No Rest for SXSW

Days 69-76

The closer I get to catching up to a state of currency in reporting my world, I find myself questioning whether that is valuable. Is it better to have time sift through the events and filter out the mundane? Or is it in some cases the mundane moments and how I experience them that make my perspective interesting? Recently I've found the extended perspective on some events useful in how I approach them. I know what will ultimately be in store, I can create a conclusion or follow up to a moment, a mention, a setup and payoff cycle is possible. Perhaps that is what editing the final product will be saved for. Or maybe it's just going to be fine either way. Hearsay! Conjecture!

People pop back into my life in fun random ways. Re-friending, random encounters, the essence of a trivial moment we shared from our defunct relationship returns to me in the present. These lines of people get carved back into the wood. The stories end when you hear their names again, or new surprises unfold. My old roommate Catrina will be, at least for the foreseeable future, relegated to the rotting innards of this country. Additionally, I'll meet up with a girl I knew from Boston in Colorado to re-route my trip through some Northern states with some company!

The new, improved itinerary:

Here (Austin)
LA for 2 days
Boston to NY to Boston for work and family and writing and work
back to Austin
Dallas
Norman
Lubbock
Denver
Salt Lake City
Yellowstone National Park
Missoula, MT
Idaho (insert joke)
Seattle
Vancouver
Portland, OR
San Francisco
Los Angeles


Sure beats blowing a wad in Vegas.

So where were we? Oh yes, blowing wads. Sunday and Monday were tame. Saw a movie, didn't like it much, and chilled with Kyle. Went on standby for Tipsy Taxi, stayed at home all night watching TV and waiting for a call that never came in. Went to sleep before the shift ended, and that ended up being fine. Great job!

Tuesday was a bit more interesting. I spent the day blogging or something I expect I would be doing during the daytime that is not really worth relating to you, the reader, since our lives are filled with such inane, thoughtless moments, but my evening, friend, was where it was at. (re-read that sentence in a very white sounding way)

Well St. Patrick's Day was approaching, and SXSW had kicked off and that meant music, tons and tons of music. Tuesday night, I caught up with Ben, my Snack Bar friend, and he told me there were bands playing in a show he was assembling at a place called the Rooftop, and that a party would follow at The Kasbah. Andrea McKenna was coming down this evening and we were planning to meet up somewhere and this seemed convenient enough. I want to be clear here, there is a LOT of free shit happening that only requires you to send an email, or wave your hands around in the air in a fashion befitting of someone who is experiencing apathy. So I'm forced to make very important decisions about where to be at what times. Ben told me one thing about the show and when I got to the rooftop, it was not yet really going on, so I decided I'd leave and go to some free geeky thing downtown. When I left, I made a move for my keys and realized they were not on me. I never do this. I always have the freakout and they are always there and my freakout ends for a total "Freakout: The Game" point allotment of 1 point. Quick explanation: The scale goes up to 100, where something is so intense that your head HAS to explode. Even simple death is only down around 60 or 70, depending on how you go, and point values for assigned numbers are geometrically more intense for each ascending digit. So my freakout continues, and I realize they are indeed not on my person, and I jump to the conclusion that I've locked my car and they must be inside. I go to my rusty beast and in the growing shadows, I observe a Boston Red Sox lanyard hanging limply from the ignition, a tongue mocking my damned foolishness. I handily recall that I have roadside assistance thanks to mom! Fuck yeah, mom! So I called the roadside assistance business and after a confused navigation of their automated menu to acquire human contact, they sent a guy over who looked to me like some dork that learned how to break into cars, and took over an hour to arrive. I suppose that taking an hour is better than not showing at all, or he, himself locking his own keys inside of his business vehicle, with the break-in kit inside, having to call another road-side assistance break in dork to help him help me, but still, I'm annoyed. He parks like a total jack-ass, and, even as I have clearly pointed out to him the parking space I've been saving, he parks on the wrong side of the road, and becomes that stupid fucking twat who makes you do an S-curve to arrive at the stop sign, still diagonal from trying to get back into your lane, and in trepidation that someone might want to actually use their allotted lane to go down the street the other way, leaving YOU, the non-offender, looking like a putz. So I'm thinking, "Great, here's the help." He has a little trouble snaring the lock button and pulling it out, but when he does, I'm super stoked, and he doesn't want any money or anything-gravy!. Do you tip a guy like this? And if you do tip him, will he use the money on "Magic: The Gathering" cards? I can't authorize that kind of expenditure (says the former obsessive baseball card collector) If you rate the overall experience as service, I say 10% is my maximum. Slow, bungling, might have poured me a beer with about 1/3 of it head. Might have served me the wrong dish, but one look at his face and you say, "He just does not need to be fucked with today. I'm gonna eat this wrong sandwich and get on with my life." And afterwards, you really did get what you needed, and you can live with the fact that you made it easy on the sucker. All these thought here, and I remember I've driven over 3,000 miles in a rusty 1984 Toyota Corolla, standard, and the first time I need roadside assistance is because I've locked my keys inside my car in Texas. He's a genius, and got that ol' Irish luck. Shrewd like a Jew, stubborn like a Mick. I'm the dorky white Muhammad Ali of...fuckin comedy? I don't know man. Does this mean I get to light the olympic torch?

