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Your source for highbrow falconry humor since 2005.

volume 05

issue 01

may 2009


Your hot ad.

Our hot content.

email to the directors Misprint Magazine: you're gay


Nice little publication you guys have. I had no idea that all it takes to start a "magazine" is shitty writing and a hard on for V-necks. And speaking of hard ons, what's up with the whole Cocktoberfest thing? From what I can tell, you guys really shouldn't draw attention to that area. I'M IMPLYING YOU HAVE SMALL DICKS, LOSERS.

Hi, this is the webmaster at We really love your 'zine. Wanna trade web site links? It's only gay if our urls touch... –The Resinous Bastard

Fuck this, I'm having some Funyuns. (Editor’s Response) First of all, we're way over V-necks. Mock-turtlenecks and small cocks are all the rage in 2k9. As for Cocktoberfest, it did prove one thing: that we can now do any fucking thing we want in this town. There's nothing up with Cocktoberfest. It was the most poorly conceived, planned and executed event of 2008. Even our (one) sponsor (who didn't give us any money) had to pay at the door because we forgot to make a guest list. PS. We love Funyuns.

(Editor’s Response) Sorry dudes, we have enough problems as it is without the fcc driving around in their black vans with directional antennae trying to shut us down. We really love you guys as an abstract concept but I hate to break it to you: we've never actually heard your radio "station." This is probably because we're not your next door neighbor. I don't think we're quite ready to rub urls. Do you ever play any Metallica?

vol 05 issue 01 may 2009




board of advisors


Harvey Merrybottom

Kip Hollingsworth Bronx Wontgomery L. Fauntleroy Jaye L. Baitt Callahan O’Callahan Adolph Curmudgeon Col. Alastair Tunbridge (Ret) Abelard Fiddlebits Jan Tschichold Yngwie Malmsteen Send us your free shit! Misprint Magazine c/o The Side Bar

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 A Job for You!

This is a joke :)

Job Title: Finance Manager Req'd Education: Not Specified Company: Warszawa Consulting Req'd Experience: Not Specified Job Location: Canada Base Pay: 21,000 cad/year Bonus: Yes

Point of view. I have no notion of extenuating to fasten it upon something near enough at hand wool rolled in old cotton. 425. To bore glass how do you mean? She was palpably interested for in italy, spain, algeria, and hindostan. – dr. Abbott.

About us: Warszawa Consulting, established in 1996 in Warszawa, is specialized in the delivery of world-class business consultancy services, business valuations, investment analyses, etc. Today our plans include further company development. (Editor’s Response) Fuck yeah, bros! We've just been dying to move to Canada and throw a hockey and maple syrup decathlon with Bryan Adams, Ryan Adams, The Neil and Wolverine. Are the Scandal Scouts available to be cheerleaders?

(Editor’s Response) 425? Fuck dude, I don't even know what you're talking about. Is that like "420" in Russia? If this is about that fake {{{Sunset}}} show we booked in Hindostan, we promise we had nothing to do with it. Say STOP too rod weakness, medicine for long fucking. Love, Misprint

A few words from the Directors...

Chadwick Pennyrich III

Harvey Merrybottom

It all started when they closed down the Ice Factory. I should have known the economic crisis was serious when hordes of migrant icemongers showed up at our door looking for work stapling 'zines. I laughed it off at the time, but before long the waves of dire financial straights began to crash upon the shores of Misprint HQ. I'm embarrassed to admit it, but Misprint got wrapped up in that Red River ponzi scheme. We bought 10,000 Lonestars up front and were guaranteed 25,000 a week later. We ended up drinking the first 10,000 over a marathon bocce session and totally forgot to collect the rest. Combined with the fact that no one actually gives us any money anymore, our financial outlook is pretty bleak. But don't worry. We haven't laid anyone off or even cut salaries. That makes Misprint the most successful business in Austin, which is really scary if you think about it. In your face, Soundcheck! Like most people though, sacrifices must be made. We sold our vat of Pantone 8621 and scooped up the dregs of cigarette ash and stale beer from the Emo's courtyard to make the gray ink you're reading now. Our giant squid is back on his diet of frozen narwhals, instead of the organic ones he really likes. We pulled most of the content for this issue from our back catalogue so we didn't have to pay anyone. I even scanned my own jorts for the cover. While it seems like everyone else is channelling their crippling malaise into opening up more barbershops and east east 6th Street bars, Misprint's going the much more practical route. That means shit tons of moneysaving tips you can't get anywhere else. We've also printed our own Great Depression-style Scrip in this issue, too. That's 100% real currency, bitches; fully-backed by the credibility of Misprint Magazine. Use it to buy your next round at the Mohawk and say Misprint sends its regards.  In Solidarity,

Gardencore Take a moment to evaluate your life. You’re reading Misprint. You’re probably high right now. You can't sustain any kid of relationship, or even steady employment. You're too irresponsible to even look after your goldfish, let alone a feral cat or urban chicken. But don't despair. Gardening is the perfect hobby for you! It's cheap, almost effortless, and requires no emotional maturity whatsoever. All that’s required is one hung over Sunday spent clearing out those rusted BMX bikes, cigarette butts and beer cans from that weird corner of your yard and in a few short months you’ll be enjoying nature’s bounty. It's like burying money, but eventually getting to eat it too. Get Dirty

The first thing you need to learn about starting a garden is that there are actually two kinds of dirt: regular dirt and the dirt you have to pay money for at a hardware store. This may seem absurd, but the shitty eastside dirt where you play bocce, bench press and occasionally urinate is not going to turn you into the next Martha "Turkey Hill Terror" Stewart. You need the kind of dirt that would never, under any other circumstances, be caught dead near your property. That means dirt full of vitamins, minerals and nutrients. Normal, functional adults typically have a compost pile as a cheap alternative but since you eat nothing but frozen pizza and tallcans don’t biodegrade, you’re pretty much out of luck. Know Your Climate

