#15 RIDE THE KING’S HIGHWAY, BABY

By J.J. Colagrande


I had a wonderful Camp Bisco. This music journalist gig tasted like cake. I could’ve written the review without showing up for the festival, to tell you the truth. But it boded well to roll up my sleeves and give it my best, even if I wasn’t writing for the New York Times, or Rolling Stone. Guess we’d see what happens as far as my music journalist career. I already received an invitation to head to Wakarusa in Arkansas. Maybe so, maybe not–the bookstore was pretty flexible with its scheduling, so I didn’t see why not. One thing was certain, if I brought Keith, we  were going together, the freaking ding-dong. Could you believe he never called his voicemail? And after all the walking he did, he never found my car?? Ay-yi-yi. I believed it. Freaking Keith. He was acting strange, a little. We dropped the rental car at the airport and headed back to Brooklyn in my whip. He sat pensive behind the wheel. And he’d been fairly quiet ever since I found him by the blow torches. He was going through something. Like he tried his best to hold it in and chill, but I could tell he had something on his mind. What was the deal with yoga people? They always represented the biggest head cases, I swear. I guess that’s why they did yoga to begin with. Still, I didn’t think Keith felt happy. It probably had to do with me eating Molly–I knew he had a thing with chemicals–but I didn’t see the big deal–it wasn’t like I did that stuff hardly ever. I felt extremely pleased with him. He walked around selling books for me–how hot!! Dude sold 25 copies of my short story collection. What an awesome weekend. I took so many things away from Camp Bisco–all the interesting people–the events like the Scavenger hunt and Color Wars–the venders and affiliate organizations and media outlets like Head Count–the music sounded off-the-hook–so many different genres, even if heavier on electronica–the light shows and visuals were probably the best on the planet–the weather overbore heat with a crazy midnight monsoon–but more than anything the overall experience of Camp Bisco was priceless. I hardly slept, maybe a few hours–and I was absolutely beat, yet I could’ve gone even further–that’s how priceless the experience felt–like you didn’t want it to stop. I wished Keith had the same experience. His festival sounded a little rougher. Poor babe. And it seemed so clear that he still held onto something negative. Maybe I’d go down on him. Bet that would take his mind off of whatever he was thinking about. Naughty, naughty, right? Where did that idea even come from? I didn’t care. I liked the idea. Dude’s hives cleared up too. I was going to do it–he deserved a cookie–I’d definitely been a little naughty myself so I might as well keep the naughtiness going. Keith didn’t know what hit him. But the rest of the trip home was a lot less tense. Ha, ha, ha. To a memorable Camp Bisco.

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