Mosh Pit Santas & Dirty Footballs

I spent Christmas night with shirtless Santas. Santas with mohawks.

It was around 10:15 pm when I started to wait until 10:45 to get into Fitzgerald's in Houston. The line to get in was glittered with colorful characters, some of whom politely stepped out of line to take vomit breaks. Pre-drinking was not kind to them.

Home for the holidays and not in the mood to write another chapter in my family Encyclopedia Dysfunctiona (in which many juicy chapters were written this season), I left the house to go see a punk rock group at the club off of Studemont on the west side.

So at about a quarter until 11:00 I'm in the club, and after about 10 text messages and barely discernable phone calls, I finally meet up with my cousin upstairs. Practically yelling over the pre-show din while waiting in a mile long line to get a drink, he tells me that the band's name is "Dirty Football." I'm already disappointed. Footballs are supposed to be dirty, I thought. How bouts "Dirty Faberge Egg" or "Clean Turd."

We escaped to the second tier overlooking the stage before the show began. After meeting my cousin's friend with pink hair and meeting another friend of his named Raven (who I didn't get to know very well because she didn't quoth enough), I looked down upon the band's drum set. "30 Foot Tall," it read. Not "Dirty Football." Sigh + Relief.

30 Foot Tall ended up being rather kick-ass. They started the show with the obligatory Sex Pistols' "Punk Rock Christmas." But I spent most of the night watching the guys (and some chicks with tits of steel) down in the mosh. It wasn't very long before three punks in Santa suits came out and started kicking some asses. Cue the camera phones.

It was a Merry Friggin Christmas overall. Christmas happens to be my birthday as well. But paradoxically, my birthday sucked.

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The Trail of Smites

Don't go to the Zilker Trail of Lights this year unless:

1. You have a few beers in you first. Or if you're comfortable sipping from a flask of lukewarm whiskey in front of impressionable children.
   
2. You don't mind me saying in jest, "Wow, this is a child molester's paradise."
3. You won't go irate after noticing that while the trail does display the four South Park kids, it doesn't show even a smear of Mr. Hankey, the trademark of a South Park Christmas.
4. You don't mind arguing with an evangelist who roams under the big Christmas tree. I shit you not on this one. He'll initiate the conversation with "Has anyone ever asked you the Million Dollar Question?" For the love of God, say "yes, yes someone has. Thanks for asking. Excuse me while I go get some kettle corn to throw onto little children." If you answer "no," prepare for a polite yet irritating smiting.
5. You don't mind not finding out what the Million Dollar Question was, even after 15 minutes of pointless debate.
   
6. You don't mind walking a few miles from where you parked to walk a few miles on a trail.
   

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The Carver is...The Brown Bar

The Brown Bar's relatively heavy advertising campaign to bring people in for the season finale of Nip/Tuck paid off. At least it did for Brown Bar. Tuesday night, the line outside the overpriced 8th and Colorado yup-pub was about 15 soon-to-be drunkards deep around 9:00. I didn't feel like waiting the time equivalent of three beers to get inside, so I headed over to Logan's on 6th and Brazos. The crowd there wasn't as thick, and it was quiet enough to hear most of the gory details of the finale.

Apparently, Logan's showed Nip/Tuck every Tuesday during the season. Wish I would have known about that earlier; Logan's serves Shiner by the liter. That's almost enough to keep a starving Irish family of five alive for a week.

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Thin Ice Not so Bad Afterall

Ice skating just doesn't seem as exciting when there isn't a life at stake. It's difficult to take ice skating seriously without the mortal threat of the ice sheet collapsing beneath my Tonya Harding autographed skates.

But, mortality must be substituted for frivolity in Texas, where the biggest temperature change in a lake is when a fat nudist takes a fat piss at Hippie Hollow. There are several options in the downtown area. You could go to Northcross Mall, but if that annoying commercial makes you cry like Nancy Kerrigan every time you see it, the new Whole Foods Rink is the alternative. Considering that the rink is perched upon a ledge overlooking busy 6th Street, there's a better chance that your ice skating experience will be a dangerous one. Get sauced with Whole Foods' fine selection of microbrewed beer before you hit the ice, and you'll be in a whole world of pain.

Happy skating.

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