Did you know that the exact same crops can grow in the Fertile Crescent and Japan? That's because they're both on the same latitude. But it sucks for you because you're fucking stuck in the post-apocalyptic temperatures of central Texas. That means the only crops that thrive here are the ingredients for a bitchin’ taco. So plant a bunch of tomatoes, serrano peppers, onions, tortillas, Monterrey jack cheese and ground beef. As an aside, marijuana practically grows by accident in Austin, so if you’ve ever thrown a decent party and don’t mow your lawn too often, you most likely have a genuine cash crop hiding among the other weeds in your yard. The Part Where You Actually Do Something

To till the soil is to reconnect with a primal aspect of your humanity, where our ancestors’ sweat and blood wrung life and sustenance from the dry, cracked earth. Today, it’s best to rent a rototiller

or hire some day laborer. Once that’s done, mix in your expensive dirt, a shit ton of "organic" chemical fertilizer and some of that human manure you’ve been saving for a rainy day. Throw some seeds in there and you're done. Congratulations, you’re now officially part of the “Slow Food Movement”. Now drive to your nearest Wendy’s and grab some baconators to tide you over while you wait 3 months for your jalapeños to ripen. Drinking Beer While Wearing Adorable Gloves

Choosing the right watering can is essential. Ignore the temptation to buy one of those lame Ikea ones. Those pale, perfumed Nords don't know shit about outdoor labor. I'd recommend a nice, retro metal can. It's the least emasculating one out there. And make sure your gardener gloves aren't skin tight. This isn't the Beauty Bar. Also, as with any hobby that has ever been documented in the pages of Misprint Magazine, drinking alcohol is a must. It’s scientifically proven to make your plants grow faster. You were probably too young to realize it, but your grandpa was totally wasted when he went out to check on his prized eggplants. Reaping What You Have Sown

Come late summer, in the unlikely event you’ve remembered to water every other day, you are now the proud owner of more fucking vegetables than you know what to do with. Try putting them on your frozen pizza. Or, god forbid, call up one of your hippy friends and ask them to show you how to make a salad. Be sure to let some tomatoes rot so you can throw them at your least favorite bands. And, obviously, smoke that marijuana to toast your success. A hardworking urban farmer like you deserves it. h

Bar Ownership for Fun & Profit The writing is on the wall. Besieged on all sides by condos and wine bars, Austin’s downtown nightlife scene is going the way of the brontosaurus. Even the Teachers' Lot got shut down after some poor retired teacher stepped in one too many piles of vomit. But that doesn’t mean you, your broken pals or the billion, nubile, unemployed 21-year-old alcoholics who move here every day are going to stop drinking. Don’t waste too much time mourning the agonizing demise of your beloved Red River hangouts. Rather, view this as the opportunity to realize the lifelong dream you never knew you had: bar ownership. If a place like Lustre Pearl can fucking exist, there’s no reason not to cash in your 401k, mortgage your house and take the plunge into your own shitty, questionably legal gin mill. The Location

The future of Austin nightlife is moving away from the grab-bag-fuckshow-underage-culture clash that is 6th street. In its place is a looselyconnected network of yuppie theme bars disguised as authentic neighborhood “spots”. So even though I’m pretty sure Mueller Airport is some kind of diabolical, fucked up Truman Show-style social experiment, it’s just one fake dive bar away from becoming the next Haight-Ashbury.

My sweet new bar.

The Decor

Ideally, your bar should project an energy that is edgy, yet simultaneously welcoming. For inspiration, just throw a dinner party at your charming green-designed, 2007-built East Austin bungalow. People just like you and your wife's friends are the backbone of the drinking community that is going to make partying at your new bar awesome! So think chimineas, Grey’s Anatomy playing on every TV, monstrous agaves and tall fences to keep out the Mexicans. The Staff

The facts: all it takes to be a bartender is a surly attitude, a calloused thumb, some shitty tattoos, questionable hygiene, ill-founded confidence and a grimy white towel in your back pocket. No one cares about the perfect martini or the longforgotten craft of the Mai Tai anymore. People just want to get fucked up as quickly as possible. Just round up your closest dudebros and put them to work. Sure, they're going to give free drinks to all the cute girls, but don't fret; girls can't drink that much anyway. Make sure your place is packed to the brim with dudes.

The Entertainment

Thanks to the wonder of the internet phone, most of the “going out to the bar” experience these days consists of people simultaneously Twittering their Facebooks about it. To stay relevant, your new bar must provide a set of healthy diversions to encourage genuine human contact. Recent attempts include jarts, kettlebell, skeeball, beer pong, hula hoops, bocce and centaur polo. All of these are fine, but none of them really tap into the primal, visceral experience of a real night of drinking. Don’t fuck around. Install a boxing ring. And if you’re thinking about booking some bands, for god’s sake don’t do it. I promise, no matter what they say, people would rather play fucking tetherball or knife fight in a ring of live scorpions than endure another bland, baby-faced, indie-pop act. End Live Music. h

Local 38-piece Neanderthal noise bros When Dinosaurs Ruled The Earth have been bringing unlistenable rock to Beerland (and occasionally other places) since before unlistenable rock got cool. We drank some $1 Tecates with internationallycompetitive caveman and Dinos bassist Cory Plump to get his take on some of the hard-hitting issues facing today’s touring musician, namely getting their gear stolen every few minutes, Jeff Goldblum and anthropomorphic dinosaur sex.

