Flash Shuffle Fiction 2: “Sabotage,” The Beastie Boys, “Star Dust,” Aaron Neville, “Strong Badia Anthem,” Strong Bad f/Ms. Partsmatter’s 1st Grade Class, “Black Wave / Bad Vibrations,” Arcade Fire, “You’ve Got To Hide Your Love Away,” The Beatles, “Walcott,” Vampire Weekend, “Idaho,” John Linnell, “Hey Bulldog,” The Beatles, “Dazed And Confused,” Led Zeppelin
It was a strange and muddled mixture, the mud beneath Rob’s feet. Surely most of it was the usual stuff: dirt, water, etc. But there were other things there, other things that should not have been there. While trudging toward the stage, pushing past stoners, hacky sack circles, mosh pits, and middle-aged couples in foldout lawn chairs, Rob’s eye caught several things beneath his feet: a condom wrapper (where was the condom?), a banana peel, a tampon, several beer cans, a deflated beach ball, a couple of baseball caps, bent, battered, and filthy beyond washing. The filth wouldn’t stop any of the hardcore concert goers here. Rob assumed all of these most things in mud would be recycled some how. Such is the way of MoonFest and most other large outdoor music festivals of this type. Rob would know. He use to be one of these assholes.
Bulldog was playing at the Apple stage and he knew he should have left the Screaming Grandchildren show, which was at the AT&T stage (on the other fucking side of festival grounds) earlier. It didn’t matter though, it seems he had reached the wall. The smoke circles and gently swaying potheads were far behind him now. Among the hardcore fans, Rob would have to throw a couple of elbows to get any closer to the stage. It didn’t seem worth it to him anymore. He started to notice the mist around him, which had been palpable for the past three days of the festival, start to thicken; large heavy water droplets began to fall sporadically into the audience. Just in case anyone was worried about the mud drying, Rob thought sardonically. The mass of people started to cheer and the wall in front of Rob began to undulate and pulse. Expanding backwards, people surged towards him, in a drunk meandering sort of way. It was all turning into one big, muddy, mosh.
Whatever, thought Rob. He could hear their shitty fake prog rock from a mile away. He didn’t need to be this close to write a review for some minor pop culture website. Especially for a flat fee of fifty bucks. “Fuck this,” Rob said, pushing his way to the west, the edge of the crowd. By the time he broke through, the rain coming down in buckets. The band hadn’t stopped playing though, which was odd, because normally bands do that in torrential downpour. Wishing the stage would just get struck by lighting already, Rob turned towards the nearest exit. The band was just getting into their second half, and for some reason sound and musical equipment here were water proof.
I’ll just give them a 7.1, thought Rob, eager to get back to his sterile hotel bed and free HBO. Maybe there would be some porn on tonight.