Morning at Bonnaroo is the devil. They call these mesh tapestries “tents,” but at Bonnaroo, they function primarily as cooking utensils used to marinate human flesh in its own sweat. I’m surprised to wake up before 9am and find that most of the Bonnaroo community is already up and about. They must have even less tolerance for these makeshift saunas than I do.
I stand up outside the tent and survey the land. The mass of Tent City is an absolutely incredible site to behold. It’s a miracle we even found our space after stumbling home last night – this isn’t your Six Flags, color-by-numbers parking construct. The best I could offer as to our coordinates is “a few paces up from the car with the Jaegrmeister flag, and a few more paces left from the car with the St. Louis flag.” And good luck trying to navigate the haphazardly parked cars and pitched tents from either landmark – absolutely nothing is in a straight line. We met one concert-goer last night who explained that he’d been hunting for his car for the last four hours (our luck fared a little better). Some tents have their own stoves, or their own showers. Some tents have their own tents! Our $20 canvas from WalMart pales in comparison. It’s hard to tell if we’re woefully underprepared for the festival, or just rugged to a degree that Bear Grylls only dreams about.
The hordes of port-a-johns are a marvel. Every time we pass a new row, I’m reminded again of how painfully bad I feel for every girl in the entire festival. I might try to induce constipation for the rest of the weekend just to avoid the whole ordeal. It dawns on me now why the BP oil spill problem still hasn’t been solved: Half of the country’s waste management companies are in Tennessee, cleaning up hippie and hipster shit.
At last, it occurs to me that there doesn’t seem to be a chance in hell that we’ll be able to leave the festival in time as planned. We must be 15-uple parked in all directions. Maybe we’ll get out with enough time to spare to make the 6-turned-17-hour trip back for next year’s show. This place truly has all the charms of a refugee camp – but the food’s more expensive. That all said: Hell, who am I kidding? This is great. Wait ’til my grandkids hear about the kinds of stuff we did for fun. But for now – time to pack up and see the show.
On our way out to try our hand at the line in front of Conan O’Brien’s show, luck strikes again: There’s the Ice Cream Man (former), giving out free popsicles (check icecreamman.com for more on that story). Wait: There’s Wayne Coyne (latter, second from the left). I introduce myself and shake his hand. “Nice to meet you, Josh,” he says with impossible swagger. I may never wash my hand again. Ironic, seeing as how for the next three days, a wash isn’t even an option.
