My parents surprised me this week with an offer for a lunch getaway and a bag of cider donuts from the autumnal version of Shangri-La. As I halfheartedly prepared to resume my normal afternoon activities, all three of us were looking for reasons to delay the final rounds of hugs and goodbyes.

"Hey, you'd made reference to seeing Tom Petty in Texas, and we saw the photos. But how did he do? What was it like in the...photo pit, right?" God bless my mother. I'd completely forgotten that this was my first face-to-face encounters with the folks since Austin; my telephoned anecdotes had all been quick bursts, not in-depth explanations.

The white paper bag of fall's finest baked items were temporarily set aside atop my parents' car. I needed to talk with both hands.

You know when something big is taking place, but you have to focus on the series of small tasks in order to get the job done?

That was Tom Petty's set. If I were to take it all in, I would have been overwhelmed before the performance even began. I had the roar of at least 50,000 people hitting me in the back as I stood among professional photographers, each seemingly armed with lenses longer than my forearm. The two men who had been overseeing security in the photo pit all weekend were shouting over the cheers, telling us that we would have to clear out of the pit if people in the crowd -- some of whom had been standing in the sunshine and heat for more than eight hours -- started to require medical care. Apparently, the crowd began to drop like flies during the last set at Lollapalooza, and they were worried that this would be the same kind of situation.

We were all supposed to take seats along the metal benches that were built into the crowd barriers. We had to wait there until the band took the stage; we weren't allowed to approach the stage until we saw Tom. Imagine a slew of photographers playing musical chairs, trying to get a seat as close as they could. Somehow, I wound up with a seat immediately to the right -- and I'm talking about maybe a foot and a half -- of the microphone.

So we're waiting, the crowd is chanting (and some photographers are joining in), and I'm busy trying to keep my energy contained by checking my battery, chatting with another photographer who tells me he shot off 500 frames during The Flaming Lips. I'd been psyched to get 50 shots, some of which were blurred. The difference between a point-and-shoot and the real thing. Yeah.

The lights go down and the crowd is whipped into more of a frenzy than I've experienced live. I'm craning my neck, trying to look up onto the stage and off to the stage right side...and then I see the band walking out. A moment later, I see the light fall on the blond hair. We've already stood up by this point, and now we walk up to get the best spots each of us can get.

I'm pointing my camera up, and Tom Petty is right there in the frame. I start taking photographs and then it hits me that there is absolutely no one - nothing but a level of stage - between me and Tom Petty. Someone I never even thought I'd see live is right in front of me, smiling out over my head at the thousands upon thousands of people who are screaming as if Jesus Christ had taken the stage.

When the band starts playing, I'm trying to get shots AND groove at the same time. I'm not the only one. Lots of the photographers are enjoying the vantage point. The band is tight and, were there anybody in the crowd not into Tom Petty & the Heartbreakers, they would have been excited simply feeding off of the crowd's energy. The singalongs are intense -- his voice is drowned out by the audience and he appears to be absolutely loving it.

It was insane. Unbelievable. This huge spectacle of light and sound and lenses, and then just me, fully aware of the fact that if I don't focus on working with the light and getting these shots, my head really might explode from the utter shock of it all.

But then my camera's battery is dying, so I get out of the pit and meet up with Michelle. We had a good spot already picked out, right near where the exit to the photo pit, so it was relatively easy to reach her. We're dancing like mad, along with the rest of the people in our area, when we start to see the lightning flickering in the distance.

We're hoping that the storm will bypass us, but soon the wind is picking up, whipping the band members' hair as they continue to play. It adds to the weird, crazy nature of the experience -- kind of like that time I saw Grace Potter in Boston and it felt as if she was channeling nature, you know? It makes them look all the more like rock stars.

The rain starts slowly, a few drops here and there. All of a sudden, drops become drizzle, which morphs into a light shower. The band plays as long as they can, before the water threatens to ruin the equipment and pose a safety hazard. But during those two songs when they kept playing? It felt almost Dionysian -- everyone just frolicking in the storm.

Tom promised everyone that the band would be back, but they hid out back as the rains really started to come down. It was cold! We just laughed and looked up and whooped about the fact that this was happening. How was this happening? How were we here? For this?

