A Letter To The Muther Fuckers That Stole My Jeep

Dear Muther Fuckers Who Stole My Jeep-
I hope you are enjoying the 1989 Jeep Cherokee that I bought with my hard earned money seven years ago. I hope that you are also enjoying the mixes I made on my Ipod whilst you are driving MY fucking Jeep around East Austin. Please check out 'Gas Station Quarters' or 'Christmas In Heat', two, may I dare say, completely bad ass, top flight mixes I made to rock out to while I was tooling around town. Or even my generically titled 'Austin Mix' for the gym. You are impressed are you not, Mr. Muther Fuckers? I hope you are enjoying the good brakes and clean interior and notice the poster for my show, AMERICAMISFIT, laying on the backseat. I could get you a two for one ticket price this weekend if you like, Muther Fuckers. It's a damn fine show and I know you would be intrigued. I also hope you enjoy the clean scent provided by my Virgin Mary scented air freshner. Funny, right? Cuz that's what ole' T-Dawg is, if nothing else, a funny, funny man.

In fact,I hope you are so impressed with the wicked bad assness of my ole' beat up Jeep that you spontaneoulsy combust from all the excitement and then die a fiery death at the hands of that real bitch, karma. I also hope that when this happens you had the foresight to remember to wear clean underwear! Don't embarass your mother, Muther Fuckers! What would Mother Muther Fucker say if she knew you weren't wearing clean undies when you spontaneously combusted while driving another man's car? You were raised better than that! Come on, Muther Fuckers!

My opening night is tonight and you have already guranteed me one hella bad case of nerves. I will definitely be wearing a clean pair of underwear. Because you see, Muther Fuckers, I know for a fact that I was raised right. Unlike you, you cuntsnakelowdowndirtyassfuckingbendajo. Pardon me. I digress.

So, to wrap up:Messieurs Muther Fucker, go fuck yourselves.

Yours truly and sincerely,

T-Dawg

My Bud; Her Majesty The Bourbon Drinkers

After reading la ketch's heartbreaking story about almost losing Elliott the beagle, I decided to give a little shout out to my favorite pooch, Mr. Bud Q. Dawg, Esq., aka "Bud Dawg." He has been Maw-Maw's dog for about twelve years, and has proven himself to be a most valuable and loyal member of our dysfunctional clan. He can 'do the bear', he can 'dance the alligator', he always slips me the tongue and most importantly, he guards my beloved grandma with the ferocity of a tattooed, heavily muscled, bald headed bouncer named Tiny. He chases away lawn men, he barks to my uncle about his love for the ladies, he has ruined dress shirts of mine with his shed and drool. He is old, and I love him. My grandmother and he are like two old comedians, back and forth all day about soap operas and corrupt politicos and the mother loving Spurs. I am not an animal person, but I have never loved a pet the way that I love Bud. To you sir, I raise my glass. Everyone, a toast! To Bud!!! TO BUD!!!!!

AmericaMisfit's own Glimmer Twins!!

Guess whose hair isn't real?

If this doesn't make you wanna see AmericaMisfit, you just have no pulse in your cold dead veins.

Tomorrow's preview! Holy crap!
Go MISFIT!!!

Dude,Whatever Happened To...?

We here at T-DawgBlog have decided to shamelessly steal from other, better, worthier blogs. In a nod to my good friend and bowling league teammate Dup Dupperson's awesome blog feature "Please Explain", I have decided to add my own feature to Soy Un Cabron, "Dude, Whatever Happened To...?" This semi-regular feature will allow me to track down long forgotten heroes of yesteryear and bring them back to the forefront for you, my eleven faithful readers.

Now, as many of you faithful T-Bloggers out there know, I am nothing if not a landfill of useless pop information and high brow anecdotes. I have read Pynchon, I have seen Pooty Tang. I have memorized Lebowski and fetishized Lethem, all with equal aplomb. But where I really get down on the get down is, and shall always be, the rock and roll. And for me, the biggest rock and roll cultural zeitgeist, tipping point moment of my lifetime was the release of Purple Rain. This movie, and more importantly, soundtrack, was a big deal to me and thousands of other white children all across America. Why? Well, I'll tell you.

