I headed north on 24. I pulled off at the Murfreesboro exit--it turned out to be the exit before my destination of the Hampton Inn. I had seen a sign promising low rates and wifi at the Knights Inn, and I figured I'd check it out.
The very nice lady behind the counter said she had one room left, but it was smoking. I said I was OK with that, given that God knows what I'd been breathing around me the previous day. We got to talking about Bonnaroo. I guess she felt sorry for me, because she said, "I've got this other room that I was saving for this boy who came by earlier, but he hasn't come back, so you can have it. It's nonsmoking. But you'll have to go upstairs."
"Yesterday," I said, "I had to walk two city blocks to go to the bathroom. Stairs are fine."
I was paying about $20 less per night. I'm sure it wasn't as nice as the Hampton Inn, but it beat the hell out of Camp Bender. Once ensconced, I called the Hampton Inn and canceled. Then I tried the wifi--no luck. I called the spouse to kibitz about technical matters. He ran me through every diagnostic he could think of on the phone, but when my mailboxes suddenly disappeared, and then my Google homepage settings were gone, he suggested I turn off the Mac and put it away, because maybe my hard drive was fried.
I slept for most of the day. Eventually, I decided to go explore. I drove up the road to the Howard Johnson's where Chad and Jeremy were staying.
"Can I leave a message for some friends who are staying here?"
"Are they with Bonnaroo?"
"Uh, yes."
The fellow with the shoe-polish hair and the cross tattoo on his forearm drawled dryly: "Are these friends you just met? Maybe seen across a field, you know?"
"Er, uhh..."
"We probably don't have their names in the books, because the lady keeps track of all of that. But if you want to write them a note, I can see that she gets it."
I gather that "the lady" was a reference to the person managing the guys' VIP package. I began to write to Chad as the black-haired guy said, "Were you at Bonnaroo, too?"
"Yes."
"Ha! Toldja," he boasted to the frat/prep blond guy who sat at the other end of the counter, his feet up on his desk. "I can always tell.
"I was at Woodstock," he said. And, you know, he told me some Woodstock stories here, but I sorta tuned out. Later, I thought maybe I should be collecting people who went to Woodstock. You know--just snap their photos, take their names, whatever. I know a lot of people were there, but still.
The basic gist: He went to the first "new" Woodstock, but it wasn't the same. And that doesn't surprise me. Nothing's the same.
I don't remember what all he went on about: something about moonshine, something about kids breaking into a motel pool. I busted out what was already becoming a shtick: the heat, all that walking, just brutal, blah blah. (It's always later when I realize just how boring I can be.) The other guy attested to his love for Tool and complained about the hotel shuttle. I never did figure out whether he was an employee or another VIP guest.
I finally got away, drove around, had some Krystal burgers. Decided they were better than White Castle. Or maybe I'm mixing things up....I was so very, very tired.
I will go back tomorrow, I told myself. White Stripes.
But tomorrow came, and I didn't want to get out of that cozy bed. And when I sat up, I felt lightheaded.
My Bonnaroo was over. I decided what I wanted was to throw my dizzy, achy, whiny self onto the bosom of the matriarchy. I had planned to drive to Mom's on Monday, but I went on Sunday instead. Drove all day. Did a few more White Castle vs. Krystal taste tests.
I think it was on the drive to Mom's that I finally got a text message from Chad that they'd gotten their flight straightened out: "Save us a space at the Richard Thompson set!"
Bill Bryson wrote a book about walking the whole of the Appalachian Trail. Except--and I hope I'm not spoiling it for anyone, if anyone is reading this--he didn't finish walking the trail. He didn't even get very far. So the book became about something else. Or so I suppose it did, because I didn't finish reading the book. (Are you sensing a pattern here?)
I don't regret going. And I don't regret leaving when I did: It was a decision I made to preserve some semblance of health and well-being. (Would it have been wiser to stick it out and wait until they carried me out on a stretcher?) I don't know how I could have prepared better. I just didn't know how overwhelming it would be, how disconnected I would feel.
I guess I'll end this blog here, because I've got no more Bonnaroo to write about.
But that sounds really glum, doesn't it? Really, my whole thing in life is about the journey rather than the destination, traveling hopefully more than arriving, all that good stuff about which others have been far more eloquent than I am able or willing to be at 3:25 in the morning.
I'm going to go sleep in my own bed now. First time in a week. And in two nights, I'll be on my friend Dan's futon in New York. You see, there's this free Richard Thompson show in Brooklyn....
Tuesday, June 19, 2007
Turning of the Tide
Something was still bugging me. I guess I really started to zero in on it when I told Ike that I'd had "only about six times today that I've wanted to get the hell out of Bonnaroo." And as I trudged back down the bumpy path with my $3.50 bag of ice, my head beginning to hurt, my toes starting to get too familiar with each other, I began to realize that I really wasn't having that good a time.
I was enduring more than I was enjoying.
Ike had said that this was about the best weather he'd ever seen at 'Roo. It was well into the 90s and overcast. The forecast for the next two days indicated a rise in temperature and more sun.
I stopped and sat by the side of Main Street, near Second or Third. (When I first sat down, I immediately had to get up and move across the street because a platoon of mounted police came trotting by.) I called my husband. He went online and found me a possible room at the Hampton Inn in Murfreesboro for under $120 per night, starting Saturday night. I had him book it. (I called from the hillside because I didn't want the people back at my camp overhearing the call. Why? I dunno. I guess I was embarrassed for living up to every stereotype of a middle-aged woman I feared they had.)
Then I began plotting my escape. The folks in the information "pod" weren't very much help: Essentially I was told that they couldn't do anything like go in and try and enforce the clearing of the fire lanes (on which several tents had gone up); basically, I was on my own. But "people were cool" and I just had to get them to move. I dunno: I felt like I should be visibly bleeding to go up to people and say, "Excuse me, but would you please disassemble your temporary domicile for me?"
I went to "bed" early--possibly before 10. This cot, which I thought was gonna be so great? Big and unwieldy, and it still wasn't comfortable. I heard the Superjam from my resting place. Someone (?uestlove, possibly) yelled, "Let me hear you make some muthafuckin' noise!" and huge numbers of people shouted back. I was thinking how weird this was--like sleeping in the parking lot of Prince George's Community College and hearing a concert at the Capitol Centre up the way. It didn't bother me, the music and noise. My immediate area was very peaceful.
I awoke at about 6 a.m., when the sun started coming up. Regretting what seemed to be an overnight reversal of six weeks of physical therapy on my neck, I began, once again, to think of leaving. I got out to use the loo, and when I saw the mobs of people waiting, I hopped from foot to foot and wished I'd left earlier.
I walked all the way to the end of Main Street and up around the perimeter of our camping sector. I found I was able to plot out a path that disrupted only about three groups of campers--assuming I could really drive across the sandy desertlike plain, with the "Danger High Voltage" signs, just north of Camp Bender. I was desperate enough to try.
I chatted with the very nice fellows next door, who just a half-hour earlier had been trading tales of various substances they'd consumed the previous evening and the effects of said substances on sundry bodily functions which they had then had to experience in diverse areas of the campground. You can fill in your own blanks: "I never thought I'd be ______ing right in front of ______, bro." I was beginning to understand why 'Roo-goers prefer closed shoes. The guys had no interest in my offerings of beer but were still happy to offer their advice on decamping. One of them, who was from Tullahoma (the next town over), sympathized with my concerns about the heat. He pointed out that the company that runs Bonnaroo has bought much of the land, which it had previously leased, and was going to be putting in permanent amenities; maybe this would mean better facilities next year?
Those guys had to move their car, and the people next to them had to move theirs, and that was it. I had to abandon the car once in the minefield/sandbar to get out and find the proper path again, but that was it.
