Mark Tufo - Alive in a Dead World

Widespread came on maybe an hour later, I couldn’t tell, anything resembling timekeeping in my head had been eradicated for the evening. So there we are in this field that is more like a bowl surrounded by jagged peaks, pretty special place to see a show, when black, ominous clouds began to roll in. They were the kind that screamed “storm.” I’d occasionally steal a glance at them as they rolled over the tops of the mountains because they were that cool looking, right up until the rain started. Widespread was on the third song of the night when the heavens split open. This is no exaggeration. Are you a kid? Whether grown up or not? Or do you have a kid? Have you ever gotten a super soaker for any of the aforementioned people? Yes? Then you will know what I’m about to say. The rain was coming down in such a deluge, it was like being repeatedly nailed with a full spray from a super soaker.

Now for those of you who don’t know what a super soaker is, it is in NO way comparable to a squirt gun from the days of my youth or possibly yours. Unless you lined up about four hundred of them and just started spraying the hell out of one individual. That is the power of a super soaker. I think you could drain a pool with one in half an hour in a particularly intense water fight. So I’m roughly four to maybe five sheets to the wind, I wouldn’t have cared if it was hailing, but apparently the band had issues when the lightning began to crack overhead. They finished their third song and headed to safer parts. The crowd, my friends and I waited another hour or so. It was actually pretty cool. Some of the concert goers had the foresight to bring tarps and I found myself traveling from makeshift party tent to makeshift party tent. If you know anything about Widespread, it is, for the most part, a very laid back, Havin’-a-Good-Time type of crowd. There was not one tent where I was not offered some sort of smoke or drink for my travels, and more times than not, I partook.

The rain did not relent, and they finally called the show for the night. The mass exodus of wet, cold, hungry, wasted people began. At some point, I had taken my sneakers off and lost my socks, but the mud squishing through my toes was magical. (Hey, I’m easily entertained when I’m drunk). We more or less followed the crowd as they headed out, a fair portion over-taxing the local pizza joint, us included. Two hours later, we left with our two pizzas back to our rental. We ate like drunk people do, noisily and then divvied up the sleeping arrangements and headed off to bed. All in all, it was a pretty nice day. But the real fun was to begin on the morrow.

I awoke. One eye would not focus, no matter how much I tried, my mouth was shoved full of cotton, my head had become a blacksmith’s anvil and he was busy making horseshoes. My stomach was a churning whirlwind of undercooked pizza and a cocktail of differing brews. I had broken my own cardinal sin of mixing alcohols and was now paying the price. The one good eye squinted against the harsh sunlight that poured through the window. I rolled out of my bed and onto a wet pair of socks, I would have stopped in amazement to try and figure out how those had gotten there, but I smelled the cure-all of many a hangover. Bacon! Bacon! Bacon!

Paul was in the kitchen making scrambled eggs and bacon, and it smelled wonderful. I think if it hadn’t violated so many man-code rules, I would have kissed him. Dennis was on the couch, holding his head with one hand and a glass of what I figured to be juice in the other.

“Grab your drink on the table.” Paul said, motioning with his spatula.

“Drink? What kind of drink?” I asked, my stomach protesting at just the mere mention.

“No drink, no bacon,” he told me.

“What do you have, Dennis?” I asked.

“He told me the same thing,” Dennis wept. “And I really want some,” he finished pathetically.

“Come on, man! Food first, then whatever this devil’s brew is,” I begged Paul.

“Oh my God! This bacon is fantastic!” Paul said, tearing into a big strip.

“Ass,” I told him as I grabbed the glass off the table. I sat next to Dennis so that we could commiserate. Dennis just kept staring at his drink like he hoped it would evaporate. I’ve never been one to think before I act. “Here goes nothing,” I said to Dennis. I was trying for a wicked grin, but I’m sure that it was more of a sickly smile. I tipped the glass up and just started gulping. The cold fluid washed the cotton from my mouth and put out the fire caused from heartburn in my throat and stomach. (Don’t let anyone ever tell you getting old doesn’t suck). I don’t know if he had Alka-Seltzer in the drink also, but the roiling immediately stopped as did the hammer-smacking anvil in my skull, and immediate warmth passed through my extremities as a familiar buzz washed over me.

“Holy fuck!” I said aloud, holding up the empty glass, looking for an after trace of whatever magical ingredients had been present.

“Pretty neat trick, huh?” Paul said as he put a portion of food down on my plate and his.

“Are you kidding?” Dennis asked.

“Not at all, man,” I said. I had instantly transformed from one of the walking dead back to a fully fledged participant in the human race.

“Really?” Dennis queried, holding up his glass like I had mere moments before.

I was already heading for the table and the food, and if he didn’t hurry up I was going to eat his portion too. Dennis must have realized this because he downed his much like I had. It was pretty fun to watch his transformation as it happened.

“What the hell was in that thing?” Dennis said as he nearly launched himself from the couch.

“You’d really be better off not knowing,” Paul said around a mouthful of toast.

“Man, you should market that stuff,” I told Paul, as I mowed through my eggs.

“Nope, because then I’d have to disclose the ingredients.”

I looked at Paul like maybe I would beg him for the info, and then I thought better of it. Sometimes ignorance is bliss.

We ate our meal, cleaned up some and then decided to take a small tour of the town we were in. The day was phenomenal with not a hint of the rent-open skies from the night before. We went to the local liquor and grocery stores to replenish our supplies. We must have bought eight or nine pounds of deli meat so that we could make sandwiches when we got home from the show tonight and not have to wait for a pizza. The thought of those cold pepperonis from the previous night threatened to break through Paul’s elixir, but it held fast. We toured around the town, hung out with a bunch of our neighbors who were also concert-goers and played a bunch of cards. Every couple of hours, we were required to keep dosing with Paul’s medicine; and not once did I feel an after effect from the previous evening.

Our plan this fine night as the concert got closer was to stick with one type of alcohol--vodka; but like all the best of intentions, it quickly went out the window. Partied a bit beforehand, but nothing like our marathon session the day before. By the time we headed out for the show, I had a pleasant base buzz from which to build upon. If it were possible, the security this night was even more lax. They didn’t even check for our tickets. We could have driven a beer truck in. How fucking awesome would that have been!? Paul immediately went to the concession stand and bought a half dozen sodas to mix our vodka with. In retrospect, I sit here wondering why we didn’t just bring in our own cups and a couple of two liter bottles.

So there we are, Dennis, Paul, and myself. The sky was lit up a brilliant blue, the temperature hovering in the eighties, we were surrounded by majestic peaks on all sides. Throngs of people danced to the music in their heads (the show had not started yet) or played Frisbee or hacky sack, or just sat and talked. It was a festival and I was soaking it all in. The buzz was starting to build as we drank more and smoked some community joints. I somehow had the ability to suspend my germ phobias whilst drinking because if I’d been straight, I would never put a joint to my lips after passing anyone’s lips, especially some of the wookies that were passing them around. (Wookies are unkempt hippies that generally tour with the band. Something I would have been had I not had a family.)