Too Bored's Summer Fest Montage

50 cent Shiners at Poison Girl tonight

If you have not heard, our friends at 29-95.com are sponsoring 50 cent Shiners at PG tonight. It's always funny when someone you see hundreds of times at bars offers you a drink when they are only 50 cents. Oh well, if it's free- take two.

FPH visits a Job Fair

by Joe the Columnist

Recession porn—it’s everywhere. You’ve heard the stories about how everybody’s scaling back and getting by with less. It’s the hottest topic on TV, on the radio, in so many conversations. Corporations are sharing or leasing jets instead of buying them outright; rich folks are abandoning their yachts because they can’t keep up their maintenance, and having to choose between keeping the nanny or the gardener because they can’t keep them both. The middle classes are cooking mac and cheese at home rather than going out to Applebee’s, and young singles are packing thermoses of home-brewed coffee rather than splurging on Starbucks. And the unemployed? We’re having to attend job fairs in search of cheap entertainment.
I got the email about a week earlier. A forward about the Behemoth.com job fair from a helpful friend of my mother’s. They touted it as some kind of rock concert—a local stop on the Roll Up Your Shirtsleeves Tour. Yeah, right. I laughed.
Not that I’m above that sort of thing, but the kind of people who find workers at job fairs are the kind of people who don’t call workers “workers”—they’re more likely to call them Senior ASSociates or Junior ANALysts or Customer Branding Administrators. The kind of people who, despite how “interesting” they might find us, don’t hire people like me. But I didn’t delete it, and every time I checked my email (which, as an unemployed procrastinator, I am not ashamed to say is pretty often) it became more and more attractive.
It’s not like I had anything better planned for Wednesday morning. It would be like that time I woke up early on a Sunday to check the mega-church in the former sports arena—I still tell stories about that. I pictured myself at a party, surrounded by a cluster of people—them laughing and hanging on my every word, urging me on—as I regaled them with tales of my epic hero’s journey across the toxic bog of new carpet smell, through the cubicle labyrinth of florescent light sameness with it’s minotaur of a manager, his blinding cardboard smile and firm handshake that’s rendered countless, once proud, warriors impotent. Plus, it’d get my mom and girlfriend off my back for at least a week.
So, I updated my resume to include my latest job. I posted it on Behemoth.com and registered for the job fair (I mean the “Roll Up Your Shirtsleeves Tour”). I considered what sort of answers to give if somebody asked me about the gaps in my resume, why I move cross-country so often, and how much information to volunteer about that felony and that misdemeanor without appearing cagey or defensive. (They are both entirely unrelated to work!)
I tried on different outfits. Would a suit come off as trying too hard? I opted for slacks and a shirt, ironed them, flossed and brushed, and went to bed early. In the morning, noting the importance of a balanced breakfast, I had coffee, cigarettes, and cereal instead of the usual (just coffee and cigarettes). Then I had a nice drive down to a fancy hotel near the Galleria.
* * *
At registration, I’m handed a fancy, space-age, Velcro-clapsed folder bearing logos for Behemoth.com and the Roll Up Your Shirtsleeves Tour.
“And here’s your drink ticket!” The enthusiastic young man at registration is all exclamation. He raises his eyebrows and maintains sincere eye contact as he beams a broad smile at me. “It’s good for one free drink at the Behemoth.com bar!”
This might not be so bad after all. I slip the drink ticket into my shirt pocket and tap it once as I stride towards the entrance. The first booth I notice is from Merrill Lynch. That’s right, Merrill Lynch, one of the main “Too Big to Fail” juggernauts that led us into this mess. They’re recruiting “Financial Advisers” at the Roll Up Your Shirtsleeves Tour. Makes me feel safer about the “recovery” already. I think about applying—I’m sure I could do better than whoever was calling the shots there a year ago—but then the blonde woman in a headset delivering a PowerPoint presentation catches my eye. The four rows of chairs set up in front of her stage are all occupied, so I take my place at a standing-room table near the back (beside the “bar,” which, alas, is serving only tea and lemonade) to dig her message and check out the crowd.
