(A Special Report from SXSW Interactive)

I'm writing this from memory, most of which I drank away last night.

But I do remember a recurring theme from this year's South-By-Southwest (SXSW) Music Festival -- a question, really and always addressed to my girlfriend Karin: "What the hell are you doing with him?"

I can open pickle jars and kill spiders. What the fuck is any woman doing with a man?

But Karen, wife of Slaid Cleaves (did I just reveal her last name?) wanted my girlfriend Karin (see the subtle differences in the name?) to tell her why, why, why a good girl like her was with me. I forget what Karin said, but I made a mental note to get even with the distaff Cleaves (dammit, I did it again).

And I got even, baby, believe it -- Sunday night, when all the festivities were over save my drinking. The Cleaveses (there's some fucked-up diction) live in an all-black neighborhood in East Austin. The formerly quiet street is now filled with honky-ass music emanating from the Cleaves' backyard wingdings, featuring white folks with guitars who pick and grin while waiting for the pig to cook (Uncle Dave's excellent barbecue - for a white guy, anyway).

So I called Karen Sunday night and affected my best Tom Waits voice.

"This is Cleevon, your neighbor?"

Karen answered the phone. "Yes?"

"I'm gettin' tired of you white boys playin' your music till all hours of the night."

It seems she'd been expecting the call.

"I'm so sorry. Which neighbor are you again?"

"The one next door."

"And who is this?" she asked.

"Cleevon. Mike "Cleevon" Jasper, baby, and I gotchya."

(Expletives deleted.)

The same "Why are you with him?" routine happened at Mike and Carmen's after-SXSW party. There I was, on my best I'm-not-really-Charles-Manson behavior, when the question pops up again, first from Maria (she's an ex, so it really shouldn't count) and later Susan.

"What in the world are you doing with him?"

I still have no idea what Karin said. It'll come to me, though.

But I digress.

This year's SXSW festival might have been the best I've ever been to. For one, Thursday night I got to meet one of my readers, James Bernard, who puts out the literary magazine "Salt For Slugs." He threw an early-afternoon party at a trendy apartment nestled over the Paradise frat bar. Fortunately, inside the apartment they were keeping it real. You can't help but keep it real when you've got Charlie perched at the keg. He's the one guy in Austin I've yet to meet sober -- at least at the same time I was sober.

"Where's J.B?" I asked Charlie.

"Daaaaa, you should have passed him coming up the stairs."

Hmmm. How could that be? I remember who I saw coming up and not one of the guys I passed was the crack-skinny, orange-dyed haired, multiple-tattooed and pierced-tongued guy I was expecting.

I started to head downstairs, but just as I opened the door this normal-looking dude appeared.

"That's him," Charlie yelled.

"You're James Bernard?"

"Yes, and you're..."

"Mike Jasper."

"You made it. Thanks for coming."

"Man, I don't know how to say this, but you look employable. No offense."

We talked awhile about the possibility of publishing some of my Greatest Hits columns in his publication, but since I was with my brother Dan, his wife Georgia and Karin -- three people who clearly didn't fit into the movie Barfly -- we all left shortly thereafter.

Friday night rocked as well. Slaid Cleaves opened at the Broken Spoke for Austin favorites Tish Hinajosa, Jimmie Dale Gilmore and Joe Ely. Slaid kicked ass of course. Someone else played on the bill too, but I wouldn't fuck her. Or buy her damn album either. After the performance, we got to hang out at Slaid's table, thanks to the gracious Karen (who turned on me later in the evening: see above) and you know what that meant. Free beer.

Slaid introduced me to Wranglin' Ron, an entrepreneur and self-described bon vivant.

"Ron's a helluva songwriter too, Jasper," Slaid told me.

"Is that true?"

"Sure is," Wranglin' Ron said. "But most of my stuff is written on bathroom walls."

"I've seen your work."

He also told me he ran a club once on Lake Austin where he featured Austin singer-songwriters including Slaid, Gilmore and Butch Hancock. But he didn't care for Hancock much.

"He tried to hit on my girlfriend, right in front of me," Wranglin' Ron opined.

After that, he spent the rest of the night hitting on my girlfriend. I didn't mind at all. Cause I fuckin' love irony.

Gurf, Slaid's producer, and his wife Brende sat across from me. "I can just picture your first date," I said.

Gurf: Everybody always screws up my name.
Brende: Me too!

There's only one other thing I remember from that night: during Gillmore's set, Neil Young walked in (go figure). (Important visual note: He suffers from a male-pattern bald spot, which makes him look somewhat monkish. That's not important, but I figured you'd want to know.)

I was probably the only one in the room who wished Steve Stills had shown up instead of Young. Let me explain: Stills carries a reputation for being a total asshole, whereas Young is ultimately cool. So I wouldn't bother Young, but I'd have no problem sticking a tape recorder in Stills' face.

"So... what's it like being a short, fat, ex-rock star," I'd ask. If you ask the right questions, the answer doesn't really matter and flying fists would have landed me the front page of the National Enquirer.

Again, I digress.

Saturday night still seems a little blurry, but I do recall that my Powerful Music Biz Brother Who Really Doesn't Want To Hear Your Fuckin' Demo (not you Tor) got us VIP passes at La Zona Rosa for Sister 7, one of his clients and a kick-ass band.

You know what that meant. Free beer.

And my brother did a cool thing. He was given several VIP passes to distribute to music business heavyweights, but he gave away two of them to Beth and John -- true fans of Sister 7. As far as I can tell, Beth and John were the only VIPs who showed up besides us, with the exception of some dipshit attorney. But dipshit attorneys (not you Rick) always have a way of showing up.

The night went swimmingly. I wanted to give that Beth girl a poke or two, frankly, and John was hitting on Karin a bit. Dan's wife, Georgia, eventually danced with all of us, so god knows what was on her mind.

Poor brother Dan. Working, working, working and then afterwards, driving.

But before we left, we went back stage to tell Sister 7 how badass they were. After all, they had to follow John Paul Jones of Led Zeppelin fame, no mean feat since Jones' band performs instrumentals of LZ songs and employs a nasty pedal steel where Jimmy Page's guitar should be. Awesome.

Once we got past backstage security, I went up to Darrell Phillips, Sister 7's bass player, whipped out my tape recorder and started interviewing him. The Q&A went off so well, I didn't have the heart to tell them I had failed to put a tape into the machine.

After that, we all did a Gumby imitation to the car (except for our designated driver, Pokie) and headed home, where we had our own private Mardi Gras. Good breeding and common sense (not mine, for fuck's sake) prevent me from commenting further.

Wait. I remember Karin's answer now.

"He licks pussy real good."

You're a good girl, Karin. And let's not forget: I can open pickle jars and kill spiders too.

* * *

STANDARD DISCLAIMER: This column aims to be funny. If you can read anything else into it, you're on your own. Copyright 2000 by Mike Jasper.