"It's My Job"

Big ups to these dudes

It’s hard to believe but this is the seventeenth report to surface from the murky depths of my convoluted memory, covering the recently-completed Reggae on the River, 2016. Every minute that goes by renders each of these questionable documents, that much more unreliable.

That being said, I still have much to prattle on about, primarily because that pesky propane bill insists on my attention, and I get paid the BIG $$ to spew it all out, er, sorry, to document it all. I find it intriguing how much of an incentive needing loot to pay bills is for jump-starting my memory.

Either my memory or my imagination, hard to say with any degree of accuracy.

“It’s My Job”

Having engaged in my quest for coffee, for the first six hours of Friday morning, (Fine, it was only 45 minutes) and having ultimately triumphed by hitting the jackpot and finding lattes-to-go, I ordered up half-a-dozen and continued on my travels.

I tried ordering just one but they didn’t have the 144 ounce cup, so I had to improvise. I also inquired as to intravenous means for efficiency purposes, but was disappointed to find out this was not an option.

Juggling all those 24 ounce cups proved more than I was up for, so I dropped off four of them backstage, one of them ending up in Anthony B’s hands at just the perfect moment. He was so jazzed he insisted on giving me a private show, reeling off six of my requests without missing a beat.

By now you realize that I am once again living out a fantasy undoubtedly planted in my subconscious, by my incessant indulgence of cannabis. Anthony B did not serenade me, at least not in the conventional sense that he actually performed for me. 

But that was his voice on the CD, and I was the one playing the CD, so for all intents and purposes (or is that intensive purposes?), I stand firm on my original claim, disregarding the fact that it is blatantly false.

If The Donald can do it, I can do it better.

Higher than the circling egrets up above, I was now ready to face the world, my batteries charged up so much that the distilled water therein was gently burbling in the background. You wouldn’t think that someone who was certifiably manic, would need anything else to propel him along, but that would be wrong.

At least I limit my forays into this area to the lowest end of the speed spectrum, as George Carlin referred to coffee. I tried speed-once-about 35 years ago. Good Buddha knows that once was enough.

I have also experimented with cocaine, but needing a wheelbarrow to haul the amount of money needed to acquire this substance, dampened my enthusiasm early on. Propane before cocaine is my motto.

But I digress.

My own frame of mind considerably elevated by Magic Potion Number Nine, I let my feet do the walking, while I followed them around, careful not to let them get too far ahead of me. It was too early for any of the vendors to be open, except for the spot Casey called Markie’s Place because it was open from 2AM until 9AM, Markie’s best hours. 

I headed back to camp for some breakfast of boiled eggs (with salt and pepper), bacon and sliced fresh, homegrown, organic, Ace tomatoes.

Inevitably, as is want to occur, I found it necessary to check the rolodex in my computer-like mind for the nearest port-a-potty. It was a source of pride and comfort that I knew the location of every single one of the 823 (or however many PAP's there are) sanctuaries on the entire site, including the one cleverly concealed up on the side of the hill for the sound-effects crew.

Disclaimer # 47: Ignore that last bit of frippery; to the best of my knowledge there is no sound effects crew and sadly, no concealed port-a-potty.

Sailing along in my own private air balloon, high above the venue, by virtue of the libation I clutched in both hands, I needed to bring the craft down for the intended pit-stop.

Being in the vicinity of the little bank of eight PAP’s behind the Ambassador Lounge, I set course for this option and was surprised when I encountered a crew of two, complete with honey-wagon, giving the facilities their undivided attention.

The two dudes, both big ‘uns, were apparently comfortable in their roles, judging from the dialogue that I encountered. I had paused at the top of the set of steps leading down to the facilities, noting and appreciating what the two sanitation officers were doing.

The first took one glance at me, turned to his partner and bellowed, “Now that’s the way you should dress for ROTR!”

[Duly recorded: The first documented case in my 63 years of living, that I was in “style…”]

I was in brown shorts (with the single splash of forrest-green paint from painting the newly constructed tables for Melody’s kitchen) and yellow Humboldt tank-top, rocking my perpetual sandals.

“HAPPY REGGAE!” I bellowed, and followed it with, “BIG UPS! You guys rock! Things are so much better this year than they have EVER been before.”

[Note the grizzled veteran of two ROTR’s, sagely commenting on that which he knows little about.]

The reality was that in the four days I was at the festival, I never once entered one of the little boxes and got grossed out. Not once. They smelled as though they had just been cleaned and people responded accordingly. I was at least accurate in that things were infinitely better this year, than last year.

I am not unrealistic enough to think that no disrespect occurred; I saw at least one of the bathrooms yellow-taped up.

Beaming, one of them said, “There are twelve thousand of you here, and we clean all of the PAP’s three times a day!”

“Dude, you guys rock!” I meant it. “The whole venue is so much cleaner, what with the metal cups and all, and I saw a crew emptying the trash and recycling bins in the middle of New Kingston’s set, last night. That shit’s sick!”

I turned to the closest door and went on in. Seconds later I heard another patron ask if the bathrooms were ready, and one of the crew said, “Absolutely!”

