Diary

Date: Wednesday, March 16, 2016

Time: 6:53 p.m. (EST … finally!)

Place: On my couch in my apartment’s living room.

So. This is it. Three days. Three flights. All Stitch Early, all the time. South By Southwest is over for me just as it begins for everyone else. I’ve been sadder than usual the last few weeks. Coming back to this couch sure isn’t helping.

Naturally, the return from air to land messed me up (and messed me up good). My ears still haven’t popped and I kind of/sort of feel like I heretofore will be deaf. I haven’t had this happen as a result of a flight in a long, long time. Man, it’s the worst. I yawn. It doesn’t help. I stretch my jaw. Nothing. I’m about ready to take a hammer to my face and hope for the best.

Making matters better was … well pretty much everybody who works at Reagan National Airport refused to help me find the shuttle bus to my car. So, I walked. And walked. And walked. What felt like the entire way around the airport grounds. Walking on highways. Walking on patches of grass. Walking on garbage. Walking on … just a whole lot of walking. But I’m home now. So … yeah.

I can’t thank the Frederick News-Post enough for humoring me for three days by allowing me to travel all the way to Austin for my second South By Southwest. I also can’t thank Stitch Early enough for allowing me to be his shadow for three days, even at the times I could tell he didn’t want me around (every minute of every day). I didn’t take a second of it for granted, and I only hope that someone has found something in one of these silly things – posts, stories, etc. – that he or she can say is of value in some tiny way. If you read even five of these zillion words over the last 72 hours, I owe you an organ of your choice. Just don’t choose the kidneys – they’ve been shot now for years at this point.

Anyway, we’ll be back to our usual Frederick Playlist’n tomorrow, so my annoying, self-indulgent rants will be no more (mercifully). Don’t forget about the free – free! – open mic on Friday at 200 East. It will be fun. Promise.

For now, though, I need to go find a hammer. Miss you love you.

Date: Wednesday, March 16, 2016

Time: 10:13 a.m. (you’re sick of me, right?)

Place: Directly under the Big Blue Board at Austin-Bergstrom International Airport.

Of all the many, many things on my list of reasons why I hate flying (and can I stress one more time, many, many things), one of the top five is the temperament of everyone around you. No matter what line you get in – TSA, check-in, a coffee, the bathroom, boarding, a ticket onto the tilt-a-whirl – everyone is always so. damn. pushy. It’s like, chill dudes. An extra 30 seconds to put my belt back on won’t be the difference between if you can or cannot roll your massive rotund body down to the gate you need in time for your flight.

While Michelle Obama was getting ready to address a room filled with music “enthusiasts” and “insiders” (whatever those things even mean anymore), I was pushing toothpaste out of a packet and onto a toothbrush in a last-ditch effort to make sure my mouth feels clean. Also: Can anyone, at any point, explain to me exactly why the Obamas were this year’s keynote speakers? Like, honestly. What do you expect her to say? “I really like the new Pastel Ghost record … go music!”?

I’m a bit (read: a lot) worried about getting back north. My flight is supposed to touch down around 4 p.m. at Reagan and with all this Metro nonsense … oh, man, this is going to suck. Over/under on what time I get home? 11 p.m.? 10:30? I can see it now: Me at a standstill on the beltway, figuring out ways to file SXSW diary entries that nobody will read while quote-driving-unquote.

I think I just heard someone fart.

Date: Tuesday, March 15, 2016

Time: 11:55 p.m. (I’m too tired to argue.)

Place: My unmade bed at the Super Eight (thanks, room service!).

Well, hello, I must be going. As my days dwindle to hours in Austin – and the First Lady readies her keynote speech tomorrow morning – I’m packing up and heading out. I came for Stitch Early. I saw Stitch Early. I love Stitch Early. What more could I ask?

He did well. The crowd was weird – typical SXSW showcase stuff – but I think they came around to him by the time it was all said and done. No real monitors. No real comfort. But he persevered. And he even got the people standing to the side of the stage to move to the front of the stage by set’s end. That’s talent, friends. That’s talent.

