SXSW 2009: Welcome to Austin, Spend Your Money, Then Go Home

Now is that any way to behave at a rock and roll concert?

Jim Morrison, The Doors, “Absolutely Live”

No, indeed. There’s just certain ways to behave at a rock show. Of course, Jim may not have been so right about that plan to get fat, grow a beard, produce an insipid album of poetry, move to Paris and die in the bathtub after using heroin. Even Keith Richards thinks that plan may not have been well thought out.

Anyway, like Jim said, there’s a right way and a wrong way to behave at a rock show, but sadly, many of you seem not to know it. The plague of van-driving guitar strangler groups, recording industry swine, hipster dufuses, and directional school spring breakers known as South By Southwest once again is poised to blight the People’s Republic of Austin, making this an opportune time to review the rules for concert and festival going. Actually, the cash-in-on-the name movie and interactive festivals have already begun, and with them the proliferation of twenty-something slackers garbed in black, mobbing Jo’s Coffee and squirrelishly darting across traffic to get to the next event on the day’s agenda. Austin already is awash with B- and C-level celebrities, industry events, faux ninja-dressed Yankees and Californians, and smug Austin Chronicle self-aggrandizement. But hey, if it weren’t for hucksterism, you couldn’t have art now could you? Signed, Andy Warhol.

Everyone knows just how much I love SXSW, having long sung its praises. But like Sondheim, observing that art is an attempt to bring order out of chaos, I feel compelled to remind all of you visitors that this is not Vietnam, this is a festival. There are rules. These rules protect us, the locals, and you, the visitors, by keeping us from wanting to run you over with our pickup trucks.

Basically, the two rules are that you need to act like a guest, and plan ahead. Don’t put us out or impose on us to the point where we have to go vigilante on you. These two basic principles have many applications.

As you move about the streets from club to club, don’t dart out in front of traffic to cross the street. There’s plenty of cheap beer wherever you’re headed, and another band's going to come on stage when this one stops. Don’t roll up on us and ask where Sixth Street is, or South Congress. Some place more obscure? OK. But dammit, find out where a town's main attractions are before you go. Like life, have some rudimentary idea where you’re headed before you start. Would you stop someone on Columbus Avenue and ask where Central Park is? Probably not, well, not successfully at least. That’s what the guidebook you should have brought is for. Likewise, know where the gig is before you leave your hotel or your buddy's van. Don’t cut across private property, particularly people’s yards, and don’t lead the parade down streets with your 12 best friends from Seaside Heights or East Hanover. Don’t roll into private businesses asking to use their bathrooms, and if you should happen upon some free to the public restrooms, don’t move in. Don’t clog restaurants to the point where a place that normally takes 10 minutes to get a table turns into two hours. People-nothing is worth waiting two hours for, and there’s probably another place just as good that’s not a two hour wait. Don’t pack our own bars (particularly those that aren’t on the SXSW list), and if you do feel obliged to crash, leave your slurred boasting about your own hometown for another time. I’m talking to you, Southie guy. No one wants to hear about Jonathan Papelbon or how the Sox are going to be a wicked pissa this year. Leave our women alone too. If you want to work your game on another festival-goer, go right ahead. That’s just “assumption of the risk.” But leave non-combatants alone, kind of like the proverbial farmer’s daughter. Do not engage in spontaneous celebrations or demonstrations out of character with where you are. No mass high-fiving, jiving, and profiling when you’re standing in line at Popeye’s. I don’t care how cool you look playing the bongos Mom gave you for your 15th birthday that you brought for the trip. And lay off the cell phones. No one thinks you’re calling your office back in LA, and for the most part, wouldn’t care if you were.

Going to and from the festival sites also implies certain additional rules. Don’t stand around clogging the way selling your crap, which probably violates copyright laws anyway. Don’t wear stupid costumes or outfits. The music festival hasn’t started yet and I’m already done with the hordes wearing all black. Look, I know you think you're so Joey Ramone, but you really look like someone that got kicked out of a Cheap Trick cover band. To that end, don’t go native on us either. I know you’re dying to cowboy up with those “genuine” cowboy boots you bought at a gift shop in the American terminal at DFW, but leave the boots in your hotel room. Joe Pesci in My Cousin Vinny thinks you look ridiculous. Don’t wander in and out of traffic. That’s a real street and those are real cars, not a video game. When driving, don’t slow to a crawl at every downtown intersection so you can read the street sign, turning a long line of cars behind you into your own modern wagon train. No careening across three traffic lanes so you won’t miss that turn. In a parking garage, it is permissible to go faster than five miles per hour, and spaces aren’t going to magically open up if you go slow enough-this isn’t the Hackensack Bloomie’s outlet and the rest of us have somewhere to be.

And for God’s sake, Corey Hart wanna-bes, I don’t care how cool you are, don’t wear your sunglasses at night.

So if you’ll just follow these very simple rules, we’re all going to get along just fine. Welcome to Austin!

