Beatle Bob's preferred dance for the day: a squirrel dance, a standing dance with his hand out in front of him, sorta digging, with a evening motion thrown in for good measure.  After the fifth reenactment, along with a nod and thumbs up of approval from Bob himself, Laura wanted me to stop doing it already.  We headed downtown.

We popped into a couple venues, looking for fun stuff to do cheaply, and found a Filter party at Club Deville.  We picked up some stylish wristbands and free beer, and hung out waiting for one of Laura's friends from a trendy NYC magazine to show up.  She talked incredibly fast, without taking a breathe sometimes, and seemed to have lost a lot of the Texas charm I've come to admire and revere around these parts.  She pointed out James Iha as he walked into the club,  he was the guitarist in the Smashing Pumpkins.  He went largely unnoticed, and I just pictured him as having nothing better to do with his post-Pumpkins life than drive around an empty mansion in a golf cart, ala Garden State.  A few days later I would fin out from the radio he's in a successful new band, A Perfect Circle or something, so I was wrong, but the image seemed so right.

After Laura's friend left, her brother met us, as he caught a bit of the protest at City Hall marking the two year anniversary of our joint venture with Poland in Iraq.  We drank a few more beers, admired our fancy new green and red wristbands, and wondered when the rain would start falling outside.  We made a run for Casino when the Club Deville scene got stale, and the rain started falling hard.

We got inside, ordered some food and kept the drinks coming.  As I checked on the food, the cook behind the counter pleaded with a rude English fellow about tipping in America.  He gently explained to him that he understands people don't tip in England, but here it is considered rude since waiters and the like don't make a living wage without it.  The Englishman collected the 50 cents from his $34.50 order and deposited them in his pocket, hearing none of it.  Clearly, this could have been a person from any country in the world, but the fact he was English made it worse for me.  Ever since grade school when I went on field trips to the sites of the Revolutionary War I've harbored a great resentment and dislike for the Crown and that staid country.  I still believe in my heart we owe England a payback for the War of 1812.  Messing with the chefs of the best food in Austin is perhaps a lesson for the lad in itself.

While checking on our food, I stood in line to go to the bathroom.  Patience is a virtue during SXSW, with local bars filled with a bunch of people who don't belong, but you allow for that.  What you can't allow is to be trod upon by rich foreigners from LA talking to their wife about renting out property while standing in the toilet while five guys are waiting in line hoping their kidneys don't burst.  I found myself in this situation, and after having a few drinks, my tolerance for cell phone users drops below zero.  I politely knocked on the stall's door, but our cell phone loving hero (who was using his phone in the bathroom) kept chatting unabashedly.  I then knocked the unlatched door harder, the door opening slightly and banging shut loudly.  No response.  I finally got the man to run out of the stall with his head down scared on my third attempt to move his troubling soul, and I never saw him again.

After closing our tabs and feeling good enough to cause trouble, the rain had stopped and we were headed up Sixth Street to catch our bus home.    After dancing excitedly up Sixth Street through the hipster heavy crowd, Laura ran ahead a bit, and stopped off enough to turn around and watch me dance towards her.  She was by a woman selling something on the street, and they chatted for a second before I interrupted and excitedly pulled Laura into my arms.  As I did, I told the lady this was our first date and told her I thought it was going well.  She laughed and sarcastically affirmed my brazen exclamation.

What I didn't know was that Laura told the lady I had been calling her all week and she finally relented and went out on a pity date.  That poor woman.

We caught the next bus out of downtown, and was nearly serenaded by a seemingly homeless man who pulled out a guitar and nearly started playing it, but the bus driver put a quick end to his musical ambitions. 

And that was the week of SXSW for me - a lot of laid back partying in a hyped up scene with lots to do, see and hear.  I didn't see nearly as many bands as I wish I had, but I wouldn't have changed anything if I could.

Beatle Bob dances, girl with wings watches.

Laura waits for her chicken sandwich.

I hate cellphone users

I told him he could bike to Alaska for a lot cheaper than that.

A bus ride is always filled with unpredictable, nervous entertainment.