Calm down, it happened 36 years ago. You didn’t know? I have a hard time believing that. It was on the front page of all the newspapers, and I’m pretty sure it made the six o’clock news that day. You really need to pay more attention to current events. You should know about stuff.
When I was a child, Elvis was my idol. His rhythmic hip shaking and guttural noise making intrigued me. He wore flashy jumpsuits emblazoned with rhinestones and gummy bears. He drove a big Cadillac and took massive amounts of amphetamines. All of the things a young boy aspires to do.
I used to listen to Elvis records all the time. I would work on my lip sneer and pelvic thrusts while standing in front of my bedroom mirror. I would thank people very much all the time. I even tried to grow a pompadour and mutton chops at one point before my mother vetoed my choice of hairstyle in favor of a boy’s regular. I was almost like a mini Elvis.
When my parents would throw a party, chances were good that at some point during the festivities I would wind up getting up on the coffee table to impersonate Elvis for everybody. They would clap and dance and laugh. Eventually one of the drunken ladies would try to get me to “king them”. Yeah, you know what I’m saying. The seventies were a sexy, sexy time.
I was also a big fan of Elvis’ movies. Yeah, I know, right? Every Sunday, channel 68 would play three of his movies back to back to back. That sounds like too many backs. I might mean back to front to back. That sounds better. There must be a front in there somewhere. I would watch as the King played various characters that could all sing and dance and woo the dames.
When he died, I took it really hard. I was sad that I would never get the chance to see him in concert, or have him adopt me and change my name to Billvis Presley and hand feed me fried peanut butter and banana sandwiches from a golden plate right before he took me cape shopping
See the thing about it was that Elvis was my first taste of rock and roll. My parents both loved country music, or country and western as they used to call it. So I didn’t get to hear much rock music as a child. They liked Elvis Presley though.
Sure he had a lot of gospel songs and what not, and he might not even be considered “rock” today. But the first time I heard Heartbreak Hotel, I felt something stir in my loins. But I was only five, so I didn’t know I had loins yet. Or I knew I had loins, but I thought that It was just something to wet the bed with.
I knew it felt different from the music I normally heard, though.
I think waking up to go to the airport and catch a flight when you’re going on vacation is fun. Waking up to go to the airport and catch a flight home from vacation kind of sucks balls.
Our flight from Wenatchee to Seattle wasn’t until 10:55 am, so we had some time to once again contemplate absconding with that pancake machine we were so enamored with during breakfast. I told Connie that I was certain she would be able to fit it into her pocketbook while I faked a seizure in the lobby. She insisted that I was out of my mind, and that there was no way that something that big would fit in her pocketbook. I politely disagreed and asked her if she’s seen her pocketbook. It’s like a fucking suitcase. She told me to shut up and I did. I’m not a stupid man, although I sometimes play one on the internets. The worldwide one.
I hate when my vacation ends, because I’m always paranoid that I’m going to forget something precious and leave it in the hotel Like my soul. I also feel that way when I’m going on vacation. But if I forget something when I’m going away, that shit will be there waiting for me when I get home.
We checked out of the hotel and made our way to the airport for the forty minute flight back to Seattle/Tacoma. It was one of those little regional airports that you can drive right up to and park. No shuttle buses or moving walkways to eventually bring you lazily to your destination. We returned the rental car and made our way to the security checkpoint.
I really don’t understand why I have to take my shoes off when going through the airport security checkpoints. Why can’t they just put an x-ray machine down on the floor? Maybe I couldn’t find clean socks that morning. Or matching socks. Or maybe any socks at all, and I might have forgotten to clip my toenails in the last couple of leap years. Now I have to be publicly shamed for it? That seems un-American to me. Obviously I’m not a terrorist. My cheerful disposition and intimate knowledge of American cheese should appease even the most churlish of TSA agents. But it never does, so I have to take off my stupid shoes like a common Neanderthal.
TSA quickly assessed that we were on their side and we got to the waiting area about fifteen minutes before boarding time. We hung out talking to Amy and Joe about our amazing grand prize-winning weekend. It turns out that they weren’t the original winners of the Capital Cities trip. Someone else had won it and couldn’t go due to a family commitment. Sucks to be them. So they drew another name and it was Amy. Which is cool, because they were really fun to hang out with. I bet those other people were dicks. Their family was probably all like, “We wish you went on that trip instead of fulfilling your family obligation. You’ve ruined the Wedding/Christening/Bar Mitzvah with your drunken tomfoolery. Grandma doesn’t love you anymore. Seriously, attend a meeting or something, you asshole. Oh, and you’re paying for that (fill in the blank)!”
We boarded the prop plane for the forty minute flight back to Seattle. I am already on record with my abject disdain of prop planes. I don’t like being able to see an engine stop. I think that if God wanted man to fly in prop planes, he’d put jet engines on them. The flight back to Seattle was pretty turbulent, and I felt bad for Connie Bigs because of all the excessive squeezing I did to her leg. But she’ll heal, like a big girl does. When we landed, we departed the plane and said our goodbyes to our Nebraska friends. We had a four-hour wait for our flight back to Boston, so we went and got some sustenance to tide us over.
Connie and I stopped and got bagels in this place I want to call “The Bagel Store”. That’s not the actual name of the place, but that’s what it was. A store full of bagels. Bagels as far as the eye could see, as long as your eyes can only see to the back wall. They probably had more bagels behind the wall in the kitchen, but I can’t vouch for that. I chose a delicious French toast bagel with cream cheese, because they didn’t have any Freedom toast bagels. Connie got a chocolate chip one, because she always confuses breakfast with dessert. It’s adorable.
We paid for our food and headed out to sit at our terminal for four hours. As we were leaving the register, I glanced at the customers in line. Mike Birbiglia was standing there. As I have previously stated, Birbigs was one of my must see acts during the weekend, but due to the meet and greet with The Lumineers coinciding with his set, we weren’t able to see him. I tapped Connie on the shoulder and informed her of my discovery.
Mike Birbiglia by Matthew Lamb via sasquatchfestival.com
ME: “Holy shit! Mike Birbiglia is standing in line.”
CBS: “Really? Are you sure?”
ME: “Yes, that’s him with the backpack. I recognize his stance.”
CBS: “Are you getting all creepy stalker right now? Don’t get all creepy stalker on him.”
ME: “No, I’m not going to get all ‘creepy stalker’ on him. Don’t be ridiculous. I’m just going to stand here and wait until he comes out, and then approach him in a non-threatening manner and tell him I love him.”
CBS: “Yeah, that sounds fucking creepy.”
ME: “No, you don’t understand me. I’m not saying that I love him like I want to marry him or skin his flesh off and wear it as a bodysuit under my clothes, like I love you. I’m just saying if he ever wanted to come over to our house for a sleepover, that would be wicked awesome.”
CBS: (shaking her head) “Well, I have to go to the bathroom.”
ME: ” Go ahead. I’ll wait right here. Don’t worry, I’m not going to be a creepy stalker. I just want to tell him that I think he’s great, and that his movie Sleepwalk With Me is fantastic, and that we don’t live that far from his hometown of Shrewsbury, so if he really is serious about that sleepover thing I could even come pick him up. No problem at all. I won’t even charge him any gas money or anything.”
CBS: (Walks away silently, with that look on her face. You know the one.)
About five to seven minutes pass, and Connie Bigs returns
CBS: “Did you say hi to him?”
ME: “No, he’s still in line. But I think it’s really moving along now.”
CBS: (rolling her eyes) “Let’s just go sit down and eat. He’s probably flying out of the same terminal, since he’s down here. Maybe he’s flying back to Boston and we’re on the same flight.”
ME: (Reluctantly) “Alright Connie. You win this round. I’m not going to make a scene, because I love you, and because of the intense scrutiny the TSA places upon people acting like raving lunatics yelling angrily at their wives in the airport nowadays. But I want it on record that I am sitting down and eating this bagel under protest.”
CBS: “Duly noted. That’s my big boy.”
We walked down to our gate and found a seat where we proceeded to eat our now cold bagels. After we finished, I said I had to use the bathroom. There was one right there, but I walked back down to use the one by the bagel place. Mike Birbiglia was gone, as I had feared. I went back to where Connie was sitting and told her. She laughed at me. That cut me to my core. Well, maybe that’s a little extreme, but it definitely scraped me a little bit.
How I have missed these people!
We spent the next few hours catching up on the new season of Arrested Development via the magic of Netflix for iPhone. We watched four episodes and I must say we laughed out loud like idiots during them. At least that’s the impression that I got from some of the looks cast our way from other travelers. They should have looked in a mirror at themselves, because they all looked pretty fucking ridiculous to me. A few hours before our flight we decided to grab something to eat at Chili’s. It seemed like a good idea, since we still had a seven hour flight back home, and man cannot live on soy nuts alone.
By the time we finished our food and paid, the ticket counter had opened up. We went up to it and asked the flight attendant if there were any first class upgrades available. She said that there were two seats left in first class, and that it would be another $240 per person. This seemed well worth it, for a seven hour flight. Or six-hour and ten minute flight, with a fifty minute layover in Chicago. I still had $300 left on the American Express gift card that no one would accept as a form of payment, but luckily American Airlines did. Probably because they have American in their name too, and it would seem unpatriotic of them to decline something American.
We boarded the plane early, like first class people have done since time immemorial. I had never flown fancy style before. To be honest, whenever I have flown somewhere, I always walk through first class and silently glare at all the beautiful people and wish them ill will. Even the children. Especially the children. Nothing’s worse than a little kid in first class. Nothing.
We sat down in our comfy seats and waited as the rest of the passengers filed by us silently glaring and wishing us ill will. Even the children. It was actually pretty awesome. When the plane was in the air, the flight attendant came by and gave us a warm towel, which I always thought only happened in barber shops and wet dreams. Then they gave us bowls of nuts. So warm and salty in my mouth.
