ACL Fest: Day 2

We kick off our second day of debauchery with a show by Martin Sexton, who lives in Boston but sounds decidedly Southern to me. It’s at this show that I am treated to a meeting with Pumpkin’s mother, Lady Refined, who must have been a debutante and a Junior Leaguer and, God, why doesn’t the woman even sweat? Why hasn’t her lipstick disappeared yet?

I wonder if she’s horrified as I peel layer after layer of clothing off, beginning with my tube top and ending up with a bikini and short skirt. She’s grilling GWH about his cousin, asking if he has photos of his mother. According to Lady Refined, one should always carry photos of his or her parents in his or her “billfold.” It’s all I can do not to snort with laughter. When GWH explains that his mother and Irish’s mother look practically like twins, this leads to a discussion of Irish’s father.

“I’m pretty sure he’s Saudi Arabian,” GWH says, and Lady Refined blanches a little bit. I practically choke on my beer. Dear Lord, the woman is going to have a heart attack.

Pumpkin is busy putting on a visor. “Yeah, I know, Mother, so I won’t get The Skin Cancer!” she says.

“It cracks me up the way rich kids talk to their parents,” GWH says.

“Like what?” I ask.

“Like, ‘Whatever I want—GOD!’” he says, and we crack up together.

“You almost killed her with that Saudi comment, by the way,” I tell him.

“I think I’m totally wrong,” GWH admits.

“Just leave it at that. It’s going to drive her crazy all weekend long.”

Our next set is Robert Randolph. Hmmm, don’t really know him either but I’ll have another couple of Amstel Lights and watch people. GWH and I settle on our blanket while Irish, Pumpkin and her friend Superficial sit behind us. Superficial hasn’t really made an impression on me yet. All I know from the day before is she clearly can’t remember GWH’s name, as she keeps calling him “your boyfriend” when speaking to me. During this concert, however, she decides to play a question game, asking everyone what their choices would be if there were three bands living or dead that they wanted to see at this festival. She goes on to ask what are the top two shows we’ve every seen.

I tire of this game rather quickly. It appears it’s only a device to let her showcase what she clearly considers her infinite knowledge of music. She’s seen so many cool shows. She also treats me to a list of famous people she’s seen in the park near her place in NYC. At the same time, she claims she doesn’t care about New York and the coolness. Oh Jesus. I’m staring at her and willing her to shut up. It’s not working,
though, and I’m forced to listen lest I seem rude.

She keeps talking as the show ends and we head to see Jet. Something about how she wants to live here. I warn her that we are a bunch of Dubya-hating hippies. I’m hoping that will scare her off. Dammit. No. She informs me that she’s from Berkeley and her whole family is from Berkeley and she even has a lesbian mother, which proves just how liberal she is, right? And then something about how her grandparents are so liberal she was once considered the conservative in the family because she wasn’t as liberal as they were and are you bored yet? Because I am, and we’re still walking through the dusty park and she’s still talking and I’m realizing she doesn’t give a shit what anyone else has to say. Worse yet, she’s completely clueless about her own identity. I really, really hope she doesn’t move. She knows where I live.

On to Jet, where we find a spot in relative proximity to the stage. Luckily, Superficial takes a chair behind us again, so I don’t have to listen to her. GWH and I find beers, food and then listen to the most awesome show. It’s so awesome that even GWH has become a fan. Apparently I have acquired a fan as well, as I notice a weird guy creeping ever closer to me while I rock out. It probably doesn’t help that I’m jumping up and down while wearing my most dangerous bikini top. GWH firmly inserts himself in between me and weird guy and defuses that mess.

But he’s powerless to defuse the train wreck that is Superficial. Jet ends and we’re on a 45-minute break to wait for Oasis. GWH takes a back seat to talk with Irish. Superficial glues herself to me. She explains how she cut her bangs too short, has to braid them now, also accidentally cut sideburns, has a really long torso and so is hailing the return of the long shirt, hates NYC and is just over it, hasn’t met a guy she would even consider dating in over a year, wants to come to Austin for graduate school, how much her friends in NYC suck and how she looks in the mirror each day and confirms that she’s pretty awesome. I am dying. I have never met someone more self-absorbed in my life. No wonder she thinks her friends suck.

And then Oasis begins, and as this band is one that represents the hey-day of GWH’s youth, I decide to give it a try and hang out with him during the hits. Oasis has annoyed me since the day the lead singer claimed the band would be bigger than the Beatles. And why the hell is he wearing a hoodie sweatshirt and corduroy pants? The wind that has been staving off certain heatstroke dies around 8 p.m. and the heat has become nearly unbearable. But GWH and I have a good time grooving to the hits.

We head back up to my place for another nighttime swim, where Superficial keeps singing the chorus to Oasis songs, and clearly hoping for someone to complement her singing. I…want…to…kill…her. We decide to head to the G&S for some late-night fun and introduce the Out-of-Towners to some South Austin flavor.

Once there, we run into another girl who’s in town from NYC. I listen with what I’m sure is I look of polite boredom as she goes on and on about Brooklyn, and Manhattan, and how much things cost, and I wish that she and Superficial would get together and talk each others’ ears off. Ladies? I’ve lived in NYC. It’s really f’in cool. Dude, I’ve said it before on this web site: where you live is a friggin’ zip code. I don’t need you to make sure I understand how cool you are because you live there. I’m over it. You should be too. And if one more person explains how things are done in NYC, I’m going to scream.

I think I’m seeing tracers from my Tito’s and tonic. Time to call it a night. One more day to to go...

-Shakira 10.04.05