There is a man standing next to you swigging a pint of brew.
He is wearing a monokini. The bright neon thong is wedged so far up his ass
that you are actually feeling a slight discomfort in your nether regions. He is
standing close enough for you to reach out and jock-slap his untanned butt for
fun. You think about doing it for a moment, but then that little conservative South-Indian
voice in your head tells you that you are thoroughly unprepared for a witty
line to supplement the said act and make things fun as opposed to the creepy Indian
dude who felt up some guy’s ass. While you think about a funny repartee, four
other people have clapped his ass and high-fived him with a “Oh Yeah!” yell.
For a brief passing moment, the Teriyaki Chicken and Noodle combo doesn’t seem
like the best idea as you laugh it out through your nose. Only for a moment. You
should have clapped it while you had the chance.
There are restrooms littered around the farm. Lined with
rows and rows of porter potties. There is no such thing as a clean porter
potty. Only porter potties that you die in and those that you survive, changing
the way you look at things forever, for the better. Sometimes, someone might
knock on your porter potty door asking you for toilet paper. That man is way
too many steps into the end of his transcendental journey. Hand him enough.
Just enough. That shit is precious.
Think of the weirdest clothes you have in your closet.
Accessorize them with a coconut shell bra, purple beads, a feathered headdress,
fake beard and a prosthetic pirate limb. Wear it all and ride in on a flying unicorn.
You might just fit in. Bring body paint.
If you have camped under the shade of a tree, you will be
the host for a group of 20 people in the afternoon. They might have alcohol.
They will have chronic. You may indulge but it will make you slow and
lethargic. That is not a good space to be in. A 45 minute afternoon nap means
missing Frank Ocean and Dr Dog. Weigh the pros and cons and you’ll be alright.
Gatorade is your best friend and will be the friend maker on one of those
really hot days. Gatorade and cider. And maybe a pack of murukku for the
Nashvillian with a Cajun spice inclination.
You may bathe here. Not in water though. In sunlight, love
and oodles of confetti sprayed from the confetti gun of the Flaming Lips. Do
not miss the first 10 minutes of the Flaming Lips. Do not miss the last 10
minutes of the Flaming Lips. They are the best contemporary live act ever. They
are probably the greatest live act ever. Jack White is a rock god. Lauryn Hill
has lost her voice but is still brilliant. Vampire Weekend is a good studio
band. Live act, they are not. Die Antwoord is the weirdest sonic experience
since the sound of hyenas laughing. Skrillex is a guaranteed inducer of
epileptic shock. Cake is one of your favourite bands. It will stay that way for
a long time.
There is food here too. Nothing of note, except for Arepas.
A sandwich made from toasted corn cakes and mozzarella cheese. There is
something called Sloppy Tots too. Deep fried bits of French fry rejects topped
with a mince sauce and cheese. Put together, these two dishes account for two
times your normal calorie intake for the year. They are delicious. Cider will
be your preferred choice of intoxication. A warning though. One pint of apple
cider is equal to two pints of piss. Space your drinks and manage your loo breaks.
You don’t want to be running for the loo in the middle of a great act. Carry a
muscle spray. Be prepared to almost die. Be prepared to definitely live.
Nothing more to pen.
Welcome to Bonnaroo!
No comments:
Post a Comment