Hence the reason I found myself, along with 3 other tight-for-cash friends, suiting up in heavy LED-ridden gear that smelled like the sticky fingers of greasy children. Lazer Tag. Or, more appropriately: BLAZER TAG!

Since Thursday night is 2-for-1 night for students, we all rifled through our respective junk drawers and old purses to find our more-than-expired student ids. After a quick pit stop at Dans Hamburgers (which, by the way, was of mediocre quality…but the quality of people watching more than compensated for any lack of burger wonder), we fought over 4 lanes of traffic to end up at Blazer Tag- an asymmetrical grey building with an ominously vacant parking lot on the south side of 290.

Because of our burger stop, we were ten minutes late and missed the roundup for the 8:30pm game. While techno music and the screams of children echoed from somewhere in the distance, Jason got spanked by the Fun Rock (a frighteningly unsupervised rock climbing wall that rotates and tilts… ), Patrick practiced his best pinball moves (this takes strategy!) and Natalie and I shed all self-dignity and challenged each other to Ultimate Dance Moves.

When it was time for the 9:00pm game, a mumbly under-enthused voice came on the loudspeaker calling us into the Briefing Room.

It must have been past all those kids’ curfews, because when we entered the briefing room, there were only 3 other people there- also in their 20s. I was a little disappointed I wasn’t going to get the opportunity to make easy targets of awkward prepubescents or to scare the crap out of 7 year olds…but I quickly got over it. Some guy named Marshall walked into the briefing room and outlined the rules of the game. It was intense- there was star wars sound effects, pulsing lights, and a certain air of intensity. After seeing that none of us were little kids, Marshal kind gave up on the whole act and started trying to crack jokes instead. It didn’t work.

We were corralled into an adjacent room, where our Lazer packs were hung against the wall. As I pulled the lazer pack over my shoulders and wrapped my fingers around the Lazer gun, I felt like an intergalactic warrior suiting up for space battle. Or not.

The doors to the arena were opened, the lights were dimmed and house music started playing. The games had begun.

The first 4 or 5 minutes were a firefest- shooting fish in a bucket! Everyone was still adjusting their eyes to the darkness, trying to shield themselves from the downpour of lazer beams.

The next 20 minutes were made up of crawling on the ground, leaping out of the trails of lazers, shooting those you once called friends, hearing screams and the sounds of Lazer-death in the background, being ambushed by the barrel of a big plastic gun and trying not to have an asthma attack from all the running.

The 25 minutes were all-too-soon over, and we hustled our sweaty bodies back into the gear room. We unsuited, laughed at each others sweaty faces and went to the lobby to pick up our score cards. The score cards outlined every detail of the game- how many times you shot a certain player, which player shot you the most and what your hit ration and accuracy were. I came in fourth— out of 7. Which makes me average, right?

The boys were basking in their first and second-place glory (oooh, great guys. You beat a bunch of girls at lazer Tag. Tough guys, coming through!) so we went and grabbed a celebratory beer at Opal Divines down the road. It was a school night after all, so we called it quits after one round and 30 minutes of Lazer Tag recap and headed back to our homes.

It only cost $3 for the game and $3 for the beer. Not bad for a Thursday night. Oh and its quite the work out… when’s the last time you crawled around and crouched low to the ground for 25 minutes? Its Sunday and my legs are still sore. And yes, I’m a wimp.

But for 25 minutes and $3, I was an intergalactic soldier with deadly lazer beams.

It’s coming. A raunchy culmination of contortion, over-pierced body parts, tattooed everythings, g-strings, hoola hoops and strategically placed electrical tape. All of this on women. On stage. In Austin.

That’s right; its that time of year again- when ten of the Suicide Girls’ finest hit the road with suitcases full of studded belts, chocolate sauce, heavy metal music and mortifying props. Suicide Girls Live.

For the unenlightened (or sheltered) among us, the Suicide Girls are…well…smutty porn. Porn touted under the guise of alternative pornography (”Redefining beauty one hot naked chic at a time”), showcasing the punk-rocker gothic chics of the world. There’s no airbrushing these ladies- all those scars, tattoos, imperfections, birthmarks, and shiver-inducing piercings are what orchestrate the appeal.