However, when the dude pulled open a door a couple down from me, the worker dude suddenly yelled, “Oh, sorry, guy, that one’s out-of-order.” 

He paused for effect. “The flusher’s broke,” and he convulsed in laughter at his own wit.

I was laughing so hard I was in danger of-STOP!

Bathroom humor. Gotta love it.

“He said, ‘It’s my job to be cleaning up this mess,

And that’s enough reason to go for me.

It’s my job to be better than the rest,

And that makes the day for me.’”

Like the street sweeper that Jimmy Buffett sings about, these guys derived satisfaction from knowing that their work was necessary and noticed. The vibe is so prevalent here on the Eel River, it even extends to the most demeaning of jobs.

The two of them beamed and why not? They had a sh***y job and they did it with grace and aplomb.

It just goes to show that if one can retain one’s dignity, even in the most undignified of professions, then one can truly soar higher than the circling egrets above.

Tomorrow: More big ups

Rye Whiskey, I Cry

Shockingly, this is sixteenth portion of leftover Reggae on the River, 2016, being heaped upon an unsuspecting public, much to the dismay of all involved.

Lest you think there is any substance to the mud being slung your way, allow me to put your minds at ease: to sleep is more like it; this stuff is awful.

Rye Whiskey, I Cry

Unfazed by my futile efforts-thus far-to procure that which I sought, at least five gallons of extra-hot coffee, I was now sprinting full speed ahead, or so my feet tried to convince me. 

Did I say five gallons? What I meant was I was searching for a cup of hot coffee of any size, and any flavor but that hideous vanilla swill. I like mine with half-and-half, and I was willing to go to any lengths to find it.

Sprinting may be putting it a little more wishfully than it actually was, but inside my head, you must realize the hamsters were getting antsy.

Nate (aka The Bull) and Casey

“Cup of coffee, rye whiskey,

Rye whiskey, I cry!

If I don’t get a cup of coffee, 

I think I shall die.”

The words rang out across the dusty plain, or at least they would have, if I had thought it would have helped. Once again I approached Checkpoint Charlie, and presented my papers.

One of the guards examined my wristband closely and then authorized my passage. The volunteer in question was wearing a Pittsburgh Pirates baseball cap, and it stopped me in my tracks.

“Are you really a Pirates fan?” I asked sympathetically.

Automatically, he responded, “Yeah, I’m a Pirates fan.”

If he were surprised by the question, he didn’t show it. Probably more dramatically than required, I lifted the front of my tanker to reveal my San Francisco Giants Phanny Pack.

Hopelessly mired thirty years behind the rest of our culture in terms of style, I had glommed onto this outdated conveyance as a solution for my failure to get more than six months (or 10,000 photos) out of a camera.

Though unfortunate, my dropping of the second camera I owned (like the Titanic-on its maiden voyage) into a creek bed, forced me to adapt a new strategy for trying to get some longevity out of one of my wonder boxes.

The first model I had simply made a mockery of, carting it around in any pocket of any article of clothing I was wearing, blissfully ignoring the fact that dirt, sand, food, rice hulls, straw, cannabis, lint and whatever else is hitching a ride in my pockets, are not specifically conducive to happy cameras.

Now I was on my fourth. It’s a good thing that Wal-Mart seems to have plenty.

Addressing Long John Silver, I commented, “I guess you realize you are in the home of the Giants. Who’d a thunk a shortstop would hit the first grand slam in Major League Baseball postseason history?”

He snorted and shook his head, but even as he did so, he said, “What can I say? 2014 was an even year,” and left it at that.

My reference to Brandon Crawford’s epic blast on October 1st, 2014, marked the occasion of the Giants’ victory in the one-game WildCard showdown, leading eventually to the third world championship in five years for San Francisco.

Mr. Clutch.

Ambassador Lounge

I hit the clutch myself, and shifted once more into high gear, making serious moves down the stretch to the reggae gas station, on the lookout for slow-moving Rastafarians.

Heart racing faster than it did when the helicopter landed that one time, I charged up to the front door, and almost went through it before I realized that the doors were still locked.

I broke down and cried like a baby.

OK. I just felt like crying, but being the mature paragon of grace under pressure that I am, I simply nodded in quiet acceptance of my fate, one worse than perpetual damnation to the fires of hell, and sprinted off.

Preposterous! Nay, absurd! The unmitigated gall of some business owners!

These thoughts stampeded through my [impaired] mind in random fashion, along with thoughts of chaos and general mayhem, as I tried to lasso them back into the corral.

It was a futile gesture at best, a last gasp at worst.

There was no alternative: It was Melody’s Kitchen, or bust.

[Emphatic note to self: The word “bust?”  Puh-lease.]

Normally, a ten-twelve minute walk at best, I got there in no time by commandeering a side-by-side at gunpoint, and forcing the driver to take me to the kitchen.

I’m lying, obviously. Would you believe I crawled under a water-delivery truck and hung onto an axel, grittily, I might add, and allowed myself to be dragged along until I reached the point where I could release my grip?

