Woe To Hyse
Rian is going to record the Dave Matthews Adventure in a Keppet-esque manner, seeing as how Rian recently finished rereading Keppet's Colorado Adventures and enjoyed the endless words. Unfortunately, I have no pictures of huge mountains to go along with the text, nor any mountains, truly as the Gorge (Natural) Amphitheatre is located in the middle of endless farmland which is in itSelf located in the middle of endless scrubby desert and basalt. What manner of creature ever walked through a corn field to the edge of the Columbia cliffs and thought, "Why, I shall put a music venue right HERE in the boonies and draw crowds from Seattle, Spokane, Portland and, indeed BC and Idaho!" was perhaps mad but is now no doubt wealthy as a hog.
But. To begin at the beginning, with the Potholes and Outhouses. Potholes Natural Park is located an hour and 1/2 from Rian's Abode and thirty minutes through Children of the Corn-Like land away from the Gorge. Rian and Someone Else arrived at Potholes before our camping companions. It was hot. There was scrub brush. And an outhouse with no lights. And bunnies.
Someone Else set up our tent whilst Rian oggled the outhouse and then determinedly went on a hike in search of facilities with running water, which were, luckily, to be found three camp sites away in the public park. Much relieved, Rian returned back to site 84 just in time to nearly be run over by our camping companions: Lawyer Waterhouse and his 'friend' Kim.
Did Rian mention Someone Else and I had started drinking as soon as land was made? Alcoholic lemonade for Rian and Kokanee (there is a Sasquatch hidden on every can) for Someone Else.
So. Waterhouse's real surname is not Waterhouse but something 'similar'. One of Someone Else's clients canna, however, keep Waterhouse's real name straight and as a result continously calls the poor young man 'Waterhouse'. And so, of course, Rian does also, in great delight. Over more lemonade and beer, whilst grills and coolers were unloaded, 'Waterhouse' quickly became 'Woe To Hyse' in honour of Neal Stephenson's gag concerning his character Daniel Waterhouse, who upon first journeying to London, wondered who Hyse was and why he was such an unhappy fellow.
Despite Someone Else's Flexitarian tendencies, we grilled hamburgers and consumed potato salad and Waterhouse's Margaritas and discovered the Potholes rabbits were actually cannibunnies (read, cannibal bunnies). And from the neighbors in site 85 learned the 'secret back way' to the Gorge (read, trouble.)
After hamburgers and cannibal bunnies and a Walk The Line Recite The Alphabet Test, we loaded ourSelves and several unopened Kokanees into Rian's car. Waterhouse Drove. Someone Else navigated. Miles and miles of corn and hay fields rolled by, houses here and there. Because it was still light we did not get lost.
The few farmers in George, Washington, must very much dislike the Gorge and the thousands of people driving past their front doors. The cows did not seem to mind. At one point we were wetted by a round field sprinkler of the Very Large Kind. Eventually we came upon limp wristed Flag People in orange and after that, parking in another very large field.
Because no alcohol or food is allowed through the gates (there are vendors inside) we sat for a few whiles (as Aidan would say) and drank Kokanees whilst hunting aluminum Sasquatch. Cars packed into the field like sardines. Rian discovered that woman who are A) very drunk or B) hardened concert goers have their boyfriends hold up beach towels whilst they squat and pee against car tires. Rian disdained to attempt this talented contortion for fear of damaged dignity and shoes.
Scantily dressed woman filled water bottles with vodka and scantily dressed men filled boxers with joints (and or bongs and cameras) Waterhouse told a story of a high school friend who hollowed out a loaf of French Bread, placed a 5th of something inside, and ran it past security.
Security, when we tromped across the field, was randomly lax and randomly tight. Rian only had to turn and dance. I wished that I had dared to smuggled my lovely little camera in.
The Gorge Amphitheatre is very similar to a giant Shakespeare in the Park. A grassy slanted slope big enough to seat 20,000 on blankets, quilts, or sleepingbags triangulates down toward the river, the stage a lighted star nestled in point. Because we had payed for general admission, and also because we had spent time chasing cannibunnies, we were late enough that the opening group (O.A.R) was just finishing their last song (Sunday, Bloody Sunday) and we found grass spots toward the top of the hill (but not behind a post). Dave was about the size of Rian's thumb. Luckily, there were Very Big Televisions.
