So today is Loving Day (for a few more minutes). I think it’s worthwhile to remember that in some of ours’ (well, yours) and most of our parents’ lifetimes, interracial marriage was illegal in parts of this freedom-loving nation. In a nation that’s nearly 250 years old, a 41-year-old institution is practically a fad. So when bigots talk about traditional marriage, we would all do well to keep in mind what they’re talking about. Enough said.

 p.s. - my new MacBook Pro (olli) kicks ass 

Oh, shit. Is this thing still on? Well now that’s embarrassing. I would have thought of myself as the sort of person with enough environmental conscientiousness to have turned off the lights on my way out. Apparently not.

Consider the pictures, people. (shameless plug).

So of course I had a great weekend (I’m pretending you asked). The highlight wasn’t the Saturday party, rather the DNC Rules and Bylaws Committee*. Just kidding; it made kitty death look sad. There was the Sex and the City movie (fucking god damn fabulous). There was Chelsea Lately (I’m sure she has a real name of some sort) with “I have a hard time imagining [Clay Aiken] as someone’s Dad. Actually, I can’t imagine him as somebody’s top.” There was… sleeping in. Jesus how I miss sleeping in.

And of course then there was Monday (time being the law and all). Monday was part MHD, part legitimate things best not done outside the house. Sure, Monday had its stresses. It had a few work e-mails, online woes, and I won’t even mention the unmentionables. But it also had its vegetarian chili (I’m a god-damn genius), a brief revisiting of Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip (several people have a legitimate beef with Aaron Sorkin’s tv show stylings with their better-than-reality banter (which I consider ideal-for-a-reality-that-sadly-doesn’t-exist) but most are just too left-thumbed to get it) , a few martinis (one part gin, one part vodka, a heavy twist of lemon, stirred, not shaken), and Star Trek: The Next Generation fan favorites marathon on SciFi versus a Kathy Griffin stand-up specials marathon on Bravo. Don’t kid yourself, I eat tough decisions for breakfast. But this one hurt. Actually, it proved that multi-tasking is doing several things not well. And I’m sure I’ve already discussed the sheer genius (pun unintended) that is Bravo’s gay reality programming, so I won’t revisit it.

But enough about you. Today led to an interesting formula. I’m still working on this, but here’s a rough draft:

Step 1. Go to Seattle (March 1998)
Step 2. Do stuff (live life… not accepting arguments on merit)
Step 3. Go back to Seattle (June 2008)
Step 4. …
Step 5. Profit!

Seriously. Back to Seattle. And. I. Am. Excited!

* - How difficult is this, you fucking retards: unseated is unseated. Break the rules, eat the dominatrix-esque punishment (apparently “Master” is the male version, but that just doesn’t ring quite as well). I get the idea of party unity and bringing in the flock, but you can’t remake history. All you can do is go and fuck yourselves sideways. From the sounds of it though, Tuesday evening should show us a real nominee. Finally.

Plus, now I’m confused. Houston = no. 1?? Oh, and I cut my foot on something the other day. . I’ll probably die.

And do yourself a favor. Consult with your feed reader and de-list this. Of course if your feed reader was worth its merit, it would have corrupted its own source code before displaying this. But oh well.

Seacrest, out!

So let’s suppose you have an old hard drive. You don’t want to just throw it away because who knows what taxes, pr0n, or other juicy tidbits are on there. But you can’t perform the old format-and-pray (actually, format-format-format-(n)-and-pray) because there seems to be something wrong with the drive. So how do you clean off those dirty dirty platters?

1. Pry open the drive case. No, you don’t have torx bits, so don’t even act like you can do this part cleanly. A selection of screwdrivers and pliers should get you there.
2. Remove the circuit board and any other materials that get between you and the platter. Unless you actually do have torx bits - which you don’t; nobody does; you’re no exception - you now find yourself with a flawless mirrored platter firmly affixed to the case. This is your target. You must destroy it.
3. Drive platters are metal, and metal is bendy, right? Of course. Insert a small screwdriver under the platter and apply leverage. It will bend, right? Yes, of course it will.

