Fun Fun Fun Fest Vignettes

Four o' clock on a sunny Saturday, I was standing smack dab in the middle of Austin at Waterloo Park watching Octopus Project plug in guitars and Korg keyboards, arranging the tall, sheet covered ghosts that hovered behind them. As my sister and I speculated whether or not the cartoonish, happy boxes were robots, the drummer kicked off the first song and an intricate melody sprang to life. Having never seen the Octopus Project live, I was immediately impressed by the way the group intertwined all sounds-- the brash guitar, the dreamlike chime of the keyboard, the pleasurably incessant drum machine and the unfiltered energy of the drummer. When Yvonne brought out the theremin, an instrument you can play without touching, I was sold. The players embodied a constant, cheerful energy, constantly switching instruments, showing the extent of their musicianship . At the climax of the show, when the ghosts suddenly jumped to life, swaying and bouncing their little boxy heads to the beats, I was sure that for the Octopus Project, I would hide under a sheet for twenty minutes just to be on stage with them. The thoughts one has while drunk on an aurally stimulating experience.

A tiny segment I videotaped of Yvonne playing the theremin:

Barack Obama Elected President

A collective sigh of relief ensues.

Anxiety ate at me all day, and unlike many people who were able to sit in front of the TV and track the votes, I couldn't be too concerned what with a paper to work on, readings to do, and work.

A half-hour after I got home, my sister yelled to me as I was in my bedroom changing that Obama had won. His face was on television, underneath a caption that read "Obama Elected President." It was all over, simple as that. In some ways it was anti-climatic, but in an entirely, worry-free perfect kind of way. Strange how historic moments can slide right by if you don't stop to actually think about it.

Now he can sleep for ten days straight. Imagine the toll a campaign takes on the human body, the mind, the nerves. He'll need lots of rest for the ugly mess that awaits him.

In Anticipation of Election Day

My professor mentioned this morning that approximately 30% of registered voters in Travis County have already voted, a statistic that gave me pleasurable glimmer of hope. According to the Austin American Statesmen, 440,000 voters were expected to vote early. This estimate takes into account the growing number of early voters seen in the past two elections. In 2000, 47 % of registered votes cast their ballots early. Four years later, the number rose almost 20%. It's no surprise that they've reasoned that at least 50% of Travis County voters will have already voted by election day, if not more.

So I think Brother Perron got it wrong. That number just has to be bigger.

What's better is that already 20 million people have voted nationwide and most of these votes are cast for Democratic candidate, Barack Obama. Austin, a city known as the oasis of blue in a desert of red, must reflect that trend. In other words, the majority of ballots that have already been cast in Travis County were no doubt for Obama, a result of his imploring voters to vote early during his campaign.

Obama played his cards right. I only hope that hiccups in the voting process won't lead to a deeply disappointing surprise when all is counted, said and done.

I decided to vote on Halloween, down the street from St. Edward's at the Texas Juvenile Probation Commission off of S. Congress. Even though I had to wait in line to change my address and left without even being offered one of those sweet "I voted" stickers, I was still glowing.

Owen Egerton's Annual Halloween Bash

Opting out of observing downtown debauchery and drunkenness, I decided to hit up the S. Lamar Alamo Drafthouse for "Owen Egerton's 4th Annual Halloween 4 Bash." I figured
1)If Egerton has anything to do with this showing, it will be hilarious. (As an improvisational comedian, writer, and fixture at the Alamo Drafthouse, Egerton makes his living making people laugh.)
2) The costume contest and free candy promised to provide my Halloween fix. 
3) There's nothing better than watching a laughably bad movie and being able to make fun of it while you watch it---hopefully while you are half-drunk.

I was delighted to see a line of people waiting outside the theater dressed to the nines in store bought and homemade designs. It made me feel less weird for looking like Stevie Nicks in a black wispy number I scored from the clearance rack at the Megaplexxx. It was supposed to be a sexy witch costume, but in reality was the only halfway modest costume I could find in the store.