Once I reclaim my keys, it's about that time where I should be getting back to The Rooftop, so I lock my car again, keys in hand, and return to the bar. I got asked how downtown was and I vaguely reply that it was cool, embarrassed to admit my idiocy, but if everyone knew how stupid everyone was all the time, I think we might have more fun. I watch a few really neat bands, and Andrea and her boyfriend show up. We have a great time bantering, her boyfriend is really nice, and I do my damnedest to make him feel comfortable with me, since I have made many assumptions about his insecurities based on the facts I have been privy to file in my spongy office, and it pays off. He's perfectly personable when we talk, and I approve of him based on this meeting. They head off back to Killeen, a place I don't think I need to visit, but want to, just to get some real Texas, but I waffle. Houston, Dallas, San Antonio... They are all close enough that I could make it happen, but should it be?

Right about here, I received a text message from Chad saying, "Ginger Man. Get here." So I do! I abide, man. I get there pretty quickly, and as soon as I do, I'm commanded by Chad to go to the bar and get myself a beer on his tab. And then another. And another. And everyone's deep into it and the idea to go to this gay bar Rain comes up. I'm ushering everyone towards the idea of going back up to The Kasbah for the after party for the show I had only recently left, and the compromise of one drink at Rain is reached. While inside of Rain, I stood at the bar watching gay guys talk to each other, feeling pretty good about myself, expecting someone to throw game at me, but mostly just bored, considering I have other thoughts on my mind, and I had a moment to be down with my loneliness in Texas. I peeled off from the wallflowers and told them something to the effect of, "I'm gonna go see if there's any chicks in this place," knowing there are probably some really wonderful, liberal minded girls in this place who have gay friends and/or like to dance. Well I found one. She was dancing. She was taaaaaall, man! I got her number after some flirtation, and I am alerted that the Tipsy Taxi has arrived to whisk us away to the uptown party. We had collected a small entourage here, and as Brooke, my guardian angel in Austin, drives the Longshot packed full of drunks, the follow car is also loaded up with slobs who are joining us. We tip well since I'm getting this ride for free as an employee of Tipsy Taxi, and go to the Kasbah, where we smoke hookah and drink vodka drinks for free while listening to some singer-songwriter girl. Cool enough, but hunger strikes and Kerbey Lane, a diner, is sooo close. Eight or so of us have migrated over there, and some record producer is now tagging along, and I am content to flirt with some taken girl who throws it back, having made clear her situation, and me acknowledging; we sit directly across from each other. By the time I finish the food and people start getting up, I'm confused and expecting to spend, but I'm not going to buck the trend because who am I to disrupt the flow? I got up and just walked outside with Jo, who I drove back to her car now that we've all sobered up a bunch, and she told me that this record producer guy, who I honestly did not know was with us, paid for the whole check that eight of us had tabulated. Jo thanked him profusely, but I don't think anyone really knew he even did that. Sometimes when you do things right, people won't be sure you've done anything at all-and that can be either empowering or frustrating.

The next day is St. Patrick's Day, and Kyle has been threatening me that it would be epic, but for all his hype, I didn't see him until like 11 pm. As quickly as I could gather myself, I went to meet up with Shane O'Connor, disillusioned ex-pedicabber from Boston, now living in New York and producing records, in town for SXSW. He's down on 6th St and there is Saturday night havok out there on this Wednesday, the streets are closed, there is green and slutty everywhere, and rolling into it, I discover a piper and watch him blow "For Boston" and release a loaded sigh before moving on. Shane's a few deep when I go find him, and we searched for a solid party to hit, something damned Irish, we are two Micks, afterall. We went over to Fado (Gaelic for "A long time ago") because there is a big block party over there, but the Jew in me comes out and says that there's no reason to spend $15 to stand under a tent. Maybe it's not so much Jewish, but sensible. We go to the coffee shop next door which happens to be Halcyon, and they have a full bar so I can grab an Irish coffee to kick start the bender while we catch up and decide what we will do to construct a masterpiece.

A side note here. These days I write, the episodes of them all, these are in my mind, all efforts to create perfect days, and at this stage of my existence, I find that I have been afforded a few opportunities to come really close to what would be for me the archetypal perfect day. It's the day that carries over into the next day as glowing, ebullient energy. The things that happen to you that are so good that even when you have a neutral expression, people around you know something about you is different, something's up. You've just got the aura of it hovering in the room around you or in front of you on the street like an unfurling invisible carpet that deems you special. We who know best for ourselves, spend whatever duration of our lives looking for the perpetual ownership of that pointlessly excited way you press the elevator button to ascend to the tax office and fill out some forms, and everything that little poke embodies.