She gestures dramatically with her hands as she talks about streamlining the career search to integrate, optimize, and leverage your value-added customer-oriented solutions in this risk-averse environment. You have to be proactive and maintain an active network, she says. You have to check the right boxes to prove that you think outside the box. It’s a dog-eat-dog world out there, after all, and, at the end of the day, the only way to break through the clutter and get the your foot in the door, to get the face-time needed to make your case in person, to take it to the next level, if you will, is to utilize the best-practices expressed through action-packed verbs, thereby convincing your prospective employer that hiring you would be a win-win situation. It’s just that simple.
There’s a dingy, faded sadness hanging in the room, despite the fine wallpaper and ostentatious chandeliers. Everybody’s sporting their Sunday best—starched shirts tucked in to pleated khakis and women in power suits—but a glance at their scruffy shoes brings everybody back down to earth. A thin, mullet and mustached young man in an ill-fitting, double-breasted suit is talking to his similarly attired buddy about Worlds of Warcraft. I look through the fancy folder, which is mostly empty, containing specially designed pockets for business cards, resumes, and these oversized index cards bearing helpful, bullet-point advice on how to hype up your boring old jobs for your resume. There’s even a blank “Thank You” note to serve as an example of a way to continue groveling to your Human Resources overlords even after the interview has ended. There’s list of employers represented at the fair—some big names, no doubt—but most of them seem to be seeking entry-level, telemarketing kind of sales jobs.
I spot my buddy Jack, a former coworker, and we head over to the bar to catch up over lemonade. He’s been out of work since March, but he’s got the kind of “diverse skill set” that insures he won’t be jobless for long. I notice that the middle-aged lady serving lemonade—a hotel employee—is sporting braces, and I’m jealous of her dental plan.
Jack and I swap resumes just for kicks and he tells me he left out one of his degrees, the Bachelor of Science, in favor of listing more work experience. I tell him I had to leave some BS off my resume, too. We’re having too much fun hanging out so we make plans to meet up later and part ways to do what we came here for.
I notice that the longest lines are for people waiting to talk to temp agencies. Only half the booths are occupied, like the organizers had expected a lot more employers to show up. I talk to people in line.
I meet Debra, who lost her job of 16 years last January. She’s also lost her house and car, and had to move in with her parents. She’s 42 and has three kids. She’s signed up with more than ten temp agencies already, goes on five to six interviews per week, but hasn’t got a call back. I wonder if she’s sending out the wrong kind of thank you card.
I talk to Wei, a seven months pregnant Chinese woman, whose husband’s company wants to transfer him back to China. They don’t mind going, but with her about to give birth to their first child, it’s not a good time. They’re here on his L-1 visa and hoping to find a new job that will let them stay here a little bit longer, until they can make the move more comfortably.
I meet many more people with similar stories—cooks, engineers, graphic designers, EEG techs—and a slew of hiring managers who are thrilled to shake my hand and assure me everything’s going to be fine. The whole thing strikes me as a masturbatory exercise in cheap feel goodism, but then I take a look around at the hordes of people and all the literature they’re exchanging and realize what’s really going on. Think about it—the folders, the displays, the schwagge, the catering, the a/v installations, the promotion—this whole job fair must have put hundreds of copy writers, designers, printers, collators, greeters and administrators to work. Even the recruiters and head-hunters on the other sides of the booths might have been sitting at their desks twiddling their thumbs and brainstorming ways to justify their continued employment if they didn’t have this fair to come to today. They are not here helping the unemployed find work, rather, the unemployed are here to give the recruiters something to put on their own timesheets!
On the way out I’m handed a business card by a short Asian man wearing cargo shorts and Wayfarers who reminds me of Frank Chu or that mobster from The Hangover. I ask him what it’s for but he says he doesn’t know, he just gets paid to hand them out. It’s for a website called kookoo.ws, so I check it out when I get home. It’s for a pyramid direct-marketing scheme. His honesty is refreshing.

