All That You Leave Behind: A Memoir(21)
After his death, a sexbot hacked the account and started posting highly disturbing content on his page, so The New York Times handed the reins over to me. I downloaded the archive and began sifting through the deluge of information. I tapped a friend to create a data set for my dad’s Twitter account. I sent her the feed, but felt strange doing so. What was I trying to find, and was it my information to even give away?
I was unsurprised when she handed me his most hashtagged phrases: #SXSW was number one. South by Southwest is an annual music and film festival in Austin, Texas. The carnitas tacos are deluxe and so is the town. Janet Pierson runs the epic film portion of the festival and she and my dad became fast friends when he started going in 2009. It was one of his absolute favorite events to attend. He told me resolutely that I would feel the same.
I was in the middle of my second year at VICE in 2012 when I raised my hand during a meeting with my techie overlords. “SXSW is coming up, and I think I should go and interview for a series of roundups with the smartest people in town.” I stammered when I spoke, still unsure of my place within the larger system. “I think we can share our brand and get video with people we wouldn’t normally have access to.” It was a fine idea, but in reality I just wanted to go to SXSW to meet up with my dad. The bearded guy with glasses typed it into his computer and said he would think about it. I set about stalking the forums to see who would be attending that might be open to being interviewed. I needed a way to justify the trip.
My boss bought my story, and in a few short months I, along with my co-worker Sean, was boarding a plane to Dallas where we would pick up a rental car and drive to Austin. All the direct flights were long gone, but I didn’t mind as I was on a paid work trip. I felt like this was the start of something great. I emailed my dad and updated him on my arrival status. He responded in minutes.
Hoped u packed warm hoss. In the badge line, which is epic.
The badge he was talking about was a golden ticket to all things festival related. I had gotten press credentials and the thousand-dollar entry fee waived, and this was my key to the festivities.
We arrived at our Airbnb. Some smart Austinite had rented out their one-bedroom apartment, where we would switch off between the bed and the couch for four hundred bucks a night. After dropping off our stuff, we walked toward downtown, the hot, dense air sticking to us. There was an energy in the air, music wafting in waves from streets we had yet to walk. I was filled with a sense of hope and possibility—I could do the things I dreamed about all those years ago in my pop-culture-covered bedroom in northern New Jersey.
The next day I, along with a few dozen others, received an email invitation from my dad.
From: David Carr
To: David Carr
Bcc: Erin Lee Carr
Date: 03/10/2012
Subject: An invite from Jenna, Brian and David at the House of Many Felled Trees
To all the talk about SxSW being a goat rodeo that has jumped the shark on the way to nuking the fridge, we’d like to say: Not so fast. We are part of the crowd, the ones that love it here. Especially when we end up eating food from a truck and drinking beer from a tub, as we will on Sunday night at 6pm, outside our room at Hotel San Jose on South Congress. Management here has apparently caught on and Carr is upstairs in room 54 this year, so no big mud patio and a much smaller gathering on two balconies. Please RSVP if you are coming and don’t pass along or post about it. We’ll be done by 8.
The secret invite to his party. He was known for throwing raucous parties with bathtubs full of beer that he did not drink. It had now been a year since his most recent relapse. He would crank up Beck’s album Guero and showcase his ridiculous Midwestern moves on the dance floor. He did not care who was watching, and it showed. One might guess that this would be embarrassing for his mid-twenties daughter. One would guess wrong. Frankly, I was impressed. It was one of the many things I learned from how he chose to live his life—be your own damn thing.
I wandered into the San Jose in my lace shirt-skirt combo, very New York and off-scene. I took in the party while I cracked a bathtub beer. My dad was hosting with known wunderkind Brian Stelter and the effortlessly cool Jenna Wortham. All three worked at the Times and were mingling comfortably with the tech glitterati. I went in for the hug with my dad, and he started introducing me as his kid who worked for VICE. People were kind, but I could tell instantly that I was not who they really wanted to be speaking with at such an event. I returned to the bathroom to retrieve another beer from the tub, and before I knew it I was seven beers deep. I didn’t like to drink around my dad, but I couldn’t really stop myself. I didn’t like being watched by someone who understood what that need felt like for me: less normal and more of an impulse I couldn’t ignore. I found myself getting louder, funnier, even joining in on the dance party.
When the shindig grew too loud, my dad decided it was time to move the crew to the Bravo tent. He drove us there, sober as a nun, laughing the whole way. I marveled at his ease in navigating conversations, relationships, different age groups. Even with early twentysomethings, he never looked uncomfortable. He wanted to be where the action was, and the action wanted him. In the flashy tent, I guzzled the blue shots being passed around. I went to the bathroom and put my head between my legs and took a deep breath. I felt fuzzy and knew I was nearing the line between consciousness and a blackout. My body said stop, but my brain said drink a little more.