A difference between Bill and me is the number of Phish shows we’ve attended: Bill, 15 or so, me, just the one we went to last week. It was crowded and fascinating and felt like a movie about the 60s costume-designed by a 13 year old. We brought Jessie, who is 4 months pregnant. Phish played about 6 songs, and then the rain began. About 1/4 of the venue was covered, so everyone on the lawn tried to dance free-spiritedly until the big drops started to hurt, and someone came on stage and told us they were halting the show and we should run for cover. There wasn’t really any cover, so right about when it began hailing we mushed into a big flimsy tent (like for a wedding) with way, way too many other people. People kept asking if Jessie wanted to get further inside, which was sweet but seemed like it increased her likelihood of being hurt in the clearly-imminent panic. Then some security guards arrived to scream at all 400 of us: “GET OUT! IT’S NOT SAFE! IT’S GOING TO GET WORSE BEFORE IT GETS BETTER!” It already felt like we might die of lightning, flooding, tree falling, or stampede, and there was really just nowhere to go that was safe enough for a pregnant lady, so we sloshed our way out, back to the car through pandemonium and so much scary lightning, and went and got coffee.
interlexionality 