First class sexual innuendos
Then they came around and asked if we wanted lunch. We had stupidly eaten an hour before, thinking we’d be back in the poor part of town where you fight for any little scrap of food you can get, so we declined.
The flight was great until we got about 45 minutes outside of Chicago. We flew through a seriously scary lightning storm. I’m almost positive I fractured Connie’s forearm with my concern for her well-being. But that’s what love is all about. Protecting the one’s you love from things that scare you most. It was a horrible experience that I was pretty sure was going to end badly for everyone involved. The plane was bouncing and dropping. The sky was alive with lightning bolts. The flight attendants were all crying. Or at least they looked like they were through my tears. It was mortifying.
But we landed safely in Chicago, and the plane erupted in applause. Then people started chanting, “Encore! Encore!!” The flight crew broke into a rousing rendition of Sweet Home Alabama, but one dickhead had to scream, “Play Freebird!” It always happens. Just let them play what they play, dude!
We weren’t switching planes, but we got off to stretch our legs and kiss the ground like the pope would do.
I mean the kiss the ground part, although I’m sure the pope needs to stretch his legs too. He’s old, and arthritis ain’t no joke. Although he probably just has an altar boy stretch his legs for him. Maybe work out his quads and such. Like the bible says.
We boarded the plane again, because the lightning was so much fun the first time, we figured we should do it again. I actually told Connie that we should just rent a car, and make the sixteen hour drive home. She said no.
The weather had delayed some takeoffs and we wound up waiting on the tarmac for about another hour. In the back of my head, I was kind of hoping they’d just say, “Fuck it! We’re not taking off in this shit.” But they didn’t, and we did. The plane finally took off and we were on our final leg of this very long day/week. Connie slept for a bit, while I stayed awake to enjoy every single bump on a very bumpy flight. Every… single…. one.
We landed at Logan around 2 am, an hour after we were scheduled to arrive, and were met by Connie’s parents, Big Jim and Donna Momahue. We set out for the half hour ride to their house in Weymouth, just glad to be on terra firma again. Until Big Jim almost killed us in the tunnel coming out of the airport. We asked him to settle down a bit and drive like a grown up. He agreed, or maybe he didn’t. I’m not really sure. I was very tired. But we made it to their house with minor emotional trauma, so that’s a plus.
We then took the fifteen minute drive back home to Whitman, and crawled into bed at 4 am. There’s nothing better than crawling into your own bed after a week away.
What I’m trying to say is,
If you see a contest on Facebook, maybe you should take a shot and enter it. People really do win those fucking things.
We arrived at the Gorge around 1:30 Monday afternoon, so the whole “almost killing us so that we get there by two o’clock because ambulances can drive faster than regular cars” idea seemed extra stupid. I mean the ambulance probably would have just taken us to a hospital, and not to the concert. In retrospect, it doesn’t make any sense at all. See, this is where I could really use that medical degree. Damn you, standardized testing!
Oh well, hindsight is 50-50.
We went through the gates and I tried to call David to let him know we were there, but the reception was pretty spotty. So I sent him a text, and then sent one to Cameron from Live Nation as well. Cameron got back to me right away and said to text him at 3:30 and he would come meet us and bring us backstage. Although we were told to be there by two at the latest, I said okay, because direct confrontation is not my thing. We headed back over to the scene of Saturdays crime, the El Chupacabra tent for some comedy.
Tig Notaro was on at 2 o’clock. After Tig’s set was Mike Birbiglia, who was one of my “must see” acts of the weekend. Unfortunately, we would not be able to see him since we would be backstage with The Lumineers. That was a fucking bummer.
Virtual Tig Notaro
As Tig Notaro was opening her show, we got another text from David saying he would meet us at the Easy Street autograph booth in twenty minutes. So now we weren’t going to see much of Tig’s set either. We watched another ten minutes and then headed over to do what we came here to do.
We got to Easy Street with five minutes to spare. We were about to go backstage, behind the scenes, where the magic happens. It was a dream come true.
CBS: “Do you think I have time to run over to the bathrooms?”
Me: “Seriously? He’ll be out in a minute and then you can use a port-a-potty backstage. You can poop like a rock star!”
CBS: “I don’t have to poop. I just have to pee.”
Me: “But poop like a rock star is much funnier than pee like a rock star.”
CBS: “It is. But I don’t have to poop.”
Me: “I’m gonna force myself to poop, so I can say I pooped like a rock star backstage at Sasquatch. I’ve heard that all the cool kids are doing it. Or saying they did it. Because all the cool kids are liars.”
CBS: “You should definitely do that.”
Me: “Are you crazy? I can’t poop in one of those things. It’s like pooping in a coffin. Plus, you never know when Bam Margera and his cronies are gonna show up and tip over the shitter. Not on my poop. I’m waiting until we get back to the hotel.”
CBS: “I know you are, Bill. I know.”
We decided that she was a big girl and she could hold it for a few more minutes. While we waited, we watched Imagine Dragons signing autographs. They drew a really large crowd for their thirty minute autograph session. And we were there watching most of it, because no one came out to get us until 3:30. Connie Bigs totally had enough time to pee like a regular girl. Apologies, Connie.
Imagine Dragons signing autographs at Easy Street while Connie holds it.
Finally David and Cameron both came out to get us. We didn’t get any special wristbands for backstage, and one of the security guards said, “Make sure they leave when they’re done.” Like he thought I had plans for us to hide out in a guitar case and go on tour with The Lumineers or something. I mean I didn’t. I couldn’t even fit into a guitar case. Well, maybe if it’s a twelve string guitar.
No, that’s crazy…. But it just might be crazy enough to work.
We went down to the Artist Lounge, where we were told that taking pictures was frowned upon inside the tent. We reluctantly agreed to not go all paparazzi on the rock stars. I was really hoping to sell a few candid photos to People Magazine, or its slutty little stepsister, Us Weekly. I’m always looking to earn myself a little extra walking around money.
On the walk down there, David turned to us and asked us if either of us had ever been on a tour bus before. I asked him if he was implying that my wife was some kind of groupie slut, who traveled from one tour bus to another, doing sex upon rock stars for front row tickets and backstage passes to the show. He assured me that was in no way what he was saying. He was actually talking about the fact that our meet and greet was going to occur on The Lumineers tour bus.
I apologized profusely and explained that sometimes I like to make jokes about things. I then asked him how Connie would go about applying for a job like groupie slut, just in case any good shows came around. Is it a “send in her resume” kind of deal, or does she have to know somebody? He apparently must not have heard me, because he never responded.
This is Ron Burgundy and Veronica Corningstone saying “You Stay Classy, Sasquatch!”
When we entered the tent, the Bose people brought us into a side area to interview us about winning the trip. They had us sit down on a couch and gave us each a microphone. Then they asked basic questions about how the festival had been and what bands we had enjoyed seeing. The lady conducting the interview asked me if I had thought of any questions that I wanted to ask the band. When I told her that I did indeed have some queries in mind, she said that in case I needed some, she had a list of potential questions.
How did you come up with the song Ho Hey?
Who are your musical influences?
Do you like things?
I thanked her for the offer, but reminded her that I wasn’t interviewing the band for Teen People Magazine, or for its slutty little stepsister, Teen Us Weekly. I would stick with the questions I had. Of course, I didn’t express that verbally, being as though I’m a cultured gentleman from the finest of upper lower middle class families. But I’m pretty sure she caught my vibe.
After we finished the interviews, they said it would be about twenty minutes until we would go on the bus. They told us to hang out and grab something to eat and drink. This is where the performers hung out, when they weren’t on their tour buses getting sexed upon by the aforementioned groupie sluts. So everything was free, as rock stars can’t carry wallets because their pants are so tight. Bigs grabbed herself a Kokanee.
Connie sneaking a selfie in the no photo zone. She’s a rebel, that one.
They had a coffee bar set up, which excited this sickly boy to no ends. I asked the cool guy hipster working there for three fingers of java in a dirty cup. We both laughed, and then I clarified that I really would prefer a new, clean, unused cup. As I’m sure the state of Washington requires them to provide in compliance with all applicable food service industry regulations. Then I laughed by myself. He said that they had just closed the hot coffee part down, but still had ice coffee. I told him I thought that sucked mad balls, but I’d take one.
It was one of those deals where they pour the coffee for you, and you handled your own cream and sugar, but I couldn’t find any. I asked the dude where it was and he pointed to a bottle of liquid. Apparently it was liquid sugar, or some such witchcraft. I poured some into my coffee.
I have no formal schooling in Culinary Arts, unless you count seventh grade Home-Ec class. Which it kind of seems like you should. I mean, it was public school, but I do remember making a mean Cinnamon Coffee Cake. But even with one full year of training, they never covered the “Real Sugar to Sweet Hippie Syrup Substitute” conversion rate. So I had to completely wing it. I asked where the cream was, and he pointed to another bottle….of soy cream. What the fuck, hipster? This is America, I want candy and cow blood in my coffee! I poured some soy in, mixed it up, and took a sip.
“How is it?”, Connie asked.
“I think I just figured out where Sasquatch washes his balls.”, I replied. “How’s the Kokanee?”
“Gone.”
We went outside to smoke in the rain, and on the way back in I saw Kyle Kinane. I really enjoyed his stand up set on Saturday, so I approached him and told him so. He thanked me and we chatted for about 27 seconds. It was pretty cool, and I bragged to Connie about it. She confirmed to me what I have always suspected. I really am adorable.
The time came for us to head over to the bus for the meet and greet. We walked over there, with camera crew in tow. They filmed us walking up to the bus, and then, “Cut!”. But they didn’t say cut, they just stopped filming.
