Sunday, September 24, 2006 There were plenty of virgins at that festival, but I still have my honor
This morning I looked down at my feet and legs, and they were a mess. Ground-in dirt with the ghostly outlines of fishnets, scabs, big purple bruises, blisters, scrapes. I collapsed into bed without showering when I came home last night. I left the house at 9:15 yesterday morning, and I got in at Jesus-Fuck AM. I spent 14 hours on roller skates, and then the devil told me to go to the bar, so I did, and there was a dance party more of my exhausted roller buddies.
Yesterday I ate food intended for far more famous people than I in the artists's tent, I scrimmaged on slanted, rough asphalt with metal fencing sourrounding the track to make it extra dangerous for us and protect the spectators. I got this close to going on stage with the Flaming Lips, along with the other roller girls, the milkmaids from Fluid Movement, the people dressed as shrubbery, and the people in Santa outfits, but at the last moment, Biff Beef, Head of Security said "No skates on stage!" We offered to take them off, but he said there were too many dancers, and started yelling at us to leave.
Biff had evidently seen someone spill a drink, and decided we were a risk, somebody told me, but Biff hadn't seen how many times we'd all had to walk up and down stairs, navigate through crowds of white-hatted slogan tee'd hecklers and fans, and skate through the tunnel of death that leads from the bleachers to the infield. The floor of the tunnel was shaped like this \_/. Not hard if you're in shoes, and not hard on skates either, if you pick up some speed. Of course, you're going from the brightness of daylight into the gloom of the tunnel, which other people are also using, and the visibility isn't the best. If you did pick up a good bit of speed, your momentum carried you pretty far up the uphill side. Eventually, I got word that if Justice Feelgood Marshall and I kept racing, we'd be kicked out, so from then on I had to inch down the tunnel like a little baby, all because the party cops are afraid of a little exuberance.
My scrimmage team, the black team, skated under the name The Mustache Ryders. Betsy Battleaxe had gotten a deal on false mustaches at target. She and I kept them on as long they would stick to our faces. We both had them for Gnarls Barkley, and we were the super hit of the 20 ft radius, if you can judge that sort of thing by the amount of unsubtle camera phone shots are snapped of you and the amount of people who come up and pose next to you.
People were definitely camera-happy, mustaches or no. A lot of it had to do with the way I was wearing a funny outfit and skates, but a surprising number of people came up and said they'd heard us on the radio, or read articles, and lots of people talked about the bouts they'd been to. I think that we definitely increased our visibility among the drunken dude 18-to-hey-baby set.
Cee-Lo forgot to ask for my autograph, but I might send him one anyway, because I am a deeply decent person. posted by Frenzy Lohan | 9/24/2006 01:32:00 PM
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