M: First off, sorry about stealing all your gear. I totally thought it was the Trail of Dudes' van and it would be filled with lasers, nail polish and drugs. WDRTE: If you were really sorry and want to make it up to us, please steal all of Car Stereo (Wars) equipment next. That shit is weak! Do you ever get tired of playing at Beerland? Or are you just going to keep playing there until you get the high score on Joust? Beerland gives 100% of the door to the bands. We respect that fact. Besides, we're just biding our time until we find a way to play the Central Market Patio or City Hall. Do you even know how many dudes are in your band? I feel like I could show up at Beerland any night of the week with a beard and/or a shitty ukulele and I'd be getting band drink tickets and matching wdrte tats in 5 minutes. Do you have to take attendance at practice?

Shit, we only roll 5 deep now. And we're talking about practice, man. We're not talking about the game. We're talking about practice. When you come to the arena and you see me play, you've seen me play right. You've seen me give everything I've got. But we're talking about practice right now. How the hell can I make my teammates better by practicing? I don't know. Remember that time you guys played mtv Unplugged back in 1993? That shit was totally killer. I have a vhs tape of it! Yeah. Beavis came out and he was way into it. Why aren’t there ever girls in fur bikinis at your shows? Because there are never any girls at our shows. If you were a giant warm-blooded lizard and had the opportunity to devour Jeff Goldblum while he sat on a toilet, would you do it? What if he were a half-man-half-bug Brundlefly? Lizards are not warm-blooded.

I had a rad time at the “When Dinosaurs Fock” show with Gorch Fock at Emos. Any more collaborative projects in the works? I think I’d really like to see either “When Los Lonely Boys Ruled the Earth” or “When White Denim Ruled My Black Cock.” If "Los Lonely Boys Ruled the Earth" would that mean that domestic violence and marijuana possession are legal now? I’m pretty sure if you all quit your 76 separate side projects and just focused on being Dinos you'd be Coldplay or U2 by now. Thoughts? Which one of us has to be The Edge? Since you guys have two of everything, have you ever considered maximizing your chances of success by splitting into two separate bands? Maybe one could

play the boring pop to pay the bills, while the other does the unsellable artsy screamo Melvins stuff? You could take turns? Nate once got asked to join the band Two Guy Trio. Does that count? Seriously, they gave him a business card or something! Can you fucking believe they made that show Dinosaurs? It was about blue-collar working class folk stuck in dead end corporate jobs like you or me except they were fucking anthropomorphic DINOSAURS! What the fuck? Also, what the fuck was up with the velociraptor opening doors? That was some bullshit, too. Don't ask me. Do I look like some kind of scientist? I just play bass. h

Doorguy Confidential There are tons of extra jobs out there: astronaut, crane operator, pilot of a semi-submersible drug smuggling minisub. But while these second careers might seem glamorous, the real trick is to find a job that minimizes effort while maximizing free booze and the fawning of flexible, drunk girls who easily forget their boyfriends. You might assume this dream job is "bartender" but you’re wrong. Who wants to do that much cocaine? Instead, aim lower. Way, way lower. Here’s a few tips to back your way into that second-choice job of your mediocre dreams: Doorman.

Getting a Foot in the Door

Bouncing the Riff Raff

The person who hires you does not care about your degree in urban planning or the number of iPhone apps you’ve written. They care about exactly two things: your service industry experience and how long it will take before you develop a crippling drug habit and start forgetting to come to work. Since this job requires no skills whatsoever, there’s no harm in lying your ass off about both. Pad out your resume with experience at unfondly-remembered local institutions like the Whiskey Bar and the Ritz.

If you've spent the last five years in the glow of your Macbook while hanging out on Red River then chances are you're not built like Patrick Swayze in Road House. Unfortunately, all it takes is a couple Dos Equis to bring out a millennia of genetically programmed male aggression. At times like this, your only weapons are your sparkling wit, a footlong flashlight and some killer wrestling moves learned while sitting on the couch eating Funyuns and watching ufc. So if two giant dudes get into a fight about their lacrosse stats on your watch, shine a light on them and politely ask them to leave. If that doesn’t work, come at them with the suplex.

The Part Where You Actually Do Something

Let’s be realistic here. As a doorman, your job is to look at an ID and make sure the person who handed it to you is approximately the same person whose picture is on it. Then you must ensure that the person is old enough to know the Konami code. If they’re not old enough to know how to get 30 lives in Contra, they’re not old enough to drink. This is not difficult work. Benefits

You’re at a bar–and at work–so there's no reason not to drink like the Four Horsemen just got in a cab and will be there in half an hour. People will offer you shots. Take them. Doormen get paid cash. Having a tax-deniable cash income makes it easy to forget your crushing debt and instead purchase lots of Robotech figures, rollerblades and expensive video cards.

Try Not to Become Mad with Power

You're not fucking Nero Claudius Caesar, so don't turn the club entrance into some kind of arena and think that a simple thumbs up or down is going to seal the fate of every dude in a polo shirt. Try to keep some perspective here. You may have the last say tonight, but when you get back to your cubicle in the morning you're just another anonymous asshole who smells like a Czech brewery. The Bottom Line

Sitting outside on a stool all night does come with complications, namely many hours of agonizing, sobering boredom. Getting the high score on the shitty version of Breakout that came with your cell phone is an empty and meaningless victory. But don’t let it get you too down, because you just got paid for four hours of taking shots, fending off cougars and barely looking at IDs. All that's left to do is put us on the list so we can fill your club with dudes. h

Organ Donation As hip as: Waking up in a cooler of ice with a note on your shirt. Comments: Seriously, what the fuck are you doing with that extra kidney? I’ll tell you what: nothing. Unscrupulous doctors in Sri Lanka will pay hard American currency up front for that vestigial 1/3-pound of gland that’s just taking up space between your 11th and 12th ribs. They’ll even front you money to fly out there, so the vacation comes for free. The scar is dead sexy and the weight savings will improve your lap times at the next alley cat. Beats picking up empties at the Shangri-La.

