The guy in the white plaid shirt in the background was one of four people I caught pissing on my van.

Commerce City, CO – On our first day on the lot at Dick’s Sporting Good’s Park, a tall dready I’d met prior to the lot opening pulls me aside to ask if I want to do a bunch of coke. “Not really,” I reply. He seems a little surprised, a little disappointed. “Mind if I duck inside your van for a minute?” he asks, like he really needs a bump. “Ah,” I say, “I’d rather you didn’t.” No luck here, he darts off to find someone else with a van who wants to snort coke. Me? Well, I had beer to sell.

Owning a van is great, except for when it isn’t. It’s so large that I can’t get to parts of the windshield when squeegeeing off the evidence of an insect holocaust. Keeping the petro flowing in a big gas-guzzling V8 is an obvious money suck and environmental hazard. Negotiating tight places is a bitch and its weight and size do a number on my brakes. Coming down a very steep mountain in Maryland they began to smoke.

These are small aggravations compared to those aroused on the Phish lot. Over three nights at least six men pissed on my van as its size provided them perfect cover. This in itself ain’t all that surprising, but considering vendors set up behind their vehicles it seemed awfully brazen of them to pee on a vehicle whose owner is just feet away. But people are high and drunk and lazy and do dumb things. Understandable. But what irritated me most were their cavalier reactions when called out on it.

The vendor next to me chased off two people on the second night. The guy in the plaid shirt in the picture above was the first one I caught. “Hey!” I yelled, walking toward him. “Are you really pissing on my van?”

“Just on the tire,” he says, looking over his shoulder.

“Seriously!?!” I shot back, expecting him to dam the stream, but it kept on flowing. He must’ve though I was going to clock him because I was closing in on him with the hope he’d just zip up and go away, but he didn’t. He just stood their and kept pissing. “You wouldn’t fight a guy with his penis out, would you?” he asks.

His girlfriend, who had been twisting a joint this entire time in the car next to us, yells out to him, “Just piss by my car… not on it, next to it.”

He grumbled and cursed, but obeyed the woman.

Others, too, used the “just-on-the-tire” defense and seemed just as shocked that I didn’t appreciate their thoughtfulness. Is it just me or are people generally okay with others pissing on their wheels? What makes tires fair game and not bumpers? Does bitching about it really give off “bad vibes,” as one accused?

Some were more considerate than others. One guy was actually on his knees pissing under the van. I still called him out for the puddle he was making right where I’d step to get inside the vehicle. Not to mention I had to wait for him to finish before I could open the door. Security was trying to clear the lot and I needed to load the coolers. Like the first guy, he seemed to piss forever.  “Will you hurry up already?” I scolded, to which he replied, “Hey man, you don’t need to be rude about it.”

Anyone who has tended bar understands the role includes playing counselor to those sad souls who try to wash away their troubles with booze. This held true at The Shakedown Tavern where many came seeking sympathy in the form of free shots. On our last night in Chicago we were visited by several who’d been sold bogus tickets to the show. I poured a round of whiskey shots – on the house.

But as a bar owner you can’t help everyone forget their troubles for free. With me, the quality of my charity corresponds directly with the quality of their approach. In Commerce City, I kicked down a few free shots to a guy who’d just gotten out of jail. Arrested the day before for selling drugs, he was released just before the next night’s show. But then an officer who recognized him wouldn’t allow him into the show. The story was worth a few shots.

But those who come expecting a handout likely won’t get one. One gem vendor wanted a free drink because his sales were slow. Sorry, bud. Another wanted to pay $2 for two drinks because he’d been following Phish since 1996. Maybe it’s time to get a job. Sometimes the pitch was as trite as, “Can I get a free shot?” Um, no.

On the second night during the show, when the lot becomes a virtual ghost town, we were visited by an older black guy who mumbled something fierce. He pulled a Stella tallboy from the cooler. “Hmchdisiz?” he asked. Four-dollars I told him, but his buddy, a wispy dude with a cracked out countenance, only had two dollars that he didn’t want to part with. I pointed him to the cooler with $2 beers. “Gmetodlrsz,” the mumbler demanded. They quibbled a bit until the mumbler got his way. He throws $2 on the table and walks off with the Stella. “I need two more dollars for that,” I said. But he just smiled and walked off.