OK, that is a bit out there too.

How ‘bout I simply hoofed it over there as fast as my OSHA-approved, steel-toed, unfastened sandals could get me?

And while you are still digesting that morsel, would you believe after all of the drama, I did not even partake in Melody’s kitchen’s fine brew?

As I barreled down the stretch, the finish-line clearly framed within my steely gaze, I ran into a tightly-stretched cable across the main road, which effectively stopped me in my tracks, albeit, flat on my back.

Forward momentum, you know.

There on the RIGHT side of the road, a direction with which I have little familiarity, was a beacon of unfettered joy, a welcoming ray of sunlight. The sign said, “Lattes.”

There were many other informative words on the sign, words that I might under different circumstances have actually read, but there was no need for such extremes at this crucial juncture in time or space. The facts, good Sir, just the facts.

One latte in my hand was worth my undying loyalty for at least fifteen minutes.

Then I was struck by a heinous thought. Picking myself up off the ground, I wondered aloud just how much of a king’s ransom would be demanded in exchange for that which allows life to continue.

Can you put a price tag on happiness?

Five dollars, it seems, was the price of happiness this fine morning, and oh yeah, a buck for the tip.

Tomorrow: [Could you draw in here a little closer?] War Admiral in the fifth, at Belmont. You didn’t get that from me.

Strictly Medicinal

This is the fifteenth installment of Reggae on the River, 2016, a swashbuckling account that will seize your attention and leave you hanging onto the edge of your seat, wondering who slipped you a Mickey. 

Though the content of this particularly seamy segment is as raunchy as all of the others, and has no socially redeeming value whatsoever, the reader need rest reassured that there is no end in sight. (Fortunately, I get paid by the word.)

Strictly Medicinal

Strictly for medicinal purposes only...

I wear my emotions on my sleeve, here at Reggae on the River, 2016, which makes me somewhat vulnerable when all I wear are tankers. Our feelings are what distinguish us from critters, that ability to shed tears, whether of sadness or joy.

My passion for the music, my unbridled joy at having acquired the tools to be able to attend this iconic festival and my acceptance into this unique culture by everyone I encounter, have combined to create within me, an effervescence of heart and soul.

I’m seeing a competent shrink to try and temper some of that enthusiasm.

Meanwhile, in meticulously examining the logistics of the four-day event, I cannot come up with one single thing I could have done better in planning, with the possible exception of following through on the idea of a camp coffee station. 

This would have simplified matters in the A of M, but then again, I may not have conceived of my plan for next year, had I not been forced to go on a daily pilgrimage, seeking the elixir of life.

I awoke on-site the first morning, Friday, after precisely four hours of sound sleep. I bounded out of my tent with vim and vigor, only to trip and fall flat on my face, when my feet got tangled up in my ‘foo. That’s what the gal behind the counter of the reggae gas station called my goofy mustache.

The gal called it my 'foo.

OK, whatever, I probably did not trip on my ‘foo; it may well have been the lip of the tent-door, but who wants to admit that he is that uncoordinated? And no, this was prior to my first meds of the day, thank you so much for asking, so you needn’t cast your line in that direction.

Having already conceded that waking up after a “night’s” sleep, whether that time be eight in the morning or eight in the evening, and taking a huge slug off of a bottle of tequila, is a frightening thought to me, others unquestionably would say the same thing about my wake-up bong rips.

To each his own poison, opine I. Besides, my bong rips are strictly medicinal.

Having glanced at the time, just prior to drifting off to sleep Thursday night, and noted that it was one-fifty-five, I was not surprised to find that I had slept exactly four hours when I surfaced Friday morning. That’s just the kind of guy I am.

I still had three of the ten doobsters I had rolled up for my first day’s adventures, remaining in my handy, dandy “medical marijuana” dispenser, which in a former life was an Altoids Peppermints box. Mind you, I could never have gone through seven bombers by myself, but I am always happy to share. 

Actually, HappyDay Farms is always happy to share. As Casey and I made our rounds throughout the four days, we left little jars of cannabis in several venues, simply because we could. The jars were all clearly labeled with our farm’s logo, and the clean/green certification.

We left goodness for Melody in her “office,” the air-conditioned travel trailer behind the volunteer kitchen, in a vain effort to keep her stress level below the ballistic level. We deposited jars on the newly constructed redwood bar in the celebrities’ lounge, and we left samples in the Ambassador Lounge.

The Ambassador Lounge

It tickled my fancy when Ziggy Recado hollered out, Saturday evening,  “Hey Reggae on the River, how many of you grow the ganja? Let me hear you!” Standing about twenty feet from him, up on the side stage, I let loose one of my patented, ear-piercing whistles, and he looked right at me.

“We get free weed,” he bellowed. “How’s that, Reggae on the River? Back stage, there is free weed for us! Humboldt County, you rock!”

Just part of the hospitality, Ziggi old chap…

But I did not start out Friday morning at the reggae gas station, in my pursuit of the ambrosia of the gods; no, I started out at the Hydration Station set up by the volunteer kitchen, in our very own camping site on the west side of the 101.

