The tents were so close together that the campground looked like a refugee camp, which caused more than one person to remark that, nine months from now, a lot of babies were going to be making appearances. Specifically, Pemberton Festival babies.
All of which brings me to think about, to consider, hookups at music festivals. Looking back on my past, I can’t recall ever having gotten esp. lucky at festivals. Oh sure, there was that time I found my contact lenses when I thought for sure I’d lost them, and the acid was just kicking in, but you know what I mean.
Actually there was this one Winnipeg Folk Festival, back in the days when I would actually CAMP at one of these things, where I found myself sleeping in tent with a bunch of people from Regina, including this pretty cute redhead named Erin. Sigh. Erin. Although, the memory is hazy, and I can’t recall the association moving much further than that one tent night.
Truth is, though, I haven’t been to a whole lot festivals, certainly not where I’ve camped. I’m not much of a camper, for one thing, so unless someone’s got a tent and a Coleman stove and an extra sleeping bag, not to mention copious amounts of bourbon, I won’t be going off into the woods anytime soon. I’m certainly glad I didn’t camp at Pemberton, knowing the problems campers faced (traffic, getting to and from camp-sites, baggy shorts). Yet my imagination runs wild at the idea of all that irresponsible, ill-informed, and probably sloppy attempts at coitus. The only two good stories I heard, though, was from a camper who claimed she’d gone to look for a place to pee while waiting for the shuttle to take her back to her site and stumbled across a couple doing it behind a parked bus. Another camper added he’d seen a girl, in last night’s dress and mussed-up hair, emerge from a tent, look around like “Where the hell am I?” and then bolt away like a startled deer. Okay, I added the “startled dear” part myself.
Meanwhile, my imagination ran amok as well at the prospect of the stagette party going on in Whistler, the town near Pemberton where I stayed during the festival. The thing is, the Texas Twister (my “girlfriend-type thing,” as her friend referred to her) was at this stagette, which prompted my fevered imagination to imagine all kinds of scenarios, many including vibrating toys, pillow fights, and lingerie. (And who says porn is affecting the way we view sex?) Apparently the closest they came was when the Texas Twister, who was sleeping with Amelie, the French girl whose stagette it was, reached across and groped her–mistaking her for me (or so she says). In fact, the Twisterindulged overmuch in the afternoon and passed out, missing the whole nightclub scene that included an impromptu striptease by a dude at the bar. Which just goes to show, if you want the inside story on a stagette, you have to go in and get it yourself.
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