10 Hour Party People

The unwashed masses are roasting like sunbaked clams in Manchester, Tenn. for Bonnaroo this weekend. And I hate every last one of you.


You get to hear the snappy dancehall rhythms of M.I.A and the post-Graceland conga-rock of Vampire Weekend; the manic beatboxing of Brooklynite Reggie Watts and the souped-up speed metal of Metallica.

My Bonnaroo experience has faded into a distant memory of midnight drug-fueled nipplegazing and shifty-eyed penguins. After blankly ingesting a doobie laced with embalming fluid at Bonnaroo 2006, I blindly stumbled into a VIP Backstage area, where I proceeded to ruffle through unguarded watercoolers. After knocking over a couple of Dansini tubs, I lurched down a vacant camp lot (everyone was grooving to Radiohead at the time) before slumping over in a bed of weeds. At this point, I tripped balls to distorted Tim Burton-ifed versions of the Happy Feet cast.

I lasted ten hours.

There really isn't a point to this story.