Bumbershoot Me In the Face

I've decided to whitewash our home, the entire thing: clean, bright, fresh white walls. I want it to feel like a new [insert cliche New Age word here: a new start, beginning, page, chapter, journey]. I want our home to be the perfect balance between modern and vintage, while feeling slightly weathered, like something that was carefully handmade. Our home should reflect our personalities, and not just our bad habits. I would also like to install a self-cleaning function into the system, which seems difficult, but worth it. I want my home to possess a bottomless budget for furniture, flowers, and design--which is progress, since before I only wanted a boyfriend who possessed those things. In a nutshell, I want everything. And 'everything' starts with a whitewashed home; I feel whiter already.

Speaking of a new chapter: I hope that after going to Bumbershoot this year (after staying away for many, many years), we will start a new chapter next year, entitled, We're Never Going to Bumbershoot Again, Full Stop. Seattle's largest, whitest cattle drive proved to be as disappointing as ever. Seeing Neko Case in concert, meeting Joshy's girlfriend, and hanging in the beer garden with Colleen and Randy was fun--but for 160 bones, we could have seen Neko Case in a good venue, had dinner with Josh and Naomi at a restaurant, and bought a few rounds for Colleen and Randy at a moderately-priced bar; that really puts it into perspective. $40 per person, per day? IS RIDICULOUS.

If I do get dragged there next year, I'm wearing a giant muumuu that says DON'T FUCKING TOUCH ME on one side, and DON'T FUCKING SOLICIT ME on the other. I felt like I was pushing my way through huge crowds of idiots, tourists, drug-addled pre-teens, and salesmen. We stood in line forever, just to buy tickets, and people were coming up from all sides, ambushing the shit out of us. 'Would you like to listen to a GREAT CD?' one girl asked, shoving a CD in my face. 'Do you LOVE lipgloss?!' another girl cried, handing out Burt's Bees lip balm freebies.

'Are you registered to vote in our county?'
'Does anyone need Sunday tickets at a discount?'
'Would you like to play to win?'
'Have you heard about the initiative that the city council...'
'What cell phone service provider are you currently using?'
'Do you believe in free speech?'

I laughed at that one. I should have gone over to her and said "NO". No, I don't believe in free speech, especially when I'm trying to enjoy myself at an overpriced concert venue with nine billion other people WHO ARE IN MY WAY. Take your free speech and shove it in your cakehole. As we walked past the Burt's Bee's product tent, I said, "Only in Seattle would Burt's Bees organic lip balm have such a prominent booth, center stage to the action." To which the Esq replied, "Try this all-new organic snake oil!" I laughed, because it's true; none of the solicitors were selling us anything new, they were just selling the promise of something new in the future: better music, glossier lips, a cheaper phone plan, a stuffed animal prize, and free speech, although I hear that's been around for quite some time. I kept waiting for the snake oil equivalent, though--a shyster with a Snidely Whiplash mustache, and a wide, pinstriped suit, selling me 'commitment creme' to make my skin more radiant and marriage-worthy, or 'hair tonic' for glistening, lustrous curls--but realized the 15-year old Burt's Bees pusher was the closest we were going to get. I was actually hoping for someone to ask, "Can you spare some change?", because that would have felt more honest.

My last Neko Case review looked like this (highlights ganked from my 2006 blog):

.... With balls the size of Canada, she sang the shit out of each melancholy song, each a mix of Americana, rockabilly, gospel, bluegrass, folk, Delta blues, country, with a twinge of lazy indie rock. Flawless, simple vocals--check; haunting, crazy harmonies--check; religious fucking experience, CHECK. Blah blah blah, "it was worth every penny", blah blah blah, "I would go see her again". The next time she's in town, sell your dog, your house, your children--and GO. You won't regret it.

Well, you won't regret it unless you're in Memorial Stadium at the Seattle Science Center. Then you will not only regret it, you will also resent having paid the $80 entrance fee so that you could sit high in the bleachers and hear a shoddy acoustic show. Neko was amazing, because that's what she does: she stuns you into amazement and leaves you literally breathless. But it's easier to be stunned when there aren't thousands of people talking around you, creating a constant buzzing noise over the din of thousands of OTHER people talking around you, which makes the music harder to hear. Why are you at a concert if you aren't there to listen? Unfortunately, the last concert I saw of hers in 2006 had more energy--they weren't phoning it in this time, but it didn't compare, either.