I had power-walked the hundred yards out to where the “checkpoint station” was situated into “Volunteer Village,” and spotted one of the volunteers appropriately decked out in orange vest and crew tee-shirt.

Approaching him, I began with “The top o’ the morning to you! I trust you’ve had a very pleasant and yet most enjoyable day thus far!” and before he had time to recover, I hit him up with, “I am on a pilgrimage, my fine friend, in search of morning bliss, in the form of the Holy Grail filled to overflowing with morning maniac magic.”

He stared uncomprehendingly at me.

Hot coffee, not iced.

Nonplussed, I reloaded and fired another salvo across the bow of his barge. “Where can I get some coffee?”

Ah, that worked. He pointed back in the direction from which I had just come, and motioned me to accompany him. I wondered vaguely why he seemed so quiet, but I was not in any frame of mind to argue, not with the antidote to my fuzzy mind within easy grasp.

“Are you having a good Reggae? I’m Mark, btw, what’s your name?” As a noun, having a good reggae simply meant having a good time at the reggae music festival.

I realized immediately by the expression on his face, that I had once again overwhelmed him. Two questions was one too many, but when he responded to the second question first with, “Ian,” I gained much better grasp of the situation.

His face registered the effort it required to summon up the answer, and the way he drew out the single word, Ian, it was more like “Eeee-annn.”

As Annie might have quipped, Ian was one of hers.

His pace was measured, and I walked circles around him as we made our way directly back towards our campsite. This might have confused him, but it turned out I was simply doing laps in my head.

“Where are you from, Ian?” I lobbed an easy serve at him.

“Wis-con-sin,” he responded, surprising me.

Not hot chocolate...

“What brings you out here?” I continued, figuring, why not?

He turned partially to the side, glancing at me as if to ask if I was pulling his leg.

“Reggae on the River.”

Duh. 

Despite my awkward attempts to make conversation, this is actually pretty cool, I thought to myself. This guy is functioning in a capacity that is probably way over his head, judging by his measured pace in everything he does, and yet he’s fulfilling this job more than competently.

I wish I could say the same for me.

I was like the guy in the George Carlin skit, who is trying to get the coffee pot in the backroom fired up. “Where’s the plug? Is it plugged in? Someone check the plug-gotta be plugged in…We need to get this road on the show-what’s the delay? Do we need water? Filters? A pipe wrench? C’mon, let’s go! We’ve got people to see and places to go. Is it plugged in?”

I tried to keep a tight rein on my eagerness. Ahead in the early morning light, I could see the oasis itself, a small group of jagged-around-the-edges homies huddled around it, hovering uncertainly. 

This did not bode well for the mission.

The inhabitants watched Ian and I approach the table, they watched me fumble for a cup (there were plenty of cups), they watched me thrust said cup beneath the spigot of the mammoth jug and they watched the black substance pour out into my cup, all without saying a word.

I needn’t have worried about scalding the hand holding the cup because the coffee was stone cold.

Not having the heart to share this information with Ian, I toasted the heavens with it and pretended to take a bodacious swig, while already shifting the dial to full-speed-ahead, leaving Ian to make his own way back up to the entrance.

My next stop was the gas station, but ultimately I was willing to walk to Garberville, nine miles away, to get the desired concoction.

It’s not that I am addicted to coffee; it’s more of an obsession.

Tomorrow: How can we be two places at once, when we’re not anywhere at all?

People Like Me

"Look at me; look at me!"

This is the fourteenth in a series of informative-nay, scintillating-posts, focusing primarily on my mental issues, as I continue to make my way through Reggae on the River, 2016. 

I survive simply because I use humor as a lifeline to bridge the awkward gap between “normal” people, and, well, you know, people like me. 

People Like Me

Take our camp here at Reggae on the River, 2016, for instance, please. I am a guy with mental issues, but I am also not drinking, not doing cocaine, not indulging in the Molly that is circulating and my sleeping patterns, as bizarre as they are, have not changed. 

The “normal” ones here are the ones who are binging.

If you are familiar with the French film, “The King of Hearts,” (1966) then you know the premise to be that it is sometimes difficult to determine who the crazies are and who the “normal” are. Set in France at the end of World War I, most of the residents of a small village flee when they learn that a bomb is set to destroy their homes.

My meds

When the villagers have left, a group of inmates from the local mental institution simply walk out of their abandoned facility, and take up their respective positions as the missing denizens of the village. Except for the fact that they are colorfully dressed and have a certain joie de vivre, they are indistinguishable from “normal” villagers.

A Swiss soldier is sent to defuse the bomb. He struggles to understand why the “normal” people of this little village do not fear the war, nor do they seem to fear death. They simply do NOT seem normal.

Buddha knows we have to keep track of those who are “not normal.”   

I seek clarification. First off, when you say an individual has “mental issues,” are we talking kooky, silly, dippy, flaky, dingy, fruity, out-to-lunch, touched, or round-the-bend, and it’s all good? Like, isn’t everyone? You know, a little?

