As 4 a.m. rapidly approaches, I am in pain. My legs hurt. My right knee is doing its thing, which is to tense up and not want to bend. My right shoulder, which I broke playing hockey, is doing its thing, which is to uncomfortably make a loud "POP" about every five minutes. I worked what tiny little bit of an ass I have right off tonight.

Recently I have been reading Alison's anecdotes about her waitressing job, and they have amused me. She hasn't been doing it very long, (waitressing that is. Swimming pools, movie stars,) and she seems to get a kick out of the trivialites of human behavior that you witness when you serve things to people for a living. I am amused by her observations because they are completely common and recognizable to me, like old t-shirts that I wear even though they're not cool, or even very clean. I have become, much to my mother's chagrin, a professional. I am in the Bar Biz.

For a long time, I was a writer, studying and struggling to get published and make it one day. I was determined to be an artist, but was never in love with the romance of the starving artist. I need to eat. I also need to play, and pay bills, and have a decent car and nice clothes and I am addicted to music and movies. In other words, I gotta have cashflow, baby. It's all about the benjamins, beeatch. So, I got into bartending.

Guess what? I absolutely LOVE IT. (Mom, quit reading right now.)

I really do. I have a blast at work. Some people go out, party, do the town, have a great time. I HOST their parties, I AM their good time. It's great for feeding my ego, which has an appetite like a sumo wrestler. Everyone wants to know the bartender, everyone want to feel connected, everyone wants a "hook-up". I meet 10 new single women a day. I make new friends nightly. I have a high energy level because everyone wants in on my action. I get to people watch, I've heard every sob story and dirty joke on the planet, and I never seem to get bored with it. It wears me out, physically sometimes (like tonight, when my club sold over $10,000 in beer and liquor only, and did it all in less than 6 hours), but I get home and I am so pumped on adrenlaine I can't sleep right away. I am the manager now too, so I have more new friends, more connections, more responsibility, and more worry than ever, and I just can't get enough.

These kinds of jobs are supposed to be temporary. (Old joke, someone asks what you do for a living and you say "I'm a bartender" and they respond, "So you're an actor, eh?" and you say, "Nope. I'm a writer. Actor's aren't smart enough to do what I do, they wait tables.") I recently heard about a local musician I know who has a bartending gig somewhere, and instantly wondered if he were any good at it. I know he can play and sing. He's great, check him out if you get a chance, but can he do what I do? Really REALLY good bartenders are hard to come by. I am the best you'll ever see, and I'm learning to run the whole show now, taking things in new more exciting directions.

Am I still a writer? Absolutely. You're reading my words right here, aren't you? How's my artistic soul holding up? Like a champ. Being a good bartender makes me a better writer. Being a good writer makes me a better bartender. (Mom, start reading again, and really listen this time) The two do not have to be mutually exclusive, nor do I want them to be.

So, here's the funniest joke I've heard this week. A duck walks into a bar and askes the bartender, You got any grapes?, and he says No. The next day the same duck comes in, and asks the bartender, You got any grapes?, and he says no. The next day, and every day after for a month, the duck walks in and asks the bartender, You got any grapes? and every day he says No. Finally one day the bartender has had enough. The duck comes in that day and says, You got any grapes? and the bartender says, Damn it, I don't have any fucking grapes and if you ask me that one more time I am gonna grab you and nail your little webbed feet to the bar! The next day the duck comes back and asks the bartender, You got any nails? He says, No I dont have any nails, and the ducks says, Cool, You got any grapes?

Holy Moses in a popsicle truck, Kevin got a JOB!

It would be unfair to K-dog to say that he hasn't been keeping up his share of the roomate duties, 'cause he has. Bills are piling up a bit, but it's not his fault. He wasn't some deadbeat flake sitting around the house doing nothing and living off the Government Teat. He has, however, been around. A LOT!

Like Sarah, I am happy for the man, and like Sarah, I can maybe confess to some selfish joy at the fact that I will have the house to myself during the day for a while. I work nights, he works days, so we wont see each other much and we'll both have more privacy, which is good for me since he's the first roomate I have had in five years. More than anything, this makes Kevin happy, makes him feel better, means he gets along with others better, means that I won't have to kill him for making me crazy. Thank goodness.

Who wants a popsicle?

As the time of the great endeavor approaches, I get more and more fired up. Volunteering this year is taking up more and more time. I am working on the music panels again this year, and can't wait to meet some more rock stars. Last year I met Ray Davies, and giggled like a kid when he played "Come Dancing" during the keynote speach. I shook hands with Ike Turner, who once shook hands with Elvis. (I don't want to think about what else he might have done with those hands.) But my favorite SXSW rock star story is about David Byrne, who Sarah keeps insisting is an "AAAAAAAAlien".

Last year, as part of my volunteer work, I worked on the crew that handles all the speakers for the music panels during the conference. One of those speakers was former Talking Head David Byrne. I'm a big fan, no question about it. He showed up, assistant in tow, and let me tell you the guy is a bit weird, even for a rock star. He was very gray haired, which shocked me a bit. He was very soft spoken and polite, which seemed to make sense after a while. After all, he's a talking head, not part of The Who. He wore some kind of khaki colored jumpsuit that looked like he bought it at a construction workers clothing store for about 10 bucks. He doggedly promoted his label, but not his record. He went to bat for other people, which was very cool. Unfortunately, I was a pretty busy guy that day, and didn't get to speak with him at length. However, later in the day, as I was rushing from one panel discussion to the next, I was passing through the back part of the Austin Convention Center through a section of unused booths for the music trade show. I look over, and there are David and his assistant, each enjoying a sandwich. The panelist green room had catered food and was very private, but he had chosen this strange little out of the way corner. If it's privacy he's afer, I thought, I should try not to bug him. However, making sure he was all right was a part of my job as a volunteer, so I gave him a little wave as I was passing and casually asked if he needed anything.

He looked right at me, with a mouth full of sandwich, kind of grinned, and said, "Mmmphh." David Byrne talks with his mouth full.

I assumed that meant he was fine, and went on about my day. For the rest of the conference, and in fact ever since, I always laugh when I think of David Byrne, the Chewing Head.