Stripping Copper As hip as: Cool Hand Luke decapitating parking meters. Comments: A 100% true Misprint fact: the easily removed copper coils from your neighbor’s air conditioner will fetch you enough scrip for a twelve pack. Those selfish bastards at City Hall have been greedily hoarding precious copper for decades, hiding that shit in the one place they never thought we’d look: power lines. But the secret is out. What’s all that wire doing for us? It’s time for taxpayers to take to the streets with some bolt cutters to reclaim what’s rightfully ours.



“because i need that dollar Volunteer As hip as: Crushing the hopes and dreams of future generations. Comments: There's nothing more satisfying than finding time between drinking, watching online pornography and barbequeing to profoundly impact a poor, underprivileged, feral kid. All it takes is a little patience and the ability to draw motorcycles. And, best of all, most of these after school places are always hiring and probably don't check references. Wait, you don't get paid to do this? Well fuck this nonsense then. Rating:

life is a bitch & she’s back in heat. -Roddy Piper, They Live

Fourth Job as a Bouncer As hip as: Getting your bike stolen outside of Mellow Johnny's. Comments: Down on your luck? Try filling your final hours of free time manning the velvet rope. Working nights and weekends is simultaneously cost-saving and socially isolating, while eliminating the last things that brought joy into your otherwise empty life. As a bonus, you’ll never feel more connected to the “downtown scene.” Too bad you’ll learn that “scene” is just a bunch of big-game poachers, 7-time Tour de France winners and cocaine dealers. Rating:

LAME <-----------------------------------------------------------------------------> AWESOME

Holly Thompson


Street Preacher


"Rowdy" Roddy Piper

Enrolling in a Medical Study As hip as: Getting free birth control for your girlfriend. Comments: It seems like a pretty good deal. You get to stay for a week at someone else's place, eat their food and pirate their internet. Everyone in the study is supposedly "generally healthy," which means you can probably leave your condoms at home. I guess the basic question is, is it worth getting paid to pop some pills only to later get a rash on your genitals? Yes. Rating:

Renting Out Part of our Club to a Mexican Restaurant As hip as: Snorting queso off the ass of a mariachi. Comments: Live music ain’t what it used to be. The days of the Led Zep private jet or the Okkervil River private railcar are long gone. With bands sucking more than ever, clubs have been forced to cut back on luxuries like black crown molding or new urinal troughs. Some venues in Austin are trying to recoup losses by leasing failed rock clubs to businesses cashing in on a hot new trend: Mexican restaurants. Good luck with that one, bros. You’d have better luck with a macrobiotic sandwich shop. Rating:

every day of the week.” Start a Live Music Festival As hip as: The Mohawk Sobriety Test. Comments: I’m sure there’s a weekend in January between SortOfFunFest and the Hill Country Gay Asian Metal Film Festival without something on the calendar. It’s the perfect time to call up that dude who works for Dewar’s, print up some VIP laminates, hang some banners and let the mellow, gentle vibes of outdoor rock carry you all the way to the bank. Rating:

Nude Modeling/Life Drawing Class As hip as: Seeing your first naked girl ever. Comments: If you harbor intense exhibitionist tendencies and want to be the muse of an uncreative and pathetic art student you’ve got it made. Figure drawing classes are always hiring and they sure as fuck don’t drug test. Though it's difficult to imagine Mona Lisa as destitute and starving as you are right now, models are part of a proud lineage of those who bared their souls and cocks for the chance to be immortalized in some crappy charcoal drawing. Adonis physique not required; fat dudes are easier to draw, anyway. Rating:

Bounty Hunting As hip as: Pounding tallcans with the Sarlacc Pit Monster. Comments: I’m not exactly sure why it’s legal for some Bubba Fett motherfucker to break down your door because some surveillance camera caught you running red lights on your bike, but it is. God bless America. You too can buy a shotgun and some handcuffs and start dispensing your own brand of hard-boiled vigilante justice, for cash! Except you and I both know that no amount of gyrotonics or endless rope will make up for the fact that even with those badass tattoos and fixie-toned calves, you’d probably shit your jorts in the presence of an actual criminal. Rating:

Misprintonomics 2009

(Predictions for the next five years) 2012





Misprint releases vol 5 no 2, "The Future Issue" and makes fun of Kings of Leon a whole lot.

Emo's relinquishes its title as Worst Place to Take a Shit in Austin.

In response to a decline in the demand for bottle service, Pangea starts a sixth competing second Sunday classic R&B night, with DJ Huge Cock on the ones and twos. People finally realize what a retarded concept the whole thing really is.

The average price of a pint of Lonestar skyrockets to $18, putting it in line with circa 2009 Club DeVille prices.




With cigarettes going for $10 a pack, Camel makes a killing selling tins of Snus for $4.75.


The annual SXSW conference (its last) provides one final shot for White Denim to make it big. Shockingly, they fail miserably.


Misprint hires 12 post-graduate students from the UT Law program as unpaid interns.


After bragging about record high attendance, it's discovered that the only concert goers at Stubb's for the last 3 years have been the vagrants who sleep there.



The last of the condo constructions is finally abandoned. The giant cranes are rented out as apartments instead, since they're already furnished and have doors with locks.


After the total collapse of the housing market, east Austin becomes a principality of Mexico. Everyone else flees to the hott new shantytown in Buda.

July changes to, profiling a bunch of pasty fern-waterers and the stupid concrete floors underneath their shanties.