It’s hard to go to sleep after such a shot of adrenaline like that. Yet, here I sit. My tired eyes begging for relief. I have a flight to catch early tomorrow morning and, finally – mercifully – I have a bag of Whataburger for myself. The curiosity for such consumption has reached a level akin to an all-time high. I must eat before sleep, and I must sleep before flight. Back to Maryland in the a.m. Back to Sudoku frustrations.

Just go to bed tonight knowing that your boy did good. Stitch Early was given an opportunity and he made more than the most of it. Not bad for a few days in the middle of March, right? Right.

Date: Tuesday, March 15, 2016

Time: 8:14 p.m. (don’t start.)

Place: The first floor of the Austin Convention Center.

Well, Stitch Early’s showcase was supposed to start at seven. Its a quarter after eight and I’m three blocks away from the fun, filing the story for tomorrow’s Frederick News-Post. He was supposed to text me when he found out what time he was actually going to go on, but – and this is scary – I texted him about a half-hour ago and still have yet to hear anything. Wouldn’t it be great if I came all this way and missed the single 15-minute block of time I came here for? Life.

I had food truck tacos today. They were good. Or, well, good enough. It’s Texas, man. And South By Southwest. What do you expect me to do – head over to the McDonald’s “loft” for a Quarter Pounder? We were approached by a very drunk man, and that was fun. I also watched Stitch Early change his pants in a parking lot. A very eventful Tuesday, indeed.

Oh, and the graffiti wall! Man, that thing is impressive. Get to the top, look out over Austin, and realize precisely how many feelings you’ve been suppressing for the last few years. The smell of spray paint, dirt, sweat and heartache go together quite well in the springtime, you know. Bob and Arthur approved.

There’s a line the size of six Carroll Creeks to get into the official South By Southwest kick-off party on Sixth Street. Ha. Also of note: I saw someone in a Donny costume and all my Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles feelings rushed into my brain. Someone once sang, “You can see a million miles tonight, but you can’t get very far.”

So true.

Date: Tuesday, March 15, 2016

Time: 1:37 p.m. (you know the drill.)

Place: Stitch Early’s hotel room on the third floor of the Courtyard Austin Northwest.

Have you filled out a bracket yet? Because you should. March means one month until my birthday, better weather (hopefully) and college basketball. And since nobody cares about my birthday and the weather still kind of sucks … well, hello, bracket bracketness! I’ve already filled out two on ESPN, and I can only hope that the fine people back at the office have rounded up the troops for a sizable in-office pool this year. It’s what I live for.

Meanwhile, “Out For Justice,” one of the 3,927 Steven Seagal movies that you – yes, you – can’t get enough of, is on the TV in Stitch’s hotel room. “Rambo: First Blood Part II” is up next. AMC, you sly dog, you. Not only do you produce zeitgeist-adored television series (no, “Breaking Bad” wasn’t as good as you thought it was), but you also are the go-to place to action movies on a Tuesday afternoon in Austin, Texas, during South By Southwest.

A Whataburger bag is filled with garbage as a result of not one, but two trips to the fast-food cult favorite. Interstate 35: Where the best Whataburger Whataburgers exist. Me? I haven’t eaten all day. But Brian did lend me some toothpaste! So, take that, Tuesday.

Stitch is hard at work putting the finishing touches on the cover design to his upcoming EP, “The Great Compromise.” It’s very calm-before-the-storm-ish. We’re getting ready to head back into the eye of the action, and a lot is still up in the air. Set times. When the venue might open. If I’ll be able to brush my teeth tomorrow. The drama is overwhelming.

Wait. Why didn’t Steven Seagal ever win an Oscar?

Date: Tuesday, March 15, 2016

Time: 11: 21 a.m. (CS … really, though?)

Place: The round fake-wooden table in my Super Eight hotel room.

Can someone please explain to me where the signals get crossed when the “do not disturb” sign is hung on a hotel room door. I never thought it meant, “maybe disturb, if you feel like it,” or, “hey, come on in, I’m only taking a shower.” Perhaps things are different in Texas. Shoot, who am I kidding? Even Texas Roadhouse is different in Texas!

