UE ISS
THE
TOU
GH
Art. Music. Fashion. Guns.
vol. 3 no. 2 January 2008
START GROWING YOUR BEARD NOW.
2nd annual beard & moustache competition we don’t love to hate. we hate what we love.
AUSTIN CITY COUNCIL 2008
Platform - Make Austin the premier green technology city - Improve transportation and reduce congestion - Responsible growth - Transparency in local government
allendemling.org Pol. adv. Allen Demling, Candidate for Austin City Council, Place 4, Michael Mignatti, Treasurer. This campaign has agreed to comply with the contribution and expediture limits of the Austin Fair Campaign Chapter.
FOR LASTING PEACE
SECURITY FOR ALL
email to the directors Hi, My request is that you guys should really do an interview with the band Beat Assassins. They are a really great band and have sold over 20,000 albums without any radio or tour support at all. I truly believe it is a shame that the indie artists who are out there really making an impact and receiving a response never truly get mentioned because they don't fit the personal taste of the writers within the magazine. I find this very insulting as fan of indie music. Consider this band, also other indie bands that out here TRULY making a name for themselves without major label support. – Amber (Editor’s Response) Amber...you're fighting the good fight. Crafting an email at 9:30pm on a Tuesday night, trying to get some props for a band that you dig. It's unfortunate that all this energy you're spending is on a band that
is flat-out-crap like the "Beat Assassins." Is this for real? You're barking up the wrong rag... you should be pushing for these dudes to get on a major label fast to score some health insurance, because I imagine they are constantly getting beat up all the time. Anyway, like I said, your heart's in the right place, but sleeping with the drummer doesn't mean you have to do the grunt work for his crappy band. Have you tried getting into Oasis? Or maybe Joy Division? To Misprint, First of all, How dare you insult me by suggesting I am sleeping with someone in this band. You are EXACTLY what I am talking about, writers who put their personal taste into what I should be listening to. You should really examine your job and find out what a real journalist is. It's fine by me if you don't like this band, but to be sarcastic towards me is totally out of line. Also you are very much incorrect about this band, every time this band came into my store they sold out of whatever CDs they had. Numerous people were
GUI
vol 03 issue 02 january 2008
GUI
directors
board of advisors
contact
Kip Hollingsworth
L. Fauntleroy Jaye L. Baitt Callahan O’Callahan Adolph Curmudgeon Col. Alastair Tunbridge (Ret) Abelard Fiddlebits Jan Tschichold Yngwie Malmsteen JT Money
www.misprintmagazine.com hollaback@misprintmagazine.com www.myspace.com/misprintmag Send us your free shit! Misprint Magazine PO Box 303157 Austin, Texas 78703
Director of Small Capitals & Expert Numerals
Harvey Merrybottom
Director of Co-Conspiritories
Chadwick Pennyrich III
Director of Visual Arts & Languages The views expressed here are strictly those of the authors, and do not represent the views of Misprint Magazine, which is kind of weird because the ideas of author and entity are actually entirely codependent of one another, but fuck it. This also applies to all our advertisements.
For inquiries, kudos, hate mail and the rest, e-mail Misprint at the above address.
continued excited by their sound. But we all know Austin is known for being the "asshole capital of know it alls". But I wonder why in Houston everyone makes it to the majors whether it's rap or rock but not one person in Austin is moving on to greater things. The ONLY CITY where bands in Texas are not signed unless they come from out of town to be a participant in sxsw. Also you might just want to check around the city. Bars like Barton Springs, Slick Willies, Horseshoe Lounge are just a few that supported this band from Houston. So sir, one day you probably will be writing about them. – Amber (Editor’s Response) Truly, I do admire your efforts, it's sort of inspiring in a tragic way to see someone so passionate about music. But I don't think you're really being fair to us. Sadly, Misprint and the Beat Assassins have just never crossed paths, and your impassioned email was honestly the first I've heard of them. That being said,
after checking out their innovative brand of "ghetto rock-nroll," it seems unlikely that a Misprint interview would be in either of our best interests. I'll be the first to admit Austin is the "asshole capital of know-it-alls" and that no one in this town is moving on to greater things. There just isn't any market for Okkervil River ringtones, I guess. But you seem to be under the impression that Misprint Magazine is some kind of real magazine subject to any editorial or journalistic standards whatsoever. We really have examined our jobs and found out we have about as much in common with real journalists as we do with Ladybird Johnson. So I doubt that we'll be writing about the Beat Assassins anytime soon. But stranger things have happened, I suppose. Obviously we struck a nerve, so that means you're probably sleeping with the bassist. Don't worry about it. Forget about the music press, it's full of douchebags, trust me. When you're 30 and an alcoholic like the rest of us, I promise this will make more sense. In the meantime, check out this band Oasis. They kill it.
Birds Barbershop. Now twice as nice. Birds North
Birds South
6800 Burnet @ 2222ish 512-454-1200 7 days a week Walk in or call ahead
2110 S. Lamar @ Oltorf 512-442-8800 7 days a week Walk in or call ahead
Birds North 6800 Burnet
2222
Burnet
Mopac
West Anderson Ln
Koenig
birdsbarbershop.com
A few words from the Director... we fooled you again. After writing at least 4 comeback issues
you thought we'd be gone for good. But the joke's on you, because now that we have that Chronicle "Best of Austin" award hanging up in Headquarters we've got carte blanche to continue doing the same old stupid bullshit we've always done. That includes putting out issues whenever we feel like it and not following anybody's "schedule." The beard jokes? We're keepin'em coming. And there's not one fucking thing you can do about it, folks. The Chronicle said it's okay.