I was giddy as I called my husband. Yeah, I got stuck waiting for the people at the portaloos to disperse--I even had to go off the road to try and get around both them and some kind of truck that was coming in--but I was moving. "I better hang up," I said. A middle-aged lady in a Grand Prix, talking on the cell phone...I really wanted to put on the air conditioning, but something had to give, lest I become a stereotype.
I drove around the local roads chanting "Free! Free!" to myself as Etta James sang on Radio Bonnaroo. I pulled down some side road--I don't even remember why--and into the main drive of some McMansion community. There I changed clothes, in my car, just to feel fresh--and maybe to remind myself of the gulf between Bonnaroo and Chelsea Ridge Towne Estates, and to attempt to bolster my position on the correct side of that gulf. Yeah, that was as close to public nudity as I got at 'Roo.
I was enduring more than I was enjoying.
Ike had said that this was about the best weather he'd ever seen at 'Roo. It was well into the 90s and overcast. The forecast for the next two days indicated a rise in temperature and more sun.
I stopped and sat by the side of Main Street, near Second or Third. (When I first sat down, I immediately had to get up and move across the street because a platoon of mounted police came trotting by.) I called my husband. He went online and found me a possible room at the Hampton Inn in Murfreesboro for under $120 per night, starting Saturday night. I had him book it. (I called from the hillside because I didn't want the people back at my camp overhearing the call. Why? I dunno. I guess I was embarrassed for living up to every stereotype of a middle-aged woman I feared they had.)
Then I began plotting my escape. The folks in the information "pod" weren't very much help: Essentially I was told that they couldn't do anything like go in and try and enforce the clearing of the fire lanes (on which several tents had gone up); basically, I was on my own. But "people were cool" and I just had to get them to move. I dunno: I felt like I should be visibly bleeding to go up to people and say, "Excuse me, but would you please disassemble your temporary domicile for me?"
I went to "bed" early--possibly before 10. This cot, which I thought was gonna be so great? Big and unwieldy, and it still wasn't comfortable. I heard the Superjam from my resting place. Someone (?uestlove, possibly) yelled, "Let me hear you make some muthafuckin' noise!" and huge numbers of people shouted back. I was thinking how weird this was--like sleeping in the parking lot of Prince George's Community College and hearing a concert at the Capitol Centre up the way. It didn't bother me, the music and noise. My immediate area was very peaceful.
I awoke at about 6 a.m., when the sun started coming up. Regretting what seemed to be an overnight reversal of six weeks of physical therapy on my neck, I began, once again, to think of leaving. I got out to use the loo, and when I saw the mobs of people waiting, I hopped from foot to foot and wished I'd left earlier.
I walked all the way to the end of Main Street and up around the perimeter of our camping sector. I found I was able to plot out a path that disrupted only about three groups of campers--assuming I could really drive across the sandy desertlike plain, with the "Danger High Voltage" signs, just north of Camp Bender. I was desperate enough to try.
I chatted with the very nice fellows next door, who just a half-hour earlier had been trading tales of various substances they'd consumed the previous evening and the effects of said substances on sundry bodily functions which they had then had to experience in diverse areas of the campground. You can fill in your own blanks: "I never thought I'd be ______ing right in front of ______, bro." I was beginning to understand why 'Roo-goers prefer closed shoes. The guys had no interest in my offerings of beer but were still happy to offer their advice on decamping. One of them, who was from Tullahoma (the next town over), sympathized with my concerns about the heat. He pointed out that the company that runs Bonnaroo has bought much of the land, which it had previously leased, and was going to be putting in permanent amenities; maybe this would mean better facilities next year?
Those guys had to move their car, and the people next to them had to move theirs, and that was it. I had to abandon the car once in the minefield/sandbar to get out and find the proper path again, but that was it.
I was giddy as I called my husband. Yeah, I got stuck waiting for the people at the portaloos to disperse--I even had to go off the road to try and get around both them and some kind of truck that was coming in--but I was moving. "I better hang up," I said. A middle-aged lady in a Grand Prix, talking on the cell phone...I really wanted to put on the air conditioning, but something had to give, lest I become a stereotype.
I drove around the local roads chanting "Free! Free!" to myself as Etta James sang on Radio Bonnaroo. I pulled down some side road--I don't even remember why--and into the main drive of some McMansion community. There I changed clothes, in my car, just to feel fresh--and maybe to remind myself of the gulf between Bonnaroo and Chelsea Ridge Towne Estates, and to attempt to bolster my position on the correct side of that gulf. Yeah, that was as close to public nudity as I got at 'Roo.
Ecstatic Truth or Dare
It gets sketchy from here on out.
I know that someone introduced me to a cute young guy who didn't like Richard Thompson: "I'm sure he's more talented than the Flaming Lips, but I'd rather see the Lips," he said, or something like it. I made a derisive comment about needing costumes to make the music work, but it was meant with affection. (I wonder if this was the same guy who later described Thompson's Bonnaroo set on a forum as "Southern blues-rock.")
It was just too exciting, and if I go on to gush about the frisson that went through our little band whenever Bobby the roadie moved a guitar or someone caught a glimpse of Our Man backstage, they're gonna haul me off to the See I'm Wearing His Ring Ward of the Galway To Graceland Institute for the Terminally Fannish.
The performance raised the entire place off the ground by about four inches, or so it seemed to me. I didn't look back much, but I sensed a huge welling of joy from the crowd, just as with the Uncle Earl set. I hope the guys in the band got it as well. I know that RT seemed to be making eye contact with some of us, now and again, though it could be stagecraft. If he did see us, I expect it amused him: a bunch of sweaty, 40-plus white people, dancing and singing with total abandon.
He emphasized the big guitar workouts: "Hard on Me," "Tear Stained Letter," etc. Of course we got "1952 Vincent Black Lightning." The guy I'm calling Mitch was saying something, before the set, about how I go to so many RT shows that I use this one as my "pee break." I was amused that someone with whom I've had maybe six conversations knows when I take a pee break.
"Take Care the Road You Choose" is now on YouTube, but the clip just doesn't do it justice. It does a nice job of showing the Other Tent, which was a wonderful shade canopy. (That "sawdust" I saw them dumping hours before? It was actually sand, and I enjoyed digging my bare feet into it as Mickie and I talked before the show.)
I just can't put more words to it. I can't. It was...fun.
We were just buoyant when it was over--people hugging and whatnot. I can't explain it...it all seems so silly now. And several of us immediately went for beers and the Ferris wheel. (I owe someone a round; I didn't foot the bill for either diversion.) I quaffed a Magic Hat Number 9 as we stood in the line for the ride. The heat didn't matter, for a little while. I was with My People.
Eventually, it was just me and Ike and Tina. Now here's where I did the only thing that maybe I'm a little ashamed of: I sneaked into VIP. I mean, I wanted to hang out with my friends in a laid-back atmosphere, and my camp was 17 miles away or whatever....
It reminded me of that old Saturday Night Live sketch where the guys wonder why women always go to the bathroom in bunches, so they sneak into the ladies', only to find a world of extravagance to which their gender bars them admittance. I guess I first felt that way when we walked through the air-conditioned dining tent with the lounge area featuring black leather sofas. Seeing the air-conditioned toilets and the complimentary showers was likewise awe-inspiring.
But what really made me jealous: Ike and Tina were pretty close to Centeroo, and they had space aplenty--effectively a corner lot on what was set up more like a Florida retirement community than a Dust Bowl refugee camp.
These two have been 'Rooing for years, and they know what they're doing. Shade canopy over the tent. Stuff hung on the walls of the tent. A comfy-looking bed. A porch area with chairs and a table. They even had their own toilet, just in case.
