"Uh... Hi... I'm [some dude]," he stammered. This guy was no professional. His DNC t-shirt was not tucked in, and had purple dribbles down the front, top to bottom. Collar to belt line. Probably a wino, just like the rest of those goddamned libbers. I wondered if he even knew about it.
"Um... are you the owner of this house?"
I had just woken from a nap, lasting the better part of six hours, and drowsily replied, "No."
"I'm sorry, what?"
"No." It was a forceful response, befitting italics, and I was short with him for what he probably thought was absolutely no reason, but really, how easily does one mis-hear a monosyllabic, two-letter word? Get the fucking lead out, Demmy!
"So you don't own this house?"
I wasn't giving him the benefit of a response this time. I just glared at him with a look that he somehow managed to interpret as a yes, so he continued.
"Er... uh... okay. Um... let's see..." I was thumb-and-forefinger close to just shutting the door and returning to my sofa, and TV, which were warm, and held the promise of baseball to be watched, respectively. It must have been because we were already down 5-0 with no outs in the fifth that I didn't, so I half humored him and half sat there resenting him as much because he was a total clod as because he had a job and I didn't. And though he was likely just a volunteer—Democrats get off on all that self-righteous jargon that I, for one reason or another, have never been able to admire, or, for that matter, even understand.—it was much easier for me to just go on hating him under the (likely false) pretense that he was making money for pissing me off and interrupting baseball, albeit shitty, Kyle Lohse-hanging-the-ball-over-the-plate-like-a-Christmas-ornament-Goddammit-just-hurry-up-and-lose-so-I-can-go-back-to-sleep baseball.
"Are you of voting age?"
"What?" I hadn't been paying attention. I was too busy wondering to myself if Dribbles was ever going to leave and stop bothering me.
"Can you vote?"
"Yes." Sarcasm.
"Yes I can." Not quite enough sarcasm.
"I can vote." There we go.
"Oh. Good. Are we gonna see you at the polls this year?"
Sleepily. "Uh huh."
"Okay. Good. That's good to hear."
Angrily. "Yeah."
The entire thing lasted less than a minute. But it still pissed me right off. Goddamned libbers.
Having decided myself that many more of you are of this latter persuasion, I have chosen to delay the conclusion, foregoing it for no real, other reason than the fact that I haven't been willing to devote a chunk of time that size to anything other than a good nap or, perhaps, a few episodes of The West Wing, to which I have become inescapably addicted and for which I set aside at least one hour of every day to watch. Besides, it's not like I have a job. Eleven prospective employers, when called or visited by me for an interview, cited my return to Grinnell in the fall as their reson for not hiring me. And I thought it was going to be good, old-fashioned incompetence that precluded me from jobs with places like Deck The Walls and Sam Goody. Ikea won't return my calls. I should have told them I'm Swedish.
I start a housesitting job next week, and then another the week after that, which is good because I just found out I owe $95.00 for an ordinance I broke loitering in a park past 10:00PM. I'm contesting it, though, as, I imagine, will be the thirteen other hoodlums cited that night at Linwood.
The Superior Hiking Trail was cool, though it rained our final night and morning there and drenched us pretty well for the final hour-and-a-half hike out of the woods on Sunday. And mosquitoes made life pretty difficult, though not entirely unbearable. Thankfully, Kelsey brought insect repellent. The hike also, finally, did in my almost three year-old Adidas shelltops and my sandals have taken up residence at the bottom of Egge Lake, in which I do not recommend swimming.
Plans were to attend the July 23 Dead show in Wisconsin. But plans may have to change.
Go see Napoleon Dynamite. Soon.
Until now. Over the next few days I will attempt to do justice to the past few weeks, perhaps finally answering the question, "So, Todd, whatcha been up to?"
Hobo Cruisin'
On Tuesday, June 9, El Duderino, Grandpa Charlie, hip-young gunslinger Ben Levine, Mr. Yorgon, our token girl and I hightailed it out of the twin towns, en route to Manchester, Tennessee. Leaving a solid forty-or-so hours before gates would open at Bonnaroo, our plan was to take it easy and pull off at whatever interesting, kitschy, or downright ridiculous stops might catch our fancy.
