If I were the queen of the nest of hornets that lives in my parents’ roof, I would have sent the wasps all at once. I think they would have had better odds, whatever their plan. As it was, the wasps came today one at a kamikaze time, flying into the open window to a death by books. I kept the window cracked due to my tending to sweat when I pack. I was schooled in the pack-like-a-bear-foraging-through-a-dumpster method of packing; it’s reckless, chaotic, but there’s an instinctive drive to it that usually works out. Packing this way often means you fotget to bring your phone charger.
I’m headed with Tyler and Tony to The Harvest Music fest in Arkansas. Tyler’s talked about this festival since he went last year. When he talks about it, he never tries to explain it. “You just have to go there,” he says.
That’s what’s happening; our midnight departing car is pointed there now.
Whatever experiences the hi-way takes us to, this trip will be remembered by me as the day the dumb phone died. I’ve done dumb phones since ’03. Not nomore. I’ve caved in. It’s the practical way to go if I’m going to stay planted in the US for a while. I keep gleefully thinking, holy shit, the Internet is inside my phone. This is really something. I bet in a few months the holy shit factor will wear off, but for now, I’m basking in it. This is the key to so many doors.
So, I Googled the Harvest Music Fest on my phone! In the car! (On the interstate! In the dark! As deer dashed across the road Russian roulette style.) and I stumbled into this part of their website:
NO OPEN FIRES ALLOWED IN THE PRIMITIVE CAMPGROUND
NO GLASS BOTTLES
NO LASER POINTERS
My ADHD thought, I haven’t seen my laser pointer in over a decade. I think it’s in Mrs. Larson’s ( my freshman science teacher) desk. Good thing too, or I might have packed it against the rules.
Since I’d stumbled into the rule section, I skimmed to the most important part
. . . the most important rule of all: The golden rule. Please be respectful of your neighbors and consider their comfort. Would you want someone banging a drum next to your tent at 5am?
Would I want someone banging on a drum outside my tent at 5am? I suspect the answer the author of this wants me to arrive at is ‘no.’ But it raises some additional questions.
Am I playing drums with them? Is everyone doing it? Is it a drum circle? Are people juggling fire to the rhythm?
Tony’s recommending everyone affect accents the whole festival. I’m willing to do that 20% of the time. Maybe. Do I risk faking French in Arkansas?
Whatever is decided accent-wise, dresswise the flannel trinity is suitecased away in the trunk. They, along with the Scottevest that proved it’s usefulness my last trip back to Guatemala, seem the most logical choice for a bluegrass festval–these shirts mean business–each in his own way.
It seemed appropriate to bring my pastores boots, Horace and Jasper:
I don’t trust Horace and Jasper not to over-dance, but at this point I’m pot committed to them.
I’m looking for an angle to cover this festival for the Expeditoiner. My editor, Mr. Stabile, has been Jonesin’ to try out the Site’s new remote blogging equipment:
He calls them fax machines. He started using them because of his theory that hipsters will bring them back into the mainstream, elimininating the need for and cognitive dissonance of email. I hope he’s right, he’s invested untold sums in them.
Well, time to see if this post can actually post from the iPhone. I hope the autocorrect didn’t make me sound like a hamburger…
