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bellarke-addict · 7 years ago

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Of Potatoes and Psychological Warfare

Octavia leaves Chewie with Bellamy for the week, his next-door neighbour Lincoln helps the puppy unwittingly wage psychological warfare on him.

Octavia and Bellamy Blake have a large messy interconnected circle of friends.

Some were hers- Jasper, Monty, Raven, Clarke- and some were his- Miller, Monroe, Harper.

These were the ride-or-die kind of friends, if they got the call in the middle of the night that one of their own was in a hospital, you better believe that they were headed straight for the waiting room and not budging until they got the all clear. They shared clothes, meals, homes. They helped each other move everything from furniture to bodies.

Because Clarke and Miller were emergency responders, not serial killers.

So why the hell Octavia had demanded that Bellamy be the one to look after Chewie was beyond them.

Chewie the Cane Corso puppy had entered their life a year ago, when he had been found abandoned in the park, tied to a tree. Octavia had brought him home, nursed him back to health and the two had been inseparable ever since.

Everyone in the group adored him except Bellamy, who was mildly allergic to both dogs and creatures that made chew toys of his shoes and books.

But Octavia had got into a two-week summer programme at college which was essentially hiking through Yellowstone for credit and had been told that she couldn’t bring the dog because it would be too hot for creature. And Bellamy was the only one with a back yard.

He’d tried to argue that Jasper and Monty would be better for puppy-sitting because they were home all day and would give him plenty of love in between dressing him up for Instagram and the bikers next door might upset him when they revved their engines or played their loud music but she’d only handed him the bag of dog food and told him to suck it up.

Besides, it would be a good excuse for Clarke to frequently drop by, under the pretext of ‘checking up’ on Chewie.

Group Chat: The Delinquents

8:03 am

Bellamy: Did one of you bring a potato into my house?

Raven: Is this a dad joke? Are you fried up?

Bellamy Blake has added a photo

Bellamy: No, it’s a ‘Chewie just fetched me a potato and I have no idea from where’ joke

Jasper: Awwww, he brought you a present…good boy!

Bellamy: There are no potatoes in my house or yard, where the hell did it come from?!

Clarke: Are you sure it’s a potato?

Bellamy: No Griffin, the guy who had to give a conference talk on the Irish potato famine representation in modern British media can’t tell a potato from a tennis ball. Which one is brown and which one is bright green again?

Monty: A potato can be bright green if you treat it right.

Bellamy: For the last time Monty, you and Jasper need to clean out your damn fridge

Bellamy: And now’s there another potato!

Octavia: Lol, tell Chewie I said he’s a good boy.

Bellamy Blake was an eighty-year-old man trapped in the body of a twenty-six-year-old sex god.

He loved books, refused to even think about buying an e-reader, barely understood social media, preferred staying in to watch documentaries instead of going out and when his friends did manage to force him outside, he was either home by three am or making everyone around him miserable with his grouching.

So, when Clarke comes in his door to hear him swearing up a storm, she panics, thinking he must have injured himself badly- like, hospital, blood transfusions and surgery, badly- to be uttering curse words.

She finds him in the kitchen and nearly injures herself when she doubles over laughing.

“Eight!” Bellamy shouts, gesturing wildly, “How the fuck did he find eight?!”

Chewie woofed happily, tongue lolling and tail wagging as he sat proudly amongst the potatoes.

Clarke finds herself on her knees, her right hand pressed to her stomach as she tries to catch her breath and Chewie bounds over, knocking her onto her back as he leans against her for pats.

“This, is the best thing I’ve ever seen!” she manages to gasp eventually, assuming that Bellamy's lack of response was due to his attempt to keep a fragile hold on his sanity and not because from where he was standing, he could see right down Clarke's shirt.

Lincoln wasn’t really a fan of gardening.

He could do the basics, he mowed his lawn, trimmed the tree in his backyard so it didn’t hang over into the neighbours’ properties and could keep his houseplants alive.

But growing fruits, vegetables or flowers? More trouble than it was worth.

Which was why he’d been annoyed when his cousin Luna had come to stay and insisted he should try growing his own organic produce.

She’d thought she could convert him by going ahead and planting the seeds while he was at work, but he’d spotted her preparing the soil the night before and waited until she’d gone for her evening run before sneaking out with salt from the pantry, sprinkling it over the patches so nothing would grow.

He’d almost been successful as well.

Except for the damn potato plants.

Not only had they survived his neglect, his dumping hot water on them and then a light spray of WD-40- the only toxic thing he’d had on hand at the time- but they had actually reached their harvest season intact.

And this was bad news, because if Luna found out that one plant could grow in his backyard, she’d do her damn best to turn him into an amateur farmer.

So, when he heard scruffling early one morning, and came out to find a giant dog digging into his potato patch, his only concern had been for the creature.

“Hey buddy,” he crooned, crouching down and holding out a hand, “You’re not lost, are you?”

The dog had raised its head, bounded over to knock him onto his ass and sniff him enthusiastically before going back to his digging.

He emerged with a potato in his mouth and Lincoln is smiling encouragingly as the puppy shook his head vigorously until it was free of the plant and he pads over to the fence, where Lincoln saw a hole had been dug.

Well, really, he couldn’t have stopped him even if he had wanted to.

He stretches up onto his toes to look over the fence and watches the dog head into his neighbour’s house, clearly vacationing there, obviously not lost and he heads inside to start his day.

The dog, who according to his bright pink name tag, was called Chewie, visited him twice a day, usually when his neighbour was at work and Lincoln guessed by the shouts of frustration and confusion that the dog-sitter had absolutely no idea where the potatoes were coming from.

If it were anyone else, Lincoln might have been disposed to knock on his door and explain but, even though he’d never officially met his neighbour, he didn’t like the guy.

Shortly after he’d moved in, Lincoln had had the police around about a noise complaint, and yeah, Nyko and his friends had their motorcycles parked on his front lawn, having a boozy cook-out pretty close to midnight, but they were the local chapter for BACA and had just finished a long protection stint only three blocks over.

Thing was, if the neighbour had just asked him, he would have told Nyko to keep it quiet.

And yeah, he knows knocking on the door of a guy with a yard full of bikers could be a little scary, but the second strike against the neighbour came from the noises he heard after six pm.

And no, not sex noises, Lincoln could ignore those, but the media noises.

Specifically, the documentaries that for the last six months had been almost exclusively world war two, holocaust and Nazi focused.

And Lincoln knew one thing for certain, only two kinds of people watched those kinds of documentaries in large quantity- historians or weirdoes.

His neighbour was tilting towards the weirdo end of the spectrum, not full blown ‘this was what liberals meant when they argued for mental health background checks’ but close to ‘would not be surprised if he eventually served time in the military or a federal prison’

So, if a rapidly growing dog wanted to dig up Luna’s potatoes and wage psychological warfare on his neighbour, Lincoln wasn’t going to stop him.

In fact, one afternoon he came home from the store with milk-bones to encourage the puppy.

He liked to have his front and back door open during the day, after all, anyone brave enough to rob him isn’t going to be deterred by a locked door and he liked the fresh air. So, he’s not surprised when he wakes up to find Chewie wandering into his bedroom.

“Morning, buddy,” he croaks, his voice heavy with sleep, and he flops a hand over the bed, to be head-butted and licked before the dog clambers over the sheets, marking them with dirty paw-prints.

