Yes, we find it curious that they serve breakfast, but hey, why complain about a place that brings Houston live jazz in an upscale setting six nights a week? We've felt nothing but good vibes from the high beamed ceilings, comfortable bar and live music that spills out onto the street as we approach this fine addition to Houston's downtown scene. For those of us who for years choked on smoke in claustrophobic clubs just to hear some good jazz, the Red Cat is a welcome change.

Yes, we find it curious that they serve breakfast, but hey, why complain about a place that brings Houston live jazz in an upscale setting six nights a week? We've felt nothing but good vibes from the high beamed ceilings, comfortable bar and live music that spills out onto the street as we approach this fine addition to Houston's downtown scene. For those of us who for years choked on smoke in claustrophobic clubs just to hear some good jazz, the Red Cat is a welcome change.

Graffito. Most people don't recognize the word, the singular form of graffiti. Even fewer recognize the vernacular term, graf. However, many a Montrose pedestrian or driver recognizes the dour face of Chicken Boy, whether they know the name or not. Wooden cutouts of the cartoony yellow-faced guy with a red cock's-comb hat keep watch from all over the neighborhood. This past Christmas, posters of the curious kid displayed him with his cock's comb transmogrified into a Santa hat, with "Steal This Poster" printed at the top. (We stole one. Tee-hee.) Who is this guy? Mike "Miguelito" Andrews created the image as a poster campaign while earning his arts degree at the University of Texas in Austin. The school gladly awarded Andrews a grant to pursue his Warhol-inspired concept of "becoming famous by being famous," by planting the icon across the globe. Working out of his 5,000-square-foot home studio (OneTen Studios, a.k.a. Chicken Boy World Headquarters) near Minute Maid Park, he has held five collaborative shows in less than a year, most recently the graf exhibit "Eye of the Beholder," which included the collective Aerosol Warfare. This is no ordinary feat. No, sir. This is a job for Chicken Boy.
Graffito. Most people don't recognize the word, the singular form of graffiti. Even fewer recognize the vernacular term, graf. However, many a Montrose pedestrian or driver recognizes the dour face of Chicken Boy, whether they know the name or not. Wooden cutouts of the cartoony yellow-faced guy with a red cock's-comb hat keep watch from all over the neighborhood. This past Christmas, posters of the curious kid displayed him with his cock's comb transmogrified into a Santa hat, with "Steal This Poster" printed at the top. (We stole one. Tee-hee.) Who is this guy? Mike "Miguelito" Andrews created the image as a poster campaign while earning his arts degree at the University of Texas in Austin. The school gladly awarded Andrews a grant to pursue his Warhol-inspired concept of "becoming famous by being famous," by planting the icon across the globe. Working out of his 5,000-square-foot home studio (OneTen Studios, a.k.a. Chicken Boy World Headquarters) near Minute Maid Park, he has held five collaborative shows in less than a year, most recently the graf exhibit "Eye of the Beholder," which included the collective Aerosol Warfare. This is no ordinary feat. No, sir. This is a job for Chicken Boy.
Houston has already gotten some national attention in the realm of microcinema for possessing the eccentric little converted church known as Aurora Picture Show. Another well-known outlet for independent short films, Independent Exposure, has held screenings all over the United States and across the globe. (One event was held in a gunpowder factory in Belgrade one week before the NATO bombing.) The only cities fortunate enough to have regular monthly screenings are San Francisco and Houston, the full-time homes of founder Joel Bacher and operator Patrick Kwiatkowski. They've found an appropriately interesting enough venue in a fire station-turned-art gallery/theater. Kwiatkowski wisely makes each showing not just a viewing of some unique film shorts from international filmmakers but a party where people can mingle for some time afterward, complete with open bar. It's a welcome addition to Houston's film scene.

Houston has already gotten some national attention in the realm of microcinema for possessing the eccentric little converted church known as Aurora Picture Show. Another well-known outlet for independent short films, Independent Exposure, has held screenings all over the United States and across the globe. (One event was held in a gunpowder factory in Belgrade one week before the NATO bombing.) The only cities fortunate enough to have regular monthly screenings are San Francisco and Houston, the full-time homes of founder Joel Bacher and operator Patrick Kwiatkowski. They've found an appropriately interesting enough venue in a fire station-turned-art gallery/theater. Kwiatkowski wisely makes each showing not just a viewing of some unique film shorts from international filmmakers but a party where people can mingle for some time afterward, complete with open bar. It's a welcome addition to Houston's film scene.

You're not looking for slickness when it comes to local television ads. You're also not looking for rock-bottom cheapness, with one salesman shouting maniacally into an unmoving camera. Instead, you want to revel in the "Let's put on a show!" atmosphere where it looks like the advertiser's girlfriend and beer pals have gotten together, spun out some semblance of a script, and then enthusiastically headed for the bright lights of showbiz. And you ought to be able to see the absolute low-budgetness of it all: the difference between what the team thought they were getting on screen as opposed to the muddy-sounding, cheaply lit product they've had to settle for. And that's why no one beats the folks at Soundwaves. They are, simply, the Quentin Tarantinos of local TV ads.
You're not looking for slickness when it comes to local television ads. You're also not looking for rock-bottom cheapness, with one salesman shouting maniacally into an unmoving camera. Instead, you want to revel in the "Let's put on a show!" atmosphere where it looks like the advertiser's girlfriend and beer pals have gotten together, spun out some semblance of a script, and then enthusiastically headed for the bright lights of showbiz. And you ought to be able to see the absolute low-budgetness of it all: the difference between what the team thought they were getting on screen as opposed to the muddy-sounding, cheaply lit product they've had to settle for. And that's why no one beats the folks at Soundwaves. They are, simply, the Quentin Tarantinos of local TV ads.
Apparently there's a bit of a debate over how Houston's newest theater company, Mildred's Umbrella, got its odd name. Founding members Jennifer Decker and John Harvey tell the story two different ways. She says they were perusing a literature book, looking for a name that was really interesting, when they stumbled upon a poem by Gertrude Stein called "Mildred's Umbrella." He says Stein came to him in a dream in Ernest Hemingway's body. As hard as it might be to imagine Hemingway saying the words "Mildred's umbrella," Harvey's version is obviously more theatrical. Either way, the name is simply dreamy.
Apparently there's a bit of a debate over how Houston's newest theater company, Mildred's Umbrella, got its odd name. Founding members Jennifer Decker and John Harvey tell the story two different ways. She says they were perusing a literature book, looking for a name that was really interesting, when they stumbled upon a poem by Gertrude Stein called "Mildred's Umbrella." He says Stein came to him in a dream in Ernest Hemingway's body. As hard as it might be to imagine Hemingway saying the words "Mildred's umbrella," Harvey's version is obviously more theatrical. Either way, the name is simply dreamy.

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