Ultimately, the band came back and we continued to rock out and be amazed. There were a lot of the hits, as to be expected, but I didn't expect "Refugee" to be a highlight. Huh. Anyway, then the band covers Van's "Mystic Eyes" and I am just so damn excited that I jump up and down with delight. Michelle laughs at me, of course, then joins in the rockout.

And then it was over.

My parents are grinning, as I've been jumping around, providing near interpretive dance of the experience. I laugh at myself, fix my hair and shrug my shoulders.

"So yeah. It was cool. Yep."

The Roundup

I'd waited to see if this would make the DU site -- as of yet, it hasn't. But with a desire to wrap things up, I thought it important to get this out there.

Although I'm sure I'll be offering little insights and quips about the experience that was ACL in times to come, I present to you what was my final roundup whilst officially writing about the Austin City Limits Music Festival. Written on Tuesday, published, well, now...

Everyone reaclimated post-ACL?

Yeah, me neither.

I spent a portion of my plane ride back east yesterday (the portions in which I wasn't watching a marathon of "Blow Out") sifting through my notes and thoughts about the weekend. ACL had already started to become a jumble of frenzied, sweaty events, capped Sunday night with a set by Tom Petty & the Heartbreakers accented with winds and a storm. People were left either scurrying for ponchos or dancing and whooping in the rain.

It seemed rather fitting that a girl waiting out the set delay looked up with a silly, slightly drunk grin on her face.

"It's RAINING!" she said. "I live here. IT DOESN'T RAIN. What IS THIS?"

Simple answer: it's ACL.

Here are eleven aspects of the festival that continue to stand out for me. They are listed in no particular order other than that in which they come to me -- and in the shadows linger countless other moments.

- Cat Power & the Memphis Rhythm Band (Friday): You know that at least 70 percent of the crowd gathered at the AT&T Blue Room stage was wondering whether Chan Marshall would take the stage and perform a full set; just as uncertain was what her temperament would be for any performance that would take place. The songstress dazzled with a smooth set that, from my spot lying in the shade to the side of the stage, hinted at languid playfulness with a tease of Gnarls Barkley's "Crazy" (this came shortly after the original version was performed at the other end of the park). The buzz about Cat Power often refers more to Marshall's demeanor than the music itself, which makes it a dicey venture for an audience member. For the ACL crowd, however, she channeled Friday's heat and gave the crowd reason to pause and appreciate.

- Sylvia St. James and The Gospel Stars/Patrice Pike (Sunday): In each case, I was heading elsewhere when a strong female voice made me stop, turn and veer over to her stage. Sylvia St. James, decked out from hat to toe in white, wailed away within the Washington Mutual stage tent, delivering an electric performance that prompted audience members to stand up, hands waving, legs pumping. Over at the Austin Ventures stage, hometown gal Patrice Pike's rocker girl vocals captivated, making one reconsider one's vow to never watch a reality television show hosted by Brooke Burke.

- Matt Nathanson (Friday): I've loved me some Matt for a long time now, whether the singer-songwriter is operating solo or with band. But with a new album on the way and good word starting to spread, I was looking forward to seeing how the Austin crowd responded to his full-band performance at the Austin Ventures stage. I was pulled away early (so disappointed that I missed "Detroit Waves"), but the portion of the set I saw indicated that this guy could finally get the recognition he's deserved for years. A crazy, sweetly raunchy and fascinating performer, Nathanson simply made me grin like a fool. If the photos posted on Perez Hilton are of any indication, he made Matthew McConaughey smile like mad as well.

- John Mayer (Friday): Can we please just forget about "Your Body Is a Wonderland" and focus on the fact that Mayer has finally begun to fuse the sensitive singer-songwriter thing with sizzling blues guitar chops? Listen up, cynics: I was right there with you until Friday night's set at the AMD stage. But now know that it's now perfectly acceptable to own up to liking John Mayer. Thank you.
P.S. If I hear one more thing about the aforementioned "Wonderland" having been inspired by Jennifer Love Hewitt, I may be forced to shiv someone. It wasn't. Move on.