Human Nature Political

by Dean Liscum

Whether or not the end is near, its close enough. Charity in the billions is doled out to the über-rich by their own underlings. The poor live and die without air conditioning or basic medical care. If the pundits won’t profess it, at least artists will paint the picture. The installation Human Nature Planted does not present itself as overtly political, but it plays out that way. Curated by June Woest and Claudio Franco of Urban Artists at the Nature Discovery Center of Bellaire, Planted is a group sculptural installation by twelve innovative Texas artists. The official theme of the show is to “explore the human handprint in the natural world and how it positively and negatively influences the environment,” but the show resonates with current socio-political-economic turmoil. Nathaniel Donnett’s Myke’s Clubhouse captures the crisis from the vantage point of the forgotten poor and vulnerable; Cornell West accusing Obama of neglecting those most in need. Merging fantasy with nightmare, Donnett constructed a tree house and foreclosed it, with a red sign and a foreclosure listing in the paper. June Woest’s Pharmacy Domesticus forms a field of bamboo-like columns out of plastic prescription bottles, makes a visually stunning side-effect of our fascination with better living through pharmaceuticals. Lucinda Cobley’s tree+cipher proposes a vibrant new taxonomy for nature that makes one cry out for a new political discourse. Amie Adelman’s untitled, Mari Omari’s Gifts and Orna Feinstein’s
Eco-librium enhance or alter the existing environment; binding, weaving, and clumping leaves, stems, branches, and grasses; regulating nature in quirky, unanticipated ways. Kathy Hall’s I say Poaceae, You say Poaceae introduces non-native grasses into the park and forces us to confront the unpredictable nature of complex systems.

Recessions depress but they can inspire innovation and reinvention, every tool becomes a weapon when held just right. Kathy Kelley’s The birth of destruction deconstructs automobile tires and fashions them into boulder-sized spheres that remind one of objects of play or meditation. Andis Applewhite’s Soul distills man-made and natural fragments to serve as objects for meditation. Jason Dean Moul’s Water, Seed, Pollen, Leaf hints at moving away from Christian salvation through salary and inserts customer designed stain glass windows in the intersections of the pecan tree branches. The trees etched on plexiglas in Keith Hollingworth’s Arboretum may serve as a memento mori for the park in anticipation of a coming environmental crisis. Michael Crowder’s frozen birds will have melted before this exhibit even ends, but you could find yourself, decades from now, peering at the two glass ones-- wondering how quickly the next ice age will come.


Ken Lay, City Money, Small Polynesians, and Mayoral Forums

By Mills-McCoin
Image By Shelby Hohl


I made the decision to attend one of the many Mayoral Forums that Gene Locke, Roy Morales, Annise Parker and Peter Brown have been attending since the start of the Mayoral Race. They seem to be doing their part; so I should do my version of due diligence. There’s a mayoral forum on August 18th from noon to 1:30PM put on by the Houston Area Table, Houston Tomorrow and the FPH. For more information, please call 713-782-8833.

My odd and questionable preparations for this forum included a plane ride to visit a semi-forgotten Houstonian- Kenneth Lay.
If you really believe he’s dead... well, that’s adorable. Ken Lay lives on a remote island in the south Pacific... because that’s how much money he stole.
Don’t forget, Ken Lay lived in Houston for a very long time; and is well-versed in how his city operates. Ken Lay was a baaaaaad man; there’s no doubt he shook the Devil’s hand a few times. So I figure he could probably shed some light on what exactly I should ask a candidate running for Mayor of Houston.