“That’s not the way Emilio Estevez would have done it.”, I whispered to Bigs.
They instructed me to open the door of the bus. I asked them if they were positive that I should do that, or maybe we should wait for someone with a higher security clearance than me. Like maybe one of the kids working at the t-shirt booth? I was told that I should do it.
I opened the door, and some dude was standing at the top of the stairs with his arms folded across his chest, looking none too happy at the intrusion. I nervously informed him that this gang of thugs with a camera had accosted me and forced me to open the door, against my wishes, by threat of physical harm to my wife. I asked him to quickly call 911 and tell them, “Billy’s in danger”. They’d know what he meant.
The camera crew went inside and they had Connie and I come up onto the stairs. They told us to wait there while they set up inside. “Don’t peek”, is what I was told. “Don’t you tell me what not to do”, is what I didn’t tell them loudly. When they finally instructed us to enter, the band was sitting on a bench on the right-hand (our left) side of the bus. Or the ‘port side’, as people who confuse not only buses and boats, but also the port and starboard sides of a boat, would call it.
The bench opposite of them was empty. They invited us to sit.
billmcmorrow.com and Wesley Schultz having a good old-fashioned staring contest
The first thing Wesley, the lead singer, said to me was, “So, we hear that you’re a comedian.”
I told him that I did some stand up, but I totally spaced on plugging billmcmorrow.com to them. Or my rock epic Karate. I was going to burn them a copy and leave it on the tour bus. Missed opportunities. Hopefully they’ll read this due to a few well placed tags, in conjunction with a well-timed tweet. As well as some relentless spamming of their personal email accounts, plus an occasional night-time fly by of their houses by this surplus military drone I just bought from a guy on Craigslist, who was moving to a new rooming house that doesn’t allow pets. I’m sure they’re looking for some reading material on the bus sometimes. The road is a lonely mistress, and reading is fundamental.
If they do read this, I wonder if they know how fast tickets to the Newport Folk Festival in Newport, Rhode Island, which they’re playing July 28th, sold out? Really fast. Too fast for Bill McMorrow to score tickets for him and his beloved Connie Bigslob to see their beloved Lumineers. I’m just saying that if they are really serious about us all being best friends for life, then tickets to that show would really prove it. I didn’t even say anything about backstage passes, guys, but if that’s how it has to be….
Everyone watching the staring contest. They can’t believe our intensity.
We talked for around ten minutes about a variety of subjects.
I asked why the song Don’t Wanna Go didn’t make it on the album. It’s a beautiful song, that anyone who has experienced the loss of a parent at a young age, such as myself, could surely relate to. I told them that I think it is incredibly haunting. Wesley said that they thought that it was maybe too haunting for the album. I told him I hope they’ll put it on the next album, as I think it’s phenomenal. I offered to arm wrestle him over it. He politely declined, saying something about not wanting to hyper-extend his guitar muscles before the show.
I told them I think that they got screwed not winning Best New Artist at the Grammy Awards last year. The drummer, Jeremiah, rattled off a bunch of other awards they were nominated for, but didn’t win. He said that it’s kind of their thing, losing awards. I told him that I think it was a faux pas of epic proportions, on par with Jethro Tull beating out Metallica for Best Heavy Metal album.
Dude! You totally just blinked.
I never watch the Grammys, but Connie Bigs loves that all those award shows. Her sister from a different madam and mister, Paula Sheafigginsstinn, and her will sit and watch that shit all night long. Grammys, Oscars, Golden Globes, Kids Choice Awards, or it’s slutty little stepsister the Kids Us Weekly Choice Awards, it doesn’t matter. As long as there’s a handle of Captain Morgan, a bottle of Coca-Cola Classic, and a couple of packs of Newport in close proximity, they’re down. Try doing it sober ladies. It’s not nearly as awesome.
But I watched this year. Well, I watched the part when they gave out the award for Best New Artist. The Lumineers lost to the band Fun. Who are good, but come on!
“The Lumineers not winning the Grammy Award for Best New Artist is a fucking travesty and I demand justice is done, and the decision is immediately reversed and expunged from the record, in perpetuity!!”, is what I said to my Congressman’s secretary when she asked me if I wanted to leave a message.
We talked about my winning the trip on Facebook, and how Bigs thought it was a scam, because nobody actually wins those things. So I had called back and asked the guy if I had to buy a timeshare. We all laughed about that, and then Jeremiah talked us into buying ten time shares in Hawaii. What can I say? He was very persuasive, and I didn’t want to come across as rude. First impressions are everything.
The bad part about it is that we can’t even afford one time share in Hawaii, let alone ten time shares in Hawaii. The good part about it is that we now own ten fucking time shares in Hawaii!! That’s baller! Maybe we’ll sublet nine of them, and live out of the other one, solving crimes. Like a real life McMagnum P.I. & Wife.
Wesley and Neyla , the lovely songbird that she is, took us down back and gave us a tour of the rest of the bus. It was really nice. Way nicer than Stillwater’s bus in Almost Famous. That thing was a shitbox. I really wish that we had a Tiny Dancer sing-a-long while we were on there, though, and then Connie Bigs could have said, “You are home” and waved her fingers in my face. We all would have laughed and then everything would be all better again.
Because that’s what sing-a-longs are for. Getting the band over bad acid trips.
As we were leaving, they gave us backstage passes for their set, so we could stand right up on the side of the stage and watch. We were happy with that. The VIP platform only held 45 people at a time, and I was worried about whether we would be able to get up there for them.
We said our farewells and left the bus. Sad that it was over, but excited about watching their show from backstage. We went back to the tent, where they recorded our reaction to the experience and gave us an autographed guitar. It’s a lefty. I’m pretty sure you have to go out of your way to get a lefty guitar. Like special ordering it and waiting six to eight months for delivery. It’s not even one of the ones in the video, because they’re both righty. I’m pretty perceptive. But it’s an autographed guitar.
After that, it was time to go back out with the unwashed masses. On Friday, Cameron had mentioned that Bose was giving us each a pair of QC15 Acoustic Noise Cancelling Headphones and the blue-tooth Soundlinks. One of the Bose ladies said, “That was supposed to be a surprise for Monday. So look excited.” We agreed to look super excited when the time came.
Now the time had cometh, and no one said anything about the Bose gear. As we were making our way out of the tent, I asked Cameron if he was just fucking with us about the gear. He said, “Oh, almost forgot. We can ship it home for you if you want. As they were already shipping the guitar home for us, we agreed that would be fine. It would save us having to ship it home ourselves. I said, “We will get it though, right?”
“Absolutely”, he replied.
When we went back out to the crowd we saw the last half-hour of Imagine Dragons. A lot people suggested that we should see them, and they really put on a good show, despite the weather. I bought their album Night Visions and it is now in heavy rotation. I love it. After their set we headed over to Cliff House to chill out for a bit.
Some dude came over that fence, I’m pretty sure he ripped his balls off
While we were at Cliff House, Connie had to use the facilities again, due to the free Kokanee tallboy she pounded down backstage. That’s my lady.
As I was sitting there by myself, looking out over the Columbia River, I noticed movement on the other side of the fence. I looked down just in time to see a hand poke up. Some dude was climbing up the sheer face of the cliff. He popped up onto the grass and hopped the fence into the private section right next to Cliff House. The security guy there chased him and disappeared out into the crowd. Connie came back and I told her all about it. It was fucking crazy.
Cake came on and put on a great show. The crowd loved them. They’re one of those bands I always forget how many good songs they have. I thoroughly enjoyed their set. When it was over, we went to meet Madison and Brenna from Bose. They were going backstage to watch The Lumineers with us. We peeled off the backs of the passes and affixed them in a clearly visible area so people would know that we were the shit.
Me and my Bose ladies backstage pre-show Brenna, billmcmorrow.com, Madison
We got backstage and were told to stand-off to the side while Cake’s road crew broke down their gear. I told them that I would go wherever they told me to go. I started telling them this story about when I was a kid and all my friends jumped off this bridge, but they seemed really busy, so it kind of lost momentum. That particular story is a bit of a slow-builder. But if they had the patience to have listened to the whole thing, they would have learnt something about life and love and boys and bridges.
Watching from backstage
The show was fantastic. It was still daylight when they started and the sun set during the show. About halfway through their set, they went out and played a few songs in the crowd. They must have forgotten that we were backstage watching the show, and that we wouldn’t be able to see them as well when they were out in the crowd. It’s okay though. I forgive them. That’s what best friends do, they forgive each other for all sorts of different crazy stuff. When they’re not busy punching each other in the nuts.
After The Lumineers, we headed out of Sasquatch for the last time. It was hard to believe it was over. So many good bands over four glorious days. For free. Well, at least free until tax time.
The drive back to Wenatchee was particularly scary this time because we kept running into fog. Like very thick fog, that would come out of nowhere. It was really creepy. But we made it back alive.
Just in time to pack everything up and take a nap for the long day ahead.
When I awoke Monday morning, I knew one thing for certain.
I was dying.
Now, I’m not technically a doctor, as I’m currently just under 254 credits shy of my medical degree. But I’ve seen enough pharmaceutical advertisements on television, and I am proficient enough with Google, to be able to diagnose and treat the vast majority of medical maladies a person could encounter in a first world country.
I was sweating but had the chills. My throat was sore and my tummy ached. As a bonus, I had a massive erection that lasted well past the recommended four-hour window for safe, effective lovemaking. Alright, we could argue the clinical definitions of “massive” and “effective” all day long, but this tale needs a telling, so perhaps we could discuss it later. Possibly over dinner and drinks? We’ll talk after.