Filing Chapter 11 Bankruptcy, the Lonestar brewery shuts down and is converted to luxury condos by Mexican drug cartels. The very last Lonestar is accorded a special place of honor, suspended above the bar at Beerland.


That giant fucking raccoon that lives under the deck at Side Bar breaks into Beerland and drinks the last Lonestar. 2013


The 7th Annual Misprint Beard and Moustache Competition has 5,000 entries for the Gnarliest Beard category. The winner gets a week’s ration of canned soup and a razor-sharp silver boomerang.


Transmission Entertainment buys the City of Austin power utility company, promising everything will run as smoothly as their 15 shitty clubs.

Less than a fucking week later

Austin runs out of electricity, forcing the immediate End of Live Music, thus fulfilling the prophesy.


The South Austin Jug Band puts on an epic 13-night run at the Frank Erwin Center blowing on their stupid jugs.


Allen Demling is finally elected to Place 1 City Council. 2014


After Whole Foods, Fresh Plus, Central Market, HEB, Fiesta and finally Hoek's Pizza are completely raided, a crazed mob eats all of the piñatas on East Cesar Chavez.


Misprint Magazine calls it quits in the "There’s Nothing Left to Say About Jorts, Squids, Beards or Cocks" Issue.

Sober Bar Crawl Remember all the good times you used to have without alcohol? Playing stickball in the sandlot? Shooting jacks? Huffing paint? Turns out after a decade as a high-functioning alcoholic, I’ve replaced those beloved memories with blurry bike wrecks and a love of nothing. After making a few ill-advised investments speculating on Brewster McCracken T-shirts and that espresso bar inside Emo’s, it's easy to find yourself with a lot of money tied up in longterm tattoo investments and a little a short on this month’s rent. When times are tough, discretionary income always gets hit hardest, meaning booze. Being flat broke is no reason to deny yourself the sights, sounds and smells of Austin’s idyllic downtown nightlife. How hard can it be to reconnect with your innocent youth, especially when motivated by the prospect of saving a few bucks? Misprint operatives took to the streets with valid IDs, empty wallets and a Travel Scrabble for a fresh perspective on the Austin bar scene. 9:00


In the spirit of scientific inquiry we draw straws to decide who will be allowed to get selflessly intoxicated and spend the night as foil to a trio of morose, sober squares. Like any proper Misprint adventure, we pop into Cheers Shot Bar to jumpstart the night with a round: one Dirty Girl Scout and three virgin jello shots (which turn out to be cups of jello with spoons). Already, morale is low.*

Everything we've ever said about live music being intolerable without booze to numb the pain is 100% true. At Emo's, we pray to an unholy, squid-jowled deity to be stricken deaf. Having never been to Emo's sober before, I immediately wonder where all the posters on the inside ceiling went. And shockingly, the dude's bathroom has a new trough and floor tiling. It's actually quite pleasant. The only other consolation is that Misprint soon learns that Housheng makes the best damn Shirley Temples in the world.


After being denied entry to Mooseknuckle for looking too sober, we cross the street to revered Austin institution Treasure Island. I never noticed before, but it turns out the place is pirate-themed. Dudes everywhere are rocking grappling hooks, rubber boats and ak-47s. We get caught in the spirit of the moment and try to kidnap the bartender and hold her for 1 million Euro ransom. After intense negotiations through a mediator we are talked down to one double Jameson and a round of O’Douls. 11:00

Snag four choice seats at the bar at Coyote Ugly. Set up some tonic and tonics to ward of the malaria and settle in for an intense game of Travel Scrabble. An argument erupts among us when someone claims “iDONG” is valid for a triple-word score. (Consensus: it is.) Game ends in a draw when some girl in cowboy boots dancing on the bar unapologetically kicks over the board. *Misprint fact: there is only one non-alcoholic shot at Cheers Shot Bar:

the "Blue Wave." It's a shot of water the bartender throws in your face.


Crushingly, mind-bendingly sober. Ready to make out with random drunk girls just to get a taste of the sweet, sweet booze. One of the team takes a shot of soap from the soap dispenser. Every dude in the bathroom after him starts doing it, too. The color scheme at Beauty Bar, while unkind to the drunk, is brutal to the sober. The 19-year-olds in their AA costumes and duotone hair look like sea creatures. Nothing teaches you that it’s too hot for a scarf and fingerless gloves like sobriety. Not surprised to learn that everyone I know is totally boring. The one drunk participant loses interest in us and chats up some teenage beard fetishists. Since I can't smoke either, I kill some nervous energy by getting my nails done. Last Call

Final thought: being sober around a bunch of wasted idiots is in itself a form of drunkenness. It's just much, much worse. h

Cocksock. Your most essential item. Use it to ferment prison wine. Or fill it with nickels and club someone to death. And during the cold winter week it also keeps your cock warm.

Flask. You can still drink water out of a ditch. The flask is for one thing only: drinking grain alcohol in libraries, breadlines and weddings with no open bar.

Sterno. Zippos are for pussies. If you want to impress a lady trying to light her Camel â&#x201E;&#x2013; 9, pull out pure fire trapped in a tin can. It's a surefire shanty dropper.

Razor Sharp Silver Boomerang. Price upon request for a Feral Kid.

Salt. The staple food group in any eastside dudehaus. Also kill people's ferns and adds taste to even the blandest canned ham.

Sharpies. The one and only. Tag hobo codes around town, autograph some bras or deface some of Shephard Fairey's "art."

Titanium Spork: It's a spoon. And a fork. And if you run out of food or get into a fight over the last copy of Beyond Thunderdome you can always just stab someone in the face with it.

Wrist Rocket. When all the bullets run out, people will feel pretty stupid. Rocks are cheap, plentiful and deadly. Find the ones Mugshots moved before they repaved their patio and you're basically the new Robocop.