Chadwick Pennyrich III
Our printing delay was much-needed, because in preparation for The Tough Issue I was busy punching trees into pulp to turn into the fine off-white paper you are holding in your hands right now. And all the Misprint Directors got squid tattoos as well. Not tattoos of squids, mind you. We each carved a design into our chests with X-acto blades, sailed out into the deep sea and engaged in mortal combat with a colossal squid. After being defeated, the squid jet-propelled himself out of harm's way, leaving a trail of billowing, murky black ink in its wake. It was at this moment that we swam into the squid ink and let it stain our chest carvings. That's a squid tattoo. Fuck yeah, yo. It was after all this that I felt the Tough Issue was ready to be released into the world with its celebrations of knife fighting and centaurs to do battle with the relentless wussification of our beloved town. But besides an assault on iPod holsters and fey Europeans and badminton, The Tough Issue is also a reference to how hard it's going to be to regain our precious street cred, now that the Chronicle has stripped it away from us with that stupid "Best Of" banner (which we never purchased, by the way). Cheers,
Chadwick Pennyrich III
Tough Press The life of a Misprint music critic isn't all Lonestar shots, mountains of free shit and permanent Red Eyed Fly guest list spots. Sometimes it means getting into knife fights or, worse, receiving an angry email from some dude in a band I pissed off. Despite their vital role in society, music critics have been persecuted since the days of Ludwig Van. But if the Apocalypse were tomorrow and only 100 people get into the bomb shelter, you had better believe one of the chosen is a music critic. Who else could so savvily describe just how shitty all those post-apocalyptic tribal drum raves are? That dude who can make electricity? The guy who smelts metal? Give me a fucking break. Bottom line, Misprint isn't going anywhere and your band isn't going to stop sucking. So here are some time-tested responses to the upcoming, inevitably negative review of your band. Do a 180
After reading Misprint, your band should become the polar opposite of what it is now. For example, if you all wear matching outfits and carry around a giant, totemic stuffed animal when you perform, start wearing clothes from your lame day jobs and donate your mascot to a halfway house. Do you play tearful indie pop? Buy a machine gun and make hip-hop. Sing lyrics? Just go instrumental. If your band is nothing but an excuse to tout your virile heterosexuality by wearing leather, keep the chaps but add bright pink wigs and some glitter. And if you're a DJ? Just stop now. Please. Become a teacher or something. Write a Song About Me
Here's an idea: Rather than writing another song about some lame girl you're crushing on, or about eyes, or about the eyes of some lame girl you're crushing on, write a song about how much you hate music critics. Girls, thematically, have been a crutch for far too long, and it's high time to channel your rage towards a new victim. Who knows, it just might make for better art. Bribery
Don't lose hope—this could all just be some simple misunderstanding. I might actually think your band is super rad. I could totally see the time you spent holed up in your attic over winter break crafting those half-dozen pop gems. Or maybe I didn't even listen to your CD and just assume you sucked because of your stupid haircuts or bad typography. Maybe the difference between getting some bad press and some good press is you not buying me that final shot before last call and, well, buying it.
Stop sucking
This one might seem out of the question, but it's worth a shot. Have you considered that I might be right and your band actually does suck? I recommend an intense 18-month guitar training camp in the future like at the end of Bill and Ted's Bogus Journey. They took a ride in the phone booth and came back with beards, babies and crazy guitar skills, things that are sure to win favor with Misprint editors. Meet Half Way
What you have to realize is, this is Misprint. I'm about as much a music critic as watching the Meg White sex tape was a good idea*. That means both of us are somewhat culpable for this whole mess: me for not being a real music journalist, and you and your band for making such horrible music. If you'd just come to peace with this we'd both be in a much better place. h * You see that shit? Fucking boring. I'd rather watch her play drums.
shitmyjorts dot com So I was hanging out at the bar last week, and I heard about this hot new shit called the Internet. Turns out that everybody is big into it, even though it's mostly just a bunch of dudes taking pictures of their cocks and people who suck at grammar showing off their cats. But I suspected the Internet had tapped into something primal about human nature, something even more important than anthropomorphizing your genitals into a flash animation.
Purely for the sake of argument, pretend I got stoned and decided it would be hilarious to register shitmyjorts.com. Rather than let a sweet domain name like shitmyjorts.com go to waste, I decided instead to craft it into a ground-up, futurist cultural phenomenon bigger than tulipmania, Stevie Ray Vaughn, the Harlem Renaissance and the regular Renaissance put together. The hard work is already done; shitmyjorts.com is a big deal. All that's left is to get famous. The first dot-com boom was a comically shortsighted mess of nerds selling kitty Xanax over the web, just trying to get enough money to buy a girlfriend. In these heady web 2.0 days no one cares about dollars; the true currency is control of the zeitgeist. Cultural relevance is worth its weight in status symbols like autogyros and squid tanks. Big players are investing absurd sums of money to try to guess what's coming next, courting bloggers and bands and zinesters to let them in on the next big thing. Unfortunately for corporate interests, big things like shitmyjorts.com change rapidly, and the old media channels simply can't keep up. Modern appetites are hyper-manic, schizophrenic and ephemeral. Not every teenager is going to wear Jordaches anymore. Not everyone wants to be like Mike. Modern trend watching is about niche markets and there's room for everyone to get their slice of Internet fame. Which brings us to shitmyjorts.com, the bleeding edge of netroots phenomenology. To save time, I didn't waste any energy developing a worthwhile website for shitmyjorts.com. If a fucking dancing hamster can become a cultural icon, the unwashed masses clearly don't give a shit about content. Instead, I focused on self-promotion. A few years back, the trick to getting famous was to win over the beautiful, glamorous tastemakers like
supermodels and 'zine writers. But these days the power to sway popular opinion lies in the hands of a small group of incredibly annoying people: bloggers. Bloggers are primarily virgins who live with their parents and are narcissistic enough to believe people actually care about what they have to say. For some reason, as a species, we've relinquished incredible amounts of cultural influence to this small group. This is nothing new, as we've listened to critics and pundits since the dawn of time. The distinction is that blogging requires no credentials whatsoever. This has been disastrous, particularly in the sordid world of music journalism where instead of actually writing real record reviews, everyone panders to the consensus. All of which actually makes the Internets even easier to manipulate and virtually ensures the success of shitmyjorts.com. Face it: if you're reading this, you're probably a dude, you haven't shaved in at least two days and you haven't gone more than an hour without checking your email. You're probably a little awkward and spend a disproportionate amount of your day browsing the web, mostly looking at pornography. This makes you vulnerable. Shitmyjorts.com is already creeping into the periphery of your Internet experience. The choke points have already been occupied and the battle lines have been drawn. People are talking about it, and momentum is building. By the time you read this, shitmyjorts.com is already receiving 50,000 hits per day. As a Misprint reader, you are no doubt an intellectual and we have to give you some credit. LOLcats are totally retarded, but shitmyjorts.com is a powerful and insightful commentary on the state of modern media. Don't let the philistines drag you down. Be part of the revolution: shitmyjorts.com. h
The
Badass Mohawk
Polo Mallet Dueling Scar Huge Beard V-Neck
Neck Tatt
Emo’s Vegas T-Shirt Slap Bracelet Bandolero Full of Tall Cans Hand Grenade Belt Buckle iPhone AK-47 Misprint Brand
Lightcycle from Tron
Giant Horse Cock
He’s a Fucking Centaur
Steve McQueen Was Not European It’s no secret that the post-modern condition has led to widespread emasculation. Everywhere I turn I’m bombarded by wafer-thin, perfumed fey-boys pouting and prancing all over town wearing kerchiefs. Quite frankly, this needs to stop. Not just for me, but for the continued survival of our species. The time has come to once again fill the nostrils of society with the heady musk of the true man. Here are a few pointers that will turn any non-centaur, v-neck wearing boy into a barrel-chested, shot-takin’, ass-grabbin’ man. Choose a Hero
Taking Care of Business
Any man worth his weight in machismo has gleaned at least one lesson from watching all those classic 80's karate movies: the student must have a master.* It is up to you to find a great mentor who can lead you down the sweaty road to manhood. Stay away from musicians, film stars and anyone considered ruggedly handsome. James Dean is not tough. Neither is Ryan Adams. You need a role model who is bold, unflinching and willing to take on the world: someone like Charlemagne, the Ultimate Warrior or General Zod.
