This is the long awaited third and final blog from the big trip to Austin. And it’s a big one. This is the blog that will answer all you questions. Who are The Henry Clay People? Is Ingrid really from outer space? Who was on the losing end of Fight or Fuck night? How many Lone Stars did I drink? And did we ever make it to Juan In a Million for Don Juan breakfast tacos?
The short of it; Some guys, I dunno, Moby look-a-like, 69, we drove by it.
The long of it. After I posted my last blog on Saturday, God decided to whiz all over Austin City Limits. Remember that piss Austin Powers took in the first movie? Saturday was a washout. The Goom tent was used more for shelter then for interviews. They did serve some good BBQ though, and The Henry Clay People stopped by. Apparently Henry Clay ran for president 300 years ago and he was the “great compromiser.” Why would you want to name your band after a compromiser and not an innovator is beyond me. While I was chatting with The Heartless Bastards, I personally stopped two interlopers from hopping the fence and seeing music for free. Did you know that Alberta Cross is a band and not a chick? I had no clue and was somewhat bummed, because Chubby Guy #2 told me Alberta was a smokin’ hot broad. The Airborne Toxic Event were too booked to talk to us. Dennis from Flogging Molly was nice. The STS9 guys used our tent as their own personal smoking den! And Donald from The Virgins had gold glitter all over his face. You know like when girls go out and put it all over their boobs. So, I can’t figure out if he put it there or he was motor boating some honeys right before the interview. Oh and I met some girl named Lindsay that looks like an adult Miley Cyrus.
I wouldn’t say I’m the biggest Dave Matthews Band fan in the world, but they opened with the one song I really like from them. “Don’t Drink The Water.” I was jazzed and then some DMB-head told me “they open with that all the time.”
After we headed back to Austin and did the usual beer, shot, beer, beer, shot, beer, beer, beer, beer, shot, beer, shot, beer, beer, beer, beer, beer, shot, we headed back to the hotel. The sorority girls from the first night were up on the roof hooking up with some meatheads, so I hung around and cockblocked for a while. That got boring and as I was heading down to the room, I met Ingrid.
Ingrid was beyond belief fucked up on something. Our security guard friend Kent surmised it was most likely “shrooms or goofballs.” She was sprawled out on the floor of the hallway carrying a copy of Mary Shelley’s “Frankenstein” and talking about time being linear. It was at this point that I decided to do something nice. Kent was going to call the cops and this girl was probably going to spend the night in jail or something. I grabbed two of the sorority girls and we dragged her down to my room, where Chubby Guy #2 and Moby look-a-like were attempting to sleep. Needless to say CG#2 and MLAL were not happy. And after about 30 minutes of talking to Ingrid we came to the conclusion that in addition to being completely whacked out of her mind on drugs, she was totally bat shit crazy! There’s a video, but it’s more sad than funny. MLAL and I decided to walk her down to the street and release her back into the wild. She talked to a flag pole in front of the hotel about alternate universes for about thirty minutes and the cops showed up and took her away. Exactly what I didn’t want to happen, but I feel we’re all richer for the experience.
Sunday – Last day of the festival. The weather cooperates completely but the previous day’s rain has made the entire park a field of stinky mud. Mike Posner and Big Sean dropped by. I developed a crush on the girls from Jypsi. I talked cake with Clutch. And Michael Franti is a class act! He had the flu, was exhausted and yet still humped over to our tent and did a great interview. The Dead Weather is such a great idea for a band, but their set was long and boring. And from what I heard of Pearl Jam, about six songs, all hits!
As is customary, in the south, the last night of our trip was Fight or Fuck night. Meaning, you get laid, or you start a fight. I conveniently paid for an HJ, CG#2 “claims” he got some and as the 2AM deadline passed we had to drag MLAL out of bed to start a fight. A local Austinite was more than happy to kick the shit out of him. As we drove to the airport the next morning, our cab passed Juan In a Million, but we didn’t have time to stop for the breakfast tacos that I’d been dreaming of since I saw some unfunny fat guy eat them on TV.
THE END?