My point is, I wasn’t feeling well at all. I was functioning on roughly twelve hours of sleep over the last four days. My waking hours were consumed with driving unknown territories, walking uphill both ways, being wicked awesome, and rocking out with my cock in. Because I’m wicked awesome, but I’m also a classy gentleman, and that is how we rock. Take that, Red Hot Chili Peppers!
Exhibit A: If the sock don’t fit, you must acquit
Does rocking out with your cock in a sock, count as rocking out with your cock out?
I contend that it does, and I contend that the laws of this great country will uphold that supposition! Henceforth I intend to prove it to you beyond a reasonable doubt, ladies and gentleman of the jury, by the time these proceedings have commenced, forthwith.
Excuse me? What’s that you say? This isn’t a courthouse, I’m not a lawyer, and the Red Hot Chili Peppers aren’t even on trial here?
Tell it to the judge, fucker.
I’ve barely started this post and I’ve already made multiple references to male penises, and called you a fucker. This might get rough, is apparently what she said.
Connie Bigs looked at me and asked, “Are you alright?”, because that’s what she’s legally obligated to do, as we are blissfully betrothed. I replied that I had definitely felt better in my lifetime. She suggested that I go back to bed for a while, and see if that helped. I took a concoction of over the counter sinus medicine, some Advil. and maybe a roofie. I’m not sure, but Connie crushed up a pill and put it in my applesauce when she thought I wasn’t looking. But I was looking, as I have already informed you about my 24/7/365 vigilant watch for terrorists and their ilk.
Now, I’m obviously not saying that my beautiful baby lady is a terrorist. I was just reminding you that my eyes are always open in my never-ending surveillance for evil-doers. Except when I’m sleeping, blinking, sneezing or playing Hide and Seek, naturally. I’m not a robot.
Connie Bigs on terrorist watch She claims that beer helps her better focus on the wrongdoings of others.
That would be pretty sweet though. Being a robot? Right? I think it would be pretty sweet. indeed. Unless it’s raining out. Because then you couldn’t go outside and play with the human boys, because of your tendency to rust. So you’d just be all sad, watching them play from your window with your exceptional robot vision. Listening to their whimsical laughter and vulgar Yo’ Momma jokes, with your bionic boy ears.
Plus, I’m sure you’d be expected to clean the house while you’re there, since your essentially a vacuum. So on rainy days it would probably really suck to be a robot boy. But on a nice summer day? Say 75-80 degrees, mostly sunny ? Look out! You would be a Bionic God King Boy to those regular human being boys. You would definitely kick their asses in Hide and Seek, because of your built-in GPS, as well as your capabilities in establishing search grid patterns.
Anyways, my point is that Connie Bigslob is not a terrorist, and I will swear to that, under oath, in a court of law. Once I get those practicing law without a license charges dismissed. I can’t believe you fuckers really told it to the judge! It was a figure of speech. You guys!
See, I wouldn’t marry a terrorist. I love America too much to marry a terrorist.
I might date a terrorist. If I wasn’t already happily married to Connie, of course. That goes without saying. She’d have to be really pretty, though. With a nice smile, and a good sense of humor. And she can’t have fucked up bangs. Fucked up bangs are a deal breaker for me, terrorist or not.
I’d keep it simple though. Maybe we’d start off with a couple of day dates, like lunch at Au Bon Pain and a matinée showing of the latest Tyler Perry blockbuster. Something classy, yet subtle, like that. Perhaps we’d go on a group shopping excursion to the Wrentham Premium Outlets. Maybe a weekend down Cape Cod with friends or something. I don’t know. It depends on if there’s any good deals on Groupon that week. There would be some heavy petting, obviously. Nothing wrong with a little heavy petting, am I right? But I wouldn’t let the relationship get serious. There’s no way I’d buy her a ring. She’d probably just blow it up someday, anyway.
I took the roofie that CBS slipped me without commenting on her treacherous betrayal, like a big boy, and managed to fall into a fitful two-hour slumber. I remember having this really scary dream about marrying a terrorist with fucked up bangs who didn’t get the joke. Suddenly Connie shook me awake.
“Your phone just went off”, she said. It was a text from the aforementioned David, from Live Nation. It said to make sure that we were on site no later than two o’clock for the meet and greet. It was currently a tad past noon, and it was about a 60 to 75 minute drive. I splashed some water on my face, threw on some pants like any non sex-offender would do, and we headed out into…..rain? What the fuck?
The weekend had been beautiful. It was sunny for the first three days, but it was a dreary on Monday. Oh, well. As Meatloaf famously said, three outta four ain’t bad. I was feeling a little better than I had been a few hours before. Still achy, but the Sudafed/Advil/Roofie combo had my throat feeling a little better. Sing-a-longs take a toll on a forty-two year old boy in a big way. Although it was probably the screaming more than the singing. Sometimes I can’t control myself. What can I say? I’m like a twelve-year-old Belieber under the right set of circumstances.
We stopped at a truck stop on the way to the Gorge to get some coffee, because they don’t have a Dunkin’ Donuts on every corner out there. Or anywhere for that matter. As we left the truck stop, we got stuck behind the pickup truck from Sanford & Son doing 35 MPH on a 60 MPH stretch of road. Which is pretty much all of it. There was a 3/4 mile section of road through a trailer park town that was 35 MPH and the other 49 and 1/4 miles were 60 MPH.
This is the big one, Connie!
I’m sorry that I’m too lazy to translate that into Kilometers for my huge intercontinental following. But you can just ask Jeeves to figure it out for you. Seriously, he’s not busy, and I’m sure he would love to pitch in and help out. He misses you. I think some human contact might do him some good at this point, as well.
Fearing that we would be late for our big meeting with The Lumineers, I started getting restless. Connie Bigs told me , “Relax honey, it will be fine. But the Boston driver in me wouldn’t take “relax honey, it will be fine” for an answer. I decided that I needed to pass Lamont so we could get on with our lives.
We were on a good five-mile stretch of straight road, one lane each way. I couldn’t see around Sanford’s truck to see if the road was clear. This was mostly due a combination of both record high copper prices as well as record high foreclosures of homes containing copper to steal.
We’re number one!
When I finally saw it was clear, I made my move. I signaled with my left blinker that I was intending to pass, as anyone who aced their driving test on the first try even though they didn’t bring their A game that day would do.
I got this, no problem.
Remember when I said that it was a straight stretch of road a couple of run-on sentences ago? Well it was. But it was that kind of straight road that also went up and down. You know the ones I’m taking about? I thinks they call them hills. Anyways, they make a straight road look straighter and emptier than it may actually be. As I was passing Old Man Sanford on the left, I noticed what looked strangely like an automobile of sorts heading right in my direction. On my side of the road!
Okay, his side of the road, but if you saw it from where I saw it, or if you saw it in Europe, you’d understand.
I punched the gas and I feel like Sanford may have punched the gas too. For a couple of seconds I felt like maybe this was not my best decision in my long history of not making my best decisions. I couldn’t fall back behind Redd Foxx, because there were cars behind me, so I went for it. As I was pulling back in front of the junkmobile, the car that was heading my way had to pull to the shoulder of the road. We were a good football field or so away from each other at that point, but it was still scary as shit. I spent the rest of the drive, and day, effusively apologizing to Connie Bigs. As I shall continue to do for the rest of my life.
Me: “I’m really sorry that I almost just killed us with my childlike enthusiasm, Dear. That was fucking stupid.”
CBS: “Yeah, that was pretty fucking stupid, Bill.”
Me: “Definitely not my best decision in a long history of not making my best decisions. Hahaha.”
CBS: “That’s not funny.”
Me: “That’s just because of the horrifying context in which you first heard it. I think, given time for reflection, as well as the absence of your impending demise, that it will be a pretty funny line, and I will use it someday to great fanfare.”
CBS: “Good luck with that. Please don’t almost kill us anymore?”
Me: “Agreed, my love. Agreed.”
CBS: “Pinky Swear?”
Me: “I’ll do you one better. Let’s Thelma and Louise this bitch!”
Thelma & Louise I’m Thelma.
Up Next, Part V: Episode II: Can I Ride Your Magic Bus?
When we awoke at the hotel on Sunday morning, we asked ourselves a familiar question. What comes first? What have we always said is the most important thing? Breakfast?…. I was going to say family. Oh, I thought you meant of the things you eat.
That’s right. We watched a couple of episodes of the brand new, highly anticipated fourth season of Arrested Development on Netflix. Right after we had breakfast. Because that really is the most important thing. It gives you the energy your body needs to start your day right.
We actually stayed up so we could watch the first episode at 12:01 am PST on Sunday. But I really wanted to use that breakfast joke so I shifted time, like a magician. It’s an illusion…. Come On!! It was such an exciting moment when we clicked on Recently Watched and all 15 episodes were there, ready for my love. Best show ever.
Thank you Mitch Hurwitz.
I was so excited I took a picture
After lounging around for a few hours catching up with our beloved Bluths, we headed back out for Day Three of the Sasquatch Music Festival. Our fellow Grand Prize Winners, Amy and Joe were having lunch with the band Capital Cities, and then they were going to be on stage during the bands set. We told them we would be there to try to take some pictures of them whilst they were living like rock stars.
As we left the hotel, I got a text from Joe saying that there was a pretty bad car accident on the road that leads to The Gorge. They had to follow a detour down to Interstate 90 (which strangely enough, they don’t call the Mass Pike out there) and then back up another road. I figured by the time we got there it should be opened back up. I figured wrong. We had to take the same detour, which added about fifteen or twenty miles to our ride. They were still fifteen or twenty beautiful miles, but whatever.
It’s exactly like being at Great Woods
We arrived at day parking, and headed into the festival. Once again, the VIP bracelets were right there waiting for us at the Customer Service booth. They really got their shit together after the first day fiasco. Then we headed down to check out Capital Cities. I heard a few songs from them while doing my due diligence research in preparation for Sasquatch. I didn’t really know what to expect. As Connie Bigs and I were strutting down to the main stage, a familiar song rang out.