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Tonight as I wrote this over some dinner at Central Market, I was surrounded by a ladies' "knitting circle." Are there any women over the age of 25 who don't knit? Did I miss something? And is there a transition period or do you go from "Ladies' Night" to "knitting bee" in one fell swoop? Mental image of the scene in Gone With the Wind of the ladies knitting at the table at Ashley Wilkes's house as Melanie reads aloud from David Copperfield. Life isn't nearly as exciting as it used to be.

Wildflower Update, Daylight Savings Time, Twitter, and the Decline of Western Civilization

Been very tied up on work lately, so I haven't been able to share my brilliance with you as frequently. One of these days I hope to put more time into Daily Affirmations, since it impresses the chicks and all.

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Did a round-trip to and from Houston today. Went there on SH71, came back on US290. The bluebonnets are out, though it seems a bit early. They aren't exactly thick like in years past. I've heard the drought is going to depress the wildflowers this year. Anyway, there was a modest amount of bluebonnets, and fewer buttercups, paintbrushes, and just a very few winecups, on SH71. Once you get to IH10, there's no more visible flowers. I didn't see much in the way of flowers in Houston itself, except near Memorial Park, where they always do a good job of cultivating flowers in the nature areas. Coming back on 290, the flowers begin to pick up after Sealy and are pretty good in Brenham, as you'd expect, but its still just a sprinkle, compared to the thick fields of springs past. Hopefully later this month we'll see a lot more of the treasured bluebonnet blues and red-orange paintbrushes that make Texas so beautiful each spring.

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This changing time business has got to stop. Twice a year, it gets harder and harder for me to sleep, and for several days I'm just dragging around all day. I did a little research on this. Turns out we can't blame the farmers, as I'd hoped (I had what I thought were some good "Jessica Simpson starring at the rodeo" lines now rendered useless). Turns out it was that busy-body Benjamin Franklin who dreamed it up, figuring "summer time" would save on candle usage by utilizing more natural light during the late afternoons. Then Europe followed by the US instituted it in World War I, resumed it in World War II, and the US finalized the switchover in 1966. Energy usage considerations appears to drive the debate, and there is a debate, by the way. Historically, DST proponents have urged the Ben Franklin argument-it saves energy by allowing greater reliance on natural light in afternoon hours, rather than artificial light. What did that guy know? He wanted the turkey to be the national symbol, and what was the only governmental office he held-Ambassador to France. 'Nuff said. That kite flier needs to step back. Actually, some UCal geeks did a study in Indiana recently and found that DST actually increases energy usage, because people use more air conditioning. When they get home its an hour earlier and therefore the heat of the day is still present. Naturally they went to the "we need to support Obama" card to get their point across (University of California professors wanting to help Obama by writing a New York Times op-ed piece...that's totally not cliche).

Personally, I prefer daylight savings time over standard time, because I'm usually up later so I like having more afternoon hours. But we should just find which one works better and stick with it. This time-switching business is just nonsense, and in the days of nuclear power plants, 345kV transmission lines, computers, and the internet and the like, has no legitimate justification.

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What the hell is Twitter, and more importantly, how does it help our lives? Let me answer my question. Twitter is an on-line service for people to enter one-line updates about their current "status." The Facebook Monolith has a similar functionality, in which you can enter your status on your profile page. Twitter allows you to enter your status; the Twitter web site gives examples of "eating soup," "running late to a meeting," and "partying." Entries are called "tweets," which totally sounds like something a bunch of Cal State Northridge guys thought up between bong rips. Twitter explains that "with Twitter, you can stay hyper–connected to your friends and always know what they’re doing." Now that the Bush Administration has concluded, formerly amusing comic strip Doonesbury is left without much to talk about and is trying to return to the funny. Trudeau has satirized Twitter recently with great success. Twitter is slowly making inroads to popular culture, the next symptom of the Great 21st Century Information Overload Epidemic. My cave is looking better and better.

Look, don't anyone take this the wrong way, but for the most part I couldn't care less what you do during your day. I don't care if you're eating soup, or drinking coffee, or moving from the den to the living room, or if you just got back from Home Depot. Tell me quickly if you ran into Catherine Zeta-Jones at Home Depot, or won the lottery, or were trampled in a yak stampede. Otherwise, just assume you need to keep some of your juicy news in reserve so we'll have something to talk about the next time we awkwardly run into each other at the grocery store or at a wedding or funeral. Let's not totally ruin the mystery between us. If you get to the point in life where you're hanging on to my next update to find out if I got a refill on my diet coke, you, my friend, need a hobby (or maybe a date).

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The Decline of Western Civilization:

Paul Blart: Mall Cop has earned $133 million in gross revenues.

Somewhere, the "Hey Vern" guy is cursing his bad timing, and Billy Wilder spins in his grave.

So You Think I'm Weird?