I’m worried about getting sunburned. The sun is out again (warm weather gives my feelings feelings) and it looks like a lot of the day will be spent trekking the outdoor terrain once more. Don’t let anybody tell you that South By Southwest is not a grind. No matter what capacity in which you attend, you’ll leave sore in most every faction of life. That can be a good thing, depending on your Outlook On Life. Guess what my Outlook On Life is? Yeah, you win.

I already received my first complaint and I haven’t been here for 24 hours. Turns out, a guy called the office to tell me that another Frederick band is “on their way” to South By Southwest right now, and I should cover them instead. For good measure, he ended the message with the type of condescending tone that makes even someone as condescending as myself cringe, proclaiming something along the lines of this: “At least this band won’t be part of some dope tour.” Ahhhh, Frederick.

I presume that nobody is reading these diary entries, and if anyone is, it’s probably a hate-read. That’s OK. Or, well, I guess I should say that’s OK, even if it does bother me a bit. You get a chance to go to South By Southwest and damn it if you don’t write, write and write. Quantity over quality, friends. Quantity over quality.

Is it weird to anyone else that all the late-night shows begin an hour earlier here? Like, why not just start the local news at 11, like normal people, go to Fallon at 11:35, Meyers at 12:35, and so on and so forth? It was so weird to see Carson Daly on a television screen at 12:30 last night. I felt like I was having a TRL fever dream. Who are you, Central Standard Time?

Also of note: Does anyone know if you can substitute a bar of soap for toothpaste? Just wondering.

Date: Monday, March 14, 2016

Time: 9:53 p.m. (CST … do we really have to do this every time?).

Place: Room 403 at the Super Eight in North Austin, Texas.

Well, McDonald’s has its own showcase room now and they call it a loft. So, there’s that.

Somebody once sang that the night does funny things inside a man, and such a maxim is rarely more true than it is when you’re alone in a Super Eight with two beds in Austin, Texas, and you only need one. There’s a loneliness – an abandonment, even – to hotel rooms. Sure, there can be romance in the isolation, but it fleets as quick as the nighttime skyline when you lay down on a mattress covered with little more than a puke-green blanket.

Stitch Early is ready, though. An afternoon of walking, talking, walking … and then walking some more has left the legs tired, the feet sore, and the head exhausted. Watching him promote himself up and down Sixth Street was a lesson in perseverance. Even when a strange wanderer, complete with construction-like attire, approached a couch at the Austin Convention Center, inquiring about business cards, Stitch held strong. Kind to the core, he flashed that priceless smile, asked someone to look up the price of an iTV, and went upon his unapologetically optimistic way.

A dinner comprised of food from the state of Texas’s own version of Texas Roadhouse (which, ironically, isn’t nearly as good as its supposed original namesake), along with a talk about God, fate, and everything in between rounded out the night in a hopeful-yet-sober-fashion. Especially for such a sad sap as myself.

Soundcheck’s at 11 a.m. tomorrow. The Dope DealerTour. The Bat Bar. One 15 minute set. Is all this worth it? We’ll find out. For now, though, all I can do is stare at a sign that reads, “Cheaper Than Dirt Guns.” Somebody’s yelling in the hallway. Texas is as Texas does.

Date: Monday, March 14, 2016

Time: 1:49 p.m. (CST still, duh)

Place: The back of a Super Shuttle Van

Driver: You must be with Dell.

Very, Very Rich Guy: I work for a software company. Yeah, they flew us in for a conference again. Last year – I think it was November – they had music. Wilco and Duran Duran.

Driver: Wow.

Very, Very Rich Guy (Looking at me the entire time): Yeah, I like Wilco. I didn’t even remember Duran Duran, but the more songs they played, the more I forgot how great they were. They were really good.

Driver: Yeah.

My Inner Voice: Why are you looking at me? Please stop looking at me. Why do people automatically think I want to talk about music all the time? Is the unkempt hair? Is it because I haven’t shaved? Is it because I look homeless 64 percent of my life? Come on, man. I’d like you much more if you wanted to talk “The Good Wife.”

Very, Very Rich Guy (Now looking so much at me, I can see my reflection in his gray hair): Yeah, there’s a lot of music. I really like Wilco.

Silence.

Silence.

My Outer Voice: Yeah, you’ll probably run into a lot of music this time around.