As nice as it would be to make a living doing pushups or juggling chainsaws, even a tough guy needs a job. While a career as a software engineer may have its perks, (not to mention health insurance), rarely will it get panties dropped at a party. By immersing yourself in a truly skilled trade like riverboat operator, beekeeper or wood stove manufacturer, you are not only guaranteed admission to the postapocalyptic citadel, but a steady stream of women once inside. When the grid fails, your skills as a typographer probably won’t make you warlord, but a stockpile of replica 1770 potbelly Franklin stoves just might.
Reflect on Nature
The great outdoors is pretty gnarly, and in general, not to be trifled with. Spend five minutes watching Animal Planet and you'll soon see what I mean. A 24-hour marathon of Meerkat Manor is all it takes to separate the men from the boys. A true warrior must choose his animal totem. Good creatures to consider are the giant squid, the star-nosed mole and the Dugong, the Unknown King of Florida. Get a Theme Song
Whether it's the ass-slapping arena rock of Molly Hatchet while working on your '68 pickup or the sensual sounds of 50's bebop while making sweet love in the bed of said pickup, music is a must. Ideally, you have enough cool songs on your iPod that in a pinch, you could play an iconic theme song as you enter the ring with Ivan Drago. At the very least, make sure you have a copy of Physical Graffiti. A good record collection isn’t really required to cement tough guy status, but you want to make sure that your buddies are playing “Kashmir” at your funeral instead of some Snow Patrol song. * The other lesson learned from 80's karate movies is that the whole crane kick bullshit is totally worthless in a real fight.
Dress to Impress
Sadly, having facial hair isn’t enough to claim, "I am King Fuck of this here Shit Mountain!" anymore. Though God might have blessed you with a cleft chin, sweet beard or pelt-like chest hair, your wardrobe is still the mightiest tool in the shed. Sweaters, bandannas and tattoos aren’t cutting it anymore. For starters, try three-piece suits, bolo ties and stegosaurus-skin boots. Tasting the Four
A few years back in my nomadic days I wound up on the Mexican side of Big Bend. After imbibing massive quantities of a homemade liquor called Soto, I struck up a conversation with a local named El Torro. It was there he revealed the heaviest and most sacred lessons of all. He referred to it as “Tasting the Four” and promised it was the essence of the true man. Simply put, at least once in his life, a man must be with a virgin, a prostitute, another man's wife and finally, another man. When questioned how the fourth had anything to do with being a man, El Torro simply replied, "I fucked him!” h
Misprint vs. Denmark* Another season in Austin, another lame music festival. One might think that as an Austinite I was ready to line up with my wad of hard-earned cash and love of live music, but I made good on my threat to get the hell out of the country before the first chord of Fun Fun Fun Fest was even strummed. Instead I checked out this little place called Denmark to find out what the deal was. Why Denmark? I almost went to England, but then remembered it's full of English people until SXSW. They're all Hot
Chicks, dudes, you name it. Everyone there is hotter than you or I will ever be. It’s mainly because when the Vikings went to rape and pillage olde England they only stole the hot women and left all the ugly ones behind. Also interesting to note: Danish chicks only date Danish dudes. If you are an American and hook up with a Danish chick, you should automatically be made president of the United States. Tough Factor?
When I was on the plane and we passed into Danish airspace, an announcement came over the speaker saying I was now the toughest person in Denmark. Sadly, it’s true, partly because I’m about as tough as a candy cane, but mainly because the Vikings, the dudes that killed Grendel and feasted on hearts have sired the feyest descendents imaginable. Perhaps it's their punishment for centuries of ass-kicking, to now be stuck in Valhalla with the knowledge that a modern Danish dude can't swing a broadsword, but could probably knit it a sheath while jauntily wearing an adorable matching hat and scarf. They Love Vikings
And yet the Danes constantly invoke the image of their gnarly Forbearers. When they gather at the bar for a toast they exclaim something that sounds like “Skuuuuul!” which apparently is some Viking war cry after scalping an enemy’s face. While I’m sure it struck terror in the hearts of people a thousand years ago, hearing it now only made me want to drink even more. Serious Drinkers
Danes have the highest life satisfaction and lowest life expectancy in western Europe. It’s because they drink, smoke and party every night until 5 in the
morning. No one has real jobs because the government nurses everyone from cradle to grave, leaving unlimited free time for slamming beers and making hats. Their Christmas drinking season starts the first Friday of November. That’s two months straight of celebratory debauchery. Irony-Free Music
Danes love rock music. Their music magazines routinely give every album 7 or 8 stars (Elton John's dvd got 14 stars). I saw some Copenhagen band shitty enough to play Emo's with stupid haircuts whipping an audience of Njords into a frenzy. They think rock music contains some sort of ancient secret to happiness, when in reality nothing good has come out since Rocking in the Free World. Irony-Full Ballet
As opposed to rock music, the Danes have mastered the art of fucking with an audience at the ballet. I caught a Royal Denmark performance and witnessed choreography that was purposefully ugly rather than elegant, a second act that intentionally started in the middle of the intermission while everyone was getting drinks and, finally, boobs. That’s right, towards the end of the show the ballerinas took off their tops. Now this is the Royal Danish Ballet, one of the oldest troupes in Europe. And I saw all their titties. It was the most ironic ballet I’ve ever seen.** Cuisine
No longer having to slay white stags with battle axes, the Danes now eat the same shit we do. I ate nachos, chicken quesadillas and hamburgers. 100% true Misprint fact: the Danish palate is highly susceptible to things that are sour. So if you ever get into a knife fight with a Dane, try and slip him a Sour Patch Kid a half hour before. Not that you wouldn't have won anyway. h
* This a Misprint Adventure because I want to write off my vacation on our tax report. **I've been to more ballets than you could possibly imagine.
