ALL GIVEAWAY ENTRIES

ENTRY #2

This entry is from member "psilocyborganism"


This weekend, I had been at a hollywood bash with my best friend who happens to be Tyra Banks the NOW ex-supermodel turned preachy-oprah-like-diva extraordinaire. She was doing a whole lot of nose soda and me and Ms. Jay were like, " PSHHH gurrrrl!", so i drop Ms. Jay off at his pony stable and head back to the party. As i get out of my car I am attacked from behind with a rag soaked in Chloroform (that's Hollywood for ya). My muffled cries echo through my head as i awake the next day chained to a bed in the top floor of someones attic. To my amazement the door was slammed open by Jeff Bridges dressed up as a Geisha with a dalmation on a leash. Jeff pulled out a stack of pictures from inside his gown saying, "Look at my photos! I am also a photographer! Do you like them?!? How about this one?!? and this one?!?" I agreed and still being star struck began to proclaim my likeness for ALL mediums of his art, I asked for some water and he unhooked the chains.
"I just wanna be your friend, Buddy, I am sorry for attacking you and chaining you. I have trust issues, sometimes I- I" jeff trailed off.
"Dude, its cool. Happens all the time, don't beat youself up," I interupted.
I followed him into the other room which was still apart of the attic of some huge barn type thing, outside were a bunch of people walking around.
"What is this place, Mr.Bridges?"
"The Los. Annnngelas. Zoo. MAN!" proclaimed Jeff while handing me bottle of NyQuil from a fridge.
"Dude! don't you have Robotussin or some water?" I was nearly yelling.
No answer. I drank the bottle all at once, and grabbed another bottle from the icebox. He was suddenly digging through drawers and cupboards of his kitchen, screaming frantically, " where could it be?!?!?" all the while drinking gulp after gulp of NyQuil.
I started ripping stuff apart and throwing oddball things around the room, not knowing what i was looking for. Finally he yipped and yoddled like a old bluegrass singer, holding in the air a massive sling shot.
"Let us bask in the sunlight of hilarity and mishief!" Jeff was ecstatic so I began to play along and began howling like a wolf.
He stumbled to the window and grabbed a cache of rubber balls from a pocket in his geisha attire.
"I HATE ORANGUTANS!!!" Jeff was wild eyed and obviously off his rocker, pointing the sling shot a an imprisoned and harmless mammal. I punched him in the face and grabbed the sling shot,
"DUDE! that poor monkey-man is in a cage, how fair is that? are you girl thingy jeff bridges?" I was so mad.
He was groveling and crying about how he was sorry and i was right. He grabbed the sling shot and turned to me, " That fat guy with the ice cream is WAY more fairer, Mann!"
" Now your thinking dude! Get him"
We chase several people down the walkways of the orangutan exhibit until the cops were called and me and Mr. Bridges took off via ropeswing into the Elephant exhibit. The NYQuil was hitting hard and i felt like an unoiled robot as i darted through elephants right behind Jeff who was flailing his arms and hooting. We scaled the fence and ran through the parking lot, Cops were everywhere and we were taken down hard, both of us laughing hysterically. Luckily for me, Jeff has some connections in County and we got us some protection, a Laptop, couple of packs of Cigz, and more NyQuil. Needless to say, i have a new best friend that is famous. Sorry Tyra.

ENTRY #4

This entry is from member psychedelia:

