Last weekend with Hubs B, Guy BFF and Guy BFF’s wife who I will call Roomie, I headed to a the Rusted Root, Gin Blossoms and Blues Traveler concert. While in theory this sounded fab, because it would allow all of us to go back to those wonderful years we spent living together during college. Where we partook in legal and illegal activities, had no responsibilities and pretty much thought anything was funny. Like my post about old movies I loved as kid, this didn’t exactly pan out this way.
First off, this concert was in the middle of fucking nowhere. Punching it into the GPS, she was like, “Bitch, you best be turning around because I don’t even know where the fuck we are.” During this aimless drive with the GPS screen showing fuck all, my brother sends me a text that goes something like this.
Bro: You at the Blues Traveler concert?
Me: Yeah. Why?
Bro: I’ve been to that venue. Camped there. Are you camping?
If my brother could have seen my face, it would have said it all. Still driving into a cornfield filled oblivion, this now gives me a slight indication as to what I’m in for.
Me: I don’t camp.
The convo ends there. I don’t camp. I won’t even stay at a hotel with the doors on the outside. (FYI…it’s called a motel.) There is not a chance in fucking hell I’m sleeping anywhere but in a bed at a four star or up hotel. So panic starts to set in and I turn to Hubs B and ask him if he knows anything about the venue. And in classic Hubs B form says he doesn’t have any idea, but he’s certain it’s in the middle of nowhere. Thanks, Hubs B.
As soon as we hit the town where the Children of the Corn was filmed I begin sneezing and not just ordinary sneezing, it was the kind where you sneeze so fucking much that no one bothers to say God Bless You after the six hundredth fucking time. Bring on the booze because it’s going to be my only salvation.
We finally find the venue, if you can call it that. Basically it’s a plowed down cornfield with a stage in the center and small children flagging you down to park your car for $5. Safe and thrifty…
So Rusted Root takes the stage and things are going well. Drink in hand, people watching and listening to music. But it all falls apart when the sun goes down and the lights go out. Two drinks in and I have to use the bathroom.
Porta Potty hell
There are like thirty and while it is still daylight, it’s all good, but the sun goes down and pissing is nearly impossible because it is so fucking dark you can’t see your hand in front of your face. This is also when the hitters and joints come out, and while I’m not against this shit, it was pretty fucking excessive. The contact high was ridiculous. Please stop smoking weed in the fucking porta potty and making it your personal bong! I actually need to take a piss.
At this point, I’ve stopped drinking because there is no possible way you can see to get back to where you are sitting. I don’t want to get lost on my trek to take a piss. Poor Guy BFF was lost for at least twenty minutes and had to be escorted back to our seats by the kid behind us who smoked more weed than I’ve ever seen someone smoke. (Shocker because Hubs B could put anyone to shame back in the day.)
It’s around this time that my allergies are now full-blown and out of control. I’m a fucking city girl, my body can’t handle this much nature! I’m certain I look like Sloth from Goonies and I feel like hell.
So the Gin Blossoms take the stage…
Oh. My. Fucking. God. There’s a reason their career ended circa 1998. They fucking sucked so hard it wasn’t even funny. It’s was two hours of my life I will never get back and because the music was so retched, I spent the time focusing on the moths swarming the stage lights. Masses of them and big ass mother fuckers, like the size of small birds. I hate moths. Disgusting, wayward, unpredictable fuckers. Life sucking, creepy, weird-eyed shitheads. So gross.
After the millionth sneeze and nearly wetting my pants, I decided to bail. I was over this pretending to be young again shit. I’m fucking old. Give me a smokeless bar, a party at BFF’s house, a restaurant with good food and a even better alcohol and I’m in. Or even better, the drink machine and Guy BFF and Roomie and a drunken game of 90’s Trivial Pursuit.
I’m too old for drum solos that last twenty fucking minutes, bad nineties music and too much weed. Glad I spent four years enjoying when I could appreciate at it, because now it kinda sucks.
PM2
