Is There a Duck in the House?

Nothng against doctors, really, but unless something is fairly seriously the matter with you, they won't tell you anything you didn't already know.

Drink plenty of fluids and get some rest. Eat sensibly. Get up off your ass and exercise every once in a while. A little fresh air won't kill you.

If you're feeling really lousy, your doctor might prescribe an antibiotic. Theoretically, this is just because (1) it can't hurt, and (2) it makes the patient feel better to take something. But lately I'm coming to wonder if the medical profession, in addition to corporate interests such as Lysol and Dial, is actually run by some master race of superintelligent bacteria as part of a breeding program so that they can take over the world.

Or maybe not, because strictly speaking, I think bacteria probably already do own the world, and creating more drug-resistant varieties only works towards wiping out some of their more successful hosts - not really in the bacteria's best interests, not that I know a lot about these things. Still, I don't think it makes sense in the long run. Perhaps the bacteria are Republicans.

Anyway, I went to the doctor this morning to have a look at my left calf muscle, which - only during chilly weather - sometimes sort of snaps when I spring up off my toes, say, to jump over a puddle, or to dodge traffic on Riverside. If I do it hard enough, it hurts like a mofo and I'm limping for a month. It did that thing again Monday, and since this is the third winter in a row it's happened, I figured what the hell, I'll go get a professional opinion on it.

It's been a while since I sat around in a doctor's waiting room. They never have any magazines I want to look at, so I sit and look out the window, or just stare at the walls. There was a row of paintings opposite me, in different styles, all apparently by different artists.

One depicted a woman sitting in a chair, her legs crossed. Another displayed a seated figure. A third, very abstract one apparently was of a chair and human occupant, and - hey! The waiting room was decorated entirely with paintings of people waiting!

I meant to ask the doctor about that when he came into the examining room, but all he wanted to talk about was my leg. He looked kind of like William H. Macy. He asked a whole bunch of questions about my exercise routine, family history, medications, etc. and then felt my leg up and down for several minutes asking if it hurt (it didn't). Finally he told me I should just stretch before I go walking.

So that's it: a $20 co-pay, and I get my leg felt up and told to stretch. The second one I could figure out, and the first I could probably have found somebody to do for free.

But at least he didn't prescribe antibiotics.

Going Out

Forget Sudoku. If you want to get some serious mental exercise, try explaining the Austin art scene to a bunch of small-town Texans.

My sister Margie's in a new band, which is playing tonight at L_M_N_L, and she insists I have to go, though frankly the last time I was there I had a bit of a negative experience.

Margie's new band is called Palette, or Pallet, or Palate. "What kind?" I asked her, since she told me the name over the phone. "Color palette, or moving pallet, or hard palate?"

"It could be any of those!" she enthused. "It's multi-purpose!"

They'd better get somebody with really bad handwriting to do their flyers.

Anyway, at lunch with district contacts from a few small Texas towns last week, I was trying to explain Margie's musical activities. "What kind of band does she play in," one of the guys asked, "country?"

"No, no," I said, "it's sort of an art band. They play at art openings and stuff."

"Oh, so it's classical?" he asked.

"No, no, it's kind of avant-garde," I said, and realized this didn't clarify anything. "It's weird. Not like a regular genre."

"Hippie music?" suggested the Carl Sagan of Laredo.

"Well, maybe," I said. "Hippie-punk-alternative-retro. They wear big papier-mache masks. They play at the Art Car parade."

Silence.

"The scene - they're all a bunch of chain-smoking vegetarians," I went on.

At least Carl immediately understood what I meant.

Margie says L_M_N_L, which had been gutted the last time I was there, and was once more just a largish, high-ceilinged room, has platforms and levels and cubbies all built into it again, but in a completely different configuration. I'm glad. It was sort of dull without all the exploring and crawling around.

And it means that, if need be, there are a lot more places to hide.

As Brittle As It Is Beautiful

"Floozies are friendly for free," I explained to the two guys sitting on either side of me on the sidewalk in front of L_M_N_L last night, red plastic cups of cheap beer in our hands. "Whores cost you more."

You know the evening's going downhill when you start popping out mnemonic devices about prostitution.

I was too tired for much conversation. Eric had played his first gig earlier at Club 115. He mixes electronic music, and as far as live performance goes it doesn't look very interesting, since it's just him standing there with a laptop. So he brought his cousin, Little Morgan (about 6'4" and 225 pounds), to sit on stage next to him, draped in an American flag and eating three Big Macs stacked together into one hellish sandwich.

But this wasn't quite enough visual interest, Eric felt, to hold the audience's attention. He wanted people to dance. What's a loving mother to do? I danced, and so did Margie. The laptop didn't need any further attention, so Eric and a friend of his danced as well. I thought the activity on the dance floor made a nice contrast to the gluttony being showcased on stage, but felt we all should have been draped in flags. I think I still have a Scottish one, packed up in a box somewhere. I don't know what Scotsmen look like when dancing to electronica, but I bet they do the White Guy Bite.

And at the end of about a one-hour set, Little Morgan finished the last bite of his burger. We stopped dancing and cheered. The onlookers cheered. Somebody held up a lighter.

When Eric's show was over, Margie and I walked over to L_M_N_L for her friend's art opening. The space has been gutted of all the steps, levels, cubbyholes and platforms that the guys built last year, and looks rather stark: it's only a small, high-ceilinged room after all. I hope they build something else. It's kind of sad. So I spent most of the evening outside with the smokers. Why do all those bohemian artsy types have to smoke? Some of them could really use a shower, too.

I got up and went upstairs to the print shop to use the bathroom, and when I came back down, I found one of the two guys - who hadn't noticed my return - whispering at length to the other, who was looking hard at me, a knowing smile on his face.

There is a little bit of a story there, and I won't tell it. But I definitely don't have enough fun to deserve a reputation. I went home.