   

4. Umm. Something seems to have gone wrong. You had your eyes closed, right? Step 3b is actually “close your eyes”. I’m sure I mentioned that. It’s okay though, there’s just a little… shit. Ouch. This shit’s everywhere. How is it already under my foot?
5. I guess… I’m at a bit of a loss… So, yes, okay. We’re okay. Now is just a simple matter of cleanup. All you need is some gloves, a vacuum, cleaning supplies, a hazmat suit, and a few ziploc bags. There; all better.
6. Make a mental note: never EVER repeat steps 1-5

It seems to be an increasingly dangerous world out there.

I think it’s entirely possible that ACL Festival has jumped the shark for me. I didn’t go last year, due mostly to (a) missing the super-reduced-price-tickets bus and (b) the astonishing climactic turns of event. But that’s all changed this year, or at least half of it. I’m back on that bus, and I’m going to ride it right into the sweltering, humid crack of the ass that is Austin in September.

Nothing sums this up for me better than this handy capture of the Arcade Fire show from two years ago. These people obviously rocked like nobody’s business, but you don’t have to look hard to see the effects of the 108 degree heat on their faces and demeanors. Though, from some of the other performances of theirs that I have seen, they all appear to be bat-shit-crazy in general, so it could be hard to judge. Bring on the rockin’ and the hurtin’!

(Note, no amount of careful looking will yield a visage of me standing right in front of the stage, boiling in the heat, but I was there)

This would have been funnier if it was an actual baby (rather than a 4-year-old).

I used to wonder how those geniuses of lighting magic coordinated the special lighting or un-lighting - giant number “1″s and “2002″s for graduating classes, darkening for somber occasions - of the UT Tower. I mean, it didn’t exactly occupy my thoughts at night, but, you know, curious. Apparently, this is how it works: a crack team of maintenance personnel storm the tower floor-by-floor, armed with black plastic sheeting and blue masking tape; one even had a hardhat. My disappointment was nearly palpable (and me with nobody nearby to palpate it).

Of course, I make light of sad events. As a show of solidarity with our friends in Virginia - or possibly a lament for falling off our perch in the annals of campus tragedies; perhaps both - the tower will be darkened for the next three nights in remembrance of what was certainly an astonishingly horrific event. Thinking of how surprisingly unnerved I felt watching the news this week, I’m glad the campus is doing something, even if only to make ourselves feel better.

Unfortunately, this warm gesture means that for the next half week I not only miss out on my customary view East, but indeed any view from any window anywhere in the building. It’s like being in a submarine floating twenty stories in the air, and it’s unbelievably eerie.

Update: This is driving me crazy. I had to roll up the bottom few inches of the plastic just so I could see a glimmer of the outside world.

Update 2: Frick! Maintenance came back by while I was at a meeting. They interpreted the rolled-up plastic as “dear maintenance: this plastic sheeting needs more masking tape to hold it down”.

• Habana Calle 6: NY2LON (New York to London) party (RSVP required). Lame. No free booze, and all I got to listen to was some bad comedian under the employ of MTV.
• The Boiling Pot: No music, but a feast of seafood. It’s possible that several pounds of spicy boiled shellfish is not the best way to begin a drink-a-thon of an evening. I certainly didn’t have any problems, but others were less fortunate.
• The Hideout: Nekomushi. Ummm, strange. Some parts I really liked, but overall it was a bizarre experience.
• Emo’s (Junior): Anavan. Rocked unbelievably. Their frontman/drummer was insanely fast on the drums, and I certainly didn’t mind when he took his pants off (cute underwear).
• The Parish: DJ Kid Koala (who was awesome) followed by Amon Tobin (also awesome)
• Roppolo’s: A slice of pizza (duh)

So, by my count, that’s a total of 17 acts this year.

