leaving for mutantfest in three days. couldn't be more stoked. it's the one week of the year when I honestly feel at home.
days are spent washing a week's worth of road dust from your skin and hair at the river, or driving into town for supplies - cold beer is always in high demand - bonus points if you can totally freak out some small town yokels while you're there. days you walk the road while trucks drive too fast through the dust, kids with bandannas around their faces and pbrs in their hands screaming jubilantly from the overcrowded beds.
dusk falls and camps spanning a square mile or more are ringing their dinner bells, crusties with tin bowls and sporks lining up drunk and grumbling to spoon potatoes or rice or vegetables high - fuel for the coming night. dusk ages and shadows lengthen and instruments tune up from a hundred places at once, generators kicking to life as night approaches fast beneath the cover of the trees.
at night mutantfest earns its moniker. freaks of all shapes and sizes bedecked in all manner of clothing roam the roads in every imaginable state of intoxication; a woman in a tutu and a renaissance blouse twirling a lace parasol smiles through clown makeup, a surly man all in black sports carhartt from head to toe, patches held on by thousands of meticulous dental floss stitches. at night colored shafts of light filter through millions of leaves and countless musical genres fight with the shrieks, groans, and shouts of the revelers for audio dominance.
mornings it all begins again, whether or not sleep interrupted the lightening of the sky. hangovers become the mimosa buzzes that carry you to the river, growling stomachs become sated moans after a communal pancake breakfast. the shouting begins again, everyone looking for a dose, a beer, a friend, a ride, a meal. a few generators thunder to life in the partial quiet of the morning, the bass vibrating the ground under your shoes...
home, indeed.
days are spent washing a week's worth of road dust from your skin and hair at the river, or driving into town for supplies - cold beer is always in high demand - bonus points if you can totally freak out some small town yokels while you're there. days you walk the road while trucks drive too fast through the dust, kids with bandannas around their faces and pbrs in their hands screaming jubilantly from the overcrowded beds.
dusk falls and camps spanning a square mile or more are ringing their dinner bells, crusties with tin bowls and sporks lining up drunk and grumbling to spoon potatoes or rice or vegetables high - fuel for the coming night. dusk ages and shadows lengthen and instruments tune up from a hundred places at once, generators kicking to life as night approaches fast beneath the cover of the trees.
at night mutantfest earns its moniker. freaks of all shapes and sizes bedecked in all manner of clothing roam the roads in every imaginable state of intoxication; a woman in a tutu and a renaissance blouse twirling a lace parasol smiles through clown makeup, a surly man all in black sports carhartt from head to toe, patches held on by thousands of meticulous dental floss stitches. at night colored shafts of light filter through millions of leaves and countless musical genres fight with the shrieks, groans, and shouts of the revelers for audio dominance.
mornings it all begins again, whether or not sleep interrupted the lightening of the sky. hangovers become the mimosa buzzes that carry you to the river, growling stomachs become sated moans after a communal pancake breakfast. the shouting begins again, everyone looking for a dose, a beer, a friend, a ride, a meal. a few generators thunder to life in the partial quiet of the morning, the bass vibrating the ground under your shoes...
home, indeed.