With the positivity of a form-filling fool, I attempted to coordinate separate segments of friends into congregations, and ended up first at Little Woodrow's with Brian Fahey and his friends, where I set off an Irish car-bomb. Then to the Dog and Duck with Jo and her sister plus husband for a tented area that was actually free, with music, of course, Shane tagging along the whole way. Time crept up on us quickly, and Shane and I both wanted to go see a former Boston pedicabber girl, Madi Diaz, play her show at Maggie Mae's. She's got a pretty successful band thing going on, so I've been interested in checking her out for a good, long while. I enjoyed the set, and we said quick hellos and goodbyes, and left. Shane rode this asinine bike down from his sister's, and caught a flat tire at some point on the way to the Dog and Duck, so rode down to Maggie Mae's on the flopping rubber. This meant that it was time to acquire repair services. I suggested East Side Pedal Pushers, the shop that was literally under that guy Scott's apartment, since it was near and took us East to the cooler bars on the other side of I-35. I called ahead and they were closed, but still hanging out, and were down to give us a few fixes.

On the way to East Side Pedal Pushers, I see a beautiful girl fiddling with her bike. It happens all over the city of Austin. I passed her and ride up the street until I'm held up by a traffic light and Shane's flat tire, which he continues to ride on. This girl rode up next to me and I chuckle, because its just a perfect opportunity to say something smart, and what I end up saying is a rather smooth, chortling "Hey," and she takes off my chuckle, "What's so funny? I was fixing my light." I put her at ease, asked her where she was heading, and tell her my friend has a bike problem to elicit transferred sympathy while I waited for Shane to catch up. The light changes as he pulls even while the girl prepares a foot to propel her, but there is no flowing traffic pushing us along since we just came from the blocked off Sixth Street. I seize the moment. "Hey." She stops. "Do you want to catch up with us later?" "Yeah, sure!" "Whattayou got?" "I got a five one two..." This is a very easy thing to do in Austin, and similarly a great way to invite constant disappointment and potential heartbreak on yourself. Her name is Martha. I texted her that night and got no reply. I randomly called a week later and we spoke, though she was busy, and I goofed and said something stupid. Not offensive, but idiotic by the judgements of an objective listener of "guys' first calls after obtaining a girl's number phone calls," which I imagine would be a hilarious and pathetic portrait of the situation of our dating rituals. Her attitude went from, "Call me back," to, "I'll call you back," in the course of three sentences. You have such a thin line to walk on in these conversations because rejection is just an awkward laugh, a snort, a stutter away, or in this case, the mention of an unnecessary piece of information. The litmus paper turns brown.

To enter East Side Pedal Pushers, you have a ramp that abuts a small set of stairs on their right so one can comfortably walk a bike up, without lifting. Neat! Inside is very bike shop, basement-ish, and pound for pound East Side hipster charming. One of the bike mechanics is a giant man named Chalo, who I recognized as a member of the marching band I first saw at Shangri-La two weeks earlier. The other is Lee the owner, who sports an impressively thick head of hair that I, as someone not yet bald, felt jealous of. They are kind, reasonable, and warm. Lee runs the business generously, and it encourages me to return. Chalo fixed Shane's flat, and I decide that while Cairo is still in disrepair, I should replace the seatpost that I sit atop, if only as a thank you for the continued usage of Nick's bike. Chalo offers us bourbon, so we of course graciously accept. I gag a little bit on the flavor, not quite my favorite, and I jealously stare at the ranger IPA he drinks, and so venture to request one. Granted. It's a celebration at the bike shop. I mentioned that Chalo looked familiar and peg him as a member of the marching band, and he reveals that they are playing tonight at midnight. We talk about the washboard player, and how brilliantly sexy she is as she plays the old symbol of female domestication for pure joy. I break down and buy a trendy and expensive helmet. We left expressing deep appreciation and slurring drunk sincerity. The right way to run a business.

Now it's damned late for an Irishman on St. Patrick's Day by the time Shane and I even arrived at East Side Pedal Pushers, not to mention that I'm eleven deep and Shane is right there with me. We went on the short ride to meet Chad and Kyle, who finally shows up on the map squarely after the ten o'clock hour, after having pumped me up saying, "gird your loins," meaning we were going to have a bender to end lesser, more effeminate benders, a bender that punches the air and makes a karate "keeai" and other benders piss themselves in fear, not drunken incontinence. I did hope for that, but I did not receive it with him, not that I am entirely dissatisfied with what I got. When we meet, I make a point of it to call him out on what he promised me versus what he did, and how he did not communicate that the first thing wouldn't happen at all, and not for any known circumstances. We resolve the argument and I take account of the fact that the circle is complete: Chad is next to Kyle and me. We take shots and the conversation we had popped like an endless manhandling of bubble wrap, but sadly for too short a time. So many other people were there with us that it complicated the way the changing of venues would happen, and I wanted very badly to go watch Chalo's band with the fine, fine washboard player, and they were scheduled to play mere blocks away at the East Side Show Room. I got everyone excited for the idea of live music in the form of a big Balkan sounding marching band, and we went over there. I found it easy to sway everyone, since I think, people here in Austin sure do love their shows, and live action happenings, and have broad tastes in music. The show went off at midnight and we scored some good positioning as I recall. The show was awesome, I really love marching bands, but from here the details are harder to produce. What I have cobbled together is that after the show, Shane, convinced me that it was time to leave the boring scene, everybody seemed to be out of energy. Though I did not understand my decision to leave Kyle before closing time, I rode the beer scooter to Shangri-La, transporting instantly.