“What’s the matter?” he asks, not expecting a response but Chewie flops onto his belly, looking mournful as he contemplates the pillow and Lincoln has a moment where he worries his next-door neighbour might have died in the night.

Except his neighbour locked up the house every night, so more likely, Chewie’s issues were on his side of the fence.

“Am I out of potatoes?” he asks, climbing out of bed and pulling on a pair of boxers, heading to the backyard to see the remains of the veggie patch.

From what he could see from the three-foot distance he refused to close between himself and Luna’s hobby, he was potato free.

He personally thinks this is a good thing, but Chewie is pawing the ground, whimpering with disappointment and Lincoln can actually hear his heart breaking.

“Okay, buddy,” He bends down and scratches his ear, “How do you feel about non-organic potatoes?”

There’s a fresh produce market a few blocks over and he tells himself that he had been planning to stock up anyway as a subtle sign to Luna that he was never going to grow his own food, so really, the ten-kilo bag of spuds he lugs into his house has more than one purpose.

Chewie woofs happily as Lincoln throws the purple vegetables into the yard, jumping into the air to catch one in his mouth and not ten minutes later, he’s chuckling to himself as he hears his neighbour’s scream.

“They’ve changed colour!”

Honestly, he’s surprised that nobody figured it out sooner.

He comes home one day- and thirty potatoes later- to find Chewie sitting on his front porch with a young woman wearing hiking gear with tanned skin but a sunburnt nose.

“Hi,” she greets, pushing herself up, a long ponytail swinging behind her,

“Um…has my dog been stealing your potatoes?”

Part of him wants to deny it, because he heard his neighbour watching The Man in the High Castle last night and he’s beginning to worry, but Chewie pads over and flops onto his back, paws high in the air and tongue lolling out.

“I wouldn’t say stealing,” Lincoln protests, trying to fight the grin creeping across his face, “Just…enthusiastically gardening?”

Chewie squirms on his back, wriggling his whole body and kicking his leg enthusiastically as Lincoln rubs his belly with his boot.

The woman watches them both with an arched eyebrow, “Well this enthusiastic gardening has been driving my brother crazy, I found him going through the house looking for a secret cache of potatoes, positive our friends were sneaking them in for Chewie.”

Lincoln chuckles, “I think that says more about your friends than it does about me.”

He holds out his hand, “Lincoln Woods.”

She takes it with a grin and a firm shake, “Octavia Blake.”

“How’d you figure it out?” he asks, opening his front door and stepping out of the way as Chewie pads inside, Octavia following after a quick glance in his direction.

“Well, I knew our friends weren’t stupid enough to piss Bellamy- my brother- off this badly,” she begins, laughing as she sees Chewie walk into the open pantry and re-emerge with a potato in his mouth, “Not when he’s the only one guaranteed to come bail them out of jail on a Sunday morning. So, I guessed he was getting them from one of the neighbours and you were the best bet.”

The two of them amble out to the yard to see Chewie disappearing under the hole in the fence and Lincoln tries to think of how to keep Octavia around.

“What about the guy on the other side of the fence?” he suggests and she snorts, crossing her arms over her chest,

“Oh, you mean Wallace? Guessing you haven’t met the guy then?”

He shakes his head, “Not a fan?”

He doubles back to the kitchen and offers her tea, secretly thrilled when she says yes and hops up on his kitchen stool. She elaborates on her issues with his neighbours two doors up, that her brother was a historian, not a burgeoning serial killer, although apparently the potatoes had been driving him dangerously insane. He also learns that she’s house-sitting for her brother next week while he’s at a conference.

He doesn’t learn if she’s single but when she notes that he uses a kettle to make tea, he blatantly lies about Luna- who he emphasises his cousin- giving it to him as a present after his last girlfriend had to move overseas for work.

They’re on their second cup of tea and chatting about her hike when her brother comes looking for her because they’re meant to be somewhere. And big brother glares at him the entire time Octavia is introducing them and Lincoln can’t resist holding his hand out to Chewie, who immediately sits down and offers his paw to shake.

It’s a toss-up as to which of them Bellamy Blake dislikes more.

At least until the day after he’s left for the conference, when Octavia comes around for a cup of tea which sits cold and forgotten as Lincoln spreads her across his sheets and they stay there for hours until Chewie comes barging into the bedroom, potato in his mouth.

“Okay,” he groans as she slowly pushes herself up onto her elbows, “I have to ask, why potatoes?”

Octavia laughs, “Not a clue.”

Bellamy gives a lovely speech at their wedding, about how Lincoln has become like a brother to him, how happy he is that Octavia fell in love with such a good man…

Lincoln almost feels guilty that he’d insisted on having his new brother-in-law served an entrée of potato gratin.

Almost.

#The 100 #the 100 fanfiction #the 100 lincoln #linctavia

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animationnut · 8 years ago

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To Gravity Falls, From Piedmont: Chapter 23

Summary: It’s a long way until next summer. Until then, Dipper and Mabel share their daily antics and life problems with their lifelong friends and attentive great-uncles through an endless string of e-mails. Distance makes the heart grow fonder after all, and there’s no place Dipper and Mabel love more than Gravity Falls.

Chapter List

To: Wendy Corduroy (Lumberchick), Grunkle Stan (StantheMan), Grunkle Ford (Highsixer); Dipper Pines (GhostHarasserfan); Soos Ramirez (QuestionMarkDude)

From: Mabel Pines (ShootingStarRainbowUnicorn)

Subject: Déjà vu

Hey!

So you remember all those months ago when Dipper went through the ceiling of the attic? I'm sure you do because it was hilarious. But now I'm trapped in the attic, and it's not hilarious from this end. The door is stuck and not opening. I don't have my cellphone on me, so if one of you could contact Dipper for me that would be great.

Much love,

Mabel

Wiping her dust-streaked hands on her black purple-dotted leggings, Mabel moved the laptop she was using over to the corner of the attic. It had been a stroke of luck that she discovered it, rifling through yellow-stained boxes in search of something to pry the door open.

Some of the keys were missing, but if she pressed down hard enough she could make them work. There was a crack spider-webbing down the right corner of the screen and the battery life was practically non-existent, so the frayed, taped-up charger stretched from one of the attic's electrical sockets.

"Whew. Okay. Communication established. Now to wait for a response."

She lifted a box to remove it from her path and dropped it on an already precarious stack. A cloud of dust rushed up, causing her to erupt in a series of sneezes. She hunched over slightly, hand moving to cover her nose and mouth. When her sinuses were as clear as could be such a tight, dirty atmosphere, she straightened.

"Geez, it's stuffy in here."

Mabel moved over to the window, stepping carefully across the wooden beams, not wanting to re-enact Dipper's through-the-floor routine. She reached the window and gripped the bottom, the paint chipping off at her touch. With a few grunts and a lot of strength, she managed to wrench the window upwards, releasing a flurry of white paint and more dust. A breeze drifted through the open space and Mabel gulped in the fresh air.

Now it was a little easier to breathe, Mabel set her hands on her hips and regarded her situation. The boxes she had rifled through yielded nothing but old baby stuff, faded books and holiday decorations. Though there were still some boxes remaining, she doubted they would hold anything of use to her. Most of the tools were kept in the shed in the backyard and despite her strong power of imagination, she figured a crowbar wouldn't materialize anytime soon.

