Brandy and Vodka

If you want the short story of my experiences at Reggae on the River, 2015, it goes like this: I planned; I attended; I enjoyed. There, all done.  However, it is my custom to use my blog to not only recount experiences, but to extract from them some sort of sage assessment. 

Each episode will consist of a vignette written to stand by itself, but which will also link with all of the others to attempt to imbue the reader with a basic understanding of what the attraction is to gathering with thousands of others along the Eel River every August, when it is most likely to be hot.

# 8: Brandy and Vodka

Saturday morning dawned, chilly early on, though it would heat back up to 98 degrees as the day advanced, still at least a half-dozen notches cooler than than Friday. Casey and I both arose around seven, convening in the center of camp to take stock of the situation, and headed over to the kitchen for coffee and breakfast. 

“‘Ju sleep?” Casey asked as we headed off to the kitchen for some of the black death. The coffee, considering it had to serve around three thousand or so volunteers, was off-the-charts tasty.

“No, but then again, I never sleep so it’s all good.” True story. I get four hours per night as a rule, five if the stars are perfectly aligned. I used to get irritated by the whole thing because the VA will not prescribe sleep medication, but now I just get up and write. Long story short-I really do not want to put any of those chemicals into my body anyway. 

“How are you feeling?”

What a question. I planned, I worked and I’m here, testimony to my determination to allow the right side of my brain to call a few shots, this late in life. The emotion that music extracts from within my inner self, is a most powerful motivator-strong enough for me to sally forth on my lonesome, without my Sweetest of Apple Blossoms. Annie could not be dragged to the site were there a five-star hotel and six burly bodyguards to protect her from the crush.

“Stellar. Tonight is Stephen; nothing gonna get this old ganja farmer down. How about you?”

Huge smile.

There was almost no line as we sidled up to the trough, and prepared to have our plates filled with bacon, fried potatoes, strangled eggs and fresh fruit, an Irish breakfast as defined in our household. (There were no fresh tomatoes or “bangers,” so it could not possibly be described as an authentic Irish breakfast.)

I got thrown for a temporary loop when the woman checking the wristbands to make sure there were no unauthorized eaters, informed me that I had the wrong-colored bracelet. Confused (I know, weird), I turned to Casey, who simply gave a dismissive gesture (No, not that one) with his hand, intoning, “Kitchen set-up crew. Great success!”

I stumbled along behind, on automatic pilot, still pondering the awkward nature of the encounter. Sensing my mood, Casey said, “Look, most of the volunteers here fill exactly one role and that one is generally extremely limited. Don’t give her another thought. You earned that band and the right to sit and eat breakfast. Come on, let’s start with a bong rip.”

On point, naturally. I just need to keep it together. Buddha knows this would have been enough to rock my caged world in the past. Those days are gone forever.

I had brought Terra Jean, my computer, to the venue after agonizing for days, prior to packing for the weekend. My concerns were threefold: I worried I would lose her; I fretted that there would be no way to charge her; finally, I did not want to be perceived as some kind of dweeb, who could not make it through three days without his electronics.

On the other hand, I had taken more than a hundred pics of Friday’s events and musicians, and I wanted to post some on f/b for those who could not attend. I also wanted to be able to record a few impressions of my surroundings so as to be able to better remember a few salient details from the experience.

As the divine Miss M used to say, “F**k ‘em if they can’t take a joke.” Ah, Bette Midler. Let’s see here...extension cord plugged into the electrical socket, computer charging, phone charging, and camera charging. Good to go. Do I care if others think I am a geek? lol

There were approximately a dozen or so picnic tables distributed under the huge canopy that gave us so much trouble the whole weekend. The breeze, instrumental in surviving the heat, played havoc with the tarps being used to provide shade for those enjoying the meals that the kitchen staff provided. 

It was our job to make sure it survived the weekend, a task that involved almost an entire roll of duct tape, and a willingness to distribute said commodity liberally around every one of the eyes through which rope was strung. As the breeze floated in, the canopy would swell upwards, descending again as the air calmed. Our collective breath swelled and ebbed also, but we need not have worried. All worked to perfection.

There were inevitably others at the same table and we always offered nourishment for the mind to any who were in our immediate vicinity. It was the order of the entire weekend, and we are going to bring three times as much herb next year.

Breakfast was quite tasty and set the tone for entire day, one of delicious anticipation for the closing act late that night, or rather, Sunday morning. We returned to the camp afterwards, where we settled in for a spell before heading out to do some politicking, something that Casey indulged in incessantly throughout the weekend. No surprise there; it’s what he gets paid the big bucks for, and if you believe that, I have this bridge you might want to buy... Meanwhile, we headed back to our camp.