She covered one of my favorite Harry Nilsson songs, Don't Forget Me, and introduced it like so: "Harry Nilsson is the greatest writer of sad songs ever." That's true, and it's one of my favorite sad songs, so I was happy they chose that cover; I also appreciated the shout-out for Harry Nilsson, since he couldn't be there to appreciate it for himself, being deceased and all. John the Baptist, by far my favorite revival sing-along, was done as well, but the wonky acoustics made it sound almost thin when it should have sounded positively obese with holy righteousness.

Interesting sidenote: at shows like this, there's always a roped-off area for the handicapabled. It's always higher off the ground, for optimal viewing, and there's usually only two people on it. This time was no different. There were two people in the roped-off area: a dude in a wheelchair, and an interpreter for the deaf. I repeat: an interpreter for the deaf. At a concert. The Esq and I had never seen someone doing American Sign Language at a concert before, although she might have been there for someone who was hard of hearing, and not completely deaf. It looked pretty strange. There she was, on her own private stage, taking the words and feelings of Neko Case and transforming them into a very silent, very physical, one-woman modern ballet. She performed as though she were competing in the ASL Olympics. I was impressed with the execution, since thousands of people were really distracted by her, myself included. I wrote on my cell phone notepad: 'Reminds me of an enthusiastic mime in denim shorts and flip-flops.' And how.

The most annoying part of the day was my pea-sized bladder, which I consider the most traitorous body part of all, even more seditious than my uncooperative uterus. I really hate using public restrooms; my standards are extremely high, so I end up holding it half the time. When you're at Bumbershoot, drinking *this* and eating *that*, the need for a bathroom increases exponentially, especially when you're there for more than a few hours. After the concert, I made a dash for the restroom; a restroom at the stadium. That was my first mistake. Upon entering the "restroom", my second mistake was not leaving immediately. It was like walking through a minefield of urine, which is the really the opposite of 'restful': one or two of the toilets had violently exploded (that's what it looked like), leaving toilet water and the pee of total strangers all over the concrete room. I gingerly made my way to an open stall, closed the door, and turned around to a nightmare of epic proportions: POOP, EVERYWHERE. If a piece of shit could be murdered by el chupacabra, this is what it would have looked like: like it had been drawn and quartered, and then flung to the high heavens by a slew of escaped monkeys (somehow the escaped monkeys and el chupacabra are in it together, don't ask). I made a hasty exit, and tried for another one, while the line of people behind me piled up; I could feel their restlessness, which made me hate them. YOU go clean up that horrifying murder scene, I thought. I'll be over here, in a clean stall, peeing like a goddamn champion.

Every stall I saw had pee on the seats, a used tampon on the floor, no toilet paper, or was knee-deep in water; it was DISGUSTING. People who claim that women are precious, delicate flowers can kiss my motherfucking ass; there was nothing dainty about this bathroom. After finding the stall with the least amount of problems--which isn't saying much--I spent ten minutes cleaning the toilet seat with toilet paper that felt like flattened gravel. Who wouldn't want to wipe their ass with this? I thought. Finally I can rip myself a new asshole, without anyone having to do it for me.

After meeting up with Josh, Naomi, Colleen and Randy, we left. I mean, we hung around each other for a while, hit the beer garden, and then went our separate ways. All of us wanted to 'wander around' with our significant others, so the Esq and I wandered far away from Bumbershoot, towards sweet freedom. First we stopped at the Fun Forest, which is like a tiny fair for barely-interested adults; we had sno-cones, and the Esq won three stuffed animals for me with his balloon-darting prowess. I was very proud. After leaving Bumbershoot, we ended up at the 5 Point Cafe, where they serve big pitchers of whatever you want, and equally enormous slabs of chicken fried steak. On the way home, we stopped at Whole Foods for bread and a real bathroom; after the bathrooms at Memorial Stadium (POOP!), the Center House (no toilet paper, WTF?), and the 5 Point (smelled like urine circa 1962), I was ready for a good old fashioned bathroom in an upscale retail market filled with overpriced cheeses and rich urban white folks. Whole Foods met that challenge head-on and won. Peeing at Whole Foods was like winning the Lottery on the same day your dog dies, or vomiting $20 bills during a 48-hour flu: shocking, but totally worth it.

Anyways, besides seeing Neko and having a whole day with my sweetie, the only thing I learned about myself at Bumbershoot was this: I'm whiny, and have always wanted to play the banjo.