Mabel went over to door and yanked on the knob, even though she knew it was futile. The wooden door rattled in its frame, but would not budge. Shrugging her shoulders, Mabel picked her way back to the laptop and brightened when she discovered a string of new messages.

Mabel Pines: Hey! So you remember all those months ago when Dipper went through the ceiling of the attic? I'm sure you do because it was hilarious. But now I'm trapped in the attic, and it's not hilarious from this end. The door is stuck and not opening. I don't have my cellphone on me, so if one of you could contact Dipper for me that would be great.

Wendy Corduroy: Geez what is with you guys and attics?

Grunkle Stan: You runts lived in one for three months without a problem. Now they're trying to kill you.

Grunkle Ford: I would say that it's illogical that a room has the sentience to try and kill you but let me tell you that there are some terrifying and freaky things in the multi-dimension.

Soos Ramirez: Wait, if you don't have your cellphone, how are you contacting us? Do you have special powers?

Mabel Pines: I wish. The power of teleportation would really come in handy right now. I found one of Dad's old laptops up here, and it still works, so yay! A victory for me.

Grunkle Stan: I'll give your brother a call, pumpkin.

Mabel Pines: Thanks, Grunkle Stan! Tell him to bring a crowbar. Or a saw.

Grunkle Ford: How long have you been trapped?

Mabel Pines: I honestly don't know. The little clock in the corner of the laptop screen is blurred, so I can't read it. Is it still February?

Soos Ramirez: I think so. Haven't checked the calendar today, though, so I'm not sure.

Wendy Corduroy: Not even gonna go there. Yo, Mabel, you could use the hole Dipper made last time and drop into your living room.

Mabel Pines: We patched it up pretty good last time, so I don't think I'll be able to pry the boards off with just my hands. I could probably go out the window and onto the roof. I dunno how the neighbours will react to my grappling hook, though. My parents still don't know I have it.

Grunkle Ford: I think it would be best if you waited for your brother.

Soos Ramirez: That can be your backup plan, hambone. Is it a far drop?

Mabel Pines: About three stories, and there are some bushes below. I could probably make it without my grappling hook.

Wendy Corduroy: That's maybe a little bit higher than when you jumped off the Mystery Shack roof trying to fly.

Grunkle Ford: …what?

Mabel Pines: It was an experiment.

Soos Ramirez: She got some good altitude.

Grunkle Ford: Yes, you most definitely share the genes of Stan and I. I am both proud and slightly concerned by this.

Blueprints stretched across the oak table of the library, Dipper and his robotic club members started the beginning stages of constructing their robot for the annual Piedmont Junior Robo-Brawl. Dipper tapped his pencil idly against the edge, listening to his teammates discuss possible improvements and chiming in to voice his own suggestions.

An insistent buzzing in his pocket caused him to pause his note taking. He took a peek at the caller ID and immediately stood up when he realized it was Stan. "I'll be right back," he informed the group and quickly walked outside, squinting against the bright rays of the sun. "Hey, Grunkle Stan. What's up?"

"Your sister, all the way up in the attic."

Dipper blinked, surprised by this unexpected information, and then grinned. "Did she fall through the ceiling?"

"It's rude to wish your twin in such a humiliating predicament."

"I'm taking that as a no. And that's real rich coming from the guy who bust a gut when it happened to me."

"I'm a guy who appreciates humour. Mabel's trapped in the attic and didn't have her phone, so I'm summoning you to go rescue her."

"Got it. I'm on my way. Thanks, Grunkle Stan."

"No problem. And you runts really need to stay out of your attic."

"Yeah, that's probably a good idea."

They said their goodbyes and hung up. Dipper jogged into the library to tell his club members that he had to leave to help his sister, and started for home. He noticed the e-mail notifications and started to read through the messages, unable to keep the grin off of his face.

Dipper Pines: I'll be there in twenty minutes. Which is about the length of time it took for you to come help me.

Mabel Pines: Come on, bro! That's not cool!

Wendy Corduroy: You're loving this, aren't you?

Dipper Pines: Very much so.

Soos Ramirez: It's funny that you both got stuck in the attic.

Dipper Pines: It's very funny. And I would say there's a good dose of karma being dished out here, considering how hard she laughed at me.

Mabel Pines: Ha ha, I get it. I probably had this coming. But you're not getting any karma points for laughing at me now, mister.

Dipper Pines: I am fully aware of this and willingly admit that I'm no more mature than you are when it comes to taking amusement out of our misfortunes.

Mabel Pines: So long as you admit it.

Grunkle Ford: Good luck, kids. Try not to get too crazy getting that door open.

Mabel Pines: We'll try, but I don't think this door is going to survive.

Wendy Corduroy: Use an axe. Axes always help.

Soos Ramirez: Pretend you're in an action movie. It'll give you a ton of motivation.

Grunkle Stan: Take a picture of the aftermath. I can't wait to see this.

Dipper Pines: Will do. Update you in a bit!

Kicking off his sneakers, Dipper made a beeline for the attic, taking the stairs two at a time. "Mabel?"

"Bro, I'm dying of thirst!"

"No you aren't." Dipper gripped the knob with both hands and pulled with all his might. "Geez," he groaned when it didn't budge. "What did you do, decorate this with superglue?"

"Less quips and more rescuing. I don't have anything in here to help out."

"I'll go find something to get this dumb thing open. Don't go anywhere."

"And you say Grunkle Stan has bad jokes."

"Runs in the family."

Dipper made his way out into the backyard, crossing the browned grass towards the sagging garden shed tucked away against the fence. He nudged open the door and batted away some cobwebs. He picked through his father's toolbox, eyeing the hammer and screwdriver with some thought before giving his head a shake.

"Crowbar, crowbar…"

After some careful rifling through a crate, he found the desired object. Taking the metal object, he rushed back into the house and up the stairs. "Got it," he said.

"Got what? A saw?"

"We don't own a saw, first off. We're in a Californian suburb. I got a crowbar though. So let's see how this goes."

Digging it between the cracks, Dipper braced one foot against the wall and pushed down on the bar. He felt Mabel pushed from the other side, trying to add more force to dislodge the door from its hinges. It took a few minutes but finally it gave way. Dipper scrambled backwards to avoid being struck and the door clattered to the hardwood with a bang.

Dipper wasn't quite sure how old their house was, but considering how the door broke apart on impact, he could take a good guess. Splinters scattered across the floor, the rusted doorknob clattered and rolled and there was a massive crack snacking down the middle of the door.

"Freedom!" whooped Mabel, charging from the attic and going down the stairs.

Dipper kicked aside some screws and followed after her, crowbar dangling next to his side. He found her in the kitchen, guzzling down some water. "Do you need a tetanus shot?"

"Nope. Maybe an inhaler to get rid of all the dust I inhaled." Mabel wiped lingering drops of water off of her mouth and set the glass down. "Thanks for the save, Dipper."

"Anytime." Dipper placed the crowbar on the table and rubbed the back of his neck. "I don't know what we're going to do about the door, though."

"We'll just get a new one," Mabel said. "Can't be too hard to install a door."

"Mom and Dad will notice a new attic door."

Mabel glanced at him in amusement. "Mom and Dad haven't noticed there's a patch of paint on the living room ceiling that doesn't quite match the rest. I don't think they'll notice the door's a different shade of brown and has a new knob."

