This was a long day. You can see that it took me a few months to recall details and then get motivated to actually do something with them...
Our saga continues...
Uneventful drive back to Portland. M is exhausted and flagging. I treat her to my song stylings all the way around the dial. She is clearly exhausted and delirious; she laughs that my jokes. Even the lame ones. I'm disturbed to discover that I know at least a little of every single song on the radio- even the Spanish language ones... how did this happen? It is much like realizing that one knows every word to every song on Kool108.
We are sitting in rush hour traffic- one would think that this situation would be irritated but I'm just happy to be listening to Green Day (again) in the Versa. A cigarette would be about perfect right now but the interior of the car is absolutely plastered with No Smoking stickers. I say its more of a guideline than a rule but M walks the line and abides by all rules. ever. created.
We arrive at the hotel unscathed. M warns me not to lay on the bed as I may never get up. I ignore her sage advice and realize that she is, in fact, right. I don't want to move and I'm feeling melancholy that we aren't going to see the Combine Demolition Derby. An opportunity. Wasted. M rallies and motivates by performing her rendition of "Call Me Big Papa" and reminding me that Megafaun is playing in 45 minutes... Game on.
Happy Valley
We have passed 2 megachurches and I'm feeling a bit unnerved. The drive is a tad strange as every 50 yards or so, there are giant concrete Lego blocks. We go from seeing tiny houses ("How do they get a couch in there?!" M wonders) to giant hideous McMansions. The festival is marked with a minuscule white sign stating, "PICKATHON" (actual size shown.)
We drive to a mown down field and marvel and the number of VW buses and Subaru wagons. Pretty sure this is the right place. As we are walking to the ticket tent, M asks for her ticket, which I had supposedly printed... not so much. Does M want to murder me? Yes. Am I worried? No. Because I have a smartphone. Ticket acquired and painful death averted.
Armbands fastened (to my armhair), we walk back to the Versa and drive to the actual festival lot, which is, a huge barren field with razor sharp wheat stalks that yearn to puncture tires and disembowel the Versa. The terrain is uneven and, while I'm concerned that the car won't make it, M smirks and says, "You don't know anything about Versas. Floor it." Well, I refuse to floor anything but instead gingerly maneuver the car into a parking slot where it perches on a clot of dirt. Perfect.