Normans v. Saxons As hip as: Errol Flynn in green tights. Comments: After years of watching their distant cousins, the Vikings, invade Saxon England to steal all of the hot women, the Normans decided in 1066 to get in on the good stuff before all the sexies were gone. This set into motion the most famous Medieval battle of all time, the most kick ass tapestry of all time (the Bayeoux) and a 1-1 split on good v. shitty Robin Hood movies. Winner: Normans. Rating:
Giant Squid v. Sperm Whale As hip as: The chapter in Moby Dick where the dude wears the whale penis. Comments: One of the lowest points in cinematic history was when I watched some movie called The Squid and the Whale. That shit was fucking boring! It didn't even mention that squids are jet propelled, can change the color of their skin, and have razor-sharp tentacles and giant cocks. Moby Dick was just a big albino pussy compared to the wrath of the mythical Kracken. Winner: Giant Squid. Rating:
“ and there two shall meet,
He-Man v. Skeletor As hip as: Christmas morning, 1984. Comments: You know it, I know it: He-Man was straight-up gay. Between his salon-quality pageboy cut, sculpted, rock-hard abs and those short shorts it's pretty obvious homeboy and his masters of the universe pals were slaying unicorns and giving broadsword rides 24/7 instead of enjoying She-Ra's tappable ass. Plus, every kid on the block wanted Castle Grayskull. Why? There was nothing swankier, better designed or more decadent than He-Man's bachelor pad. Sorry, Skeletor, despite having a skull for a face you're simply no match. Winner: He-Man. Rating:
don't just hate, instigate.
Outlaw Bicycle Gang v. Outlaw Biker Gang As hip as: Riding your fixed gear unicycle to Sturgis. Comments: The anarchist biker trend is all about red and white striped socks, hating George Bush, riding really impractical bikes, having poorly groomed dogs, being smelly, joining the circus, not having a job and liking bands with accordions in them. Notable Austin examples include That Damned Band, the oldsters who hang out at Lovejoy's during the day and pretty much anyone who volunteers at Yellow Bike. At least outlaw biker gangs run heroin and kill people. Winner: Outlaw Biker Gang. Rating:
LAME <-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------> AWESOME
Ralph Macchio
Dolph Lundgren
Lee Marvin
Sigourney Weaver
Anton Chigurh
Close Tab v. One More Drink As hip as: The Creekside combo. Comments: It's last call at the Side Bar, and the only thing I want at this point is a teleporter to get me home in one piece. Since nude photo hunt technology is still at a more advanced stage than teleportation, the only logical step is to slam one more Jäger bomb as a toast to just how shitty my life really is. Winner: One More Drink. Rating:
Morrissey v. a T-Rex As hip as: Eating barbecue with the baby from that stupid dinosaur sitcom. Comments: At the sight of his pale vegan man-teats, I'm fairly certain even a ruthless, highly-evolved, top-of-the-food-chain predator would lose his appetite. And the moment Moz launches into another mopey, minor-key indie ballad, the Tyrannosaur will stop in its tracks, head home, cry a little and decide he really should come out of the closet. Winner: Morrissey. Rating:
the most epic battle of all.â&#x20AC;?
Ted Nugent v. Everyone As hip as: Getting death threats from PETA. Comments: The Nuge hates Democrats. The Nuge hates Paul McCartney. The Nuge hates veggie dogs and free-trade, organic coffee. The Nuge hates Ms. Pac-Man. The only things The Nuge doesn't hate are bow hunting and having guitars for hands. Everyone else wins though, because The Nuge is the only person who still lives in Waco by choice. Winner: Everyone. Rating:
Emo's Bartenders v. Mothra As hip as: Mechagodzilla drinking a Sparkleberry. Comments: Mothra: 120 meters tall and weighing 80,000 tons in its larval form. It's telepathic, it can block Godzilla's radioactive breath and it can drink 65 million Lonestars and still drive home. Emo's Bartenders: Tattooed, smelly and deaf, but tough enough to kick any drunk asshole out of the Trail of Guys show. Surely a confrontation of this magnitude would lay waste to Red River. Which would be totally sweet. Winner: draw. Rating:
Oasis v. Oasis As hip as: Powerwashing your Wonderwall. Comments: Everyone knows the greatest battle is the battle within. And what better embodies the eternal struggle of man against himself than Noel and Liam G. Whether it's beating the paparazzi to a bloody pulp in front of your six-year-old son, smacking around your supermodel girlfriend or bludgeoning each other in the head with cricket bats, the brothers Gallagher represent the sociopath within us all. And even though 99% of native English speakers still can't understand what the fuck they're saying, I'm pretty sure "Champagne Supernova" is really a grim parable about the dark side of the human condition. Either that or it's just about coke. Winner: Oasis. Rating:
Cult of the Dueling Scar Once the birthright of the warrior class and the mark of royalty, body modifications were the proudly-worn scar of the toughest of the tough: the bruisers, the breakers and the take no prisoner ass-kickers. But ever since George Clooney’s shitty vampire slayin’ spray-on neck tatts in From Dusk ‘Til Dawn, things have been going downhill. Now that tattooing falls somewhere on the toughness scale between chocolate pudding and poetry slams, body modification is just another fashion statement. My boss’s boss has a tattoo on his face, and I work in a cubicle. Now that an entire generation has hopped on the whole scarification-as-fashion bandwagon, it’s worth taking a minute to explore the sordid history of body modifications.