Standing in front of us were a well-dressed matador and his bull, a girl with two grand papier mache horns arched around her face, draped with ivory beads and small flowers. Behind us I spied an alien with plastic toxic green hair and huge, shiny gold sunglasses and down the line I saw spitting images of the Republican presidential candidates. I evaluated my crew: a panda, a leather daddy, and a cowboy. We weren't winning any contests that night.

We filed into the theater and took our seats. As the Alamo Drafthouse website had mentioned, there was indeed a "live stalker" in our midst. A putty-faced Michael Myers meandered around, glinting the light of a huge silver kitchen knife on the faces of innocent onlookers. Egerton, dressed in a little kid's polka-dotted clown costume (probably creepier than the movie itself) pelted the audience with Tootsie rolls before running to the front to introduce the movie. Egerton likes the movie. He revealed the strange, illogical timeline that has Michael Myers returning from the dead, time and time again persevering through full-body explosions and barrages of bullets. Halloween 4 was different though, he claimed. It was better than you expected.

This statement proved to false. And it was a tragedy that Egerton didn't indulge us with much more than his own perspective of the movie remarking that it was a social commentary while still being completely ridiculous. My attention wandered thanks to the predictable screenwriting and I still only have a shady understanding of the movie. We walked out of the film feeling unfulfilled except for the buttery popcorn that lined our bellies.

Things could have turned around. Live Oak Brewery was sponsoring the event, and so there was a free keg of cold, tasty beer awaiting the Halloween 4 Bashers at Sinsations, an adult boutique off of S. 1st Street. Apparently, the plan was to drink free beer while surrounded by rubber sex toys and swings. Besides what I could see on the movie covers, not much action was going on and the place emptied quickly. Perhaps if Egerton had led us in a game of Dildo Ring Toss (which was set up on a table in a enticing multi-colored spectacle), or offered another source of diversion, the party could have carried on. Instead, after enjoying a free beer, we left with the disconcerting familiarity of every single rubber whatsit that was hanging on the bare walls.

Prickly Pears vs. Pele's Envy Saturday Oct. 25th

I am such a wuss. Always have been. Probably always will be.
My fear of competitive sports resulted in my quitting swimteam when I was twelve. My abandonment of my favorite sport, soccer, came later. The anxiety would transform my stomach in a tumultuous sickness during the ride to the games. I'd sit in my seat praying that the clear sunny day would take a miraculous turn for the worse, that the sky would cloud up and rain the fields muddy and useless. I was a complete and utter wimp.

Only recently have I found enjoyment from competitive sports. For two seasons, I've been playing on a Division V co-ed soccer team for a league in Austin. It's the lowest division. There's no real pressure, no practice even (although we could definitely use it). This is the kind of atmosphere I like to play in. The game last Saturday gave me a much different feeling.

Perhaps it was because we were playing our rivals, Pele's Envy. This team brings a very egotistical attitude onto the field with them. Go figure. Normally, our games carry on with a few falls, maybe a yellow card from a loudmouth who can't shut up. But what transpired on that sunny Saturday were animosity injected tackles and a desperate effort to annihilate the pride of the opposing team. It began when they argued every call, or lack of call. It was either "Offsides!?" or "Offsides!!" At a certain point, the referee had to remind a player or two that he was the one making the calls.
With each jumble of legs and locked knees, there was a growing sense of purpose. Grudges formed. That girl is not getting past me again, I vowed. I'll have her on the ground before that happens. As one of our half-backs, George, and one of their fullbacks raced towards the corner of the field fighting to gain possession of the ball, tensions rose. The fullback forced George to stumble. What could have been a common, accidental consequence of two people sprinting for the ball, had George screaming a profanity that rang out across six fields (it's a good thing children weren't playing next to us, as usual). In a moment of unfounded male aggression, he threatened to beat the crap out of the other player after the game.
Even though all of this pointless behavior-- the grudges, the snide back and forths, the complete dissolution of 'it's only a game' state of mind-- the sense of urgeny to ruin the other team had an exciting effect that everyone felt.
Suddenly, I was running faster, meeting the balls with better, more decisive kicks, trying to throw elbows in subtle, disabling jabs. One of our occasional players, an optimisitic, smiley guy named Ollie was ruthless, and rude on the field. After each flourished fall (to which one of the opposing team members commented on his Academy award winning performance), he'd get back up and demand that the person who kicked him in the shin man up. "That's dirty," he'd say loud enough for everyone to hear, shaking his head. "Dirrrty... dirrrrty..."