The next day I saw the guy at a nearby gas station. He comes up to the van and asks, “Yallsllnlqur?”

“Not here,” I said.

I couldn’t decipher what he said next. I didn’t really care as I was still stewing about him shorting me on the Stella the night before. But I ask him to repeat himself anyhow. With remarkable clarity he screams at me,  “I didn’t stutter muthafucka!” and storms off.

By the end of the last night of Phish’s 2011 tour things were getting a little crazy. A steady breeze whipped up a storm of red Colorado soil that coated everything and stuffed up your sinuses. A Gallagher impersonator smashed melons, while vendors gave away what they hadn’t sold. After selling our last beer I noticed a pair of sketchy dudes leaning against the back of my van. their backpack tucked behind the rear wheel. Not only do I dislike people pissing on my tires, but am not too found of people stashing drugs behind them, either. A similar thing happened in Chicago when some knucklehead cracked open a nitrous tank using my van for cover.

But it the lot was closing down and the tow truck drivers were shouting through their megaphones that vendors had 10 minutes before they began towing vehicles. The sketch pads left without any encouragement from me. With Purple Thunder loaded up we rolled toward the exit but were obstructed by a fistfight that erupted in front of us. To the rear, a vendor was screaming at a car full of people that they were “going to get theirs.” Trash was everywhere and people were stumbling all around. Event staff and police were losing patience with the stragglers.

It was clear that the party was over.

Commerce City, CO – When hashing out the logistics of big projects I can always count on one thing: forgetting something important. Halfway to Denver I realized I’d forgotten several important things. First was a jar full of silver change that I save to pay meters, tolls and other small expenses. Next it occurred to me that I’d forgotten the folding table, which necessitated us having to purchase one in Colorado. I also left behind our drink cups and shot glasses as well as our extra cooler. In all, my forgetfulness set us back $100.

D’oh!

These were small things in the grander scheme, but these missteps compel the worry that the stage is set for disasters to come. The only way to mitigate potential pitfalls and make known the unknowns is to diligently gather intel beforehand, something only the most enterprising of the Shakedown vendors do.

The day before Phish’s first show we drove out to Dick’s Sporting Goods Park in Commerce City, about seven minutes from Denver, to peep the lay of the land. Driving the grounds we observed there were multiple parking lots with just as many entrances and no way of knowing which one would be used. This made it impossible to determine where the vendors would gather prior to the lot opening at 3 p.m. sharp. In Chicago we staged on a street opposite the lot entrance, but being so close was no guarantee against becoming trapped in the gridlock and losing a spot on Shakedown. With nearly $500 tied up in beer and booze in addition to the expenses of travel, landing that spot was imperative.

But no amount of planning can minimize the biggest risk of all: the possibility that event staff or police will put the kabash on your operation. Unfettered vending is typically permitted because the band, as a courtesy to its fans, leases the lot on their behalf. This arrangement helps the venue recoup revenues siphoned from their concessions, while giving fans the freedom to do mostly as they please. Still, rules vary and are often enforced unevenly. Some venues crackdown on bootleg t-shirt merchants. Others hassle those selling alcohol. Sometimes the local health department will inspect the food vendors and require them to purchase a health permit. The Verizon Wireless Center charges a $150 vending fee. At Red Rocks, because it’s technically a city park, no vending at all is permitted.

Because Phish had never played this venue no one knew what the situation would be. Naturally, with so much cash tied up in this affair, the uncertainty spurred considerable anxiety.  In the hour leading up to the lot opening the vendors gathered on a street leading straight into the venue. During this time we double-checked that we had everything we needed, namely enough ice for drinks. My sidekick wrote up The Shakedown Tavern’s menu, while I tallied our inventory, counted out our change and calculated what we need to bring in to cover expenses. As three o’clock drew near, the vendors fired up their engines and at precisely 2:59 p.m., the caravan, with much fanfare, snaked toward the lot.