"Fair point. Okay. Let's go door shopping. Which is probably something no other thirteen-year-old does. But first, we have to clean up the mess."

"I call the vacuum!" cheered Mabel, hurrying off to collect the object.

"Don't suck up the curtains this time!"

To: Mabel Pines (ShootingStarRainbowUnicorn); Grunkle Stan (StantheMan); Grunkle Ford (Highsixer); Wendy Corduroy (Lumberchick); Soos Ramirez (QuestionMarkDude)

From: Dipper Pines (GhostHarasserfan)

Subject: Door didn't survive

1 Attachment (Photo File)

Managed to rescue Mabel from our evil attic. On the bright side she found an old functional laptop I could use later for an experiment or something. We couldn't save the door, but it's for the best. This is what happened to it afterwards.

See all messages in this thread (Expand)

Grunkle Ford: You certainly did a number on it, Dipper.

Grunkle Stan: Looks like all that work I made you do with the axe paid off.

Dipper Pines: We don't own an axe, so I used a crowbar to get the door off. But yeah, all the wood chopping you forced me to do totally helped me out.

Wendy Corduroy: You did that with a crowbar? What, did you just wail on it?

Soos Ramirez: Dude, that sounds like fun.

Mabel Pines: Dang I wish I thought of that. It's not often we get to bash things with tools.

Dipper Pines: It was so old it broke when it hit the floor.

Grunkle Stan: That's showing it whose boss.

Mabel Pines: Now we just have one more thing to take care of.

Grunkle Ford: What's that?

Dipper Pines: I don't suppose any of you know how to install a door?

#gravity falls #gravity falls fanfiction #the attic strikes again #to gravity falls from piedmont #byanimationnut #dipper pines #mabel pines #grunkle stan #stanley pines #grunkle ford #stanford pines #soos ramirez #wendy corduroy

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bigtimebellydance · 8 years ago

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I’m pretty sure I’ve already posted this SOMEWHERE back in the way-backs when I first discovered it, buuut since I can’t find that original post to repost, I guess we’ll just have a li’l do-over here. Given Mariah Carey’s recent issues on live NYE coverage, it seems a pertinent subject. (Regardless of where you stand on what happened w/Mariah that night.)

If you’ve ever performed on stage, you KNOW how all kiiiiiiinds of things can go kerflooey at any possible moment when it’s your turn to shine. Tech difficulties like music & lighting can go up in flames (sometimes literally), you might get funky stages, sticky stages, uneven/lumpy/grass “stages,” audience.. interruptions/”participation,” environmental/atmospheric interference (especially if you’re outdoors), etc. all regardless of what type of on-stage artform you practice. Most performers seasoned & new recognize that those factors and LOTS more can contribute to a WILDLY varying experience, both for the audience and the performer, making every time you get on stage a unique & heart-pounding adventure. And on top of allll that, no matter how many times one may perform a song/piece, by the very nature of live performance (voice conditions, sound conditions, personal health, energy levels, mood/emotion of the performer, etc.), EVERY individual performance is different.

So when those of us who’ve been onstage see a train-wreck like what happened on NYE, it’s a multi-layered experience. We take in the show as both a fellow entertainer, and as an audience-member. (And hopefully, we’re ALL rooting for the best outcome & the performer’s success, regardless of which side of the “fence” we may happen to be leaning toward at the time. After all, this ain’t “Showgirls” or “Jackass.”) When people go to a show, no one -wants- to see a performer fail. Folks don’t go to a venue or turn on the telly to watch an entertainer wiff it onstage unless they’re watching something like SNL where that’s the whole POINT of the act, yanno? (Which is also a great comfort to those of us who struggle w/stagefright. It’s a important thing to remember; that the audience WANTS us to do well. They came to see a great show. They WANT us to succeed. That’s why they’re THERE. That’s why they paid their money.) And that’s why the people BEHIND the show put soooo much work into it. That’s why the organizer MADE the show- to succeed. That’s why the stage manager and the lighting guys, the tech crew and props masters (if there are such folks in a show), are THERE to make it frickin’ AMAZING for the audience. Alllll the focus put on a show is created to SUCCEED, so EVERYONE can have a GREAT show, from the audience to the performers to the people behind the scenes. The audience wants a great show that makes them happy and uplifted and fulfilled, and the creators & participants want something rockin’ to put on their résumés. It’s the nature of the beast.

So.. what do we do when something goes wrong..? How do we handle it when there’s a wardrobe malfunction, a tech snafu, a forgotten word or a missed step..? Or a FEW? Or, Heavens forbid, everything grinds to a hault..?

Walp.. first let me say that there’s a reason why the phrase “the show must go on” exists. People have paid their money. Performers are dressed and made up and ready to go. The lighting, music n’ tech guys have showed up and everybody’s there to give a thousand percent. ..And when things fail, THAT’S when you give a thousand and TWENTY percent. Moments where things hiccup or falter are the times when your mettle as a performer, your real heart & soul are tested n’ shown. Both reflected back at yourself, as well as to your fellow performers, to your behind-the-scenes crew, as well as to your audience. And if all goes well, the audience will never know you flubbed a word, or missed a shimmy, or botched a verse, or turned the wrong way, or missed your line, etc. Because you didn’t let your “woops” show- or stop you if it did. :) That’s what alllll that practicing and rehearsing is for- to account for allll possible variables- and to be prepared -just- in case the unthinkable happens. It’s so you are READY, NO MATTER WHAT.

But of course, we’re all human, and NO act is 100% bulletproof. Practicing may be armour, but sledgehammers and wrecking balls still happen. ;) Performer or tech engineer, stage manager or guy whose phone goes off in an intense onstage moment, we all make mistakes. We all have bad days and moments where we wanna rage at the world or kick things (including ourselves). We all have days where we don’t have the energy or our hearts aren’t in it. Or we’re sick. Or we’re grieving. Or.. etc. It happens. Even in the most ideal of situations and w/the most practice, sometimes flubs happen. So.. back to that “what do we do when..?” Basically, we take a deeeeep breath, learn to slow things down in our heads for a moment, learn how to improvise.. how to smile when we feel like crying, running or freezing up.. and we roll with it. (But if you don’t know how to do those things just yet, that’s okay. Those are skills that will come with time and experience, and having just about everything go wrong in every possible scenario while you’re getting that experience. ;) With each new obstacle a performer is faced with, they learn different ways to surmount it. That’s how they eventually overcome it. Dance around it. It’s how you learn. And how you get better. :)

My first time performing on grass outside MESSED ME UP SO MUCH I can’t even. As a li’l half-blind girl, I never went outside to play much because thanks to my depth perception & nearsightedness, I was always falling into holes, tripping over roots, walking into brambles, getting slapped in the face by branches, and I hated that shite. To this day, I still don’t much enjoy being outdoors- unless it’s on flat/paved ground or by the ocean (which is.. again- kinda flat ground ;)). So when I first danced under a tree in the grass, while I LOVED the magic of the moment, the tree, the light, the air.. the music and the audience.. as I danced I must confess that yours truly struggled w/every rock & rut my bare feet encountered. Every dent in the earth, mud patch, tree root.. OMG. And TURNING ON GRASS?? DEWD. TURNING ON GRASS. ..I -still- marvel at how in gourd’s name you can SPIN on freaking GRASS. O.o ...