Everyone I know thinks I'm the weirdest person they know. In Austin, that's saying a lot. "You don't let anyone in your house." "You don't have a blackberry." "You don't ever drink." "You work all the time." "You won't let people hug you." "You like the Moody Blues." "You don't think divorced women should use their wedding china." "You go on vacations by yourself." "You're a lawyer." "You're Baptist."

But consider some other weirdoes, like the ones I found out about tonight.

1. Mel Kiper. ESPN NFL Draft analyst and Chris Reeder look-alike (see photo above), this guy has never, in his entire life, signed a personal check, and he eats pumpkin pie for breakfast every morning. These days I guess you can avoid writing checks by paying bills on line, or even wire transferring larger sums. But before the internet, how did this guy pay his house note? Did he load up a wheelbarrow with twenties and roll down to the local bank? Maybe send 25 sacks of pecans and some Jack in the Box coupons instead? And on the pumpkin pie, dude, its an "apple" a day, not a pumpkin, much less pumpkin pie. Augustus Gloop thinks that's messed up.

2. At Gregory Gym tonight, on the UT campus, I went into the powerlifting room at the weight training area to do some stretching, and what sight should I behold but a 5' 2", 180 lb. apparently Samoan woman of about 19 or 20 who had taken off her shorts, and in her blue bikini panties (I think they had a nice yellow flower design on them but my eyes began to sting before I could tell for sure) was struggling with a friend's help to put on one of those body supporting rubber suits. This woman apparently had no problem with stripping down to her panties right there in front of everyone in the gym. That's just wrong. Somewhere, writhing in ecstasy, Kimberly's old roommate Lottie remains unimpressed, however. (I know there's only about 10 people in the world who would get that joke, but trust me its one of the funniest things I've ever said).

3. Later at Whole Foods (shocker), I observed another woman, this time of about 24 or 25, at the book aisle, reading one of the books aloud, to herself. She had on a pink summer dress over a turquoise top, white knee length athletic socks with a pink stripe at the top with the letter "P" in the middle, pink ballet shoes, pink wrist bangles, white fingerless "sock gloves" and a pink purse. While reading aloud, to no one but herself, she was turning back and forth, left and right, side to side, as she read. She was there, reading (aloud) quite awhile; maybe 10 minutes. Words fail me. Normally at story time, you include all the other kindergartners. I should have asked if she was a law student. But I was afraid, very afraid.

So, I may be a weirdo, but at least the sky is still blue in my world. Not like these freaks.

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Yours truly was honored with "Funniest Comment of the Month" on the Z Report Blog: http://blogs.chron.com/fantasyfootball/2009/02/albert_haynesworth_will_be_a_w_1.html#comments

Maybe that's not much, but it sure made me feel like a hundred bucks.


Well, I'm off now to look for pumpkin pie and a book.

Flew In From Miami Beach BOAC

And man, I did have a dreadful flight. I sat next to this couple that spent the whole time eating “Cheese-Its” and snuggling. Ick.

As previously advertised, I just spent a long weekend in Miami, illegal immigration and cocaine capitol of the world. Bottom line, its worth about one weekend, tops, and don’t go out of your way to go there. See it once, then move on to something else.

Thursday, I attended a West Palm Beach charity luncheon featuring Terry Bradshaw as guest speaker. Because that’s how I roll. He was introduced by the new congressman for that district, one Tom Rooney. Yeah, those Rooneys. Being a former die-hard Houston Oiler fan, it was pretty tough to take all the Steeler worship in the air. You know what Terry, Mike Renfro caught the ball in bounds and its still a touchdown. Bradshaw gave an extended monologue version of his wacky Fox pre-game show hijinks with Howie and Jimmy. Basically the message was, “enjoy being alive and smile.” Other than the five minutes’ worth of bitter hatred for his ex-wife and not making what Ben Roethlisberger makes, thrown in at no extra charge, it was a cotton candy speech. Terry, you and your boys may have cheated to beat the Oilers and win Super Bowls, but people still remember your star turn in Cannonball Run and not being able to spell "cat" if you're spotted the "c" and the "t."

From there it was on to the I-95, which seems to be the dorsal spine of the East Coast, to head south for an hour and a half to Miami, Florida, home of sunshine and drug lords. To call the drive boring is something of an understatement. Imagine the Gulf Freeway between Telephone Road and Nasa Road 1 going on for 50 miles, and that’s what you get. Along the way you see signs for towns whose only claim to fame is having been destroyed by hurricanes. What do these people do the rest of the time? Board their windows? Clean up storm debris? Kill looters? Life’s tough when you’re just waiting for the next disaster to strike.

