You debate whether or not to even post this shit some days. Then you just do it: From Pitchfork's South by Southwest Photo Diary (subtitled: "Do we even care about music anymore?"):

Ted Leo/Pharmacists
The Parish, 214B East 6th Street
4:00 p.m. Thursday

Arriving at the Stereogum party just as Ted Leo and his Pharmacists prepared to take the stage, I ran into everyone in the world, and ended up spending most of the time backstage with Scott Allen from Thunderbirds Are Now. I did get to watch Ted for a couple of songs, but come on-- there was a Whole Foods spread back there, and a fucking couch, and a fan! Later I embarrassed myself by not recognizing John Vanderslice (to his face), drunkenly filming a segment for "New York Noise" (please don't ask-- no really, please), and shaking Har Mar Superstar's hand, which might have been anywhere. I will say, for the three songs I saw Leo perform (and the rest that I heard from various other spots), that band just gets tighter by the day. Its synchronization was superhuman.

Then you debate whether or not to make the obvious, cheap, immature comment. Then you do: No word on the rumor that the third part of the photo diary will just be Pitchfork correspondents with indie-rock cock pressed to their waiting, smiling mouths.^*

By the way, the best way to describe my outfit today? "Ill-fitting." So that's my day.

^*I gladly welcome a better line. 'Cause one is out there and it's just escaping me. You know how some musicians like Keith Richards and (ahem) Tori Amos believe that they don't write songs so much as the songs - as if the songs were sentient beings - come to them? This joke didn't come to me. It was the last "joke" in the bar at last call, and even then, it took a little more than gentle persuasion.