Leatherman Micra: This has the tiniest screwdrivers ever, perfect for disassembling scrapped cocktops for their precious copper and mercury.

Fake Suicide Pills. For faking your own death. When your buddies toss you into Waller Creek, move to Portland. Just don't log onto Facebook again, ever.

Falconry Glove. Falcons rule. They can cut the line at the bar and bring you back a tallcan in, like, 20 seconds. And if the circle cannot hold, things fall apart and you lose your falcon, you can always wrangle grackles at Highland Mall.

Hand Sanitizer. Who cares about all that made up swine flu bullshit. Did you see how dirty the Brohawk was during sxsw this year? I know for a fact J. Mascis' hands were not clean when he borrowed my iPhone.

Soap on a Rope. You don't even need to bathe with it. Just hang it around your neck and you'll smell pretty much okay. You can also hollow it out to hide your fake suicide pills.

White Bar Towel. If you have one of these hanging out of your back pocket you can cut the bathroom line at the club anytime. When people bitch say you're on your shift and giving friendly pours.

Tattoo Gun. Tattoos are fucking expensive. If people nowadays weld their own toilets to save money, why not do your own tattoos? I'd start with an Emo's smudge on your inside wrist.

items in the misprint bindle

Bocce Set. With all your extra free time, you might as well perfect a game whose only notoriety is that it literally takes three minutes to master. It's just like those stupid meditation balls but you can drink a beer at the same time too.

Adorable Mini Cactus. It's still nice to connect to another living thing. When you're lonely you can talk to it Ă la Tom Hanks in Castaway. You might even get lucky and find one with some peyote buttons. Or just eat it anyway.

The Misprint Stimulus Package Everyone in this town has been duped. Over the past few years, the citizens of Austin have been pouring their hardearned cash into our most cherished institutions: crappy bands, bars, live music events and media conglomerates. And while they all should be financially sound, you have to remember this is Austin. Everyone here fucking blows it in the end. Except us. For the public record, here is a list of Austin entities that have come crawling all the way to the Misprint Bank looking for a handout. We're prepared to pay whatever is necessary to keep this town's rampant mediocrity going strong. Please note all stimuli will be paid in Misprint Scrip (opposite page).

Austin City Limits Fest

Why They're Broke (publicly)

Why They're Broke (reality)

Did you see the lineup they have for this year?

No one's buying the ACL-branded loft-like apartments across from the Mohawk. Also Bonnaroo is just way more fun.

Charles Attal must get a Misprint neck tattoo. We also want our own golf cart this year, chubies. No sharing with Lance. And we get a candlelit dinner with Eddie Vedder.

$100,000 MS

Bob Schneider stole their fan base. And all their '09 merch.

Misprint party in your sweet Voodoo Cowboy practice space. We're bringing tons of dudes.

$5,000 MS

Blind-embossed magazine covers? Are you fucking kidding me?

By design, a squareformat magazine is actually really uneconomical. (It's true.) Also, advercontent doesn't pay what it used to.

Ten page exposĂŠ in the next issue about the Austin beardcore scene.

$600 MS

Entire storage room filled with undrinkable Pearls. And the place sort of feels like a cool house party that gets crashed by the football team.

Payoffs to Art Acevedo to keep the cops from shutting them down.

Turn the beer pong table into an old-fashioned ping pong table.

$250 MS

Most of their core crowd would rather just stay home, watch High School Musical 3 and raid the medicine cabinet.

When they do come out, the regulars scare the shit out of them.

Turn that racket down when we're at Side Bar.

$80 MS

Invested a fortune in a sweet site tracking service, only to discover that no one reads their stupid blog.

"Thanks again Japan"? "Judge the Method by Results"? "Finally Some Weightlifting Content"? I'm sorry, I just don't get it.

More centaurs. Less updates.

$0 MS

Really. Did you see it? The Lemurs

Rare Magazine

Lustre Pearl

Red Eyed Fly

Can't even sell out Plush.

Strings Attached

Payout/ Projected Outcome This year's ACL edition of Misprint is going to rule. This shit writes itself.

Hang in there dudes. But I don't think letting the singer from What Made Milwaukee Famous jam with you is a real good idea either.

It's fucking depressing, but you guys will probably be around longer than us.

We'll give you two months.

Red Eyed Fly relocates across from the ShangriLa by the end of the year.

Blogging is dead. Everyone goes back to making shitty 'zines.

The Hobo Code Back in the glory days of riding the rails, hobos developed a system of symbols to share messages and warnings about life on the road. Signs like "beware of hostile railroad police," "dangerous dogâ&#x20AC;? or "food available here" marked every town with a train station in America. But this new era of economic despair requires a new code for the modern itinerant hobo. Here are a few dire warnings youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re likely to see right here in Austin.

Tons of Dudes

Shitty Bands

Underage Girls

Weed Here

Out of Beer

Free Chips & Salsa

Don't Shit Here

College Bros!

Free Wi-Fi

How Shit Works: Barbeque Face it: nobody believed you were really going to stay vegetarian. And we were all secretly cringing when you kept buying tighter and tighter jeans. It’s all forgiven, though. Take a look around, this coke-chic rock and roll bullshit is dead. It’s time to reconnect with the fat, ignorant Texan douchebag you’ve been trying to suppress ever since you heard your first Faint record. So pawn those guitars and keyboards and embrace the new you. Your band sucked anyway. Try impressing the ladies with something a little more primal: mountains of charred animal flesh.