Now I love the Suicide Girls (not because I love porn OR naked women…), what with their brazen attitudes, rule-breaking approaches and unabashed bravery. Somewhere deep inside of me (deeper….down there past those insecurities, dislike of being naked, fear of being photographed, dread that my father would find out…) I have always secretly dreamt of posing as a Suicide Girl. Do you think 3 tattoos is enough to qualify?

Anyways, back to my original point.

The Suicide Girls Live show is coming to Emo’s on November 3rd. I had the privilege of catching the last 45 minutes of a Suicide Girls show in Phoenix a few years back- and, if nothing else, this is good family entertainment.

Advertised as a “The Most Dangerous Burlesque Show in the World”, I guarantee that, unless hanging out with pornstars is a daily occurrence for you, this show will be nothing like you’ve ever seen before.

Let me give you a visual (children, stop reading): 4 girls (with little black strips of aforementioned electrical tape covering certain areas) making out in the background of the stage. Enter left, voluptuous dreadlocked blonde wearing what appears to be a mechanic shirt and tool belt. Stage right, Marylin Monroe-ish Housewife in plaid skirt and apron, trying to fix a broken toilet. Plumber meets Housewife…and unless your 18 years or older with a valid credit card, I’m not telling you the rest of the story.

Toss in some chocolate sauce and whip cream, firearms, some magic tricks and bad music- and you’ve got yourself a show!

A few warnings for prospective viewers:

1. While a good chunk of the show is theatrical and -frankly- amazing (getting naked while spinning a hoola hoop? I envy her…), a still very large portion is downright boring and awkward. A lot of the show is just some punk girl with disproportioned body parts (these are, after all, normal girls) jumping around the stage to Rob Zombie. Woo.

3. This isn’t your average Burlesque show. Burlesque shows are historically classy, tame and mildly satirical. This is just plain raunchy.

Point of the story, I may find myself among the other women in the crowd, rallying together in the name of bra-burning stereotype-bashing freedom.

Actually, I just want to see naked people doing stupid stunts.

My mom is going to kill me for writing this.

Life is good since my Tuesday nights are now filled with watching one of the sexiest (and by sexy I mean in that backwoods down-home country boy way) singer songwriters in Austin croon raw-heartfelt-country-folk-rock.

If you’re looking for a way to fill your Tuesday night (for under $20), I highly suggest heading down to the Saxon Pub, where for the next 4 months, country boy Hayes Carll and his revolving band will take stage at 8pm.

Never mind the fact that he is a captivating blend of perfectly un-refined raspy vocals (think Bob Dylan meets Tom Waits), Townes Van Zandt-esque attitude and wit, that charming Texas drawl, and guitar licks and chords sweet enough to lullaby…but ladies- you’ll want to watch him play all night long.

Plus, the Saxon Pub is a great place, no matter who is plinking or plucking away on stage. Good beer, nice waitresses, dim lights, creaky chairs… the place shrieks with character.

Anyways- always a sucker for cowboy shirts, beards, beer and good country folk music, I’m settling in for a long four months at the Saxon… dancing, drooling and drinking.

(PS. I took this pic from Hayes Carll’s myspace account, where you can find plenty more…)

After weeks of wondering, “I thought summer was officially over…when will the 95 degree weather cease?!” I woke up to the sound of rain and wind debris hitting my bay window. Though it was 3am, I ran to the back porch (hoping no one was outside to see me in my skivvies) and watched it rain into the dark for a bit.

When I finally stopped hitting snooze and edged out of bed, I decided to forego the coffee and instead made myself a cup of wintery hot chocolate. I resurrected my favorite fall/winter cds (Death Cab for Cutie, Jackson Browne…) of which I have no rationale for why they are classified as such. It’s probably just a memory-association thing, like how the smell of crayons reminds you of kindergarten. Or how the sound a lawnmower in the distance reminds you of summertime.

One chunky sweater and irrational craving for pumpkin bread later, I had walked out into the rain to find my truck window rolled completely down. I must have illogically assumed that the summer-time climate would persevere through the night. Hm…instead of being upset at the thought of sitting on my drenched upholstery, I embraced it. Intimately experiencing the rain and thoroughly enjoying the surprise morsel of Fall. Or something like that.