When it comes right down to it, the only thing that was forbidden in the campsite, was negativity. By that I mean I could not stand to be around it. There was only one serious breach of this self-imposed rule, and that was authored by a woman named Brandy, who was seated in one of the camp-chairs, as I returned to camp, Saturday afternoon, from watching three consecutive artists perform.

There was a transition of sorts taking place, as I prepared to settle into one of the camp chairs, with several of our company heading out, and a few of us returning. Before I could seat myself, Brandy complained that there was nothing worse than drinking warm vodka, and she swirled her drink silently a moment, for effect.

“If that is your worst problem, Madame, allow me to alleviate it immediately.” I scurried to my tent for some ice and returned with it forthwith. 

“Thank you so much,” Brandy chirped as I provided the solution for her “worst problem.” As it turned out, Brandy had more problems than a lack of ice, and I think it started with that vodka, which makes sense if you think about it. Who ever heard of mixing Brandy and vodka?

One of the group who had been there earlier but remained when the others left, spoke up just now, inquiring, “I still don’t get why YOU are angry. By your own admission, you were wasted.”

“The dude was rude! We were having a pleasant conversation, and as a visitor in this country, he was obligated to be polite.” 

Hmm, this sounds like a rant. If it continues, there is no way I am going to stay. If this babe is talking about the person I think she is, then she’s a whiny little such-and-such and I am so out of here.

I took a spin around the bowl, with no particular destination and made my way back to camp to see if the offending personality had vacated the premises. Later, Casey and I pondered the situation, concluding that alcohol is frequently  accompanied by complications of a similar nature.

He explained the spat succinctly: Brandy and a friend were engaged in a conversation outside the touring bus in which the Marley clan had arrived, with Stephen Marley and another Rastafarian gentleman. Brandy twice stated that she was drunk, but did not think that it should enter the picture. 

Stephen and the other Rastafarian each were smoking some of the holy herb. Stephen offered Brandy some of his and she accepted. When that was gone, Brandy asked the other gentleman, if she could indulge in some of his remaining herb. The man politely declined, whereupon Brandy went off, chastising him for being rude in her country as a guest.

This produced much drama, the end result of which saw Brandy kick her flip-flops off and in the direction of the two Rastafarians, who then retreated to the sanctity of the bus. 

The arrogance of this silly twit. Oh the ignominy of it all. 

Casey set the table by explaining that first of all, Rastafarians do not partake of alcohol, so the fact that Brandy was drunk was offensive itself. Brandy maintained that Stephen was hitting on her and asking her out for later on, but one has to take that with a grain of salt, wishful thinking and all of that.

She admitted twice that she was drunk, so who knows what that looked like, but for her to accuse the one gentleman of being rude is simply a clear case of being unclear on the concept. The two gentlemen were guests in her country, and she was completely unaware that she was breaching etiquette herself, by being rude to them. 

Why should either have felt compelled to share some of their holy herb with a drunk, obviously self-entitled personality, if they chose not to? The answer is they were not and they dismissed her summarily, which is what I proceeded to do.

I was thankful I had had the foresight to vacate the building.

Tomorrow: “You. Are. Beautiful.”

Camp Culture

If you want the short story of my experiences at Reggae on the River, 2015, it goes like this: I planned; I attended; I enjoyed. There, all done.  However, it is my custom to use my blog to not only recount experiences, but to extract from them some sort of sage assessment. 

Each episode will consist of a vignette written to stand by itself, but which will also link with all of the others to attempt to imbue the reader with a basic understanding of what the attraction is to gathering with thousands of others along the Eel River every August, when it is most likely to be hot.

#7 Camp Culture

Rasta Road is the name given to the lane that paralleled the high bank, along which campsites were strewn, with the order of the day being Sardine-City. If there were paper on the metaphorical walls of the camping area, they would have had to tear it off, to make room for all the people.

It has never been my idea of “camping,” but then again, neither is sharing the venue with 10,000 others. Fortunately, music and good company are powerful motivators, and there was no shortage of either. I was to stroll, meander, jog or race down this lane countless times during the three days I was on site, and I never made the trek without some encounter of interest with fellow travelers.

For instance, I was sauntering along by my lonesome late one of the mornings, when I heard someone approaching from behind, at a faster pace. A moment later, when a tallish woman passed me on the right, she glanced at me with a radiant smile, and made the briefest of gestures with her left hand, that I should cast my eyes in that direction-just for a nano-second.

WTF? Good Buddha! Eyes front! 

I did so, and just as quickly averted my eyes. Inside a tent, with its door flap completely open, lay a woman who might best be described as Rubenesque. She had flopped down on her stomach, while appareled only in the most brief of, well, briefs, revealing a pair of rotund cheeks. 

Without a shred of disrespect intended, the fact that a unknown woman had found the sight comical enough to point out to me, a strange man, (Buddha knows...) made it seem all that much more hilarious, and we shared this fleeting moment merrily.