Driver (Condescending remarks implicit in parenthesis): Of course (you idiot, don’t you know this is like the music capital of the universe?)!!!

Very, Very Rich Guy: Yeah!!!! (Duh!!!!! I know more than you!!!! I like Wilco!!!!)

Silence.

More silence.

All of the silence.

Silence times a trillion.

Welcome to Austin.

Date: Monday, March 14, 2016

Time: 9:42 a.m. (CST, duh)

Place: Lambert-St. Louis International Airport (Google added the Lambert; don’t shoot the messenger), Gate E18.

The single biggest indictment on human life, literally ever, is the length of the line to get into Starbucks at the St. Louis airport. You have to re-read that sentence about six or seven times before you really understand its true meaning. Promise.

True to form as the universe’s unwanted brown-headed step-something, I was thrown on a flight to here, rather than the anticipated Chicago because – and this is where it gets really fun – “the weather in Chicago is bad.” Thanks for the info, Ms. Southwest. And thanks for the thorough explanation.

I was one of the last three people to board the plane – at one point, I wondered if they were just going to shove me in with the luggage. Naturally, I was at the very, very back, in a middle seat, next to an overgrown grown man and a guy who likes to wear ball caps with brims that don’t bend. Both started twitching no less than 30 minutes into takeoff. The first guess is a restless sleep, but how could you really ever know?

There was no better choice than to resort to my sweat-filled headphones. By the time we touched down in the midwest, my left ear was covered in day-old sweat of my own (again: it’s exactly as gross as it sounds). I’m now sitting across a Burger King, which sits next to a California Pizza Kitchen, which sits next to the aforementioned Starbucks that officially blew to smithereens my faith in all waking life about a half hour ago.

The Big Blue Board tells me that the flight from here to Austin is delayed. This won’t make Bob and Arthur happy – they get antsy. It’s supposed to be a total of 10 minutes, but we all know in Air Land that “10 minutes” typically means “until your next midlife crises.”

Hey, wait. They have a Chili’s!

Wait, again. I think Jim From The Office just walked by me with a child and about 500 handsome points taken off the top.

OK. Anyway. Flying is weird, man. It’s the most crowded lonely elevator in all the land. So much of so many people are so constantly involved with their Electronic Device Of Choice that it makes me wonder how flying might have gone in the 1990s. My guess is a lot more new friends, a lot more untoward, secret encounters. And don’t even get me started on the ’80s.

I think this is the trip where I officially embrace my iPhone snobbery for good. Both oversized man and no-brim-dude treated their smartphones (both not iPhones) with the secrecy of the Taliban. Whoops. That’s dated. I meant ISIS. Meanwhile, I sat rigid for an hour-and-a-half, trying desperately hard not to knock knees with either companion, for if I ever would, I knew the consequences may be fatal.

And now I’m watching an old woman eat a banana out of a brown paper bag. Viva La South By.

Date: Monday, March 14, 2016

Time: 7:29 a.m.

Place: Regan International Airport, Washington, D.C., between gates eight and seven.

… Because I’m sure Harper Lee thought, “I want to release a book that can be on display in an airport hallway that might also double as a dance club in the American film adaptation of ‘Girl With The Dragon Tattoo,'” when she (or someone) decided to release “Go Set A Watchman.” I’ve always heard that Regan was a nice place to fly out of, but I never expected it to make me feel like I should be wearing very tight pants in its Designated Place To Buy Orange Juice. The bar has iPads everywhere. You can purchase a bottle of Johnny Walker Gold. Either the sun hasn’t come up yet, or it, much like me, can barely stomach the thought of facing the day in front of it. Stay lonely, mate.

Oh, and I forgot toothpaste. My headphones continue to leak sweat (it’s exactly as gross as it sounds). And I made the all-too-fatal flaw (as I always do) of not wearing socks. You’re welcome, TSA. When I get the bird flu in 36 hours, I’ll be sure to let you know.

I was Chicago bound at first, but because I got here early (the perks of being … something), they switched me up to St. Louis. From there, I’ll arrive in Austin, about an hour-and-a-half before I had planned. Or at least so they say.

Wait. Time to board.