In a week my bony ass will be situated in a tent at Desert Trip; communing with the stars, grooving to the music, and making friends with a bajillion baby-boomers. I read somewhere that the average age of the performers at Desert Trip is 70. My time to shine is now.
Rolling Stones, Bob Dylan, Paul McCartney, The Who, Roger Waters, and Neil Young…I grew up on all of them. I’ve seen all of them except The Who, but this is really a once-in-a-lifetime experience. With all of the celebrity deaths this year, I was terrified that one of them was going to drop dead before it all happened. Looks like everyone stayed alive (myself included), and I couldn’t be more excited.
Diving headfirst into a weekend of music I love is treat enough, but heading to my family’s neck of the woods is even better. I’m the only east coast weirdo, and that was a complete accident that sadly stuck. Everyone else called Colorado to California home, and I’ve just lived vicariously through stories. As it is, I’ve never felt right in Atlanta. There’s a slowness and clarity to everything out there that sings to me (Hollywood social climbing aside). Not like the syrupy slowness of the deep south, it unnerves me and puts a pit in my stomach. It’s weird to explain, but when you know you don’t belong…you know it.