goddess of clarity: a blog about politics, culture, and serenity

Archive: June 1 - June 30, 2007

June 30, 2007 —19:10 EDT

The last few weeks of radio silence here at The Goddess of Clarity can be chalked up to my attendance at Bonnaroo down in Tennessee, and the ensuing "Bonnaroo Lung" I've been sufferering ever since. Bonnaroo is a four-day music festival, this year headlined by The Police ("holy shit! The Police!!!"). It's an 18-hour drive from Rochester, NY to the cow pasture in Manchester, TN where the festival was held, plus another three hours to travel the two miles from the highway exit to the festival site itself. It was crowded, it was hot, it was dusty. It was worth it.

The best thing about Bonnaroo was the complete lack of assholery among the festival goers. Everyone was, well, nice. Given the crowds and the heat, it could have easily turned into a pretty miserable four days, but it didn't. I don't know if it was the drugs, or the patchouli, or the music itself, but everyone was so downright friendly it was amazing. The guy in the red Mini Cooper who parked next to us let us use the spot in front of his car to pitch our tent when we got separated from our friends at the entrance. We lent the girls next to our site our extra tent pegs. People waiting in long lines for the porta-potties (which were the cleanest I've ever seen) shared their spare toilet paper and hand sanitizer. I was even thanked after leaving one porta-potty for peeing so quickly. "Thanks for noticing," I said. "I've been practicing."

The next best thing about Bonnaroo was the music. The Police of course were amazing ("holy shit! The Police!!"). The played as a three-piece, not like some reunion tours where the band shows up with four or five session musicians in tow. They played everything, from "Reggetta de Blanc" to "King of Pain." The Police show was also the only one where our little group of friends made an effort to get closer to the front of the stage, and it was worth it. We thought for a moment about trying to crash the VIP section, which consisted of bleachers that looked to be half empty. But as we camped out on our blanket at a close but comfortable distance from the stage, we decided to stay put. There was room to dance, but I could still see Sting's well-carved tricep muscles live and in the flesh. Stewart Copeland is also yummy with a spoon; he's loooking a lot like Hugh Laurie, which is no sorry thing. I pointed out to my friends that poor Andy Summers by comparison was looking a little worse for wear. I learned later that Summers is 64 YEARS OLD. My dad is 64, and I'm pretty sure he wouldn't be up to playing a blistering two-hour set for 80,000 screaming hippies, so Mr. Summers, I humbly apologize for my insensitve remark and may I just say that you, in fact, kick much ass.

Right before The Police, we saw Franz Ferdinand; oh, my, god, how awesome are they?! They were actually my favorite show of the four days. Right after The Police was the psychadelic space-age trip-fest that is The Flaming Lips. They played a three-hour set starting at midnight; we caught the first hour, and I've never seen anything like it. The crowd spilling out of The Police slowly staggered their way over to the The Flaming Lips stage like thousands of extras from a 1970s zombie movie, and the whole scene was bathed in orange and pink lights caught up in the swirling dust that had descended upon everything in this drought-stricken state. Suddenly, huge white balloons were everywhere, spilling out from the stage and onto the crowd. The crowd was going insane with joy when finally the curtain went up and the lead singer floated down to the stage encased in a giant white balloon of his own. What this scene must have looked like to those who had been munching on the mushroom chocolate drops that had been circulating around our campsite, I can't tell you. I was probably one of the few non-chemically enhanced people on the scene, and even I was blown away.

Other acts of note were the White Stripes, who pumped out more noise than any two people have a right to; Lily Allen, who drank a bottle of Jaegermeister during her set and forgot the words to "Smile"; Paolo Nutini; Railroad Earth; The Decembrists; Fountains of Wayne; and Mute Math. My biggest regret was missing Gogol Bordello. Their gypsy punk performances are legend. But we had lost our friend, who had decided to wait in the two-hour line for the Garnier Nutrisse Salon to get her hair washed. (I just decided to stay crunchy; four days of Baby Wipe "showers" and whatever funkiness was going on with my dust-encrusted feet would not be aleviated with a shampoo and blow dry). We had to look around for her over at the Regina Spektor show. I found out later that Gogol Bordello's lead singer body-surfed the crowd on top of a drum. Damn.

The worst thing about Bonnaroo was the heat. And the dust. The worst two things about Bonnaroo were the heat and the dust. It was in the 90s each of the four days, hitting 95 on Saturday. You'd crash out in the tent around 2am and think you could sleep in the next morning before the shows started up again around noon. But as soon as the sun came up, the heat would chase us from our tents pretty much instantly. We were up each morning by 7am and by 8 o'clock it had already hit 90 degrees. The breeze, when there was any breeze, would kick up a sandstorm of dust. It was like walking through a Margaret Bourke White photo. The "Bonnaroo Lung" I spoke of earlier hit Mr. Goddess first, on the drive back home. Four days of breathing in the pulverized particles of a parched cow pasture had left him a hacking, wheezing mess. I was fine for awhile, except that I screwed my right eye up trying to pry my shriveled contact lens away from my eyeball (I'm new to contact lenses and not very good at handling them under the best conditions. These were not the best conditions). We arrived back at the homestead at 11pm, and I had to be up for work the next day. That's when the "Bonnaroo Lung" chose to strike. I'm sure my death rattles were not appreciated by my office mates, who were probably more concerned as to whether or not the horrible disease I had obvioulsy contracted was contagious. I called in sick the next day, and still haven't fully recovered.

But I'm still checking the Bonnaroo website daily to see when they post the lineup for next year. This time I'll bring a face mask and leave the contacts at home. BONNAROOOOOOOOOO!

—lori.

June 5, 2007 —19:10 EDT

I was going to blog tonight's Republican presidential candidate "debate," but that would mean I'd have to watch it, and I honestly cannot be arsed. The election is 517 days away, for chrissakes. Besides, I think there is a Phillies game on tonight.

So in lieu of presidential debate coverage, the goddess presents this video of two kittens fighting. Enjoy!

—lori.