I apologize for the sparsity of posting as of late, but I’ve been quite busy with fest/college/work etc. I do, however, have a bit of news; Shutter Junkie will be taking a back seat to a new project of mine, one which I can’t tell you about just yet, dear readers. This means less posts (or about as many as you’ve been getting recently). I promise, though, the new project will be worth it upon completion.
And with that I bid you good night, rapscallions of the internet! May your dreams be many and filled with wondrous child-like whimsy.
I’m very tired, but I feel the need to post something, since I haven’t posted in days. Sadly, I have nothing of particular note to recount. Therefore I shall entertain you all with an old Irish folk tale:
There once was a poor farmer who had fallen on hard times. He had a wife and three young sons to provide for, and every day his situation grew more and more desperate. He finally decided to bargain with the Devil. At midnight that night he went out to the crossroads, and sure enough, there was old Nick himself.
“I know why you’re here,” said the Devil, “and I’ll make sure your sons grow up to be great men of high standing, but in return you must give me your soul in fifteen years time.”
The man agreed reluctantly, thinking to himself that at least his sons would succeed where he had failed.
Well, fifteen years came and went and the man’s three young sons were now grown men. The first had become a doctor, the second a priest, and the third a lawyer. It was about this time that the Devil came a’callin, but the son who was a doctor said, “Please don’t take my father! Give him sparings for just one more year.”
The Devil, not being completely unreasonable, agreed to one more year for the man to tidy up his affairs.
A year later he came a’knockin on the man’s door again. It was the second son this time, the priest, who begged the Devil, “You must give my father just a few more months! We all love him so.”
The Devil was beginning to grow impatient, but granted his request out of politeness.
A few months down the road the Devil came back to collect the man’s soul for the third time. The son who was a lawyer was there by his father’s bedside. He rose, walked over to the Devil and said quietly, “I know you’ve given my father sparings twice now, and I can’t expect more than that. Could you at least give him until that candle on the table burns out to say goodbye?”
“Fine,” said the Devil I suppose goodbyes are in order.”
With that the lawyer walked briskly over to the nightstand, blew out the candle and tucked it securely in his pocket.
The moral of this hearthside tale?
Trust a lawyer to beat the Devil.
Good night everyone.
As promised, the final installment of the Bonnaroo series. Be sure to check the site for more adventures from the Philly Folk Festival later this month. Or don’t. I don’t really give a shit. Like I said in the first post, I’m not doing this for you. : ) Anyway, enjoy:
As I come to on our last morning in Tennessee I realize that it’s quite late in the morning. Connor and Sam have already begun packing the car, while Boon is trying to make something for breakfast out of the scraps at the bottom of our cooler. I crawl out of my blanket (best 15 bucks I ever spent) into the sun and stretch out the kinks built up from four days of sleeping on a lumpy tent floor. Since I haven’t showered in two days, a stink is beginning to settle on me again.
As we pack our tents I can’t help but feel a little sad. I came all the way to Tennessee, and I saw some great shows, but something inside me felt empty, almost like I’ve left something unfinished. I try to shake the feeling off, but it seems to hang over my head for the duration of the afternoon.
Once the car is packed we make our way out of the festival grounds. Many people have already gone, having left the night before or early this morning. As we pull out I can hear two girls talking about a plane to the west coast that leaves at 1:30. It’s 1:13 right now. I sometimes wonder if they made it to the airport in time.
Connor wants to put on Phish again, which I vote nay on. Having listened to a decent amount of Phish on the way up, and having also seen one and a half live concerts, I’m just about Phished out for the next month or so. He presses the issue and I inform him that I’m not a big fan of Phish and that, to be honest, I think Trey Anastasio (that’s lead guitar/vocals for those of you who don’t know) is a bit full of himself. Letting my sullied mood get the better of me, I continue on to accuse Anastasio of musical wankery, often soloing for long, tedious stretches without regard to his fans. Connor isn’t terribly happy with my assessment of the band, and points out that the reason he does it is specifically because the people who like Phish are there for the crazy five-minute solos, and besides, we listened to my mix CDs a bunch of times already.