Also along this same route, early in my sojourn, I was accosted by a beautiful woman, relaxing in a lounge chair with a friend of the same persuasion.

“Mr. O’” she hollered out.

“The top of the morning to you,” I responded, all the while ransacking my cotton-candy brain for a name. The visage was familiar, but the sunglasses are throwing me a slider, down and away, and I flailed. “You have the advantage on me, a state of affairs that I find occurring at an all-too-frequent rate these days.”

“Sabrina,” she said, obviously disappointed to have to remind me of her name. The reality was all she had to do was remove the shades. 

Of course. Annie and I had run into Sabrina several times in our wanderings around in Willits. A former student of mine in the middle school, we had connected both in person several times, and on face/book. I would have felt like a dick, except that my reputation for being a few cards short of a full deck, as far as recognition goes, was obviously still intact.

“Dude! My extreme and total bad. I am seeing you out of context and I never thought I’d see you here. It’s great though,” I finished lamely.

“I’m working the Beer Garden; come and see me tonight!” 

“Oh, I will, I will!” Turning to Sabrina’s friend, I stuck out my hand and introduced myself.

“Hi, I’m Mark.” I was introduced to Beth.

Though I always introduce myself as Mark, most of the kids I encounter still call me Mr. O’. I am good with anything. As I say repeatedly, “Call me Mr. O’, call me Mark-just call me in time for dinner.”

I cruised on back to our campsite, which had been embellished with some remarkable accoutrements. The ground running the length of our designated area, was seriously uneven, as though the carpet along the surface had been disheveled, and not smoothed out again. It sloped gently down, until it met the wall of the bank, and then rose sharply upward, giving us a ten by twenty, or so, congregating area.

Bull had covered this uneven area with several ground-covers, in the form of thick, industrial type carpets. There were a half-dozen camp-chairs, but there were always bodies lounging around on the ground, or in the one hammock.

The hammock was a great success, until some unfortunate youth, set the thing on fire by going to sleep with a burning cigarette. Ruined it, but managed to avoid injury when someone noted said conflagration and sounded the alarm. Moving right along.

Judging from the detritus which greeted us this morning, after a night of serious partying, I guess we’re lucky the fire was confined to the hammock, and not to the rest of the camp. It’s not as though NoCal isn’t already on fire. Highway 20 being closed is pretty epic. Hope that gets cleared up before ROTR unleashes 10,000 guests to join the Monday-after traffic.

To portray the flavor of our brand of camp-mates, I can only give it the old college try. The recipe consisted of vast, unlimited portions of humor, with liberal doses of discussion about music, drugs, alcohol, philosophy, religion, some more animated palaver about drugs, and some more rambling on about the music.

I have mentioned Casey, Mid-Sized David, Bull, Yvonne, AnnaBryn, and a few others. One said other was Minnix, a fellow with whom Casey went to Pacific U, who studied video production. Trying to adequately describe this guy’s mind, is like trying analyze a tornado, while it is in full swing: riveting, twisting, tumultuous and above all else, hilarious. OK, tornadoes are not necessarily all that funny, but you get my drift.

The dude has his game-brain on, no matter how many mind-altering substances he has ingested. He could be providing expert backup beats, through the creative use of sounds best described as farts, to back up Casey, as he spit some impromptu verses, or he could be discussing philosophical intangibles of existentialism. 

To chill with two minds as unique and intelligent, as those of Casey and Minnix, is to send me into paroxysms of enjoyment. You just have to be prepared to roll with the ensuing tsunami of entertainment; above all else, you must expect the unexpected. Otherwise you will want to sidle away, or in Annie’s and my case, slide down the bench.

Take Casey’s graduation from Pacific U, please. Annie and I, sitting in the stands of the school’s gymnasium, in the immediate vicinity of Minnix, and cringing from the bellowing voice next to us. Easing our way down the bench, to create a little space...he’s following us! Embarrassed until we just simply joined everyone else, and pretended we did not know this guy. Or maybe I am embellishing.

Farcical, whimsical, droll and brilliant. 

“Mark, hand me your phone for a second.” Minnix was trying to figure out a way to get a pic off his phone, and onto mine. He burst out laughing.

“I’ve never seen a phone with 279 text messages on it before.”

“Dude. If I could figure out how to delete them, I would. Maybe you can stop by the mountain and tutor me.”

They’re not texts-they’re notifications from f/b. I don’t know how to turn them off, so that they don’t ding on my phone. Minnix could teach me more about tech in an hour, than I have learned in the past five years. Says he’s coming in September, for harvest. That would be epic.

Like all of the kids, Minnix was delighted to see me at the festival. They were all overwhelmingly supportive, even the ones I had never met, prior to this event.