I drank their beer for a little while and chatted. It was one of my most pleasant memories of the day. I need a 'Roo where I get that sort of thing all the time.
Oh, one more thing: Before we got in there, before I took an illicit VIP shower (with authentic VIP garbage on the floor) and changed into my homemade Corncat T-shirt, Ike and I passed a woman in Centeroo who was wearing a dark-blue T-shirt with a photo on the front of a familiar feline. "Oh!" I exclaimed, pointing at her chest. "Nom nom nom!" So very, very cool. I wish I'd had more experiences like that. I wish I'd met the guy dressed as Burger King. Hell, I didn't even see any naked people.
I know that someone introduced me to a cute young guy who didn't like Richard Thompson: "I'm sure he's more talented than the Flaming Lips, but I'd rather see the Lips," he said, or something like it. I made a derisive comment about needing costumes to make the music work, but it was meant with affection. (I wonder if this was the same guy who later described Thompson's Bonnaroo set on a forum as "Southern blues-rock.")
It was just too exciting, and if I go on to gush about the frisson that went through our little band whenever Bobby the roadie moved a guitar or someone caught a glimpse of Our Man backstage, they're gonna haul me off to the See I'm Wearing His Ring Ward of the Galway To Graceland Institute for the Terminally Fannish.
The performance raised the entire place off the ground by about four inches, or so it seemed to me. I didn't look back much, but I sensed a huge welling of joy from the crowd, just as with the Uncle Earl set. I hope the guys in the band got it as well. I know that RT seemed to be making eye contact with some of us, now and again, though it could be stagecraft. If he did see us, I expect it amused him: a bunch of sweaty, 40-plus white people, dancing and singing with total abandon.
He emphasized the big guitar workouts: "Hard on Me," "Tear Stained Letter," etc. Of course we got "1952 Vincent Black Lightning." The guy I'm calling Mitch was saying something, before the set, about how I go to so many RT shows that I use this one as my "pee break." I was amused that someone with whom I've had maybe six conversations knows when I take a pee break.
"Take Care the Road You Choose" is now on YouTube, but the clip just doesn't do it justice. It does a nice job of showing the Other Tent, which was a wonderful shade canopy. (That "sawdust" I saw them dumping hours before? It was actually sand, and I enjoyed digging my bare feet into it as Mickie and I talked before the show.)
I just can't put more words to it. I can't. It was...fun.
We were just buoyant when it was over--people hugging and whatnot. I can't explain it...it all seems so silly now. And several of us immediately went for beers and the Ferris wheel. (I owe someone a round; I didn't foot the bill for either diversion.) I quaffed a Magic Hat Number 9 as we stood in the line for the ride. The heat didn't matter, for a little while. I was with My People.
Eventually, it was just me and Ike and Tina. Now here's where I did the only thing that maybe I'm a little ashamed of: I sneaked into VIP. I mean, I wanted to hang out with my friends in a laid-back atmosphere, and my camp was 17 miles away or whatever....
It reminded me of that old Saturday Night Live sketch where the guys wonder why women always go to the bathroom in bunches, so they sneak into the ladies', only to find a world of extravagance to which their gender bars them admittance. I guess I first felt that way when we walked through the air-conditioned dining tent with the lounge area featuring black leather sofas. Seeing the air-conditioned toilets and the complimentary showers was likewise awe-inspiring.
But what really made me jealous: Ike and Tina were pretty close to Centeroo, and they had space aplenty--effectively a corner lot on what was set up more like a Florida retirement community than a Dust Bowl refugee camp.
These two have been 'Rooing for years, and they know what they're doing. Shade canopy over the tent. Stuff hung on the walls of the tent. A comfy-looking bed. A porch area with chairs and a table. They even had their own toilet, just in case.
I drank their beer for a little while and chatted. It was one of my most pleasant memories of the day. I need a 'Roo where I get that sort of thing all the time.
Oh, one more thing: Before we got in there, before I took an illicit VIP shower (with authentic VIP garbage on the floor) and changed into my homemade Corncat T-shirt, Ike and I passed a woman in Centeroo who was wearing a dark-blue T-shirt with a photo on the front of a familiar feline. "Oh!" I exclaimed, pointing at her chest. "Nom nom nom!" So very, very cool. I wish I'd had more experiences like that. I wish I'd met the guy dressed as Burger King. Hell, I didn't even see any naked people.
Hello. Yes. It's Been a While.
June 19
9:58 p.m.
Do you have that Firefall song stuck in your head now? Is it indeed Firefall?
But I'm stalling. OK. So let me explain why I ended up spending only about 28 hours at Bonnaroo.
No, let me back up, first, and talk about some of those hours.
As generally happens in settings where RT is imminent, I met some friends. First was a couple who road-trip almost as much as I do--I'll call them Mitch and Mickie. God, it was good to see them. You know, I don't just travel around alone so much because I'm a loner. I just have this weird set of preferences, circumstances, and obsessions that don't match anywhere near neatly with those of anyone who lives within 100 miles of me--save, perhaps, a few married men, and I can't go splitting a VIP tent with them, now, can I?
I like being alone--when I know that someone's got my back. When I'm the fifth wheel, or when I'm plunked down among a bunch of very nice boys with whom I'd be happy for my daughter to do 'shrooms (see, this is why I didn't have kids)...well, it does get to be difficult. There's a peculiar comfortable solitude in being next to people you trust, people who will let you be alone with them. Hard to explain.
Mitch and Mickie, 'Roo vets, were camped somewhere nearby, not out in the section the cognoscenti discreetly abbreviate as "BFE," where my tent ended up. Lucky Mitch and Mickie. We chatted for a while, as the crowd grew. Then a man swooped down on me and said, "BJ?" (Private joke--not the dirty one you'd expect, but one too long to explain here.) Miracle of miracles, it was my British friend, who'd finally sorted his airline problems. He hugged me to his "Push and Shove" T-shirt.
Introductions ensued. My pal--let's call him "Chad"--introduced his friend, a fellow Brit, the spectacularly torsoed "Jeremy." Mercy. Send that man up to do a mike check, and I'm gonna need CPR.
A fellow with an extravagant melodrama-villain mustache gave us a serious Uncle Earl sales pitch. It was clear that the performers each had cadres of followers at the foot of the stage. As Uncle Earl's set began, a generously proportioned blonde woman in a homemade Uncle Earl T-shirt shoved her way in next to me. She was one of those people who feels it necessary to carry on personal conversations with the band members, sing, dance, and make all sorts of "Woo-hoo!" noises. (NB: I was later to do at least three of these things.) For the second time that day, I was beginning to get some serious 'Roo hate going, especially when Possibly Drunk Girl jabbed me in the back with her elbow for the second time.
Nevertheless, the music lifted me up, as it nearly always does. Uncle Earl started a bit slow, I thought--I mean, yeah, bluegrass, it can sound samey-samey; at first, this seemed competent but nothing special. It's hard to pin down what was so damn engaging about this group. All talented, the members--attractive young women--soon revealed more confidence as well. I loved their harmonies, though their shape-note singing was far too brief for my tastes. Mostly, what I loved was the lovefest feel of the interplay between performers and audience. This may be what makes Bonnaroo so special.
Finally, partway through the set, my other friends--Ike and Tina--showed up. I don't remember why they were waylaid. They were in VIP camping. (Chad and Jeremy were also VIPs, but they were staying in a Howard Johnson in Murfreesboro. No way I could have shelled out for either of their options; I went cheap, paying just over $200, including shipping, for my ticket, which included yer basic camping.)
I was glad Ike got to see at least some of John Paul Jones' guest mando stint with the band. He seemed to be having an amazing time--as did Ike, who was more visibly psyched about the upcoming RT stint as anyone I've ever seen.
(To be continued....)
9:58 p.m.
