Guest blogger Tom Brosseau recently toured with Mice Parade. You can read his tour diary here.

Pi Day

I went for breakfast at Las Manitas Café. Everyone had on sunglasses; everyone was wearing a lanyard and badge. I ordered the Spicy Huevos a la Mejicana and coffee. There were two gals at the table across from where I was sitting, talking away, having more hair of the dog that bit them with lime. I couldn’t tune them out.

“What did you do last night?”
“I went to the Mohawk. What did you do?”
“We went to an industry thing. I’m so hung over!”
“Yeah, me, too, and I didn’t even drink that much!”
“What did you have?”
“Wine and beer.”
“That’s why! You can’t mix!”
“I saw this great band yesterday, but I can’t remember their name.”
“Are we still planning on seeing F— Buttons?”
“Yeah, totally!”

The day heated in a hurry. I saw a tomcat perched on a stairwell. He didn’t seem to be afraid of me. I pet him a bit. “My name is Tom too,” I said to him. His little motor started running. “What are you doing down here? Pussy-footin’?” He unfolded on his back and reached his paws out. He was a polydactyl cat. “What’s your trade?” I asked him. “Are you a boxer?” He meowed.

My cellular phone vibrated.

“Hello?”
“Hello there you with the stars in your eyes!”
“Mom!”
“Just a second, I want to put you on speakerphone.”

My mother is an interior designer. She graduated from a small school in St. Paul, Minnesota, called College of Visual Arts. She is a taller lady, with blonde hair. People always tell me I look like my mom.

“Where are you?”
“Austin.”
“What are you doing there?”
“I’m here for that conference, remember?”
“Oh, that’s right! What’s the name of it again?”
“South by Southwest. I had the craziest dream last night.”
“What was it about?”
“Bob Dylan.”
“I just think he’s so cute,” she said.
“We were riding in a horse-drawn buggy. I can’t remember if it was day, or night? Bob was holding the reigns. He was wearing fingerless gloves. He was smiling. The road was rough. I had to hold onto my seat.”
“Did you say anything?”
“No.”
“Is Bob playing at South By Southwest?”
“Not that I know of?”
“Well, I listen to that one album of his everyday!”
“Which one,” I asked.
“Oh, I can’t remember the name, but it’s the one with that song ‘Beyond the Horizon.’ ”

It wasn’t quite noon. The clubs and venues were dead. I walked around the Red River district. I stopped to watch the river flow on 7th street. I bought a bottle of water. There was a man on the corner of Red River Street playing the guitar. He was singing Leonard Cohen. He looked sunburned. A dog was curled up at his feet. I dropped some change in his guitar case.

I met my friend and manager, Mary Jones. She was staying at the Homestead Inn off Barton Springs road. I sent her a text I was in the lobby. There was a bowl of apples. I took one for later. I read some of the newspaper. There was a picture of Eliot Spitzer. Mary and I went to Jo’s and sat in the sun. I had an iced coffee. We talked about Radio Moscow, the Black Diamond Heavies, and Autumn de Wilde. I wrapped a paper towel around my cup to keep it cool.

“Did you see Autumn?”
“Yes. I went with my friend Maggie,” she said. “Autumn was sitting when I came in.”
“She’s a tall gal!”
“I love her photographs, Tom.”
“Did you buy the book?”
“I already did in Chicago. They did a nice job putting it together!”

I searched for the apple I took from the Homestead Inn. I polished it up on my shirt.

“We should arrive at the Hilton Garden no later than 7:30.”
“OK.”
“They gave us a parking pass.”
“Good. Steve Poltz is playing after me. I haven’t seen him in a long time.”
“What’s he been up to?”
“He was in Australia touring.”
“I missed him at Schuba’s when he came to Chicago.”
“He’s crazy!”

I took a bite out of the apple. It was very sweet and good. I remember my Mom telling me our Norwegian relatives eat the entire apple, even the seeds, even the stem. I don’t think I’ll take it that far. The fruit started to rust. I stopped talking and finished it up. I thought more of the dream I had about Bob Dylan. I had to laugh. To think of it, riding in a buggy with Bob Dylan.

– Tom Brosseau