There just ain't no other way to say it. Prince was a bad muther fucker. I could do a bad 80's stand up routine right now, paying tribute to his purple pants and pompadour and all the ladies who stood a head taller than him, but why give Howie Mandel the satisfaction? Prince begat Greg Dulli, who wrote Gentlemen, which changed my life, and thus thousands of ladies (okay, like three) have had their lives bettered in some way by knowing me. Or not.

But I digress. Prince could not have had his purple reign without his Revolution, and that's who I'm here to hunt up today. We all know about Wendy and Lisa, Dez Dickerson, and the incomparable Morris Day and Jerome. But we here at Soy Un Cabron have been wondering, whatever happened to Doctor Fink ? He of the tickled ivories, he of the funky groove, he who dared to look Prince straight in the eye and say "I ain't wearing no damn colonial get up! I am the Fink, Doctor Phineas Van Fink, maestro of the Casio Keyboard! I gotta wear my scrubs, yo! Don't mess with my look, man! They need me in funkery, stat!" He also rocked the sleazy porn mustache, which, when countered with Prince's own sleazy, albeit pre-pubescent 'stache, actually looked pretty tight, in a 'Ron Jeremy's gross' kinda way. He also didn't go in for all the bad make-up, which, let's face it, was never gonna fly on a honkey from the Twin Cities.

Dr. Fink was a visionary in that respect. He could see the coming power that is home video rental, how we recycle everything culturally before it has a chance to get old and grey, and how he would be captured for all time wearing some bitch ass blush and eyeliner, coupled with the aforementioned nasty ole' 'stache. So my man Fink stood up and said, "NO! I got my scrubs and I got my 'stache, what more do you want from me? I am a keys man, not an animal! I invented the piano tie!!" And it is because of this foresight, this perpacity, this flat out funktasmagoricalness that we here at my blog salute you, Dr. Fink, and our proud to name you tdawgblog's "1st Semi-Regular Dude,Whatever Happened To...? Dude."

And now, indeed Dr. Fink, whatever DID happen to you?

After wildly searching the net for at least twenty minutes, and with no help from any of the Prince related sites, I was only able to discover his site (linked above) and this little tidbit, which seems fairly obvious.

'Dr Fink is no longer working with Prince. He is available for session work and can be booked at 1-952-xxx-xxxx.'

I called and left a message. The Doctor was not in.

Let It Ride

DUDE!
I was doing a radio thang today for the show and the station, KUT, is housed in the same building where they tape AUSTIN CITY LIMITS. They were taping an episode this afternoon and guess who it turned out to be?
That's right, bitches.
My favorite drunken lout, Mr. Ryan Adams.
Once again, there I was, mere feet from saying...
from saying...
from letting him know...
I don't know what, exactly.
Ryan Adams!
This was different than the time you knocked me over at Webster Hall, dude.
I was part of the talent this time. Not just some lame-o music geek. I am IN THE PLAY!
Even if no one knew.
Except my boots.

Float Like A Butterfly

My heart is in my shoes. My eyes are on fire. My knees are that of an old sherpa named Greg. I need strings stat and I can't find a doctor anywhere! What does it all mean?
FULL BLOWN TECH WEEK!!!!!!
If I didn't know that the seven people all reading this were somehow intertwined in the theatre community that exists and gossips all across this great land, I could go into how, exactly, my sworn nemesis, GORDON J FUCKING DRIVER! has been hired as our TD. So instead I will just say that I think we have a really good team this year and god willing, we will just take it one game at a time, play hard, and be able to put some points on the board. I mean come on man, we talkin' about practice?That these acts of agression will not stand,man. D'oh! These evildoers will be brought to justice. It was a wardrobe malfunction and that you are still in the running to be america's next top model. You're fired!

Only twelve more days until this nonsense begins. Are you in?

And, in the words of Big and Little Harape-

Girl You Know I Love You,
Girl Don't Make Me Cut You.

