September 2008 Archives

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"Wait til they get a load of you in London with that big American accent on top of all of that Irish slang." Andrew, paraphrased.

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Me, trying to understand Londoners: "Will they know what I mean when I declare myself sound?"
Aoife: "Yes, but they don't say 'deadly' which is a bit shit."

When I was 14, I was incredibly smug about the fact that all of the friends were seniors in high school and could drive me to Depeche Mode concerts and to off-campus lunch rendezvous at the nearest taqueria. When I was started dating, I daringly went for a man 10 years my senior thus making our relationship a violation of California penal code 261-267. I was so self-satisfied about this declaration of maturity--I couldn't wait to grow up and get on with my life. Now I'm so sick of getting on with my life that I regularly go clubbing on weeknights and have foregone a retirement fund in favor of traveling around Europe in pursuit of bangin' tunes.

I worry that I should be doing more constructive things; I should be at home planning my pension and having babies and focusing on my career trajectory, but the thought just fills me with melancholy. When I was a teenager I signed up for credit cards, took out the entire credit line in cash and then promptly forgot about them. I thought that I'd never live to see 20, so my credit line was something I'd never have to worry about. And now it seems that my credit line is something that I worry about endlessly. That is, when I'm not going to festivals or hanging around with people younger than those I was once paid to babysit. And of course I'm sort of ashamed of myself--this isn't the sort of person that I thought I would turn out to be. But I can't deny that it's pretty much worth it. Doin' it for the craic.

This weekend I'm heading back to Rotterdam to hear some of my favorite italo DJs kick out the tunes, and a week later I'm moving to London. I like to think I'm sort of like those surfers in the Endless Summer, traveling around the world as the seasons turn, chasing the never-ending summer. Chasing the endless buzz.

So it was with trepidation that I was talked into attending my first "real" festival. I'd been to a one day affair in Ireland before, but at three and a half days, Electric Picnic is a whole different kettle of fish. And by kettle of fish, I mean plastic bottles filled with Bucky. Buckfast is a tonic wine, allegedly made by monks, with medicinal qualities. Or at least, it's syrupy sickly sweet wine that has a large amount of caffeine in it, making it one of the preferred festival drinks. And Electric Picnic is a festival that involves sleeping in a tent for three nights in a muddy field in County Laois, tromping around in the filth and using port-a-loos. Over 30,000 people attend, including every single Irish person I know. Reputation has it that Electric Picnic is the best Irish festival due to its near complete lack of scumbags and less mainstream bands.

Preparing for Electric Picnic was more than half the battle. I had to buy a tent and a sleeping bag and a camping chair and hot pink Wellington boots with little white paw prints on them. I thought I should have the most cheerful boots possible to try and offset the inevitable look on my face. A few days before I found a list on the printer at work that one of my co-workers had forgotten about and started worrying about the possibility that I had missed something. I queried my pal Aoife, who sent me the following checklist in response:

Toilet roll
Baby wipes
Booze
Tent
Chair
Suncream (being optimistic)
Clothes
Sunglasses
Pink wellies with dog prints
Plastic bottles (for bringing spirits)
Bin bag (for your dignity)
Post-its to stick on your own head saying "I'm a total dickhead"

Needless to say, I found the experience exhausting. And loads of fun. Sort of like living in Ireland.