Take Ollie, for instance. He is from Colorado, and has been taking in festivals since he was thirteen. His mom was justifiably concerned about Ollie’s involvement in techno-music, and the crowd he was hanging with, so she bought him thirty passes to music venues of all genres, in the Colorado area, in an effort to get him to expand his horizons.

“Dude,” Ollie said to me, “She saved my life.” 

At one point he went off on a tangent about Collie Buddz, something along the lines of the band feasting off the success of one album. Is it possible this is a dis?

Negativity? No way. Granted, I do not know enough about reggae to intelligently discuss it, but I know a dis when I hear it.

I interrupted him in mid-harangue.

“Gotta say, I don’t know as much about the genre as you. I started listening to Pandora a little over a year ago. Everything I hear by these guys [Collie Buddz] rocks, so take me out and have me shot, if I am enjoying a politically-incorrect artist.

Not only did Ollie instantly back the truck up, but a short while later, when I returned from my tent [ice cubes...], he got up out of his comfortable camp-chair, and insisted I take it.

As a conciliatory offering for his disparaging comments about Collie Buddz, it was first-rate, and I happily accepted.

Gotta take life’s victories when they appear, in whatever form they assume.

Tomorrow: Brandy and Vodka

"Tomorrow Is Another Day"

If you want the short story of my experiences at Reggae on the River, 2015, it goes like this: I planned; I attended; I enjoyed. There, all done.  However, it is my custom to use my blog to not only recount experiences, but to extract from them some sort of sage assessment. 

Each episode will consist of a vignette written to stand by itself, but which will also link with all of the others to attempt to imbue the reader with a basic understanding of what the attraction is to gathering with thousands of others along the Eel River every August, when it is most likely to be hot.

# 6 “Tomorrow Is Another Day”

This was only Friday, in the opening few hours of my three-day stay at Reggae on the river, 2015, and yet I had already peaked, emotionally, I thought, while absorbing Stick Figure from the elevated side-stage, about thirty feet from where the performers were rocking out. Peaked emotionally? LMAO. Not even close.

Though Conner had painted a clear picture with his description of the privileges our pink wristbands gave us, I was unprepared for the overwhelming feeling of appreciation I got, for having landed in this exact spot.

I am here. I can’t believe this is even happening. There’s bound to be someone I know out in the crowd. There! Joe Smith! How awesome is that. That bear hug he gave me on his way into the venue had made me feel that I was in the right place at the right time. I better snap a pic.

I was experiencing many different emotional highs, along with that provided by the music. I had come into this arena with one overall goal in mind, and that was to establish my autonomy, to not be reliant on anyone. So I had formed a plan, one that was simple in the big picture, but extremely detailed when it came to the fine print.

My plan included no alcohol, and nothing but cannabis, as far as other potential enhancements for the mind. My reasoning was that I wanted no surprises. I’m not a boozer to begin with, because it only takes a couple of shots of Jameson, and a short period of time, before I nod happily and stumble away to sleep.

And as far as other substances were concerned, it was enough to see that there were plenty of enthusiastic participants in this area in my immediate circle of friends, to relieve my mind that I needed to be also similarly employed. It’s a tough job and someone has to do it, but not this old hippie.

I am not at Reggae on the River to find my youth again. Thanks, but no thanks. I am quite content to be 62 years old... never thought I would get anywhere near this old to begin with. I do not want to be a kid again. And I’m not trying to impress anyone. If you don’t like my style, then that’s a personal problem-take it to the chaplain. Better still, call someone who gives a f**k.

My plan included the hydration I mentioned in an earlier post, but also I put a great deal of thought into my eating regimen. I wished to avoid heavy meals, preferring to graze throughout the day. I never once got hungry, but I ate nonetheless, so as to keep my metabolism on an even keel.

I thought back to an Easter Sunday outing to AT&T Park a few seasons ago, prior to my being diagnosed as having a mood spectrum disorder, when I was still experiencing severe anxiety when in social situations. The boys and some friends, Annie, and I had taken the Larkspur Ferry over to San Francisco and had landed one stop above where the park was located, simply because we were early and wanted to walk along.

The lads stopped at two different bars along the route and I felt obligated to join them in an early libation, having a shot of Jamie on both occasions. I was not hydrating properly (that means I drank no water) because that would have meant having to fight the crowds in the bathrooms at the stadium.

Let’s take stock, shall we? No water, couple/three shots of Irish whiskey, three times my normal dosage of Lorazepam [anxiety meds], several edibles in the form of cupcakes (guy’s gotta eat, right?), and a couple of Vikes, just to make sure. Sure of what, I’m not sure, but it seemed like the thing to do at the time.

I did not eat any of the goodness the park had to offer, though I am unclear as to why not. Possibly I was just a tad off my game, and not thinking properly.

I know. Weird.

The net result was that on the ferry on the way back, I got sick. I was sitting there on the Group W Bench one moment, when I suddenly felt nauseous. The boys grasped the concept immediately, and were trying to escort me to the nearest bathroom, when I simply fainted dead away. 

