My Drug of Choice; Hint: It's Not Alcohol
I’m taking Sunday off from Kate Wolf and her festival. I enjoyed Friday immensely, but had some hard times Saturday, some of them completely unnecessary. I do understand how logistically cumbersome the whole arrangement must be, and that certain formalities must be in place, but the reality is, individuals control various components of the fair, and there lies the rub.
Give a person a position of authority or control, and watch him or her go to town. Even if there are three people involved in the process, the one with the need for power and control will assert his or her influence over the situation.
Take the two “checkpoints” at the entrances to the main stage area. Please. The purpose would appear to be to prevent alcohol from being transported into the venue, for obvious reasons. All well and good. The organizers are not interested in inebriation abounding.
So in achieving egress and ingress from the main area for entertainment and food, one must clear the “checkpoint,” over and over again. There are three persons of both genders controlling the entry-points, and there is generally a steady current of festival attendees flowing through the checkpoints.
Thousands of people attend this event and one of the most challenging of logistical elements deals with the banks of porta-potties, which are clean, well-maintained and sufficient in number to handle the numbers. But you must leave the main stage area to get to them, and then return once again. So every time you need to use the restroom, you must pass through the checkpoint(s).
It was in the nineties yesterday; Annie and I hydrated ourselves with water brought from home in twelve-ounce bottles, and we brought a lot. Most remained in the truck, but we always had from a few, to as many as a half-dozen water bottles with us at all times. Annie’s issues with cancer require that she drink vast amounts of water every day. I personally drink three liters a day.
Consequently, we needed to make that jaunt to the bathrooms pretty regularly. Of course, we had our chairs set up in the main stage area, so they could remain there when we left the area, but we did not want to leave the backpack behind, for obvious reasons.
In addition to the the water, we had our food. Annie being a Celiac, cannot eat the cuisine featured at the festival, despite efforts in past years. She found that the food sickens her. No problem. We bring our own.
I have no food allergies, but still find the food offered at the festival to be unappealing to me. I mean, hey. Who’s going to argue with Indian, Greek, Ghanian, and an assortment of vegan and gluten-free food, from which to choose?
I mean, anyone besides me. I do not apologize for my lack of adventure when it comes to food. I do not care for curry; I do not care for lamb, and I detest the smell of garlic fries. Garlic permeated the area.
There was a booth selling sandwiches, but the only thing I found to be conventional [to me] was the BLT. There was also a pizza booth featuring gluten-free pizza, but what about something as bizarre as organic hamburgers, with cheese, or a turkey on sourdough bread sandwich, with tomatoes and lettuce? Just asking. Political correctness need not spill over into food.
The point is we chose to bring in our own grub, along with water and whatever else we crammed into the backpack. I even informed the over-zealous guards that I did indeed have my drug of choice with me, but that it was not alcohol-it was reefer.
I do not like to think that I was singled out because of my somewhat unorthodox appearance ( I rock a prominent mustache), but I have little other recourse. I watched countless people stream through, unmolested, and then Annie and I get accosted. We are interrogated, and I have people I do not know, rummaging through my personal belongings. And I certainly do not feel it’s anyone’s business, why we choose to bring our own food with us. I owe no medical explanation to anyone but my doctor.
I did not have a drop of alcohol to drink all day, so they could not have smelled it on my breath. I was walking by Annie’s side, holding her hand, and I was quiet and obliging.
What purpose is served by me having to repeatedly subject my personal belongings to the gropings of strangers? Call off the dogs and let us pee in peace.