Every year there is this annoying debacle called SXSW (and y'all know what that means) that barges into Austin and rudely takes over the whole town and any local or seasonal activity that may have been considered. In other words, uh, sorry… everything must take a back seat until the debacle is over and all the tourists, shmoozers, music and film industry idiots gather up their laminates, hangovers, e-tickets and fly their sorry asses out of town. Goodbye, already! and please, DON'T MOVE HERE!!

One of the casualties of this onslaught is usually St. Paddy's Day. Already a magnet for amateur drinkers, it is further and hopelessly devalued beneath the tramplings of the aforementioned SXSW hoopla unless, of course, March 17 falls outside of the intruding baloney. This year (2008) it fell on the Monday immediately following the invading mob's departure and it symbolically marked the event of the locals taking back their town. Perfect. And so, from morning til late, Albert and I had four gigs that day completely uninterrupted by music biz shmoozation. The first three gigs were at restaurant/bars—nothing too grand or rousing here; typically subdued sets—but the last one was an unadulterated bar gig where the patrons like to DRINK without having to mind their P's & Q's. Fun time! And it also meant that I could have a few drinks myself. By necessity I had abstained until I didn't have to curb my behavior. It was at Lovejoy's, the bar where I work. Ralph White opened the show; we took over and did a rockin', rip-snortin' set; and then, with the help of Ralph, Tim Kerr, Heather Gilmer and a few other folks, we finished out the night in session fashion. In fact, it was the only Irish tune session that happened anywhere in town that night. Ha!

So everything's going along nicely, I've had a few drinks, the bar patrons are happy, the music's bouncing along, a few female breasts were momentarily bared, a drunken guy is dancing around the floor blissfully. The whole affair is now on autopilot and I'm a little thirsty. At this point I set down my banjo and go behind the bar to make sure all the bartenders are having shots on my tab. As we raise our glasses there is suddenly an ominous CRASH and BOOM from the bandstand, the music wobbles off the road and an inaudible sense of disaster fills the room in much the same way as the whiskey had just filled my glass. But, oh well, we've got drinking to do first; we'll investigate second. Bottoms up!

Returning to the stage, that lone dancer is sheepishly steadying himself and I notice my chair and a mic stand have somehow been toppled and my trusty banjo is now sitting oddly on the floor? Uh… the dancing guy is starting to slur something like "oh, man, I'm really sorry about that… I really am!" Huh? What does he mean by…….. that's when I notice. The banjo neck has a funny angle. Oh heck! But… but… I pick up the instrument and all at once it hits me. Yeah, St. Paddy's Day! Bushmill's! Beer! Banjo! Damn, I'm in a good mood! My banjo's broken!

We never know when an epiphany is gonna strike or even if it will be a positive one. I was holding mine in my hands and testing the severity of the damage and remembering all the bad jokes I had ever heard or told about destroying banjos as an act of mercy. The definition of perfect pitch. Haha! The definition of a gentleman. Hoho! The difference between a banjo and an onion. Hehe! The music was over for tonite and this time the joke was undeniably on ME! But I was in a great mood! Turnabout? Payback? Who cares? While the dancer and the other musicians fretted and worried on my behalf I casually placed the four-stringed victim into its case and shrugged it off. What else could I do? I went back behind the bar and, grinning hugely, poured myself another whiskey. A stiff one!

- SPOT