robert Faires had just introduced Austin Arts Hall of Famer Kerry Awn, who then stretched his acceptance speech into a 15-minute stand-up comedy routine — hands down, the funniest speech ever given by an Austin Hall of Famer.
Other highlights: The nervous awe displayed by St. Edward’s University students — some of them freshmen! — who accepted their awards for the musical “Honk!” Playwright Steve Moore humbly, eloquently accepting several awards for his soulful drama “Nightswim.” The befuddled joy of University of Texas School of Music representative Suzanne Hassler as she responded to award after award for her much-improved program.
Permalink | | Categories: By Michael Barnes
Tony, Tony
The extra air time from CBS — a full three hours — allowed the Tony Awards ceremony the freedom to fly Sunday night. I predicted just 12 of the winners, but my misses could be attributed to late-season entries in the Tony race. (I visited New York twice this season, but saw just one of the shows nominated for best musical, and one nominated for best play.)
It was refreshing to see the big Broadway numbers back in the show, plus some playful hamming from master of ceremonies Hugh Jackman and momentary interloper Billy Crystal. Also, the acceptance speeches for the Tonys are so much more articulate and heartfelt than most media awards events.
It just felt as if Broadway and the awards were back — a strong season all around.
Permalink | | Categories: By Michael Barnes
Handel and ‘Holes’
Brought along Central Market cheese, wine, bread and fruit to San Gabriel Park for the climactic performances of the Handel in Georgetown festival. Setting was pastoral, fireworks fiery, but the little music pavilion was not an ideal place to hear classical music, especially when raucous hip-hop boomed from the sports fields across the river.
Rubber Repertory Theatre reduces life’s mysteries down to essences — the plumbing of the human body, the infantile feelings that never evaporate — in its unsettling “Holes Before Bedtime.” It continues at the Vortex — an apt partner for this kind of performance — through June 18.
Permalink | | Categories: By Michael Barnes
Conversations at the Horseshoe
Here’s a short report from a short evening at the Horseshoe Lounge, one of my favorite Austin bars that I don’t go to often enough. Shannon and I were there with a few of her accomplices from work, who shall go unnamed for their own protection (or, possibly, because I can’t remember names very well)…
So we’re there, at the Horseshoe, Johnny Cash on the jukebox, cold longnecks in our hands, Shannon looks great in the neon lights, and we’re talking about … Johnny Cash? Old honky-tonk stories? Sports?
No. Shannon leads us in a spirited half-hour discussion of the latest installment of “Star Wars,” how it compares with the others, plot holes, etc.
Sigh, even in this great bar, it’s still a geek’s world.
Later, Tina Turner, inexplicably, starts playing on the jukebox — somewhere in between Buddy Holly songs and Joe Ely’s cover of “The Road Goes on Forever.” Accomplice No. 2 starts trying to think of the name of Tina Turner’s saxophone player….
“Samuel Clemens?” she asks. “No that’s not it.” She has to check with Accomplice No. 3 to get the name she’s looking for. “Clarence Clemons! That’s it.”
Actually — and I’m no expert here, perhaps at some time he did perform with Tina — but Clarence is better known for playing with Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band. And, yes, reports of Samuel Clemens’ saxophone playing have been greatly exaggerated.
Permalink | | Categories: By Dave Thomas
The scone danger
Do not tell my grandfather but I just bought some scone mix. Seriously, don’t tell him. There are some trials even the strongest of relationships cannot withstand and if my Scottish grandfather found out that I was committing pre-mixed pastry heresy, well, I don’t want to even consider the consequences. It’d be even worse than that time he found out I was dating someone from Yale.
See, it is my bounden duty to keep my grandfather at least knee deep in baked goods at all times. He is particularly peculiar about his scones, which must be wedge-shaped under penalty of pastry-covered death. Do not under any circumstances try to convince him that a circular scone makes for a more tender, evenly baked product unless you have a good 15 minutes of your life that you’re willing to dedicate to hearing a treatise on the superiority of all things triangular. If it is in any other shape it is simply not a scone. It might be tasty and tender, full of happiness and milk fat, but at its heart it’s merely a circular abomination, to be pitied, snubbed and eventually eaten in the middle of the night when no one but the whippet can witness your shame.