Ritual scarification dates back to prehistory and transcends cultures and geography. The remains of Ötzi the Iceman, (a Paleolithic fur trapper/drug dealer discovered in the Alps) dating back to 4000 bce, show primitive tattoos of sparrows, stars and ak-47s created by cutting the skin and rubbing ash into the wounds. The purpose of scarification varies among cultures. In Southeast Asia, tattoos and scarification were rites of passage received by 18-year-olds leaving for college to spite their square, conservative parents. In Buddhist countries, warriors receive specific tattoos from consecrated monks as part of an elaborate protection ritual. There are symbols that provide the wearer immunity from arrows or prevent them from getting crushed by elephants. [ed. note: I got these tattoos last month and they totally work] Amongst primitive European peoples, however, tattoos served the same, more practical purpose they serve today: to show fertility and attract scenester tail. But tattoos only tell part of the story. A far more badass form of ritual scarification started invading college campuses in Germany and Austria in the late 17th century. In Bavaria, the student class was even more isolated and out of touch with reality than they are at UT Austin. Except instead of resolving their grudges with Facebook flames everyone carried swords and stabbed each other in the streets. By the 1850's, the understandably frustrated administration codified the process so it would merely maim instead of kill. Rival “student corporations,” (the forerunners of modern fraternities) would hit the ice luge and then hold complex organized swordfights. The goal of these
fights was not to kill your opponent or even win the fight, but rather to show your courage and let your opponent slash you in the face, leaving a gnarly scar. This type of dueling was not only socially acceptable but encouraged. A dueling scar was a mark of status worn by the upper class, with a large proportion of doctors, barristers and other academics taking part. Ideally one would only get slashed on the left side of your face, leaving the right profile pretty for your portraits. Interestingly, this whole operation was phenomenally sexy to the zaftig, Germanic ladies of the time. So much so that guys who were too scared to fight would cut their own faces and stuff the wounds with salt, wine or horsehair to make them scar badly. After World War II, the trend started to die, but not before dueling scars could embed themselves in pop culture with X-men nemesis Baron Von Strucker and a string of megalomaniacal Bond villains. This doesn’t really prove anything aside from the fact that two hundred years ago a bunch of college kids were willing to slice themselves across the face for fashion. So compared to them, that moth you have tattooed on your ankle doesn’t mean much. It doesn’t mean you’re tough or you’ve come of age, it just means you can get a job at the Side Bar. h
How to Run for City Council As a journalist, I strive to remain politically neutral. But since this is Misprint and I'm starving, I'd probably endorse the first candidate who’d buy me a burrito with real meat in it. One could argue that with the Mayan calendar running out in 2012, caring about politics seems a bit futile. But lately things are getting bad. A contingent of freakish yuppie aliens are morphing our beloved city into South Fort Dallas by turning down our amps and turning up the asshole factor. So just like Rowdy Roddy Piper in They Live, it's time to take a stand. It doesn’t matter that you moved here 5 months ago; now that you own that condo you are qualified to run for city council. I see no reason why you shouldn't. Dust off that old student council speech, this city needs you. Polish Your Image
Two Words: Internet
Since this is Austin, you already know that image is everything. You weren’t given that $15 American Apparel giftcard when you opened your utilities account for nothing. And no image is more "electable" than that of a giant, unruly beard. If you have ever read an issue of Misprint you know that growing a beard will solve just about any problem (aside from not getting laid). Having a sweet beard screams out-of-work musician or dictator. Either way, you're appealing to your voting public. Can't grow a beard? Go back to fucking Delaware.
Now that shitmyjorts.com has redefined technologydriven cultural interconnectivity, it might seem like figuring out how to power up that new MacBook is as pointless as a third music festival in Austin. But in reality, there's still no better way to reach the legions of pornography-addicted homebound alcoholics who make up your constituency. And with your incessant whining and baseless character attacks on local celebrities, there’s no reason not to start blogging. Let potential voters know you're web savvy by posting hourly, semi-psychotic missives about the minutiae of your life, like the progress of the shrooms you’re growing under your bed or how your girlfriend just slept with the drummer from a band even shittier than yours. If you need inspiration, check out Billy Corgan's MySpace page. If pathetic drivel equals political clout, that dude should be running for president by now.
The Dying Art of Rhetoric
I've hung out with assholes like you. You're always ranting about something: the bartender cutting you off, semi-famous musicians you're on a first name basis with or why you don’t own a television. It's time to put that gift of gab to use. Go to the bar and start drinking. As soon as you feel like throwing up, hop up on the nearest table and let everyone know about the irresponsible zoning laws that are ruining this town or some other vaguely political-sounding nonsense. Too bad the ex-cons that hang out at the same bars as you will be busy playing Guitar Hero III on election day. But don’t sweat it, bro. Everything worked out for Kinky Freidman… Focus on the Family
Aside from good looks, a decades-long career in public service and a few graduate degrees, what does Brewster McCracken have that you don't? Easy: tons of candid photos of him juggling adorable babies. Clearly, no stranger will let you near their kid, but it's more than likely that at least one of your degenerate friends has knocked up his girlfriend by now. Just think how cute that kid will look peering through your beard.
Fundraising
Unfortunately, the money you make testing experimental impotency drugs at overnight medical studies is barely paying for your weed, let alone a political campaign. I recommend heading to any of the many clubs with live sharks and stuffed zebras and throwing some Aqua Dots in the drink of some well-heeled, young powerbroker. Before she comes to, get married. Alimony, bitches. Follow these simple steps and you're sure to get elected. Or arrested. Which is really just free publicity. And since there is no such thing as bad publicity, you’re just paving the way for a successful campaign next election year. Which gives you plenty of time to grow out that beard. Oh yeah, and did I mention growing a beard? Do it. h
Stuff in 2008 I'm Not Looking Forward To That New Batman Movie
Fresh off of making out with sexy cowboys, Heath Ledger's Joker sets his sights on pissing on the celluloid grave of Jack Nicholson. Being a 10-year-old boy back in '89 when the first Batman movie came out basically changed my whole life. At least until I was 13 and saw Michelle Pfeiffer slinking around on all fours in a cat suit. But none of the sequels really compare to the thrill of witnessing what happens when one fucks with The Jack. The cowboy's been warned...
All of The Summer Olympics, Save for Women's Volleyball
Here we go again. The Summer Olympics is all about abstract opening night pageantry, speedwalking, injecting drugs into your teammate's asshole, dudes wrestling each other, tiny bathing suits and no snowboarding. And without fail, some American douchebag always does something to ruin the spirt of the Olympics. At least hot Romanian chicks playing volleyball will be on TV for a few weeks.
Chinese Democracy Guns N' Roses
Get ready folks, the Second Coming is nearly nigh. This will be the year Axl finally stops buying hair plugs and dumps the steaming turd that is Chinese Democracy onto the masses. I suspect the masses will all be wondering why the singer from The Offspring's fatter, uglier brother is putting out an album. Does this all sound vaguely familiar to you? That's because it is. It's cribbed from a year-and-a-half old back issue. So if you're really stoked on this record, don't dig out your stonewashed bandanna just yet. In Rainbows Radiohead
Dear Thom Yorke. Thanks for making me have to deal with your lame album twice. Just after your lab experiment of online cocksuckery has finally died down you now have the audacity to put this stinker on a real disc. Let's see if the people who were actually stupid enough to pay for the online version will line up at the local recordplex and pay for the real thing too. Just don't pretend you won't be laughing all the way to the bank in your robot car either way.
Vol 4 Misprint Magazine
Another year of doing this stupid shit? Will we actually get off our asses to produce more issues? Will we ever meet our underage intern? Will we ever stop recycling the same crappy jokes? Only time will tell, but signs point to no. It doesn't matter anyway, because as soon as we finalize the terms of our lucrative buyout deal we are so out of here and moving to Portland. h
T we don’t love to hate. we hate what we love.
