Listen kids, alcohol abuse is not big and not clever.
The night before last was a drinkers wet-dream. It started mid-morning on East 6th Street in Austin, Texas, and finished about 1am the next day.
In a nutshell, I found myself in a bar called ‘Bikinis’ (where the all-female mid-20s staff wear… well, I’m sure you can work it out).
While I was sitting at the bar teasing the barmaid, I met a really cool guy from Nashville.
And I had a few beers there.
Then I went somewhere else and had a couple there.
Then I went to the Austin Conference Centre to recharge my batteries (literally) and bumped in to a Spanish band.
They took me captive and forced me to drink a range of increasingly aggressive beers for about six hours.
Then one of the band, Luisa, felt I needed a bodyguard (as they had just released me from captivity).
And then it all got very hazy.
There was a lot more drinking.
And there were many, many bands seen.
Fortunately I have totally illegible notes to describe who I saw/heard and what I thought. Can’t think why my notes are illegible.
But that’s OK, I have a fallback, obv.
I woke up yesterday morning, after far too few hours sleep, with a mouth that resembled the floor in a Texan farmers bull-pen.
I also found myself looking at a small, tasteful tattoo of a blue butterfly.
Last night was a different kettle of fish.
I had a brilliant Mexican meal on E6th Street.
I interviewed a band promoter from Arizona.
I saw five bands.
I had two diet cokes.
And one beer.
And my notes are totes legible.
There is a moral to this tale somewhere.
I think it is: ‘Don’t drink and write notes’.