Bloomingdale fest, a name that will forever strike fear and boredom into my heart. And not only did I go once but twice. Of course this is my solution to all problems and solves nothin’ but still. First endeavor into this unknown territory of lameness ( is that a real word and if it is its one of the damn hillbillyist words ever) was on a Saturday thinking there would be some people there I knew and also there was gunna be a fight most excellent indeed. But when my self and Matt reached this God forsaken CarnEVIL.
I, As With 90% of my decisions immediately regretted coming to the festival. There was a band there up on stage playing music from speakers and setting up their equipment. In addition there was a large tent with nearly blinding lights with some food stands set up around it. Then moving forward there were some tents with various advertisements and radio stations. Then came the true horrors, the midway. Picture this carnies as far as the eye can seen more of them then there were actual customers. In addition to that the ground was covered in woodchips that smelled like manure. That at the midway we meet Ali, Tim (or was it Jeff and I just always call him Tim to piss him off?), Mike, and his girlfriend. We then hung out with Ali and Jeff for a wile and heard “Jungle Boogie” playing from the stage and started yelling that for a wile, and then we left.
I should have stayed away, but no I had to make another bad choice. As with every horribly bad decision I make it had to do with a girl I never even end up talking to but, who cares! So I decide to go again and me and my friend Sean tags along. This time when we get there; they drop us off from the busi that you have to take from a preordained parking site. So we get there and I’m feelin’ good I even decide to start talking like a skater because it fuckin’ hilarious. So I’m sayin’ steez and Gnaw and shit and we walk to the tented area with advertisements and watch the fire works. Now when it comes to explosive ordinance I usual enjoy but I was standing in the middle of a busy path next to a dude watching fire works, not my original plan and kind of gay (Leviticus 18:21 says don’t do that shit.) And I start thinking about the fireworks and how they represent freedom. The strange thing about America is that are freedom is held in an iron grip. Fireworks, symbols of freedom are bombs witch is how we deal with problems witch keeps us free.
I never saw the girl I when there to meet and on the bus ride to the Extraction point I saw a kid crying because he had to leave the carnival. This made me think about my own childhood and how I always hated leaving the carnival which in turn led me to ponder the limitlessness of time and the finity of my existence in it and how I’ve always had a hate for leaving places. That hate for leaving leaves me longing and answer to what happens at death that final leaving. I tried religion but I find it difficult to believe (but awesome) that in the end God will come off his fuckin’ throne and that the world will be won over by a seven headed monster with ten horns (I find the arithmetic difficult to figure out how many horns is that per head) with a gift for rhetoric.
So if ever considering going to Bloomingdale fest in the future say NO, but say yes to House Harkonnen (They’re fuckin’ awesome). I’m outie bra’s catch you on the flip side I got a totally steezie rail to gnaw.