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But that extravagance was mitigated when I was able to sneak two beers from a late afternoon birthday party into that night's screening of "The Immaculate Conception of Little Dizzle," which starred Marshall Allman, a friend from high school.  Marshall handled the onslaught of ticket requests from old friends like someone who brought too many guests to a keg party.  He encouraged us to bum rush the Alamo Drafthouse employee counting his seventeen guests, and all fifty or so made it in.

The movie was flawed and silly and completely hilarious.  During the question and answer session following the premiere, director David Russo conceded that it probably wouldn't find a huge audience.  Co-star Vince Vieluf feigned (I think) disgust and stormed off the stage, getting huge laughs as he had throughout the film.  If I took anything from "Little Dizzle," it was the feeling that this guy will be a success as a comedic actor.  I paid four dollars for a beer here, making my total fourteen.

Monday and Tuesday were non-eventful as the music portion didn't begin until Wednesday and I had no other actors willing to sneak me in with their posses.

The Texas Employment Agency reminds those receiving benefits that they're "paying you to look for a job" and I take guilt trips seriously, so I kind of half-assed it on Craigslist that afternoon before hitting Quinnstorm.com and HearYa.com's Stimulus Package, a greatest depression themed party where free beer and free tacos were promised.

I got there just in time to catch The Morning Benders, whose name sounds like what unemployment is supposed to be all about.  South Africa's BLK JKS impressed initially just because they seemed cool.  Anytime I see black musicians that aren't rappers, I'm interested.  That's admittedly racist, but it doesn't hurt anyone and it's true.  Maybe if Chuck Berry had invented rock and roll instead of stealing from Marty McFly, there'd be black rock bands all over the charts, but as it is, with the exception of TV on the Radio, they're pretty rare and I find the novelty compelling.  BLK JKS also perform with a great energy--especially their drummer--and I found myself watching clips of theirs on YouTube when I got home that night.

The final band I saw that night was (I think) The Harlem Shakes.  I was pretty full of free beer (I missed the free tacos) by this point and don't remember the set clearly, except that they were upstaged by four dancing dudes that just had to be in a band.  Their dress loudly proclaimed their status as non-accountants at least, and they pumped their fists, spun in circles, and strummed air guitars while the band played, clearing the floor like a team of centers boxing the rest of us out as if the music in front of the stage was an errant free throw.

That dubious simile was a ham-fisted attempt to segue into Thursday, which was mostly spent watching round one of the college basketball tournament.  The only song I really paid attention to that day was "The Eyes of Texas" after the Longhorns dispatched Minnesota with ease and Dexter Pittman gave everyone the temporary feeling that we'd beat Duke on Saturday, despite the fact that the Blue Devils had won the previous three meetings by an average of twenty-six points.  I thought about heading to Sixth Street after the game, but was proud of my non spending for the day and decided to watch "The Office" and "30 Rock," call it a day and leave my goal of twenty bucks obviously out of reach but thus far still at least an academic possibility.  I'd paid four bucks for a last beer at the Stiumulus Package after the free ones ran out and found myself with two to spare for the final three days.

Friday I called in a free lunch (in your face again, Mr. Salo) with a friend at Sam's BBQ in east Austin and had my friend drop me at the Fader Fort, a vacant lot and warehouse on east Fifth Street that Fader Magazine and Levi's had transformed into a clubhouse, subversively attempting to brainwash everyone into experimenting with clothing made of some material called denim.

At this event, again, everything was free.  There were other bands I would have rather seen than Tinted Windows, the new project of the middle Hanson brother and James Iha, but free Budweiser products kept me within the Levis marketers' grasp like twenty-four ounce shackles.  That's right, the free beers were tallboys.

The band I enjoyed most at the fort has a name that just flat-out sucks, but The Pains of Being Pure at Heart rightfully deserve the buzz that surrounds the New York indie outfit.  I guess I'd incorrectly guessed that they'd be an overwrought emo loner fiasco, but they had a light and harmonious sound that could've taken on the backing vocals of the Ronettes and not seemed ridiculous.  I've been listening to their self-titled debut pretty much non-stop since the show.