That first night was nearly a disaster. The parking staff directed us to a gravel lot instead of the grass lot the band had leased. In the absence of clearly designated stalls and staff to ensure vehicles were parked in an organized, symmetrical fashion, people abdicated their common sense and parked wherever and however they saw fit, claiming as much space as they could. By the time event staff realized they’d made a mistake Shakedown was already open for business. With lots of hootin’ and hollerin’ they tried unfucking the clusterfuck, but with people pouring onto the lot it just wasn’t going to happen. An egregious few were made to straighten their vehicles, but staff quickly gave up trying to tighten up the space. Instead the greedy bastards saw in the mess an opportunity to milk more money by charging each vendor an additional $15 for the space wasted on account of their mistake.

As event staff made the rounds extorting vendors the sky grew ominous and gray. The temperature dropped rapidly and the wind whooshed in formidable gusts that sent EZ-Ups and merchandise a-flyin’. Above us was the very edge of a large slow-moving storm that, from the ground, appeared to abut clear blue skies. Shakedown, up and running not even an hour, was a ghost town as people took refuge in their vehicles or camp sites on the other side of the venue, even though no rain was forecast for the area. Vendors nonetheless secured their EZ-Ups against the wind and began draping tarps over their merchandise in case of rain. I didn’t bring our EZ-Up so we loaded our stock in the van.

When the sky finally opened up it dumped on us a heavy rain that blew sideways for a solid 30-minutes. Then just as abruptly as it began, the rain stopped and the sky cleared. In the blink of an eye Shakedown went from ghost town to a bustling hub of commercial activity. A line that never seemed to shorten had formed at our tavern before completing our post-storm set up. A few other vendors peddled beers and mixed drinks, but our variety and prices were not only unrivaled, but unbeatable.

To supplement our standard beer selection I brought along a few select cases of beer from Wisconsin’s New Glarus Brewery, which produces some of the best beers known to man. Because New Glarus Brewery only distributes inside Wisconsin, I was quite shocked by how many people were familiar with the brewery and its flagship beer, Spotted Cow. Along with a case of Cow, I also had on hand several cases of the brewery’s latest concoction, an utterly fantastic black IPA that garnered high praise from those lucky enough to score a bottle.

If business was brisk from the start it picked up in earnest once event staff began enforcing a strict no-glass rule. Beer vendors were told that unless they had plastic cups to pour bottled beer into, which none but us did, they had to shut down. Had the others done a little pre-show research they’d have seen this policy spelled out in big bold Arial type on the venue’s website. Anticipating this crackdown, I limited my bottles to the New Glarus beers. Everything else I had was in cans.

For three hours we moved beers and mixed drinks at a furious clip, our tip jar so stuffed with bills that people simply walked away without their change. In Chicago, no matter how much beer we stocked we never seemed to have enough. I made a point this time to double-down on inventory but before the show even started we were down to less than a dozen beers. And the no-glass policy caused us to burn through more cups than usual, leaving us without anything to serve drinks in. With nowhere nearby to re-up, The Shakedown Tavern packed up for the night to the disappointment of many, including us.

The band plays to a nascent audience.

Black River Falls, WI – Ya gotta love salient coincidences, those ones that punctuate life in ways that might tempt you to ascribe to them some deeper more transcendent meaning. On Thursday morning, as we rolled into Black River Falls, we saw hanging above the highway a banner announcing that weekend’s Jackson County Fair, which last year I worked as a carnie for Wenzel Amazements, an experience that in part inspired this current endeavor.

Like the Wenzels I was back in Black River Falls to work a festival, a different one being held roughly 10 miles beyond the other side of town. There, on a private campground comprised of many acres covered with sprawling conifer forest, people from as far as St. Louis came to celebrate for three full days the birthday of the late-Grateful Dead guitarist Jerry Garcia.

I was at the gathering to sling deep-fried donut balls and flip a profit like the dozen or so other vendors who turned out with their massive inventories of tie-dyed shirts, tapestries, hemp jewelry, hula hoops, gems and drums. I had food vended years ago and my time with the Wenzels led me to realize the big potential of simple ideas on the festival circuit. But that simple, easy idea eluded me. Only after a friend dropped the idea of selling donuts on the road to fund her travels did I have a jumping point. Now here I was less than a month later listening to Grateful Dead covers while squirting from the depositor little ball-shaped donuts, a perfect treat to assuage the munchies.