G U ( )
The award of our time
Most Gentrified Method of Intoxication Bottle Service This is news to me, but apparently "bottle service" doesn't mean favoring a longneck over a tallcan. It actually means I walk into a bar and have the privilege of ordering bottles of vodka I could get for 1/50th of the price at any liquor store within a 20-mile radius. True, this same argument could be applied to ordering a beer at a bar, but at least I won't look like a complete shithead with a Pabst in my hand.
Most (Un)Gentrified Dive Bar 710
Awarding Austin's Exemplarily Gentrified : 2007
Most Gentrified Future Awkward Moment Mohawk Outside Stage + Condo Balcony Those condos across from the Mohawk are opening soon. What's going to put my life in perspective when I'm stuck watching some Decemberists-raping band on the outside stage and I make eye contact with a cheesedick yupster in a silk Kimono stepping out onto his balcony? Nothing but the shared realization that we both hate this town. At least the Mohawk is installing water cannons on the roof deck so I'll be able to take him and his stupid ferns out.
Most Gentrified Austin Readers Poll Award Austin Chronicle Best of Austin Readers Poll What do readers know, anyway? They're all just fucking sheep. If Misprint was full-color glossy, a standard publication size and had more pictures of coeds taking up our off-white space, fine, we would have bagged the Readers Poll instead of the metaphorical bone we got thrown from the "critics". But if it's a toss-up between Louis Black and some faceless horde...I'd take the faceless horde.
Most Gentrified Austin Award The Genties Didn't you read the banner up top?
Not since Keith Richards has anyone had their death predicted so frequently yet so incorrectly. How many things were supposed to snuff this place? The homeless shelter, the smoking ban, getting absolutely no love from Austinist? Against all the odds, 710 is staying strong and staying shitty. If it can survive the condo insurrection it might become the only authentic bar left in Austin. Rumor has it Headhunters is already making the dudes in Superheavygoatass wear buttonups. Also, we think 710 has been emailing us cryptic, anonymous messages about vomiting at The Beauty Bar. Keep'em coming, dudebros.
Most Gentrified Menagerie Tie: Pangaea and Qua You know your quaint little city is in big, big trouble when the new bars opening up distribute press releases. So welcome, safari-themed Pangaea and shark-themed Qua. You have now raised the douchebaggotry bar to new, stratospheric heights. Now, when I want to make the moves on some sweet chick, I'm totally taking her to Pangaea so she can drink her appletini underneath a mounted rhinoceros cock. Bitchin'. As for Qua, people can get all pissed off about those poor sharks underneath the dance floor. Personally, I think they have the best gig around: they get to eat squid from Whole Foods every day and see the best upskirt shots in town every night. Fuck those sharks, they are living better than me. That's what the spirit of gentrification is all about. h
The Plastic People of the Universe Iggy would cut himself with broken glass on stage. Liam Gallagher pummels random passers-by to a bloody pulp. The dudes in Mastodon have tattoos on their faces. This might lead you to believe, like any pie-eyed, greasyhaired 16-year-old, that rock music is still subversive and dangerous. Sadly, this is complete and utter bullshit.
This isn't just malevolent Misprint conjecture. Much live music today equates to watching some pretty boys aping Spoon at the Hard Rock CafĂŠ while drinking a $6 Heineken. Young bands today are born with a sense of entitlement and label dollars in their eyes, bitching on their blogs about not getting enough drink tickets. As laughable as it must sound, especially to the hyper-cynical music insiders of today, there were times and places where rock music really mattered. People were risking everything to use music as a vehicle for genuine change, not just to make live background music at a bar, cash out and bang some locally-pierced scene chick. In the 1960s Eastern Europe was suffering from a hardline cultural consciousness shat from decades of boring communism. But the Iron Curtain was beginning to leak and Western values (i.e. the Beatles and the Stones) crept into even the most oppressive Eastern Bloc states to corrupt the youth. But Czechoslovakia was unique. Though still communist, Prague was a mecca of drugs, music and guiltless back-alley handjobbery. Liberal leaders and student unrest gradually chipped away at the establishment, culminating in The Prague Spring of '68, a decadent months-long European Woodstock so bitchin' that oldsters still talk about it with a reverence usually reserved for beside the pope's coffin. Obviously the live-music-hating Soviets weren't going to stand for the Czechs having more fun than they were and decided to break up the party with an invasion of 175,000 stormtroopers. The first order of business for the occupying force was reinstating cultural control. They censored the press and closed Prague's rock clubs, forcing most rock bands to get real jobs. But not The Plastic People of the Universe, a psychedelic rock outfit formed by Milan Hlavsa a month after the Russians invaded. The band loved Zappa and traditional Czech stoner folk music, and rapidly built a massive following with thinly-veiled anti-communist protest songs.
Soviet troops promptly revoked the band's performance license, effectively making their shows illegal. Naturally, the Plastic People continued to perform, with an ingenuity and verve no working band today could ever muster. Shows were disguised as lectures, where a grad student would speak about Andy Warhol and the Plastics would then "demonstrate" a set of Velvet Underground songs. Amplifiers were contraband, so the band built their own from parts salvaged from Russian televisions. Booking was a complex and clandestine affair. A remote site was chosen in some isolated village on a rail line from the large cities. The exact location was revealed by word of mouth. In 1974 more than one thousand people showed up in the small town of Budovice to hear the Plastics, only to find the police waiting. Hundreds of fans, zinesters and fey party photographers were beaten with clubs, arrested and herded onto police traincars back to Prague. This incident solidified the band's legend and became a rallying cry for the Czech counter-culture. The Plastics were an instrumental part of the democratic movement. For nearly two decades, they lived as outlaws; playing shows, being assaulted by the police and serving multiple prison terms. When longtime Plastics fan Valclav Havel, rose to power in the bloodless Velvet Revolution of 1989, the details of their story finally came to light in the west. What this all really means is that I'm not impressed by your leather jacket and I think your band is a bunch of pussies. The American image of the toughguy rocker is a bit of a sham. Bob Dylan and Pete Seegar never got bludgeoned by the secret police. Punk rock wasn't a rebellion, it was just some guys who wanted to party but didn't know how to play. So the next time no one comes out to see your shitty band at the Parlor, try to keep it in perspective. At least you didn't get beat up by Soviet troops. h
BATTLE OF FUN FUN FUN FEST
crappy local bands (1) Explosions In the Sky Football Player 1: Dude, it's all about the buildup. No, seriously, man, crescendo. Dynamics, brah. This one is going to be huge. Wait for it, wait for itâ&#x20AC;Ś Football Player 2: Fuck dude, I'm totally bored. let's go get a beer. Explosions (4) Clap!Clap! With all the hot clappers kicked back to the vintage boutiques from whence they came, this streamlined San Marcos dudebro collective can get back to business. This is mainly playing inspirational party bangers about choosing not to drink and being too terrified to touch girls. The future for this band just couldn't be brighter. (3) Brothers & Sisters Definitely my favorite local 46-piece act, I don't think anyone in the Brothers & Sisters actually remembers who's in the band and who isn't. A good rule of thumb: if you can grow a beard or are a female who owns a tambourine, you're probably already in this band as the third backup jaw harpist or viceassistant skin floutist or some shit. (4)I Love You But Etc. Misprint owes a lot to ILYBICD. The primary reason we formed this magazine all those years ago was to make fun of their stupid name. And through all the years we've spent together, through all the mediocre shows and I Love You But I've Chosen Pancakes jokes, we want to take this opportunity to say thank you.