But ya know what..? Even through my struggles, and even though I -hated- it before, during and after (you should’ve heard how I criticized myself to my fellow performers after I was done, another foul move which is SO NOT kosher dancer etiquette), I still got through it. It wasn’t easy, but I muddled through, and the ultimate result was the audience seemed to enjoy it, I had a decent performance overall (even with my private, silent struggles regarding the terrain), and nobody (I hope/pray) knew I was basically shrieking “EEK,” “OMG OMG OMG” or “OH SH**!!” inside, every time my foot fell down on something that wasn’t flat, soft dirt. (No lie, I spent at LEAST 50-75% of that performance internally just dead CERTAIN I was about to faceplant in the grass w/a twisted or broken ankle- at any given second...)

Yet from that experience, I got a little better at learning how to dance on grass. At dealing w/uneven surfaces beneath my dancing feet. At NOT showing the uncertainty and terror in my eyes, on my face or in my movements as I performed- or even took/left the stage. ..So when I did it again the next year, in the same site- I was more prepared. Better equipped to handle the ruts and the little dirt divots, and that whole lack of spin-ability thing. I was less “OMGOMGOMGIHATETHISWHYDIDIDOTHISWHATAMIDOINGHOLYSHIIIITE!!!” and more “it’s gonna be okay. It ain’t easy, I’m kinda skurred, but I CAN DO THIS.”

And that’s just one mild, teeny example. (Not to mention from one girl who, due to vision impairment/a disability, has certain, very specific concerns, issues n’ needs that don’t necessarily affect other dancers w/different situations/abilities.) Regardless of discipline or performer, there are some bigtime horror stories about how things have gone wrong during perfectly “normal,” SUPER seasoned, experienced as CRAP performers’ attempts at putting on a show. -Like the ones we see every day.

Want more from my playbook..? Here are a few examples:

When I was in Germany w/our high school chorus, I sprained my hand while trying to keep myself upright as I slipped down the last few stairs of this MARVELOUS cathedral, as we entered from the balcony for our performance. The tears came n’ went as I sang through the concert, holding my hand behind the person in front of me, and when it was all over, my German host family took me to the hospital n’ got me treated. (SHOUT OUT TO MAREN & FAMILY, IF YOU CAN READ THIS!! ♥♥♥)

My chorus teacher tells of a previous choir he directed that performed on a stage w/old globe lights that hung from the ceiling, just above the stage. -And how in mid-performance, one spontaneously let go and FELL to the ground, crashing to smithereens RIGHT in front of a singer in the front row. -Who promptly fainted, got carried offstage while the choir continued to sing, -and the performance went on.

And what bellydancer who’s performed with a veil or a sword hasn’t had a prop go awry at one time or another..? Swords keep spinning or overbalance and fall off, veils catch headpieces or hair n’ fall forward, leaving their dancers blinded and faceless. Veils get tangled or flung or won’t do their “tricks” at the WORST possible time.. and I’m not even gonna GO into wardrobe malfunctions like bras n’ skirts falling off! *lol* Plus there’s DJs playing the wrong music, music that won’t start or stops in the middle of your dance (had some of those latter things happen m’self- at times in the same show). People slip, people trip, knees and heels get caught in skirts.. jewelry n’ belts catch on.. everything... Ahh.. such possibility for “adventure!” ;D

These are just a few illustrations of how things can go kerschplut in the middle of a show. But that’s okay!! Good teachers, and LOTS of experience help prepare you for the snafus! (I hope early dancers don’t see this and go “aww HELL NO- NEVERMIND THIS NONSENSE!!” -and stop dancing/striving/performing, w/the fear that it’s all bad. ‘Cause it’s SOOO NOT! These are dangers that ANY performer will deal with- just in different mediums- over a huuuuge span of performances- the vast majority of which go pretty darned right! ^_^) No matter the artform, there are LOTS of artful ways of overcoming ”oops” moments. ^_^ The point is, how you deal with the glitches is important. As a performer, ya just.. kinda hafta learn how to gracefully handle the oopses- and roll with them- like this EPIC footage shows of Unmata doing. :) Their music wouldn’t play during their show at Jamballah NW, and.. they still danced. (And EPICLY at that! XD) -Plus what’s better, their AUDIENCE ended up becoming their rhythm section- out of sheer appreciation and admiration for Unmata’s amazing skill and showmanship!! (’Cause we all know it took GUTS and STYLE IN MASSES to KEEP GOING!! XD)

So how do you cope when the fit hits the shan..? Well.. you’ve got a few options to keep a “woops” from stopping you in your tracks. :)

You can play it off (ohohohoh, I MEANT to do that!)

laugh at it/make fun of it, (hey Mr. Sword, you were supposed to stay ON my head! Now GET back over here you naughty critter!!)

Address it (woops, I goofed!) and keep dancing,

NOT address it n’ recover/recoup as smoothly n’ deftly as possible (I.e. make like a cat n’ pretend nobody saw that- while you do your best to ENSURE that no one does.) Just keep rolling n’ stealthily cover the Woops up,

go with something COMPLETELY new by improv’ing like a CHAMP, (accidentally spin into your troupemate, fake a moment of a tete-a-tete style standoff until y’all can resume)

treat it as a trial for a new moment to incorporate into the act (oh wait, this 3/4 shimmy works better at that moment w/the music anyway- YAY!)

get the audience in on it (um.. HELLO STRANGER whom I just draped my ENTIRE veil over in the front row! Thanks for holding that for me! *shimmy shimmy*)

Etc. :)

And heck, if you have to, you can even stop n’ start again if something really, reeeeallllly goes awry. (I’ve seen it done on a few bellydance stages m’self, and when I was a kid and doing my first big performance, I did that once too. I fluffed up a line, started my song at the wrong place, broke into tears & ran off stage. ..But after a minute, got back up there- having told the MC through tearstained eyes n’ gritted teeth “NO, I WANNA TRY IT AGAIN.” 'cause I REFUSED to not do my performance n’ let that horrid mess be how I let things end. -Yes.. I was stubborn.. even at around 6. ;)) But I would only recommend this as your LAST possible recourse. ‘Cause this option does kiiinda stop the show.. and there’s not always an opportunity to get a reboot. Still, it does take courage!