Born to be a drama queen.

I learned something that day, that most people grasp at a much earlier age. I can only allow my mind to dictate so many of the terms, before my body has to step up and assert itself. Fainting in front of all those Giants fans on the ferry was enough to convince me of this fact. So was mixing up such a toxic chemical cocktail. Ach tung, Chucko. 

I ought to keep it simple-just a loaf of sourdough bread, and a hunk of cheese. Nah, I don’t need all that filler inside me. Here’s what’s up: a tuppie of fresh tomatoes, complete with serrated knife; half-dozen peeled boiled eggs [ON ICE]; tuppie with a salt/pepper ensemble; small tuppie with some Spanish rice Annie made; can of salted peanuts; bag of vinegar potato chips; dry salami; gluten-free rice crackers; sliced muenster cheese; a bag of Fritos; tuppie of sliced cucumbers... and a bag of mini-Snickers bars.

I was determined to both hydrate myself with water exclusively, and to eat religiously throughout the festival. I varied from the course only in as much as I included one-and-a-half cups of coffee each morning. With as much planning as I put into my menu, and the fact that I also ate breakfast at the volunteer kitchen, both Saturday morning and Sunday morning, my plan worked beyond my wildest fantasies, and I brought almost nothing home, except for most of the Snickers bars.

“Mr. O’!” The voice rang out over the crowd as I ambled along the row of vendors, heading up to Robbie-Doo’s behind the Beer Garden. I turned automatically towards the voice, and experienced a sensation that by now has become most common. 

Oh s**t, Mabel...I obviously know this guy but have no clue who it is. Throw in a beard and I’m even more clueless than usual. The last time I saw these “kids” they were in middle school. I have changed, sure, because my facial hair is no longer a fiery red color, but they have changed more.

“Matt Cabezut!” he bellowed out and I was on immediate solid ground.

“MattNTosha” I exclaimed, giving him a handshake, a hug, and a loopy grin, pleased as punch to connect with a former student and a friend on social media. I revel in these moments. Honestly, though we exchanged pleasantries, I cannot for the life of me remember what was said.

This was the first of countless encounters I was to have over the next three days, and each and every one of them made me feel warm and fuzzy inside.

Buddha only knows I might expect that these kids would be looking at me and seeing their worst nightmare in the flesh. “Arrrrrgggggghhh! My middle school language arts teacher. Does this mean we have to diagram sentences again?”

They don’t seem to remember me in that light. Casey explained it to me once. “Pops,” he said, “It’s like you always say, people don’t remember the bad, just the good. When it comes to former teachers, they remember the ones who taught them something. If I can’t remember a teacher, it’s because he or she never taught me anything.”

How cool is that?

I trekked around the entire venue, I returned to camp, I had a bountiful-if somewhat small-meal, and at the appropriate time, returned to my spot at the railing, for the second of my must-see artists, Collie Buddz, otherwise known as Colin Patrick Harper. This entertainer was off-the-charts dynamic, reminding me of Ian Anderson in concert.

Ian Anderson is the force behind Jethro Tull, and with his cape and his flute, and his one-legged stance when playing said flute, was always the electrifying presence in the group. So it was with Collie Buddz, as Harper rocked that bowl, ending up in the crowd on two different occasions. I have the pics.

Collie Buddz was pure, unadulterated fun. To be there was to be uplifted. I reveled in my ability to put myself in a position to take charge of the right side of my brain. It’s been a long time coming.

Epic. One person between me and the performers. Whoa. A strobe light. Nice. Oops. I guess the gal in front of me does not feel the same. She split so fast, it left her man’s head spinning. But now I am on the railing. Time to take some pics.

The saying is, “Tomorrow is another day,” and so the song’s lyrics go. 

Tomorrow is another day, and with it brings Stephen Marley. A great success if ever there were one.

Tomorrow: “Camp Culture”

WaterWorks

If you want the short story of my experiences at Reggae on the River, 2015, it goes like this: I planned; I attended; I enjoyed. There, all done.  However, it is my custom to use my blog to not only recount experiences, but to extract from them some sort of sage assessment. 

Each episode will consist of a vignette written to stand by itself, but which will also link with all of the others to attempt to imbue the reader with a basic understanding of what the attraction is to gathering with thousands of others along the Eel River every August, when it is most likely to be hot.

#5 WaterWorks

Originally my plan was to hitch a ride up to French’s Camp on Friday, making sure I arrived before 4:45, the scheduled start of Stick Figure, one of four bands playing over the weekend that I had penciled into my must-see column. 

I changed my mind, however, and decided to go ahead and drive my truck up to Garberville, where I would take the shuttle back to the site of Reggae on the River, 2015, simply because I wanted the flexibility to be able to leave when I decided, and not have to depend on someone else.