Or are we talking psycho, bonkers, nuts, deranged, screwy, schizo, cuckoo or even the ever-popular, bat-shit crazy? At least here at ROTR there are enough people stepping out of their normal personas, and adopting completely different ones, that I tend to blend in a little better.

No one connects my ice chest to my disorder, for instance. I have them fooled into thinking I am some kind of organizational nut. [Note to self: Seriously? “Nut?”] 

Casey's support got me here in the first place
a year ago. Without him, it would never
have happened.

The reality is that there are from one to seventeen reasons why any one of the excellent establishments here on-site, readily available, are unacceptable to me as a source of sustenance.

Can I list them for you? Certainly, effortlessly, except that I have only one extra ink cartridge on hand, and it would never be enough. No, listing the reasons I can find to avoid eateries, is like lugging around the Oxford-English Dictionary, all twelve volumes, to ensure proper spelling.

It’s overkill. Step over to the Bowl for a quick bite? My mind rockets ahead in quantum leaps, searching for impediments to success. There is no such thing as a free pass, the ability to take everything around me at face value, rather than always having to seek that which will derail the process.

I don’t like to eat in public venues, so I find more ways to avoid it, than kids used to be able to find ways to avoid doing their homework. It’s a gift, one that I have been saddled with since age ten, when I suffered my first panic attack.

I was officially “not normal” from that point onward, but there was no neon sign above my head; I was just another kid with social disorders. The thing is, for many with mental issues, it’s not just that we have to contend with what’s going on in our heads, we also have to worry about being singled out, and ridiculed because we are not “normal.”

How else did mental issues affect my camping experience at ROTR?

Mid-Sized David and I spent many
hours chatting in the pre-dawn hours.
Support comes in all sizes and shapes.

a) Lito had my back and set my tent up on the fringes, not in the center of things.

b) My unorthodox sleeping patterns were not a factor because everyone kept such bizarre hours that I stayed under the radar.

c) I invested a total of five days’ volunteer labor, so as to be able to acclimate myself to the venue, before there were 12,000 others to complicate matters.

D) I abstained from alcohol because I did not want to throw any monkey wrenches into the already fragile works.

e) I can’t be in the middle of the crowd when it comes to watching the music; I either have to be on the outskirts, or up on the side stage, which was virtually deserted during the day, when I saw the bulk of my musical acts.

F) I was quite frank about my issues, particularly the mania, because I felt better about putting it out there than I did about concealing it. 

Though I felt well supported by my fellow campers, such is not always the case when it comes to mental issues. 

If a person gets cancer or has a stroke or just about any other physical ailment, loved ones descend upon the scene, bringing flowers, casseroles and love. If a person is diagnosed with mental issues, such as a mood spectrum disorder, such is not the case.

Speaking for myself, prior to being diagnosed as bipolar II, I would see the world through my eyes without realizing that what I saw was a different version than what everyone else was experiencing. How I processed information was different and how I reacted to situations was not the same as others.

I experienced extremes that others did not so it was no wonder that I struggled. I never spoke to anyone but my mother about my panic attacks simply because I did not have a clue as to what was going on. All I knew is that if I got startled by something unexpected, while in the middle of a crowd, like being in a church, the blood would drain from my face, and I would lose consciousness if I did not get out of there and into the fresh air.

Objectively, it does not compute but that does not alter the situation one iota. The only thing that could make the whole thing worse, was if somehow, everyone found out about it, and therein lies the problem. Who wants to be thought of as different?

Different is bad, different is weird and different is scary.

I watched the music from the back.

All of this is true until you go to a competent therapist, do the hard work that accompanies the visits, and realize that the problems you have can be amended. They can’t be fixed, just as my issues can’t be fixed, but you can acquire the tools that are needed to help you cope with those differences.

Coping mechanisms are what get me through my day, but it takes time and effort to build up these mechanisms. Humor helps me cope so I employ it in my writing to the best of my ability. If I can poke fun at myself, and make folks laugh, then it eases the discomfort.

Instead of being frightening, humor helps people view my disorder in a more benign way. It makes me more human and less of an aberration. Claustrophobia is a huge concern for me, so when I wrote “The Attack of the Killer Seatbelt,” I focused on the ludicrous nature of the situation, and not the claustrophobia.

The bottom line is that I write for my own therapeutic purposes, but I am finding out that others are also benefiting. A dear friend wrote me recently, telling me that she had a loved one who was dealing with being diagnosed as bipolar II, who took comfort in reading my posts. She wrote, 

“Your writing and poking fun at yourself helps to break the stigma for her. It helps her feel OK about herself. She does not feel alone on an island. I wanted you to know how special and helpful it is to her. She has had to overcome so much in her young life…”

Casey and I had the side-stage to ourselves.

“Alone on an island” is a perfect description, especially when applied to me trying to sit in the middle of a sellout at AT&T Park. People with mental issues often feel alone because of the implied stigma; people do not line up at their front doors with dishes laden with lasagna and macaroni and cheese (with bacon).

No, they avoid you. What do you say to someone with mental issues? 

“Hope you get well soon?” Yeah, right.