Of the dozen or more vendors only one sold food, mostly burritos, tacos and sandwiches, a fact we figured boded well for us. By 11 a.m. that morning Daisy Dick’s Donut Ballz was open for business, the first batch of balls bagged and displayed and waiting for people to buy them.

Could it really be that easy?

The woman vending next to us told us Thursday would be slow. Indeed it was. But rather than fret, we kicked back and people watched. Scurrying around the grounds was a diminutive man with long graying hair tied behind his shoulders. We first noticed him upon arriving, as he hurriedly emerged from between a pair of buildings wearing nothing but the skin he was born in, his perfectly tanned appendage swinging side-to-side. We later learned he was called Naked Larry. The campground was a safe haven for nudists and, judging from the cages, crosses and stockades, BDSM play was a popular activity, as well. The camp also bills itself as neutral place for rival biker factions. A sign at the gate states that “all colors are welcome.”

For the most part, people kept their clothes on. One girl went topless, with pot leaves painted over her nipples. A heavy-set guy, presumably inspired by the other naked guy, too chose to strip down, his big tan belly supported by a stark white lower half. Another naked guy, this one with big mutton chops, wore only a belt in which he carried his cell phone that he at least one time bent over to retrieve after dropping. I’ve never seen so many heads turn away so fast.

Unlike Naked Larry, who has close relations with the camp and is well-known and liked by festival veterans, these other two cut pathetic figures. All weekend they strolled the grounds alone. It’s easy to meet people at these things, but nudity – at least male nudity – erects a barrier to forming new relations. I mean, no one is going to invite the naked stranger to smoke a bowl or share a beer. Who wants a bare butt on their chairs? You might think that if the crowd was put off by these two that at least they’d have each other. But that didn’t seem to be the case. As far as I could tell, they didn’t speak and never stood near one another. Perhaps they too found mingling with a naked male a tad discomforting.

As Thursday wore on, it became clear that people weren’t buying donut ballz en masse. A few here and a few there, but not at the volume we had wished for. Anita, the woman vending next to us, said things would pick up on Friday and Saturday, which they did. It was clear that the campgrounds were filling up. At any moment I expected a stream of dancing people to fill the concert area. Last year, Anita said, only 600 people showed up.

The goal from the onset was to sell 200 bags of Daisy Dick’s Donut Ballz, which seemed like a reasonable benchmark. But unfortunately for me, and many of the other vendors, those people we waited on never came.

The first problem lay with the lay-out of the festival. The concert area where the vendors were placed was open field which the sun beat on oppressively. With the campgrounds nestled in the shady forest behind the stage, there was little incentive for attendees to vacate the comfort of their camp for the brutal rain of sunshine. The music, which during the day was largely low-energy acoustic balladeering, traveled easily into the woods. To everyone’s dismay, the concert grounds remained virtually empty until darkness and the day’s main act compelled these glassy-eyed creatures to emerge from the forest.

Then there was the crowd itself, which never achieved the mass necessary to sustain to the vendors, something the festival organizer alluded to on the final night in his profuse but shaky thanks to the vendors. Because attendees were so dispersed, gauging their numbers was difficult, but I’d estimate the crowd numbered less than 1,000.

The paltry weekly pay I earned last summer working for the Wenzels was double what I earned at this gathering. But we packed up our shop with few regrets and some lessons learned. First, donut balls aren’t enough to carry the day. While we did sell nearly 50 bags, those sales came primarily in the morning. We also lost money by not offering coffee, which was in high demand.

In all, Daisy Dick’s Donut Ballz was well-received. Naked Larry bought donuts each morning. People loved the name and Anita, who has worked festivals for nearly a decade, said she’d never seen such a simple food set up. She applauded our concept and suggested we make more use of our deep fryer by adding a couple substantive items. She gave us the names of a few upcoming festivals she’s working and encouraged us to secure spots. “I lost my ass the first time I came out, too,” she said. “But it will pay off if you keep at it.”

Keep at it we will. Already we’ve got new designs and food stuffs to offer at next week’s festivities. While tearing down our spot yesterday morning, I was, in spite of my losses, invigorated by the possibilities that lay ahead. It was a gloomy morning and few of the other vendors seemed as pleased with their weekend as I was.