Well you can tell by the way I use my walk, I’m a woman’s man, no time to talk
That’s right. They tore into a kick ass version of my theme song, Stayin’ Alive, while I was already in mid-strut. When I was a ridiculously cute blue-eyed baby boy, my mother won the Saturday Night Fever album as a door prize at bingo. Mom loved gambling on God. Anyways lets just say I played the shit out of that thing. There may or may not have been a seven week period in early 1978 that I refused to answer to any name but Tony Namero, only because I couldn’t correctly pronounce Tony Manero. I already said that I was ridiculously cute, right?
The crowd was quickly filling up and dancing along. We walked to an area looking directly towards the stage. Amy and Joe were up on the side enjoying the show. I did that move that you do in a big crowd of people when you see someone you know. I threw my arms in the air and waved them all around as if I just didn’t care. As it turns out, that’s also the move people do when they’re at a concert and they’re enjoying themselves. So naturally they didn’t see us.
Amy and Joe not seeing us during Stayin’ Alive
We decided to put our VIP status to good use and go up on the platform to watch the rest of the set. When I was just five or six years old, my late father, God rest his soul, told me that there were three rules that every man should live by:
Never punch a baby in the face, or anywhere else for that matter, when you’re in a church.
Always take your hat off for The Star Spangled Banner, or when a lady enters the room, or when you’re forced to beg for spare change just to survive when you’re living on the street because you never listened to a goddamn thing your father told you about anything.
If you ever win an all expenses paid trip to the other side of the country to attend a four-day music festival, and you get a VIP bracelet that gets you access to the best viewing area in the place, use that motherfucker, motherfucker.
Dad was a wise man. Wise and salty. It may have partially been the whiskey talking, but I’d like to think it was also partially the sobriety talking, as well. Some people have a, “The Glass is Half Empty” mentality. I’ve always had a, “My Dad is Half-Sober” view of things. That’s just how I am. It’s how I was raised. Half Sober.
Even though we’re from Boston and Amy and Joe are from Nebraska, we were still able to communicate through the ancient art of thumbs up, thumbs down. God bless you, Rosetta Stone.
We went up on the platform and watched the end of Capital Cities. At one point, David from Bose saw us up there and pointed us out to Amy and Joe. They waved to us and we snapped a few pictures of them. At the end of the set, they went out the other side to the backstage area and we headed over to the Cliff House again to sit down and rest our tired getaway sticks. The rest of the night, we were going to be at the main stage, as the line-up went like this…
I have really gotten into The Tallest Man On Earth since I found out we were going to Sasquatch. It is the moniker for Kristian Matsson, a diminutive singer songwriter from Sweden. We got up on the platform about ten minutes before his set started and we got prime real estate right up front. He came out and did an absolutely outstanding set. One of my favorite performances of the weekend. It’s just him and his guitar, and his haunting voice. I strongly recommend giving him a listen if you haven’t already. You can check him out on YouTube I knew about him for two weeks and had already bought three of his albums. He’s a very talented individual and should be recognized as such.
This portion of “Let’s Try To Get The Tallest Man On Earth To Be Bill McMorrow’s New Best Friend” has been brought to you in part by Bose Stereo, the Amazon.com MP3 Store, and also, by Readers Like You.
Setting up to tear the place down
After Tallest Man’s set, Boston’s own Dropkick Murphy’s took the stage. It was a weird grouping with Dropkicks placed between Tallest Man and Edward Sharpe & The Magnetic Zeros. It went from acoustic, to punch you in the throat for an hour, to fun hippie folk rock.
We once again had a prime spot for Dropkick Murphys set. Tim and Jeremy from Bose were up there too. It was a proud day for Boston. During their set I suddenly remembered that I was wearing my late brother in law’s Red Sox sweatshirt. Jimmy Gibbons passed away on March 15th of this year due to heart problems. He was 34 years old and a huge Dropkick Murphys fan. I took his sweatshirt off and hung it over the railing right next to the stage. My baby lady swears she saw Marcus Mumford take a picture of us displaying our Boston pride, from the sound booth. I prefer to take a “Connie Bigslob is Half Sober” approach to that. Hahaha.
Flying Gibba’s sweatshirt during Dropkick Murphys
I am not a spiritual or religious man, as you probably know by now. Nevertheless, Jimmy Gibbons was at that show with us. We both felt it, and he fucking loved it. Rock on with your bad self, Gimmy Jibbons! We miss you more than you would have ever believed.
Jimmy & Nicole Gibbons
The mosh pit during Dropkicks set was one of the most insane things I have ever witnessed firsthand, and I’m including both the Red Wedding and Hands Across America in that statement. Although I saw both of those first hand on television, and I’m pretty sure Game of Thrones isn’t a live show. I don’t even think they tape before a live studio audience, to be perfectly honest with you. I think you deserve that much from me at this point in our relationship. Perfect honesty.
In front of the stage was just a sea of bodies churning to the music. I was extremely glad to be watching it from a safe vantage point, as I am a forty-two year old gentleman currently without health insurance and an injured wrist. I can’t be bruising my sternum at a rock concert anymore. Sadly, that ship has sailed.
I realize some of you might think that makes me a pussy. But maybe you’d feel differently if I told you that I saw a thirteen year old girl throwing elbows in the pit and she seemed to be having the time of her life. Wait, that doesn’t help my cause. She seemed completely horrified and fearful for her life is what I meant to say. Stupid teenagers and their inability to grasp the concept of their own mortality.
Dropkick Murphys absolutely tore the dick off of Sasquatch, held it up so we could see it, and then smacked us across the face with it. And we thanked them graciously for it. Well, as graciously as you can thank someone after they’ve smacked you in the face with a big hairy dick.
We headed over to Cliff Bar again to have a drink and use the bathrooms. They advertise that they have “private bathrooms” but that’s bullshit. There were port-a-potties right outside of the entrance to Cliff House, too. As long as you used them while a band was still onstage it was fine. But as soon as a set ended, the line on that thing was like waiting to score playoff tickets. Or chlamydia. Or both.
Edward Sharpe & The Magnetic Zeros
We came back out for Edward Sharpe & The Magnetic Zeros. They were another band that I knew a few songs from going in, but wasn’t entirely sure what to expect. We watched half of their show from the platform. It was cool watching the people backstage. The road crews setting up and breaking down the gear, and all the other musicians just watching the show. During Edward Sharpe’s set, we saw most of Mumford & Sons, some of The Lumineers, and Stephanie Hunt from Nancy & Beth backstage singing and stomping along to the music. It was really cool to watch.
About halfway through the set, CBS had to use the bathroom again. I love her and her teeny-tiny lady baby bladder dearly, so I escorted her to the bathrooms, like a gentleman. It’s no big deal. Any boy who lost their mother at a young age and now has seriously repressed abandonment issues coming to light in a big bad way would do the same thing every time. It’s a textbook case.
Home is wherever I’m with Bigs
Connie hit the head, as they say in the boat bathroom building business, and we watched the rest of Edward Sharpe from the front left side of the stage. Or stage left even, as Snagglepuss would say. Or is that stage right? Which is it when you’re looking at the stage? Where’s my drama nerds at?
Who cares, billmcmorrow.com, get on with the fucking story already. Some of us have lives to live.
They ended the set with a rousing rendition of Home. Everybody in the crowd was dancing and singing along. At the end of the song they came down with the microphones and asked if anybody in the crowd had a story that they wanted to share with everyone. It was kind of weird and corny, but it was also kind of really fucking cool. Fuckin’ hippies.
Elvis Costello jamming with Mumford & Sons backstage
Elvis Costello was awesome, although we only heard him, as we were hanging out at Cliff House taking in the amazing scenery. He sounded fantastic. I wish we had actually watched the show too, but as I’ve said, a boy needs to rest sometimes when he’s at a four-day music festival with his lady-love. Even an older boy with haunting blue eyes such as myself.
Mumford and Sons headlined day three of the show. We decided to watch their set from up top on the grass hill. We figured it would be a much quicker exit from there as opposed to down by the stage. As we found a place to hang out at and watch the show from, I saw one of the most beautifully moving things I saw all weekend long. A sign that said, “Hot Coffee”. I felt as though I had struck gold, and it’s possible that I wept just a little.
As I’ve mentioned a few times, it was a fifty mile drive on dark, unfamiliar, windy roads. Since the local constabulary apparently has an issue with people chopping lines of cocaine to help stay awake all night, there were no, “Hot Cocaine” booths on the grounds. Oh, don’t get me wrong, I’m sure there was cocaine for sale there. It was all just unsanctioned, black market cocaine. Where you never know what you’re going to get.
So caveat emptor, cokeheads.
Pre Mumford Glamour Shots, anybody?
I ordered a cup of coffee and talked to the people at the booth. For some reason, whenever I talked to people there, they would ask me where I’m from. Even though I was wearing Jimmy Gibbons’ Red Sox sweatshirt the majority of the time, they couldn’t guess. This was especially true whenever I bought a bottle of water.
The people at the coffee booth were extremely nice, and I told them about winning the trip from Bose, and the Lumineers meet and greet the next day. They may have been as excited as I was. I told them I would be back for another coffee before we left, because I was a forty something year old man and not a twenty nothing year old boy. Then I went back to settle in for Mumford & Sons.
Speaking of twenty somethings, Connie Bigslob made a new best friend while we were waiting for Mumford & Sons to start. Her name was Darcy, and she chose to walk around the festival in sweatpants and a bra swilling vodka out of a water bottle, because this is America for fuck’s sake. She was with a couple of her friends and they took to Connie like one of their own. Bigs is good like that, if you met her you’d immediately fall in like with her. But no falling in love, goddamnit. She’s mine, you son of a bitch! All mine!!