I opened a tab at Shangri-La and before I even start to look around at what's going on, I see something remarkable. It's Casey, the blond girl I met in New Orleans, the one with the dirty hands. She is in the bar I'm in, and we run into each other face to face, recognizance happening in each of us simultaneously. And her friend Debi. I'm so excited to see them I buy them a round and we talked about our journeys and I introduce Shane, and get Casey's new number which goes directly to her, not Debi. This is good, magnificent news. This is the kind of thing I believe should be in the Bible.

It is my understanding that Shane and I went separate ways after this, and having spoken with Casey and Debi, I did not seem too drunk at all, which makes me feel better about the evaporation of certain details from the evening. The next day, I look at my call log and rediscover Martha, and am reminded of Debi/Casey the last vivid memory I have, but I also see that I used my "bump" application for my iphone with someone named Marion Coddou, who upon texting her told me she wanted to put me in a little dress and hurt me. Not that I'm really into that kind of thing, but it was too bad she was joking, because I would have liked a sort of sequel to the shenanigans of Orlando, where I was basically screamed at. All I'm gonna say is I would have given her my lunch money. I was hoping that Marion was the girl who played the washboard and that I had somehow made a successful play for her number, but as it turns out, Marion is apparently a really crazy friend of Kyle's girlfriend Priya. Whew, at least we have a mutual friend. Keep the illumination coming.

I think some time on Monday, I was talking online with people, and I had messaged a guy I knew was from Austin since he appeared to be online. He mentioned that he was just there and it was too bad we missed each other, and that a mutual friend of ours was in Austin. In fact, they were speaking right at that very moment and he wanted my number. Within seconds I receive a call from Alex Meek, a former driver for Boston Pedicab. He tells me he's working for Red Devil Rides, a bike trailer company, and that I should come down to the shop and talk to his boss. I take his advice and go down there on Tuesday and chat with Phil the owner, and he tells me he'll let me ride without a license this week, but that I have to get my stuff together, and he's only letting me do that since I'm friends with Alex. I sure am glad I went to hang out with him that one time, and made efforts to hire his friends, but the interesting part of this is that I revealed some key information to the upper management about how I knew he was taking the company for a ride, and that led to his ultimate dismissal from Boston Pedicab, so we just kept that on the DL, because I needed that job.

I was so beat up and rotten from the day before that it felt like I was wearing dried up fish sauce underneath the entirety of my skin. I went to Chad's since he suggested I come over and drink shandies on his balcony. I knew today was going to be my first day of pedicabbing for Red Devil, so I didn't have long, but I went over anyway and had a shandy with Chad as he suggested. There was music breathing out of everywhere. His balcony is the perfect place to chill and listen to the shows that happen across the street. Chad was seriously considering a rope ladder descending from his railing to help facilitate the ascension of strange guests. Despite not having this amenity, we got to yell at passersby that they should come up and join us, or let them know what we think of their appearance (compliments only), and plenty of dorky "Hey"'s going on, often followed by the often futile "Come back!" Asking people to come back never really does work, it's too bad.

I rode over to the Red Devil Rides shop on my roommate's bike and to my surprise it was deemed inappropriate for hitching a trailer to. I needed a mountain bike of some sort with bigger tires and better gears. Phil found me a bike that was not going to be used that evening since the guy who owned it didn't intend to work, and we rigged the trailer up to it. This bike sucked. It's gears didn't work properly, especially in low gears which were important when going uphill with dead weight behind you. Also, the brakes were barely functional and required the consistent pressure of the strongest handshake I can offer to stop the rig, and became particularly dangerous while going downhill. I struggled with the new rig and passengers could tell. I explained to a lot of my passengers that I used to ride a tricycle and this thing was weird to me and my bike sucked. Often pedaling from a dead stop, my bike would wheelie because of how light it was in comparison to what it had to pull. The rides were everywhere, and I didn't struggle to obtain them, but tips weren't that great, especially when the law in Austin requires posted rates on each pedicab. $5 per person for a short ride, $10 per person for a long one. I ripped the sign off the cross bar of the trailer and the money got better. My last ride was awful though, three kids up a large hill for $26. The hill was steep enough that I was terrified the entire time that I wouldn't make it up the hill and the trailer would pull me backwards and run away on me, spewing its drunk contents out onto the door of a car, or worse, into more serious traffic. It sure is interesting to see what your body will do when you don't have any alternatives to not finishing a difficult ride like this.

