Kris Kristofferson wrote that shit long before SXSW was a gleam some idealistic bastard’s eye. But even, or especially, if you interpret its double negatives literally, it sums about how I’m feeling about this place right now.
I won’t lie, friends. Day one was not a pretty one. When I said 10 a.m. was a perfectly acceptable time to start drinking in Texas, I didn’t mean to imply it was necessarily a smart idea. In fact, when you’re trying to subsist entirely on complimentary tacos, nachos, bags of potato chips and granola bars after a 14-hour drive, it’s kind of a little bit dumb. The pinnacle of these decisions occurred around dusk, when, far beyond my physical limitations, I awoke in a stranger’s hotel room to a young woman’s shrieks — inspired not by the fact a stranger was motionless in her room, but the fact she thought I was literally a dead man. In all fairness, she didn’t know a guy could be so tuckered as to pass out with his eyes open. For that matter, neither did I.
Equal parts cranky and crunked, all the wisdom I attempted to impart in my last post seemed practically useless as I re-evaluated my whole strategy. Though, I’d seen this thing get more and more crowded over the few short years I’ve frequented — this shit has gotten ridiculous. Just about anything remotely worth attending requires about an hourlong wait. Patience is a virtue, and virtuous I am anything but.
Fortunately, I didn’t become the master gratis-grubber I am today by accepting defeat so easily. The Paste Magazine party got me a couple complimentary Sam Adams with a side of chips and guac. The Spotify House hooked up the open bar, Wi-F, and cheeseburgers. Eventbrite's Empire Auto offered Skee-ball, billiards and ping pong alongside free T-shirts and iPhone cases (courtesy of a Griffin booth manned Nashville’s own drum machine Simon Lynn). The trusty Steve Cross held my place in line at the PureVolume House while I caroused the convention center’s trade show grabbing every type of useless SWAG imaginable.
Shortly after the episode above, I found myself groggy, disillusioned and hurting for sobriety. I mean. Can I really complain about the influx of freeloaders in this piece when I myself drove 900 miles to become part of the problem?
After a short regrouping, I scammed my way into the Panache showcase where Nashville and a select few Bruise Cruise alumni were in full effect — but your official correspondents already have that covered.
I type to you now from the comfort of the Fader Fort’s blue room — an oasis so remarkable it deserves its own post. TTYL, Creamers.