After arriving at the hotel downtown and being checked in by 6 foot desk clerk Oksana, who apparently has the reception desk stint at the Four Seasons while waiting for her modeling or event hosting career to take off (but who apparently has left her mail order husband), I hit the fitness center. Short of the Houstonian, this is the best hotel fitness center I’ve ever been to. The club is open to the public, which has led to three types of people working out there: (1) hotel guests (easily spotted by their wintry pallor and flab overabundance); (2) chaches (training to look good for their real estate or four star restaurant executive assistant gig); and (3) insanely hot latin babes from Planet Playboy. I’m not so sure South Florida hasn’t passed LA as cosmetic surgery capitol of the world. Even so, this was as good as it got all weekend, babewise, and Miami’s real finest still couldn’t compete on a Saturday night at Randol’s in Lafayette or in the stands at Death Valley for an LSU home game. Funny no matter how many places I go, the daughters of Evangeline still reign supreme. The rest of the night was pretty uneventful-dinner at chain restaurant Oceanaire downtown, and a brief walk down Biscayne Boulevard where it becomes painfully obvious that Miami has succumbed to condo culture. Everywhere you turn, you see another 30 story high rise. Maybe its my skewed Texas perspective (Like the parent of the kid in the marching band convinced he was the only one marching the right steps, I prefer to think we’re normal and everyone else is out of whack), but I can’t understand this need to coop oneself up in concrete towers, depending on an elevator as a lifeline to nature and a sealed window as a constant reminder of being pigeonholed. Oh, and you pay twice as much for the “security” involved. Three guys in sports coats with walkie talkies. Give me a home…..

The next day, Friday, after getting hit $30 for a breakfast not quite as good as the half as costly Hilton buffet from yesterday and a $15/day internet access charge (free internet access at Motel 6, not the Four Seasons?), I discovered that the “cold front” the TV weather models had been warning of had blown through. Around here, a cold front apparently consists of anything below 75 degrees. It would get up to about 70 by mid-afternoon, but it was breezy, so don’t forget the wind chill factor. Leaving the hotel, I notice several Miami cops wearing fatigues talking to a phalanx of Hispanic guys in dark suits and ties with lapel pins standing around three or four black Lincoln town cars, and assume some on-the-take despot or his surrogate is a fellow hotel-mate.

Miami is really a collection of neighborhoods and small towns. Miami fronts Biscayne Bay. To the east is Miami Beach, which like Padre Island is an elongated barrier island, with several towns including “Miami Beach.” Key Biscayne (anyone remember Bebe Rebozo?) and several other smallish islands lie to the south of Miami Beach in Biscayne Bay. Immediately south and southwest of Miami proper are Coconut Grove and Coral Gables. Other little towns and neighborhoods like Hialeah, Miami Springs, Homestead, and Pinecrest ring Miami but for the most part where one stops and the other starts is indiscernible.

My first stop is Little Havana. The hotel concierge, who appeared to be Cuban, warned against getting out of my car while there, but having already braved Igauzu, Argentina (not to mention Galena Park, Texas) and having not shaved for a couple of days due to a 24 hour bout with fever, I figured I’d be ok. I anticipated a sprawling area with obvious Cuban influence and cultural markings, and while I did see some of that, the area is not nearly as large or as Cuban as one might think. Its not quite a sham like Little Italy in New York, but neither is it an overwhelmingly Cuban area. I did see a smallish fenced off area near an alley where some old guys were playing dominoes, but for a beautiful Friday morning with early Spring in the air, I expected more. Where were all the guys in wife beaters and linen shirts smoking cigars and wearing hats? So much for stereotypes. The area does cover about 20-30 blocks, with small tract houses often painted with bright colors. Though the area in no way is “blighted,” its clearly not that affluent. There’s one main street (“Calle Ocho”) with a lot of commercial establishments—think resale shops, convenience stores, cigar shops, and beauty parlors/barber shops. Some of the main cross streets have been named after US Presidents with Cuban connections—Ronald Reagan, Theodore Roosevelt, and John F. Kennedy.

From Little Havana I drove to the other side of town, which may have been the other side of the world. Coconut Grove is to Miami what Park Place is to Monopoly. Lush, palm-lined streets with numerous impressive mansions overlooking the bay. I stopped in Kennedy Park and followed a smallish trail leading to the water past several trees with coconuts. Hence, “Coconut Grove” I imagine. Coconut Grove lacks much in the way of commercial development, which separates it from, say, Turtle Creek or Highland Village in Dallas, but it does have one interesting area, the “Coco Walk,” with several non-chain restaurants and shops. On the other hand, I noticed several “private” banking establishments dotting the streets. I’m sure they’re in no way involved with money laundering or investment scams.