I intended to take Friday off and succeeded with great success at doing so since I totally didn't work at all. Pretty much the first thing that happened in my day was to go get food at Whole Foods, a staple of my lifestyle in Austin since their flagship store is there, and eating at their on-site restaurant kiosks is a steal. I'm going to mention it now, but you'll hear it again, two massive burrito sized tacos are only $5, and it only takes one to fill you. Not to mention you can get the most pulled pork you've ever seen between two pieces of bread for about the same amount in addition to sides for just a little bit more. I like to put some Insanity hot sauce on my pork stack and they continue to warn me every time I reach for it that it is extremely hot, sometimes twice in one sitting.

I then met up with some dude who was selling his mountain bike on craigslist, and tested it out. Seemed good enough to me, I lowballed him a little bit since it was going to need some repairs, and he bit, so I took my new pedicabbing bike away, glad to have a bike with highly functional brakes that would be more likely to stop the floating death trailer I would guide from the front. I stuffed it into the back of the Longshot and went down to pick up Debi and Casey at the corner of Congress and 6th, because I didn't think anybody else would be around there, ha ha. We echolocated through cellphones and they piled into my front seat and we went to hang out at my house for a little while before hitting up the show run by a guy I knew from high school, way back when. Casey was in the middle and so I kept warning her that I was shifting into third and I was about to punch her, hoping I'd never have to go into 5th and give her a real good sock in the leg, but secretly thinking that it'd be funny to hear her stretch out one of those girly expressions. "Ooooowwwww-wuh"

We spent too long at my house chatting and getting a litle toasty and I don't know why, but somehow I couldn't get the girls to uproot themselves from my house. Maybe it was because they lived in a van, and maybe it wasn't, but Casey, who when I met her in New Orleans had the dirtiest hands I ever saw, kept trying to wrest away from me my "I Have Clean Hands" sticker that I had obtained at Rudy's BBQ. It became a token of her behavior. When I thought she was being a dick, I'd rip the sticker off of her like a dramatically removed movie military merit patch. When she was being nice, I'd give it back to her. She really wanted that sticker, and would do anything except wash her hands to get it, and that disturbed me. I think at some point I gave up the fight. She's filthy and I guess she likes that.

I have attempted several different times to meet up with this guy I knew from elementary and high school named Clayton Keiber. I was in Fenway Park going to the bathroom one day while attending a Red Sox game, and I randomly recognized him. He told me he comes up to Boston a lot, we became Facebook friends, and I started to see notices about his record label, Midriff Records. I like to think he named the label after the rule that was instituted at George F Baker High School that students were not allowed to wear shirts that revealed a bare midriff. And who the fuck is George F. Baker, anyway? I found out he planned to attend SXSW, so I decided to try to be at one of his shows. So when we finally mobilized the girls, we hopped up to Thunderbird Coffee where one of Clayton's label artists was set to play, followed by another one of his friends, but it took so ridiculously long to get out of my house that we missed even crossing paths with Clayton, to my disappointment. I got over it relatively quickly since I don't even really know the guy that well, but heck I'm all about reconnecting with people and accumulating the knowledge of people's life experiences. I find that the more of them I know, my network grows, the more I know people, and the more accurately I can make fun of them or figure them out. I suppose what I really mean is that I desire to become capable of revealing how my human experience is similar to theirs, and ideally that should be funny. Right? *Echoing cough*

Nick and I tried to take the girls around a little and show them some cool places, but I think they got a little too hammered. As vagabond girls, they hadn't been keeping their fuel tanks filled and so when we popped in to Rio Rita tipping a little liberally, they poured us drinks that were ridiculously skewed according to Mr. Boston's Guide to Mixology. Hello. I'm a mixologist. Welcome to my hospital. No, I cannot treat your renal failure, but I certainly can make you think you are more attractive and confident. Well I think Casey was feeling particularly confident after this because when we marched off towards "Dirty" Sixth Street, Casey and Debi drummed up a healthy argument about Casey having a phone and Debi not having a phone and Casey having to stay near Debi to make plans work for both of them, so logically Casey stormed off with the phone into the grass field of people. Debi, Nick and I hit a bar up and I went to meet Shane back over on the East-East side as I thought Nick, God Bless him, was trying to make a more special connection with Debi.