No matter HOW you do it though, the point is; be a good sport, be humble, and KEEP GOING, ‘cause the show REALLY Must Go ON. (Besides, most folks weren’t THERE at your rehearsals anyway, right..? So if you miss a step or flub a word, unless it’s the National Anthem, how do they know your “oops” wasn’t an intentional part of the show..?? The only way they might know you’ve messed up is if you SHOW them by freezing, freaking out, etc. So ROLL with it, ‘cause they may never know! ;D)

As performers, we hafta remember that Ish* Happens, and that it’s not the end of the world if it does. (After all, NO ONE is ever totally, 100% perfect. NO performance is perfect. ‘Cause again, ALL. ‘OOMAN. Our meatsack bodies have limits unfortunately, and sometimes that’s hard for our limitless brainsacks to wrap our minds around.) -And we artists really CAN be our own worst critics!! Sure, that moment might SUCK, but even if we’ve flubbed it, we CAN still be okay. ‘Cause there WILL be other shows, and like we said at the beginning of this ramble; the audience, the production co, EVERYONE WANTS us to succeed! ^_^ The important thing is to RECOVER. (And do so w/as much grace and finesse as possible. ;)) After all, people have come to see us put on a show, and THAT’S what we’re there to do. :)

Either way, no matter how big or small the flub, I guarantee you that your audience (not to mention your fellow performers, stage crew- & yourSelf, down the line) will appreciate you and your craft, tenacity n’ heart LOTS more if you KEEP GOING with your show if you goof/things go pear-shaped. ‘Cause it takes GUTS to perform, and it takes even MORE guts to keep going when things go wrong. -And most folks can appreciate that. No doubt, it’s easier to stop, cry, freeze like a deer in headlights, or turn around and stomp off stage. (All of which are commonly a part of the learning process, so if you’re a student and have done these things, NO WORRIES. PLEASE DON”T GIVE UP. Just get back up there and KEEP PERFORMING.) But it’s tougher to KEEP GOING. -And people recognize that. A -true- BADASS will get back up on that “horse” and RIIIDE it through the storm, with gusto! ^_^ ..So do your thang, and everyone will appreciate that even when things DIDN’T work, even when you slipped and got yer dress all torn, YOU still shined. They’ll remember that YOU didn’t let even the WORST stop you. And that takes some SERIOUSLY quick wit, bravery, and cojones!! (Or ovaries, or.. whatever you prefer. :))

Sparkling is never easy. But sparkling while pewp is actively raining down n’ you’re totally slipping in it is the mark of a professional. ;) It shows everyone that no matter what, you can comport yourself with perseverance, class, poise, grace, humbleness, skill and strength of character- which is what will keep everyone cheering.. even after the music has long stopped. ♥♥♥

♥

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nailtravels · 6 years ago

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The gypsy girl said it herself, the cards looked good. But what did that really mean? And good for whom? There was lots going on here. Were we now putting our faith entirely in the hands of the unknown, like buffalo teeth and painted chicken’s feet? When you believe in things you don’t understand, then you suffer superstition. Methinks this does not bode well.

Mercury was supposedly in retrograde, whatever the great Gravy Crockett that meant. And this was somehow supposed to translate into everything coming up wine and roses? With hindsight being twenty-twenty, the lens of wisdom would surely suggest nades. F’sho, no. Who could know that the red haired gypsy girl’s words would herald both delicious ecstasy and unimaginable peril? Such is the way here in the proverbial pocket of things. Welcome to the Mother Land. This is the briar patch and you, little mister, have enlisted in the Army of Northern Virginia. Don’t worry. We won’t have you hiking through the brambles. This is Thomas Jackson country and The Low-Brow Summer Tour 2018 has come to a close with the nailtravels team mounting a guerrilla offensive on Lockn’ Festival. Mission accomplished, it’s Lockn’ 2018: The Lowest Brow.

Ambassadors extraordinaire, Lockn’ 2018

Lockn’ Festival, formerly known as Interlocken Music Festival, is an annual four-day music festival held at Oak Ridge Farm in Arrington, Virginia. It is a headier-than-thou, jam-band, wavy gravy, funk heavy camping/music experience in the gentle hills of southern Virginia. It gets it’s name from the rotating stage that showcases performers as the end of one act overlaps the beginning of the next. Bands like Lettuce and Umphrie’s Magee played to and with each other as the musical transition took place to the seamless delight of thousands.

Past artists include Gov’y Mule, String Cheese, moe, John Fogerty, Greensky Bluegrass, The Avett Brothers, Ween, Phish, Twiddle, My Morning Jacket, John Butler, Chris Robinson Brotherhood, Little Feat, Robert Plant, Jefferson Airplane, Carlos Santana, Tom Petty, The Wood Brothers, Willie Nelson, Hot Tuna, Zac Brown, Jimmy Cliff, Col. Bruce Hampton and who cares? That’s plenty.

Main stage, LOCKN’ Sat. night: photo by Jessica Brightsen.

For once, Baitbucket felt reasonably healthy. The yellow foam had stopped seeping from the corner of his right eye and his back felt strangely quiet. The knees and ankles were holding together and, barring an unforeseen incident, he might be able to run the gauntlet. A gauntlet to be sure. infinity Downs Farm is a gigantic property littered with rvs, tents and ez-ups. Laid out over miles of hippies and clay trails, every exploratory adventure covers several square miles of travel. And that doesn’t include the multiple unexpected detours that seem to be popping up all the time. Jubba jubba.

Bobby

New friends.

Dead & Co. LOCKN’ 2018: photo by Kevin Crowley

Johnny and Bobby, LOCKN” 2018

The fam. LOCKN’ 2018

Dead & Co. with Branford Marsalis, LOCKN’ 2018: photo by Neal Hart

Sugarplum and Huckleberry get hitched at Church, LOCKN’ 2018.

Argentina, John and Sugarplum, LOCKN” 2018: photo by Liz Riddick

Scott and Joe solving the mysteries of the universe, LOCKN’ 2018.

And another thing, LOCKN’ 2018

Jaime and Argentina, LOCKN’ 2018

So pretty, LOCKN’ 2018

Lockn’ 2018 Breakdown:

Wednesday: Welcome to the Leaning Tower of the Yoga Machine. Broken beads, broken backs, cool nights and warm days are the order. For festival fun, it doesn’t get any better. It’s way too early to be having this much fun and besides, the cards wouldn’t lie. Please be sure to check your gluten at the flap. The yurt was set up in High Field RV with three recreational vehicles, three tents, three awnings, two ez-ups. It’s true, the Huckleberries and the Baitbuckets of the world can come together and let PBR and Natty Light fans play together as one single neck of color. It’s a fact, some people should not be in charge of putting up the yurt. Namaste.

Thursday: By Thursday evening, cat head mushroom chocolates had turned many of the festivarians into silly puddles of unraveled string. There were even reports of dead people. Go figure. Imagine live Lettuce into Umphrey’s into Lettuce with the funk and back into Umphrey’s. Some of the Umphrey’s show was, as usual, hard to wrap the head around. Kind of like Chinese math. In the words of Lord Buckley, “They stomped on the terra.” Joe Russo’s Almost Dead closed out the night with a set that included an Easy Wind and Row Jimmy. Thank you Sarah and Steve for the late night fellowship at the Jerry Garcia Forest. It’s better when we camp together.

Late night on the mountain, the light fog blurred the edges of the rising moon. By Sunday Funday, it would be full and the patients would surely be running the asylum.

Friday: Umphrey’s Mcgee did what they do again, and along with Jason Bonham and Derek Trucks, they shredded the Zeppelin cover, “Whole Lotta Love”. After a complete afternoon of funk it would be up to WSMFP and the Spreadnecks to deliver the big punch Friday night and, as always, they were up for the challenge. Clayopheus III the Destroyer showed up toward the end of their set and things would never be the same. Late night on the way to the Jerry Garcia Forest heralded the arrival of a new, bright green planet in our own solar system. Imagine the surprise.

JRAD Friday Midnight Setlist

Tell Me, Momma Viola Lee Blues St. Stephen The Eleven St. Stephen reprise Ophelia Atlantic City Viola Lee Blues jam China Cat Sunflower I Know You Rider Feel Like a Stranger Shakedown Street

The Friday night party ended up at the Jerry Garcia Forest for a night of Jerry bluegrass and dancing in the street. Baitbucket couldn’t yet locate the Michiganders, so he found his way back to J’s Dablature Experiment for late night cordials and low-temperature silliness. He was last seen, walking around in small circles looking for his campsite until the wee hours of the early morning. Worm hole Watusi of the first order, to be sure.

