Leon Russell- Out In The Woods

Hello. I hope you're having a good day today. I don't know how you define a good day. I generally prescribe to the theory that a good day includes fundamental human joys--good food, music, creativity, dancing, usefulness--all of which may be exacerbated by the presence of friends.

I like to give gifts. I have lots of ideas about fun things to do (Gerbil Fireballs, anyone?). If I really like you, I'll probably tuck you while singing a song about you. I'm not a good hugger but I'm working on it. I am all of these things but it doesn't change the fact that I'm a difficult person to know.

*****

Friday Night.

I spent the evening working on a cartoon and drawing strange creatures until the Hoopster stumbled in. His goal was to whisk me to a party because the girl to guy ratio was in the surplus. I insisted on shaving but didn't. I showed him some films and we went to the party. I spent it as a lying ball of awkwardness--spewing fibs without provocation. Hoopster got drunk, danced, and hugged girls. He's a very good hugger. After a while, I couldn't stave off the temptation of jungle juice and I insisted we leave. I took him to my home. I took off my shirt and did push ups in the driveway.

Within minutes, Hoopster wanted to punch me. It was a flash of drunken whimsy but the sentiment was repeated throughout the weekend.

Hoopster went home. I went inside, feeling quite empty. My eyes weren't besotted with sweat, the day had amounted to nothing; YET AGAIN! The apathy turned into hunger and a desire entered my heart. I wanted to see what I could do in a single day. How far I could stretch my mortal coil before it came springing back to home base. After a brief chat and ensuing inspiration, I dialed the Hoopster.

"What are you doing tomorrow?"
"Nothing."
"Let's go to Rothbury. We'll feel alive."

If you play the we'll feel alive card, people have little choice but to go along with you, no matter how foolhardy your plan may be. In this case my plan was very foolhardy. With no money, an unreliable vehicle, and a vague connection in the form of pizza slingers Brock and Ryan, I was going to traverse the state and go to a music festival. The thing about music festivals is that their an annoyance. A slew of unsavories descend, take drugs and steal from the local gas station. I suppose this is why the majority are held way out in the boonies. This wasn't a Detroit Rock City moment. I had no attachment to either of the headliners--the Grateful Dead & Bob Dylan. In fact, the only band I love (Girl Talk, which isn't really a band) had already finished the plan by the time I decided to leg it out past Muskegon. This either makes me fun or a nuisance, presumably both.

I drew two drawings of hitchhikers. Then I wrote my Mom a note. It read:

"Mom,
I have no money or a clue. I only know how I feel inside: stagnant and old, like the remnants of mayonaisse after a hard rain, sliding around disgustingly with nowhere to go.
Went to Rothbury.
With Hoopster.
Hopefully Brock can get us in.
If not? L'aventura!
<3 Joel"

Hoopster arrived and we set out through the night, talking about girls and peeing on the side of the road as we whiz banged across suburban structures until the night grew glowy and the farms numerous. We stopped for a fill up around Lansing. I nearly conviced a drunk to get in the car with us. He was all in but grew reticent because "ain't no females in that Van."I don't blame him. It is a very suspicious van. For all I know his presence would've altered the dynamic and the entire lot of us could've played out the final act of deliverance with him in the role of Burt Reynolds and Hoopster strumming the dueling 'jo.

They wouldn't cash my checks at the gas station. 150 miles out we were without a dollar. We would've had some money left but I spent my last buck on a Nutrageous. It would be the last food I bought that weekend.

When the sun took over, illuminating the Grand Rapids Press Building like some oceanic site, the wheel was relented to Hoopster. The rest of the drive flew by as I stared out the window, seeing airplanes that may or may not have existed. Hoopster didn't see the airplanes but I saw signs for "Remote Control Outposts" They were strewn up on farmland. It may have been a prank.

We didn;t know where we were going so we pulled into a gas station for assistance. I couldn;t get to the register. Upon my entrance I was immediately accosted by two gentlemen with the strangest beards I've ever seen. It was like a racoon hung as tinsel. On both of them! They tried to sell me wristbands. I told them I was going to sneak in. They laughed and gave us bad directions. Thankfully, an older couple pointed the way. They seemed like perfect blips, able to come in for a moment's servitude and nothing more but it wasn't meant to be. I saw them two days later, necking in a hammock. I didn't bother them then.