The anti-climatic and sad truth is that...well, we lost. The first half was our Achilles heel, our defense was lacking and two shots flew past the goal. While our offensive managed to muster up one goal in the second half, the game was done before we could achieve the victory we knew we deserved. I have to say though that for all of the dumb, meanspritied shenanigans that occured onfield, I was enlightened that day. For once, my wimpy, "everyone should win" sports mentality changed. For once, damnit, I felt that competitive, ruinous rage, and I relished it.

French Kicks--"Swimming"

The Brooklyn-bred French Kicks hit sweet waves with their fourth full-length album “Swimming,” a collection of fourteen tracks that ring in your head long after they are over. Diverging from their garage rock roots and giving their mod-pop a more effervescent flavor, “Swimming” is what lead singer and drummer Nick Stumpf believes to be “by far the closest we’ve come to getting the sound we wanted." It's easy to tell.

The opening track "Abandon" proves the band can still strike up intriguing momentum with simple percussion. Stumpf's voice resonates, his smooth, delightful whine melting into a soaring harmony with band mates Lawrence Stumpf, Josh Wise, and Aaron Thurston. Songs like "Sex Tourists and "Said So What," are evocative of more innocent times. The quality of the tracks, a conscious or unconscious production choice, creates the impression that the songs are encased within gym walls, invoking chaste prom nights and naive lovers. The tune of "Said So What" dances to a gentle swinging chorus complemented by airy percussion. Wise's bell-like vocals endears this ballad to romantics with its hook "Why tell me why/I don't know." With relaxed lyrics and a flowing arrangement, "Love in the Ruins" embodies the band's desire for a more plush pop sound. The plucking of a ukulele accompanied by a bass line that undulates in rare bounces begins the tune. As Stumpf's lyrics dissolve into the background, the lackadaisical chorus returns like waves on a beach, the repetition reaching a level of indulgence not often shown by mature bands.

Produced and mixed entirely on their own, French Kicks achieve with Swimming a subtly upbeat sound that begs to be listened to with eyes closed. Their lush melodies and joyful harmonies leave me anticipating the next evolvement in their almost decade-old music-making career.

the Haunted House of Torment (Part II)

I found myself standing in front of the Haunted House of Torment, a gray faced killer at my heels, wielding a chainsaw, realizing just how serious the actors inside would be. I could smell the gasoline of the motor, for heaven's sakes.
I had never ventured inside of a place designed to scare people and like most people, don't prefer to be scared/uncomfortable/surprised.

My brain reasoned with me like one would with small child:
'It will only be actors in masks and makeup. They will jump and scream and try to scare you but they aren't real.'
My neurosis/tendency towards irrational emotions knew better.
'This is going to be horrible. One scare and your heart will jump out of your chest and beat in circles until it dies at your feet!"

It didn't matter. I had to go in. Honestly, those fifteen minutes were absolutely terrible. But in hindsight, I wondered: When is it ever okay to scream yourself hoarse for fifteen minutes straight without people running to your aid or asking you to shut up?

Once outside, exhilarated and a bit raspy, I had to admit that screaming the whole time had to be the most amazingly fun thing ever.

I must say my performance in the haunted house probably made me into a loathsome character.One step into the dark foyer and I was already crying out, seeing shadows jumping from the corners. As the line wound into each room, my mouth was open, a half laugh half cry pouring out. I was louder than everyone, even the actors and I started to sense their annoyance. With each "There! Something's going to pop out from there!", I went about completely ruining each ugly surprise, rendering every guttural moan anti-climatic, a waste of breath.

Huh. All in a day's work.