- Van Morrison/Willie Nelson (Friday, Saturday): Seeing these guys perform proved just why they are the living legends that they are. They've still got it and they still know how to make a crowd go wild. I hope that the younger crowd was taking notes so we can look forward to performances like this in a few decades. Even if Van or Willie weren't audience members' particular style of choice, concertgoers were still making sure to catch the sets. If nothing else, it was all about being able ot say, "I saw these guys perform."
I find that awfully telling. Free Willie!

- The Stills (Sunday): I gushed like a dopey fan on Sunday, so you know I dug the set. What I didn't mention is the excitement that radiated from the AT&T stage during the Montreal band's performance slot. The band members seemed genuinely fuelled by the crowd and the festival as they ripped through their set, which heavily featured songs off the 2003 "Logic Will Break Your Heart." Tim Fletcher dedicated one song to Austin sushi, describing the way the band was treated to a free meal at a sushi bar over the weekend because someone at the restaurant dug the band. In a time of celebrity freebies galore, hearing a musician sound genuinely psyched about such a gesture was pretty unexpected. Dig it.

- Ben Kweller (Saturday): It was one of the most discussed parts of the weekend. Ben takes stage. Ben's nose bleeds. Ben puts tampon up nose. Nose still bleeds. Ben keeps playing. Guitar gets bloody, keyboard follows.Ben is forced to leave stage and splatter of blood behind. Alternately awesome and gag-worthy at the time, true. But I know I spent a portion of the evening thereafter hoping the Texas-raised, Brooklyn-based musician was, you know, actually OK.

Turns out that he was, which means audience members can continue to discuss how badass it was of the guy to push his body as far as it would go for the sake of the show. It should be noted that the songs Kweller and his band did perform during the shortened set were tight and polished. If a set is that good during a bloodbath, just think of how it could be when no bodily harm is involved.

- KT Tunstall (Sunday): The girl can loop tracks like a pro, but can laugh at herself when little technical difficulties do pop up. The small sprite of a woman walked onto the large AT&T stage and kicked the mid-afternoon energy up a notch, seemingly with ease. Charming the crowd, she touched upon many of the songs from "Eye to the Telescope," making material that comes off as decent when recorded sparkle on stage.

- Iron & Wine (Saturday): I'm actually considering digging out my copy of "The Creek Drank the Cradle" to give it another listen. Actually, maybe not. I think I'll give a different album a shot, as Iron & Wine surprised the hell out of me with a lively performance that belied the image of overtly self-engrossed, whispered folk. Standout: "Upward Over the Mountain."

- The Flaming Lips (Sunday): I still don't know what the hell that performance was. I suppose that outs me as a first-time Lips concertgoer. Dizzied by the sensory overload, I had to force myself to refrain from laughing, dancing or singing in the photo pit. It would have blurred my shots and, thus, pissed me off.
The band is one of all-out entertainers, led by ringleader Wayne Coyne, who had the gumption to Bush-bash in Texas and was rewarded with one hell of a cheer. Good set, one that should have headlined the festival, if not for...

- Tom Petty & the Heartbreakers (Sunday): By the time Tom and Company took the stage Sunday night, the crowd was feeding off itself, whipped into a frenzy that exploded when the spotlight fell on Tom's blond shag.

The band confidently sauntered through the beginning of their set, as lightning flickered in the distance and the winds started to pick up. When the rain came, the band persevered, raindrops projected onto the huge screen to the side of the stage. The precipitation fell sideways onto the stage throughout "Handle With Care" and prompted a set break shortly thereafter. Petty promised the crowd that the band would be back to provide an "extra long set."

A half-hour later, it returned with a fevered cover of Chuck Berry's "Monkey Business" and another hour of audience singalongs. Tens of thousands of voices rose to join Petty's for the duration of the set, prompting kisses blown from the frontman, ever-increasing cheers from the crowd.

- Leaving the park (Sunday): The crowd snaked toward downtown Austin, past impromptu water vendors, restaurants and T-shirt stands. Pedicabs was the only acceptable non-pedestrian mode of transportation among the water-logged crowd.

The sound started somewhere closer to the park and surged up the street. A roar of voices cheering and hooting. I didn't see a single person who chose not to join in.

One last release of energy and sound, a cheer of approval of the festival just concluded.

