Hey, I got up at 6am!
My spooky alarm told me to.
Because, like an idiot, I had agreed to do this entirely stupid van job earlier in the week.
And it's Saturday.
And no one should be up at 6am.
Not even the newspaper man.
Because no one gives a shit about Saturday news.
And nobody reads a newspaper anymore.
But there I was.
Up like a jerk.
On four hours of sleep.
I made one lousy trip down my stairs with a two wheeler topped with individually wrapped granola bars and loaded them into the van.
Destination: Douche Bag Street Art Festival
I did this again.
Then I did it again.
It seemed early to be bumbling down the steps one clunk at a time with all this stupid fucking bullshit.
It seemed too Saturday morning just after dawn to be doing this stupid fucking bullshit.
It seemed completely uncourteous to my neighbors, who were enjoying this little thing called rest.
But I made another trip.
And even one more.
I was about half way through loading the van with stupid fucking goddamn fucking granola bars when my annoying fucking cellphone rang.
It was Yvette.
She's the overnight driver.
She had the other 72 boxes of fucking granola bars for the fucking art fest.
"Tony. When were you planning on getting there?"
I told her around 7:30am, when they wanted us to be there.
"They said they wanted us there no later than 7:30."
I told her I was doing the best I could.
I almost told her about my fear that the planet would explode if these individually wrapped granola bars arrived at the douchebag art festival slightly after 7:30.
But instead, I closed my shitty cellphone and lugged the two-wheeler back up the stairs.
And made five more trips up and down the steps.
By 7:15 the van was chock full of nutritious garbage.
I raced down to the art festival.
At 7:32 on the donkeydick dot I pulled up to the douche bag art festival.
I was two minutes late.
I let go of the steering wheel and held my arms up in front of my face.
I braced for the inevitable self-destruction of the earth.
But.
The world remained intact.
The planet did not explode.
No one died a flamey flamey death.
In fact, the client wasn't even there.
Wait.
So I could have gotten four and a half hours of sleep?
We piled the boxes under a tent.
The sky grew dark and foreboding.
It seemed mad.
Like it wanted to explode.
But the sky is the world's assistant, and it doesn't quite have that power.
I went home for an unhealthy breakfast.
Then I loaded my drums into the van and heading for the Metronome Festival.
The Bitter Tears were scheduled to open the day's live music festivities.
When the earth wasn't looking, the sky rained all over the festival.
It was still mad about those granola bars being two minutes late.
I don't mind rain.
In fact, I love it.
If it rained every day, I would be a happier man.
And I would have less wrinkles from squinting.
And less skin cancer from my twelve consecutive years working outdoors.
Unfortunately, most of the world doesn't like the rain.
They don't like getting wet for some reason.
Yet most of these rain haters shower on a daily basis.
Logic aside, when it rains, people don't attend outdoor music festivals.
So The Bitter Tears played to no one.
"What kind of songs does asphalt like?"
The set itself was good.
It was nice to play my own drums for the first time in over a month.
The drying rain drops seemed to like it during their short lifespan.
With a triumphant set under our belts and VIP wristbands adorned to our wrists, we headed toward the VIP tent to indulge in the rumored buffet. Only, we couldn't find the VIP tent. Three people pointed us in three different directions.
Nothing.
We spoke to some festival coordinators.
"Food is coming!" they scowled.
They were clearly annoyed with us.
Starving and glossed in post-show cake-up residuals, we waited some more.
A Latin band was beating the hell out of a wooden box.
We gave up on waiting for food.
At a vendor, we spent a total of $714 on an Italian sausage, a hot dog, and a corn dog.
In front of the register sat a plate of homemade potato chips, piled into a Jenga-like pyramid.
"Are these complimentary?" I inquired.
"Those are just a display. But people actually eat them!" said the cashier, still in his very early twenties.
I told them they seemed inviting.
"I mean, if you wanna eat 'em, fine. But they've been sitting there all day."
The day had just begun. They couldn't be that bad.
"You make it seem like if I decide to eat one of these chips, then I'm an idiot."
They decided to keep quiet.
I plucked a chip from the Rubik's Magic Snake of fried potatoes.
They were stale.
"I see what you mean."
I went home, ate take out Mexican food, drank beer, watched TV, and fell asleep before the sun did.
Verdict: Loss
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