“Hope you don’t kill anyone?” Encouragement is a good thing.

“Hope you get some good meds?” Silver lining?

The choices are limitless. 

I don't know how they can be in the middle of the crowd.
I cannot.

Actually, it’s much more simple than that. What you say to someone with anxiety issues is, “Hey there. I’m here for you. I love you and I support you. Let’s get together and do lunch.”

If that does not work (too public) try, “Hey there. I’m here for you. I love you and I support you. Let’s get together and go for a walk, or go to the beach, or go to the Grace Hudson Museum, whatever.”

Just get together and share your strength; that’s not only “enough,” it’s more than is ever expected.

People with mental issues are indistinguishable on the outside from everyone else, unless they are like me and wear a goofy mustache that bellows out, “Look at me, look at me!”

Therefore, please help them feel indistinguishable on the inside too, by accepting them for the people they are, and sharing your time with them.

I was 58 when I found out I was officially “bat-shit crazy,” so my support system is far more widespread and secure than someone who one-third my age. 

So please, reach out today to someone you know-anyone-and tell that individual you love and support her or him. You never can tell for sure how much of an impact you will make, but rest assured that your words will be part of the foundation for that person’s recovery.

Go ahead. Text that person. Now.

"On the Rocks"

This is the thirteenth installment in the Chronicles of Reggae on the River, 2016, a thinly-veiled attempt to justify a drunken binge, by purported allegations of being transported to another level by the music. 

Without specifying exactly what constitutes “another level,” and for the sake of simplicity, the reader may assume that the term “horizontal” applies, regardless of the ultimate landing spot.

"On the Rocks"

Considering we were twelve thousand strong at French’s Camp, our on-site, kitchen setup crew had it muy bueno. Technically, we were not ensconced at French’s Camp, but rather, across the highway behind the reggae gas station.

There is only one “reggae gas station,” though to be honest, in our household, it has always been the “hippie gas station.”

The chapel and the first of our tents

Unlike the vast majority of festival attendees, the volunteers were not part of the crush. Thousands of heartier-than-I revelers braved the elements, including a large percentage of people actually inhabiting the plain of rocks that borders the beautiful Eel River.

“On the rocks” takes on a whole new dimension in this venue.

The thought of having to overcome the logistics of sleeping, cooking, and even just functioning, while sidestepping countless river rocks, is enough to convince me that I did not have to experience this to know it would be just too much fun to resist. This goes doubly if one is indulging in that which would be poured over the rocks, to make it slide down the parched throat easier.

Can you say, “multiple midnight bathroom runs,” over said rocks, wending your way through Tent City, trying to navigate under the most challenging of conditions? 

Sign me up.

As described somewhat ineptly, in Part Twelve, Bull had garnered our crew a designated camping area up against the camp chapel, in our privately owned campsite. We did our best to religiously perform our responsibilities, in keeping with the environment, my personal appreciation for irony at a zenith.

Of course, Bull had a plan which included having access to electricity, essential to me who spent an inordinate amount of time with Suzy Puente perched on my lap. Lest you be alarmed that Annie might have reservations about this development, allow me to clarify that Suzy Puente is my MacBook laptop.

I mean, doesn’t everyone bring their computer along to ROTR?

Along the route to our camp...

Last year I wrote 23 tawdry episodes of my experiences at my first ROTR ever, but I did not even begin them until after I had spent two days prior to the festival setting it up, then three days of music, followed up with still two more days of cleanup after it was all over.

Then, replaying the tape back in my head, I started writing one sordid episode per day for more than three weeks. This year I started immediately upon completing the first day of volunteering, much to the dismay of thousands, and have been spitting them out at a frightening pace.

Job security, you know. I have to pay the bills somehow. Everyone knows how much bloggers get paid when they plaster those adds all over their respective walls. I know all those ads on my blog wall, patently in poor taste, must offend some of you, but in order to gain access to that which lies behind Door Number Three, you must pay the piper.

The royalties I make off of Dozer alone, pay for my summer cottage in Martha’s Vineyard, though if you are one of us, it’s just the “Vineyard.”

Alas and alack! The time has come when I must shatter the metaphorical bubble hovering over this entire epistle thus far: I am not a boozer. Sigh. It is one of my greatest shortcomings as a reggaer. 

Fortunately, my advanced age and obvious mental challenges, have combined to make me eligible for a “special dispensation,” so that I can still be a member in-good-standing with the crew.

I do enjoy a cold beer immensely, I can appreciate a bottle of zin with the best of them and nothing goes down smoother for me than a double-shot of Jameson Reserved on ice, just not while at ROTR. Frankly, here I need all of my limited faculties functioning at top performance level, well, just to break even.

I even accept my role as camp dad, grateful that it’s not Granddad. 

My ice chest alone is the stuff of legends, having been well-stocked with enough food to feed me for the entire four-day event. I know because I stocked it myself.

Our camp, with all "evidence" momentarily removed.

As odd as it sounds, I never got hungry the entire time I was there, until Sunday afternoon, while Casey and I were watching Mr. Williamz. We had been waiting on the side stage, just before he opened up, when a man about the same size as I am stepped alongside us at the front railing.

