Decent chance of early grave this weekend. Dusting off the old outdoor jam flip flops, out in the sun, gettin’ weird brah. When I bought the tickets, 6 months ago, I had this vision of behaving like a mature, 35 year old father, dancing through my head. But now here I sit 96 hours out and we all know how this story ends. Going to be with a couple of no bueno bandejos from waaaayyyy back, and when the group-think switch gets flipped at the 00:01:14 mark of our journey things will go pear-shaped in a hurry. I’ve been down this lonely road before. I also held out hope for some pre-fall concert weather, maybe a little 70 and sunny by day, dip down into the low 50′s by night, necessitating a sweatshirt add-in to the hip concert-going backpack I’ll be sporting to let the youngsters know I’m not a pig. Nope, 150 degrees, 101% humidity, right up the ass. Will have to pound beer just to keep from getting thirsty. I have a long, storied, violent history of claiming that I’ll be “taking it easy at _________ social drinking soiree”. More often than not the following morning gives way to dry, fiery, winged wraiths assailing my psyche from all angles demanding their pound of flesh. In current times these wraiths are often directed from the bully pulpit of a 2-year-old. She’ll demand “Daddy get me some cold water” (powerless at this point I dutifully do as I’m told since it provides me with 30 seconds of something to focus on), followed by a screamed out crowd-pleaser “No!!! Mommy has to hand it to me!!!” Being that Mommy is likely in the same boat as Daddy she knows all too well that appeasement is the order of the day and thus water is handed back to me who then hands it to my wife who, filled with much fear, then hands it back to the toddler. And so on and so forth until bedtime provides sweet release. I can pay lip service all week to concepts such as “restraint”, “take it easy”, “stay even-keeled to really appreciate the music”, and the always enjoyed “I’ll just switch early to water”. But deep in the recesses of my subconscious the demon lurks, and scoffs at my forecasts of relative sobriety. He knows that when dawn breaks on Sunday morning there will be an orgiastic feast of the wicked as they dance the jig of my demise.
This begs the question: Knowing full well how this timeless tale ends, would the wise man kill the host before the bacchanal, thus depriving the demon his blood lust? I think it prudent strategy. A friend I grew up with always took an alternate route in these situations. His M.O. in scenarios where a grand drunkening was imminent was to get bombed out of his fucking tree the night before. His theory was that by so doing, he would be massively hungover at the main event and thus not feel up to getting as hammered that night. He did not like going into big drinking playoff games feeling “too fresh”, which was as he put it “dangerous”. As an unbiased observer in dozens of such instances I can confer beyond a reasonable doubt that A) This is fucking stupid logic and B) Always resulted in him getting just as hammered, if not more so, than the preemptive strike and thus having to recover from two consecutive days of self-poisoning rather than just one. Which as we all know the pain and suffering, not to mention the time-to-positive-thought-again, equation of two consecutive days of insanity is not linear, but rather exponential. When days are stacked upon one another we leave the realm of calculator math and must call in Will Hunting to proof it out for us. But a preemptive strike resulting in the death of the host seems perfectly logical to me. This is where I wish I was technologically inclined as I would fade this blog out to the theme song from M.A.S.H.
I’ll see you all again, on this side or the other.