We sit in silence for a decent portion of the car ride.
While we drive, I think, lost in my own head. Maybe it’s the women; Maybe I’m just down because there were so many pretty hippie chicks at the festival, but they all had boyfriends – or girlfriends in some cases. I try to tell myself I’m just lonely, since I haven’t enjoyed the warm, comforting presence of a lady-type in quite some time. Still, the feeling of unrest looms like the scent of mildew in the next room. I’m beginning to think there’s nothing I can do to be rid of it.
On our way back we stop several times at gas stations and other rest stops for nourishment and bowel relief. The first is the combo gas station/ fireworks store I mention in an earlier post. While Boon gasses up the car, Connor, Sam and I buy incendiaries. Several roman candles, a few hundred bottle rockets and something called a “hellraiser supreme” later we are broke and packed into the car like sardines yet again. As we pull out of the parking lot, someone lights off a fire cracker… at the gas station. I swear to you dear readers, I’m not making this up. Some dumbass hick with a couple of black cats and a lighter decided it would be in everyone’s best interest to set off an explosive at a gasoline station. I think he (or she) may be in the running for next year’s Darwin awards.
We drive on for hours through the beautiful Tennessee countryside. Around sunset we’ve made our way to West Virginia. If you’ve never seen the Blue Ridge Mountains at sunset, put it on your list of things to do before you do, right under driving down that lane on the Autobahn with no speed limit in a ’64 ragtop. The combination of the smoky blue glow from the mountains and the ambient golden-purple light of the sunset make for a hell of a view.
As night falls we start noticing a rather large mass of dark clouds on the horizon. Fearing inclement weather, we decide now would be a good time to take a bathroom break. We pull into a visitor’s center on the border of Virginia and make for the restrooms. Upon entry we discover that the stalls have the most comically low doors any of us has ever seen. They cover just enough of the seated occupant to hide any shameful bits that may be exposed, but leave a decent portion of the persons head and chest visible for all to see. Connor found this so hilarious he decided it would be a good idea to test one out. Just as he does a man comes in with his infant son. Feeling awkward, we leave the restroom and head out into the parking lot while Boon buys some caffeine pills from the adjacent convenience store.
Sam goes to check on him and I wander into a field with Connor. We talk for a while and I apologize for bashing Phish. He says it’s okay, and that we had kind of listened to them a lot lately. We share a totally hetero man-hug (not that there’s anything wrong with being gay) and then realize we’re standing in the middle of a field at the edge of a violent lightning storm.
On our way back across the Walt Whitman Bridge, we’re in the thick of it. Rain pours down our windows in sheets, the mist from the road reducing our visibility to a few dozen feet in front of us. Lightning tears through the clouds illuminating them in gashes of pink and purple and yellow. I ponder the uncomfortable restless feeling inside me and all of a sudden it hits me like a ton of bricks: I spent so much time at Bonnaroo trying to make sure I saw all the bands I wanted and checked out all the cool events that I didn’t stop to just hang out with my friends. Suddenly I feel as though I’ve blown a few hundred dollars on a couple of concerts and four days worth of artery-clogging grease.
And that’s the point of it, I think. The reason people spent all their money on these elaborate festivals isn’t so they can go see some rich d-bag with a guitar and ten years worth of voice lessons have fun on stage. No, I’m beginning to get it now. The point of going to these things is to fuck around in another state with your friends in a consequence-free environment. How could I have been so stupid?
Having pinpointed what’s bothering me I feel much better, and I make a vow to myself that when I go to Folk Fest later this summer, I’ll be making sure to put more emphasis on my droogs and less on the music.
One by one, we drop off Boon, then Sam. It has to be close to five in the morning as we reah my front doorstep. Unloading is much easier than the initial loading process, since I’ve lost/spent/eaten most of what I brought. As I walk from the car Connor calls out:
“See you tomorrow man.”
Yeah, tomorrow, I think. Tomorrow I begin the rest of my summer. I have three months to enjoy life before I’m shipped back up to G-boro for more schooling, and I intend to use them to the fullest. Tomorrow is gonna be a good day.