Thursday!

• Kickoff at Emo’s Main Room. Samir stayed for Andrew Bird, the rest of us left on some bad intel
• Buffalo Billiards: Saw What Made Milwaukee Famous and Peaches getting interviewed (I was under the impression she would be performing. I was wrong)
• BeerLand: In and out; nothing to see here.
• Random wanderings lead us to PF Chang’s for dinner
• San Jose: Met up with a Uhlir and watched some Sound Team
• Visions: …is a terrible place to do anything. Spain’s Ana Laan with a looping pedal. Moving along.
• Karma: Some band (wasn’t Errors, but they were certainly cute), Jack Penate (eh), and Fujiya & Miyagi (Holy fuck!)

Friday!

• Club de Ville: $3 at the door and all you can drink beer (until it ran out). Thankfully, Shayla saved the day with some drink help. Some band; pretty good and very loud (hot drummer)
• Brief wanderings led to a sit-down at Jaime’s. Mmmmmmm-mole.
• Joined forces with Rio and the Kibs, headed off to Cedar St. Enjoyed a nice sit with a beer and volunteer Alexis.
• Karma: We thought we were there to see Errors, but schedules can be really hard to read… for some people (Errors played Thursday). Saw MC Chris instead - he was something of a jerk and I wasn’t a fan of the music (probably good, I just don’t like the genre)
• Redrum: Saw a couple acts that definitely were not on anybody’s schedule (including the official one). Which is sad, because I think I would have liked seeing Going Home… naked. Kiss Kiss was pretty awesome though.
• Stubbs: Caught part of Badly Drawn Boy with SRandall
• Flamingo Cantina: Genghis Tron. I would have liked their pretty hard-core electronica-esque stuff if it weren’t for the guy screaming into the microphone. The impromptu mosh pit (I may have seen somebody get their teeth knocked out) didn’t help much either
• Rain and OCH: Because when it all turns to nonsense, finish the night at the gay bars

I would guess that you are wondering why the hell I think you would care about my little musical sojourns. Well, I don’t. Stop reading. It’s not for you, it’s for me. Why? Because two days after this sort of excitement ends I can’t usually remember a damn thing, and this is as good a place as any to record it for posterity. Think of it as a letter from Present Baron to Future Baron.

Wednesday was day one of this lovely little musc festival. I was actually worried as my masher had mis-read some of the info from the SxSW site and had me thinking the shows started late Tuesday night. Stupid date/time formats. Unfortunatel, between the workday and downtown traffic, I didn’t manage to hook up with the others until well past six. What followed:

• Creekside Lounge - thought I was meeting people there but the music was so terrible that they left before I even got there.
• Side Bar - met the crew (Rio, Boot, AR, and CD) for a beer
• Head Hunters - damn fine chicken sandwich and some entertainment by The Crazy Kings
• La Zona Rosa - Adam’s panties were knotting so we got there early. Saw Pipettes, who were awesome, and The Rapture, who rocked my face off so hard that I miscarried. Twice.
• Obviously the only way to recover from that sort of thing was a gay bar interlude. We had a beer at Rain and were only exposed to a minimum of bad karaoke.
• Dirty Dog Bar - The Futurists. These twinks from Atlanta, GA rock hard! And loud! And furiously! My ears hurt; let’s go.
• Latitude 30 - We grabbed a slice of pie and headed over to meet the others at L30, but while sitting outside observed that there wasn’t much good going on inside. Push!
• Beauty Bar - Caught the end of Car Stereo (moderate-to-bad DJ mash-up), rocked by Holy Fuck (Holy Fuck they’re great!)
• Co-op Bar (didn’t that used to be Milagio?) - Saw part of Bermuda Triangle. During their sound check I remarked thatit sounded as if they talk backwards. Some badge-monkey spouted “they’re Norwegian” AS IF I didn’t know (well, I knew they were Scandinavian).

Standing up for six hours is hard work.