Three days of unholy misery

To the silly bitches talking about your superkewl weekend plans this morning in the cafe, like it makes you Hep or something: You know, I’d LOVE to spend $500 to stand around getting sunburned in the wind (or freezing my entire nipular region off in the windy fog, or perhaps both in the same hour) enduring annoying band after annoying band all goddamn day with a bunch of hippies, hipsters, mouth-breathers from Hayward, attention-whores from all walks of life, entitled rich kids, small yappy dogs and the various human riffraff of the San Francisco Bay Area, in order to not hear (thanks to crappy PA systems, sound bleed from other stages, aforementioned wind & fog, Talky Mc O’Chattersons all around) the music being played by my favorite bands, whom I can not see on the stage two hundred yards away (without binoculars and a sudden surge in my own personal height from 5’5” to at least 7’2”), take the occasional nature break in a port-a-potty, and spend three hours trying to exit the park along with 100,000 other people when it’s over, I really would. But, you know, I’ve got, like, this … um … thing I gotta do that day. Or something. Gosh darn it, sucks that I’m gonna miss it. But you kids go have fun.

PS: yeah, sorry, I wrote this post already in March, and better ... Grandma tends to repeat herself. So what. At least I stick to my convictions.