“Let’s make love,” a manly passerby offered. It was the kind of proposition one only hears on the final night of SXSW, when the festivals losers – the still-unsigned bands, the still-agentless MCs, the singer-songwriters who failed to score publishing deals and the analog synthesizer enthusiasts unable to scare up any soundtrack work – sought solace in the warmth of an anonymous strangers’ bodies. All the festival’s rejects had gathered at the corner 6th St. and Red River at 2 a.m. outside the Daniel Johnston show at Emo’s where, unbelievably, a doom metal band was just starting its set, trying to inspire exhausted passerby with pseudo-erotic gyrations, the banging of heads bedecked with unwashed hair, and the display of sweaty skull tattoos.

“I’m in no mood for love,” I admitted. “I’m just too damn tired.”

“Too tired?” the young buck queried. “Too tired even to make the beast with two backs?”

“My own exhaustion surprises me, but is very real,” I explained. “I’ve seen 1,000,000 bands in 4 days. I – a mere bard, a humble artist, a writer of tunes and a singer of songs – have trudged the streets of this hardscrabble country town – 4th Street, 5th Street, 6th Street, Red River, Colorado, Neches, Nueces, Lamar Boulevard, et cetera, et cetera – regarding more musical aesthetics than my ears can handle and eating more overpriced Whole Foods salads than my body can process. Echo and the Bunnymen. Exene Cervenka. Wavves. PJ Harvey and John Parish. AIDS Wolf. No Age. Tori Amos. Neil Diamond. My head hurts. My ears hurt. My heart hurts. My feet hurt. My ass hurts. I’ve smoked 1,0000 cigarettes. I’ve stuffed my intestines with 7,500 street vendor hot dogs, yet, somehow, I’m hungry. I’ve watered my parched throat with 13,000 Vitamin Waters and Jack and Cokes, but, somehow, I’m thirsty. I, not entirely unlike Christ, have been crucified on the Cross of 1,000 rock and roll shows.” I sighed and shook my fist at the heaves. “God – my Father – why have you forsaken me in this cursed Valley of Infinite Sound?” I demanded of the Creator.

“But what of love?” asked the young stud. “What of dreams?”

“Dreams come in many shapes and sizes,” I replied. “Now, my dream is to sit in my motel room and watch National Treasure 2: Book of Secrets – yes, that acclaimed 2007 film starring Nicolas Cage, Jon Voight, Ed Harris, Harvey Keitel, and Helen Mirren – on demand.”

“May I join you?” my macho man inquiered.

“Why…why yes,” I replied. “After all, this could be the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”

Previously on…