After I landed on the makeshift airstrip, I made a direct route to the beach which is where I was told I would find Ken Lay. Sure as shit, there he was- donned in tropical attire and large and in charge... of some of the smallest polynesians I’ve ever seen. He was sitting in a beach chair, being fanned, with a drink in one hand and a stick in the other. There was a medicine bottle at rest on the table next to him.
I approached softly.
“Hey asshole! Get off my property!” I yelled at the top of my lungs. He turned around and smiled at me, which was very creepy at the time.
“HA! I’ve literally never heard that one before. So who the hell are you?” he asked as though he’d been a gentleman his entire life.
“Just a concerned citizen of Houston, TX,” I answered.
“Oh... well come on down.”
As I walked down to the shore, I saw several of Ken Lay’s pint-sized manservants run to fetch me a beach chair and a drink. Oddly, the drink was not served in a coconut. It was served in a chalice covered in jewels.
“Sorry, we ran out of coconuts. Soooooo, how can I help you?”
“Mr. Lay, you can tell me everything I need to know about a Mayoral Race in Houston.”
“Oooooh yeah, that’s comin’ up, isn’t it? Probably in November.”
“Probably. But there’s a mayoral forum on the 18th of August that I’m preparing for.”
“Well, my strange visitor, you should definitely look into Ordinance #2006-1001. Also known as the Limited Use Banner Sign ordinance. It requires businesses to obtain a permit to display any sign constructed of cloth, canvas, light fabric or other light material, not to exceed 40 square feet in size.”
“How much is the permit?”
“Altogether it’s $150. And that gets you seven consecutive days in any 30-day period to use the banner.”
“You’re kidding?”
“Hell no! I’m not kidding. It’s a travesty; a horribly non-creative way of using small businesses as revenue capillaries. Not to mention it puts a shit load of red-tape out there making it harder for small businesses to advertise and generate revenue for themselves,” he exclaimed in a squirrelly voice.
I began writing frantically on my notepad.
“Okay, ok, ok... you got anymore?”
“Damn, son! Wake up. There’s probably hundreds of these knick knack permits and fees and ordinances that take money out of modest pockets,” he said as began to pick up the momentum of a crazy man. He picked an odd time to be honest, I thought.
Ken Lay ranted and raved, continuing to open my eyes about the red-tape injustice that comes out of City Hall. He detailed the levels of vanity in which these ordinances are founded; claiming they “help keep the city stay clean and maintain a proper metropolitan appearance.” He referenced innane bike ordinances, poor pay structure for city workers, ridiculous street closure prohibitions, etc... And by that point, Ken Lay was standing up, yelling and swatting the polynesians with the stick. I was forced to get him another drink and calm the crazy crook down.
He popped a pill out of the medicine bottle and slowly explained to me the approach I needed to take.
“Listen, you’re a smart kid. Obviously. You found me. So channel that energy into finding where the City’s money comes from and where it’s going. That applies to these Mayoral Candidates as well. They have donors. They have big name contributors. Peter Brown wants a giant fast train that stretches from Houston to Dallas and San Antonio. So, I’m betting there’s some contractors that contribute to his campaign... blah blah blah... Boy, this is basic politics.”
I could tell he was getting tired from a lonely life on an island, exiled from the world for his wrongdoings. I felt sorry for him almost. Ken Lay made me realize that there are some silly evils that go unnoticed because we spend most of our time gawking at the giant ones. Like Enron.
His eyes were growing weary, as well. I think it must’ve been the pills because I didn’t taste any alcohol in the drinks. So, I gathered my things and got up to leave.
“Mr. Lay, thank you for your time. I really appreciate the lesson,” I said with the utmost sincerity.
“No problem, strange visitor. I’ll be rootin’ for ya. Come back anytime... Hey, I heard Mattress Mac torched his ware-...” his voice trailed off as I made my way through the jungle, back to the plane.

Don’t forget. Mayoral Forum, August 18th. 713-782-8833 for more information.

Interview: Bryan Jackson

by Omar Afra
Photo by Craig Hlavaty
Bastardization by Shelby Hohl

I heard the name Bryan Jackson attached to controversy 1000 times before briefly meeting him a couple of weeks ago at Avant Garden. Whether it was stealing comedian Jacob Calle’s record collection and returning it, stealing B L A C K I E’s tour money and returning it, or stealing Jay Merrit’s bike and returning it, Jackson is always surrounded by some new, interesting shit-storm. However, despite his antics, he is not merely another scum-fuck prankster without any talents. Jackson sings for Black Congress and they are on the verge of releasing a stellar 7-inch record loaded with grimy but calculated sludge. I managed to get him to answer a few questions and it has yielded a splendid bounty of venom, trash talk, and talk of defecating in pool tables.