Nothing really special happened from just being at the bar, but I traded texts all night with Miranda, the girl I had met at Rain several nights earlier. We were trying to orchestrate a way to meet up for a drink, but it seemed to be falling flat and so when the idea came up that we could hang out after hours, I said OK, let's do that. My phone held the last straws of its charge and I knew it intended to die on me later, so I started to quickly push for definitive plans. She said she'd meet me at the bar but was tied up and then I got bored of the "plaid mess" I inhabited, and then it became clear: Meet you in 15 minutes at your place. My place. I started to hurry. I killed my beverage, and left the bar looking for a cab on the East side. Good fuckin' luck, Jack. Aaand now my phone is dead. So with an imaginary time bomb clock ticking down, I began to panic. No cabs. I'm not too far. Serious hookup potential here with her coming to my pad, and mostly, I hate the idea of her at my house in my sketchy hood not knowing where I am or having any way to contact me. I started running in the flat-foot skate shoes I'm wearing. I'm going up hill and north and starting to really freak. I make it from 6th to 11th before I flag some random guy down and tell him I'll give him like $10 to take me a few more blocks to my house, desperate, dude. He agrees and I learn his name is Brad. I'm a huge fan of this guy. I don't stop thanking him for the entire ride, explaining my situation, and when I go to pull out money, he declines! Thank you Jeebus, a little rebound karma from getting hit by a car! I go directly to the electrical outlet to plug the effing thing in and it just won't boot up fast enough, and I'm still flipping out that she may have decided to skip the whole idea. I spent a few minutes of cheering my phone on to charge with "comeoncomeoncomeoncomeon," until it finally booted, I called, and the stress dissipated to all corners of the universe in learning she was lost a few miles away, and basically only 3 easy turns and ten minutes away. I wiped off my sack because I was sweating balls there, man.

She called when she was arriving and I went out to meet her. We voice parked her car, though I take little responsibility for the adequacy of the job, and she stepped out. I watched her body grow like a bamboo stalk, I didn't know when it was going to stop and if it would snap in the wind under it's own weight. Jesus, she is tall. I forgot how tall she was! I did one of those little drop your chin down off to the side moves and gave myself a little "Fuck yeah, Dan," before proceeding to the whole greeting thing. Inside, we clicked and tipsily talked for an hour straight. But after what felt natural, you don't expect someone to tell you they have to take care of their dog at 7:30 am. I reacted with a sharp, "Really?" I coldly got the affirmation I requested, and she exited on "Nice meeting you." I couldn't wrap my tired, crusty mind around it, but I also exhaled in relief and settled back into my comfort, because now I could once again pass gas, untaxed. You have to get there, you know? Someone's got to say, "Oops...are we cool with that?" Or even without the oops. But I still feel uncomfortable when that moment does arrive because the party may not know how much I like cheese and that my intestines are like an Exxon oil refinery. So yeah, it was good she was gone, sorta for her sake, but this thing kinda happens and you wake up alone, pensive, and remember it and ask yourself if you were just dreaming or was there a ghost in your room that fucked you, or if you really did have such a nice time? And then the thoughts of your daily routine blot it out and you remember to eat. Is it me, or are humans really this versatile? Are we so screwed and also so capable of making outrageous adjustments for relationships? I think music, art, and literature in general would say so. Danielle Steele, the Muzak of literature, even says so, in the third person, in her "novels". I would be willing to bet.

I write these words and try to be honest and I know many who read them and I do fear judgement for the explicit details I present. I hope that what you read is not leading you to believe this is the entirety of what you get in my person, I feel often kind and loving and caring, and not like the carousing philanderer I may appear to be in these documentations, but I also know that telling others about how I held the door open for like fifteen seconds for this old lady, or make particular phone calls and extended efforts of friendship to be helpful and supportive of some people doesn't exactly make for a good read. I'd otherwise be doing myself a disservice by hiding things, and perhaps the best of you will understand that, and that I want the same lofty moral victories that most genuinely good people do. This thought is emboldened by the fact that, today, I am writing inside of an A&P with a Starbucks and wifi in Vernon, NJ. While I think everyone knows how I feel about New Jersey, this town revealed the memory of one of my several near deaths. When I was 11, I was at Action Park, "The World's Largest Water Park" perhaps technically only by basic acreage, and my father had taken me for a day there. I mostly just liked to swim, the tall water slides freaked me out for fear of death and jumping off of anything 30 feet high seemed like a terrible idea, even though I used to imitate Luigi's flailing legs from Super Mario Bros 2 off the high diving boards at some pools. My Dad and I retrieved a raft to go on a rapids rafting course and had to carry it all the way up the hill to enjoy the slide down. I remember it being heavy, and me being weak under it, and the ride being so much better because of the enduring annoyance of that stretching walk-up. At the end of the ride, the rafts accumulated in a pool, and I flopped over the side of the raft into the water to enjoy being back underneath the air. The space where I went in disappeared under the shifting rafts, and submerged with my eyes open, I panicked underwater. I tried to stand up, but the rafts were large, heavy to me, and suctioned to the water. I looked around in dread that none of the panels above me would ever relent a space to squeeze my small frame through. Finally the chaos yielded and I came up gasping. For my Dad, I imagine he didn't know what had happened and thought I was just fooling around in the water, but for me, it was horrifying and I had no way to explain it, and therefore left it unsaid, but here I sit in one of the towns that offered me an early experience of mortality and know that I shouldn't hold back because this is a picture I can freeze and save of the awesome, though generously imperfect life I've been offered and how I attempt to capitalize on it, and actualize in it.