shitty hardcore (1) Neurosis Back when you thought you were the shit because you had a skateboard and a dub of Cowboys From Hell, Neurosis was busy writing the soundtrack to the apocalypse. They wear Oakland Raiders jerseys and have sweet beards and their set was an excruciating 70 minutes of sonic assault that left my neck hurting a week later. Sure, it was an exclusively male crowd, but dudes who like Neurosis care more about burning in eternal fires, plate tectonics and 30-second guttural moans than hanging out with girls.
Neurosis
(4) The Sword Fuck, man, you read the Misprint interviewâ&#x20AC;Ś these dudes are even more into Advanced Dungeons and Dragons and giant bongs than ever. They played as well as I've ever seen them and the new material is more instrumental and jammy, like Neil Young covering Maiden, which, shockingly enough, is something I can get behind. They're finally getting some of the good weed. (3) Sick of It All NY Hardcore legends made famous from their hilarious instructional video on 120 Minutes teaching hardcore dance moves like Picking Up Change, the Wall of Death and the Fuck! I Lost My Glasses. Despite the fact that dude with the huge neck has the worst haircut since Jerry Only, this set ruled, particularly the moment when he called on the crowd to reenact the climactic battle scene from Braveheart. (2) Murder City Devils I'm not going to cut them any slack for being too drunk to remember how to play their own songs. It's pop punk not Dream Theater, dudes, figure it out. Still, it was an awesome oldster beardfest that made me want to drink Jameson until I started liking music again.
Neurosis
S.O.I.A.
boring electronic music
Girl Talk
Girl Talk (1) Everyone's favorite Pittsburgh pharmacist works even less hard than the Misprint staff. He made Pitchfork-approved mash-ups part of the zeitgeist just by pressing a space bar. When errant cans of Icehouse don’t shortcircuit his Powerbook, he can conjure up a dancey party adored by waifish teenage girls, immigrant German düdenbros and people who still wear Diesel. When he takes his shirt off to reveal his LCD-tanned nips...look out. Car Stereo (Wars) (4) The only person on earth who loves Burt Reynolds more than CSW is Loni Anderson, and at least she’s been boned by him. Even though the parenthetical-loving, moustache-fetishist Car Stereo assembled a jampacked, infectious album, it fails with its lack of any PM Dawn samples.
Madball
Diplo (3) Half of Diplo's Wikipedia entry is about him dating M.I.A. at one point or another, which I guess is pretty smart, because her coattails are probably better than any mash-up this dude can cut/paste together. Neurosis
Battles
So it comes down to noodling with your laptop and slamming a ridiculously tall crash cymbal against growling and playing the same chord for a half an hour. Both sound pretty sweet. Battles represents a hopeful future where robots and musicians can profit together while Neurosis represents a bleak future of citadels, spiked shoulder pads and gyrocopters. Again, both sound pretty sweet. I guess it all comes down to which version of the future you're into. Misprint is totally dystopian, so we're going with Neurosis. Besides, they'd summon lightning bolts and destroy our headquarters if we didn't pick them. Winner: Neurosis
Madball
Madball (unseeded) Why is Madball in this bracket? Because they're fucking sweet and Diplo is weaker than the fan in my MacBook. Besides, sweaty dudes singing songs about integrity is much better than some geek pressing play. Before launching into their hit single "Droppin' Many Suckas," Madball said they were "taking it back to the streets." I don't really know what that means, but I have to assume it has something to do with wearing basketball shorts, being fat and showcasing hilarious clichés of irrelevant tough guy hardcore.
slightly less crappy touring bands Battles (1) Quite possibly the most pretentious band in history, Battles' live set is basically just masturbation with $25k in equipment. I heard their roadies get hazard pay since they go through four cases of wet-naps a show. I wanted to heckle this band so badly it made my teeth hurt. Battles
Battles
Final Fantasy (4) I really wanted to back this guy, but then I remembered he was a totally effeminate Canadian violinist who named his band after a Furry-laden, turn-based role-playing video game, named his album "Pooping Clouds" or something and clearly does not know the first thing about rocking out. Of Montreal (3) Alternatingly dour and ecstatic, Kevin Barnes played a sweet set of fuckedup manic-depressive pop-songs about his Njordic ex-wife, taking off his pants and broin' down with Norwegian black metal bands over a juicy sirloin at the Outback steakhouse. My girlfriend totally wants to sleep with him, even though he wears fishnet stockings and hotpants.
O.M.
Cat Power (2) Dear Cat Power: You are totally boring. People only watch to see if you're going to lose your shit on stage, and, as usual, they were not disappointed. Yeah, being a famous musician must be so hard, with the millions of dollars and fans and all. Considering part of the job involves playing shows, perhaps you should stop apologizing for sucking and consider a new, less stressful career. Try sandwich artist.
Billie Holiday. Johnny Cash. Simon & Garfunkel. Curtis Mayfield.
She plays it all. Because she’s a badass.
The Laurie Show 11 p – 3 a Fridays
KUT 90.5 Austin KUTX 90.1 San Angelo www.kut.org Listener supported public radio.
Free Shit We Got
A thinly veiled attempt, disguised as journalism, to score more free promotional hogwash.
The Christmas Album The Hot Pentecostals
There's a long and hallowed tradition of bands trying to exploit the spirit of the holidays: The Vandals' Oi! To the World; Danzig's little-known Easter Bunny record; Devendra Banheart's Arbor Day Spectacular. Even Barbra Streisand did a Christmas album, and she's Jewish. But none of this prevented new local spacefolk four-piece The Hot Pentecostals from providing a uniquely Austin take on the holiday record. Unlike that lame Sufjan Christmas box set which is mostly about playing the flute and wearing adorable hats, these carols capture the true spirit of Christmas: drinking whiskey and getting dumped by your girlfriend. They take on a few standards, including a ripping cut of "Away in a Manger" and "O Holy Night" as a gospel devotional. And there are a few bleak, spacey, country songs that are sure to bum out even the merriest Christmas party. But face it, traditional X-mas albums are getting kind of tired, but I'll take this one over that loser Bing Crosby's any day.