When I texted my plan to Casey, he told me he had gotten a parking pass for me in the Tosh Lot, and that he would meet me at the parking lot, just south of French’s Camp. All I had to do was text him when I went through Leggett and he would meet me at the lot shortly thereafter.

“Where’s the Tosh Lot?” I asked him as I tossed my duffle bag and small ice chest into the back of his truck. 

“I think it’s this one,” he responded, “but I could be wrong. I’ll ask this guy at the gate.” He did and the guy didn’t have a clue, one of many times I was to realize that each person working was only a minuscule cog in a huge machine, and knew nothing more than absolutely necessary. We headed back to French’s Camp.

All went according to plan except that in the hustle and bustle, Casey had forgotten to bring the parking sticker to put on the inside of my truck, so we knew we had to make a return visit to the lot. After consulting with the dude who was manning the gate, to make sure that no towing would take place, we went ahead and got me my wristband, along with one for Ian. 

Ian is a dude who had accompanied me from Bell Springs Road, because he was working on-farm, but was getting a ride form a friend back up to Portland. We headed back to the campsite, so that I could haul in my gear and set up my tent.

As I came out, I posed the question of Casey, what did he think? Should I hang on to my wallet and truck keys, burying them in one of my deep cargo pants pockets? Or should I keep them in my tent? I decided to put them in my San Francisco Giants bag, in my tent, which turned out to be the wrong decision a few minutes later, when we went back to put the sticker on the inside of my truck.

We got around that problem because Casey managed to affix the sticker to the outside of the window, by using the windshield wiper blade as a stabilizer. All went for naught, however, a few minutes later when we got back to the main camp.

Deciding once and and for all to make sure my truck was parked in the correct lot, Casey asked at the main entrance, where the Tosh Lot was. 

“I don’t know, but that guy in the motorhome over there was just asking the same question. I told him to ask over there where you get your wristbands,” he said, gesturing toward the area where we had been a few minutes earlier.

“Be right back,” I said, and jogged over to ask the same question. It turned out we were standing about a hundred feet away from possibly the best parking for the venue imaginable. The Tosh Lot was the first parking facility one encountered upon turning right into the French’s Camp site. Unbelievable.

Things were falling into place nicely. We returned to the parking lot where my truck is, for the third time, but the third time is the charm, because now my truck was going to be where it was supposed to be, and it was still at least an hour away from Stick Figure time.

I had missed them at the Emerald Cup last December, simply because there was no schedule of events. The bands played in the order they were supposed to, and it was guess and by golly, as far as exactly when that would be. I missed out. Such was not the case at ROTR.

We were lounging around the camp a while later, at 4:20, acknowledging the moment in the most logical manner, with me building up anticipation for the upcoming musical event. Conner had filled me in on where I could go with my pink wristband, and the most significant spot was backstage, where we were allowed to walk up the steps to the two side-stage areas, which allowed viewers to be on either side of the performers, but at a higher level, so we were looking down on them, from about thirty feet away.

Out over the expansive bowl, people would be congregated in front of the stage to view the artists. I simply could not believe that I did not have to suffer the agony [for me] of being in the middle of all that humanity. I was grateful for my advantageous viewing spot.

A new band began to play as we lounged in the camp, and I listened idly to the music in the distance. I did not recognize the song. A second song began, again not one that I recognized, and someone asked, "Who's playing?"

"Stick Figure, I think,” someone ventured.

WTF? Twenty minutes early? Later days, men...I’m Audi 500. 

I sprang out of my camp-chair and darn near ran the three-football-fields-long route down Rasta Road, to the main performance area, where I made my way back behind the huge stage, and up the steps to the side stage.

And so the moment had arrived, that precise instant of the culmination of all my efforts to be here, standing on this raised platform, and listening to a group which unknowingly had lured me, hook, line and sinker, into the fold.

I was profoundly impacted when the band began to play “The Rocky Road,” the song that effectively started me on my current path, and I could not restrain myself. Though I was bouncing to the beat of the lilting music, dancing in place as enthusiastically as possible, the tears were streaming down my face.

http://www.bing.com/videos/search?q=the+rocky+road+stick+figure&FORM=VIRE1#view=detail&mid=C633F9F4C2B7F83B009CC633F9F4C2B7F83B009C

I danced, I took pics and I cried. 

“No destination, nowhere to go, 

No obligation, no one to call.

The rocky road is getting long,

The rocky road won’t take me home.”

I remembered coming out of that pit of misery, when Annie was first diagnosed with kidney cancer, had a kidney removed along with a tumor, and had taken a flat in Willits, leaving me alone on the mountain to tend the home fires.

“Situations, they come and go.

No hesitation-you walk out the door.

So what do I do? I got nothing to lose.

I keep it cool around you, you, you.”