John had, only a week or so earlier, given his '91 Plymouth Voyager a fancy new moniker. "Hobo Cruisin'," he called it, after a John Prine song, plastering it with bumper stickers of various bands and political affirmations, taking special care to spell out his chariot's new brand in giant, reflective letters across the windshield. What ensued were stares and sneers from other motorists, our momentary neighbors in four-lane America. Stops garnered, as we headed deeper into the great bouillabaisse, heavier accents. "Have a good day" slowly morphed into "Y'all hayve a gyud one".
Having made the most of a Tuesday, plowing through Wisconsin, taking a wrong turn toward Chicago and catching the sunrise somewhere north of the Illinois-Kentucky border, we found ourselves at a gas station/Waffle Hut in Metropolis, the home of Superman himself. Word of a giant statue of the man of steel dispatched us on a wild goose chase toward the center of town. A couple of wrong turns later and we turned around, with a collective utterance of "fuck this."
We quickly cut across Kentucky and arrived in Nashville a few hours later. Consulting John's road atlas, we found a park in the middle of town with a full-scale replica of The Parthenon. Centennial Park, we found out it was called, and spent much of the day there, playing impromptu games of frolf and chewing granola in the shade.
We headed into town, where we found the streets loaded with cowboy boot-and-hatted pedestrians touring the streets around Ryman Auditorium. Live music twanged out of every storefront. We popped in and out, knowing that we were only an hour away from our destination with many times that left to kill, so we wandered the streets of Nashville, finding our way into Ernest Tubb's Record Shop, Hatch Show Print, and the Country Music Hall of Fame—or at least its gift shop, which was free.
Having successfully frittered a few spare hours away, we hit the road in a downpour and headed toward Manchester. About thirty minutes in, Charlie called John's cell phone to announce that he'd been pulled over and that the officer had politely inquired as to the contents of his trunk. The three in car two were forced to dump out what I can only imagine resulted in a great lake of beer.
An hour or so later, car two pulled up next to us at a gas station outside the gates of Bonnaroo. Charles explained the entire sorry state of affairs and, though we were kind of bummed, none of us let it get the better of us. Soon thereafter, one of the droves waiting at the Citgo informed us that gates would be opening soon for those who had arrived early. We hopped in the cars and tooled down the frontage road toward our collective fate.
Bonnaroo
A few months earlier, at a Jeff Austin & Chris Castino concert at the Cabooze in Minneapolis, a man forewarned Charlie and I as to the perils of Bonnaroo: "Be careful," he said. "70,000 people is the kind of thing you really need to prepare yourself for mentally." He continued, the crazed overall-clad messenger that he was. The harried storyteller. "'Cause the more people you have in one place, the more weirdos you're gonna run into." Then he vanished. He vanished right over to the bar. And he was wrong. But only about one thing: Bonnaroo, it is claimed, was attended this year by over 100,000 people.
Having set up our camp site a good day before the festivities began, we met our neighbors, argued with them over which of the campsites displayed on the map was the one in which we had taken up residence (I'm still not sure whether it was Camp Aquaman or Camp Black Vulcan), and did some more wandering, up and down Shakedown Street, in the cool nighttime breeze.
We woke up to merciless sunlight and the kind of sweltering heat that promotes a heavy sweat at even the thought of movement. So we sat around for a while before boredom gave way to curiosity and we headed toward Centeroo. Discreet whispers and not-so-discreet shouts of "nugs," "shrooms," "molly," echoed in our footsteps from A-to-B all weekend. Nitrous-filled balloons bobbed up and down between teeth of dread-headed, sarong-ed hippies. The air was anxious, though, and people were ready for something to happen.
A parade, replete with brass band, high-stilted entertainers and fire eaters, wound through Centeroo, snaking from stage to stage and tent to tent (to tent to tent to tent to tent), a thousand dancing hippies in tow. By eight o'clock Thursday night, the place was a circus. Four bands played that night in a sort of opening ceremony for the most drugged-out of Olympics. Dozens splashed in a mushroom-shaped fountain, shedding clothes and prancing wildly through the puddles. Our group broke into shards and I found myself, after a bathroom break, playing Tweedle-Dum to Charlie's Tweedle-Dee. Giggling all the way, it was a miracle we found our way back in the dark.