I can count on one hand the number of concerts I have been fortunate enough
to attend. My first concert captured me, opened me up to a completely different
side of my soul. Live music, jam bands...what an internal revolution I experienced.
Feeling the energy exerted from the masters as they played was a spiritual
reconstruction for me. Just by closing my eyes, I was enraptured and taken
to a different realm. That is the exact moment I went from being obsessed to
to being addicted. I have always felt that I was thrown into the wrong decade.
Being a child born during the '80s, I never got to see many of the classic heroes play
for the crowds. I became fascinated with the '60s and '70s at a young age. The
music revived my soul and I felt what all those people must have felt many years ago.
The love and life of the music enchanted me. Now, many years later, that same
enchantment is still there. These past few months, I have become intrigued
with the passion and sheer joy exuberated by fellow 'Rooers as they speak of past
experiences. I am a bit sheltered when it comes to concerts and festivals. Although
I live for the music Bonaroo portrays, I have never experienced such a cultural
gathering firsthand. My fiancee and I have looked forward to and planned
our escapement to the farm this year. Due to plenty of sicknesses and many doses of
NyQuil, our Bonaroo savings has become quite shabby. Being the parents of a two year
old blooming princess and a one year old monkey boy, we rarely have time to speak to
each other in private, let alone have four days to ourselves to reconnect. Our life has
become like a pogo stick, always bouncing from work to home. Finding time to spend
with the babies is almost impossible, and time alone is extremely rare. It would take a
genius like Einstein to find even a minute of spare time in my chaotic life. To be able to
become one with the music and the people again, would be a dream in its own. We live for the
spirit that the music possesses and all that it stands for. At times, it seems like
planning ahead always backfires. My fiancee and I have planned a few getaways, but
something has interrupted our hopes every time. For once, we almost had our savings
built up for a small, stress-free trip. Then, the plague attacks everyone. The lack of health
insurance quickly dwindled away our honey pot. Back to square one, with all the stress of every
day life combined with the deflated hopes of a chance to spend time together recapturing
feelings we used to experience through music. The backdrop of carefree compassion and the
spiritual movement of the Bonaroo music would be completely mesmerizing. Yet, money
does not stretch far enough when you have two beautiful, tiny souls you want to give the world to.

Entry #6

This entry is from member suspendedzen

For those that don’t know me it bears mention that I am a very religious man. Now, I don’t mean that in the old Mother Mary sense or anything like that. My religion is Music and, while the local bars and clubs are my church, Bonnaroo is my Mecca. It is an annual pilgrimage to perfection where I bask in the holy sounds wafting from amps through the Tennessee summer air. This year, however, I am already starting to feel the singe of brimstone and the poke of the pitchfork as, between helping my parents build a new house and the usual college costs, I might not be able to make it to my heaven on earth this time around.

My list options is forming a rather dismal column upon my notebook page. At the top of my paper is written ‘MUST GO!’ in letters traced around and re-written so many times that they are starting to etch themselves onto sheets twenty pages deep. Unfortunately, it is my development of plans to somehow make it to Bonnaroo that are leaving a lot to be desired.

At first I considered the notion of a lengthy fast to slim down to my old elementary school weight in hopes of possibly being slender enough to work my way through a slight crack in the fence somewhere. With my body emaciated I would strip down, grease myself slick with K-Y Jelly, and, looking something like a nude child version of Richard Simmons, attempt to ooze myself into Bonnaroo. This idea has been scratched out of fear of being unable to function at such a weight and of incurring the wrath of fellow festival-goers with my grotesque appearance. If I were to do something like that I would surely be viewed as some kind of wild-eyed refugee from Brian Wilson’s bedroom in the midst of a segue between weirdo cult stints. Bonnaroo is no place for the Charlie Manson vibe.

Other failed plots included skydiving, grand larceny, dropping out of school, and boxing myself up and being mailed to Bobby Weir’s bus inside the festival gates. I finally thought the lightening of genius had struck me when I decided to invest what little spare cash I do have in a pogo stick. With such a device I might be able to station myself back at the aforementioned fence and bounce until I might propel myself right up and over. This thought was also nixed when I couldn’t shake the image of doing an elegant flip right into Bonnaroo only to land on the shoulders of security or a Tool bodyguard and being deposited right back out into civilization.