Who has arrived here today: The folksy, friendly Bryan Jackson or the infamous Sith-Lord? Is the Sith-Lord merely a marketing platform for the nice guy or does he really exist?

Man, it really all depends on how many beers I've drank... I'm on 13 right now; so needless to say I'm pretty shitfaced. What? Gotta problem? If you make me look stupid in this interview I will burn Mangos to the fucking ground and take a shit on the smoldering ashes. I can be a crabby drunk sometimes. Usually I'll give you the shirt off my back or I'll just steal a shirt off someone else’s, but sometimes I can be a real motherfucker. I know, I know, some dickheads say, "Fuck that guy, he's the worst dude." All I can really say is, "YOU MAD!" If you know me, then you know that 60% of the time I'm just joking and the other 40% is just me taking it out on the world. Boredom is my worst enemy. When I get bored, I start to think like a criminal.

What is your favorite tune on the new 7" and what is it about?

Well, "London’s Burning" was the first song I wrote with Black Congress and it's about the first wave of bombing in London during the Second World War. I watched a documentary about the survivors and it made me sick how all the city cared about was their fucking stupid church. They saw it as a beam of hope during the bombing and many people were out on top of St. Paul’s cathedral during the attack putting out fires. I have issues with god, I couldn't see myself risking my life trying to save a church... ever. I don’t care if Jesus or Allah or Buddha or Charlie Manson came down from the sky and told me so. And it really was interesting to me that the Nazis dropped incendiary devices first. They wanted everything to burn so that the waves of bombers to follow could see the city and bomb the fuck out of it. Evil. Pure fucking evil. The second song is "Davidians”. I wrote that song about drugs and David Koresh. He wanted to be close to god and sometimes when I get stoned I see shadows out of the corners of my eyes. I think its some higher power trying to get me to understand it, pull me to it, make me believe. Weed is a sacrament and I pray all fucking day. To answer your question, “Davidians” is my joint.

Explain to me the Black Congress slogan of 'War. Dub. War. Weed.'

Listen to our record and you'll understand.

Did you REALLY take a shit in the pocket of a pool table?

Yes. I shut the bar down for a week. I had a bad problem with Xanex 4 years ago. It was the worst time of my life. Anyway… some dumb fuck bartender yelled at me for sitting on the edge of the pool table. He was a real prick and was eye fucking me all night. Eventually his attention was on someone else, so I pulled my pants down and let the blackest bukowski shit drip out of my asshole into the pool table pocket, it was the kind where you gotta pay for games so my shit just poured into the innards of the table. Immediately you could smell it. People started to leave and the bartender started to get wise to my dookie game. So I grabbed a pile of bar napkins and ran out of the place wiping my ass. My friend Ryan was right behind me as we were running out and one of my shit napkins hit him in the face.

List me some of your favorite local bands and then tell me which one of them would survive best in the post-civilization primal environment of nuclear fall-out?

First of all, I wanna quote a friend of mine, "the girl from the Wild Moccasins is cute. I bet rainbows and unicorns fly out of her pussy... real mystical shit." (Editors note: When contacted in regard to this mention, Zahira from Wild Moccasins quipped, "Who the fuck is Bryan Jackson?") The Wild Moccasins are a decent band if you have a vagina that still has it's hymen, you live in the ‘burbs, and are so uptight you can’t squeeze a greasy B.B. up your ass. Psychedelic pop? Sure... out look on the surviving: they'd melt during the regular Houston heat. Those kids are made of sugar.
Young Mammals: solid band, solid dudes, weirdo guitar player (not Carlos). I could see them doing something with themselves. Chance of survival: sorry bros, not a chance.
Beau Beasley bands: I happen to like Beaus’ bands. I like punk music. Not stinky "I don't shower and live on the street" punk. Chance of survival: Beau would morph into a cockroach and survive the blast only if he were promised that there would only be a paradise of hairy, mustache heavy, dick ready men.
Guitars:Wait. I don't give a fuck about J.D.'s drumming. Chances of survival: everyone in the band, yes, except J.D. He's a li’l too ginger to be outside.
BALACLAVAS: these guys have a distinct sound, the sound like the guts of Houston. I would love to spend a day in Tyler Morris' head. I can't wait for "Roman Holiday" (phonographic arts) to come out (very soon). I truly think that they are the best band in Houston. Nobody is doing what they do and they carry themselves a lot differently than other bands in the city. They have smart music that makes you wanna move. Between Tyler's gifted guitar playing and hypnotic voice, Bryans’ "dumb as fuck" bass lines and Charlie’s violent beats, I don't know where you can go wrong. Chances of survival: optimal. I don't think a nuclear bomb can stop these guys. Do not underestimate these guys; I've seen them give glorious beatings.