One was particularly incensed as her boyfriend decided to party all weekend rather than work. That morning he snored loudly from inside her vending booth. The day previous he let a little too loose, whooping it up all day into the night. At some point they began arguing and he ran off into the forest. Later, she spied him by a fence stripping out of his clothes after shitting himself. She told him he had to sleep outside. His strange snores attracted one woman who wondered if there were chickens inside the tent.

And with that we were off, back to Madison to figure out the next leg of this latest adventure. As my fellow carnies were answering work call for the final day of the Jackson County Fair, we rolled out of Black River Falls. I imagine they had more than a few crazy stories from their weekend here.

For a moment I thought of swinging through, to say hello, how’s it going, but that life seems like so long ago that I would’ve felt a little weird just showing up. Plus the Wenzels I imagine remain unhappy with the article I wrote about them last summer, even though the experience shaped all of our lives in ways both small and large. They taught me a great deal about many things and, rumor has it, they took some cues from my series of posts last summer to become better, more empathetic employers.

Some things are best left alone.

Here are some outtakes from the Grateful Garcia Gathering.

Enter the ad released today by Air New Zealand, featuring its controversially misogynistic icon, Rico, a puppet developed with help from The Jim Henson Company. Rico is no Kermit the Frog, mind you. In fact, he looks more like a strung out Fozzie the Bear with big tired eyes, creepy canines and a knack for double entendres. Nonetheless, Air New Zealand has embraced the potty-mouthed puppet with a bad French accent as its official ambassador to represent the airline.

Topping it off, the ads begin with a viewer warning about content.

In a clip that aired last year, a woman seated next to Rico on a plane asks for assistance in operating the touchscreen movie menu. Rico coos and ogles the woman before explaining, “Now, this screen is like a woman.”

Stroking the screen, Rico continues, “And you must be gentle with her.”

I’m not sure how this campaign is going to win over women fliers, but that’s for Air New Zealand to figure out.

More than anything I’m puzzled by the latest Rico ad, out today, featuring American rapper Snoop Dogg, who invites Rico over to throw a rhyme down while surrounded by honey-colored honies. Is the best Air New Zealand could do is hire a Long Beach school boy masquerading as a middle-aged pimp? Though it’s right in step with the previous ads, Snoop’s appearance makes about as much sense as the airline depicting women getting sexually harassed on their carriers.

You have to wonder, WTF?

The airline is no stranger to head-scratching promotions, like when it hired D-lister Kathy Griffin to give a bawdy performance during its fourteen-hour Pink Flight from San Francisco to Sydney’s Gay Mardi Gras in 2008.

As ridiculous the idea of pandering to a plane full of drag queens is, at least it had a context. The Snoop ad is plain fucking weird. Considering Rico has survived his first year as spokespuppet, he may be generating some desired results. Maybe Snoop, too, will have that magic touch. Bow wow wow.

Let’s just hope the airline’s pilots and mechanics aren’t as obtuse than those in its marketing department.

Check out the ad here:

A look back at Snoop in his breakout feature on Dr. Dre’s 1992 single Deep Cover.

Jam bands are a dime a dozen and, to be honest, most aren’t great by any stretch. For example, The Bridge, who opened last night’s show, is composed of apt musicians, but they sound like prog rockers masquerading as hillbillies, their performance inert and unsatisfying. Honestly, I was surprised by how many turned out to see them. But the main act, San Francisco’s Tea Leaf Green, is that rare gem of a jam band that plays true blue rock n’ roll without relying on gimmicks or revisiting the genre’s tired, tried and tested tropes. They don’t reinvent the wheel, but Tea Leaf Green is probably one of the most energetic and sophisticated jam bands performing today. After 15 years, they still play small venues, which serve its devoted audience well. Their high-octane brand of exploratory improvisation befits a more intimate setting. I saw them last year for the first time when they opened here in Philly for Galactic. A friend was aghast that I didn’t stick around for Galactic who, she claims, is one of the most important jazz/funk bands today. Yah. Galactic is great, if you have a vagina. But for any lover of raw, edgy rock n’ roll, Tea Leaf Green is the band to see.