He had frizzy hair tied in a pony tail and he sported a goatee. He had on an “1892” tee shirt and as he came alongside, we exchanged casual greetings, just another reggae fan. The band had just fired up and was flexing its muscles with an introduction that had the crowd bobbing already.

Focused on the stage in front of us, we all reacted when into the arena bounced Mr. W himself, gyrating to the beat and singing into his mic. It took me a second or two but I suddenly flashed-first-on the “1892” tee, and then the face.

You never know who you are saying “Happy Reggae” to, here at ROTR.

However, it was going on four, all I had consumed for breakfast was two hard-boiled eggs, three pieces of soggy bacon and a sliced tomato with salt and pepper.

The pepper, easily enough to have supplied every single reggaer throughout the four-day festival, plus the salt, seemed to inordinately intrigue the rest of the campers. I know for a fact, that the little extra touch of keeping a piece of foil in place beneath the lid and the container of salt, to prevent spillage in transit, particular enthralled them.

I aim to please. Am I on target?

I had baked the bacon upon Annie’s careful instructions, and it had turned out perfectly. Unfortunately, being in an ice chest, the bacon ended up submerged after the first day. When I made the gruesome discovery, and noted its transformed appearance, I had to make a decision.

Toss it or test it?

Objectively, I knew that no matter how it was stored, the ice chest was as cold as my solar-powered refrigerator in my kitchen, so there was technically nothing wrong with it. Taking the plunge, I bit off a fair chunk of one of the pieces and confirmed that it was still bacon.

Granted, it was missing some of its vibrant tang, but I was determined not to throw it away, just because it looked bleached out.

I can’t account for my lack of appetite over the four days, except to say that the adrenaline level I experienced probably contributed to it. I did eat breakfast and one other meal, each day I was there, just not until others had initiated it.

Huh, everyone is scarfing down grub; I guess that means I should too.

Joey, Mid-Sized David, Conner (the Man of Service) and
Alex, aka Minnix

Time stands still at ROTR, the only such venue I have ever experienced. Except for the music, which followed the schedule meticulously, there was no reason to consult one’s watch, er, phone.

Campers ate when they got hungry, slept when they either got tired or passed out, whichever applies, and indulged in their respective poisons of choice incessantly, needing no “happy hour” designations to crack open a new bottle.

I watched one of our most serious warriors, sleeping alongside the chapel on a cot-without-a-tent, awake, stretch and then get unsteadily to his feet to make the twenty-foot journey to the Source. 

He carefully unscrewed the cap, breaking the seal, smacked his lips, and took a healthy swig. Is it any different than me at 1:15 in the morning, first of three cups of coffee in hand, firing up my bong?

I classify it it under the Same-only-Different category, or “To each his own.” Alcohol has too much access baggage to interest me. Buddha knows I have enough baggage as it is, without throwing booze into the mix.

Besides, someone has to be functioning at six in the morning, to keep Melody over at the kitchen from blowing up the phones, and she has a hard time yelling at “Dad.”

Tomorrow: “Conner is a man of service.”

You Can't Get There from Here

This is the twelfth post from Reggae on the River, 2016. In trying to always maintain a strictly neutral position when it came to politics, I must say it was hard to avoid at times, while reggaeing.  

That said, you need to know that this a good post; it has words, lots of words. The words say things, strong things, good things. I may say the words more than once; that is a good thing. If you read the words, you too will know what the words say. You and I will be on the same page. 

It makes good sense to read words and know what they say. If the words I say are not true, that is OK too. If I say them ten or twelve times, it will make them come true. Oh, and by the way, I don’t need big words. No, I don’t need long words-I just need you to know that my words are your words-you can count on that.

You Can't Get There from Here

Reggae on the River, 2016, being my second foray into this iconic festival, presented a contrast when it came to accommodations, from those of 2015. Last year we were situated at the opposite end of the venue from the music, along Rasta Road. 

Therefore, when I raced from Melody’s kitchen on Sunday morning a year ago, back to my tent to get the phone I had forgotten, leaving my computer and camera brazenly behind on a picnic table, it took me no more than fifteen minutes to make the round trip.

Fear of having Terra Jean kidnapped was a marvelous motivator.

This year the powers that be determined that Volunteer Village should be located across Highway 101, back behind the reggae gas station. Were I to have had to make the same mission this year, I could not have done so in less than 35 or 40 minutes. It was quite the journey.

By way of emphasis, allow me to explain that Sunday morning, I had jetted over to Melody’s kitchen, simply to put out any fires before they got out of control. After procuring that which I originally sought, a latte(!), I started back to camp. 

Along the way I was accosted by a young man, probably the same age as Casey, who had been standing uncertainly at the intersection of the main road and one of the countless tributaries along its route. Accosted may be stretching it a bit since he had a hard time speaking above a whisper, the result of exercising his vocal cords.

“Hey, man, do you know where we’re at?” he asked. 

Now there was a philosophical question if ever there were one. 