With another notebook sheet turned to scrap I turn to this computer to type out this lament with scant minutes to go before I’m back up on my parents new house roof praying silently to avoid the horror of my skin and bones deciding to acquaint themselves with the nail gun. Even up there, surrounded by shingles and the like, my brain is racing the thoughts of the Police, White Stripes, Roots, Ween, and dozens more around in my head like a hamster turning its wheel at breakneck pace. I guess it’s too bad I’m working for my parents and not a real job at the moment; if I could absentmindedly fall from this height I could use my workmen’s comp checks to send me to Bonnaroo in a wheelchair.

ENTRY #8

This is from member "bonnadude"



I'm a simple man with very simple values. My house is small, but my vision is big. Having no means of transportation, my vision and my plan was to arm myself with only a ticket and a tent and hitchhike my way to Manchester, TN for four days of music, peace, love and quality beer. Here is my story...

Walking down interstate 24 with my thumb confidently outstretched, I was sure to create some divine connection and find a ride to my dream... Bonnaroo '07. And I did. Somewhere and sometime amidst the stream of flying vehicles, a miricle appeared. A miricle in the form of a 1967 school bus that had been artfully transformed into "the armadillo" - a vehicular piece of art, complete with a streamlined head sporting beady eyes and a cheshire grin, armoured plates, and a long telescoping tail that freely wagged from the rear. This massive mammal mobile pulled to the shoulder of the road and two beautiful free-spirited young sirens, wearing printed skirts, peasant tops and beads, beckoned me inside. With no hesitation, I entered and took a seat behind them, one riding shotgun to the other driving. The smell of flowers and patchouli oil permeated the air as the radio came alive with the warming sweet tones of the Grateful Dead. Now my plan had become a beautiful nirvana-esque dream-state where my soul was free and my mind was at play to the sounds of "Tennessee, Tennessee, ain't no place I'd rather be, baby won't you carry me back to Tennessee". The Bonna-vixens and I were singing and laughing as the road below us hummed in key. But, all good things come to an end, and all would soon change.
I had entered not just a bus, but some fantastic atmosphere where all was moving in transition - the windows, walls, and yes even the ladies began morphing and mutating as we rolled down the road, and I was eventually became fearful and far out of my element. Darkness ensued as the inside of the armadillo soon became the interior of a 4-door 1974 Ford Torino, and my irresistable tree worshipers had transmogrified to men! The driver, who had become a large burly man was yelling at the smaller one to "shut the f--k up". Then, out of nowhere, in my hand, I noticed a chilled White Russian. Yes, I had become Jeffrey Lebowski, the dude, accompanyed by Walter and Donny. Suddenly, in a moment that seemed forever, I looked up to see our car speeding in a direct head-on course with a giant porta-john maintainence truck. I had entered a world of hurt where my dream had become a nightmare. This was my last breath, and as my life passed before me I realized, there would be no Bonnaroo '07. All went black.

I felt my eyes slowly and reluctantly open to the light. Would I see heaven? God forbid, would I see hell? No, neither. My vision revealed to me nothing more than my bedside night-stand upon which lay a slingshot and an empty bottle of Nyquil.

Entry #10

This entry is from member "MickStPeter"

Now generally I’m not a particularly superstitious person, but Friday the 13ths get to me. After being caught in a tornado in the mountains of west Virginia, having an uncle pass away on a camping trip, having our car stolen by the Italian mafia, lets just say I’ve never had a particularly good Friday the 13th. Today was no exception. On this particular Friday the 13th I had a competition to attend. You see I had been south east regional pogo stick champion since the age of eight. Today I intended on defending that title.

The details are all a bit foggy. There I was bouncing along in the 9th hour, and suddenly I felt a pain in my leg. The next thing I knew the pain has traveled to my head. When I opened my eyes I was lying in a white room, sun shine blazing through the open windows blowing the ethereal white curtains.

Suddenly from a door opposite the windowed wall enters a nurse who looked remarkably like Albert Einstein (oddly enough his white hair was combed back slick to his head) when he spoke to me he even had the accent.

“Hello dear, there is a visitor here to see you.”