Of course words are words and deeds are deeds. Being good IS actually about aligning the two, it's true, Ron.

I got my shit together just to ride to the Red Devil shop. I dreamt up lofty goals of four and five C notes coming home with me, but what I got was a high energy short shift. I rode hard and had a solid night with no exceptional rides to mention, and the weather turned bitter cold towards the evening, so I abandoned the idea of riding extremely late in the cold in favor of revelry. I dropped the shift around 10 pm and went home to change and acquire extra clothing, and maybe even get a pregame beverage on. I sat in a warp zone for about 45 minutes in that hovering state where your head does tiny concentric circles as if it was going to come in for a landing on your pillow. I knew nothing was going on tomorrow and that this evening couldn't be passed up since the Red Devil Shop intended to throw a 4 keg bash at the shop starting at 3 AM, and invite and unite the pedicab community! SXSW forged on into it's last gasp, and so must I, but also, continue gasping after SXSW, clearly. I thought of all the fun that was happening and rose up like a marionette and danced out the door. The cold bike ride put me right awake, and I zoomed down to West 6th to meet Chad at the Red Fez. I danced and watched an interesting dance circle form on a set of two steps with a railing that rose to an elevated platform lounge area. The birthday girl, a friend of Berto's busted a move and others traded off featured moments in the center. The railing became handy for anti-gravity dance moves, and I felt like my moves were particularly good and/or care free that night, but then this girl got in there and shook her booty like she was trying to get it to fly right the fuck off of her body, and I subdued my idea of showing off. You just can't top a good booty shake.

Chad and I took off for Beauty Bar, me pedaling my bike, Chad sitting on my bike seat holding on to my waist like we were a cute little couple, but mostly to save time. Changing venues functioned to connect us to another familiar human link, and after a short wait in line, I suffered through a giant costumed bear playing a mindless spin of hipster brain-bleeding heaven, and knew it was not my night for Beauty Bar. All the while, I'm texting Shane and Melissa (girl who got her car towed girl) and finding out what their deal is. I found Shane at Emo's, around the corner, talking music with whoever, and ultimately getting booted because it was 2 am. Melissa met up with us boasting a keg nearly full of Shiner Bock in her office, not too far from us! Shane and I knew we were ready to help her demolish it. On the way, Melissa started to invite others to join us, based on what they look like and the assessment she can make of them visually, which I found to be kind of poor considering we nearly had some sketchy fuckin' guys follow us back to her office, the start of something in the police blotter. So I start doing the same! I invited this random girl Mary with us, who is cute, and sweet, a groupie for the Crash Kings, and has nothing to do while waiting for her flight to LA at 5 in the morning. For some reason, this upset Melissa, but we four go up and drink and we're trying anything we can to make music happen, resulting in playing music off of Pandora on my phone. We did our best to damage that keg before heading down to the pedi-party, but the whole time, Melissa was really cranky and we got into snarky verbal exchanges, which for Shane was a good thing because I started to see the fucking love connection blossoming. On our way out, we walked Mary to a cab, and Melissa drove Shane and herself down to the party as I biked. We walked in to see and hear music playing and kegs lined up. It really wasn't the bash I had been envisioning, it was not so well attended, and so pretty much bored of the situation, and knowing Shane and Melissa held similar sentiments, and since it was witch's tit cold out, I politely asked Melissa for a short ride home. We were already on the East side, and biking to the shop from my house takes five minutes. I cannot believe I had to sway her! So I began saying my goodbyes, agreed to the boss that I'd try to obtain my Texas pedicab license this coming week, and I went to find them and discovered that they'd already left! I call and explain to them that it had been agreed upon to give me a reasonably short ride, it's frigid cold out, can you please come get me? I got in Melissa's car to Shane's apologies, and scornful treatment from Melissa. My solution was to sarcastically thank her for the ride, which I'm positive she resented giving me anyway, since she did leave without me. Hit 'em where it hurts, the favor they are reluctantly doing for you. *Sarcastically* Thanks for the recommendation, previous supervisor! I quit!

