Monday, June 23, 2008

My Fist Hippie Festival

Last month, the day after my 26th birthday, two friends decided it would be a stellar idea to take me to my first hippie festival. Though this wasn’t exactly my normal scene, I can pretty much have fun in a shoe box. Especially if there’s booze. So I happily tagged along. This festival happened to be a two night extravaganza with bands starting around 12 noon both days. Hippie patrons from miles around traveled to camp and jam into the wee hours of the morning. It was glorious…mostly.

As I’m sure most of you are aware, booze makes you pee. A lot. You are probably also aware of the normal facilities offered at camp grounds and concerts. Yep, the dreaded Port-a-John. Unfortunately gross, but severely necessary. These portals into the ninth ring of hell are doable during daylight hours. Yeah, you can see the…stuff…but that’s just it: YOU CAN FREAKING SEE. Women are required – you hear me?? REQUIRED! – to squat. I don’t care how tired, intoxicated, or whatever I am. But I digress…Some ladies find squatting an easier task than say, oh, I don’t know, me. I always have to do that weird pose that requires me to prop myself up with my arm against the back wall of said portal. It’s hardly a flattering stance, and trust me, you wish I have posted a picture of myself reenacting this maneuver because it is hilarious in itself. Maybe someday I’ll post one.

Enter night induced darkness. Things immediately get trickier. Not only do I have the to psych myself up to enter into the abyss o’ crap, I have to hold my breath, check for toilet paper, perfect my stance, juggle my purse, review my pants placement (last thing I want is to pee all over myself, EW) and then relax enough to “let ‘er flow.” You’re probably thinking: “Wow, this girl is a PAJ guru. I should be taking notes.” Don’t go sharpening those pencils just yet. On one particular night time trip to the row of horror, my male friend and I decided to walk down together. I grabbed the closest light source I could find: a green glow stick. Awesome. Luckily, my chivalrous friend insisted I take his flashlight and he would rock out with the glow stick. How sweet!! I enter the PAJ and immediately curse his name. Not only do I have to master the dance described above, but I also have to hold the flashlight. SIGH. I decide that the best course of action is to “hold” the flashlight under my chin. I begin the dance. Door locked? Check. TP? Check. Pants out of harm’s way? Check. I relax. Things are happening when suddenly, there is manic pounding on the door. I panic, but I can see the lock is in place. Nothing bad can happen! Except that the incredible hulk loves hippie festivals and decided he needed to pee in the exact PAJ that was occupied by me. The door flies open! The lock, bursts into a million pieces and flies out into the night! I’m there, pants down staring at the biggest hippie I have ever seen. He screams, I scream, the flashlight plummets to the ground, and the door slams. I’m left alone, in the dark. I hear the hippie scream how sorry he is and that he’s going to guard the door for me. I contemplate my options. I can:

A. Pull up my pants and go home, crying hysterically the whole way. Or,
2. Attempt to relax, and finish what I started.

I opt for 2. After I finish, I have to knock, loudly, to be let out of the PAJ by the incredible hippie. He apologizes profusely and, get this, hugs me like I’m his long lost BFF from that Phish tour in ’99. All I can think is “I haven’t sanitized my hands!! AHHHH!!” My friend, who has been waiting patiently this whole time, looks on in sheer wonderment.

“What the hell…?” he asks as he runs over.

I say, “Oh hi, glad you’re here. I lost your flashlight.”


“I know I’m sorry, I’m friend of the year….here’s what happened…”

We break out the green glow stick and start searching, all the while cursing my failure of using the facilities in a timely, discreet, or non-retarded manner. Thankfully, the flashlight is outside the PAJ, though it is halfway underneath. My friend can’t believe how lucky I am that he doesn’t have to kick my ass. I agree. We return to the campsite and hilarity ensues as the story is told, and retold, to everyone who comes within a half mile of our tent. I love making new friends!

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