From Coconut Grove I continued west to Coral Gables, which in many ways would be Boardwalk to Coconut Grove’s Park Place. Coral Gables is where they keep the Biltmore Hotel, which as I’ll describe later is probably the finest hotel I’ve ever seen. That small town has several private golf courses, numerous private schools, a huge number of mansions and mansionettes (I call them “gate houses”), the area’s botanical garden, and the University of Miami campus. This is where the real money lives. I started out looking for running socks (left mine back home), which took me near to the UM campus to a store called “Foot Works,” highly rated on the internet for running shoes and apparel. Its hard to find the particular socks I like but this store had them in stock. They’re located in a shopping area that on Sunday hosted a smallish art fair (which I drove by but skipped because my feet were killing me from Saturday’s South Beach adventure-tease). On my to the Niketown store, I passed Dan Marino’s restaurant (named after himself in a fit of modesty), and observed that the menu sucked. From there I drove through much of the town, observing the many great houses on incredible tree-lined streets. One thing about Miami and particularly Coral Gables, the trees and shrubs dominate the area; its still February but there was natural color all around (as you’ll see in the flickr pictures). Still enjoying great sunny, 70 degree weather, I head to the “Miracle Mile,” which ironically, is neither miraculous nor a mile. Its basically another shopping district. I guess if you consider a Starbucks across the street from a Houston’s miraculous, then ok. Its not a mile so much as two city blocks. The name, I think, has historical connotations. This raises the point that the city hall and many other buildings in the area have really interesting combination Spanish/roman architectural styles. They pre-date the art deco period, and appear to have been influenced by the similarly-themed Biltmore Hotel, located nearby. Unlike Houston, Miami and Coral Gables have obviously done a pretty good job of preserving older structures. From the Miracle Mile I proceeded to the UM campus. Along the way, listening the local jazz station’s latin jazz program, which played a rousing version of the “I Love Lucy” theme by Arturo Sandoval, complete with someone saying “Lucy, I’m home from the club” at the end. It was a fitting theme for the afternoon. OK, the UM campus sucks, lets just get that straight. Late 1960s/early 1970s pre-fab, functional, Warsaw Pact-style architecture. And it’s a private university so there’s not a lot of hot coed babe action to dress up the place. Think Tulane with KGB Headquarters-style buildings. The University of Houston thinks Miami has an ugly campus. What do you expect, what with Mike Brady as the epitome of the 1970s architect? That guy could barely run his own home without Ann B. Davis butting in every 5 seconds (between her 12 daily trips to the butcher, that is). Oh, and this will be my first annual plea for al Queda to take out the Pennzoil Towers, I mean, when no one’s there of course, like Christmas Day or something. They’re basically the black monolith from 2001, only uglier.

The Biltmore Hotel deserves its own paragraph. Bult in the 1890s and acquired by the Biltmore chain in the 1920s, this place is incredible. Swimming pools, movie stars, plus the most sumptuous pools, gardens, fountains, architecture and decorations, surrounded by golf courses. Because Coral Gables does not appear to have succumbed to high rise condo culture quite to the same extent as other areas of town, the hotel can be seen for many miles away. Bill Clinton stayed here early in his presidency (the 1993 pictures of he and Hillary are pretty amusing with 15 years’ distance-helmet hair and bold “fourth grade class president” outfits did Hillary no favors, even then). A small army of staff covered the place, meticulously tending to the grounds, serving guests at the pool or on the course, or performing other functions. If I ever come back here and can get approved for a loan, I’ll try to stay here.

The rest of the night was fairly uneventful. I had dinner at “Titanic Brewery” right next to the UM baseball stadium. They were playing Rutgers in the first game of the season, and I managed to sneak in a watch a couple of innings. As it was around 50 though, I bagged it and went home. Miami won 6-1.

Saturday was all about South Beach, getting in my weekly long run, checking out the people on the boardwalk, and exploring the fabled Art Deco buildings. It was another spectacular day, bright all around, but a bit warm for the nine mile run I’d planned for the beach and promenade. Luckily, the constant breeze I’d noticed since arriving Thursday was even stronger, obviously near the beach (duh!). South Beach, for those unaware, was home to the Art Deco architectural movement in the 1930s and remains the most concentrated example of such style still in existence. The area still has a certain seedy, Jackie Gleason feel to it, despite obvious restoration efforts that commenced in the 1980s. In the morning hours during my run, I notice a rather conspicuous absence of dirty, disgusting Euros that one normally encounters in tourist areas such as this, no doubt attributable to the precipitous decline in the euro against the dollar (how’s it feel now, euro?). Basically, South Beach, at least that morning, was like an extensive Galveston with fewer Wal-Mart shoppers and their children (you know, 50 pound overweight 60 year old women in tube top dresses and big hats, and husbands with shorts, long dress socks and sandals, and “US Marine Corps” hats). Lots of towns in Argentina are just as nice. Tomorrow, however, driving through North Beach, I would see much more opulence in the magnificent newer hotels and the crowds frequenting them. For the run, however, along the promenade, I also began to notice an abundance of muscular, tan guys in their 20s-early 40s, usually two at a time, wearing too-tight designer shirts and sunglasses. Never a good sign, although I can live with it. As The Todd said in a recent Scrubs, “If I’m gay, why do I spend so much time at the gym?” Excellent point.