Yeah, we talked about the abandonment issues already too, right?
Connie wants to be them!!
As we talked to Darcy and her friends, Connie Bigs kept yelling, “I want to be them! I want to be them!”, and I concurred wholeheartedly. Sasquatch! must be amazing when you’re at that age. Camping out and partying for four days of great music in such a majestic location. But that was then and this is now.
Boo to that, Bill McMorrow! Boo to that, indeed.
We left the show with about a half hour to go in Mumford’s set. Before you get bombastic on me, it was a hard decision to make, and I regret it somewhat. Because they were excellent. We found out the next day that Edward Sharpe & The Magnetic Zeros came out for a version of Fleetwood Mac’s The Chain. I would have loved to had seen that live, but I didn’t. Although I did watch it on YouTube, and it was great.
So I wished we had stayed until the end of the show, but we had been there for eleven hours, and to paraphrase the late, great Robert Frost, “Billy Berue and Connie Bigslob had fifty miles to go before they fuckin’ slept, and shit”.
Day three in the books, with my third coffee in hand.
Does that make me a pussy? Probably.
But I thought we already covered that.
Up Next, Part V:The Greatest Day That Ever Was!
I call my wife Connie Bigslob. Connie Bigs, or CBS for short. Not behind her back, but straight to her adorable face. I don’t do it out of spite or because I’m a dick, although I’m kind of a dick. It’s also not because she’s a big slob.
Connie Bigslob is actually an anagram of Nicole Gibbons. She goes by Nicole McMorrow now, but I bestowed this nickname upon her a long time ago. Back when she still used her maiden name and thought she had more than enough time to do better than me. Before she decided to settle for less, if you will. Which I really hope you won’t. That’s a horrible thing to say to a person.
So don’t think I mean it in a derogatory fashion, because it is a loving term of endearment. I also call her Muffinstumps and Banana Bread Head, but that isn’t germane to this story.
Man, how does a grown boy get so tired?
Well if you’ve been following along with Part One and Part Two of this story, you have a basic idea. I’m exhausted just writing about it. I still can’t fully believe we lived through it.
Day Two of Sasquatch started like any other day. I opened my eyes, and quietly congratulated myself on not dying in my sleep. I don’t want to say that makes me a hero, but that’s kind of what heroes do, right? Not die from an aneurysm during nap time? Alright, so I’m kind of a hero, whatever. That’s not even the point of the story.
Holiday Inn Express in Wenatchee, WA
We went down to the lobby to score another delicious free breakfast, compliments of the Holiday Inn Express. I brought a tape measure to figure out the dimensions of the pancake machine I hoped to abscond with at some point during our stay. Connie Bigs always likes to know the logistics of any heist that I ask her to pull off with me, before I yell, “Go Time!!”. It’s a professional move that all the top-notch grifters in the high stakes world of culinary capers do, and my baby lady is the tippiest-toppest of notches.
But when we arrived at the breakfast area it was jam-packed with people, much to our chagrin. Not only were there a lot of people there, some of those people were children. Yeah, I know, right? Obviously we were like, “What the fuck is going on here?”. Apparently “the fuck” that was going on was a big softball tournament. We went to the front desk and demanded to speak to the manager. When he came out of his lair, I asked him if it was hotel policy to allow children into the building. He said that there were rules expressly forbidding pets, weapons, and smoking, but nothing about children not being allowed on the property. I then asked him if he was sure.
He was.
I did get him to concede the fact that children are an insurance liability due to their constant inability to not do dumb shit all the time. Or maybe I’m making that up. Either way, he wouldn’t tell them all to take a fuckin’ hike for us, so we had to actually eat amongst them. With their giggles, cherubic faces and sunny dispositions. It was absolutely disgusting.
I don’t know if they were running together or if the purple people eater was chasing this guy. But I never saw him again. So he’s probably dead.
The gates opened at noon for the last three days of the festival. We decided that we were just going to go for some comedy shows that we wanted to see. Nancy and Beth, which is a musical duo with actresses Megan Mullally and Stephanie Hunt. We also wanted to see Kyle Kinane and Nick Offerman do some stand up comedy. Three, maybe four hours tops. We planned to be there all day on Sunday and Monday, so an early Saturday sounded perfect after a late Friday. Listen, I’m forty-something, not twenty-nothing. I need my rest sometimes. We headed out from the hotel around two o’clock under cloudy skies.
By the time we had reached The Gorge it had become bright and sunny. We really lucked out with the weather. I heard that it was cold and rainy pretty much all weekend at home. But it was sunny almost the whole time at Sasquatch. Which works out good, because I like to get a nice tan going before I get horrifically sunburned. Even with multiple liberal applications of SPF-Irish, I still have a tendency to turn a nice shade of ouch.
When we arrived for day two, we were pleasantly surprised to find no traffic. We pulled right into Day Parking and high-fived each other like cool people are prone to do. Uncool people sometimes high-five each other too. We are definitely among the former and not the latter, though. I think. We made the six-minute walk down to the entrance and Day two was officially underway. One of the best things about a music festival, besides all the music, is watching all the people. The weird people, the drunk people, the weird drunk people. All of them.
This dude knows what’s up
The worst part is, with five stages going at once, you are bound to miss some good bands. Which happened to us a few times during the weekend. That’s the nature of the music festival business. You can’t see them all. So sometimes you have to just accept the things you cannot change, and have the courage to listen to the bands you do not know. Like it says in the bible. Not that bible, the other one.
We went to Customer Service for the VIP platform bracelets, and unlike the first day, they were there this time. We made small talk with the same girls that helped us before and then headed to the Yeti stage to check out Nancy and Beth. If you ever get the chance to see them live, I would strongly recommend that you do. They did a great version of the George Jones classic He Stopped Loving Her Today, as well as a sick cover of Riskay’s Country Club Classic Smell Yo Dick I totally had to Google that.
Unfortunately my arms get tired due to my advanced age and I can’t hold my iPhone up for more than 53 seconds at a time. If I could, I would have continued filming and you would have seen Nick Offerman, who is married to Megan Mullally, come out and do the rap at the end of the song. I can’t remember how it goes exactly, but I think it was something like, “No, you can’t smell my dick, bitch”. But that’s just an educated guess.
They put on a really good show. Great voices and very funny between song, and mid song, banter.
This dude was actually dancing around next to us during their set, so I decided to record him. I’m glad I did, because just watching him makes me giggle. Good memories.
After their set we headed over to the El Chupacabra tent for the stand up shows. We got there about five minutes before Kyle Kinane took the stage. He came out on stage and opened with, “How the fuck are you Coachella? You want to know how to piss off a shitload of nerds at one time? Fuck up the name of their music festival!” Then he spent ten minutes ripping on all the freaks there. He was fucking great. He did a solid fifty minutes and killed it. As he was winding down his set, the tent quickly filled up for Nick Offerman. Beloved by legions of fans for his portrayal of Ron Swanson on the NBC show Parks & Recreation, he drew a huge crowd.
Shortly before he took the stage, a younger boy right in front of us fired up a blunt, just like Snoop DoggyDoggLion y would have done. Now, the good people of Washington state voted to legalize the recreational use of marijuana last November, along with the level-headed residents of Colorado. So people were smoking reefer weeds all over the place at The Gorge with no fuckin’ hassles from the man. That’s the way America should be. It is absolutely insane that we lock people up for smoking marijuana in a place we call “The Land of the Free”. Isn’t it ironic, don’t you think?
But I can drink my face off at a bar and get behind the wheel of a car and kill a family of five? Hypothetically speaking. I have never actually done that. The killing people part. Driving drunk? Sure, I used to do that occasionally. every single night, back in my younger days.
Ron Fucking Swanson
Lil’ Snoop turned around to us and said something along the lines of, “Would you two like to partake in my time-honored. religiously accepted, and voter approved peace-offering?”, or maybe it was, “Want some?”.
Not wanting to come off as a couple of troglodytes , we graciously accepted. After a couple of rips off of the goods, we settled in for some comedy.
But then it happened. I got wigged out. The crowd around us was packing in and there wasn’t much maneuvering room. It was hot and I had wicked bad cottonmouth, dude. I made a comment to Connie Bigs that if the crowd started crushing forward, she should jump over the barricade and save herself, don’t worry about me.
Of course that comment did not have the intended effect, or maybe it did. I don’t know. I was fuckin’ high. I probably shouldn’t have mentioned the people that got crushed to death at The Who concert that time. Naturally, she started getting freaked out too. She told me later that she kept thinking, “Is that gonna happen? It’s a comedy show, not a rock concert. How am I going to get over the barricade? Can I make it over the barricade? What the fuck. Bill?!!”
About ten minutes into Nick Offerman’s set, she turned to me and said, “I think I need to leave.”
I looked around at the sea of people and said, “I don’t think we can get out right now. Are you okay?”
She confirmed to me that she wasn’t okay by any stretch of the imagination, and she really needed to get out of the tent post-haste. So I turned around, took the love of my life by the hand, lowered my head, and big boy shoulder pushed our way out to the welcoming whoosh of fresh air.
“Coming through!!”
We sat on the grass outside the tent and CBS wasn’t looking good. I said, “Do you think that younger boy slipped us some PCP in that blunt?” She gave me a weak chuckle, so at least she was trying. A for effort, Bigs!
I told her to sit right there and I would go get something to drink. I ran over to one of the vendors and got two bottles of water. The girl wouldn’t let me have the caps to the bottles, due to venue policy. I understand that it must suck to have to clean up all those bottle caps, but try running with two open bottles of water through crowds of people when you may or may no be fucked up on PCP. It’s an athletic endeavor.
