Marfa is damn far. It sits in western Texas, about three hours from any given airport. You will drive through ghost towns of six abandoned houses, truck stops where ex-felons with face tattoos stand around while the local bodega owners cannot direct you to any other destination. I always wanted to see Paris, TX and retrace Wim Wenders’ brilliant road trip. And yet, Marfa’s remote placement, desert setting of rolling hills, tumble weeds and expansive nothingness render it magical. 

Add the heavy dose of art world refinement, New York’s influence of good food that’s reassuringly overpriced and un-Texanly eatable and you get Marfa, a magical middle-of-nowhere destination where west coast hippies smoke weed with east coast art fags.

After the weekend Chinati and Judd Foundation tours where, as I did, you might run into a Brooklyn buddy, you can ride a hefty cruiser around town where the major point of reference is the blinking red light. Drinking my way through the afternoons, I met gay neo-liberal bikers from Florida, starved neo-nihilist artist/models from New York, life-loving vegan chefs from Northern Cali and even a few local punk-rockers-cum-career-waiters, or something to that effect.

And if you’re lucky like I was, you can see Joe Jack Talcum from the Dead Milkmen play a house party in the middle of town, replete with every local ever, obviously; you’ll dance your ass off to “Punk Rock Girl” because you know that’s all you really remember and he’ll still play it because Marfa has this secret way of sealing in time and making little things just make sense.  We’ll travel round the world/ just you and me/ punk rock girl. Or just stay in Marfa for a hot minute or a few months between Brooklyn and Silver Lake.

The lower 9th ward is basically a post-apocalyptic vortex. The remnants of life – foundations from houses that once stood there, barred churches, heaps of trash and sundry puddles – are a modern-day Pompei except unlike Pompei, the civilization that existed still remains, albeit worn and defeated. We were driving around looking for whatever remains of the Prospect 1 installation. The Brad Pitt houses were an impressive intrusion onto the barren landscape. We saw a parked pick-up truck with teenagers sharing a mickey of whiskey in the middle of the day. We drove over dilapidated roads and forlorn shrubs, passing an destroyed school, abandoned homes and various signs that described the particular murder that occurred on that very spot.
We parked by the levee and stared out onto the low water, sitting on the low barrier that leads to this bleakly peaceful death beach. There wasn’t even any graffiti to attest to someone’s marks of presence. I became very panicky. The incessant stories of murders, muggings, pistol whippings and car jackings exacerbated my growing stress level. I pretended it was because I was heart-broken over this scene that ‘s shockingly displaced for this country. All things I’ve heard before. But the truth is, I was scared shitless for my pathetic ass, thinking, probably not without an unwarranted sense of self-entitlement, that my life is somehow better and bigger than this. And that’s the crux of the problem: I’m a selfish, smug coward willing to do my part but only when it fits into my zone of acceptable discomfort. We’re so predictably weak.

Now, by bus I'm not talking about the 10 hour Greyhound journey that culminated in a broken motor at the border from where I then had to take a $90 cab to Montreal, no, I mean the amazing convenience of rideshares, the anti-bus, completely anonymous encounters that serve no other purpose than to bring two perfect strangers together in one vehicle with the common goal of a singular destination.  

Montreal is full of contemporary pragmatism and thoughts of Leonard Cohen whose wisdom has earned him the right to charge upwards of $200 in his quest for the solace of salvation except that "even damnation is poisoned with rainbows," remember?

Thank you, Montreal, for being there when Paris can't and New York no longer wants to.

I went to New Orleans because American culture is this nebulous area that always fascinates me through its, well, vapid, pre-fabricated efficiency.  And yet, this one place is like a little unit of tenacity where people are so happy to be just be there, again, alive, almost well, that they open up and welcome you and all your annoying presuppositions and fussy needs.

Did you know, for example, that the original Blind Mellon bee girl, the one on the cover of the album, worked at Cafe Feelings in Marigny where her large, framed portrait still adorns the wall, right above that of Marylin? Or that the Ursuline Convent on the outskirts of the French Quarter may still house vampires in the attic when they were brought over in wooden cases by young girls to help tend to the sick during a yellow fever epidemic? 

Well, I learned all about it, along with Muffeletta sandwiches, regular and frozen Hand Grenades, a delectable drinks that combines ten different liquors in a giant plastic cup with a grenade-shaped bottom or the ever popular Hurricane (Rum, corn starch, high fructose corn syrup, red 40). 

I also learned that even no matter how severe the destruction and destitution, a sunny disposition can be served up with a heavy cream sauce and a large, friendly smile. 

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.