The Food Network was sponsoring the famous South Beach Wine and Food Festival that weekend, located in tents right on the beach, so as I progressed in my run, and thereafter, I noticed crowds starting to grow. Who was attending? Chaches, that’s who. Wine-sipping, three day beard having, Armani wearing chaches and their cosmetic surgery enhanced girlfriends. I’d planned to attend the festival until I found out the prices-a ticket to the main tasting tent sponsored by Whole Foods cost $212. In this economy, that’s obscene. Nice tip of the cap to the coming Great Depression II. No word on whether they let people pay for tickets with sacks of pecans like in To Kill A Mockingbird. Besides, I figure that every year, for 1/10 the price, I go to the best food festival in the world-the New Orleans Jazz and Heritage Festival. Rachael Ray can keep her blue cheese burgers with carmelized onions. I’ll take crawfish monica and Prejean’s pheasant, quail and andouille gumbo any day of the week.

After my run, I had an excellent sandwich at Portofino Deli, owned by an Italian family who appeared to all be working that afternoon. The clientele seemed predominantly euro (those people find me everywhere). I spent the rest of the afternoon walking the area. Up Ocean Drive, with its famed Art Deco hotels, crossing over to Lummus Park and the beach itself, pausing often to gawk at the beach volleyball players (I looked in vain for the topless beach that a friend promised I would find, to no avail; I was like Ponce deLeon looking fruitlessly for my own little Fountain of Youth), as far as the Lincoln Road shopping district, and back down Collins Avenue. I’m not much of a beach person, but this beach was exceedingly clean, the water was a deep, clear blue-green, and the crowds were plentiful. As the day wore on, the whole area became more crowded, and the people watching more interesting. The crowds continued to be a little more upscale than one might usually encounter in a tourist town. I also notice a discernible lack of the Cuban influence so obvious on the mainland. Here, the buildings are white, and so are the crowds. It’s a much different feel from yesterday.

After a few hours walk, my feet were pretty much toast, so I headed back to my hotel for rest, a shower, and back to South Beach for dinner (after suiting up of course). The night crowd was decidedly different. This crowd was younger (though not kids), more affluent, and appeared to be a mix of people from the festival and other more permanent party-goers. I didn’t head to the clubs in the North Beach hotels such as the Delano or Fontainebleau, but there were plenty of people prowling South Beach and the Lincoln Road bars and restaurants. I passed a table (nearly all the restaurants had outdoor seating), with several couples, and overheard one rather attractive women laying the boom on her husband/boyfriend over some remark he’d just made. I’m a veteran of many such ass-chewings and can authoritatively say that was Bob Bullock-esque in scope. The guy had that “get me the hell out of here” look on his face I know oh so well. Good times…good times. Really points out how beautiful women are just like sports cars. Oh sure, every now and then they’re good for an exhilarating ride, and people are often envious as you go by with one. But more often than not, they stall, idle, or fail to respond to urging. They’re incredibly expensive to fuel and maintain, are highly unreliable, and fail to respond to care and attention. Replacement parts and upgrades are extremely expensive. They’re subject to accelerated wear and tear. And they say mean things to you when you do something nice. Err, uh. I’ll take Mary Ann over Ginger any day.

Sunday is going home day, so by necessity I didn’t do too much. Mainly I drove around Coral Gables again, looking at some of the houses and park areas, then headed back over to Miami Beach to check out the hotels in North Beach. As I mentioned earlier, they were generally larger, newer, more opulent, and more plentiful. For over 30 blocks, they lined Collins Avenue one right after the next. I also noticed car after car after car with New Jersey license plates. Is anyone still in Newark?

One final word about the West Palm Beach airport. Its where all the white people are, and specifically, the Yankee diaspora. One only hears that ugly, northeast, grackle and IROC covered accent spoken here. “Oh my GAWD!” Archie Bunker would be right at home. Everyone here looks like Morty and Helen Seinfeld, and their arch nemesis Jack Klompus at the Del Boca Vista Condos (phase III). Flights leaving here generally go to only four places: Boston, Philadelphia, Newark, or LaGuardia. Folks, these are the people who don’t know how to vote, drive on a highway, or flee a hurricane. Yankees are like aggressive non-native species. They’re the zebra mussel of humanity. They choke off native species and flora wherever they go, leaving blight in their wake. They and their IROCs, Aqua Velva, gold chains, Vanilla Ice haircuts, wife beaters, monstrous guts, cigarette smoke-crusted necks, and ever-present New York Yankees hats foul the landscape. These people need to load up their Cadillacs with their Sunday Times, bagel and lox, and collection of acid-washed jeans, crank up their Bon Jovi cassette tape, and blaze a trail back north on I-95, and leave the South for Southerners. Same for you, Californians.

On that happy note, I’ll close.

Next-STEROIDS (one day).

Miami Vice

This is a bit late in coming, but I'm hoping that my devoted three readers (I picked up another reader since last year as part of my annual growth strategy) can give me some advice. My work takes me to West Palm Beach, Florida later this week for meetings, and I've decided to stay on through the weekend in Miami (which is about an hour or so away I guess). I've never been to Florida, much less Miami, and haven't really had any time to do any research on what there is to do over the weekend. I don't plan to do any cocaine deals, bribe any customs agents, agitate against the Castro regime, or search for the kidnapped Dolphins mascot, so I'm at a little bit of a loss on the agenda. I'm hoping that one of you two avid readers (one of the three is kind of sporadic) can point me in the right direction. Any recommendations would be very welcome.