Do you have that Firefall song stuck in your head now? Is it indeed Firefall?
But I'm stalling. OK. So let me explain why I ended up spending only about 28 hours at Bonnaroo.
No, let me back up, first, and talk about some of those hours.
As generally happens in settings where RT is imminent, I met some friends. First was a couple who road-trip almost as much as I do--I'll call them Mitch and Mickie. God, it was good to see them. You know, I don't just travel around alone so much because I'm a loner. I just have this weird set of preferences, circumstances, and obsessions that don't match anywhere near neatly with those of anyone who lives within 100 miles of me--save, perhaps, a few married men, and I can't go splitting a VIP tent with them, now, can I?
I like being alone--when I know that someone's got my back. When I'm the fifth wheel, or when I'm plunked down among a bunch of very nice boys with whom I'd be happy for my daughter to do 'shrooms (see, this is why I didn't have kids)...well, it does get to be difficult. There's a peculiar comfortable solitude in being next to people you trust, people who will let you be alone with them. Hard to explain.
Mitch and Mickie, 'Roo vets, were camped somewhere nearby, not out in the section the cognoscenti discreetly abbreviate as "BFE," where my tent ended up. Lucky Mitch and Mickie. We chatted for a while, as the crowd grew. Then a man swooped down on me and said, "BJ?" (Private joke--not the dirty one you'd expect, but one too long to explain here.) Miracle of miracles, it was my British friend, who'd finally sorted his airline problems. He hugged me to his "Push and Shove" T-shirt.
Introductions ensued. My pal--let's call him "Chad"--introduced his friend, a fellow Brit, the spectacularly torsoed "Jeremy." Mercy. Send that man up to do a mike check, and I'm gonna need CPR.
A fellow with an extravagant melodrama-villain mustache gave us a serious Uncle Earl sales pitch. It was clear that the performers each had cadres of followers at the foot of the stage. As Uncle Earl's set began, a generously proportioned blonde woman in a homemade Uncle Earl T-shirt shoved her way in next to me. She was one of those people who feels it necessary to carry on personal conversations with the band members, sing, dance, and make all sorts of "Woo-hoo!" noises. (NB: I was later to do at least three of these things.) For the second time that day, I was beginning to get some serious 'Roo hate going, especially when Possibly Drunk Girl jabbed me in the back with her elbow for the second time.
Nevertheless, the music lifted me up, as it nearly always does. Uncle Earl started a bit slow, I thought--I mean, yeah, bluegrass, it can sound samey-samey; at first, this seemed competent but nothing special. It's hard to pin down what was so damn engaging about this group. All talented, the members--attractive young women--soon revealed more confidence as well. I loved their harmonies, though their shape-note singing was far too brief for my tastes. Mostly, what I loved was the lovefest feel of the interplay between performers and audience. This may be what makes Bonnaroo so special.
Finally, partway through the set, my other friends--Ike and Tina--showed up. I don't remember why they were waylaid. They were in VIP camping. (Chad and Jeremy were also VIPs, but they were staying in a Howard Johnson in Murfreesboro. No way I could have shelled out for either of their options; I went cheap, paying just over $200, including shipping, for my ticket, which included yer basic camping.)
I was glad Ike got to see at least some of John Paul Jones' guest mando stint with the band. He seemed to be having an amazing time--as did Ike, who was more visibly psyched about the upcoming RT stint as anyone I've ever seen.
(To be continued....)
I Melt for the Celt
June 15
10:13 a.m.
“Ah, two. Ahhhh…two. Ahh, yes, ah, yes indeed.”
This guy—or someone else with an Irish accent—should always be enlisted to do mike checks. He sounds like the photog in Blow-Up, if that guy had been from Cork.
I’d love to have a recording of this guy’s voice. I love mike checks.
Aha! There are now civilians in the Other Tent. I shall go join them.
10:13 a.m.
“Ah, two. Ahhhh…two. Ahh, yes, ah, yes indeed.”
This guy—or someone else with an Irish accent—should always be enlisted to do mike checks. He sounds like the photog in Blow-Up, if that guy had been from Cork.
I’d love to have a recording of this guy’s voice. I love mike checks.
Aha! There are now civilians in the Other Tent. I shall go join them.
Inflated Parrot Ambiance
June 15
9:12 a.m.
I’m starting to think that the wifi problems are with my computer. I get network choices but just can’t seem to connect.
I had myself a wee nap. Amazing that I could. I got the chair back as far as it would go. I inflated the parrot I got at the dollar store and wrapped my Corncat T-shirt around it. I snuggled under my beach towel. Zone-out city. I feel greatly refreshed.
This is a fairly solitary enterprise, though—which is kind of a bummer. I figure it’s too early to call or message any of my pals. Maybe by tomorrow I’ll be in sync with people better than this. And I’m not gonna haul all this crap to Centeroo tomorrow—although I have to admit the chair is comfy and the laptop gives me something to do.
This is not the Bonnaroo I expected.
It’s a massive enterprise—a huge staff. There seem to be teams of them, in color-coded shirts. I think I’m the only civilian around. There’s a young couple under the next tree up.
They’re blasting metal music from the Other Tent stage right now. Something recorded that sounds like the station I was listening to in Charleston—all bands with visible or implicit umlauts. Given that the performers at this stage today are Uncle Earl, the Richard Thompson Band, and Gillian Welch, it’s kind of silly.
Yeah, I think I’ll get my spot up there by the front and stay there all day if I can. Maybe I’ll wander before or during Uncle Earl if any of my buddies show up.
Gee, when it was quiet, I was gonna phone my mother. I think the ambiance would disturb her.
9:12 a.m.
I’m starting to think that the wifi problems are with my computer. I get network choices but just can’t seem to connect.
I had myself a wee nap. Amazing that I could. I got the chair back as far as it would go. I inflated the parrot I got at the dollar store and wrapped my Corncat T-shirt around it. I snuggled under my beach towel. Zone-out city. I feel greatly refreshed.
This is a fairly solitary enterprise, though—which is kind of a bummer. I figure it’s too early to call or message any of my pals. Maybe by tomorrow I’ll be in sync with people better than this. And I’m not gonna haul all this crap to Centeroo tomorrow—although I have to admit the chair is comfy and the laptop gives me something to do.
This is not the Bonnaroo I expected.
It’s a massive enterprise—a huge staff. There seem to be teams of them, in color-coded shirts. I think I’m the only civilian around. There’s a young couple under the next tree up.
They’re blasting metal music from the Other Tent stage right now. Something recorded that sounds like the station I was listening to in Charleston—all bands with visible or implicit umlauts. Given that the performers at this stage today are Uncle Earl, the Richard Thompson Band, and Gillian Welch, it’s kind of silly.
Yeah, I think I’ll get my spot up there by the front and stay there all day if I can. Maybe I’ll wander before or during Uncle Earl if any of my buddies show up.
Gee, when it was quiet, I was gonna phone my mother. I think the ambiance would disturb her.
Bad Vibes
June 15
7:02 a.m.
Hate Bonnaroo. Hate. Bonnaroo.
It’s so damn ugly. Just these beat-up fields…ugliest setting I’ve seen since JazzFest. Dusty and…just ugly.
I had to walk for a long way to get here. I carried all kids of crap, because I knew I wouldn’t be making the walk more than once.
The sun is already getting to me, and it’s barely up. I guess if I can stay in the tents all day, I’ll be OK. There’s no music here for about 5 hours, but I’m already parked in the shade of the Other Tent. Some big-ass truck just arrived, though, so I’ll probably have to move along. So much for my nap here. Maybe under that tree…but it’s got trash bins right where the good shade is.
Wow. The truck is dropping sawdust. I’d better move along.
And I can’t get wifi YET. Dammit.