When I looked back at the door a tiny gerbil entered through the still ajar door. It was Humphrey, who from all recollections died when I was 10. Actually my mother just told me that my little sister must have left the cage door open and he was lost… but I’m pretty sure he died. My sister despite the fact that she was only five at the time, knew better than to keep cage doors open, and for that matter to mess with her big sisters stuff. Oh yeah that happened to be on a Friday the 13th as well.

The Einstein look-alike picked up the Humphrey look-alike and placed him on my bed and the Humphrey look-alike curled up on the spot on my shoulder where the real Humphrey always used to sit. The Einstein look-alike then handed me a vial of liquid telling me to “drink up” in that distinctive Austro-German accent

I was a little wary the liquid had the smell and consistency of Nyquil… the green kind, not the comparatively pleasant (supposedly)“cherry” kind, but I figured “what the heck, what’s the worst it can do? After all I’m seeing Albert Einstein and my decade deceased gerbil.”

Then came the bright lights… Of the emergency room that is…

Turns out I had torn my ACL in the competition, and subsequently fallen, receiving a massive concussion.
So as you may be able to guess. I’m temporarily out of work, and therefore out of money for the glory that is Bonnaroo… My first Roo will just have to wait for another year, preferably a year that doesn’t involve very many Friday the 13ths. The Next time one rolls around I will most definitely not be doing any physical activities of any sort… In fact lets just stick me in a giant bubble for the day.

ENTRY #12

This is from member "bizco17"

Just so you know this isn’t a sob story. I would consider it a tragedy but most people will laugh at other peoples demise…so go ahead, laugh, no one is stopping you and someone might as well get some happiness out of my misfortune.
So it has been said “Good things happen to good people”. This may be true, but do good things happen to average people? I think not, and as you can tell by my speech, I consider myself average or about 75%.
So on what was to be a below average day in February (Valentines Day is always below average for me), a comet shot out of the sky…Bonnaroo 2007’s initial line-up was announced. For me, this was the best Valentine’s Day gift possible. Up until the unexpected artist announcement, my plans for Valentine’s Day included a late night infomercial of girls gone wild and some K.Y jelly.
On February 15th, the planning began. I started checking things off of my Bonnaroo checklist. Ask off of work…check, stop paying credit cards maximum payment and reduce to minimum payment…check, stock up on ramen noodles…check. Things were looking good and I was going to be ready February 23rd to buy my tickets right away.
So, fast-forward to the night of the 22nd. My friends and I were celebrating buying our tickets for the festival by watching The Big Lebowski, and taking a gulp of our White Russians (this is the Dude’s drink) every time Walter says F%@$. If you haven’t tried this, may this story be a lesson to you. The after effects were disastrous.
The next morning, I was not up in time for the 1st round tickets. This was devastating because I only had $230.00 dollars in my bank account, and the price for one ticket with shipping for 2nd round tickets was $231.35. Dear god, I am screwed!
At this point I was desperate. The first idea I had to gain more funds was to sell something. I scanned the room, and realized…I have nothing of value in this dump. Ok, maybe I could get a lump of cash for my stuffed armadillo paperweight on eBay, but I could never forgive myself for selling poor Army.
My next idea was to call my friends and ask them for money, but like me, they are all broke. Lori just went on food-stamps in order to buy her tickets (and I thought I was sacrificing by getting ramen noodles), Jon was donating plasma everyday and riding a pogo stick to work. The plan for borrowing money was not a plan at all.
As the weeks have gone by, up until this point I still have not come up with $1.35. I still have the $230.00 dollars in my bank account, and sit eating ramen noodles for breakfast, lunch and dinner thinking about how I will be able to get the money. I’ve checked the seats of my couch, I’ve checked the pockets of my members only jacket that I haven’t worn since the 80’s for change and I still have nothing. I’ve made a promise to myself that I won’t touch my bank account till I have the $1.35 I need to go. My worst fear is that round 2 tickets will sell out, and then I will have to sell poor Army for sure.
Overall, the past few months have been a roller-coaster that started at the top of a hill and has continued down non-stop. I’m still hoping to start going uphill but things look bleak. I may just have to wait till next years artist announcement to reach the top again.