After Peter, Bjorn and John played a set of songs I'd never heard before closing with the impossibly catchy "Young Folks," I found friends who agreed to drive me toward downtown so I could hopefully see Superdrag at Pangaea.

Pangaea is easily the worst place in Austin.  It's the former location of the original Alamo Drafthouse, but that iconic institution has been replaced by an upscale trendy club that I thought no one south of Dallas had any interest in.  It's the kind of place where if you made a lame joke about the entire bar imperceptibly drifting apart into separate bars over the course of thousands of years you'd get your glasses broken in half.  As we waited in vain to get inside, the club's bouncer told us we would only be allowed inside if we paid for "bottle service."  I knew this meant three hundred dollar bottles of vodka, but sarcastically asked if they had Lone Star bottle service.

"You don't even drink Lone Star," he told me.  "That's for guys in skinny jeans and converse."

I asked what I should be drinking and he looked me up and down and said "I don't know, whatever Pat Green drinks."

This is especially ironic in that the addition of Lone Star to cereal is what keeps Pat alive, but I don't think I even look like a Pat Green fan; I wasn't wearing Redwing boots and a Texas Tech chili cook-off hat.

I was disappointed to not see Superdrag, but even more annoyed that they were in Austin.  Just last year, I'd driven all the way to Knoxville to see what I thought was their last show ever.  A trip like that is always about more than the destination, but I doubt I'd have put my body or car through the ordeal had I known they'd be playing a venue over a thousand miles closer in less than twelve months.  After listening to a few songs on the curb with some hardcore Superdrag fans (they exist?), I called the night quits.

Saturday meant another Texas basketball game and skipping Explosions in the Sky performing a show in front of the Austin skyline that would almost certainly include a fireworks show.  I'm sure it was awesome, but so is Texas beating Duke in basketball.  That, of course, did not happen.  Watching those annoying fans celebrate I could only think one thing:  let's schedule these fuckers in football tomorrow.

Before the game, the only band I saw that I can recall their name was The Knux, who played a free in-store at Waterloo Records.  They kind of challenged my racial profiling of bands by being black guys playing instruments and being a rap group.  So I was going to have to actually listen before I formed any opinions.  It was okay and they've got a large, enthusiastic following, but it wasn't really my deal.  They announced a contest where fans could submit video performances of some ridiculous dance they invented and taught the entire store the silly steps.  I was only half paying attention until they said the winner gets ten thousand dollars.  I've been practicing in front of a mirror since.

While there, I managed to spend two dollars on a bottle of beer.  Here I was with one day to go and I'd already spent my twenty dollars.

Over at a house in the trendy South Congress part of town that used to be overrun with hookers, City Salvage Records and Cow Island Music put on a house party called the "Brooklyn Country Cookout" that promised free beer and hot dogs and also a chance to play a SXSW drinking game a group of friends invented a few years ago.  It's called "Brooklyn or Silverlake" and means taking a pull if you meet someone from either neighborhood.  This isn't a dig at either area since I think both are fine places, but the fact is that Austin is annually invaded by inhabitants of both and meeting ten people and not having four from either is a statistical impossibility.

As I should have surmised from the inclusion of the words "country" and "cow," the bands playing weren't the typical SXSW indie fare, but more, well, country, albeit of the alt variety.  The Dixons dressed in a style closer to The Light Crust Doughboys than Grizzly Bear, and The Defibulators had a kind of chicken fried She and Him vibe going.  Redheaded singer Bru had a voice perfectly suited to the band's sound and quirky/hot persona that produced the obvious Zooey Deschanel comparison.

I could've made it out of there scot-free with my seemingly impossible twenty dollar goal achieved, but the setting was so charming and bucolic, the afternoon so enjoyable, that I feared a Telltale Tipjar bout of guilt that would haunt me and cause the beer and hotdogs to sit in my craw and mean enjoyment of SXSW nevermore.  I tossed four dollars in the hopper and headed home pretty pleased with a week that produced more enjoyment for twenty four dollars than could be found in any first world country, and reassurance that I still lived in one.