Oh, the rigorous life of the rock n' roll roadie. Okay, so I'm not a roadie anymore, but I couldn't pass up the repetition opportunity. I'm out in the big world, crawling out of my cozy little cave and lo and behold, I've surfaced in a Tennesee dustbowl. It's confusing because the air is so heavy with moisture, the sweat clinging to our skin, and yet as we breathe we take in pints of dust. The cilia in my nose have caved in- they're taking a beating on the front lines and the rear guard (the lungs, of course) are feeling the heat.
But it's a Bonnaroo blissful time out here in the trenches. I'm listening to the Police in the distance- they sound just like the do on the record I had when I was 12. I've got some jamming bands on my stage and I'm making the crew happy by stashing a case of beer for them. I just keep smiling because I'll be on my way to school in another week, I've got these darn bands under control and I just interviewed a couple of EMTs to solidify some details in my latest story- very very enlightening. Rock on.