As we neared the festival we formulated several plans for sneaking into the festival.
1) Pose as reporters from the Oakland Press.
2) Work as Pizza Men.
3) Masquerade as Pizza Men.

Rolling up we found out that there was no press entrance. We went through country back roads before stumbling upon the entrance where security guards were busy searching cars. I saw a man pour out his salsa. A man named Shitty, adorned with a weed leaf chain, offered us breakfast beer. Hoopster stepped in and explained my explosive vomiting habits. We went to will call who sent us to a middle school down the road. We rolled up in the Van and told our story. We were reporters from the Oakland Press. I was the photographer because I wore an expensive camera around my neck. Hoopster was the writer because he was practicing for his future as a journalist. They bought our story but a system was in place. You needed to be reigstered in the computer! How I long for the halycon days of the 80's when bullshit could fly. We stammered away, leaving them to wait for a phone call from our Editor, Dan Lawlor, that would never come. Soon after, Hoopster squelched the plan in case he ever worked for the Oakland Press.

We walked to a gas station to glean information about the fest from the local papers. No information was gleaned although in a comparison between Rothbury and Kids Fest, it was noted that Rothbury attendees favored LSD and ecstacy while Kid's Fest participants favored lemonade. This Kid's Fest was not to be dismissed as it was headlined by Third Eye Blind. I was thankful Heidi wasn't with us b/c I wasn't ready for a kid's fest. I dressed in a Hawaiian shirt and a furry sweater, abandoning walking in favor of a romping march that brought the fur hood bip-bopping over my head like Pac Man Chomps.

Everything comes full circle. Attention Skylakers: Pac Man has returned!

We settled into the Van, only to find it out of gas. It wasn't actually out of gas but it likes to pretend it is. She's a big needy broad, willing to do anything so long as her stomachs full. Without 5 gallons in her tank, she'll refuse to start. In the past week, her PMS episodes have stranded me on Michigan Avenue, at a bank, and in a Middle School Parking lot. A valuable lesson was passed through this annoyance. Men love to help other men push their vehicles. Consider it the cave gatherings of the American Roadway.

With no gas, we settled in for a sleep, but an older man talked to us for a really long time. Full of fatherly pride, he'd supported his son's company by trucking 30G's worth of audio equipment to Rothbury from Allen Park, Michigan in support of "Thunder Audio" his son's event audio company. Though well versed in stereosonic vernacular, the man's knowledge of Automotive Insurance was devoid like, I don't know, a desert? A mole's bank account? The shiver of timbers? Something clever to be sure. He kept talking while I hunkered in the back and tried to sleep. No rest was had. Eyes were shut for a few minutes but we were too restless and alive. We clambered down the road. I played a three-note ditty on the Harmonica while Hoop screamed lyrics. I told a man "Have a good Sunday" without realizing it was Saturday. Laughs were had. We approached the field of entry, flanked by school buses, vans, and a versimiltitude of beggars. They were Dead Heads for the most part, living a life on the road; begging, borrowing, and stealing to find their way. I suspect they moonlight as accountants or carpenters.

Immersed in tune, we circled the field until realizing we weren't along, as a man with a train whistle was joining in. Marching up and down in a silly hat, he hoot hooted his train whistle ad nauseum. We stopped and spoke. He explained that he was a Dead Head.He was a Dead Head. He'd been following the band (ie taking drugs) for 31 years. He didn't have a ticket or money but was sure that, "One way or another I'll get into the show. 5000 Dead Heads will be here tonight. We'll march in because the music belongs to us." Such confidence, exuded from a derelict who'd abandoned his family (in California!) to be there, touched me in a weird way. My eyes shot upright and open and as I began to speak I found my voice raised an octave and stilted by stammering. "That's a beautiful statement. I believe you'll be in there. I really do." Then I touched his shoulder. He blew his train whistle and marched away. A few minutes later I spotted him in combative conversation with a police officer. "Fuck off!" echoed across the parking lot.

