All Good Music Festival & Campout : Part 2

Part 1.

We get back to our tent, and in order to have any semblance of privacy we had to close the flaps. This, conversely, transformed our tent into a native american sweat lodge. The travel fan was our only saving grace, if we both laid side by side as close as possible, we could catch the breeze on about 12% of our faces. Our air mattress was more like a raft, and every time one of us would move, the other felt the effects as if it were part waterbed, part trampoline, depending on the movement. This worked to our advantage in certain instances (wink) and against us in 99% of the others.

I lay there, totally unable to sleep. It was bouncy, there were lights on outside 24-7 that kept the tent too bright, and I was in a hallucinogenic state from the combination of heat, energy drinks, and adrenaline. At some point I had to pee, like a racehorse, a pregnant racehorse who had consumed 12 gallons of water while listening to a babbling brook. Believe me, I have no shame and will pee anywhere, (shocker) but the only place I wouldn’t be literally pissing in someones front yard was the dreaded line of port-o-pots.

In the Made For TV drama of our life, Aaron typically plays the insomniac. Ironically enough however, under the worst possible sleeping conditions known to man, he was snoring away. This made me even more hesitant to get up, because I was filled with the knowledge that I would throw a tidal wave at him, then, as if impersonating Leonardo DiCaprio playing Jack Dawson, he would be jolted from the air mattress/raft/trampoline/ship, and consequently I would have to jump to standing position, head back and proud, to do my very best Celine Dion’s My Heart Will Go On. Why? Because that is simply how I roll, bitches.

So after playing out that scenario in my head, versus the one where he wakes up in a flood of my hot steaming urine, I decide to gently log roll myself off of the mattress/raft/trampoline/ship. It sort of worked, then I began scrambling in the dark trying to find clothes to walk to the port-o-pots. In a pair of Aarons shorts, and an inside out tank top, I trekked through the grass over to the port-o-pots. My bladder had realized it was getting close, and like a lactating mother who hears a nearby baby crying, I began what is known as a “let down.”

It was at this point in our program that I realized my grave mistake. I had forgotten shoes. There was no way, no fucking way, partially pissing myself or not, that I was walking into a port-o-pot shoeless. No thank you. While applying insane pressure to my lady parts, I sort of galloped back to the tent, because that is the only kind of movement you can really make when holding your crotch in a death grip. I located one of each of our flip-flops, both for the left foot, and gallop/cantered my way back to the port-o-pots while leaking piss like a water balloon with a pin prick. I took the last breath of a deep-sea diver and the door barely slammed shut behind me before I was spraying a stream of forceful and angry piss all over the place. It occurred to me that the piss was splashing everywhere, and I was all like what the fuck, but I couldn’t stop! In the claustrophobic feces ridden darkness I realized that the seat was down, and that my shorts and legs were covered in piss and germs, but there was no fucking way I was reaching down to touch the seat that I could not even see to open at this point. Shocker that there  was not even a solitary square of toilet paper, and I pulled up Aaron’s shorts that I remembered I was wearing, now disgustingly soaked in my urine. Hooray!

When I got back to our tent, I stripped down faster than circa 1983 Meryl Streep in Silkwood. I foraged around in the dark for the box of wet wipes, and once I got my hands on them, proceed to give myself a Defcon 4 wipe down. By now it had to be 5am, and somehow I managed to sleep for a while, and I use the term sleep very loosely. By about 8 am the sun  was beaming onto our tent and not only was it impossible to sleep, but impossible to even remain in the tent.

Home. Nothing cools you off like a stack of towels on your chest. Please take note of the air mattress/raft.

Home. Nothing cools you off like a stack of towels on your chest. Please take note of the air mattress/raft.

Aaron and I decide to head over to the truck to plug in our coffee maker to the super-duper handy car adapter I had purchased before we left. I thought of everything; coffee pot, filters, mugs, cream and sugar, freshly ground Starbucks, 286 gallons of fresh water…we were good to go, who cares that I had 47 minutes of sleep, a pot of Starbucks cures just about anything, except anxiety and loose bowels. Transversely, it cures absolutely nothing when the adapter is broken and you are left with 27 pound eyelids and a gigantic crocodile tear running down the side of your dirty, sweating, and utterly defeated face.

With our heads hung low and our empty cups frowning in our hands, we began the walk back to our tent/sweat lodge. We were heading down the first row of campers outside of our glamping section, whom we referred to as the “common folk” because that is not at all elitist or inappropriate. It had started to drizzle, and out of the corner of my eye I noticed a small group of people sitting in folding camping chairs under a tarp tied to the side of their truck, laughing and drinking coffee.

As if in a trance, I noticed my legs were carrying me over to them as I watched my arm raising up my empty cup, guiding me as if it were a dowsing stick turning to indicate water in the ground. Aaron followed, and we introduced ourselves, telling our heartbreaking story as we asked/begged them for a cup of coffee. Stan and Immajean were more than happy to oblige, and offered us chairs under the tarp and invited us to sit with them and enjoy our coffee. We were so grateful it was ridiculous. They were so high it was ridiculous. It was a recipe for some delightful conversation. They poured coffee into both of our cups, and like a magician I pulled powdered creamer and sugar from my pocket. When I poured in the powdered creamer, it immediately formed into round, wet clumps on top, indicating that the coffee was cold. I tilted my cup to Aaron to show him, chuckling at our inside joke. Not being one to complain when I was clearly the beggar in this situation, I leaned over and just scooped out the powder blobs onto the ground.

Stan and Immajean were roughly about 50, and clearly this was not their first rodeo. As they passed a joint back and forth, mid exhale Stan said something about taking our pictures and disappeared into his truck. When he reemerged, in one hand he held a camera, in the other, a plastic Gumby. Shit was getting real. I just looked over at Aaron in a way that was really just an attempt to make him laugh out loud at the situation before I did, but before we knew it, Stan was shoving the Gumby into our hands, Immajean crowded in, and he positioned us together with it so that he could take our photo, like a retarded family of homeless Gumby-toting coffee beggars. It was quite possibly the most awkward picture on the planet, and one which only Stan himself has possession of.

As the tarp dripped water directly on the part on my head, the sun came out and immediately all moisture turned to steam and in that moment I knew exactly what it felt like to be a clam at a raw bar. As I took a large gulp of my coffee, I reflexively spit it right back into my cup, as it was an entire mouthful of grounds. Immajean graciously offered to make another pot, but we politely declined, thanked them for the memories, and headed back to our section of privilege amongst our fellow glampers.

12 replies

      • Please keep them coming. I’m still laughing to myself and trying not to be obvious so that my co-workers don’t notice. I especially liked the Jesse Pinkman reference in there. Sorry, wise-acre should be wiseacre. Are we clear now ;).

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