Saturday (SNUCKN’): The Lowest Brow–Stonewall’s festival experience had found the perfect rhythm. He’d ingested a virtual cornucopia of unknown chemicalia into his blood stream and his head was all right. He’d lined himself with such a bouquet of uppers and downers, just to let them fight it out, leaving him somewhere close to level. The Mafioso had come bearing enough gifts, like Shawsville strawberry moonshine and recreational bath salts, to weaken a large pack animal, and throughout the tents and shade canopies that lined the festival fields, candy was being tossed around like Mardi Gras Tuesday. It was around four in the afternoon and the day had left him careless and fancy free. He was heading in to see Pigeons Playing PIng Pong thinking about E A Sy. For a gangster, he loved that band and never missed a chance to see them. It would be cooler if he was here packing a vat of his crotch whiskey. Not a single care in the world. Walking through the security checkpoint, he broke the fourth rule of adult caution and forgot about the container of contraband in the lower pocket of his cargo shorts. Oopsie…Upon detection, Stonewall made a confused mumbling sound and turned to walk away in a reserved and patient manner. In retrospect, he might should have hauled some serious ass, but he liked to think that the days of barefootly climbing chain link fences were behind him. For some reason that can’t be explained here, the security volunteer alerted the legitimate gestapo and they lit out in pursuit of the unsuspecting perp, faster than a West Texas jackrabbit. What was happening? In one nanosecond, he was back in the clutches of the pigs and they were already predictably obstinate. Things had turned due south and this was certainly not one of those “good choices” that Sunshine had suggested, in some other place and some other time. As he strode away from the security guard he removed the small vial from his pocket and began dumping out it’s contents into the Virginia brush, until a police officer donned in a black golf shirt, rudely snatched it from his hands. He pushed into Stonewall’s face and shouted, “Why did you try and dump it out?” “I figured if I dropped the whole thing it would be conspicuous,” forgetting, yet again, that honesty is never the best policy when dealing with law dogs of any kind.` With the click of the handcuffs, he accepted the fact that this was definitely on and he had finally managed to reach the lowest brow. Having penned the term, Darth Waffle would be pleased. Things were finally getting colorful. He was tossed into a cop golf cart and taken to a cop single wide modular home where his fate lay in the hands of cops on computer monitors. Visions of Spring Reunion began flashing in his mind’s eye. Never tie a pit bull to a wheel barrow.

Seated in the well-lit room next to a gaggle of child cops, the next immediate goal was to hold it together and not appear too faded. Apparently, it can be a crime. Who can imagine how his outward appearance physically looked under a careful and prolonged examination by these trained Nazis? In a well-lit room, it seemed like a real long shot. If these Virginia puerco even suspected what drugs he’d ingested, he’d be on his way to the hospital for a good old fashioned stomach pumpin’. Hell, he couldn’t even remember what he’d taken during the first half of this day, which seemed so far away. The walkabout had lasted most of the morning, visiting the headiest folk around the site and ingesting God only knows what. Here in the mid-afternoon, his innards could only be characterized as a chemical toilet. Mission accomplished yo.

As the interrogation lingered, his mouth began to fill up with what he imagined creosote would taste like and the sweat, once again, began to foam and burble. There was still the business card of acid in his wallet and a couple ten strips already cut. Hopefully he wasn’t sweating so much as to render it useless. When the pigs looked closer, and they surely would, they’d find it and ship him off to Red Onion State Prison for the rest of his days. Finally, the silly dream of freedom would be, once and for all, put down like a rabid cur. As he spoke with the local magistrate via skype, things continued to get increasingly foggy. There were so many questions. The whole thing seemed to be going to hell as he began to turn into warm mush right in front of the magistrate. “Did you get a DUI in Colorado?” “Nope. Detained but no charges.” Complete lies. “Are you sick?, Do you have any needles in your pocket?” Stonewall replied, “Not sick and no idea what’s in my pocket.” The next few minutes blurred into each other and accurate reporting was impossible. The magistrate switched off and he asked the young cop a questions. “Can you please let me know when this process has moved upstairs, past your influence, so I’ll know when to stop worrying?” “We’re going to need to go to your campsite and go through your tent to check it for contraband,” they mused. Stonewall’s face hardened as he considered the idea of sheriffs loaded up in golf carts assaulting the camp site of his new friends. “That’s gonna have to be a no,” he finally said. “It would not be classy to pull up, in front of the campsite, with a bunch of unshaven gestapo. Besides, I don’t even know what’s in the tent.”

“Why are you saying that you don’t know what’s in the tent?” “It’s not my tent. Those thugs are from North Carolina. Who knows what kind of contraband they’re hauling around. Just leave me out of it.” For some reason, this seemed to placate the law dogs and they forgot about raiding the campsite. All good news, but they weren’t handing over the keys to the city just yet. A cop sat next to him, while they waited for the magistrate’s decision and struck up a little small talk. “Thanks for being cool about everything. We appreciate your cooperation. We had another guy come through here and shit everywhere. The walls. The chair you’re sitting in. Everything. He sprayed his filth all over the place before we got him out of here.” Stonewall considered the raw nature of man and the unfiltered savagery that might reveal itself as the cold gates of the underground begin to seal itself. The possibilities were endless. Stonewall looked over at the cop, “I have to admit, I considered it. If you knew you were going to jail, it might be a pretty funny way to go out.” The cop smiled, “Plenty of people think that. It’s not funny.”

O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!” Good news from the magistrate. This was just one spun hippy and these nice folks had bigger fish to fry. There would be free air to breathe for one more day. Park employees, however, were waiting with scissors in hand. “If you are found on the property you will be arrested” the supervisor grumbled. He was given one more free golf cart ride, past the cars and tents, by the front gate and all the way to the Thomas Nelson Highway. It was a dark time but it was better than jail. This whole trip was had cost a pretty penny and now he was going to spend Saturday night in a local saloon. Weak.

Heading west on highway 29, he walked against the traffic on the gravel shoulder and considered his options. He could continue this way until he found a gas station. That would supply him with enough cigarettes and beer to make it to a hotel or a bar. He still had his phone and wallet, even if the rest of his paltry possessions were still at the yoga machine. It would all be fine. He would find a hole in the wall bar and drink scotch until he felt better. Then, he would take his first shower in days and sleep in a freezing hotel room. Not too bad for a plan B.

The whole idea made him absolutely sick.

He knew the people he was leaving behind and the fun they were going to be having together. He was reminding of Thatcher at Spring Reunion and how the family suffered after Live Oak law dogs took him away in chains. The party goes on, but profoundly suffers for the lost soldier. He would also be spending somewhere in the neighborhood of two-thousand dollars before this exercise was finally concluded, and that was worthy of a most serious effort.

Maybe there was another idea.

