fm Bandit

Weekend getaways can be so thrilling; upon my return, though, my bed punished me for my absence with a night of restless blanket-pawing. Let me first mention that my festival appetite was barely satiated by the Kashi commercial Union Street Fair the week before. There was no music; stages were instead used to demonstrate natural cooking products and prefab foods. I had loads of two-ounce servings of granola, cereal, and salad. I scored some coupons for those honey-glazed slivered almonds they sell at Safeway; these, incidentally, are always on sale adjacent to coupons for them.

The Redwood Run was worth it. It was an actual festival, with musicians and junk. I bit my tongue about this all weekend, because rock stars prefer a deferential attitude. But now I’ve got to say it: I had the green wristband. My friend and I were backstage, helping out ostensibly. If you ever wondered whether enduring those the-show-never-stops-buddy personalities were worth the thrill of being “part of it,” the answer is decidedly yes–for the weekend, yes, totally.

Let me tell you about this tent, dawg. There were three headliners on Saturday night and only two “green room” tents. This begged the question: why was a third tent sequestered behind the outdoor kitchen, guarded by a sheet of copy paper with “BANDS ONLY” written on it? The answer, as always, is revealed by carefully observing the pattern. In this case, no band members whatsoever entered the lonely tent. Mostly staff and ladies tryna look pretty, but they were just people like us.

So in we went, to the empty tent
not a cent was spent in here to get bent
we cheered quite sincere for the tent
where the free beer did appear
that the tent persevered to our gut’s content!

Recall that they’re given their own tent full of whatever they want, reportedly minus brown M&M’s. That’s why there weren’t any bands in the tent. They combined two good ideas (hidden, bottomless beer and a decoy green room) into one transparent, super-idea. If only you could rent motorcycles for the weekend, though I suppose that would really piss a lot of folks off.

Also: I sliced, arranged, and delivered meat and cheese to some rock stars. I later heard people criticize an unarmed L.A. Guns for taking all the food they barely touched. I defended them, pointing out that they’re opaquely billed for the food somehow. I’m not sure if this is true, but I think it is. I’ve heard rockstars bitch about it; bitching about having it all, by the way, is my least favorite artistic message. But anyway, in my experience, a lot of the experience of being famous is constructed to make you feel like you’re rich and famous. It doesn’t seem to matter if you’re paying for the experience.

I had kickass soulfood at Hard Knox today with my high school guidance counselor, who actually passed away briefly and traumatically four months ago. He came back to life (thank God) to tell me a story about hanging with his Hollywood homie. I heard a tale of celebrity, residential restaurants run by tough guys illicitly between the hours of two and six AM, Monday through Thursday. That’s the kind of stuff I’m talking about, the whispers reminiscent of rhyming-slang that bond the somebodies. They thrive on private knowledge of where to bathe in exclusivity.

I’m no expert, but it’s precisely because I don’t really care about this sort of thing that I seem to have anything to say about what it’s like on the bus. To be sure, I don’t deny myself the thrill of inclusion. But if you want to get into it, you’ve got to get over it. If you’re normally attentive to the needs of your company, recognize their rarely-exercised right to be treated as normal people. Talk to them about whatever, but realize they’re often still at work even while they’re at rest. Not that it’s a terrible thing to get giggly and ask for autographs, but folks in a twist don’t make it on the list.

I was told about some T.V. show to catch tonight but I ignored it. I resist this kind of thing. I’m excited for one show, and one show is good for me: I can’t wait for Workaholics. Otherwise, I watch crap I hopefully won’t get immersed in. That’s what I did tonight. I watched Teen Wolf. It’s perfect. The dialogue go!

That’s a kickass outro from another entirely different show I’m resisting.

My dad may have hilariously mistaken Ronny Montrose’s lead singer for the drummer and towardly started some shit passed on the rumor that Sammy Hagar was planning a surprise guest appearance.

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