Now you can see how this Classic Scone Mix can pose a problem. Speaking of problems, the fine folks at Smashing Creations seem to have one of their own; overzealous labeling. Naturally I don’t mind a little purple prose in praise of one’s pastries (nor do I mind alliteration, apparently) but when the “copyâ€? on the side of the plain cardboard box references a grouchy Zeus, frolicking maidens and a half the cast of “Clash of the Titans” the batter so to speak, gets a little thick.
And what are the ingredients of this one true ambrosia, held secret for so long by the Oracle at Delphi?
Flour, sugar, baking soda and salt. Don’t let my grandfather find out, though. I can’t afford to anger the gods.
Permalink | Comments (1) | Categories: By Rhiannon Gammill
Drama at the gas-n-go
I just wanted a cup of coffee and a doughnut when I stopped at the gas-n-go in New Braunfels.
But I found drama: a woman, probably a few teeth short of a set, and a small boy, filthy and underdressed. I’m not a good judge on children’s ages, but this one was old enough to scream it wanted candy and then flop on the floor when mom said no.
I don’t spend a lot of time in large discount retail stores, so I hadn’t seen what happened next in quite some time: The woman grabbed the boy fiercely from the floor and gave him a whomp on the behind that turned all the heads in the store. Then she quickly dragged the screaming child out.
I’ve got to admit, I was shocked. I certainly hadn’t seen this since long before Shannon and I began planning for children of our own. And such a heavy blow on such a small child, that had to cross the line, didn’t it?
I was frozen in indecision until it was too late.
Driving on to San Antone, I had two things running through my mind.
First, I can’t be too much against corporal punishment when it is intelligently and consistently applied in the privacy of one’s own home. After all, it worked well on me. But I think intelligence and consistency would have been asking a lot of this woman.
Second, I’ve never put much stock in blaming someone’s upbringing for their shortcomings. At least not until now. I got to thinking on it, and I had to admit, it sure doesn’t seem like this boy has much of a chance in the world.
I got my cup of coffee and my doughnut. And I got something to feel bad about.
Permalink | | Categories: By Dave Thomas
Come sail away
Are you a cruise person? Do you have any advice for me?
Because I’m not sure I’m doing this right.
In two days, I get on a plane to Vancouver. The next day, I get on a boat that will convey me, my entire immediate family and hundreds of people louder and jauntier than we are (the shy gene is strong in the Lindner clan) around Alaska.
I have never taken a cold-weather trip. I alternate between being utterly sure that I’ve overpacked and being equally convinced that I lack basic provisions, and I will freeze to death and have a burial at sea like Owen Wilson in “The Life Aquatic With Steve Zissou.”
One of the packing lists I printed out told me to take a small flashlight. I’m not sure why it advises this, but I obeyed. Presumably, it’s part of emergency preparedness. But maybe everyone gathers on deck with flashlights for interpretive dance at midnight. Who am I to say?
The only other time I’ve cruised, the ship decor brought me down. I kept expecting a coked-out hooker to fall to her death from one of the levels above me and a weary Sonny Crockett to grimly shake his head as he stood over her. This time, we’re on a newer ship, presumably with a snazzier interior, but maybe I should bring along some pretty postcards or something just in case my eyes need a rest from aesthetic offense.
I’m not worried about the twin vacation pitfalls of eating and shopping too much. After six years of living with the restaurants of this city, cruise dining has nothing to tempt me. And I’m guessing that the shopping options in Alaska skew a bit too rugged for my tastes, “The Last Frontier” doesn’t exactly say “pink and shiny.” Although if they have Hello Kitty in a parka …
What am I looking forward to? Big glaciers that make me spout clichés about their bigness and glacierness. Seeing my family. Reading enough to atone for all my trysting with Us Weekly. Breathing air free of Central Texas allergens (and let’s hope I’m not allergic to ice).
So I think I’m ready. Any vacation hints? Let me know while there’s still time for one last trip to Target.
Permalink | | Categories: By Sarah Lindner
Dinner and a DVD
Kip and I dated last night. You see, after more than 14 years of cohabitation, we must schedule romantic time.
We picked the perfect spot — Zin Bistro on Kerbey Lane. We sat outside in the light, dry breeze.
Ran into Ben and Joanie Bentzen of arts/politics/business/charity fame. Nearby was Lowell Lebermann Jr. of business/education/charity celebrity. Out to the table came Sean Fulford, picked by XL restaurant critic Dale Rice as one of the best new chefs of 2005.