When I returned to Connie Bigs with the water she drank some and still didn’t feel that great. She said she felt like an asshole walking out during the show. I said, “Who gives a shit? We’re still here, we can still hear him. Lets just sit on the grass, listen to some comedy, and trip chill the fuck out.”
So that’s what we did, and it was excellent. After about fifteen minutes, Connie said she was cold. I said that it may be because we were sitting directly in the shade from the port-a-potties. We laughed at that for a while. It’s good to laugh. Everything was better. Connie Bigs said something about maybe not telling people about what big pussies we were. I told her that I was totally writing about it. She said, “Oh, you definitely have to”, and so I did.
We watched the end of Nick Offerman’s show from outside of the tent. Nancy and Beth joined him onstage for a mashup of Hits From The Bong and Son Of A Preacher Man. It was fantastic. We hung out for another hour or so and then headed back out to the parking lot. We chilled out at the car for about half of an hour or so, taking in the scenery, smoking butts, and cracking each other up. We do that a lot. That’s why Connie Bigslob is my sweet beautiful baby lady.
We left early enough to drive back to Wenatchee in the daylight. During sunset actually. It was phenomenal. I have never felt so small and insignificant in my entire life as I did on the drive to and from The Gorge Amphitheatre. It is incredibly beautiful in the daylight, unbelievably breathtaking at sunset, and absolutely fucking terrifying in the dead of night.
Up Next. Part IV: Welcome Back My Friends To The Show That Never Ends
We woke up at the Holiday Inn Express in Wenatchee after roughly twelve hours of sleep. Traveling always wears me out since I’m ever vigilant in scanning the airport for potential terrorists. It’s a tiring job, but I do it gladly, because I love America. That’s something that you should know about me, if you don’t already.
The hotel offered the best free breakfast of any hotel that I have stayed at that didn’t have the words all-inclusive attached to it somehow. I realize that you pay for the all-inclusive, so it’s not really free. But this place had an awesome pancake machine that I wanted to steal and take home. I’ll take it as carry-on luggage. I don’t give a shit! Whatever, I’m rambling and hungry. Apologies. All around.
I have to be honest. I find it really weird that you weren’t aware of exactly how much I love America. I’m starting to question your motives in reading this, and I am seriously starting to think that maybe I need to keep an eye on you now. See, my vigilance never stops. It’s fucking exhausting.
The gates for the first day of Sasquatch opened at 3pm, so we had some time to kill before heading out on our inaugural drive to The Gorge Amphitheatre. My lady baby and I decided to take a ride and maybe see some sights, since there seemed to be so many sights to see. Or so many sites to see. Whichever one of those two is grammatically correct. I don’t want to argue semantics with a suspected terrorist.
Bullet the blue sky
We took a ride to Ohme Gardens, which was about six miles away from the hotel. Or actually twelve miles by the time Google maps got their shit together. I’m not knocking Google maps. It is maybe the single greatest weapon in a traveler’s arsenal. Right next to hand sanitizer and airport stroke books.
Hopefully you read Part One of this journey, otherwise you might think that I am a connoisseur of airport stroke books. When in reality that couldn’t be further from the truth. I have an iPhone, so I only use stroke books when I’m feeling nostalgic for my childhood. It was a simpler time back then. although I do not miss all of those paper-cuts. I mean, what?
Google maps rules, is what I’m trying to say, in an embarrassingly roundabout way.
So we checked out Ohme Gardens which was pretty nice and extremely hilly. We also rescued an elderly couple who couldn’t find their way out of the maze of steep trails. When I say we rescued them, I mean my sweet beautiful baby lady Nicole rescued them. She’s good like that. But we’re married, so I am legally entitled to fifty percent of the credit for the actual rescue. As well as any advertised reward monies, half of any book deals and/or film rights and residuals that emanate henceforth from said rescue, in perpetuity, forthwith, ad nauseam, amen, etc.
That’s where the money is, in the back-end. At least that’s what it says in my well-worn copy of The Complete Idiots Guide to Matrimonial Law. Take that, single people! As well as all of you illiterates out there. Wait, they won’t see this. But still, right?
“How am I supposed to keep my eyes on the road with all this beautiful shit around me?”- Bill McMorrow
We set off from the hotel at about one in the afternoon. It was roughly fifty miles or so each way, but it was the most beautiful stretch of road that I have ever driven. The entire ride was like looking at a painting. Mountains and valleys, maybe even a couple of plateaus. I’ll have to check into that. I don’t want to go on record as saying there were plateaus if there weren’t, but I kind of feel like there may have been some plateaus. Or at least one plateau. Wait, what’s a plateau again?
Well, the word plateau isn’t even making sense to me anymore after saying it so much. I’m going to say there were no plateaus there. Am I even spelling that right?
We arrived at the Gorge around two o’clock and hit the only traffic we encountered all weekend long. It only lasted about fifteen minutes until we pulled into the “Day Parking” area. The majority of the attendees at Sasquatch camp there for the duration of the festival. That makes it much easier to drive in and out each day/night. Which was fantastic for morale.
The Gorge must be short for “This place is fucking gorgeous”.
We went to the Will Call booth and picked up our wristbands. We also got tickets that you would trade in each day at Customer Service for a bracelet that gave you VIP platform access at the different stages. When we went to the Customer Service booth, the girl there said she was just handing out schedules and that we had to go to the other Customer Service booth for the VIP bracelets. The other Customer Service booth said we needed to go to a third Customer Service booth. The lady at the third Customer Service booth told us to go fuck ourselves. No they didn’t. They called someone who said they would meet us at the first booth we were at.
We returned to the first booth, where they had already run out of schedules. Twenty minutes after the gates had opened on a four-day festival. Talk about not understanding the concept of “measure twice, cut once”. It was a clusterfuck of people asking for schedules, not receiving them, and then whipping out their smartphones to take pictures of the big schedule that was posted beside the booth. Technology rules.
Suck on that, Woodstock! Both of you.
Friendship bracelets, Connie Bigs style
Needless to say, no one came to meet us at the first booth. One of the girls that worked there ran over to the sponsor area and back. She said someone would be down in ten minutes with the wristbands. Thirty minutes later she ran up to the sponsor area and back again. She breathlessly apologized and said someone would definitely be there in a minute. Ten minutes later that someone finally appeared. We got the appropriate bracelets and inquired about the probability of them having this little fiasco ironed out for the coming days. We were assured that the bracelets would be there for the rest of the festival, so we bade them a fair adieu and headed off to kick the fucking tires on this hairy son of a bitch.
The first act we saw was ZZ Ward. Who, after much loud conversation and a fair amount of quiet contemplation, we decided was not one of the ZZ Top guys gone solo. He was actually a she, and she was pretty good. We only heard two songs, but the crowd , although somewhat sparse, was digging her.
After her came Jordan Cook, also known as Reignwolf. I had heard a few of his songs whilst researching bands prior to the festival and I like him. He’s sick with just an electric guitar and a kick drum. His set was really good, and he ended it jamming on top of a van as it drove him away from the stage. Just like I would have done if I was given both the time-slot in which to perform as well as a van with a licensed and dependable driver on which to escape. Because accidents happen, and I’m pretty sure we’ve discussed my affinity for safety before.
Amy & Joe, Grand Prize Winners. No, not because they get to sit next to me, but also kind of because of that, too.
After Reignwolf we met up with Amy and Joe at the Cliff House. This was a “private” area with a bar and food service and some pretty spectacular views overlooking the Columbia River. As the four of us were talking, Amy got a text from one of the Bose people about meeting up with them. As it turned out, they were at the Cliff House, too. A guy walked out to where we were standing and introduced himself. His name was David, and he was from Live Nation.
I’m only using first names because have you read me? Sometimes I can be sort of colorful and salty in my choice of words. My mother always used to tell me that was what made me adorable as fuck, but I can see how some people might not agree with her correct assessment of her baby boy. You’re entitled to your own opinion.
But call my mother a liar again and see what fucking happens!!
David invited us inside to meet the people who put the contest together. We graciously accepted his offer as we are civilized members of society, and that’s what we do. We sat down with Madison, Brenna, Tim, and Jeremy from Bose, as well as David and Cameron from Live Nation. Cameron was the one who called to tell me I had won the trip. We chatted about how unreal it all seemed and how excited we were for the days ahead.
They bought us drinks. Nicole had an adult beverage, but I just had a Sprite, since I was the designated driver. You probably think I’m a pussy, but you’ve already insulted America as well as my dead mother, so I’m not surprised that you would attack me personally.
We hung out for a bit and then went over to Tito’s Bar, which was located next to the main stage. This was where the VIP platform bracelets come into play. You went up these stairs and watched from the side of the stage. It was really cool. But more about that later.
That night we saw Arctic Monkeys, who I didn’t really know, but they sounded great. It was more about the people watching and scenery viewing at that point. There was more than enough of each to go around.
The headliner that night was Macklemore & Ryan Lewis. They’re from Seattle and apparently they’re gonna pop some tags. They were really fucking good. The energy level of the crowd was off the hook, as the kids would say. In 1997.We only stayed for four or five songs and then made the long, uphill pilgrimage back out to the car at about 11:30pm.
Macklemore & Ryan Lewis closing out Day One of Sasquatch
The drive back to Wenatchee was no longer as beautiful as it was in the daytime. It was more along the lines of semi-terrifying. Just fifty miles of dark windy roads. I really had to do some serious concentrating, which made it difficult to fall asleep while driving. Actually it would have been very easy to fall asleep, which in turn made it very difficult to drive.
I’m sorry. Was I just snoring?
Up Next – Part III : This Is A Story ‘Bout Billy Berue & Connie Bigs
My wife and I got back from the all expenses paid trip to the Sasquatch Music Festival at The Gorge Amphitheatre in George, Washington early Wednesday morning. It was a really exhausting 5 days, but I am so glad we experienced it.