There’s a lot of faux-philosophy and passionate opinions about “real” barbeque floating around the cattle-mad nation-state of Texas. It all boils down to slow-cooking the gross parts of some beast while getting fucked up on hard liquor so you can make awesome tacos. And nowadays all you need is fire, $2-a-pound meat, two dozen tallcans and the Godfather trilogy on dvd, all items you probably already have. Just be prepared to stay awake for 30 consecutive hours playing bocce and smelling beef. Remember, "barbeque" is not about grilling the gentrified, premade Spinach-Feta Turkey Burgers you get at Whole Foods. This is about smoking some fucking goat heads. Traditional bbq developed independently all over the world. Whenever oppressed, indigenous people got tired of eating rocks and bugs and clouds they went for the gruesome parts of meat discarded by the discerning, colonial, upper class carnivores. Shitty cuts of meat have more connective tissue and fat, so cooking longer at lower temperatures helps to break down the tough tissue and make it tender. You probably didn’t know this, but those bad-ass barbacoa tacos at El Chilito are made from the severed heads of cows, Leatherface-style. American bbq traditions date back to the pre-Civil War era when the poorest folks in St. Louis and Chicago would nick spare ribs out of the dumpsters at the slaughterhouse, predating the earliest known freegans by almost a century. Before starting, honor your beast by giving it a name. Something like Flank Sinatra or The Notorious P.I.G. This appeases the bbq gods and will ensure a moist meal if you can survive the shamanistic, daylong booze, meat and smokesoaked vision quest on which you're about to

embark. Religious aspects of bbq aside, there’s also some science involved. Don’t let it scare you; redneck farmbros have it figured out so you can, too. Go to Fiesta and buy a man-sized corpse of cow or pig so you can feed your whole kickball team or ska band. Well in advance of cooking, give that meat a deep-tissue massage with a mixture of salt, garlic, cayenne and sugar. This should give you some nice crustiness while relieving any lingering apprehension you might have about the whole process. In the unlikely event that you stay sober, cooking is the easy part: 90 minutes per pound at around 225.˚ But as a Misprint reader, you’re probably four tallbeers deep and facing the prospect of a long night. Ignore your instincts and keep drinking. Find a buddy who will help nurse tequila until the sun rises. There’s nothing better than a marbled cut of brisket as you start to transition between drunk and hung over. Honestly, if some dudes in the Mayan jungle figured this out 1500 years ago, it's pretty hard to fuck up in your suburban backyard with a smoker you just bought from Academy. If you did it right, by the time your meat is ready you'll be so drunk you'd eat at Star Seeds. So cut up that meat, make some tacos and take pride in your Texan heritage. h

A Brief History of "XXX" 1919: The Moonshine Jug

When I was a kid, I thought Foghorn J. Leghorn invented alcohol. In the cartoons I'd always see that jug with the X's on it laying around whenever he and the Barnyard Dawg played dice. Animators must've been pretty fucked up back then, because what they were drawing is a Depression-era moonshiner's jug. Every time that shit was passed through the still an X was drawn on the outside to indicate just how blitzed you could expect to get. A single X is the equivalent of a lame Friday night at Lovejoy's. Three X's means you're time travelling, Back to the Future-style, and probably going to Michael J. Fox all over someone's "Teen Wolf" and live to regret it the next morning. 1972: The XXX Rating

Back in the old days of cinema, a movie that would by today's standards be rated PG was instead rated X; adults only, bitches. But because the X rating was never trademarked, anyone could use itâ&#x20AC;&#x201C;like pornographers, who quickly applied it to their films about naughty coeds or horny pharaohs. That got boring real fast, so more X's were added as the plots got less relevant and the action got way more awesome. 1980: Straightedge

If you grew up in Austin, you might be shocked to hear that there is an entire subculture based around choosing not to drink alcohol. Getting wasted is the only way to tolerate this fucking town, from going to work in the morning to getting stuck at

the club while some viola-driven band plays. But this group of misguided youth would scrawl giant X's on their hands to indicate sobriety, immediately cementing their status as complete goofballs and establishing the X as their official symbol. Since straightedge and subtlety go together like sobriety and bartending, some frustrated dude thought three X's summed up his complex feelings better than one. Under this banner a generation of dudes in dumb vegan varsity jackets spread across the cities of the usa, picking up all the change. 1996: Superbowl XXX

To kick off this momentous event, singer/topless model/ Arnold Schwarzenegger co-star Vanessa Williams sang the national anthem. The Dallas Cowboys beat the Pittsburgh Steelers 27-17. Following the game, nbc broadcasted an hour-long episode of Friends. It's the one where Ross buys a keyboard and accidentally starts Ghostland Observatory. 2002: XXX

Where to even begin with this movie? Vin Diesel plays an extreme Mountain Dew drinker who is recruited by the government to go on an undercover mission to wear stupid fur coats and ride motorcycles through rows of barbed wire while shooting people. And don't get me started on Asia Argento, who I think is responsible for starting me down the road of agonizing heartbreak over fucked up, tattooed, gothic, European femme fatales. Even going to Elysium is too much, and the chicks there are wack. h

Free Shit We Got

A thinly veiled attempt, disguised as journalism, to score more free promotional hogwash.

