"Are you an official SXSW performing artist?" my lover queried. We huddled in the men's room of the Austin Convention Center, where we had retired after a long morning of festival-related bureaucracy to engage in five minutes of coital bliss.
"You bet," I replied, running my tongue across his teeth. "I uploaded my EPK to the html website www.sxsw.com, paid a small administrative fee, and, lo and behold, my application was accepted."
"Mmmm, delicious," my beau replied. He tugged at my flowing handlebar moustache. "So, that means that you have an official SXSW wristband?"
"That's right, baby," I replied, running my fingers along my macho man's abs of steel. "My SXSW wristband can get me into any official SXSW showcase. Of course, I have to wait in line with numerous other wristband holders, but I can gain entry into any official festival-related event, including - but not limited to - the H.R. Band at Emo's, the Decemberists at Stubbs, and the surprise Metallica show."
"Metallica is playing, really?" my sweet young thing asked, intently staring into my eyes. "When and where?"
"No one knows," I replied. "It's T.B.A."
"Oooh, T.B.A.," my more-than-just-friend replied, unbuckling my belt. "And I assume you have an official SXSW badge as well?"
"No," I replied.
"Wait," my boyfriend-for-five-minutes said. My pants remained frustratingly on. "What? You don't have a badge?"
"Well," I hesitated. "I do, but I lent it to my singer so she could see Tori Amos."
"Mmmm, sorry," the young stud said. He stood up and opened the door of our bathroom stall. "I only make time with badgeholders. As you are aware, badgeholders have access to shorter lines than mere wristband-wearers. Badgeholders are at the top of the SXSW feeding chain. As a badgeholder myself - the buck alluded to a popular New York music publication - "I can't waste time slumming with a mere wristbander of a lowlier caste."
"But I am a badgeholder!" I protested. "I already told you - I lent it to my bandmate so she could see Tori Amos perform 'Crucify Myself!'"
"Nice try," the bucking bronco replied, walking out of the bathroom. "But you know as well as I do - it's 2009, and no one wants to see Tori Amos."
Previously in Tangents:
- 12/28: Terrible Boyfriend/ Girlfriend Generator.
- 11/2: PHOTOS: TAXLO Halloween (feat. Chain Gang of 1974)
- 10/10: #OccupyWallStreet
- 8/10: PHOTOS: Lawn Mover Racing, Eastern Seaboard Regionals @ Bowles Farm
- 7/26: Special List: Things the BYGays Want Now That We Can Marry In DC (and NY!)
- 7/20: PHOTOS: Artscape
- 7/19: Miho Hatori's Guide to New York City
- 4/11: Cirque Du Soleil: Totem (A Review)
- 12/29: War, Reenacted
- 12/29: What in Hell is Slaughterama?!?
God loves a cheerful giver.
Justin & Stud [Scene 4: The Uncle]
The apartment. Enter a corpulent man of menacing appearance. He carries a suitcase.
Man:
Am I interrupting something?
Justin:
Hey know how to knock? Who is this absurd intruder, Stud?
Stud:
Why this is Otto, uncle from the countryside. Well hello.
Justin:
I understand you are fond of my esthetics, Otto.
Otto:
Shut up. You’ve both been very naughty and deserve severe punishment.
Stud:
Mmmmmmm. Are we to be spanked, uncle?
Otto (produces an enormous whip from the suitcase)
Surprise!
Justin:
You can’t whip me. I’m an artist.
Stud:
Indeed uncle. Do you really want to hurt us? Do you really want to make us cry?
Otto (cracks the whip):
Silence! Now lick my boots, punks. Eins zwei drei!! Shnelle!
Justin:
Javohl, mein fuhrer!
Curtain. A musucal interlude filled with Wagnerian themes. An interval of time elapses. Curtian rises.
Otto:
I think you have been punished enough. Now where do you keep your schnapps?
Justin (eagerly):
May I prepare you a cocktail, Otto?
Otto:
Please do my boy.
Stud:
How are things in the country, uncle?
Otto:
Disturbed. Greatly disturbed. Terrible economy…
(Stay tuned for more exciting episodes of Justin & Stud )