That's The Story Of, That's The Glory Of

Just a quick congrats to the lovely bride and groom! We love you Pam and Chad! And what an awesome reception. All of Austin's top bros and brunhildas assembled to toast you and your love. And those Ugly Beats! What a band!
You guys should get married all the time! Or maybe those guys should play out more! Someone should coordinate!!

Voice Of Harold

Harold Pinter, the British playwright known for enigmatic plays such as "The Birthday Party" and "The Homecoming" and a well-known peace activist, was awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature today. (From AP)

Fuck Yeah! I love Pinter. Comedy of Menace and the Pinter Pause. Moments in plays or books or movies are often referred to as "Pinteresque." Wouldn't it be great to have your ownn adjective? "That witticism, my boy, was simply Tdawgian." I usually think awards are a bunch of crap, probably because I never won any, but this is truly, truly, awesome. Congratulations Harold Pinter! WE LOVE YOU!
And by the way, anyone who retires from writing to focus on peace, they is a-ok with me anytime.

Everything Hits At Once

Back from another grueling ScottishRockabillyBloodthirstyColonialRevolutinary play rehearsal. Or practice, as the string players I know might say. What a day, what a life. Sock monkey's looking at me like I got something to say. And I do, but not to something that sits jauntily atop my new Bigamy Sisters record. It's all swirling in there, like an Arcade Fire song in French, with the guy from The Decemberists writing his hyper literate lyrics, translated via the internet, then rapped by Chingy. Chingy? I digress.
It's been a long weekend full of mystery and adventure, all-star country bands and lots of beer. A SITI Company infused show, full of ha-ha and Romper Room metaphysicality, chased by victory margaritas took up most of Saturday, not to mention Maw-Maw's awesome BBQ chicken and baked beans, and an always healthy dollop of Daddy Vic's random witticisms. My alma mater, the mighty Longhorns, thoroughly trounced our sworn enemy, the Oklahoma Redneck Chicken Humpers, I mean, Sooners. I always hate when sports fans refer to a favorite team as "we", as in "We really showed them Yankees last night, didn't we General Lee?" I could either be talking to Robert E. or the Duke boy's car, I'm not sure, but you get the drift, right? "WE" didn't have anything to do with it. Large men in tight pants with hieroglyphic tattoos and body fat percentages that put Kate Moss to shame showed the opponent up, not us, the doughy, pasty, vaguely pansy ass arty pricks who get all excited. But I just can't help myself, so allow me this one indiscretion.
WE DID IT!
HOOK 'EM HORNS!
Being back in Austin while this long dreamed of victory occurred makes it even more savory sweet. Ah Austin, what a fickle mistress you are.
Which leads me to what I'm thinking about anyway. Why the hell did I ever leave you Austin? You of The Continental Club, Magnolia Mud, Ozarka bottled water and cheap American Spirits. I just love your Club DeVille, girl, and the way you shake that Beerland, TX on any given Tuesday.
Was it I-35 that did me in? The lack of parking? The fucking tow headed frat boys with conch shells and DMB t-shirts?
Surely not the lack of Mexican Food. What, then, what was it?

Oh right.
I was going crazy here.
Felt heartbroken and abandoned.
Like I had given you the best years of my young life, and you had told me you needed a break.
Like you took all the poems and mix tapes I made you and set them on fire.
Like you made out with my most hated rival at my sister's quincenera and then took my mom's purse. Slut.
You bitch, Austin! I loved you. How could you turn on me like this? I thought we were gonna make it forever! Why, oh, why???
I LOVE YOU AUSTIN!!! TAKE ME BAACK!! TAKE. ME. BAAACCCKKKKKK!!!!!!!!(breaks down into indecipherable moaning and sobbing.)

What's that? Uhh-uhh, no way. For real?

Austin's getting married? To who?
Yeah, I mean I guess I sorta knew that's what she wanted, but wow.
No, I'll be okay.
Phew!!!
I'm getting the fuck out of here!
This is awesome.

Calebs? MoMo? Dup? WILLIS?
I'll see you at the bar.
We're going out, that's why. To cel-o-brate.
'Cuz Austin's getting married and I'm a free man.