2007-2008 Telephone Directory Greater Westlake Hills
Thom Yorke is feeling pretty smug lately, thinking he's brought the record industry to its knees by coming up with the idea of paying for art on a selfdetermined, sliding scale. Too bad Greater Westlake Hills has been doing this shit for years, and even go one step further: they gave out their newest drop for free. Zero dollars, period. By taking capitalism out of the equation, GWH forces us to look at art unfettered. It's a pretty exhilarating ride, especially once you get to the Js and Ks. But be sure to stick around 'til the very end because there's tons of great coupons too! Save $50 on a replacement water heater? This is without a doubt the best release of 2007.
The Freshest Dude Terp2It
Send us your free shit! Misprint Magazine PO Box 303157 Austin, Texas 78703
I sort of hoped I could get through my entire career as a rock critic without ever having to listen to some white dude rap about how much he loves his favorite chair. I had a good run, but sadly, it came to an end when I listed to Terp2It's The Freshest Dude. Terp2It is the alter-ego of local attention-starved comic/ improv actor/moustache enthusiast Chris Trew, who recently came in last place in the Austin360.com "most eligible bachelor" poll. Depending on how you feel about the "Nerdcore" concept, The Freshest Dude is either a pretty funny standup act performed to some Jay-Z beats or a bastardization of hip-hop by some nerdy white guy co-opting a traditionally black art form. Regardless, songs like "Hanging Out With Some Chicks" or "Whomp That Nerd" transcend cultural and racial boundaries.
Gossip! Gossip! Gossip! Sometime Austin mom-rockers Spoon recently revealed their allegiance to the robot insurrection by cutting a video starring a yellow dancing robot that's so adorable and non-threatening, its only purpose could be the destruction of mankind. The video features those lovable rogues jaunting around various Tokyo robotics labs while toying around with giant metal claws and flesh-destroying energy weapons all the while flashing that trademark Britt Daniel smile. ----------------------------------------------------------Following last issue's Guide to Babies, approximately 62% of Austin women of childbearing age are now pregnant. To celebrate, Austin moms took a shot at a long-standing world record for simultaneous breast-feeding, rounding up 105 moms to show some nip down at the Farmers' Market while creepy dudes were taking pictures through their telescopes. Turns out we didn't win, with that honor going to some town full of virile dudes in Iowa, but there's always next year. Do your part and knock up your girlfriend. ----------------------------------------------------------I guess Kevin Shields and the rest of My Bloody Valentine didn't catch the last issue of Misprint, which contained a lengthy treatise advising them to spare us the agony of a reunion. Bad move, guysâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;get ready to go from beloved, seminal and influential band to another corporate rock joke. What the fuck have you been doing the last 15 years? I have some bad news about 2008. It turns out that guitars through twenty delay pedals and playing really, really boring shows went out of style back in '98, so you dudes might want to figure out some new shit. ----------------------------------------------------------Congratulations Austin! American Apparel executives from L.A. finally noticed all that hard work you've been doing at the Beauty Bar as a bunch promiscuous scenester douchebags and have decided to bless our fair city with not one but three retail stores. Now you can get crotchless gold tights without a waiting period. ----------------------------------------------------------Blur is reuniting. Clap!Clap! is breaking up. No one cares.
Almost too trashy to report is an update from the unusually quiet love life of genetically engineered man-machine hybrid Lance Armstrong. After rumors began flying about Austin's most prominent nightclub impresario blowing rails with Hannah Montana, Dora the Explorer, and the entire cast of Salute My Shorts, sources close to Misprint were able to confirm that The Lance Romance is indeed dating either Ashley or Mary Kate Olsen (whoever is the slutty one). ----------------------------------------------------------In Austin club news, animal rights activists are petitioning for shark rights after some douche club owner installed a ridiculous aquarium in the dancefloor of Qua, the new high-concept shiny-shirt hangout/seafood market in the Warehouse District. Shark lovers complained that the animals were under undue stress from being in such a terrible nightclub. Surprisingly, there was no campaign to help the legions of misguided assholes irreparably damaged by Qua's overpriced drinks, terrible music and laughable pretension. Regardless, the entire place seems to me like some kind of James Bond Villain's hangout. I wouldn't be surprised if one night a sinister-looking guy with a dueling scar pushes a flashing red button, opening the top of the tank and feeding the well-heeled club goers to his RAVENOUS MAN-EATING SHARKS. ----------------------------------------------------------Misprint operatives also checked out Austin's other new "ultra-lounge" Pangaea, which avoided controversy by eschewing a shark tank for the taxidermied heads of various endangered species. I can confidently say I'd rather bathe in elephant dung or be trampled by a herd of wildebeest than have another drink at that stinking turd. I don't know who thought people would want to hang out in a bar that looks and smells like a cut-rate version of the zebra pen at the Houston Zoo, but it's probably the same genius who thought the Hi-Lo was a good idea. The hilarious velvet rope warden looked like Vin Diesel in an all-black suit. If this joke lasts 6 months it will be a miracle. Everyone cut this shit out and come hang out at Beerland.
CHANGE YOUR LIFE - JOIN THE POSSE! Progress Coffee
Located on 5th street, 2 blks east of i-35 | P-512.493.0963 â&#x20AC;˘ F-512.493.0964 www.progresscoffee.com | http://myspace.com/progresscoffee
upcoming shows include: Jan. 12th Jan. 17th Jan. 18th Jan. 24th Feb. 6 Feb. 15th Feb. 16th Feb. 16th Feb. 21st Feb. 21st Feb. 23rd Feb. 26th Feb. 28th
Transona 5/ The Theater Fire/Quiet, Lovely All in the Golden Six Organs of Admittance Michael Ian Black & Michael Showalter US Bombs Nina Nastasi Grant Hart (husker du)/Grand Champeen Service Industry Liars/No Age Cex Baby Dee/Weird Weeds Lymbyc Systym/This Will Destroy You Spectrum (sonic boom/spacemen 3) Joe Lally (Fugazi)/Edie Sedgwick Leslie and the LY's
Afternoon (Mohawk) Mohawk Mohawk Red 7 Mohawk Mohawk Mohawk outside Mohawk inside Lambert's Mohawk Mohawk Mohawk Beauty Bar