Driving to work, I caught a tiny glimpse of Austin in the distance- shrouded by clouds and wet and rain and dark. She’s kept her seasons a mystery to me, teasing me with whisps of winter, snippets of Autumn. I have yet to fully experience a Texas shift in calendar, a switch of time. . . so I never know what the next morning or afternoon or evening will bring.

Watch. Tomorrow will be sweltering, right?

So while I would have preferred to lay on the floor in the fetal position covering my eyes with a pillow and softly moaning to myself, I had to get up to go to my long-awaited dermatologist appointment. Oh I wish I could have skipped it, but then they probably would have charged me an insane amount of money or something.

Looking back, the $40 missed appointment fee would have been well worth it, because this was the worst dermatologist appointment EVER. I’m kicking myself for making an appointment at a place that has the word “Westlake” in its name… (and you all know how I feel about THAT place). I’m not going to tell you which clinic it is (for fear they would attack me with botox-filled syringes in the middle of the night), but if you look up dermatologists in Westlake, you would probably figure it out.

Ok so first of all, I’m sitting in the waiting area, head pounding and fighting nausea. The bulimic college girls running the front office are listening to Greenday or AFI or something annoyingly poppy like that, mapping out their evening of (and I quote):

“…getting ready at Cynthias house because she has better lighting in her bathroom, having cosmos by the pool before they leave, eating salads at Sabas [because I'm feeling kind of bloated lately], and dancing all night with the rest of the crew…”

It was awful to listen to. I kept having visions of leaping over the counter and choking them with their oversized hoop earrings.

After 20 minutes of holding my head in my hands while rocking back and forth, I finally get taken back to an exam room where I only wait another 15 minutes. The only magazines they have are “You Can Change Your Appearance” and “Beautiful Austin Socialite” (not the real titles, but you get the point), which were making me ill as I flipped through them. Did you know you can finance a new nose?

Just as I was starting to wonder if my chin was too large or small…

…the doctor comes in- a young platinum with collagen lips. Doctor?

We very quickly go over what I came in for (no, it isn’t some weird skin fungus or anything) and she decides to take the liberty to diagnose my ‘acne’. (side note: I wouldn’t say I have acne. I have “combination skin”, due in part to being in my 20’s and due in part to excessive drinking) After she rattles off different prescriptions I should be using, I tell Dr. Barbie that my skin is too sensitive for most topical medicines, and that I only use organic products.

She looks me dead in the eye and says, “Your skin is so bad. I haven’t seen acne this bad in a while here.”

Gulp.

She continues, “You’re too young to have such ferocious acne.” Yes, she used the word ferocious to describe my face. God.

I’m floored, and she continues preaching this gel stuff I should be using. “If it doesn’t work, we need to get you on Accutane as soon as possible before the damage is too far done. I know the media makes all the hype about Accutane and how it causes suicides and birth defects, but its amazing, worth it, and I promise you’ll love it.”

I did some research when I got home and turns out this drug is really serious. Not-recommended-by-the-FDA serious. Look it up.

So anyways. She writes me a book of prescriptions to remedy my ferociousness.

I’m holding a stack of scripts she forced into my hand, wondering how I got here…and how the hell I could get out. I like to think I’m a strong person, but I felt like melting right there on the Saltillo tiles… as if it wasn’t bad enough that I felt like crap, someone with a PhD just told me I look like crap.

Rant: For being a doctor, this woman sure is an idiot, peddling her medicines and gels and creams and lotions. I know my skin isn’t GREAT, but I never would have thought it was FEROCIOUS. I mean, Ive SEEN ferocious…

As I was giving the front-office-girl my co pay (and trying to convince her to eat a cracker or something), I realized that all the other patients in the office were older sun-damaged women with poofy hair, big jewelry and fake body parts. It was then that it hit me - again, I’m a simple girl with simple pimples. Dr. Barbie was probably just used to accommodating women whose world would shatter at the sight of one tiny blemish.

So I can’t really blame her. But I will never go back to , because, after all…its in Westlake. And Westlakers don’t play well with ferocious face people.

Now, most of you should know that Mt. Bonnell isn’t exactly Everest- its not even Rainier…it’s, in fact, kind of a grandma hike. So usually I would be really embarrassed to have been spanked so hard by such an easy trek. But it was a trap, I swear.