As he walked toward the interstate, he surveyed the layout of the surrounding fields and thicket. It was dense forest patches separated by farm fields and a few houses. For about a mile, he studied the lay of the land and began to consider the possibility of sneaking back into the festival without a bracelet. It would be straight out of Vinny’s book. Or Scotteesha. Or even Thatcher. Heckfire, this was out of Thomas Jackson’s book. Just down the street from Danville and Apomattox, welcome to the Army of Norther Virginia. Wearing flip flops, he was going to hump four square miles through country forest and sneak back in like a damn hippy. Cheyenne was right. He was the wook his parents had always warned him about. He turned off the road into the treeline, ate a five strip of acid and headed south. He would stay in the shade until he was off the main road, then all he had to do was follow the music, all the way home. For the moment, things were looking up,

As he hiked through the Virginia underbrush, sunset brought out the woodland critters. Deer and owls joined him in his hunt for the back door. Day turned to night and he took his time through the brush. He figured being impatient would lead to injury or cause him to be discovered traipsing through the brambles. Flip flops seemed like a silly way to navigate the streams and fields, but at least he wasn’t barefoot. The briars and thorny vines clung to his arms and legs as he lumbered through the dense thicket. The moon was going to be a waxing gibbous, which would surely assist with navigation and each time he drifted too far south, the sing-song voice of Susan Tedeschi guiding him back through the Virginia woods. The distant rumble of such tunes as Statesboro Blues, Alabama, by Neil Young and Mahjoun with Brandford Marsalis, kept him on the right trail. Behind Tye River Elementary School, back into the brush and then to cross Diggs Mountain Road. He was guided by the Aretha Franklin cover, “I Never Loved a Man (The Way I Loved You)”, “Bound For Glory” with Ivan Neville, “A Song For You” by Leon Russell. into “Little Martha” and “Whipping Post”. Thanks for the breadcrumbs, lady. After walking for a couple of hours, he came across some tents in the woods. This would be Forest Tent Camping, which happened to be directly across the street from High Field RV and his campsite. Things were beginning to look up. It was time to change the shirt and hat and sit down for a cold brew. The party would just be getting started.

He wasn’t entirely ready to give up on the music. He came to this festival to see Dead & Co. and that still needed to happen. Stonewall poked around the VIP area and behind the stage, looking for a chink in the armor, some place he could slip in. He spied an opening in the fence and started up a conversation with the nearby security guard. The guard lamented over the piece of broken wooden fence. “These hippies try to sneak in here, legs all slashed up and with no bracelet. They even broke my fence.”

Stonewall’s brain lit up with a new idea. “It’s real interesting that you should say that, because that’s exactly what I’m trying to do. I need you to let me get through that opening in the fence.”

He asked, “Do you have a bracelet?”

“Nope. They cut it off when they threw me out. But it would be real cool to get back in and rejoin my people before Dead & Co. kick off.”

The security guard began looking over his shoulder at the other gates and leaned in. “There’s folks working inside that fence and if they see you, they’re going to say something, so here’s what we’re gonna do. I’ll take you by the shirt like you’re in trouble. We’ll walk right by everyone and when we get out of sight, I”ll lose you.”

“That sounds perfect.”

Dead & Co.: Back into venue just in time for Oteil’s birthday. Both the rail and field were thick with the best vibe ever. Something about the good ol’ Grateful Dead. They just make everything so much fun. It was a night for adventurous lurking. The first set brought out a Ramble On Rose-Alabama Getaway-Cassidy. The second set blew up an, Oteil-led Fire On the Mountain into a celebratory China Cat Sunflower. Two hours earlier he’d been alone, hiking through the back field of Ol’ Virginny, now he was sitting on a blanket, surrounded by the most beautiful people ever. Colorful.

Highlight of the festival: Saturday night’s midnight set included Lettuce with Eric Krasno Celebrating JGB, joined by Bob Weir, John Mayer and Oteil Burbridge in a set that tore up the mountain and set the beat for the rest of the night.

Finders Keepers I Second That Emotion Stop That Train (Oteil Sings) After Midnight ( John in for the jj cale spectacular) Sugaree (let Bobby sing) Tangled Up In Blue (that makes sense) That’s What Love Will Make You Do (it’s too serious to be funny) How Sweet It Is to Be Loved by You (the alpha and the omega) Cats Under the Stars (second one of the weekend) They Love Each Other (holy moly)

Lettuce called it a celebration of the Jerry Garcia Band after it was all said and done, a celebration is exactly what it felt like.

Dead & Co. Another Saturday Night, LOCKN’ 2018: photo by Karley Bear

Sunday Spunday: All hail a festival that uses it’s Sunday for a good cause. Bloody Mary brunch was served at Chris’ Opium Den near the Jerry Garcia Forest. Thank you SolarWolf and LunarWolf for the most seriously fun time ever. Thank you El Capitano for physically removing all the love governors. You’re headier than thy? The party got riled up when Cheyenne began lopping off her dreadlocks to trade for hugs. Fortunately, she was sedated before she could do too much damage. God willin’ and the Creek don’t rise. Check out the new Google map application that allows you to easily search for “tweakers near me”. Congratulations to Sugarplum and Huckleberry for getting hitched at Keller Williams and Grateful Gospel during Eyes of the World. These folks met at the same show, at the same spot three years earlier. It certainly is the dismal tides when Cook County trash can come down south and pilfer our own belles. It has been a proven formula for the ages, church is a great place to meet girls. Go Cubs.

Dead & Co.: And things were going so well for Stonewall. Left by Clayopheus, his recently acquired Staff bracelet was no more than a tattered chicken bone of a thing, held on by other bracelets and falling off every few steps. It was so frayed and torn, it looked as if he’d eaten if off of his wrist. Even the beer girl noticed when he wasn’t wearing one, and beyond the recognition, said nothing. All in all, he was back into the venue, this time enjoying the entire Tedesci-Trucks show into the night’s Dead. Then it happened… “I take a little powder, take a little salt, put it in my shotgun, I go walkin’ out…” Oh lordy, not this. The first set smattering Grateful ettoufee spun into a Mr. Charlie→Tennessee Jed→Althea that tripped every breaker on the mountain. The second set showed an Eyes of the World and Morning Dew with Branford Marsalis that left tears staining the front of tie dyes everywhere. Wolly bully. Mr. Charlie told me so.

Sugarplum and Huckleberry, Sunday at Tedesci-Trucks Band, LOCKN’ 2018.

Bob, John and Oteil join Lettuce and Eric Krasno for the JGB tribute Sat. night, LOCKN’ 2018.

Be sure to check out Roadtripmojo for more LOCKN’ gibberish and follow their social media channels on Facebook and Instagram.

Headed back to South Florida, for days the toenails would still be dyed with Virginia red clay. Charlotte storms postponed our flight and the guitar was destroyed by baggage carriers. That’s three guitars since Hulaween. This lifestyle is getting expensive.

“Does this mean I can use your ticket for Floydfest?”

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For our first Lockn’, it really had a little of everything you look for in a festival. Deer, dead people, research-grade narcotics, moonshine and spilled wine. Everyone brought their best effort and after it was all said and done, very little was left on the vine. Old friends came together with new ones and alliances were formed that would last a lifetime. We are on the lookout for Brian at Live Oak and his Mr. Clinkies. October is one of the best times for festivals at the Spirit of Suwannee Music Park in North Florida. Get ready for Suwannee Roots Revival and Hulaween coming up fast. See you under the Thunder Chicken.

LOCKN’ 2018: The Lowest Brow The gypsy girl said it herself, the cards looked good. But what did that really mean? And good for whom?

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