Thanks for reading, guys and dolls - it's been a pleasure dispatching ACL to all of you. To those who were at home, hope it helped keep you connected; to those who were there, hope you enjoyed.

And, a final note: while Matthew McConaughey, Lance Armstrong and Jake Gyllenhaal didn't accept my blogged meeting invite at Matt Costa's set, I'm sure they know they can make it up to me with flowers sent to Burlington, Vermont.

I like daisies.

"I got half a smile and zero shame"

Typical morning scene.

I'm getting ready to start my day, walking around the apartment, bobbing my head to music.

Unusual selection. Mayer's "Continuum." The bobs are in time to the hot blues licks in "Belief," and I'm singing along -- in that "I half know the words and will scat during the rest" sort of way that comes with learning an album's material.

Belief is a beautiful armor
That makes for bah dobedo do
La la da da da
You never can hit who you’re trying for

Mayer's back, and I'm right back there with him, much to my disbelief. I'd sworn the guy off, had bid that music goodbye.

It began a few days before "Continuum" dropped. I found a website that was streaming tracks and took a listen, intrigued by the sound that resulted. Not half bad, Johnny.

Over coffee in Central Square on last Wednesday, the next step was taken. Nicole handed over her iPod so I could listen to "Slow Dancing In a Burning Room." I grinned.

I didn't realize at the time that I was being set up for a sucker-punch on Friday night.

I'm standing, smirking in the photo pit, waiting for Mayer to take the stage and listening to screaming calls for "JOHN MAYER JOHN MAYER JOHN MAYER." I promise myself that if the set to come at all evoked thoughts of the Counting Crows co-headling debacle, I'm out of there without a second thought, ready to happily take in Van Morrison's set at the other end of the park.

The screams are firing me up, though, and I realize that I'm excited to see what Mayer has up his sleeve, particularly when he'll be delivering the goods so close to where I stand. I grin as he walks out on stage and takes his guitar.

"Belief" kicks off the set, and I'm grooving. Head bobs as I move into position to get some shots, shoulders moving as I walk from spot to spot.

This music is hot. Confident, dynamic without straying into showy territory, the riff is a seemingly effortless hook, and the chorus dances off the tongue. Earnest without the schmaltz that drove me mad with "Heavier Things."

Mayer is similarly transformed. No more of the guy trying so hard to be the rock star everyone says he is; instead a musician confidently prowling the stage, dazzling the crowd with ease. It feels as if the singer-songwriter who quipped his way through the Higher Ground interview five years ago has finally morphed into the Stevie Ray Vaughan devotee he'd then claimed to be.

I don't see it coming until it was too late. Hooked, I grin up at the stage as I keep snapping off photos.

I thought John was lost and gone forever. Here he is. And through inexplicable turns of fate, here I am, standing right there to look up at him and welcome him back.

I'd been wondering when the mental Plinko game would come to an end and next week's events would actually register with me.

As it turned out, it was while writing a brief bio about myself, attaching a digital photograph and sending off the email.

Hey. I'm going to Austin. Texas.

I've held off saying anything, as I was waiting to be sure that everything is in place and good to go. As I write this now, I believe it all is. If not, well...I'll take my chances.

The quick story: after the adventures in DC (hello, old brief stomping grounds) and Baltimore (otherwise known as Victoria sees Kevin Millar At Least One More Time), I return to Boston briefly (overnight) and then head off to Austin for the Austin City Limits Festival. As it is being touted, "8 stages, 3 days, 130 bands."

It's my first largescale festival in some time. Since Woodstock '99, actually. I also like to think of it as "Van Morrison, Willie Nelson, Tom Petty & the Heartbreakers and Countless Others." Including, amusingly enough, Matt Nathanson, Guster, Tristan and a slew of other people that tickle my fancy.

I'll attempt to refrain from seeking out John Mayer and slapping him upside the head for the Jessica Simpson debacle.

So yes, a pretty outstanding lineup. But why would I make the trip to Texas, you ask?

Because I'm going to be writing about it. The contest I to which I made brief reference in June proved to surprise the hell out of me. By which I mean that I won it. I'll be an official field blogger for the festival and Project DU.

(Insert adoring, thank you so much sentiments here. Kisses to those hooking me up for this adventure - I'm most appreciative.)

Texas, baby. Texas.