Alright, boys, first rounds on me. Four Makers and four Lone Stars. Fine. A Pinot Grigio for you, Sherman. Drink up!
Oh shit, 'Lebs. Is that Austin? Don't look! I said don't look.
There, right there! See her? Does she look a little heavy to you?
Dup, make sure that's her. No, don't go say hello. Just get up close and take a gander.
MoMo, what're you doing, son? Don't wave her over!
Willis, no, don't give her a hug! Dude, you're fucking it up!!
Ahh, shit.

Hey Austin, what's up?
No, I'm good.
Yeah, yeah that's cool.
Congratulations on the wedding! You look great, really. Really, really- What's that? You are?
Reallllly......

Yeah, sure, we could go for a drink sometime.
Yeah, it's still the same. Just gimme a call.
What? A play? Sure, I'm interested.
Austin, you look really good. You really do. Okay, then, you too. Bye.

Nothing, 'Lebs. It was no big deal. A friendly, very adult conversation for old times sake, you know how it is.
I am not shaking. Stop it.


Let's get out of here. This party's dead anyway.

You Will Never Defeat Me, Skeletor

How about a victory margarita for ole' T-dawg? That's right, 'cuz after six months, two previous abortive attempts, and lots of mumbled "What book is it?" by numerous associates, I can say that I. DID. IT. I did it! I read Sister Carrie! I don't know why this book became this Everest to me, I've read far longer, and better, for that matter. But I had to get it done. And I did it. Take that Dreiser! T-Dawg -1, Sister Carrie - 487. Pages, that is.
Begun on a bus trip to Boston in May, you have been put down like the mangy bitch you are, Sister Carrie. You mocked me, razed me, called me a BIG GIRL'S BLOUSE!!! Not anymore, Sister. Swing out, 'cuz I am through you with your chump ass.
And in the on deck circle?
Oh, a little
INFINITE JEST.
See you in 2008.

This One's For You, Coffee Shop Girl

Progress Coffee Shop Coffee Shop Girl, why have you forsaken me? What did I do to incur your wrath? All week long, I have sat anonymously on the patio, drinking my mediocre Joe from a ceramic mug and studying my lines. Today I read Sister Carrie and you still sighed heavily when I came in. What is it? Are you mad because I didn't tip you after I self-served my coffee? Or are you put out I because I refill my six ounce mug so liberally? What do you care? I paid two dollars (TWO DOLLARS?!?) for this average coffee, and all I wanna do is read and drink in peace. WHY ARE YOU SO FUCKING RUDE, Progress Coffee Shop Coffee Shop Girl? Is it because you own a Barsuk Records tshirt? Are you cooler than me? I thought the whole philosophy of Barsuk was that we're all big dorks in this game of life together. At least that's how Ben Gibbard told it to me one night at an ice cream social. Anyhow, I don't know why you irk me so. Maybe it's because I always wanted to date someone like you, or better yet, be one of your ilk. Wearing my cool indie label tee's with faded Levi's, grabbing an iced coffee to go after my shift was over, then unlocking my baby blue Vespa from a parking meter as I headed off to band practice, after making promises to meet up for beers at the beer garden with you and Ceriwen and Ian and Gary. We would laugh over foreign films and bands playing at Emo's and stupid UT jocks and then maybe make out, but probably not. Do I not read the right books, Progress Coffee Shop Coffee Shop Girl? Should I be reading some Zen Motor Cycle Archer's Manual? Should we go to holistic yoga together? If I made you a mix cd, ney, TAPE, would that ease your dyspepsia? All I want to do is read and smoke and drink my crappy coffee in peace. I know it pains you, and I apologize, but look here, let's be adults, all right? I'm 28, for chrissakes. I have a job, sort of. I have a career. I have rent to pay. Actually, the part about the career wasn't true at all, but I thought you might be impressed. I don't have all day to just HANG OUT in a coffee shop, Progress Coffee Shop Coffee Shop Girl! The time for that was in high school, when I camp out and read Kafka and Bukowski and Kerouac, and scribble half assed poetry into a beat up spiral notebook, and eventually give myself an ulcer, with all that bad coffee and stupid Pall Mall cigarettes. (Jesus, what was I thinking?) Look, Progress Coffee Shop Coffee Shop Girl, I have bussed my own table for five days now, thrown away all my own trash, even EMPTIED THE ASHTRAY. What more do you want from me? You know what? Let's just pretend this whole thing never happened. Let's act like adults. I'll quit silently thinking you're the devil's spawn if you quit sighing just so when I come in for another refill. And scowling when I smile at you every morning as I pay you my two dollars.
Who am I kidding? I'm gonna go home right now andblogaboutyouyou....youcutecoffeeshopgirl!
*SIGH*
Wow.
Maybe I need to drink less coffee, what do you think Progress Coffee Shop Coffee Shop Girl?
You may have one this round. But I will be back. Oh yes, I shall live to see another day.
'Til Monday then?
Have a nice weekend!

