I feel so shitty that I haven't been writing anything on Fridays and Saturdays for the last couple of weeks. I'm just usually so fucking fried by the end of the week, though, that I just can't fathom trudging back down into the basement to tap out some clever little ruminations. I've gotta get me a laptop... and a wireless network... oh, and a life would be nice, too.
Anywhich, yesterday we went to the Great Lakes Folk Festival in East Lansing to see us some "folks." We had to literally pry the kiddlies out of the goddamn house to go. Everytime the old lady and I make any sort of effort to go somewhere on the weekends, it's met with, "We don't wanna go. Can't we just stay home? It's gonna be so booooring." It's not like we're taking them to pick out drapes, or something. It's a fucking outdoor music festival with bands and food and ice cream and old men who give yo-yo demonstrations to a surprisingly large and seemingly interested crowd. (Seriously, this old yo-yo dude had this throng around him mesmerized with his yo-yocity -- I kept hearing him babbling on about the history of his "sport". "Now, the string of the yo-yo is made of a specially woven cotton thread..." It looked like that Jim Jones gang right before they drank the fucking Kool-aid. Bizarro!)
So, we finally shoved them into the car and drove on over. It was a beautiful day and we got there when this awesome Ugandan group was rocking out on the main stage. Everyone was dancing and popping and/or locking -- everyone, of course, except Mr. Z and Miss O. I mean, it must have physically hurt them NOT to dance, because the beat was so crazy. But they were determined to shit on our afternoon, so we ignored them and danced ourselves.
We were forced to go in search of beverages, though, when Miss O's whining started drowning out the GIANT P.A. SYSTEM. I'm telling ya, next time some wacky religious cult is holed-up in Waco, just have Miss O stand in front of the compound and whine for a few minutes. Those fuckers'll come a-runnin in no time. It's as if someone is raking their fingernails across a chalkboard... that's shoved up your ass. She really has quite a talent.
So we walked across the entire festival in search of liquid. Of course, we had to make sure we saw EVERY last option, because Mr. Z CANNOT make up his mind when it comes to any sort of purchase. "Oh, there's some Cream soda. I like that... but, there's also Orange... I don't know... can we keep looking? Hmm... there's a lemonade place over there. Rootbeer might be nice, though... or a Slushie?" AHHH! PICK A GODDAMN DRINK!!! YOU'RE GONNA PISS IT OUT IN FIFTEEN MINUTES ANYWAY! THEN YOU CAN GET ANOTHER ONE!!! PLEASE, EITHER PICK ONE, OR SHOOT ME!!!
He picked a rootbeer. Miss O got a lemonade and we also got a 500 gallon bag of kettle corn. I don't know if I even like kettle corn, but I sure ate the shit out of it. It's like food crack. I'd sell my plasma to buy more of it. I don't even know what's in it. It's salty, it's sweet, it's crunchy, and it'll clean ya right out, too. Like eating a Brillo pad. A salty, sweet, crunchy Brillo pad.
Then the old lady and I wanted to go see this bluegrass band that was playing back on the other side of the fest -- these three sisters, the Lovell Sisters, aged 20, 17 and 15. They were pretty good -- nice voices, good harmonies -- I'd say in a couple of years they'll be great. Of course, on the way there, the bitching and moaning started right back up. "I'm hot!" "I'm tired!" "I aspirated a kettle corn kernel into my lungs and I can't breathe!" Blah, blah, blah.
Finally, on our way there, Mr. Z showed some enthusiasm and shouted, "NO WAY! MOM, DAD... LOOK!!!!" I was ready to turn and see some fire-juggling, unicycle-riding, one-man-band-playing chimpanzee or something, but Mr. Z was pointing at these:
Porta-potties (or "kybos," as the old lady calls them). The boy is FASCINATED by them. Seriously, he talks about them all the time. "We're going to the park? Hey, I wonder if there'll be any Porta-Potties there!" (I swear, he better not turn out like Chuck Berry or Jack Brickhouse, or I'll be seriously bummed.) He started begging for us to let him use one, and in that moment, I saw my opportunity to turn the day around. I said, "Tell you what -- if you guys stop complaining and whining and try to actually have some fun, I'll let you use the Porta-Potty at the end of the day."
And from that moment on, we had a great day. We went and saw the band. Miss O saw a friend of hers from camp and they drew on the sidewalk with chalk. Mr. Z joined some kids who were playing in the fountain:
Miss O didn't break her neck jumping around in the moon walk thing:
Hell, they even managed to not implode when we popped into Urban Outfitters to look for some pants for me for this wedding we have to go to.
And, true to my word, at the end of the day, we let Mr. Z and Miss O go inside a Porta-Potty. Mr. Z was beside himself. He said, "That was AWESOME -- it was so NASTY in there!"
That's my boy.
So yeah, turned out to be a great day, thanks to some nice weather, some good music, and the magic of the portable crapper.