Summer festival shenanigans

Summer festival season is here, and with my crew, that used to mean that you couldn’t let your guard down until the sweet corn was out of season. It was the summer of 1993 and I was headed to Telluride for the Bluegrass Festival.

The motley crew of usual suspects that appear there annually like a bad patch of poison ivy have mellowed considerably over the years. Johnny Rev, Doc, Teton Ron and Bonehead are highly reactive elements and the pranks they pull on each other when they come into contact are nothing if not inspired. Being on the receiving end was dangerous and to be avoided. But as a spectator, there was nothing better.

Telluride was unusually clear and hot that year and the stooges were all on edge, waiting for that “something” to happen. Shoes were checked carefully before feet were inserted. Beers were opened slowly to avoid a carbonated facial peel. Shampoo was inspected for alien substances (Nair) and underwear was shaken to rid it of cayenne. These were normal, automatic cautionary steps. But ‘93 was different.

It began in the middle of the week, before the music started. Doc had gone fishing with some of the kids and they had left four carrot-size trout in a cooler, sans ice, without gutting them. For a right thinking person, this now ripe catch should have been tossed into the trash without delay. For Doc, it was decomposition of mass destruction with a built-in, time delay fuse. The fish and a garnish of grass were placed Into two resealable plastic bags. The grass kept the bag from resealing and allowed it to “breathe.” While Johnny Rev and Bonehead were off somewhere during the day, Doc hollowed out a small depression under each of their tents and placed a bag therein.

As is the case with fine wine, single malt Scotch and some women, patience is rewarded and quality improves over time.

By Friday, there had been no carnage. Suspicions were high and trust was gone. Johnny and Bonehead knew something was up and were slowing going mad trying to suss out the scheme. Doc just watched, waited and grinned.

By Friday afternoon, Doc was getting worried. Despite the scorching heat, nothing was “happening.” Had they found the fish and removed the bags without telling him?  Saturday, too, was a scorcher and by noon, our campsite was an Easy Bake Oven. The first hint of olfactory evil was evident in Doc’s grin at breakfast. Festivarians all around us were taking out their trash and wondered out loud if someone’s camper had sprung a sewer leak. It was just before lunch when Bonehead let fly…

“Goddamn it, Doc! What the f%*&!” He unzipped his tent and proceeded to throw all of his belongings out the door, after first searching them for the offending odor. And what an odor it was. The fish, it seemed, had saved up all its stink powers and unleashed them at once. Either that or Bonehead (so named because of his prominent foreheadedness) had rolled over and caused the fishness to squeeze out of the bag. In any case, the stench from across the campsite was eyewatering. It’s hard to imagine what it was like at ground zero.

Once Bonehead had emptied his tent, he stood outside in his underpants, cursing Doc and trying to see through a blinding hangover that was only made worse by the stench. With one tug, he flung his tent from its moorings and there, lying innocently in the matted grass, was the baggie of fish. Bonehead couldn’t get the package far enough away fast enough. And once he did, the smell was still there; round two was on its way.

It didn’t take long for Johnny to get hit with the blunt force of the nasal trauma. Seeing the flotsam of Bonehead’s belongings strewn about and his collapsed tent, he quickly discovered the source and, like a trooper, promptly disposed of it.

Such pranks seem to have become things of the past, but in the retelling, we all get to relive the exquisite beauty with which it was constructed.