A lot of this crankiness is my own doing, not Bonnaroo’s fault. Oh, God, it’d feel so good to decamp, go get a motel room somewhere, drink the rest of that beer….I’m spinning wild plans, like “I could leave this evening and not come back until Sunday for the White Stripes.”
7:02 a.m.
Hate Bonnaroo. Hate. Bonnaroo.
It’s so damn ugly. Just these beat-up fields…ugliest setting I’ve seen since JazzFest. Dusty and…just ugly.
I had to walk for a long way to get here. I carried all kids of crap, because I knew I wouldn’t be making the walk more than once.
The sun is already getting to me, and it’s barely up. I guess if I can stay in the tents all day, I’ll be OK. There’s no music here for about 5 hours, but I’m already parked in the shade of the Other Tent. Some big-ass truck just arrived, though, so I’ll probably have to move along. So much for my nap here. Maybe under that tree…but it’s got trash bins right where the good shade is.
Wow. The truck is dropping sawdust. I’d better move along.
And I can’t get wifi YET. Dammit.
A lot of this crankiness is my own doing, not Bonnaroo’s fault. Oh, God, it’d feel so good to decamp, go get a motel room somewhere, drink the rest of that beer….I’m spinning wild plans, like “I could leave this evening and not come back until Sunday for the White Stripes.”
Dispatch From the Front
June 15
It’s 6:22. Or, hell, 5:22. Or 7:22. Hell if I know.
There was no appreciable crowding as I reached the infamous exits 111 and 112. I couldn’t find 112, actually, and I ended up going down to 114 and turning around. The signage was only iffy, and without a mob to follow, I feared getting lost.
(Let me fast-forward a second: I’m sitting in my festival chair in my tent. I feel like a war correspondent. I’m drinking Frisco Ginger Joy. Mmmmm.)
I found my way to some gates, of a sort, where I was directed to a spot behind two other cars. Two young men in yellow “Security” (or was it “Safety”?) shirts came over to either of my front windows. They asked me if I had any glass, weapons, drug paraphernalia, or “dead bodies—if you do, it doesn’t matter, because this is Bonnaroo, but if you tell me you don’t and I find some, I’ll be pissed, OK?” They made me get out of the car and did a cursory look-around, including looking in my cooler briefly. They said I was fine. They called me “ma’am.”
Unfortunately, I was stuck behind these two other cars, one of which was being searched pretty thoroughly. Finally, another guy waved me over to his gate, but he didn’t know I’d already been searched, so I had to find the guys who searched me so he’d be satisfied. It might have been quicker for him to search me again.
I meandered around, following people with flags, etc. I got my wristband (cherry red) and my map and my trash bags. Then I drove and drove past dreadlocks and frat shirts and wandering confused people and a “Maryland” sweatshirt and I don’t know what all.
They crammed us in by what looks like a marsh. Putting up the tents was insane. It was pretty dark. I brought two head lamps; I couldn’t find the one I’ve always used, and when I finally found the scissors to open the new one, I found it didn’t have batteries. I didn’t want to go digging around for AAAs, so I pretty much ripped open the box containing my lantern and fumbled around until it came on.
It’s a wonder no one lost an eye, the way the shock-cord poles were waving. It’s a wonder I had room for my tent at all; it’s right up against the neighbor’s on one side.
So my plans are rapidly diminishing. No room for my shade tent (no energy, either). Little space for stuff like camp stoves. I just want to sleep here and go away otherwise. I have to figure out how to pack properly for Centeroo; I reckon I’ll be hauling the damn laptop with me.
And STILL no wifi. Bugger.
I’m gonna rest here a couple minutes, drinking my beer. Then I need a portaloo, already. Then I’m gonna try and pack up for Centeroo. I don’t know where I am, but I heard someone else say they think we’re in Camp John Bender, which is just about the northernmost camp. Centeroo is due south. It could be worse, but it could be a hell of a lot better.
I admit: I’m feeling a little claustrophobic and a whole lot damp. People are smoking around me. (Tobacco. Ugh.)
Man, this chair is comfy. I remember now that when I stay awake too long, I don’t necessarily get sleepy, or tired in the way I expect, but I get really stupid and clumsy. The tent was a real pain. I didn’t want to ask for help, but at one point one of the neighbor guys grabbed a pole and pushed it into place, which was a big help.
I do like my tent.
OK, off to do some research.
It’s 6:22. Or, hell, 5:22. Or 7:22. Hell if I know.
There was no appreciable crowding as I reached the infamous exits 111 and 112. I couldn’t find 112, actually, and I ended up going down to 114 and turning around. The signage was only iffy, and without a mob to follow, I feared getting lost.
(Let me fast-forward a second: I’m sitting in my festival chair in my tent. I feel like a war correspondent. I’m drinking Frisco Ginger Joy. Mmmmm.)
I found my way to some gates, of a sort, where I was directed to a spot behind two other cars. Two young men in yellow “Security” (or was it “Safety”?) shirts came over to either of my front windows. They asked me if I had any glass, weapons, drug paraphernalia, or “dead bodies—if you do, it doesn’t matter, because this is Bonnaroo, but if you tell me you don’t and I find some, I’ll be pissed, OK?” They made me get out of the car and did a cursory look-around, including looking in my cooler briefly. They said I was fine. They called me “ma’am.”
Unfortunately, I was stuck behind these two other cars, one of which was being searched pretty thoroughly. Finally, another guy waved me over to his gate, but he didn’t know I’d already been searched, so I had to find the guys who searched me so he’d be satisfied. It might have been quicker for him to search me again.
I meandered around, following people with flags, etc. I got my wristband (cherry red) and my map and my trash bags. Then I drove and drove past dreadlocks and frat shirts and wandering confused people and a “Maryland” sweatshirt and I don’t know what all.
They crammed us in by what looks like a marsh. Putting up the tents was insane. It was pretty dark. I brought two head lamps; I couldn’t find the one I’ve always used, and when I finally found the scissors to open the new one, I found it didn’t have batteries. I didn’t want to go digging around for AAAs, so I pretty much ripped open the box containing my lantern and fumbled around until it came on.
It’s a wonder no one lost an eye, the way the shock-cord poles were waving. It’s a wonder I had room for my tent at all; it’s right up against the neighbor’s on one side.
So my plans are rapidly diminishing. No room for my shade tent (no energy, either). Little space for stuff like camp stoves. I just want to sleep here and go away otherwise. I have to figure out how to pack properly for Centeroo; I reckon I’ll be hauling the damn laptop with me.
And STILL no wifi. Bugger.
I’m gonna rest here a couple minutes, drinking my beer. Then I need a portaloo, already. Then I’m gonna try and pack up for Centeroo. I don’t know where I am, but I heard someone else say they think we’re in Camp John Bender, which is just about the northernmost camp. Centeroo is due south. It could be worse, but it could be a hell of a lot better.
I admit: I’m feeling a little claustrophobic and a whole lot damp. People are smoking around me. (Tobacco. Ugh.)
Man, this chair is comfy. I remember now that when I stay awake too long, I don’t necessarily get sleepy, or tired in the way I expect, but I get really stupid and clumsy. The tent was a real pain. I didn’t want to ask for help, but at one point one of the neighbor guys grabbed a pole and pushed it into place, which was a big help.
I do like my tent.
OK, off to do some research.
Cindy Two
June 15
4:14, or possibly 3:14, a.m., depending on what time zone I’m in
First sign of Bonnaroo: exit 74 on rt. 24. Literally, a sign: expect delays at mile marker 111.
I still can’t get Bonnaroo Radio. Near it on the dial is that coast-to-coast program about UFOs, which is what I’ve been listening to for a few miles. I don’t know if it was that station or another one that talked about people “trickling in” for Bonnaroo, just as I was pulling off the road.