I remembered the operation to remove her thyroid, only eight months later, and the second onslaught of tests, appointments, and discomfort she then endured.

“I lie awake-I got my eyes wide open

I listen to the rhythm and the sound of the ocean.

I try to sleep but then I am awoken,

The sound of the train always gives me hope to see you 

To see you, to see you, to see you.”

And finally, I thought about Annie’s decision to give up the little apartment in Willits, and make the transition back here on the mountain. 

Relaxation, it will ease your mind.

Expectations, don’t waste your time. 

So, come on let’s go to the great unknown,

Don’t stay home, stay true, true, true.

And here I am, functioning in a venue that I never thought possible. Great success, if ever there was one.

This venue, this music, these folks around me, all family to one degree or another, all surged together in a wave of emotion to overwhelm me, the first of several such cathartic moments I was to experience over the weekend. I was to encounter a feeling of such comfort and support, as to send me home after the event was finally over, in a most satisfied and comfortable state of mind.

Life can be a rocky road [at times] but it’s the only road we get. So long as it includes moments such as these, I for one can handle it.

Tomorrow: “Tomorrow Is Another Day”

The Transmogrification

If you want the short story of my experiences at Reggae on the River, 2015, it goes like this: I planned; I attended; I enjoyed. There, all done.  However, it is my custom to use my blog to not only recount experiences, but to extract from them some sort of sage assessment. 

Each episode will consist of a vignette written to stand by itself, but which will also link with all of the others to attempt to imbue the reader with a basic understanding of what the attraction is to gathering with thousands of others along the Eel River every August, when it is most likely to be hot.

#4: The Transmogrification

On our way back to camp from the outdoor kitchen we had been setting up for the Reggae on the River festival, Casey and I compared notes. He was reasonably upbeat, despite some of the logistical impediments, like not getting a radio. 

“We got a lot done today, that’s for sure. I feel so good about it that I set Lito and Conner free tomorrow, to work on-farm. They were both here last Friday, and they’re coming back to break down camp on Tuesday, so I figured, why not? Did you survive all of that refrigerator moving around?

“A veritable piece of cake. What’s on tap for tomorrow? I know we have to finish the canopy over the volunteer kitchen area and move the dry goods from the truck to the storage area...” 

So surreal to be calmly discussing tomorrow as though I hadn’t been ready to bail out when Lito and Conner had left. Buddha knows I had every intention...Or did I? As funny as it sounds, even to me, I think my brain fart where I could not think of a plausible reason for explaining why I was going home early, is simply the victorious culmination of the battle between my head and my heart. 

Make no mistake-I could have gone after Lito. I had intended to leave; I just didn’t think out the logistics. But I chose to stay. The heart won out over my head after all. As crazy as it sounds, I think I can build on this.

As we approached the camp, I reminded Casey that he was going to escort me to the bathrooms so I would not have to search in the middle of the night. The part of my overall plan in attending on Tuesday and Wednesday, prior to the festival, was to be able to acclimate myself to the venue, and it worked like a charm.

Without delving too heavily into specifics, I have mentioned the heat, the need for hydration and the absolute necessity that I know where all of the port-a-potties were located throughout the site, for obvious reasons. At one point on Friday, my first full day of reggaeing, while pounding the ice water incessantly, I needed to use the facilities five times in a ninety-minute period.

I’m not bragging-just telling it like it is. I was on the move, either tagging along with Casey, jetting back to camp for food, or backstage, jamming to the music and taking photos. One of my main objectives was to function completely independently, so that no one had to adjust his program to deal with my needs. I was most successful in this venture.

I knew where every bank of port-a-potties on-site was: I knew about the ones backstage for the volunteers, and I even knew about the three that were tucked in back of Melody’s trailer, where it dead-ended, and no one hardly ever went. One of the three was locked, indicating privilege for a select few, but the other two were always clean, and available.

The lads really want this to happen. I can’t believe how close I came to bailing out, and I’m still not sure why I didn’t, except that I keep coming back to that right side of my brain, the side that I have effectively stifled the vast majority of my life. 

I still can not draw a cow standing under an oak tree to save my life, but when I listen to the music, three things happen: I sing, I dance and I feel more alive than I ever have, aside from my connection to Annie.

Wednesday dawned cool and beautiful, my “decision” to stay now resonating within me like a chorus of the same horns that would dazzle and delight me [and Casey] throughout the festival. I had turned a corner, without realizing what lay in wait: peace of mind.

I was buoyant and thought back to the previous night, when Casey and I had returned to the empty camp. The others were out partying, that being the nature of the beast. There were ragers on all sides, one of the gatherings featuring your basic, run-of-the-mill chugging contests. We sat around for maybe fifteen minutes at the most, and then crashed.

It was raucous all night long. When asked the next morning if I got any sleep, I replied, “No, but then, I never get any sleep.”