I responded heartily, “Well, we’re either on the highway to hell or the stairway to heaven, take your pick.” All I can say is that it was the latte talking.

His mouth opened and closed as he seemed to weigh his options, but nothing came out. His face had a three-day growth of whiskers, it looked as though he had not put on clean clothes since some time in July and his eyes were laced with more lines than a coke-head sees in a week. 

“My bad,” I bailed him out with. “Are you looking for the exit to the festival? Out by the highway?”

Relief flowed over his features, transforming him even as the latte(!) was transforming my own outlook on life. 

“Yeah,” he said, unnecessarily it would seem, his head bobbing up and down like a Hunter Pence bobblehead. 

"Oh, sorry, you can't get there from here."

Our very own chapel...

His face dropped.

“But hold on a sec. You’re leaving?” I exclaimed in mock shock. “You want to leave Reggae on the River? Now? Before it’s over?”

Leave the kid alone!

I felt as though I were tormenting one of those tomato worms I used to get paid a penny apiece to find and DESTROY.

I immediately felt bad.

“I’m kidding!” I laughed. “I’m just joshing you. I’m headed right there and I can personally guarantee you safe passage on our pilgrimage.”

Throwing himself on my benevolent mercy, he acquiesced, and fell into step alongside me.

I throttled down so as to give the kid a chance to keep up, and started plying him with questions. There is not an individual, with whom I come into contact here at ROTR, that I do not make with the palaver. It is just too easy.

“I’m Mark,” I declared, “what’s your name?”

His countenance brightened, as he fielded the question with alacrity.

“Wally,” he said. (Disclaimer: Wally is clearly not his real name, but in the interest of objective journalism, I feel compelled to guarantee this young man’s privacy. I’m just that kind of guy.) 

“Great success!” I threw out there, for the first of a half-dozen times. “Where you from?”

He said he had come from Alabama, with a banjo on his knee.

OK, fine. I don’t remember where he was from because of that pesky inability of mine to process oral information very effectively. It may be that he actually lives in California, but sadly, I am unable to  verify this.

“How long have you been here?” I was hoping he could handle this one.

“Since Thursday.” 

“Don’t you need to go back to your camp first?” He had nothing but a small backpack with him.

Again, a quizzical expression crossed his face.

“Camp? What camp?”

Some of our gang

Swing and a miss.

“You’ve been here three days and you don’t have a camp? Where do you stay? At night, I mean?”

“Oh, well last night [Saturday] the music never stopped so we just partied right in the bowl. The other two nights it went almost all night, and then all I did was wander around until it got light.”

That clarified his disheveled appearance.

“No way, Dude. The music quits way earlier than that.” I’m not sure why I felt compelled to rock this kid’s boat.

“Well. the artists quit playing but the DJ keeps on going.”

Thursday night

“Got it. Where are you parked?”

His face scrunched up as he pondered the implications. Pointing south, he mumbled, “In that direction. Way down. I had to park miles away and take the bus [shuttle].”

Better him than me.

I was having a seriously challenging time, trying to keep my feet from pulling away from poor Wally, who was clearly not in any shape to keep up with Manic Markie. My feet were twitching.

“So, hey, you’re on the right track now. Can you see the bridge up ahead? You just stay on this track and follow these folks.”

He brightened up and nodded, and that was enough to activate my fuel-injected legs, and I blasted off, leaving Wally to his own devices.

Rather than focus on the distance between our camp and the music, however, the majority of those in our camp chose to focus on the benefits, of which there were many. To begin the ground was flat, instead of having a gully running through it like last year, and there was power to the people.

Seriously? Electricity?

There were lots of options for "camping."

Bull had negotiated that we be up against the camp chapel. Oh, yes, you read that correctly. While camping amongst the oaks, you can start each of your days with a spirited visit to the peaceful confines of a church the size of the Taj Mahal. It is remotely possible that we could have fit everyone at ROTR in this building, if a few chose to stand in the aisles, it was that big. 

I, however, being an established member of The Church of the Great Outdoors, already have a chapel, so I did not need a seat inside the camp church. As it turned out, Bull had assured the conservative Christian owners of this campground, that our crew would guard the chapel. 

The irony is almost too exquisite for this recovering Catholic.

Why would Nate-Dawg feel so strongly about guarding the chapel? There was a method to his madness. It turns out he had run power cords out the window of the chapel so that we could charge phones and of course, Suzy Puente, my new computer.

The man is a genius. We had so much going for us over here, it was sick. There were public showers that were reported to be gross beyond description, but Nate had the key to Cabin Number Three, a bunk house filled with, well, bunk beds, but no campers. There were two shower stalls in there of which we had almost exclusive use.

There was a bank of five port-a-potties located within one minute’s walking distance. They were kept meticulously clean by a crew which cleaned them every day we were there, and besides, if you were so inclined, you could use the facilities within the aforementioned bunk room.

Bucket seats and four-on-the-floor, but this is enough for today, no more.

Tomorrow: “Our camp, is a very, very, very fine camp, with two tents in the yard, it used to be so hard…”