Having seemingly missed any chance of a 24-hour White Castle, I’m in a very smoky Waffle House somewhere near Murfreeesboro. It’s dingy and very near some railroad tracks I didn’t see when I came in. It seems to be dim out there, though maybe, just maybe, my eyes are tired.
I’m starting to see young people, oddly worn bandanas, Sun Records T-shirts. My people. Two kids just had some difficulty getting money from the ATM, and the waitress, whose name tag reads “Cindy Two,” told them, “We take VISA now.” Which I reckon won’t help them where they’re going.
I can’t wait to get there.
4:14, or possibly 3:14, a.m., depending on what time zone I’m in
First sign of Bonnaroo: exit 74 on rt. 24. Literally, a sign: expect delays at mile marker 111.
I still can’t get Bonnaroo Radio. Near it on the dial is that coast-to-coast program about UFOs, which is what I’ve been listening to for a few miles. I don’t know if it was that station or another one that talked about people “trickling in” for Bonnaroo, just as I was pulling off the road.
Having seemingly missed any chance of a 24-hour White Castle, I’m in a very smoky Waffle House somewhere near Murfreeesboro. It’s dingy and very near some railroad tracks I didn’t see when I came in. It seems to be dim out there, though maybe, just maybe, my eyes are tired.
I’m starting to see young people, oddly worn bandanas, Sun Records T-shirts. My people. Two kids just had some difficulty getting money from the ATM, and the waitress, whose name tag reads “Cindy Two,” told them, “We take VISA now.” Which I reckon won’t help them where they’re going.
I can’t wait to get there.
Processed Bluegrass, and a Poem
June 15, 1:27 a.m.
I’m just south of Paducah. I like that name—it makes me think of “Palookaville,” but then when I typed it just now, I was thinking of the time of the Raj—of “howdah” and “hookah.” Of course, I’ve probably mixed up both geography and lexicography.
Mercy, have I heard a lot of old music tonight. Right now it’s “Kiss on My List” (I think that’s the name) by Hall & Oates. Earlier, when I was driving down the Bluegrass Parkway, it was “Breakfast in America” and “Huggin’ Lovin’ Squeezin’” (or whatever it’s called) and “House of the Rising Sun” and “Happy Together” and that execrable Billy Joel song that oughta be called “Women—Whaddya Gonna Do?”
And earlier than that, it was Richard Thompson, with, among other wonderful things, two songs I heard at the very first of his concerts I attended, in 1988, and haven’t heard since: “I Still Dream” and “Gypsy Love Songs.” It was a wonderful concert, although I got more than a hint of some road-weariness, although only when they were offstage. Such energy for four guys whose combined age must be over 200—and that’s just the band; the crew was working like crazy as well. I was amused to see Tom Dube, who was doing sound off stage left, snapping a bunch of photos during (I think) “Hard on Me” and “Gypsy Love Songs.”
I haven’t seen the tour bus, though I imagine they’re making the same drive I am tonight. I’m slightly less of a quarter of the way from Lexington to Bonnaroo. I had to stop for a bathroom, and this McDonald’s also promised wifi (turned out it wasn’t FREE wifi). So I’m storing up more stuff to post when I’m in the middle of the bohemian mudfield.
Just before I hit the Bluegrass Parkway, I drove through an area with the most amazing smell: a very pure, clean-smelling horse manure, plus sweet hay. Must be where all the best horses do their business.
I love the air at night, in the summer, when I’m driving. It started to rain a bit a few miles back, and I had to close up the car again—bummer, because the open air is ever so much more pleasant than the A/C.
OK, I better make tracks.
Before I forget, I was thinking about this poem I wrote recently, and I thought I’d post it here, since it’s almost topical. It was inspired by a Sufi dance class I saw at FloydFest a couple of years ago. I submitted it to a magazine right before I left for ‘Roo.
SUFI DANCERS AT WOWFEST
Dancing ‘til my feet don’t touch the ground
I lose my mind and dance forever…Turn my world around…
--Richard Thompson, “Night Comes In”
It was the music that took me
to a mountainside Medina
in the Blue Ridge of my Methodist mother.
Admission to the holy city required an orange wristband,
expulsion of glass from coolers, the mark of Cain
for permission to imbibe certain elixirs.
In a corner of the cowfield was a circle, chanting, turning.
I have seen the dervishes, those fellows in cone hats and coats,
trying to pull down the veil of heaven.
Here: Radford sophomores, wrapped in their mothers’ beads
and Old Navy capris, chipped pink polish on their filthy toes,
gathering holiness to take back to Hell Week.
When I was a child,
I grasped the twin posts of the basketball backboard
and, hand over hand,
wove my kidself through them in the 8 of infinity, all recess long.
Branches swam in curls of green. I saw my own dreams,
a lazy revelation, slow as a double feature.
Sometimes, satori came
as the smack of blacktop on my cheek.
It seems we need our circles. We make our hajj,
to light and back again,
each step itself a light. At Christmas, we unravel the fairy lights,
from their tangle of the year before,
farther and farther from the socket.
Then we wind them around the tree—
a cascade, a stair, a nest of circles.
We always turn back, because God moves faster than our eyes.
Although we grow, although we seek the straight-up path,
we are pulled into orbit.
This is our prayer: to refuse the circle,
even as, in turning away,
we turn.
I’m just south of Paducah. I like that name—it makes me think of “Palookaville,” but then when I typed it just now, I was thinking of the time of the Raj—of “howdah” and “hookah.” Of course, I’ve probably mixed up both geography and lexicography.
Mercy, have I heard a lot of old music tonight. Right now it’s “Kiss on My List” (I think that’s the name) by Hall & Oates. Earlier, when I was driving down the Bluegrass Parkway, it was “Breakfast in America” and “Huggin’ Lovin’ Squeezin’” (or whatever it’s called) and “House of the Rising Sun” and “Happy Together” and that execrable Billy Joel song that oughta be called “Women—Whaddya Gonna Do?”
And earlier than that, it was Richard Thompson, with, among other wonderful things, two songs I heard at the very first of his concerts I attended, in 1988, and haven’t heard since: “I Still Dream” and “Gypsy Love Songs.” It was a wonderful concert, although I got more than a hint of some road-weariness, although only when they were offstage. Such energy for four guys whose combined age must be over 200—and that’s just the band; the crew was working like crazy as well. I was amused to see Tom Dube, who was doing sound off stage left, snapping a bunch of photos during (I think) “Hard on Me” and “Gypsy Love Songs.”
I haven’t seen the tour bus, though I imagine they’re making the same drive I am tonight. I’m slightly less of a quarter of the way from Lexington to Bonnaroo. I had to stop for a bathroom, and this McDonald’s also promised wifi (turned out it wasn’t FREE wifi). So I’m storing up more stuff to post when I’m in the middle of the bohemian mudfield.
Just before I hit the Bluegrass Parkway, I drove through an area with the most amazing smell: a very pure, clean-smelling horse manure, plus sweet hay. Must be where all the best horses do their business.
I love the air at night, in the summer, when I’m driving. It started to rain a bit a few miles back, and I had to close up the car again—bummer, because the open air is ever so much more pleasant than the A/C.
OK, I better make tracks.
Before I forget, I was thinking about this poem I wrote recently, and I thought I’d post it here, since it’s almost topical. It was inspired by a Sufi dance class I saw at FloydFest a couple of years ago. I submitted it to a magazine right before I left for ‘Roo.
SUFI DANCERS AT WOWFEST
Dancing ‘til my feet don’t touch the ground
I lose my mind and dance forever…Turn my world around…
--Richard Thompson, “Night Comes In”
It was the music that took me
to a mountainside Medina
in the Blue Ridge of my Methodist mother.