Best Tex-Mex in Houston, hand down is:

I fuckin’ hate Tex-Mex. Perfect example of a horrible idea. Some non-Hispanic motherfucker ruining what Mexican food really is. So I go to the Oaxaca taco truck near Soundwaves. Barbacoa tacos, please. I like face meat.
If you could play a show tonight with any band, dead or alive, who would it be?

Too many to say. The list goes on and on. I'm just happy to be in a band with my friends. I like the music I play and I like doing it live. I love the anxiety, the pressure, and the release I get. It’s a high I can’t get from anyone or anything. It's like cumming for 30 minutes. And I don’t care as long as I get paid.



Fill in the blanks: Roy Mata ___ don't fuck with an angry bear. I've done it once, just once.

Everyday ____ I want to start my own crime wave.

Guitars _____ Boooooorrrrrrriiiiinnnnnng.

Cadillac _____ I haven't driven a car for 8 years now.

I took a Darvocet halfway through this interview because of a broken hand. I typed it with one hand and now I want to die.

Show review (of sorts) - The Mathletes @ Mangos

Joe Mathlete (on right sporting a fabulous piece from the Giant Princess wear's summer collection) may not be going away but this weekend the Mathletes said bye bye. Read about their final show in the music section (Link)

District 9

District 9 unwinds in different modes. One one level it's a mockumentary, portraying the events as if they are unfolding on cable news casts and first-person handheld camera teams who are assisting in the relocation of the aliens to another quarantined camp. District 9 also brims with sci fi energy, just revealing enough of an extraterrestrial intelligence and weaponry to keep the viewer glued to the screen right up to its balls out finale. Lastly District 9 gives us characters, both other worldly and all too human, that we care about. In fact some of the situations will remind knowledgeable viewers of the late 50s film The Defiant Ones, where (cont.)

Grandfather Child at 230. But first, an interview.

Grandfather Child will hit Stage 1 at 230 with their blue lickin' rock. But first members Ryan Chavez and Lucas Gorham sat down for a quick chat. Here's some of what they said...

What has Grandfather Child been up to?

Chavez: Extra curricular activites. Everybody is doing so many things musically we’ve been just trying to fit in time to write.

Gorham: That’s the problem with playing with dudes who are so ...

Chavez: ... in demand

Do you guys have enough songs for a full-length release yet?

Chavez: No.

Gorham: I would say we have eight.

How does that come into your live set? I noticed you guys always seem to keep things quick. You just hit us with 20 or 30 minutes ...

Gorham: Less than that.

Chavez: Three of the songs of the set go off for six minutes, so if you can’t tell that’s a good thing.

So, do you have a deadline for a full-length or any release?


Chavez: We’d like to have a full-length end of the year

Gorham: We have a 7”. We just need to get the money together to press it. Hopefully, we’ll do that in the next couple months.

You guys go on at ...

Gorham: 2:30.

Anything special folks should expect today? Plenty of six-minute jams?

Chavez: (Laughs) They're going to cut us off in the middle of the third song.


Here's to hoping that's not true. Catch Grandfather Child on Stage 1 at 2:30 as Summer Fest continues to forget it ever rained.