Entry #14

This entry is from member pnutz

I don't think I'm going to make it to Bonnaroo by pnutz


Friday afternoons are when I relax. From work. From college. From Life.

But for the past three weeks, my fingers have been working like bumblebees on a sunflower.

Right now, in the back of my head, I'm thinking, Slip under, yarn over, slip stitch – thirty. Thirty more stitches. When I need more slack, Totoche unravels more yarn like any considerate pet orangutan would.

This is Beanie No. 3 in green. I've been crocheting like a little old lady in a Wisconsin nursing home. Twenty headbands in fuzzy blue, soft black, lime green, bubblegum pink, and snow white and eight scarves ranging from forest olive to deep burgundy are piled all around me. Siameses and tabbies to a crazy cat lady are "two-ply" and "sewing ends" to me on our living room couch. I've been dreaming of selling all my crocheted wares for my first-ever Bonnaroo ticket. I've never had enough funds, but this year, I'm determined.

Totoche has been a great help. I've only had him for about two weeks, but we've totally bonded the way a female would with her pet orangutan. Sure, he still throws food and doesn't quite understand the concept of "Don't nuts on my bed," but if anything, he's a step-up from a boyfriend. He even likes The Big Lebowski, especially The Dude in his clear Jellies sandals.
Sometimes I watch movies while I crochet to keep myself focused. This evening it's me, The Dude, and Totoche.

A thick wet cough from a closed door by the kitchen reminds me, Oh, yeah, and my roommate Kevin. not a very nice person.

Before I see his matted black hair, I feel a breeze and a sharp pain in the meat of my arm.

"Dammit!" I flinch violently.

Totoche flinches just as violently in sympathy. His motion gives off the scent of his Aloe Vera-Cucumber shampoo I bathe him in.

Kevin stomps out of his room, swollen with sickness. It's six o'clock at night and he's still flapping around in his blue-checkered pajama pants.

"Sup, Toast. Sup, Old Lady," Kevin spits at us. He refuses to call Totoche by anything other than Toast. He refuses to believe that anyone under the age of sixty-three crochets. Totoche is Toast. I am Old Lady.

"Do you see a wedding ring on my finger? Does this place look like I'm fuckin' married! The toilet seat's up, man!" The Dude screams as his valued rug is soiled.

Slip under, yarn over, slip stitch – forty. Twenty more stitches to go. Another pin of pain shoots into my bare crossed thigh.
"Dammit! Give me the slingshot!" I squeal. I throw the neon orange pellet feebly at Kevin.

Totoche throws an imaginary pellet at Kevin.

"You can't do things like that in front of Totoche. He's impressionable," I say into Beanie No. 3.

"But I just bought it. You get a monkey. I get a slingshot," Kevin whines.

"He's an orangutan."

Kevin's fluffy frame rattles with a cough. After he hocks and clogs the kitchen sink with his internal evil, Kevin slams cabinets searching for something.

SLAM! The Dude dripping in toilet water and ½ and ½. SLAM! The Dude fishing his sunglasses from the commode. SLAM! They peed on his f**king rug.

Bonnaroo, I swoon in meditation. Totoche and I in Tennessee, far far away from Kevin. Tennessee, Tennessee, ain't no place I'd rather be. Slip under, yarn over, slip stitch – fifty. Ten more stitches left to stitch on Beanie No. 3.

"Hey, at least I'm house-broken!" cries The Dude. SLAM!

"That's more than you can say, huh, Toast?" whistles Kevin through his stuffed nose. He found what he was looking for. The Nyquil's green syrup glows like a radioactive substance.

I stroke Totoche's shoulder softly. "Every day without an accident is a victory, f**k off!"

Kevin takes loud gulps of Nyquil, each gulp filling his stomach with sedative, each gulp filling my evening with quiet.

Loyal Totoche gets up from the couch and waddles over to the kitchen.

