Cannabis and Coffee-In that Order: That’s what it took to right the floundering ship, Friday morning.
Ah, no road construction the report said, for Thursday, the opening day of Reggae on the River, 2017. Right? Unfortunately, the report was wrong.
Ah, just contact Samantha at Check-In, Nate told me, and she will have my parking pass. Right?Unfortunately, she didn’t.
Ah, finally after four laborious days, I get to relax, and listen to some music. Right? Unfortunately, I had to work all day Thursday, and when I finally heard the music knocking, I wouldn't open the door.
Ah, I’ll just give Gluten-Free Mama a call, to ground myself for a minute. Right? Unfortunately, she did not pick up.
Ah, I am sitting in someone else’s Cadillac of camp chairs, nursing some Lemon Ogre along, and it’s finally cooling down. Paradise, right?
Another day in Paradise is the way I have been phrasing it all day, even if I have been faking it.
Zounds! Is nothing sacred? Faking it at ROTR?
|Our campsite, backed up against the chapel. Ahem.|
I mean, of course, Amen.
It’s all about those pesky expectations. Every trip I have made so far up the 101 to French’s Camp, has been a pain but nothing that I wasn’t anticipating. This morning’s run was savage, because we had been told one thing, and as I sat there, with no traffic moving in either direction for more than a half-hour, I struggled. Seriously? You couldn’t let it go for one day? But all interminable things must end, as did this one.
When it came to getting my car squared away, the third different vehicle I have driven up to French’s Camp in five trips, none of them mine, I did everything right. I drove directly to my camp site, dropped off the rest of my gear, and finagled my way into the Volunteer Parking Lot itself, without a permit.
That was half the battle since Samantha had told me the lot was already filled. What she meant was that all the permits had been issued, but the fact remained that my car was in the lot, and it would be at least next Tuesday before they could ever get a tow truck into the middle of that cluster-fuck, to get my ride.
Unbeknownst to me, Sam was good buds with Bull “in real life”; she was just irritated that he kept putting her on the spot. I assured her that it was no issue, and that I would track the Bull down myself, and make it happen. And in fact, when I presented myself at Melody's air-conditioned trailer, there was Bull, making with, well, the bull.
When I explained the problem, he rummaged around in a file folder for a second, and then produced exactly what it was that I needed. And when it came right down to it, this little adventure was not tortuous, the way the road construction was. I knew Bull had it covered; I just had to dig a little. Besides, the lami paves a lot of roads, along with the white wristband.
|Five hours running without oil...|
Work on Thursday?!? Last year on Thursday, I had arrived with HeadSodBuster, late in the afternoon, and we had just gravitated over to the bowl to enjoy the music. This year, with the site manager down with pneumonia, Bull has had to pick up the slack. For instance, when the lights generator started smoking because it was running with no oil in it, Bull was the one who was called-at 2AM.
So this year, instead of things being battened down by Wednesday night, we were still in the thick of it. Bull handed me a list-two columns-with more than twenty tasks on it.
“No puedo leer, señor. Yo siento.” I explained. [I can’t read, Sir, I’m sorry.]
“Right?” Bull cracked up. I laughed also, but not around the eyes.
And twenty minutes after placing the call to Gluten-Free Mama, I decided to text her, and found out that she had returned my call-almost immediately-and had texted as well. I called her back and my feet settled back to ground level, or close enough for government work, anyway.
Now, Friday morning, there is still no one in the campsite. There are thirteen tents, and as far as I know, only one other person here. I wonder where everybody is…
Tomorrow: The Golf Cart