I am going to recap the trip with a post covering each day, because so much awesomeness was crammed into so little time.
May 23, 2013
We arrived at Logan International Airport at the ungodly hour of six o’clock in the morning. Oh, I realize that six AM is not early for a teeny tiny majority of you people out there. But for the least of us it’s like, “What?! That time actually exists? I thought it was just an old wives tale used to scare small children into doing the Lord’s bidding and such”.
But it does exist and it’s ugly and I don’t want to talk about it any further as it infuriates me ever so much. But I shall continue on, for you. Dear sweet reader.
I’ll take an iPhone 5. Oh, not that Apple?
We were flying out at eight o’clock on Alaskan Airlines to Seattle-Tacoma, and that only took like six and a half hours. Which is roughly three and a half hours longer than I have spent on a plane before. We flew coach, which didn’t feel “very important personish” to me. I’ve always envisioned VIP’s as flying first class. But maybe that’s just the burden I bear from watching one too many episodes of Gilligan’s Island. Damn you and your spend foolish ways, Thurston Howell the Third!!
I don’t understand why other airlines don’t follow Jet Blues lead and install televisions in all the seats. Talk about an opiate for the masses. It make the whole experience that more enjoyable. Alaskan Airlines doesn’t have a television in the seat, but they have handheld video players that you can rent for $10. There are seven or eight new release movies and some television shows downloaded onto them, so it’s a pretty good deal.
Pangborn airport
Of course they only take credit cards and not cash. Probably because they don’t want to get robbed during the flight. Then the flight attendant would have to sit there with the robber while the plane taxied to the terminal, making small talk while waiting for the captain to turn off the seatbelt sign so the robber could escape. That would suck. I mean what would you talk about, besides the armed robbery?
I rented two players, one for myself and one for my lovely wife Nicole. She said, “Why don’t we just share one?”, and I said,”My sweet beautiful baby lady gets her own video player, as long as it only costs me no more than ten American dollars!”. I can be quite charming when the price is reasonable.
We watched Oz the Great and Powerful and Life of Pi on the trip. I thought Oz was pretty good, although I dozed a little during it. I know it didn’t get great reviews, but I dig Daniel Desario and Jackie Burkhart, so I’ll watch it again at home. Life of Pi was also interesting. But I didn’t know it involved a sinking ship. I don’t think any movie with a serious accident involving the death of people should be allowed on a plane, if I can’t bring more than three ounces of fucking liquid on there.
When in Seattle…
We got to Seattle-Tacoma International Airport a little early. Which was nice, because I didn’t think our original three and a half hour layover was going to be enough time to enjoy all the airport had to offer. There was that gift shop I really wanted to see, and then that other gift shop, too. We ate at a place called Alaska Lodge that had three things on the menu and none of them seemed appealing. But turning down a mediocre $12 chicken sandwich has never been my strong suit. So I had to do it.
One of the great additions to airports has been the charging stations for portable electronics. It’s nice to be able to watch a movie on Netflix or something to make the time pass by without draining your battery. It’s also good if the airport gift shop runs out of your favorite skin mag and you have to masturbate at the airport the old-fashioned way. With internet porn. Like God and the Wright Brothers and Al Gore intended.
Yeah, interest in jerking off in the airport.
When our wait was up, we walked out on the tarmac to a prop plane for the 35-40 minute flight to Wenatchee. We boarded and took our seats. I would like to go on record as saying that I think that prop planes suck. I don’t want to be able to see the engine stop. Some secrets are meant to be kept all the way to the ground. At least with a jet plane the captain can just make jet noises over the intercom right up until the point of impact.
The couple in front of us were stowing their bags in the overhead compartment when Nicole said, “They have Bose tags on their luggage too”. My lady is wicked perceptive.
Amy and Joe are from Nebraska and won the contest to have lunch with the group Capital Cities. They were booked at the same hotel as us and we hit it off from the get go.
When we landed in Wenatchee and got off the plane we all went outside the little airport to smoke a butt. Because I’m a vacation smoker now. I ripped butts all long-weekend long.
All cool boys smoke on vacation.
Don’t worry, I already quit again.
We made the eight mile drive to the Holiday Inn Express and checked in. It was a nice, clean place, and the staff at the front desk were very friendly. But not in one of those creepy, “I’m a serial killer and I’m going to fool my victims into thinking we’re best friends before I skin them alive for my sexual pleasure” ways. Which is a good thing. I think.
There’s a Wendy’s restaurant located right in front of the hotel, so we got some food to bring back to the hotel. I usually don’t eat fast food, you know, because I don’t trust teenagers to handle foodstuffs in a safe and hygienic fashion. But I was pretty hungry since it had been forever since that mediocre $12 chicken sandwich. So I rolled the dice on a Jr. Bacon Cheeseburger, hold the DNA.
Then we settled in for the night to rest our weary travelers bones in preparation for Day one of the Sasquatch Music Festival.
It’s this new website that people go on to remember why they hate other people. I was scrolling through the usual stuff. E-cards detailing how much people like vodka. Memes about how much someone wants to punch someone else in the face. Pictures of abused children that I’m supposed to “like” to prove I don’t like child abuse. You know. Facebook.
I came across a post from Bose stereo about a chance to win a trip to The Sasquatch Festival at The Gorge Amphitheatre in George, Washington. Seriously, they hold a four-day music festival inside the preserved remains of this country’s first president. The man they call the father of our country. Good old Honest Abe.
There’s a chance that The Gorge may be in Quincy, Washington and not George, Washington. Google can’t seem to make up its mind. Silly Google. But it works better for the particular pun that I was trying to do there. Although I guess I could have said that they hold the festival inside the preserved remains of Jack Klugman.
I’m sure most of you got that reference. You’re a smart bunch. I always say that about you guys to myself.
Apparently “The Gorge” is short for “This place is fucking gorgeous” image via gorgecamping.com
I clicked on the contest link to see if I had to like or share the post in order to enter, because I won’t do that. I don’t want to be your little errand boy, wearing your company name on a sandwich board while tourists throw half-pennies at my face and genitalia, telling me to dance for Daddy. Goddamn tourists and their half-pennies.
But I didn’t have to play the role of Don Draper for them, having to come up with all these fancy ideas to lure the suckers in the doors. Nor did I have to play Joan Harris and fuck some creepy dude just to make partner.
All I had to do was enter some basic information such as, name, address, phone number, email address and favorite sexual position. I was kidding about the last one. I didn’t have to tell them my favorite sexual position, I told them because I wanted to. I feel it’s always a good way to make someone’s acquaintance by trying to sex them up hardcore right off the bat. But I’m old-fashioned like that.
So I entered my information and I moved on with my life.
Cut to last Monday afternoon. I noticed that I had two missed calls from the same number a few minutes apart from each other. They didn’t leave a voicemail, so naturally I assumed it was a bill collector of some sort.
Looking to shake me down for the money Columbia House Records and Tapes says I owe them from 1983. Even though I know for a fact that I checked NO on the selection of the month postcard and sent it back. So I shouldn’t have been charged for that Quarterflash album.
Quarterflash -Hardening hearts since 1980
About forty-five minutes later, I got another call from the same number. I was going through the process of googling the number to see who it was when a voicemail popped up. It was from Live Nation Entertainment. They were calling to congratulate me on being the winner of the Sasquatch/Bose VIP Experience contest.
Airfare, hotel, rental car, $500 walking around money, 2 four-day VIP tickets, and we’re going backstage to meet The Lumineers. Pretty sweet deal.
I informed my sweet beautiful baby lady wife Nicole that I was a “Grand Prize Winner”, and we were going away to Washington State for Memorial Day weekend to meet The Lumineers.
She informed me that she wanted to visit Forks, Washington while we’re there. She’s a big Twilight fan, it’s adorable. I’m thinking about asking her to the prom.
I should mention that The Lumineers album has been played in heavy rotation at the McMorrow household for the past year. It has also been in my car stereo that whole time. I don’t mean to brag, but it’s a six CD changer, so I can listen to other things too.
Don’t treat me any differently, I’m just “one of the guys”.
Oh, did I mention that it’s a Bose stereo in my car? I didn’t? Well there you go. Unbelievable, right? We also have a Bose SoundDock and a Bose home theater system.
We earned this.
When I played the voicemail for my wife, she said, ” What are you talking about? It’s obviously a scam. What contest? You should probably call them back and find out, you big beautiful bastard!!”.
Adorable, I tell you.
I heeded my wife’s sage advice and called the number back. Sure as shit, I won the thing. They emailed me a bunch of paperwork to sign and return to them. Which I did promptly. A couple of days later I was contacted by the travel people with arrangements for the trip. We fly out of Logan on Thursday morning, and come back on Tuesday night. Actually 1:35 Wednesday morning.
So many bands to see. Mumford and Sons, Elvis Costello, Primus, Dropkick Murphy’s and more. Plus a lot of independent music that I’ve been trying to listen to in order to figure out who I need to see. The Tallest Man On Earth is one that I’ve just become hooked on. He’s performing on the Sasquatch stage Sunday from 4;20 to 5:20.
It’s written down in the book. We will be there.
There’s also some great comedians that are performing there. Tig Notaro, Mike Birbiglia, Bret Gelman. If there’s one thing you need to know about me, I love to laugh. If there’s two things you need to know about me, then you need to cut the shit and stop being so nosy. I’m a private man. Give me some space.
Anyways, the whole thing is pretty phenomenal. Whatever though, no big deal.
It’s only like I just won the Showcase Showdown on The Price Is Right, but no big whoop.
Any suggestions as to what bands we should check out while we’re there? I’d love to know what you think.
Bill McMorrow 