Admission to the holy city required an orange wristband,
expulsion of glass from coolers, the mark of Cain
for permission to imbibe certain elixirs.
In a corner of the cowfield was a circle, chanting, turning.
I have seen the dervishes, those fellows in cone hats and coats,
trying to pull down the veil of heaven.
Here: Radford sophomores, wrapped in their mothers’ beads
and Old Navy capris, chipped pink polish on their filthy toes,
gathering holiness to take back to Hell Week.
When I was a child,
I grasped the twin posts of the basketball backboard
and, hand over hand,
wove my kidself through them in the 8 of infinity, all recess long.
Branches swam in curls of green. I saw my own dreams,
a lazy revelation, slow as a double feature.
Sometimes, satori came
as the smack of blacktop on my cheek.
It seems we need our circles. We make our hajj,
to light and back again,
each step itself a light. At Christmas, we unravel the fairy lights,
from their tangle of the year before,
farther and farther from the socket.
Then we wind them around the tree—
a cascade, a stair, a nest of circles.
We always turn back, because God moves faster than our eyes.
Although we grow, although we seek the straight-up path,
we are pulled into orbit.
This is our prayer: to refuse the circle,
even as, in turning away,
we turn.
The Continuing Literacy Crisis
June 14
5:08 p.m.
They said there was wifi here, but I can’t seem to crack the code. I’m in a lovely café in Lexington, Kentucky, right across from the theater where the show will be. It’s called Natasha’s. I’m sipping green tea (yes, I’m indoors) and waiting for the couple I’m meeting for dinner—people I’ve never laid eyes on. The Internet is strange.
I’m getting very eager to just be at Bonnaroo. I think I’m pushing myself a little hard, driving-wise. I have another five hours tonight.
I have bought the materials to make a Corncat-themed shirt. I went to a Salvation Army in Hurricane, West Virginia, and got a yellow T-shirt. I also got a pretty silver bangle and a truly terrifying gold-tone pendant: It’s a face—maybe a jack o’lantern, maybe just a smiley with a triangular nose—and where the eyeholes are, rhinestones dangle. It’s hanging from my rear view mirror.
While I was in Hurricane, I found the most badly edited newspaper I’ve ever seen in an English-speaking country. I’m pretty sure it’s not from a school project. Some of the headlines just stop when the space runs out. The Sudoku is spelled “Sodoku” on the solution page. The word search misspells two clues. I’m afraid to try the letter jumbles. The incredibly nuance-impaired crossword puzzle offered the clue “Hemlets.” I hoped for some cleverness—a clue for “MINIS”—but of course it was for “TOWNS.”
My horoscope for the month of June is as follows: “You need the fellowship of others to be complete. But the poeple in your ife must accept you as you are. Your psychic abilities are valuable. Learn to trust them.”
Are you Taurus? “Reasonable and able to take on responsibility don’t over do it, others get to the point they expect this. Then in their eyes, your gifts fode. Keep the magic and love in you to share with all.”
I had a message from my British friend earlier; his plane was overbooked, and he’s stuck in New York. He’s supposed to be at Bonnaroo by now. I hope that things get sorted soon; I want him there next to me at the Thompson set, bellowing “Push and Shove!”
I didn’t even look for RT’s tour bus. I must be slipping.
5:08 p.m.
They said there was wifi here, but I can’t seem to crack the code. I’m in a lovely café in Lexington, Kentucky, right across from the theater where the show will be. It’s called Natasha’s. I’m sipping green tea (yes, I’m indoors) and waiting for the couple I’m meeting for dinner—people I’ve never laid eyes on. The Internet is strange.
I’m getting very eager to just be at Bonnaroo. I think I’m pushing myself a little hard, driving-wise. I have another five hours tonight.
I have bought the materials to make a Corncat-themed shirt. I went to a Salvation Army in Hurricane, West Virginia, and got a yellow T-shirt. I also got a pretty silver bangle and a truly terrifying gold-tone pendant: It’s a face—maybe a jack o’lantern, maybe just a smiley with a triangular nose—and where the eyeholes are, rhinestones dangle. It’s hanging from my rear view mirror.
While I was in Hurricane, I found the most badly edited newspaper I’ve ever seen in an English-speaking country. I’m pretty sure it’s not from a school project. Some of the headlines just stop when the space runs out. The Sudoku is spelled “Sodoku” on the solution page. The word search misspells two clues. I’m afraid to try the letter jumbles. The incredibly nuance-impaired crossword puzzle offered the clue “Hemlets.” I hoped for some cleverness—a clue for “MINIS”—but of course it was for “TOWNS.”
My horoscope for the month of June is as follows: “You need the fellowship of others to be complete. But the poeple in your ife must accept you as you are. Your psychic abilities are valuable. Learn to trust them.”
Are you Taurus? “Reasonable and able to take on responsibility don’t over do it, others get to the point they expect this. Then in their eyes, your gifts fode. Keep the magic and love in you to share with all.”
I had a message from my British friend earlier; his plane was overbooked, and he’s stuck in New York. He’s supposed to be at Bonnaroo by now. I hope that things get sorted soon; I want him there next to me at the Thompson set, bellowing “Push and Shove!”
I didn’t even look for RT’s tour bus. I must be slipping.
Thursday, June 14, 2007
Manifest Destiny
June 14, 9:49 a.m.
I feel like it's my birthday. It's Flag Day. It's also the anniversary of Rob's and my second date, where we went to see Dawn of the Dead.
Speaking of which: Although the Clacken Beef, or whatever it was, was one of the best Chinese entrees I've ever eaten (who knew, in Charleston, West Virginia?) and I didn't overindulge in the beer, I feel, let's say, dyspeptic. I am loath to part with this room and its magnificent, private, functional toilet.
I am downing a bunch of water (beer plus air conditioning plus whatever's clacken through my system equals dehydration) and trying to get myself together. I wish I didn't have to check out by 11. And I wish I could have slept later, somehow.
Last night, I was thinking about the Wal-Mart near Bonnaroo. Not that I've seen it--just heard about it, how it becomes this offsite party/campground/meeting place. This bothers me a little. The goody-goody Girl Scout in me cares about people respecting each other; I wonder how the Wal-Mart people feel about being colonized. One could draw parallels, I suppose. Wal-Mart comes into a small town, dwarfs it by its size and power, and alters its character; now substitute "Bonnaroo" for "Wal-Mart" and "Wal-Mart" for "small town"....
Maybe. I dunno. For all my paisley fantasies, there is a part of me that belongs to the Wal-Mart world. It's the same part of me that couldn't make it through On the Road without getting annoyed with the characters being such freeloaders. (I had misgivings about Thoreau as well.)
I awoke thinking about Joni's child of God: Did she give him a ride to the Garden? How much I'd like to be the sort of person who picks up hitchhikers, but I know it's not safe for a woman to do so. It's ever so much easier to be a free-spirited, paisley-tinged God-child if you're a guy, and that hasn't changed since Joni's or Kerouac's or Thoreau's time.
I dreamed about carrying Molly, my cat, through Jequie Park in Takoma Park, and about apartments in the house where I grew up. I often dream of that house, always in a situation where it's about to be sold or torn down: Things are about to undergo a huge change, and the occupants are struggling for peace and happiness. Gazing at Art Nouveau furniture, trying to work the door locks, throwing tea parties, wandering through an overgrown garden.
I feel like it's my birthday. It's Flag Day. It's also the anniversary of Rob's and my second date, where we went to see Dawn of the Dead.
Speaking of which: Although the Clacken Beef, or whatever it was, was one of the best Chinese entrees I've ever eaten (who knew, in Charleston, West Virginia?) and I didn't overindulge in the beer, I feel, let's say, dyspeptic. I am loath to part with this room and its magnificent, private, functional toilet.
