4. HONEY BADGER DON’T GIVE A SHIT ON STARR HILL

By J.J. Colagrande

Oh. my. god. I’ve never really traveled to the deep South or anywhere really. I just went with the flow, like Shore Morris says. Like you would never have seen me in this place a few months ago, but I felt open. Everything seemed so fresh and exciting. And I did have the greatest guide. My boy-toy knew everything. He knew where to park, how to set up camp, when and where to shop. Plus Shore Morris knew everyone, campers, production crew, media, even artists. I felt comfortable and that’s all that mattered. Kurtis cracked me up. Geri seemed standoff-ish at first–I don’t know why–maybe she was just preggers and hormonal–but I didn’t have any problems with that bitch. Tell you one thing, Bub–honey badger don’t give a shit. I loved our campsite. It looked like crap on the outside, but that was an illusion to keep out riff-raff–totally my idea, thank you. Our campsite rocked. Our neighbors were with Star Hill, the beer suppliers for the whole festival–woo-hoo–from Virgina, they had cases of cold cans, an amber Ale. I was drinking almost from the start–Shore drank a little too. Don’t you worry. I didn’t run around the RV section wild because I was drunk; on the contrary, I saw people filming a documentary and I wanted to be on camera. A silver bullet RV filmed me. They didn’t think me drunk because, hello, I wasn’t drunk. Nor was I drunk when I tripped on the rocks and sprained my ankle. A lot of rocks on that stupid West Virginia hill. I figured out the hard way not to wear heals. A sprained ankle. Ouch. Shore Morris put me in a taxi and took me to the First Aid tent and everything. That shit hurt like a son-of-a-bitch. They had gauge and a bandage and wrapped my ankle but I was hobbled. Right off the bat. Princess down, living on 421 Sprained Lane. It sucked. In fact, since I was basically incapacitated, I actually wanted to get drunk, but Shore took care of me. Moderation, he said. We cabbed it everywhere. It was funny hailing a taxi at a concert. He also carried me, when necessary. My boy-toy acted patient with me. I was surprised, once again. I probably would have abandoned myself. He said All Good; we’ll just go with the flow. And that’s how my festival started. I’m tough. Instead of whining, I played through the pain. Besides, every time I felt super annoyed and tempted to throw a hissy fit, Shore diffused it. Plus, the mood was just extra mellow. So I hurt myself? Did that mean I had to ruin it for others? Even that night, during Beats Antique, Shore found these guys who let me launch a Chinese lantern. It felt like the Opening Ceremony at the Olympics–everyone cheered as the balloon rose up–my spirits had no choice but to do the same.

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