We Were Just American Misfits

This Just In!
Here we are, Big and Little Harpe, carrying our war straight to the city that bears your name. Either that or looking for work in a Prince and The Revolution cover band. Bobby Z, Dr. Fink? This way please.

Your Revolution Has Left Us

For any of you theatre heads out there, this is the new show that's currently sucking me dry. And I'm loving almost every minute of it. Tonight I cut the back of my head open doing a dance sequence. (It's not as cool as it sounds, believe me.)
Call it the curse of the West. Seems like every time I do a Dan Dietz play, I play some renegade outlaw from the days of yore. And I always wind up getting hurt. Must be the ghosts of first Jesse James, and now Wiley (Little) Harpe telling me to play 'em right. First it was my knee, now my noggin. You're killing me Dietz, you're killing me! And I wouldn't have it any other way. At least I got some awesome scars to show for it.

"How'd you get that gnarly gash in your leg?"
'Prison Break. How'd you get that wicked slice on your skull?'
"Dance call."
'Kiss me.'
"Okay, Dad."

And scene.

Reverse The Curse Reversed?

Come on Red Sox.
Don't go out like a bunch of chumps.
Where's that fighting spirit?
Oh yeah, he pitches in Flushing.
Come on SOX!!

Why The Fuck Not?/ Good Night, Sweet Prince

This isn't as bad as I thought it would be. No one from the indie cred police came and knocked on my door when I did this, and after all, I am only three years too late to join in on the tomfoolery. But here I am, blog land! Hello, how are you? Yes, I'd love something to drink. What's that? No, just PBR then. Why thank you. Yes. No. Yes. Well, a state school. Whose MP3? Ah-ha, no I don't know that one. Semiotics? What? Jonathan Safran Franzen Lethem? fuck you and your fuckety fucking blog jokes! I'm out! But seriously, the whole reason I did this was to pay tribute to a giant in my world.

NIPSEY RUSSELL
1923(4?)-2005

A true genius. I discovered him in the summer of '86, right before that fateful Red Sox-Mets World Series that forever changed the course of my fandom, much to my New York friend's chagrin. But I digress. You made me laugh so hard in Wild Cats I almost forgot that I had been exposed to Goldie Hawn naked in a bathtub. You cajoled, you coerced, you got new band uniforms all because you were able to SELL THE LAST OF THE PEANUT BRITTLE! I became obsessed with you and laying dormant in the back of my mind for many years was the knowledge that someday we would meet and collaborate on quite possibly the GREATEST COMEDY ALBUM OF ALL TIME, called something like "Woops! Sheegalee Deegalee and Other Nuggets Of Nonsense!" or "Nips and Tuck" or even "TRAVIS and NIPSEY fucking KICK ASS!" (Japanese Import.) And I'm sad that dream was never realized. Even worse is the fact that you were under utilized by most of the powers that be in the entertainment industry, sans, of course, Mr. Conan O'Brien. Eddie Murphy, Steve Harvey, and especially Cedric The Entertainer owe you a huge debt of gratitude for paving the way. Thanks to all those who have offered their well wishes to me. You were awesome, Nipsey. Fucking awesome.