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Last batch of random photos of South by Southwest music fest. About the Missouri (?) tattoo: That state’s little dongle at the end doesn’t make it interesting enough for a tattoo (for” interesting,” see Texas). And the color? The big-bearded guy listening to electro-pop didn’t look like a red-state Republican. But I didn’t ask questions. I try not to talk to people fervent enough for that tattoo (and skulls, above it).

Stay tuned for the Bangles at SXSW. They’re all around 50 and still rocking, with a funny splash of irony.

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Quirky views of SXSW, arguably the world’s largest music festival (several thousand bands play in a week). We’re loaning blog space to music writer Dean Carrell, who had leftover, funny photos. More coming soon.

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Whiskey, Revelation & Demolition

An epic wherein our hero encounters criminal football, kilts, haggis and whiskey:

Like many fairs, the Dublin (OH) Irish Festival had a demolition derby, except all the crashes occurred during Aussie & Gaelic rules football. (Yes, On a day off, I attended a fair.)

What are these sports, and what’s the difference? They both resemble rugby, but maybe with more running. Aussie football was invented by criminals; it uses a football-shaped ball. The less interesting Gaelic football uses a round ball, which has more dependable bounces so there’s less tackling, blocking and general mayhem to recover an errant ball. BTW, there are female and co-ed teams — it’s considered impolite for a 220-pound guy to flatten a woman.

Amidst uncommon numbers of redheads, Celtic tattoos and kilts, the fest also had haggis and a whiskey tasting. (What is haggis? See below.)

At the fest, I learned that most Bushmills whiskey is underwhelming. But I did formulate a life-guiding principle (without the aid of whiskey): I will not wait in line for haggis. There’s a lot of “haggis” and other stuff that’s not too bad but not worth the time.

Browsing the kilt stores gave me new respect for my son’s friend, Coen, who wore a kilt almost constantly for awhile, A kilt costs at least $50; even costlier is the camoflauge kilt (one of Coen’s favorites) — it didn’t disguise the fact he was wearing a kilt. My favorite: the $150 leather Utilikilt (with all its pockets and loops, it’s like Batman’s tool kit as a skirt).

Footnote: Haggis is made of boiled, minced organs, suet, oatmeal and seasonings. Scotland has a distillery every 15 feet so they don’t care what they eat.

Just another day: demolition derby, waterfalls, cleats, mean clown, pierogies, etc.

Actual good news from Disaster Dave. Here’s his good day, sometimes they happen:

Saw 11 waterfalls on a 6-mile hike in spectacularly nice weather. (Won’t describe something you can’t get.)

In a nearby town, finally found inexpensive, high-top, turf cleats (it’s a big deal, trust me).

While watching fireworks at the fair, had homemade pierogies from a church’s food stand. (Won’t describe something you can’t get.)

Great demolition derby: Cars had speed and traction on the lightly watered track (it’s a big deal, trust me). Three flash fires. Drivers with an unusual urge to crash head-on. One car blows smoke rings through its hood pipes.

Nice conversation with the dunking tank’s Insult Clown (more on that later).

Worked an entire 4 hours.

And it wouldn’t be a day without (near) disaster: 5 minutes late to the first show (thank you, overly ambitious hiking plans and highway bridge painters). Then the mobile unit’s batteries died — persuaded kids to push it two blocks. But the puppet had to jabber 50 minutes in the mobile, then 25 minutes during the show. Thumb-tastic.

Drove home to a symphony of Appalachians, full moon and clouds.

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Thirteen and beautiful?

Kids, especially tweens, often want to drive the mobile unit that the puppet “drives.” My standard lines include, “No, you’re too young to die” or “No way, look what it did to me. I look like I’m 90, and I’m only 17” or “You’re too handsome to risk your looks in this wreckmobile.”

I’m outside the mobile unit, firing off these one-liners in a small, loud crowd of tweens, who are eventually deterred by my blizzard of blather. As the crowd moves off, a quiet voice, suddenly beside me, says, “Do you think I’m too pretty to risk my looks driving the mobile?” I turn, and there she is. Probably 13, at that cusp where her teenage looks could go horse-faced or high cheekbones. Her wide, questioning eyes seek reassurance, even from a random old guy who had just indiscriminately used compliments as jokes.

My standard answers wilt in this suddenly serious occasion. So I slow down, and I look at her. Is this another kid needing reassurance and acceptance from a father figure? Some such kids have bottomless needs. Next I wonder if she’ll believe me if I say she’s pretty. After all, I had called some guys “handsome” when “humanoid” would have been more accurate.

From the blur of verbiage flying through my brain, I wing-shoot an answer that flops clumsily into place. “Oh, anyone your age shouldn’t take such horrible risks. (Did I just pause too much?) But yes, you’re much too fine a person to drive …”

Later, I try to remember, “Did I ever say she’s pretty?” It would have been so easy. But apparently not.

Carnie puppet surfaces

I will be unsatisified with this post later. It’s 10:45 pm. I haven’t eaten supper, and my toaster oven cooked the rice oddly. “Boil” is not a concept the oven recognizes, as in “boil rice.” I’m hoping half-cooked rice will not make me swell up like some Hotei “happy Buddha” statue.

And thus begins the first blog entry tracking the glamorous tour of Carnie Puppet and friends. (Don’t worry. I won’t whine all the time.) So far, it’s been several days each at the rich suburb outside Chicago, the forgettable town in Wiconsin, and the small town in IL, where everybody is soooo nice. This county fair’s president said, “We want you to have a good time, too.” Before fainting from shock, I told him, “As long as they don’t throw BIG rocks, I’ll have a fine time.”

The fair folks did help me set a personal record: connecting my electricity 5 minutes after the first scheduled showtime. And of course nothing for the stage worked. After the requisite amount of frantic flailing to appease the audio god, I got sound, but not in the right speaker. And the torrential wind produced by a major prop was just a gentle breeze. The fair had hooked me to a bad breaker box. Wheeeee.

All this beats my previous record: Getting electricity, for the first time ever for the stage, 15 minutes before show time. The left speaker was dead. All the sound board settings wrong. During the show, I tried to plug a major prop into dead outlets twice before I hit electricity. That involved plugs that need 4 switches each to gain the precious electron flow. Sort of breaks the electrifying pace of the show. (I did not wire this ancient, often-modified trailer/stage.) So the puppet had to ad lib a lot. But isn’t life just one giant ad lib?

Why haven’t I posted earlier? One fire-ant bite won’t make you nuts, but 100 bites will. A million technical fixes and details at the start of the tour sucked my time. Plus I’m fighting New Cable Disease: Anytime I get access to new (motel) cable channels, I regain consciousness after hours, drool hanging off my chin, my thumb autonomically, compulsively clicking through the channels.

Stayed tuned. A flood, well maybe an amble, of posts to come, including the $150 meal with microscopic portions, featuring the edible cigar.

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