South by Southwest, Gorgeous and Sassy Style

The day begins at Ego’s, where Punk Rock BBQ is in full effect. For the low low price of three dollars, you too can enjoy a plate of delicious food while listening to a punk rock band blow your brains out. I elect to stay away from the barbeque and down a Stoli vanilla Coke instead. After an hour of the ear-splitting guitar riffs, El Dilector, Gringo Especial, a random assortment of boys whose names I immediately forget and I are ready to hit the free show at Auditorium Shores.

Gringo Especial swears we aren’t going to miss a note of Junior Brown, but unfortunately he’s wrong. Junior’s already jamming on his steel guitar. We procure a supply of Dos Equis and listen to the remaining songs. Gringo Especial insists on grabbing his friend’s ass and blaming it on me. Friend Whose Name I Forgot looks at me and sort of grins. Ewww. Thanks, Gringo. Now he thinks I’m into him.

A couple of songs pass, when I realize Gringo’s gone. “Hey, you know how you haven’t had your ass grabbed lately--” I tell Friend Whose Name I Forgot—“That’s because Gringo isn’t here.”

FWNIF looks disappointed that it wasn’t me after all. Junior Brown finishes his set and I go in search of another beer. Gringo Especial is near the beer tent holding two.

“Where’s mine?” I ask, and he promptly hands me an ice cold can. Excellent. I knew I kept this guy around for a reason.

It turns out we’re finished with this place and are supposed to be heading downtown for another show. Not before El Dilector starts screaming about The Bitch tearing his heart out. He mimes tossing the heart to the ground and then stamping on it. He finishes his tirade and we realize the entire beer line is staring at us.

“We’ll be here all week, folks!” I yell, taking a bow.

There’s only supposed to be four to a cab, but we find a willing cabbie to pick up our group of five. That means I get to sit on a lap and bend my head most uncomfortably. I have one arm outside the open window and I ask to boys to tell me if we enter a tunnel or something.

“Yeah. What, are we in Denver or something? How the hell would we find a tunnel?”

Oh yeah. That’s right. Probably my arm will not get cut off. But you never know.

We arrive at Stubb’s and find out we need wristbands or tickets. The ticket line is around the corner and they cost $40. Whatever! I don’t even know who the hell is playing. I know where there’s no cover charge, though…Jimmy’s Irish Lair! It’s right across the street. So while part of our group goes to Stubb’s, the rest of us hit the bar.

El Dilector is having a pity party at the bar. Something about The Bitch again. Dude, she is so not worth all this angst. Both Gringo and I tell him so.

“Yeah, your life is so bad, El Dilector,” Gringo Especial says sarcastically. “Two bachelorette parties in two weeks.”

El Dilector brightens a bit upon remembering those nights. I’m busy taking notes when Gringo Especial leans over and comments that I have very nice penmanship. Is he hitting on me? Because wow, my heart is full. Come on, Gringo – you can do better than that. He does, in fact, when he tells me a story about acting on the WB this summer. Dude. I LOVE the WB. I ask him if he leads with the tongue, because that would really kill my budding adoration.

“That,” I tell him, “—or the fact that you’re gay.”

“I am not gay,” he maintains. “But the guys I fuck are.”

I am so done with that joke! And apparently El Dilector is done with this bar. Oy. Does my head hurt from the beer or the fact that we cannot friggin’ sit still today?! It’s time for Gyro Palace and dinner on the curb, and then we decide to take a trip down Memory Lane and visit the bar formerly known as Amazon. It’s called Whiskey Chicken or Rooster or something. Some type of fowl. Inside, we quickly realize we are (1) old and (2) not cheesy enough for this bar.

I decide we should go to The Driskill and fuck things up. El Dilector thinks maybe we should set it on fire. At the time, this sounds like a brilliant plan so we head that direction with the intent of annoying everyone in the bar. And perhaps burning the place down. No. Really. We’ll probably just burn a napkin in an ashtray.

On the way, we run into the The Bitch, who is completely bitchy, and El Dilector decides he REALLY wants to burn something down. We sit at a table and order drinks. He has the mango tea, I try and drink another beer and Gringo has water. He has a splitting headache that he swears feels like an ice pick in his eye. Ow.

“Did you see that?” I ask.

“Did that guy give you a look?” El Dilector replies.

“Was that a guy?”

El Dilector and Grino Especial get into some discussion of World War II that I cannot follow. There’s something to do with gas stations in Russia. And something about Germans invading Florida.

“Hold up. There were gas stations in Russia during World War II?” El Dilector asks.

“Hey. Let’s get a room, call everyone we know and have a big party!” I suggest.

“Yeah, and it would still just be the three of us,” Gringo Especial says.

Okay. This crazy train has come to it’s final stop for the night.

-Shakira 03.22.04