Sunday greeted me with a world weary groan, my first thought and word of the day being "Fuuck." Too much, too much I'm taking in, thinking about detoxes and cleanses and all the commercials that talk about my colon and how it's full of poop and I need to poop that stuff out and so on. So instead of sweating out some of the mess on a bicycle, when I arrived at the locked pedicab shop, it meant nobody could obtain trailers for their bikes. The idea comes up to go to this ridiculous buffet somewhere super South that has all-you-can-eat every kind of Asian food, crawfish, quesadillas and pizza, and a pile of desserts for around $15 including tip. Now putting nearly two pounds of greasy, mid grade quality food in you is the way to snub your toxicity. The five of us who went sat there for almost two hours weebling around in our seats about how full we were, praising the deliciosity, and struggling to throw shit coffee on top of the garbage piles inside of us. Ah, breakfast, you chameleon.

I'm alternately distressed and delighted at the addictive nature of the random texts I had been trading with Miranda, and I tried to sustain this little trade of information while watching the healthcare debate over the internet on C-Span when she asked me what I was doing. This was the ONE TIME I watch C-Span and someone actually asks what I'm doing. The honest answer seems sarcastic anyway. "What are you doing?" "Well, I'm really into this debate on C-Span" "Yeah...you have someone else over there, don't you? No, it's cool, I get it, buddy. Have a nice life." "No really! I'm interested in the future of healthcare! Don't hang...up. Damn." So suddenly, I was getting ready to go meet Miranda with her two friends at some Mexican joint, and hoping I don't suck at first impressions when I get there. I walked in a little late and grab the introductions and end up getting along pretty well with her friends. The one guy reminds me a lot of Charlie from "Always Sunny..." so talking to him about anything entertained me. It was decided that a dance party should follow at Miranda's apartment, and I'm down-what the hell do I have going on Monday that's going to prevent me from that? We go and drink PBR and Lonestar, and Miranda busts out this party kit with these clay sticks that we all make into funky cool-ass glasses, and we're doing anything we can to look ridiculous and having juvenile fun with the contents of Miranda's suitcase. Miranda's friends ducked out gracefully, leaving us alone. And I guessed that after that it was starting to become a thing...

Statistics:

2 pedicab shifts on a trailer bike
$450 for ten hours of work during SXSW
17 beverages on the 17th of March, St. Patrick's Day
1 bagel
75 minutes spent waiting for my break-in dork to arrive
8-10 new cities added to the travel itinerary
$5 for a PBR tallboy at Beauty Bar during SXSW
$5 for two massive tacos at Whole Foods
4 parties I RSVP'd for that were free that I didn't attend to


Definitions:

spongy office-brain
fuel tanks-stomachs


Drinks from...

Day 69 -Nick, Kyle, Priya

388 Single Wide IPA @ home
389 Saint Arnold's Elissa IPA
390 Half pitcher of Live Oak Seasonal @Alamo Draft House
391 Lonestar @Shangri-La
392 Lonestar
393 PBR @Brixton

Day 70

394 Single Wide IPA @home

Day 71

395 Saint Arnold's Elissa IPA @home
396 Shiner Bock @Rooftop
397 Shiner Bock
398 Shiner Bock
399 512 IPA @Gingerman (thanks Chad!)
400 Live Oak IPA (Chad)
401 Dogfish Head 60 Min IPA (Chad)
402 Heineken @Rain
403 Vodka Drink @Kasbah

Day 72 St Patrick's Day

404 Irish Iced Coffee @Halcyon
405 Irish Car Bomb @Little Woodrow's
406 512 IPA
407 Guinness
408 Shiner Bock
409 Stash IPA @Dog and Duck
410 Half a free Guinness
411 Gin and Tonic @Maggie Mae's
412 7&7
413 Shot of Early Times @East Side Pedal Pushers
414 Lonestar @ Irongate
415 PBR @Brixton
416 Starry Night shot
417 Estrella lager @East Side Show Room
418 Estrella Lager
419 I think it was a Stone IPA @Shangri La

Day 73

420 Negro Modelo Especial Shandy @Chad's
421 Lone Star @Red Devil Shop
422 Lonestar @Touche
423 PBR

Day 74

424 Bridgeport IPA @home
425 Breckenridge 471 double hopped IPA @Thunderbird
426 Single Wide IPA @home
427 Lonestar 16 oz
428 RealAle/Long Island Iced Tea @Rio Rita
429 Boulevard IPA @Jackalope
430 PBR Tall Boy @Creekside
431 Tecate
432 Guinness @Shangri-La
433 Lonestar
434 Bridgeport IPA @home
435 Bridgeport IPA

Day 75

436 Fireman's 4 @Red Fez
437 Anchor Steam
438 PBR @Beauty Bar
439 Heineken @Emo's
440 Shiner Bock @Melissa's Office
441 Shiner Bock
442 Shiner Bock
443 High Life @Red Devil Shop
444 High Life
445 High Life

Day 76

446 Half a High Life, Half a Live Oak Amber @Red Devil Shop
447 Bridgeport IPA @home
448 512 IPA @Trudy's
449 512 IPA
450 PBR @Miranda's
451 Lonestar
452 Lonestar
453 PBR

Whew, that was hard to get down. And that's a lot to look at. I give myself a break in the next week when I start working for the US Census.