The South Beach Food and Wine Festival is taking place that weekend, but the events look a little pricey, so it probably can't fill the whole time I'm there. I'm staying downtown, about a block from Biscayne Bay, close to South Beach. I'm figuring part of the time would be the beach, assuming the weather cooperates, and the remainder would be looking around the city.

Look for pictures on the flickr site when I get back.

Thanks for your help.

Next-honest, I swear, I'm going to write about steroids. I can feel the excitement building out there. Its coming...its coming...

Mountain Laurel is Here!

There's a lot of things I can't stand about living in Austin. Ever burgeoning slacker population. Tip jars in front of every cash register in town. Having to pay for parking everywhere you go. Hip and cool bars, restaurants, lofts, and boutiques transforming Austin into Little Dallas. The Austin Chronicle-Pravda.

But ultimately, most of the delights of Austin continue to reward those who stay. July 4th fireworks at the Lake. The Paramount Summer Movie series, music festivals, art festivals, Zilker Park/Barton Springs, the Lady Bird Johnson Wildflower Center, the Yellow Rose. [Strike that last one].

And the blooming in February of the Texas Mountain Laurel trees. They fill the air with the most incredible "grape kool aid" smell for about three weeks. I'm thrilled that as of yesterday at the Town Lake (now "Lady Bird Lake") trail, the mountain laurel has begun to bloom. For those who've never smelled the mountain laurel bloom drifting through the air on a beautiful clear day like today, you have no idea what you've missed. Its something that every Texan should experience lots of times, but at least once. Its one of the many things that really lets us and those who live in the Hill Country legitimately be able to maintain that we truly live in God's Country.

Starting later this month, and on through the middle to end of April, a perfect weekend consists of waking up in Austin on Saturday morning, having breakfast at Kerbey Lane cafe or Sweetish Hill, driving in a convertible along Texas 71 to Marble Falls, having lunch at the Bluebonnet Cafe (HAVE THE PIE), driving on up to Llano on FM 1431 to Texas 29 (stopping along the way at Inks Lake), and spending the night in Llano after eating at Coopers BBQ. The next morning, go to the grocery store and stock up, then drive south on Texas 16 to the Willow City loop for great wildflower views, then continue on to Fredricksburg and either check out one of the many wineries, the Nimitz Museum, or the stores on Main Street. Eat at the Fredricksburg Herb Farm (Sunday brunch ends by 2, so go there first). Then come home on US 290, and if you have time, pull over at the Pedernales Falls State Park to check out the falls. All along this route, you'll see incredible displays of bluebonnets, paintbrushes, coreopsis, indian blankets, phlox, mexican hats, winecups, primrose, sunflowers, and thistle. Oh, and you'll thank God that its not covered in snow even though its April.

Next-Steroids. Really. Unless I see a daisy or something, I guess.

The Super Bowl-Is There Anyone Not In a Wheelchair For the Halftime Gig?

So you're scared and you're thinking
That maybe we ain't that young anymore
--Bruce Springsteen, "Thunder Road"

All the world's a stage,
And all the men and women merely players:
They have their exits and their entrances;
--As You Like It, Act 2, Sc. 7

Let's stress, they have their exits. Namely, they need to get the hell off stage and make way for someone new. As Pete Townshend recently put it, The Who is a brand, not a band.

Recently, the NFL treated us to one of its better Super Bowls, dragged down only by the lame, middle-age guy halftime act. This has become a tradition for the Super Bowl, boring its audience to sleep during halftime with its 21st Century version of Muzak. Recent Super Bowl halftime acts have included way-way-way-far-over-the-hill-and-still-mostly-in-post-rehab-funk Bruce Springsteen, Aerosmith, Paul McCartney, Prince, U2, Sting, the Rolling Stones, and Tom Petty. Sponsorship costs? I'd kill for the Ensure concession at these things. Hey, 1975 called, it wants its music back. Who's next? I mean, as long as we're going for cultural relevance, how about Blue Oyster Cult? Or Frankie Avalon. Frankie could sing a medley of Grease hits, like "Beauty School Dropout," while guest star Patrick Swayze could sing his immortal "She's Like the Wind" from Dirty Dancing. Maybe special halftime guest host Barbara Walters could show a teary tribute to Patrick's fight against cancer (with customary soft lighting and flattering camera angles, of course). It would be a tribute to the 70s and 80s. Anything's got to be better than that Night of the Living Rock Dead the NFL wheelchairs up to the stage stumbling, coughing, drooling, and bumming cigarettes from groupies every year.