By Friday morning, I was already exhausted. I woke up around eleven after going to sleep at God-knows-when. Charlie and I met up with some friends of ours from Grinnell at the fountain. From there it was Los Lonely Boys, Calexico, Yonder Mountain String Band, Neko Case, Wilco, Ani DiFranco, North Missisissippi Allstars, MOFRO, Mike Doughty, Chris Robinson & The New Earth Mud, Yo La Tengo, Gillian Welch, Bob Dylan, The String Cheese Incident and a surprisingly great show by Dave Matthews & Friends. I wouldn't make it to the late night shows. I was teetering on the brink by the time Dave and Trey took the stage.
The heat wouldn't let me sleep through nine on Saturday, so I hopped out of the back of John's car and wolfed down more of my mom's homemade granola, of which I brought something like three pounds. Later, after venturing into Centeroo for Hackensaw Boys and a little Los Lobos, Ben wowed me with his culinary prowess, making hot three-been chili with little more than a paper clip and some leaves. He would do this throughout the trip, and it would never cease to amaze me. Skipping most of the day in favor of sitting around Charlie's bug tent and ambling around Shakedown, I didn't get back to the venues until 6:00 and Jazz Mandolin Project. Then: Doc Watson, Galactic, Steve Winwood and The Dead. I wouldn't make it to the late shows, and, try as I might, my body wouldn't let me stand for a moment longer after The Dead finished their first phenomenal, but rain-delayed set. I almost keeled over in the mud as, on-stage, the living legends ripped through one of the most amazing sets I've ever seen. As I trudged back toward the tent, I heard the crowd roar as they began "St. Stephen." I will never forgive myself for not turning around.
Sunday morning was just as sunny and hot. Rain came again, though, as it had the two days before. Mud was ankle-deep everywhere. I shed my sandals and bare-footed it, likely contracting all manner of sickness. Up early, we ran over to the Cinema tent and saw two episodes of Dukes. I caught a song or two by Tokyo Ska Paradise Orchestra on the way to Leftover Salmon, and grooved to Burning Spear until two o'clock, then Taj Mahal and moe. Finally, it was David Byrne, for whom I'd been waiting all weekend. Wary that all he would play was music from his new album, I got an earful of classics from old Talking Heads records, including this site's namesake. It was fantastic. I hopped back to the car for a breather. No sooner did I slide open the door than the sky flashed and cracked and dropped billions of fat beads on the farm in Tennessee. Ten minutes later, John dove into the car with an exclamation of "Fuck that shit! That shit's dumb!" We sat in the car eating granola by the fistful until the rain subsided. Meanwhile, Charlie stood, front row center, and waited for hours for Trey Anastasio to begin. Delayed by the downpour Trey took the stage around ten. He brought out with him the Nashville Symphony Orchestra. It was nuts. He encored with Alive Again, timing his final note to hit just as the last green firework burst in the sky behind a crowd 100,000-strong.
We headed back to the tent, all of us talking at once, comparing shows and stories, reeling from the sights and sounds we'd seen and heard. We smiled and went to sleep.
To Be Concluded
July 2002 / August 2002 / September 2002 / October 2002 / November 2002 / December 2002 / January 2003 / February 2003 / March 2003 / April 2003 / May 2003 / June 2003 / July 2003 / August 2003 / September 2003 / October 2003 / November 2003 / December 2003 / January 2004 / February 2004 / March 2004 / April 2004 / May 2004 / June 2004 / July 2004 / August 2004 / September 2004 / October 2004 / November 2004 / December 2004 / January 2005 / February 2005 / March 2005 / April 2005 / May 2005 / June 2005 / July 2005 / August 2005 / October 2005 / November 2005 / December 2005 / January 2006 / November 2007 / December 2007 / January 2008 / February 2008 / March 2008 / July 2008 / September 2008 /