(Note: The clip posted above isn’t from Saturday’s show at World Live Cafe, but the pics below are.)

]]> http://www.theferalscribe.com/snapshots/tea-leaf-green-2-5-11-phila-pa.html/feed 0 http://www.theferalscribe.com/featured/24-hours-of-rage-in-indiana.html http://www.theferalscribe.com/featured/24-hours-of-rage-in-indiana.html#comments Mon, 24 May 2010 20:39:35 +0000 nathan http://www.theferalscribe.com/?p=1080 Continue Reading]]>

Welcome to Indianapolis!

Indianapolis, IN – Not long after stopping off in Indianapolis, I meet “Bonnie”, a 30-something jam band scenester, at a cafe on the city’s east side. Thirty-three hours into a 50-hour bender, Bonnie is mushy brained from the ecstasy she ate at a show the night before. At the show, she met some kids with a bunch of nitrous tanks and ended up at their hotel instead of her bed. One of the guys, she tells me between sips of her latte with a double espresso shot, is at her house. “We raged hard,” she explains. “Sorry if I’m not making sense.”

After chatting for a while, Bonnie asks if I’m cool, if I have an open mind. “You’re a journalist,” she answers for me. “You have to have an open mind.”

I’m invited over. After I shower, I’m introduced to several people, none of whom have slept a wink. They, too, had “raged hard” the night before. At two-in-the-afternoon, they were still raging it, preparation, if you will, for another night of non-stop raging. I’m led to a room where, among others, is “Gas Man,” the nitrous purveyor, and “E-Dawg,” who, with jittery hands, is weighing out half-gram bags of brown sugar sass, a form of ecstasy. Gas Man and E-Dawg earn a living traveling the country, from show-to-show, selling snacks to fans. This weekend they’re in Indianapolis. Gas Man is giving balloons to anyone who wants one. He’s made the money he wanted to off the tank. Now he’s spreading the love freely.

“It’s about the wa-wa’s, not greed,” he imparts, referring to the profound ear-ringing a proper nitrous buzz induces. He then demonstrates to one of the girls how to roll-the-balloon, by exhaling through the nose what’s been inhaled through the mouth. Bowls are packed, passed and cashed. Several growlers of beer arrive. Once the nitrous tank is cashed, Gas Man snorts a bump of Special K and falls into a K-Hole. Everyone else ventures to the porch for fresh air and cigarettes.

Outside, the discussion centers around Summercamp, an upcoming jam band fest in Illinois, which everyone is attending. “We’re going to rage it,” Bonnie tells me, rattling off a litany of other shows and festivals she plans on attending this summer. “Tonight’s show is going to be off-the-chain, too.” She tells me about all the bands I need to check out. I’ve been out of the jam band scene for many years, I tell her. She, too, left the scene, for a minute, after being busted selling pot-brownies at a concert in Wisconsin, but it left a void in her life. “It just didn’t feel right,” she says. “I love live music. I love doing drugs. This is who I am and I’m happy with that.”

A gaggle of people drop in throughout the afternoon. Some have come to buy snacks or drink beer or to just hang out.

One guy, “Chip”, is new to the scene. A recent schizophrenia diagnosis forced him out of college and unable to work. Clean cut and donning a Docker’s sailor’s hat, which he cocks to the side, he tells me about how the medicine has made his conversations with the demons manageable. He knew for a while he was sick, and assures me he’s not homicidal (I didn’t ask), but worries he might one day be. “The only people I ever think of killing are child molesters, people like that,” he continues. Chip is looking forward to the show this evening, explaining, “It’s almost like group therapy for me, being around these people.”

As the afternoon wears on, everyone looks worse-for-the-wear, fighting their eyes, refusing to nap. Bonnie is sleepy, so she hits the phone in search of an Adderall. Unsuccessful, she finger-dips some of that brown sugar sass. A couple of hours later, she and others drop acid. It’s insurance against falling asleep. No one wants to miss the show.

Gas man emerges from his K-hole and comes downstairs. It’s now dusk. He lights a cigarette. “What a great day,” he says, cheerfully. “It’s going to be an impeccable evening.”

