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....)