Sunday, June 8, 2008

White Trash Bash

I'm never more aware that Kansas City is full of smelly, fat, tatooed white trash than when Rockfest rolls around.
The annual day long event caused 50,000 people to crawl out of the woodwork and decend on Liberty Memorial Park yesterday. Apparently toothless, scragly-haired, gangly people looooove rock music. I mean, it was an absolute sea of people milling from stage to stage, beer tent to giant foot long corn dog stand, to the water fountain station then of course to the forest of port-o-potties. Never in your life will you see more muffin tops, dimply asses, poorly etched tatoos, saggy boobs and mullets all gathered in one place. The fact that Kate, Sam, Baron and I have none of those things made us a minority, a rare piece of beautiful scenery or a target - take your pick.
Kate had class most of the day (damn her and her trying to better herself!) leaving Sam, Baron and me to try to fend off the beer craving pangs. We arrived around noon-ish and wanted to wait for the first thirst quenching beer until 5 p.m. for two reasons: 1.) We didn't want to be completely obnoxious when Kate showed up for fear she would ditch us, leaving me to play with just the smelly boys the rest of the night. 2.) We had an irrational fear that we would become what Johnny Dare, the mascot of 98.9, the radio station that puts on the shindig, calls the infamous "Rock Lobster" a.k.a. a wasted dipshit that passes out on the lawn and gets horrendously sunburned. I suppose there was also the fear that one of us would have to visit the medical tent for dehydration and be poked with needles, but becoming the Rock Lobster might have been worse.
So we waited and waited...and waited, but dealing with the fat, sweaty, tatooed, B.O.-tastic crowd along with the fried food and beer drenched atmosphere was almost too much to bear without a frosty plastic cup of goodness in one hand. And, a whole 45 minutes after arriving and reiterating our 5 p.m. pact, we found our alcoholic asses in front of the glorious beer tent ordering giant Miller Lites. And, no, I'm not ashamed. It's human nature right?
Trips to the port-o-potty forest became increasingly difficult throughout the day. I managed to become slightly tipsy at one point during the festival, imagine that, and with the hotness that is Kansas City summer, the water station was overflowing, making the area around it a giant mudhole. I slop through it in my sensibly chosen black platform flip flops and lose both of them in the process. After ewww-ing profusely because I was actually barefoot for 10 whole seconds at Rockfest probably catching herpes of the feet, I put them back on and climbed up the hill that you had to walk on sideways to get to forest-o-potties.
Drunk Lara + wet rubber platform flip flops + big hill = rolled ankle and broken shoe.
Dammit, now I was barefoot at Rockfest for even more disgusting seconds. Sick. I almost cried at the thought of walking around the rest of the day with no shoes on even though my feet were already caked with Ebola virus anyway, but then my friend Jeff came to the rescue and shoved the little flip flop prong back in with a car key, repairing the shoe. I owe him my feet because amputation probably would have been my only option if I was forced to bare foot-it.
Did I mention there were 50,000 fucking people there most of whom were absolutely disgusting creatures, but a few of whom I knew? Co-workers, friends of friends, people I didn't recognize since I hadn't seen them since we were six in dance class...Then there were the people I was forced to get to know a little bit better without actually knowing them because they showed off pieces of their anatomy hence the names, "the boob train," "fatty fat bitch tits," and "plastic ken doll." When you add in all the sweaty bastards that tried to molest me throughout the day, I say I made quite a few new friends.
Oh yeah, and there was music and stuff even though I wasn't a huge fan of any of the bands besides the headliners, Stone Temple Pilots. I mean, who doesn't love STP and Scott Weiland's cracked out ass? Oh, and was he cracked out. He was mumbling shit about "corporations and love and blah" between songs, then he'd randomly just say "FUCK!...SHIT!" between songs. I think I liked it best when they sang Happy Birthday to one of the band members and at the end, Scott sang, "...And many whoooores!" However, the old songs sounded amazing and while he came out on stage in this hot red hat and tie, he of course ended up shirtless with his hair plastered to his face. Scott Weiland - skinny, cracked out, sweating profusely, yet still strangely attractive...Hmmm...

No comments:

 

View my page on Twenty Something Bloggers