We talked to a few Dead Heads, marveling at their ethos. Not only does the music belong to them but everything does! A few lines of conversation would inevitably be followed by requests for cigarettes. I had no cigarettes so I had no guilt. The only thing I had was some candy I found on the ground. I munched on the candy until remembering Gas Money, the cross I must bear as proud owner of a GMC Safari. Hoopster and I rooted through the garbage, collecting cans and a full arsenal of germs. I suspect this is how I gathered the cold I now hold dear. It's the price you pay. Cans are worth ten cents in Michigan. Scavenge a tailgate zone and you'll get paid. With a few bushels full, we lugged them to the van.

Along the road, we fell in with a muckraker of a girl named Star. A nymph of 18, wearing a mohawk adorned with beer bottles. Her life is traveling to shows, scrounging rides, and maintaining the harmonious state attached to a fly by the seat of your pants existence. Unlike many enlightened (ie Weirdos) she held her state without gravitas. She called us out on our bullshit. "Why isn't this your life?"
"I don't know."
"Make it your life. Like today. Come to New York with me."

I loved her for living like I can't yet. She respected Hoopster for going to school and me for having a tattoo. She helped us load up the cans. The Van started. We went to the Gas Station, grabbed some snacks, and waited while she pooped. As we munched our PowerBars we were joined by the most exploitative couple in all existence.

The man had gray dreadlocks and Lennon glasses held on by bejewled strings.
The woman was a waifish acid type, all song and no heart. Standing between them, toting a sign boasting "We need a miracle" their three-year-old daughter begged passersby for tickets.

I asked the man to show me his Van because he had a sweet rack on top along the lines of a white picket fence. He responded with "You like original music?" before trying to sell me a CD of his wife's music. I didn't budge but I must respect his opening line. Original Music leaves no response. "No. I only like music t robotically fabricated to combines all music ever recorded. You can strain for days without hearing a single chord."

Back at camp, things were simmering. I'd accidentally insulted a Dead Head by complimenting his pants. I couldn't talk to them anyway. Their life style would infuse certain connotations into my RV laden future that I can't take right now. I want to own a microwave. I don't want to yell at dogs. Not having a microwave and yelling at dogs seemed like a requirement for nomadic existence.

I had to do something. I decided I was going into the concert. Hoopster didn't want to go. He waited in the van and read Doystoyeyesksiski. (intentionally butchered).

Along the highway I fell in with Cole, a man from Indiana. He was attended the show because he "fucked up and enlisted in the army". He had a borrowed bracelet that security guards sniffed out but was desperate to get in because this was his "last chance to do drugs before boot camp." We spat out small talk before cruising through the brambles and hopping through a hole in the fence. I was in. Tents splayed out in all directions. People were barbequing, singing, dancing, and generally acting like fools. I loved it. Walking through the lot, I felt at home. I didn't have to be the fool or comic relief, I could simply be an observer. As an observer people slinked up with backpacks, bestowing strange offerings.

The sky was overcast and a light rain trickled down. My pants got quite heavy. Coupled with the lack of sleep I became made of stone. In a good way. I tried walking in but there was another bracelet outpost. I struted around the campgrounds, waiting for Hoopster to arrive and took a nap by a fence. People in green shirts were guarding all trash cans for recycling's sake, which made it difficult to scrounge for bracelets.

After sneaking into a Lake, Hoopster managed to get into the Rothbury campground. I saw some people from my high school but was too busy eating popcorn, rummaged from beneath a car tire, to be friendly. No one's friendly when they're hungry.

Sizing up the infrastructure I felt it was time to go. There was a small gap, guarded by a security guard. I felt we could get in. Part of me knew I was going to get into this festival. I told Hoopster "We're getting in." We walked a few paces, strong virile paces until Hoopster clammed up "We're not getting in." He stopped walking but I couldn't. Seeing the security guard roused a great strength. I knew I was mightier than him. I knew he couldn't stop me. If he mentioned a word I would run. I shut my eyes and walked as fast as I could. I walked right in. It's amazing what you can do with confidence. A 300 dollar concert ticket wasr free. Hoopster watched from behind. Enthused by this moment I had two options.
A) Call Hoopster and apologize
B) Run, Jump, and Scream.

I chose B. I ended up losing my cell phone and keys. Friends had to rescue me.