I almost left after about a half hour - it was so crazy I couldn't even buy a Heineken (the official sponsor of the Film Festival and required drinking) - but I got pulled back in by some cool people who wouldn't let me leave. I screwed together some courage to buy a drink for that sassy lady who faithfully ran the Jean Cocteau/Film Museum venue all weekend, and ran into this cat Justin Toast while I was waiting at the bar.
He asked if I was a writer - he remembered my name and said that I'd once said really nice and encouraging things about him and his band at a gig at Bar B about ten thousand years ago. For a moment, I was totally lost, and then, I remembered that gig and his band and that night, so today I wrote him a letter about it:
Dear Justin Toast:
I don't think I could possibly forget that gig....there's a kinda weird story as to why. I was staying at the youth hostel in Santa Fe and I was in between houses - miserable time of my life. Anyway, there was this cat at the hostel who was on vacation from Scotland and wanted to go out and drink. I told him I couldn't take him around because I was broke. He flashed some cash, said it was on him, and suddenly, I found myself at Bar B.
There was this really weird band playing (yours) when we walked in, and I kinda wanted to bail because I sorta thought Rod Oliver was a bit of an ass and i didn't think I really liked his stuff. (As it turns out, I was really impressed with him too by the time the night was over, he even gave me a record that I still own and play.) I figured we'd stay for one drink and then maybe go to El Farol or something. We finished that one drink and I said, "Let's bail," but he just bought me another drink and told me to sit tight. Turns out he was flirting with this girl who worked behind the bar.
So I was more or less stuck - the guy who was buying wanted to stay, there really wasn't anyone to flirt with, so - I was stuck watching the music. I got into your band and the guy who I'd brought kept an eye on me - everytime I was half-way finished with a drink, he'd order me another. God love those Scots...
Anyway - he went home with that chick (we stayed until closing) I got HAMMERED, and flirted unsuccessfully with a couple girls, and got really into the music because I had Nothing Better to Do. I sorta fell in love with both acts in that way that you do when you're stuck getting drunk in a place.
As it turned out - Ian (the Scot) MARRIED that fucking girl. From what I hear, they're living happily together in Edinburgh. And whenever he comes back to Santa Fe, he buys me drinks until I'm fucking pickled. I woulda told you that story last night but it was too fucking chaotic in there to say much more than, "Oh yeah...that gig. I remember your band..."