I’m a quiet guy, I keep to myself and prefer a dark empty bar to pretty much anything. But, I guess that doesn’t really work in Texas. I’m pretty sure I invited a couple of bands to crash at my pad the next time they’re on tour. I think I was adopted by a really sweet family, puked in my new friend’s guest bed and offered the valet guys at my hotel a beer from my six-pack.
Maybe things got a little out of control. Eating at every place I’ve seen on episodes of Man vs. Food or Diner, Drive-ins and Dives was only the beginning of my excesses. My concern about liquor not being sold until noon on Sundays was unfounded and left me near death at the airport bar explaining to a very inquisitive lady what Michael Azerrad’s Our Band Could Be Your Life, was all about. In the end it all worked out well. I shot some pictures, ate a lot of food and drank too much. I’m glad that no one took a swing at me, I wasn’t arrested and I wasn’t hospitalized for heat stroke or liver failure. As I drank a tiny bottle of Glenrothes on the plane back to California I reflected on my week in the Lone Star State and thought to myself, “America, Fuck Yeah!”
Still, I do wish I could remember the names of the bands I saw.