Question: why can't the most important and widely watched performance of the year include someone even faintly relevant to the 21st Century music scene? The one time when the NFL even remotely tried for an edge, it resulted in a national emergency due to the 9/16 of a second flash of one partially obscured 40 year old nipple. TV can nightly feature rape, murder, incest, and American Idol and no one bats an eyelash, but one fleeting glimpse of a breast apparently heralds the Apocalypse. Every year, the Super Bowl is the most-watched American television show. Outside of a 9/11-style event or a presidential election, its just about the last thing that the country truly comes together for. Just as the game is meant to showcase the greatest teams in the most popular American sport, the entertainment portion should likewise showcase the greatest American musicians in the prime of their careers and and their peak of creativity. Fifty years ago, similar proportions of the country watched the old Ed Sullivan show every Sunday night, and while veteran stars played the show, Sullivan always featured cutting edge artists as the biggest draws. Although Sullivan had a mass audience, he thrived by showing the latest and most important acts, and didn't try to get by on trotting out Judy Garland for the hundredth time. And it worked. Elvis, the Beatles, and the Stones hit big because they were on Sullivan. So why can't the biggest program on TV feature the greatest current stars? You know, whoever the Clash or Sex Pistols of the 2000s is.

Answer: because everyone has the wrong idea about what the Super Bowl really is. The NFL exists for the sole purpose of making money. Nothing else. Its not a charity, its not Masterpiece Theatre, and its not a public institution. Most NFL teams sell most of their game tickets, and certainly the Super Bowl is always a sellout, but by far the NFL's most lucrative revenue is its TV contract, which includes the Super Bowl on a rotating basis. The last TV contract between the NFL and the four networks (ESPN, Fox, CBS, and NBC) resulted in $21.4 billion in revenues, and that's not even counting revenues from the NFL Network, and various satellite packages such as Direct TV. The Super Bowl of course is the cherry on the cake of the NFL season, and therefore, of NFL programming. The most recent game had a 42.0 rating and a 64 share, meaning 64 percent of those watching television were watching the game, and 42 percent of those with TVs were watching. Past games have drawn as high as a 49 rating and 73 share (1987 game, SF vs. Cincinnati). But 98 million people watched, making it the second most watched television program in history.

The demographics, however, are critical to this enterprise. Among adults age 18-49, which are the ones considered to have the most spending power, the game had a 33 rating and 66 share. For adults aged 18-34, the ratings were the highest in 10 years. So the core audience is in the 30-50 age range, and is disproportionately male.

So the whole thing gets programmed that way. Anyone notice the prevalence of Danica Patrick/Go Daddy and beer commercials? Or in past years, the epic Ali Landry Doritos commercial or those of similar ilk? That's no coincidence. This may be a faulty strategy, though, as reports are that this last Super Bowl was watched by more women than any television program in 15 years.

The halftime show fits into that strategy. The NFL doesn't want its 30-50 year old male core audience leaving the show for 30 minutes and risking lower ad revenues for that break. So it goes out of its way to appeal to middle-age man, sitting in his recliner at his boss' party while the women gossip about the new trampy-looking secretary the boss just hired. You know, the guy with beer stains on the Tommy Bahama shirt his wife made him wear, looking for something to wipe the cheetoes residue from his fingers (his wife gets upset when he licks it off his fingers, which is patently unreasonable but that's for another day). 40 year old guy typically isn't interested in the latest thing, but can be persuaded to check out the Boss for the millionth time. The halftime show becomes the TV equivalent of the Summer of George from Seinfeld.

Unfortunately, that strategy deals out a huge portion of the viewing audience. The rednecks don't typically have any interest in Aerosmith or Prince (although in all fairness, they did trot out Faith Hill before the game to lip synch America the Beautiful-they should have just had her stand there for us to watch so the microphone wouldn't have obstructed our view). The brothers aren't so much into U2 or ZZ Top (go figure). Hispanics may have enjoyed Gloria Estafan, but that's about all they've had. Basically its been Up With People in different form or fashion for the entire run. Young people can't have been interested in any of these acts. Let's face it, the average 18 year old has never heard of Tom Petty, or if he has its because its in Dad's CD collection (or Grandpa's album collection).

There's another thing about this that makes no sense. For some bizarre reason, the NFL seems to feel its totally normal to find about 10,000 screaming teenagers, get them hopped up on nyquil and red bull, send them down on the field at halftime with glowsticks, and tell them to jump around like the rave scene in Matrix Reloaded til the music's over. Part of me was looking for the pig's head on a stick. What is going on there?

Happily, though, the NFL has managed to spare us some utter crap in the process. Left to their own devices, it would surely have trotted out Ashlee Simpson, fresh off her Orange Bowl success, or Clay Aiken or Pink or the Jonas Sisters or someone of similar high quality. Maybe on the whole, its better to watch a rocker with a rocker than one of these fine acts.

So maybe having the constant stream of 1970s album rock gods isn't such a bad thing after all. What channel is the Lingerie Bowl on?

Next-STEROIDS!!!