(this is a long post, I know, kiss of death for a blog. But just go with it, alright?)

Ice Cube was sitting in the lobby when James Barone and I returned to the Four Seasons Hotel. We had failed miserably at finding an after-party with booze, and resigned ourselves to just chill in the room. After a delicious $35 pizza, James was getting a bit stir crazy, so we decided to venture on down to the dock on the river behind our hotel for a bit.

There were four people already there, and it being a small dock, they invited us into their conversation. Nice young British folk…well, that is, James from Does It Offend You, Yeah? and Jill were great peeps, their two friends were respectively indifferent and a bit douche-y. Keeping true to James’ band’s name, the order of the evening was saying affably rude things to one another. We chatted politics and race relations, cracking wise and calling each other out for our countries’ respective blemishes. It didn’t hurt that Brit James was ornery and bristlingly charming. And apart from being smart as a whip and wicked funny, Jill was incredibly gorgeous. Quite a pair of legs there.

Synthesis James was quiet for the most part, interjecting comments here and there; myself, I tend to be more talkative, and of course I was witty as all get-up. We chatted it up, their friend called me “pedantic,” I told him he’s “a bit of a cunt,” it’s pretty good-natured ribbing all around. After bumming a few of their cigarettes (I relished using the term ‘fag’ in the British sense of the term), another couple wandered over to the dock and asked if they could join us. They introduced themselves, common ‘merican names that I couldn’t quite hear. The Brits recognized the dude from the night before and our group grew to six music geeks, smoking and drinking wine at 4 in the morning.

I know the recent arrival from somewhere. But there are only about a dozen man archetypes here. You can’t throw a rock without hitting some bald, skinny white dude with glasses at SXSW. He’s cool and low-key, and says a few funny, self-deprecating things (“humor is not my strong suit”) before going into a story about how earlier he was interviewing Steve Jones from the Sex Pistols for a radio show. Jones is apparently a world-class whistler (“with theremin-like vibrato”). During their conversation Jones mentioned off-hand that “Hitler wasn’t really that bad a guy.” Then he played a blues song. Pretty weird/funny story. At this point I start to think to myself, “You know, come to think of it, glasses-bald dude looks incredibly like Moby.”

Yep. It’s totally Moby.

As it turns out, Moby is a really, really nice guy. Smart, too. Some people talk a lot of shit about Moby, about how he’s a wussy, a vegan weakling, or whatever. I say fuck that. Moby is down. Way down. I exchanged few words with him as he sat across from me in the circle, but he was cool, man. Still don’t care for his music much, but cheers to him anyway.

I sensed that James Barone was getting antsy and ready to leave, so we got up, and I wished them a good night: “Alright, I’m turning in. It was really nice to meet all of you…” I paused, looked at the douchy-dude. “Except you. You’re a bit iffy.” We left to the sound of laughter and the smell of wafting smoke.

The moustache: A symbol of virility. A warning sign that you are NOT to be fucked with. A great opening to chatting with random dudes at SXSW.

“Sweet ’stache, man.” Honestly, I make these kind of comments to random dudes when they have sweet facial hair, and it’s not out of some deep seated latent homosexuality (maybe), but out of honest appreciation of a well groomed and styled face-mane.

I’ve been working on my ’stache for a short time, only recently moving beyond moustache 101. But I still relish getting tips from Advanced Students of the hirsute arts. Following The Death Set’s Wednesday afternoon Emo’s performance I found myself outside and close to a dude with a sweet ’stache. “Dude, That’s A Sweet Moustache.” Instantly we were comrads in meaningful conversation. His name, of all things, was Mortimer, and Dude was rad. He gave me a few tips, which I am happy to impart upon you, dear readers.

Tip #1: Use Clubman

Mortimer’s moustache, black and full, was styled perfectly into curly tips with the aid of the fine wax from Clubman. I too use Clubman, but mine was not nearly as perfect as his, which lead me to even more sagacious advice:

Tip #2: Don’t Touch the Moustache. “As much as you can, avoid touching your moustache after you apply the wax. The oils in your fingers really mess it up.” He commented that I had a “nice work in progress,” but that I had obviously touched my moustache after styling it, hence rendering it unfurled and no longer totally sweet.

Today I took his advice, and for a minute I was, if not world class, at least notable for my curly Qs. However, soon the right side was a broom instead of a bale. Why? Drinks.

Tip #3: Never get your moustache wet. Never. Unless it’s from, uh, “intimate activities.” Sweet ’staches sometimes bring that, and that may be the best wax of all. But coffee and alcohol will ruin your styling if you’re not careful.

No go forth, children of rad facial pursuits, and learn from Mortimer’s wisdom. Start off slow, but if you feel ready for Advanced Studies, or just an impressive array of possibilities, consult Worldbeardchampionships.com.

Men as peacocks. BEHOLD!

Try as they might, no one at SXSW comes even close to this champion. Bring it.