By 9:45 p.m., everyone is sufficiently hopped up, alert and ready to rage. Eleven of us pile into two vehicles and make the 15-minute drive to the bar, safely. In the parking lot, a vendor is slinging glow tubes and light wands. People gather outside, waiting for the band to begin. While most are there to dance and have fun, Gas Man and E-Dawg must work, so to speak. “So, this is it. This is what I do,” E-Dawg tells me, shrugging his shoulders, his speech disrganized. “I roam. I started going to shows with my older brother. It’s like a business.”

Gas Man, with beer in hand, later tells me about his young son who lives near the Gulf Coast. “I do miss him,” he says, wistfully. But, working the shows is more than just unloading inventory, it also requires a lot networking. It’s at shows where important connections can be made. Both remain outside for most of the show, working the lot, making moves. Both know I’m writing an article. Though leery of it, neither makes any special requests. I don’t ask many questions, either.

Inside, the bar swells quickly with people. Many are buying bottled water instead of drinks to fend off the severe dehydration effect of ecstasy and LSD. Earlier in the day, Gas Man explained the importance of health maintenance during long periods of unfettered drug use. “You need to eat at least once a day,” he told his audience. “If you’re up for two days, you need to eat at least twice. It’s something you can’t forget to do, no matter how fucked up you get.”

At the bar, Bonnie seems to know everyone. She makes the rounds, spreading word of the after bar to be held at her house. Others in the crew we came with are scattered about. At last, the band takes the stage, blasting into the opening chords. The crowd falls into an inspired fit of wild dancing, which continues for the next four-and-a-half hours.

When the bar closes at 3 a.m., a large caravan of at least 50 kids ensure the raging goes on well into the morning. Back at the house, some of the girls hula-hoop out front. Steadily, the fridge is re-stocked with beer. Someone has brought booze. Another nitrous tank makes its way over. Everywhere inside the house people are dancing, conversing, laughing, smoking and toasting themselves and their stamina. The jam room, where all the instruments are housed, erupts in an impromptu jam session. Gas Man and E-Dwag retire to the room with the nitrous tank and others, and aren’t seen for the rest of the night.

This is how you rage in Indianapolis.

An hour or so goes by before the police arrive. They never get out of the car, but tell Bonnie to wind things down. But trying to herd dozens of wasted, tripping and rolling people into the balmy house is impossible. The sober ones help out, but the girls can’t stop hula-hooping while others promise they’ll go in when they’re done smoking, which they never are. Frustrated, Bonnie gives up and goes to bed, well before her self-imposed 7 a.m. bedtime. Eventually, the the booze and drugs run out, and the party winds down naturally. Revelers stumble toward their vehicles. The birds are already chirping and the first hints of daylight have begun diluting the dark.

By 7 a.m., everyone I met earlier in the day had passed out. All who are left standing are holdouts from the bar and have a little rage left in them. In a corner, a Kid snoozes soundly in a chair. With nothing better to do, the holdouts decide to bury him under a pile of random items. Later, it’s described as a consequence for passing out with his shoes on. After achieving this goal, they learn that “T,” asleep upstairs, had been the first to pass out, another no-no begging for consequence. This phase of my 24-hours in Indianapolis can be viewed in the slideshow below.

After the punishments were meted out, some of the holdouts went home, while others held on, retiring to the bar, since alcohol sales in Indiana aren’t permitted on Sundays. I stay at the house. I don’t remember falling asleep, but I wake around 3 p.m., just as Bonnie is leaving for work. I thank her for letting The Feral Scribe tag along, that it really wasn’t what I was expecting when I turned off the Interstate the day before. “Come down anytime,” she says. “We rage almost every weekend.”

By 3:30 p.m., I was on my way to Madison.

The Pranksters

Early Sunday morning, a rogue band of revelers delivered justice to two young men for the crimes of passing out with shoes on and being the first of the evening to pass out. The Feral Scribe captured the spectacle.

Chuck Berry: No Particular Place to Go

Grateful Dead: I Know You Rider

The Beatles: Two of Us

Lakeside: Fantastic Voyage

The B-52s: Roam

Wilco: California Stars

Joe Dassin: Les Champs-Elysées