We splurged and got badges to preclude any worries ever about lines, stamps, wrist bands, excessive crowds and alcohol consumption.  For many reasons, we were right; in some ways, however, we could have done without because as every seasoned SXSW regular knows, the day parties are way cooler, shit's free everywhere anyway and if they gave us anymore free Dentyne Ice, my tongue would have turned numb, in a minty fresh sort of way.  Though I loved the Ice Cream Man, the generous truck that cruised around Austin, giving away delicious ice cream bars and those awesome Froz-Fruit strawberry ice things that I ate enthusiastically at every opportunity. 
I also wish to point out that drinking during the day was highly encouraged by the impeccable porta-potties -- pale pink for girls and pale blue for boys -- that graced every outdoor venue and event.  They were clean, smelled lovely and even had those hand washing stations conveniently placed just outside the door. 
When we first arrived at Ben's, he showed us this huge 70s blue bus parked in front of his neighbors' house that said "How's Your News" on it in big, white, bubble letters.  Then I noticed a group of people holding news cameras and microphones, all of whom seemed to be either mildly or severely mentally disabled.  Each person in the group wore a "How's Your News" t-shirt, a perfect blue baseball tee that looks like those rad numbers they wore in old Tootsie Roll commercials.  I saw these folks around town and at a brilliant day party.  Turns out they are all part of a documentary where the reporters have mental and physical disabilities. They also take part in a special camp called Camp Jabberwocky for people with such problems. They love to laugh and laugh at themselves all the time.  I wish I had a chance to speak with them more, especially the really cute, curly haired boy who smiled excessively and always asked passersby how they were doing with the most sincere interest.  I heard they are funny, crazy and completely easy going about everything.  I would have had many questions to pose.

Dude from Lightspeed Champion with his own "How's Your News tee"

When I came back home, I ordered a t-shirt off their website.  It's blue with white stripes on the sleeves and a red number 8 on the back left shoulder.  It says "How's Your News" on it in white bubble letters on the front, obviously. 

It’s February 29, 2008, the third leap year day that I can recall.  The first was in 9th grade; I realized it was a once in four year thing in Mr. Furlogh’s world history class.  The subsequent was Freshman year of college, the one after that I don’t remember, and now this one.  I’m at jury duty, serving my country’s system of justice and democracy in a room full of scumbags.  They’re scumbags because it’s really early, and the entire room resonates with coughs, ranging in scale and dimension – from dry and shallow ones to deep and mucus filled ones – varying in duration and repetition.  

Ok, so I admittedly had no other images to post. But whatever, this show ruled!

What a strange way to select a jury of my peers.  They are in no way my peers.  Half barely speaks English, most are older, and I have no way of telling who received a proper liberal arts education with a sufficient knowledge of the history of civil disobedience or at least Thoreau’s essay an anarchist practice.  In fact, as soon as I’m called, or however the hell this works, I plan to expound on this subject.  
We were all promised that the court would ensure our jury experience would be a pleasant one.  We watched a movie that outlined the history of juries, from the first jury in Ancient Greece as proposed by Aristotle, to its subsequent revocation by the Romans, to Medieval times when the trial by ordeal was implemented for accused individuals whereby their hands would be cut off or they would be tied up and thrown into a river; if they float, they are guilty; if they sink they are innocent.  I found the film entertaining and informative, but then I always do.  

Finally, when the sassy black man with stylish glasses asked all who do not have the February 29th, 2008 date written on their summons to step up to the podium, an extraordinary number fools obeyed because people’s capacity for stupidity is striking but not surprising.  This, however, in way posed a problem because he succinctly proclaimed that knowing how to read or write in English was not mandatory.  When the Russian interpreter repeated the speech in Russian, five conniving women jumped up, claiming they did not, indeed, possess even an elementary grasp of the language. Sly cunts.   The Russian grandmas bonded instantly, exchanging subtle smiles and nods of Soviet recognition, a tacit principle that once formed the basis of a formidable regime but is today reduced to the clever ability to circumvent the system.   

After hours of questions, inane replies, indifferent civil servants, and a lunch break after which I will finally be questioned about whether a 26 year old JAP should be allowed to claim compensation for injuries she sustained following a taxi accident in which the driver, might I add, was Russian, I decided I sympathize for these obedient system functionaries.  After all, it’s a system that has assured a relatively happy life for most of its many obedient citizens.  

Surprise, Surprise. I was not selected.  I think I like these folks after all for their conviction in the righteousness of a flawed yet inveterate system, though it’s a shame that no one is particularly clever or entertaining at these dutiful happenings.  

Isn't the idea of a trolley so quaint and precious?  It's like perfect lace curtains covering the sunny beams from the window of the perfect, little cottage where candy canes pave lanes and unicorns poo mint chocolate chip ice cream.  How fucken lovely. 

There you have it.  SF is very beautiful, quaint, precious.  It's like if you take the prettiest street in Park Slope, sprinkle it all over the city, add a heavy and generous dose of crack heads and piss-reeking junkies, you get SF.  I have yet to find the raisin of its perfectly golden, sweet brioche.  It will probably take some digging through the sweet fluffy interior to reach the tiny, shriveled brown perfection.   

MetroColorCollision did a show for the Frisbee Art Fair during Miami Basel back in '05 called Grandma Take Me Home about every artist's personal conception of home.  It took place at the Cavalier Hotel, a shabby, puke-orange walled structure right on the beach strip, sorta.  We asked our artists to come up with a piece that illustrates the meaning of home for them or the implications of this idea as moe than just four walls and a roof, in the ultimate simulated home -- the hotel room.

 

 The concept of home being an ambiguous one, regardless of its structure, I like that there's no trace of me in either of my parents' homes, for example.  If you have no "home" per se, then you can't go home, which gives a sort of rugged de-rootedness.  You know, like this Huck Finn orphan individuality devoid of any grounded permanence but full of some sort of tenuous freedom, whatever the hell that means, which makes taking the bus home a whole new adventure.