O.A.R finished at 8pm. The sun set. Clouds of smoke billowed upwards. Dave lingered in his Fancy Bus until dark and then came out with a flash of light and sound. There were no Happy Brownies anywhere in sight, but the group to Rian's right had an endless bong and the second hand smoke drifting in the wind (not to mention the giant cloud of BC Bud simply set off by Daveheads) rather did the trick. Or perhaps twas just the high of the music. But by the time Rian had shucked shoes and dug toes into the grass and the wind began to pick up and Boyd began to devil play his electronic violin I was poised forward in the dark on the slant and fairly sure that if I lept from the balls of my feet I might fly.
At one point Rian looked down and stared as a group of faceless people using cellphones as flashlights searched the grass for something lost. No lighters any longer, chickens, but the swaying green of electronica.
Another point Rian looked straight down in front of my feet and the forward neighbors were having Sex On The Grass whilst fully clothed.
The music ended at midnight-esque. It was very very dark in the land of the corn. We tried to take the Secret Backway Shortcut home through the fields and discovered that in the country street signs do not have illumination. The dark was complete. At one point we passed a single fellow walking along the side of the road. Waterhouse claimed the fellow was dressed in a clown suit. Rian thinks not.
Eventually we had to stop at the signs and send Waterhouse out (wearing Someone Else's headlights) to illuminate the signs. The air smelled entirely of wet hay and manure. The moon was lopsided and brilliant yellow. Rian huddled low in the front seat in case of Mad Clowns.
We found the campsite at 1:30. Rian was asleep by 2. Someone Else stayed up with Waterhouse and smoked noxious cigars will the crickets roared.
In the morning we found clumps of bunny fur in our trash bag, hamburger remnants nibbled. Cannibunnies, indeed.
But. To begin at the beginning, with the Potholes and Outhouses. Potholes Natural Park is located an hour and 1/2 from Rian's Abode and thirty minutes through Children of the Corn-Like land away from the Gorge. Rian and Someone Else arrived at Potholes before our camping companions. It was hot. There was scrub brush. And an outhouse with no lights. And bunnies.
Someone Else set up our tent whilst Rian oggled the outhouse and then determinedly went on a hike in search of facilities with running water, which were, luckily, to be found three camp sites away in the public park. Much relieved, Rian returned back to site 84 just in time to nearly be run over by our camping companions: Lawyer Waterhouse and his 'friend' Kim.
Did Rian mention Someone Else and I had started drinking as soon as land was made? Alcoholic lemonade for Rian and Kokanee (there is a Sasquatch hidden on every can) for Someone Else.
So. Waterhouse's real surname is not Waterhouse but something 'similar'. One of Someone Else's clients canna, however, keep Waterhouse's real name straight and as a result continously calls the poor young man 'Waterhouse'. And so, of course, Rian does also, in great delight. Over more lemonade and beer, whilst grills and coolers were unloaded, 'Waterhouse' quickly became 'Woe To Hyse' in honour of Neal Stephenson's gag concerning his character Daniel Waterhouse, who upon first journeying to London, wondered who Hyse was and why he was such an unhappy fellow.
Despite Someone Else's Flexitarian tendencies, we grilled hamburgers and consumed potato salad and Waterhouse's Margaritas and discovered the Potholes rabbits were actually cannibunnies (read, cannibal bunnies). And from the neighbors in site 85 learned the 'secret back way' to the Gorge (read, trouble.)
After hamburgers and cannibal bunnies and a Walk The Line Recite The Alphabet Test, we loaded ourSelves and several unopened Kokanees into Rian's car. Waterhouse Drove. Someone Else navigated. Miles and miles of corn and hay fields rolled by, houses here and there. Because it was still light we did not get lost.
The few farmers in George, Washington, must very much dislike the Gorge and the thousands of people driving past their front doors. The cows did not seem to mind. At one point we were wetted by a round field sprinkler of the Very Large Kind. Eventually we came upon limp wristed Flag People in orange and after that, parking in another very large field.
