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Besides my ruthlessness, I'm fairly certain I qualified for this responsibility based on my own awe-inspiring musical career. For those of you who somehow hadn't heard, in college, I was, of course, the musical director for an all-female a cappella group. That's right. Boy, did we rock. We did a rendition of "Travelin' Soldier" that would make the Dixie Chicks cry. In a good way.

In any case, I've never been to this particular world-famous music festival, only looked on longingly whilst distractedly dodging pedestrians on my commute downtown this time of year (and really, no one has business stepping out in front of my car - crosswalk or no - when I'm on the look-out for Pinetop Perkins). So in all truthfulness, this is my maiden voyage for SXSW. But music festivals in general? Oh, honey.

A rookie I am not, and good thing, because a five-day festival is not for rookies. Thus, I have a plan.

First things first. In a focused attempt to counteract the inevitable boozing, let the hydrating and caffeinating begin. Since I work daytime, I intend to chug water all morning Wednesday through Friday, (while I'm actually in close proximity to the Ladies' Room - wonder of wonders), stretch out the ol' bladder (I refuse to pee if there's a good band playing. Let my bladder burst, I say!), then start sipping Red Bull at approximately 3 o'clock. I'll vibrate my way to the fest at the stroke of 5p. I've already decided not to attempt parking downtown; Instead, I'll keep the faithful Hyundai in my office building's parking garage and scamper back the 15-20 blocks after, oh, 8 or 9 hours of non-stop standing and drinking. I think it's a good plan. I do hate parallel parking.

I'll also change from my hospital scrubs - which don't scream "Let's Party!" like you might think - into my makeshift hipster outfit, so I can arrive incognito with all those trendy out-of-towners. I'll exhale deeply and squeeze into my skinniest jeans. I recently purchased a $5 pair of dark sunglasses, which I'll wear long after sundown. And then I'll find something black and chic to compliment my pasty pale complexion. I look radiant in black. Like Casper in a nuclear winter.

Another essential part of my plan: Flask. My goodness, I've never understood why more people don't do this. My last music festival was Austin City Limits this past fall, to which I limped a good half mile with a flask lashed to my thigh by an unforgiving rubber band approximately the size of a Cheerio. I lost all feeling in my lower leg and had to walk like a man to prevent chafing (I tried to do this in character: "Some girls walk like guys, Laura. You're just a girl who walks like a guy.") - but it was worth it. I proved a point. Saving twenty bucks on booze is worth the risk of limb-loss. I'm not above doing it again.

(Since ACL was for hippies and SXSW is for hipsters, I'll have to figure out where to lash the flask with this new costume arrangement. No flowy skirts this time. Maybe I'm just a girl with a suspicious bulge in her skinny jeans? Who walks like a man?)

But what about the music, you ask? Logistically speaking, I'm going to plot this thing out like Kasparov against Deep Blue, like a master Donkey Kong gamer against the barrel rolls in Screen 20. We're talking Beautiful Mind grease pencil diagrams on my windows, graphs and carbon copies and ink tattoos down my forearms. I'll have contingency plans for contingency plans, and then back-up plans for those.

Oh, this festival will not get the best of me. My last car salesman has already done that. This time, it's my turn.

And finally - and this is really the take-home message - I'll ask strangers for advice.

It's the ultimate wild card, but it can take things to a whole new level.

Me? I love music. I wouldn't want to live in a world without it. I am fanatic about some bands, positively awestruck by others. But some people out there are, in a word, freaks about their band of choice.

Those are the people I want to find.

Fortuitously, my comp-ed wristband is only for one. I love this. I love going to festivals alone, because I can guiltlessly pursue my own half-buzzed sociological leads straight through to all their zany possibilities. And more importantly, hear some really fantastic outside-the-box bands that I'd be far too vanilla to discover on my own.

Last time I went to a music festival alone, it was my very first ACL here in Austin, September 2005. At the urging of strangers, I was compelled to share their blanket for The Black Crowes' headliner act... next to a trio of guys who did tearful interpretive dance the whole time. (And who were very generous with their beer, bless their hearts. Don't worry, Mom, it was unopened.) And the band - who I'd been ready to forego for Lyle Lovett, foolish me - tore our faces off, smoothed them back on and then tore them off all over again. I love Lyle, but I don't think he rips face like Chris Robinson.

Incidentally, me and the trio all ended up down in a dry creek bed, at sunrise, in a drumming circle. Welcome to Austin.

From South by Southwest, I expect similar greatness. I'll do my best to make you proud.

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