Tid-bits overheard or told
June 08, 2008
I lay in bed last night with thoughts of the day...thoughts of the weekend running through my mind. The mind was keeping the body awake. The body, which screamed,"Let me go! Just let me go.”
People are funny. Intoxicated and otherwise. The things we complain about—hey, I know I mean me too—things that bother us. I have often found it is the little aggravations.
How many times over the last few months have I started a sentence to the husband, “You know, it really bothers me when you ....”
His answer: “Why don’t you make a list of the things that don’t bother you. That would be easier.”
I couldn’t think of any. It has become a standing joke between us, but the husband, who’s name is Mark, is actually a pretty good guy. And he has been a good sport about all this blogging stuff. Me picking on him, beating him up as he calls it. I admit it. I have been harsh. There’s love between the lines. I assure you.
“Pretty good?” he reads over my shoulder. “A pretty good guy?”
OK, we don’t wanna go overboard.
“Honey,” I explain. “I can’t make you sound that good or I’ll be fighting off the rival women.”
These seems to satisfy him.
Wanted to share a few tid-bits with you.
I am always amazed at the things people will tell a newspaper reporter. I was interviewing folks about how much money they spent on the weekend and one guy from Florida calculated thus and such:
“Sixty dollars for gas, $120 for a ticket ....,” he is counting on his fingers .... “Fifty dollars for beer, $120 for pot, $50 for food ....”
Wait. Did he say pot?
I look at his fellow campers who are from all over. Cousins and the cousin’s girlfriend from Albeeny.
“Uh, he’s not with us,” they say by way of explanation. “We just met him.”
“He just walked up before you did,” the cousin offers.
“We don’t know him.”
There were, I heard, about 18 arrests for drugs. I smelled a little weed on occasion as I passed through the Alternative Stage crowd.
Last night during the Bocephus show .... I just have to wonder what the two guys behind us will tell their friends who couldn’t come. I assure you, their recollections are clouded. One dude kept calling for his mother and his favorite word of the night was the F bomb. Even when Hank was talking, he F-ed this and F-ed that.
There was an injury. “My F-in’ toe! My F-in’ toe! It’s broke!”
As the night drug on, he leaned over to the girl in the bunch, seated quietly in a chair and said sternly:
“You gotta find you F-in’ sister-in-law. We got two beers left! Two!”
He held up a peace sign, then changed it to an 11.
“Two!” he persisted.
No response.
“Hank! Woooooo!”
Hank Jr. was phenomenol. He laughed and smiled and cut up and sang and sang and sang. He looked like he was having the time of his life. And why not, this is his sweet home Alabama, too.
OK, the Wards are packed up as best we can --can’t hook up the camper with tents in the way—and we are headin’ up to the action to see what’s going on… if there is clean-up or pack up, and maybe I can get a BamaJam shirt. Unfortunately, I didn’t see any tank tops. I like to collect these over T-shirts. I won’t wear a T. But the tanks I love..... Maybe in brown. Chocolate brown.
Cya when I get back.