Because no alcohol or food is allowed through the gates (there are vendors inside) we sat for a few whiles (as Aidan would say) and drank Kokanees whilst hunting aluminum Sasquatch. Cars packed into the field like sardines. Rian discovered that woman who are A) very drunk or B) hardened concert goers have their boyfriends hold up beach towels whilst they squat and pee against car tires. Rian disdained to attempt this talented contortion for fear of damaged dignity and shoes.
Scantily dressed woman filled water bottles with vodka and scantily dressed men filled boxers with joints (and or bongs and cameras) Waterhouse told a story of a high school friend who hollowed out a loaf of French Bread, placed a 5th of something inside, and ran it past security.
Security, when we tromped across the field, was randomly lax and randomly tight. Rian only had to turn and dance. I wished that I had dared to smuggled my lovely little camera in.
The Gorge Amphitheatre is very similar to a giant Shakespeare in the Park. A grassy slanted slope big enough to seat 20,000 on blankets, quilts, or sleepingbags triangulates down toward the river, the stage a lighted star nestled in point. Because we had payed for general admission, and also because we had spent time chasing cannibunnies, we were late enough that the opening group (O.A.R) was just finishing their last song (Sunday, Bloody Sunday) and we found grass spots toward the top of the hill (but not behind a post). Dave was about the size of Rian's thumb. Luckily, there were Very Big Televisions.
O.A.R finished at 8pm. The sun set. Clouds of smoke billowed upwards. Dave lingered in his Fancy Bus until dark and then came out with a flash of light and sound. There were no Happy Brownies anywhere in sight, but the group to Rian's right had an endless bong and the second hand smoke drifting in the wind (not to mention the giant cloud of BC Bud simply set off by Daveheads) rather did the trick. Or perhaps twas just the high of the music. But by the time Rian had shucked shoes and dug toes into the grass and the wind began to pick up and Boyd began to devil play his electronic violin I was poised forward in the dark on the slant and fairly sure that if I lept from the balls of my feet I might fly.
At one point Rian looked down and stared as a group of faceless people using cellphones as flashlights searched the grass for something lost. No lighters any longer, chickens, but the swaying green of electronica.
Another point Rian looked straight down in front of my feet and the forward neighbors were having Sex On The Grass whilst fully clothed.
The music ended at midnight-esque. It was very very dark in the land of the corn. We tried to take the Secret Backway Shortcut home through the fields and discovered that in the country street signs do not have illumination. The dark was complete. At one point we passed a single fellow walking along the side of the road. Waterhouse claimed the fellow was dressed in a clown suit. Rian thinks not.
Eventually we had to stop at the signs and send Waterhouse out (wearing Someone Else's headlights) to illuminate the signs. The air smelled entirely of wet hay and manure. The moon was lopsided and brilliant yellow. Rian huddled low in the front seat in case of Mad Clowns.
We found the campsite at 1:30. Rian was asleep by 2. Someone Else stayed up with Waterhouse and smoked noxious cigars will the crickets roared.
In the morning we found clumps of bunny fur in our trash bag, hamburger remnants nibbled. Cannibunnies, indeed.
posted by La Tulipe | 4:02 PM
5 Comments:
I feel strangely honoured that you feel I have a manner...
I have problems Imagining you outside of the comforts of the Abode. But I will give you the benefit of the doubt and believe this story of a world beyond cushions and huge baths.
Incidentally, I was confused at the Woe To Hyse joke though many of the other observations of Brits in Cryptonomicron were spot on and also sublime.
Rian has never heard a Brit say 'Waterhouse', so I do not know the joke's authenticity. We shall try it in New York, lining up Keppet and skittledog and Biped and Flowyks and Beloved and Keppet's friend.
Perhaps to a flat Colonial ear ye will all be calling Woe to Hyse.
Wheee! Dave :)
Not enough details about the music. I could have used an extra few paragraphs on all of that. Wish I could have made it this year.
Hmm. Well. Dave looked tired but sang well. I suppose on the third day of a three day concert he is allowed to be tired.
They did even more jamming than usual, and ye know how the band likes to jam.
Boyd was on fire.
Their play list is here:
http://road.davematthewsband.com/SetlistsDir/setlist.asp
Rian disdained to attempt this talented contortion for fear of damaged dignity and shoes.
Heeeee. What a great entry. *beams* And I love that you got high from second hand smoke. *grins*
That's made my day, that has.
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