I am downing a bunch of water (beer plus air conditioning plus whatever's clacken through my system equals dehydration) and trying to get myself together. I wish I didn't have to check out by 11. And I wish I could have slept later, somehow.
Last night, I was thinking about the Wal-Mart near Bonnaroo. Not that I've seen it--just heard about it, how it becomes this offsite party/campground/meeting place. This bothers me a little. The goody-goody Girl Scout in me cares about people respecting each other; I wonder how the Wal-Mart people feel about being colonized. One could draw parallels, I suppose. Wal-Mart comes into a small town, dwarfs it by its size and power, and alters its character; now substitute "Bonnaroo" for "Wal-Mart" and "Wal-Mart" for "small town"....
Maybe. I dunno. For all my paisley fantasies, there is a part of me that belongs to the Wal-Mart world. It's the same part of me that couldn't make it through On the Road without getting annoyed with the characters being such freeloaders. (I had misgivings about Thoreau as well.)
I awoke thinking about Joni's child of God: Did she give him a ride to the Garden? How much I'd like to be the sort of person who picks up hitchhikers, but I know it's not safe for a woman to do so. It's ever so much easier to be a free-spirited, paisley-tinged God-child if you're a guy, and that hasn't changed since Joni's or Kerouac's or Thoreau's time.
I dreamed about carrying Molly, my cat, through Jequie Park in Takoma Park, and about apartments in the house where I grew up. I often dream of that house, always in a situation where it's about to be sold or torn down: Things are about to undergo a huge change, and the occupants are struggling for peace and happiness. Gazing at Art Nouveau furniture, trying to work the door locks, throwing tea parties, wandering through an overgrown garden.
Wednesday, June 13, 2007
Clacken Beef?
8:38 p.m.
Whew, what a drive. But now I'm in a homey setting: a Law & Order rerun on the TV, the air conditioning shaking the room, some of my excellent (if I do say so myself) Frisco Ginger Joy homebrew in a cup, and Chinese food on its way.
Come to think of it...my A/C at home isn't nearly this good, and my nearest Chinese restaurant (not counting the one at which I won't eat) is half an hour away. Hmmm. On the other hand, home has Rob and cats.
I had a difficult time communicating with the Chinese restaurant. I think I'm getting something called "Clacken Beef." It sounds like the usual dry-fried and spicy concoction.
Backtracking....I didn't get out of the house until nearly noon, having spent overmuch time trying to come up with a solution to my iPod-playing problem. I now have an inverter plugged into the Grand Prix, a boom box plugged into the inverter, the tape deck on the boom box (which I've never used before) jammed with the tape thingy that allows me to play the iPod through the speakers...It's silly, particularly since I also stopped at the library and picked up a bunch of audiobooks. I've spent most of the drive in the company of some Mary Higgins Clark "thriller" about rich pretty troubled girls. I have Augusten Burroughs, David Sedaris, and one other audiobook in line after this one. I'm not hurting for audio.
The drive was exhausting. I don't know what it is about West Virginia. You get 70 mph, and the mountains aren't that extreme, but it just seems endless. Then I was beset by some rain the likes of which I've seldom seen. For a while there, I could barely get the wipers to keep up, I could barely see, and there was no shoulder. I guess I should check the weather for Bonnaroo, but I'm inclined to dwell in denial.
Food's here.
I made up a Corncat hand signal in the car today. Not while I was driving through the rain or anything.
Whew, what a drive. But now I'm in a homey setting: a Law & Order rerun on the TV, the air conditioning shaking the room, some of my excellent (if I do say so myself) Frisco Ginger Joy homebrew in a cup, and Chinese food on its way.
Come to think of it...my A/C at home isn't nearly this good, and my nearest Chinese restaurant (not counting the one at which I won't eat) is half an hour away. Hmmm. On the other hand, home has Rob and cats.
I had a difficult time communicating with the Chinese restaurant. I think I'm getting something called "Clacken Beef." It sounds like the usual dry-fried and spicy concoction.
Backtracking....I didn't get out of the house until nearly noon, having spent overmuch time trying to come up with a solution to my iPod-playing problem. I now have an inverter plugged into the Grand Prix, a boom box plugged into the inverter, the tape deck on the boom box (which I've never used before) jammed with the tape thingy that allows me to play the iPod through the speakers...It's silly, particularly since I also stopped at the library and picked up a bunch of audiobooks. I've spent most of the drive in the company of some Mary Higgins Clark "thriller" about rich pretty troubled girls. I have Augusten Burroughs, David Sedaris, and one other audiobook in line after this one. I'm not hurting for audio.
The drive was exhausting. I don't know what it is about West Virginia. You get 70 mph, and the mountains aren't that extreme, but it just seems endless. Then I was beset by some rain the likes of which I've seldom seen. For a while there, I could barely get the wipers to keep up, I could barely see, and there was no shoulder. I guess I should check the weather for Bonnaroo, but I'm inclined to dwell in denial.
Food's here.
I made up a Corncat hand signal in the car today. Not while I was driving through the rain or anything.
The Road to Mystery
June 13, 10:40 a.m.
It's probably not a good sign that I've misplaced my to-do lists. I'm about to get to that point in the trip where I just say the hell with it and go with what I've got.
What I've got to drive is no longer a mystery: It's a brand-new silver Pontiac Grand Prix which, when I picked it up, had 12 miles on it. Man, I just remembered why I had such bad associations with this car: It's the same car we had in driver's ed, which I flunked. I'm probably one of the few people in the world who doesn't like new-car smell. I'm sure a few trips to White Castle will cure that.
Someone hit our truck recently, and it's in for bodywork--giving me the opportunity to use the free rental and put some miles on someone else's equipment for a change.
I wish it came with a manual. And a cassette deck. My biggest problem now is figuring out how to power my iPod. And if that's my biggest problem, I'm a very lucky woman.
I'll be on the road within the hour. (Note to self: Find the MapQuest directions you printed out.)
It's probably not a good sign that I've misplaced my to-do lists. I'm about to get to that point in the trip where I just say the hell with it and go with what I've got.
What I've got to drive is no longer a mystery: It's a brand-new silver Pontiac Grand Prix which, when I picked it up, had 12 miles on it. Man, I just remembered why I had such bad associations with this car: It's the same car we had in driver's ed, which I flunked. I'm probably one of the few people in the world who doesn't like new-car smell. I'm sure a few trips to White Castle will cure that.
Someone hit our truck recently, and it's in for bodywork--giving me the opportunity to use the free rental and put some miles on someone else's equipment for a change.
I wish it came with a manual. And a cassette deck. My biggest problem now is figuring out how to power my iPod. And if that's my biggest problem, I'm a very lucky woman.
I'll be on the road within the hour. (Note to self: Find the MapQuest directions you printed out.)
Tuesday, June 12, 2007
Is This Thing On?
What can you say, really, about Corncat? The image speaks for itself: http://home.82times.com/?p=115 (Someday I will learn to hyperlink. Hell, I'm not even sure if "hyperlink" is the word I want. Forgive me: I'm up far too late, I haven't finished packing for the trip to Bonnaroo--which begins tomorrow, as I drive toward Kentucky and a Richard Thompson show that I'm seeing so that I won't have my first taste of the Sweet Warrior band while sleepless and covered in filth in a Tennessee cornfield, even though it means missing the Thursday of Bonnaroo--and yet instead of packing, what do I do but haul out the Sculpey and make a Corncat? And watch a "House" rerun? And now I'm thinking of turning on that horrible late-night game show on GSN where Shandi is stuck in a vault....where was I?)
Anyway. So. Corncat. The mascot of my maiden trip to Bonnaroo.
I better get some sleep while I can.
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