Show Pony The Midgetmen

The Lord loves a hard-workin’ band. There's something beautiful about a few honest musicians just doing it for the love and trying to make it in this crazy, mixed-up town. Just kidding, folks. If there’s one thing nature abhors, it’s an earnest rock band, especially one that's backed up by alternate employment. Just take a look at the last 7 years of sparsely-attended Midgetmen shows at the Flamingo Cantina. At some level they must know that the rock gods haven’t chosen them to join Keith Moon and Randy Rhodes at the sold-out Queen show in rock-star Valhalla. Don’t get me wrong guys, we can sympathize. We thought after almost five years of this shit Misprint would be fucking Rolling Stone. We’d be racing jetpacks, gambling alarming sums of cash on seedy back-alley squid fights and shotgunning beers with similarly-influential media figures like Dan Rather and Rupert Murdoch. Instead, we’re still slaving away at our desk jobs and selling plasma for weed money. So don’t take it too hard. You guys made a decent little record with some nice zebra-mane art on the cover. There’s probably some other, more sinister reason you're not wildly successful. Major labels keeping you down? Maybe. Misprint’s End Live Music campaign sabotaging your shows? Possible. Or maybe you’re just too average-looking. Try kicking out one of the old guys and replacing him with Chris Cornell or something. IF 06 Monofonus Press

Local imprint Monofonus Press is basically everything Misprint isn’t: creatively fertile, ambitious and, from the looks of it, somewhat prolific. That being said, of course they’re not any more successful than Misprint (or, presumably, any of the starving bands on their roster), so they’d probably sell out their artistic credibility, their soul, and their significant other for a burrito with real meat in it. However, in addition to their well-intentioned, but doomed, traditional record label efforts, Monofonus publishes a well-intentioned, but doomed, mixed-media series called IF. The IF Series invites the screenprinters and writers along with the bands for a big ’ol loosely-themed weed-fueled arts and crafts session. Like Lou Reed and Andy Warhol on the The Velvet Underground & Nico or Michael Jordan and Bugs Bunny in Space Jam, the palpable energy of great artists driving towards a common goal can’t be denied. Monofonus’ latest effort, entitled Mile Marker, is a gorgeous, large-format revenge novella accompanied by the off-kilter bizarro twang of the tragically-named local folk collective Over The Hill. I was ready to dismiss this all as high-concept bullshit, but somehow, while jamming this sad, creepy record and reading the mega-bummer tale of backwoods murder, it all just worked for me. Despite Over The Hill’s pathetically weak name dooming them to an eternity of empty venues, this was by far the best record to get dropped off at the Side Bar for us in a long, long time. Pedal down to Domy and pick this one up. Then prominently display it on your coffee table so it looks like you give a shit about local artists. h Send us your free shit! Misprint Magazine c/o the Side Bar

For reals. Drop that shit off at the Side Bar.

Gossip! Gossip! Gossip! Local billionaire Fangoria fanboy/Quentin Tarantino apologist Robert Rodriguez recently announced plans to remake the sci-fi classic Predator here in Austin. Dudes who love watching other dudes in tank tops kill ruthless aliens with pointed sticks are stoked. This follows a recent spike in city-wide reports of blurry, translucent Predators stealing breakfast tacos at area Mexican restaurants. Though initially credible, Misprint investigators discovered that the vast majority of them were just “smelly dudes with dreads” and that every eyewitness was “really, really hung over.” ----------------------------------------------------------Red River insiders report that gay-friendly cabaret Beerland has declined to renew their lease. Owner/ Tempest hi-scorer Randall Stockton went on the record saying “We’re sick of bands. Besides, this place is kind of a shit hole. We figure we're doing everyone a favor.” In 2010, a consortium including the entrepreneurs behind Pangea and Qua and Mohawk principle James Moody are taking over the space with plans to convert it to an upscale tapas bar tentatively named “Wineland”. ----------------------------------------------------------Now that @misprint is way tight with @AustinTwitterMoms, we totally scooped The Decider on the Zimmerman-Willie-Cougar Mom Explosion coming to some wholesome suburban baseball diamond near Round Rock. Covering the sacred trinity of amphetamines, marijuana and moms, this all-star gala will be the most electrifying oldster party since the 1893 World's Fair. The Misprint Pflugerville office will be on site in full force for some muthafucking tailgating. We’ll be grilling some burgers, slamming 1.75 Liter bottles of cheap red, hacky-sacking, burning biodiesel, reading the Victoria’s Secret catalog, and hunting cougars with the Cougar. And Zimmerman is meeting us in his Cadillac for some pre-show prayers. Be there, chubies.

Bono sure has had it rough lately. His shitty new record didn’t actually bring about the rapture like he expected it to. And his plan to save the world by launching blood diamonds into space isn’t really working out either. Instead of feasting on human flesh or buying minotaur skin coats like other respectable billionaires, Bono and The Edge have turned their energies toward capturing a fresh generation of mediocre rock fans the only way they know how: through Broadway musicals. They’ve signed on to bring their rock godhood to the songs of a new stage production based on the Spiderman movies. Expect Frodo Baggins to reenact his agonizing “Evil Spidey” nightclub performance from Spiderman 3 with heartfelt Bono lyrics and ripping Edge guitar solos. ----------------------------------------------------------Economic apocalypse now! Not sure if it’s a sign of the times or if the Misprint End Live Music campaign is finally starting to work, but the Emo’s™ corporation has been experimenting with some radical new concepts to combat the decline in attendance. First up was pro-wrestling (which I'm pretty sure was Housheng’s idea) which proved such a rousing success a host of other non-live music events have gone on the calendar. Coming this summer will be bingo night, cockfighting, bumper cars, a haunted house and an Austin-based spinoff of American Gladiators. ----------------------------------------------------------Dear Shephard Fairey: we appreciate your hard work electing Lovecraftian Elder God Barack Obama deity of the inner realm, but can you please go away now? Austin is perfectly capable of coming up with our own crappy street “art” without your help. Honestly, we liked Room 710 better before you put that big Misfits sticker up there. Same goes for the lame wallpaper behind the velvet rope at Red 710. We’ll take sad candy corns and shitty Misprint posters over your livetraced dude in a gas mask any day. Love, Misprint. PS. Your sxsw DJ set made John Aielli sound like the fucking Wu Tang Clan. h

Misprint Magazine, Volume 5 Number 1  

The Hard Times Issue