Have you been up there lately? The stones comprising the steps have been so polished over the years by feet that they are like bars of soap…innocent at first, but truly slippery and dangerous, ready to take you out when you least expect it. I honestly wonder how many people have biffed so hard like I did.

Anyone have a sander? Or a sandblaster? Because it’s a disaster waiting to happen. My 22-year old ass can handle the bruise— but can yours?

Ok, its named “Thunderpalooza”… I’m sorry, but that just scrrrrreams images of mullets, muscle tees and cans of High Life.

Alright alright, maybe it’s a generation thing (after all, I grew up in the Seattle Grunge era, not the 80’s metal phase), and I should probably take it easy on all the die-hards out there- but I can assure you I will be avoiding the festival madness at Thunderhill Raceway in Kyle just like I avoided that kid in second grade who always peed on other kids.

Get a load of a few of the headliners: The Beach Boys (who, last time I accidentally saw them at an Arizona State Fair, sounded like a bunch of old guys doing bad karaoke), Eddie Money (this guy is actually touring with Rick Springfield, Loverboy and Scandal under the theme of “We are the 80’s Tour”), and Rick Derringer (yeah, that guy who sang “Hang On Sloopy”, wrote Hulk Hogan’s theme song and now makes inspirational Christian cd’s with his wife).

I have come across several websites touting this festival (taking place November 3-4) as a second cousin to the Austin City Limits (sorry, I just fell over from laughing). And to think- tickets are only $30 a day! Limited time offer, of course…

Yes it’s true– if the amazingly bad lineup of has-been (and never-will-be-again) artists isn’t enough to woo you into your cutoff jeans and David Lee Roth shirt for some hardcore rockin’- do it for the children and…uh…the boobs. Indeed, it is a benefit to “Help uninsured children in the greater Austin area AND to deploy a mobile mammography unit.”

*Sigh*, people in Texas are weird.

Not only is the Texas Ranger now considered an ’sort of’ Austin citizen, we now have an entire day dedicated to him.

Yes, ladies and gentleman, September 22 is the official Chuck Norris day. Hi-yah!

I have no idea why Mayor Wynn decided to grace the Austin calendar with a day dedicated to this guy, but I think it might have something to do with tonight’s World Combat League West Coast Playoffs at the Frank Erwin Center. I’m pretty sure its open to anyone who wants to get their fix of karate-chopping and all around ass kicking.

According to the Daily Texan, “[Mayor] Wynn said Norris is using the tournament as a means to benefit and fund the program, “Kick Start.” The Texas-based program, created by Norris, helps teach the skills and strengths of martial arts to at-risk children. Wynn said he is proud to honor Norris for his kind and generous work in helping Texas children discover their full potential.”

I’m still confused over the whole ordeal….but at least I know the city of Austin can sleep sound at night, knowing Chuck Norris has our back.

Apparently, this cab-driver-turned-hip-hop-sensation is making a quick pit stop tonight in Georgetown (I know, it makes no sense to me, either) before going on stage with Shakira tomorrow in San Antonio. Who knew.

We got there pretty early, and turned in our slips of song requests to the DJ, who eerily reminded me of the Roller Rink DJ when I was a kid. After ordering a bucket a beer for $10, we grabbed our seat by the stage.

The place was surprisingly busy with an alarmingly young clientele. Sure, there was the older guy who only sang Johnny Cash… and there was the cowboy in his 40’s who was loyal to Garth Brooks. But for the most part, the crowd was 20-30 something’s singing anything from Fiona Apple (my personal standby song) to Sublime to Whitney Houston.

The beginning of the evening was mildly awkward, people singing “safe” songs and standing on stage in a shy and timid sort of way….but as the night progressed (and the beer buckets grew empty) the fun really started to happen. I had the privilege of being backup singer and snapper to “Blue Bayou”, got a standing ovation for my rendition of Bonnie Raitt, witnessed the best Prince cover EVER, and had someone draw me a picture of a dog saying, “Ya’ll sing great!”

At one point, after a longer-than-usual applause to my solo performance of Beauty and the Beast, a fellow karaoker (”Ladies and Gentleman, please welcome Juuuuuuuulia!”) started giving me dirty looks. I guess that’s what you get for being this good.