The Show Must Go on

As far as scheduling is concerned, Summer Fest is doing it's bet to get all the bands on. The McKenzies and Chase Hamblin squeezed in a set to keep the schedule rolling. Stage 2 is moving according to schedule, but the times have been pushed back in order to clear the giant puddle that was Stage 2.

But, as said before, Summer Fest is on and there's no plans on lettin' a little rain get the best of it. So prepare for a mud fight -- if you're into that -- and get on down to the grassy bowl.

- Dusti Rhodes

Rain is Temporary. Summer Fest is Forever.

Hey Summer Festers,
Don't let the rain get you down. Summer Fest is still on, we're just waiting out the rain, which should pass in the next half hour. And since Summer Fest is RAIN OR SHINE - we'll still be here all day.


As an added bonus, ALL ticket holders who come out today will be made VIPs. That's right, you'll have access to the air conditioned tent, free snow cones, cash bar and a DJ. Plus, you might rub elbows with today's performers like News on the March, Grandfather Child, Wild Moccasins, Eastern Sea, Voxtrot, Prince Paul, Devin the Dude and more.

Keep checking back for more updates on the rain. We'll let you know what we know as soon as we know it.

But in the meantime, get your asses out here(!) -- who doesn't like to play in the rain?

-- Dusti Rhodes

Summer Fest Coverage See: Music Page

Hey all,
The homepage is freakin' out. So, check the Music Section for all Summer Fest coverage.

Summer Fest in 5,4,3,2 ...

There is already a dude wearing a kimono, dancing as if he were high ... to a sound check.

Yep, Summer Fest has arrived.



Things are getting set up and pretty near completion at Eleanor Tinsley Park. (And the heat is reminding some they should have called it a night a little earlier last night ...) But folks are lined up at the gates ready to get in and the staff is doing its best to make sure everything is set up and ready for go time. See ya here or there, but don't forget to check back here for reports of the front line with interviews, photos and more. The Internets are currently finding their footing at Summer Fest Blog Headquarters. So photos will come soon. Promise!

- Dusti Rhodes

HEY!!! Tickets Available at the Door

Let's pause for a brief moment to take a deep breath... and now, you may continue with all of the excitement. The MOST IMPORTANT fact that you should take away from this is- TICKETS WILL BE FOR SALE AT THE DOOR OF THE FESTIVAL.

Short/Tall, Fat/Hipster, Sober/Drunk, etc.... We have a ticket based on your specifications; but you can only purchase it at the door of the festival since the pre-sale has ended. If you've already purchased a ticket online then you will be able to pick it up at Will Call.

If you've woken up this morning looking for a mantra to do your morning yoga to, then allow me to be your Yoga Master: "Be the ball. Be the ball. Free Press Summer Fest is only 24 hours away. Focus. Fooooocus. Wear your swim suit. Wear it. Get wet in it. Enjoy your life. Listen to Music. Be the ball. Be proud of Houston." Cheers.

Remember above all. TICKETS WILL BE AVAILABLE FOR PURCHASE AT THE DOOR.

Live from Summer Fest: Me (Dusti Rhodes)

Hey Music Fans.

You might remember me from such live blogs as, well, other ones. But this Saturday and Sunday, I'll be covering all the Summer Fest shenanigans - in real time - right here on FreePressHouston.com.

This weekend will be more bananas than Gwen Stefani can spell, but I'll try and keep up with photos, interviews, reviews, stories from the crowd and more. (If there's anything you think I'm missing - let it be known in the comment section below.)

So, if you're trapped at home, you can stay updated. And if you're going, then you can recap the weekend and see if I thought what you thought and saw what you saw.

And artists: stop by and see me. I'll be kickin' it journalism-style in the VIP Tent or the Artist's Tent or walking around, trying to find water, shade and other things people in Houston say they're looking for when it's hot.

Matt Brownlie HUSHes up about his new Music Series at Rudyards

Thumbs up from Matt Brownlie! His new monthly happy hour series H.U.S.H. begins this Thursday at Rudyard's and it looks to be a very promising prospect indeed. Read an interview with Sir Brownlie in the Music section (Link)