I do not see this because I'm on the last three stitches of Beanie No. 3. Slip under, yarn over, slip stitch – fifty-eight.

"Yeah, man, it really tied the room together," The Dude muses behind a set of bowling pins.

I do not see Loyal Totoche gain possession of the slingshot as Kevin leaves the kitchen for his bedroom. I do not see Sympathetic Totoche take the Nyquil that Kevin forgot to re-cap.

"That's f**king interesting, man. That's f**king interesting," The Dude ponders, taking a pre-bowl stretch.

Slip under, yarn over, slip stitch – fifty-nine. One more stitch to go.

What I do see is a shower of crystalline green over my sixtieth stitch. And every stitch I had made during the past three weeks.

Every single headband, each scarf – doused, darkened, and sticky with Nyquil.

Kevin's face poking back out from his bedroom. It hangs with indifference. "Shit, man. Monkey see, monkey fuckin' do."

"Fuckin-A," states The Dude.

Epilogue
Those of you that are screaming "Just wash them in the washing machine!" can shut up. I tried it and I was returned a giant ball of rainbow yarn. I was left with remnants. I didn't need the dryer.

I don't think I'm going to make it to Bonnaroo.

ENTRY #16

This entry is from board member "von1654"

Most mornings, I do what a lot of people do in the morning. I hit the snooze about ten times, contemplate calling in sick to work, groan a few times, then finally get out of my suddenly mind blowingly comfortable bed and dash through my cold room into the shower. I put on my many layers of clothing, pull on my boots, grab my gloves, and hit the road. This is where it begins.
I live in Los Angeles, so "hitting the road" is more like poking the road, then feeling really bad about disturbing it, so you apologize right away before the road can even say a word. To put it simply, I'm in stop and go traffic for about an hour. My eyelids slipping downward almost too often, and my brain still in that fuzzy, dream-like state, shifting back down to second; this is when I start to think about Bonnaroo. My favorite thing to do is to imagine different scenarios. One of my most frequent sequences involves coming back to camp from Centeroo in mid-day. My friends and I are all famished, so we fire up the grill and throw on the steaks we've been saving for the most perfect moment. We crack open ice cold brews, sit in our chairs recapping the day so far, and discuss what we might be doing for the rest of the day. Music is wafting through the breeze, meeting up with the scent of our charring steaks, and I am thinking that I might just try that Heinz 57 sauce- hey, why not, you know...
Topanga Cyn. 1/2 mile. I snap out of my fantasy and try to work my way over to the exit lane. I make it over without cutting too many people off, and coast down the exit ramp. I speed through the intersections that follow, trying to pass the trucks and maybe even the cars that are moving too slow for my taste before we start our ascent into Topanga Canyon. After all, I am late for work.
Meandering through Charles Manson country, I find myself daydreaming again. I have an internal debate over the lineup, and I feel myself wake up as I imagine the feeling of dancing in the moonlight with all of my friends. The sunlight filters through the canopy of trees, making lacy patterns of shadows across my windshield as I navigate the canyon. I put on my sunglasses and decide that the day will be a good one, and I pull into my parking space. I step out of my car and scoop up Tiger, one of the cats employed to chase down rats at the stables I where I work. I say "Hello" to a few people, and I make my way over to my co-worker, Anna, to find out what the day has in store for us.
Anna and I chat as we saddle up our horses. Her- about how she saw a pregnant woman smoking a cigarette this morning, and I- about how I almost killed myself in traffic ten times while I was daydreaming. We drag our horses up the hill into the arena and we start to make fun of the movie crew that has been infesting our space for the past three weeks. We stop wasting time and start putting our horses to work. As I trot into the corner of the arena, my horse lifts his head up and takes off, galloping and bucking his way away from the corner. According to my horse, Fakir, an orangutan was swinging through the trees with a slingshot loaded with its own poo aimed at his head, so he just had to run away, "Sorry". With Fakir, it's always an orangutan in the bush, or a ghost in the pasture- anything to get out of work.
After I have dealt with Fakir, I come down the hill and feed the horses. I have beet pulp and flax seeds up to my elbows, and I think I got some de-wormer in my eye. My boss has me clean her old trunks, which have been home to rats and their poop since 2002. Later, a horse named Kahlua kicks me square on the bum. As the sun disappears behind the Santa Monica Mountains, I throw on my sweatshirt.
It is the end of the day, and Anna and I are dipping our hands into freezing cold water to clean tack. I tell Anna that she should go to Bonnaroo, and she tells me for about the 100th time that she can't, she's broke. We finish, punch out, and get into our cars. Anna drives off, and I am still trying to start my tin can. See, sometimes my car doesn't start right away. After about 10 minutes, my car revs to life, and I remember what Anna had said to me about Bonnaroo: "I'm too broke". The word "broke" reverberated between my ears for a while, and then some friends came along. "Rent" was first, then "food", "flight" and finally "tuition". My debts and bills loomed above me in the trees, making their branches bow low over me, giving the illusion of driving through a scary, never ending cave. The realization hit me like a wave as I coasted back down the now dark canyon in neutral to conserve gas...