And for good reason. His lightly grilled halibut with crab meat was succulent and his generous portions of duck breast came with virtually no extra fat. Despite a few tiny service flaws, it was a four-star evening in my book.
Trotted home to watch the DVD version of “Tying the Knot,” a heart-tugging documentary about gay marriage. Although definitely pro-gay, it treated each situation — a lesbian police officer trying to obtain survivor pension benefits; an Oklahoma farmer facing eviction by his deceased partner’s family — with scrupulous care.
Permalink | | Categories: By Michael Barnes
Cops, cakes and cocktails: a hypothetical freezer adventure
Ah, it’s June, that time of the year when a young girl’s fancy turns to marriage; or in my case, to finding new and creative ways of shoving wedding cake into the freezer. At the moment the only residents of my freezer happen to be one box of baking soda, one bottle of vermouth (small, unopened) one bottle Tanqueray (large, not unopened), some bedraggled looking ice cubes and one extremely cold, extremely sharp scalpel. I don’t know how the scalpel got in there, really I don’t, but I’m a little concerned that if I died today the cops would take one peek into my Frigidaire and think my hobbies included ice-cold martinis and black market organ-harvesting.
What? Yes, I was raised Republican, why do you ask?
So, the cake. See, I am a rare combination of qualified baker and pudding-brained fool. I volunteered to bake the wedding cake for my friend Jenn’s special day. This was, naturally before I realized the cake would need to feed around a hundred people and the reception was to be held outside … in Texas … in June. Oh, and my date? There is no date, unless you count a 6-quart Kitchenaid mixer and a tool-belt full of offset spatulas.
So now you may add eight tiered layers of white cake, 16 cups of lemon curd and six quarts of Italian butter cream to the collection of booze, baking soda and blades in my freezer. Oh yeah, that’ll make the cops think.
Do you have a good wedding cake story? Post a comment!
Permalink | | Categories: By Rhiannon Gammill
A brake job by the numbers
$480: How much my mechanic wanted to replace the pads and rotors on my ’98 Chevy’s front brakes.
1/2: How many seconds it took me to say “heck no” to that.
2: How many relatives volunteered to help me fix the brakes — my father-in-law, Donald, and Paul (whom I am related to by marriage in some way that’s not exactly clear to me).
$200: How much I paid at the local auto parts store for two new rotors, a set of brake pads, grease seals and wheel bearing grease. I bought the good stuff. I hope.
4: Total hours spent on the road on Sunday morning and afternoon, driving to Paul’s house in Comfort and back to Austin.
60: Total minutes spent on the road with Donald, after picking him up in San Antone.
14 to 20: How many topics Donald can cover in one steady stream of conversation without pausing for breath — shifting from one monologue to another completely unrelated one without any segue of any sort.
(It’s actually kinda fascinating.)
3: Total hours spent on the brake job, interrupted by lunch and a demonstration of just how much fun you can have with a water hose and a dog who likes to chase the water.
5: New things I learned — 1) packing the bearings is an acquired skill, 2) replacing the pads on disk brakes is so easy that nobody should pay for someone else to do it, 3) the rotors ain’t quite so easy, 4) but they’re not all that hard, and 5) you can have a garage full of tools, but nothing chocks a tire quite like a good rock.
1: Very happy wife who no longer fears imminent death from brake failure while riding in my truck.
Permalink | | Categories: By Dave Thomas
CD notes
The CD player’s lens has read recently:
- Luciana Souza, “Duos II” — lively, lovely Brazilian jazz. (Sunnyside)
- Tom Steward, “First Time Over,” a demo of immaculate Austin jazz.
- Wasn’t a fan of the Greencards when they lived in Austin, but I’ve since savored “Movin On” and “Weather and Water” (both on Dualtone).
- Bobbie Eakes, “Something Beautiful,” an elastic voice devoted to heartfelt interpretions of pop standards. (250 West)
Permalink | | Categories: By Michael Barnes
Something you should know
Back in February, when I was obsessing about Duran Duran, I got several e-mails from one Durandy, world’s biggest Duran Duran fan and a kind soul. I got a note from Durandy in the mail today, flagging us all to the existence of a Duran Duran documentary. You know you want to see it.
Permalink | | Categories: By Sarah Lindner