Sleep? What a concept. If I can’t sleep more than four or five hours at home, in the comfort of my own bed, then why would I expect to sleep here? On the other hand, when I do not sleep, I make good use of my time. Buddha knows it was comfortable enough. Hell, I wrote my first three pieces of writing I am going to post when all of this is over, in my head, while listening to those kids who were trying to get drunk in a hurry. 

I remember those days. I used to be a kid.

The day went much easier than Tuesday, with all of the heavy work done, and the knowledge that we were only staying until late afternoon, and then splitting for home. I got to expand my horizons and meet some folks, which was one of the coolest ongoing benefits of the whole enterprise.

We would congregate around in the employees’ lounge, a portable affair which always magically formed in the immediate vicinity of Casey’s bong, and the jar of goodness that was available to all people attending the festival, at all times. 

Next year, we are going to triple the amount of cannabis we bring and distribute to any and all who would like to sample our goodness. It is what ROTR is all about, and when I think of how many times I was offered some mind candy, over the course of the three days I was there, I am flummoxed.

One of HappyDay Farm’s most satisfying moments came when Desmond, a longtime community member of high status, who used to play for many years with some of the very performers who would be present at ROTR 2015, was able to convey to the performers our appreciation.

He did this in the form of delivering the ten half-pint jars that Casey filled with some of our best medicinal cannabis, all labeled with our HDF image, to their destination. Casey swears he heard a shout-out to HappyDay Farms during one of the artist’s sets.

Whew. That was awfully sweet of Nansai to put out that hash. She obviously appreciates having her kitchen set up by dudes who are enthusiastic and into the flow of the festival. Whoa! Who are these two gals? My heavens, they appear to be quite drunk.

I was introduced to Annabryn and Yvonne, both of whom had been imbibing, rather enthusiastically, it would appear. They were about the same age as all of the kids in our crew. Whereas Annabryn seemed merry and reasonably mellow, Yvonne was blazing. What was also readily apparent was that everyone in the group was well-acquainted with these two. We chatted amicably for a short spell.

I mention this simply because a while later, after we had all adjourned to the campsite, the two women appeared, and Yvonne proceeded to plop herself down, smack on top of Mid-Sized David, who was ensconced on the carpetted ground, snoozing on his back.

My goodness. Yvonne would appear to be seeking attention from David. Hard to explain having her sit down on him for any other reason. Hmmmm. David does not appear to have noticed. Possibly this is not the first time?

As if reading my thoughts, (spot-on!) Yvonne twisted around to inform me rather matter-of-factly (or as much so, as one who is drunk can be), 

“I have known David for fifteen years. I just want you to know that.”

“I would certainly never presume to think anything other!”

“Fifteen years! I just want you to know that. I don’t just go around sitting on any guy who comes along.” 

She was sure bent on making sure that I knew she was no ordinary party girl. “Methinks she doth protest too much.”

“Perish the thought!” was all I said, and then remembered suddenly that I needed to get something out of my ice chest. I will tell you that I made good use of that ice chest, any time I felt the need to vacate the premises. I felt that need any time negativity was being displayed within my perception.

As far as I was concerned, that is why ice was invented, so that I could go grab a handful for my hat, any time that I even remotely thought a negative word was about to be heard. Reggae is not about negativity, and I am about reggae. Ergo, I am repulsed by negativity.

Annabryn, was the antithesis of Yvonne, and it took only a short time in her company to note this. Yes, she was imbibing, but the way normal people do, enjoying the iced beverage in the heat, without going into her act. She was comfortable here-nay, she was in her element. 

Not sure why these two gals ended up back here, but Annabryn is nice. Ah, here come de Bull. Checking up on us? Zounds! He is the one who has this tent that’s closest to our chairs, the one with the unique bulge along one side, unexplained, as of yet? I did not know that.

Oh. I get it. Annabryn is Bull’s main squeeze, and they are both a part of our campsite. 

Duh.

This knowledge of the obvious connection between the boisterous Bull, and the low-key, intelligent Annabryn, instantly made me upgrade my opinion of the Bull-way up.

No way does a class act like Annabryn hook up with a dildo. There must be something more to the man than what I have seen so far. I figured as much since Casey speaks highly of him, and...I just remembered, Annie likes both of them too. Got it.

As Casey, Bull and I headed back for one more look-see around the kitchen, Yvonne headed out also, bound for destinations unknown, except that she would not be driving anywhere. As we parted ways at the intersection of Rasta Road and the Highway to the Jungle, and we were about a hundred feet or so away from Yvonne, the Bull let out a mighty bellow.

“Hey Yvonne!”

He waited for optimum effect, until she had turned, and finally hollered out, “Well?”

“I HOPE YOU GET LAID THIS WEEKEND.”

Tomorrow: “WaterWorks”