"Shit. No Bonnaroo."

ENTRY # 18

This entry is from member Lauraroo

Lauraroo wants to come to Bonnaroo with all you cool and extra cool Inforooers. This is a true story and any effort to relatate this story to fiction is WRONG!

Is it the last minute yet? That's when I do my best work. A self imposed emergency, if you will, is where I shine.

First, I would like to thank angrysunday for his most generous offer of a free ticket to Bonnaroo and getting this giveaway started. Then when AugustWest added a tent, I thought all my prayers had been answered and I would be able to go to Bonnaroo this year after all. So, many thanks to you both for your wild generosity.

When I read what angrysunday wrote on Inforoo that Saturday a couple of weeks ago,
I was very excited, but at the same time a little hesitant. I knew that in order to tell my personal story, I would have to expose myself in a way that is not generally done on a forum.

These words from angrysunday, "I have such a love for the spirit of this festival that it has made me want to share it with someone who otherwise wouldn't be able to experience it. I want to buy a GA ticket and give it away on this site", started my head spinning. So much so, that I went outside on that Saturday, and not only mowed the lawn, but washed the car, too. This much energy all at once is a rare treat for me the past few years.

I was still not sure if I had the courage to expose my cool Lauraroo self to everyone on the forum to be the downtrodden old lady from SC that I sometimes feel that I am. Plus, we all know that everyone on a forum always shows only their coolness sometimes to the point of telIing little white lies and just plain whoppers. Oh well, here it is.

When I was outside with my huge burst of energy at the thought I might actually be able to make it to Bonnaroo. I just couldn't get this story out of my mind. It's about a man who was trapped in a flood.

This man was in his house, and the water was rising. The water was getting almost up to the level of his windows, when a neighbor came by in a boat and asked him to get in the boat so he could get to safety. He told them to go on and help some others, that he had been praying, and he knew God was going to help him get out safely. The water kept rising, and he had to get on the roof of his house to stay out of the water. He was still praying, still knowing God would save him. Another boat came by with National Guardsmen who urged him to get in the boat. He still held firm. "I know there are others that need saving, I will be saved, don't worry about me," he said. Another day went by and the water kept rising. This time, a helicopter came to help him get to safety, and he still refused their help. The next day, the water pushed his house so hard, that the house broke up and the man drowned. When he got to heaven, he asked God why hadn't He saved him. God answered "I sent two boats and a helicopter for you, but you refused to be saved."

I feel like this contest must be my two boats and a helicopter. I won't turn down the help in an effort to keep my cool annonimity on the forum. I will let it all out and expose myself to you in this autobiographical entry. I encourage you to look at my profile and some of my posts. They are not hard to find. I have been active on this forum since I found it in the middle of March. Wow only a month! I feel like it has been so much longer. More like a lifetime, in terms of all the memories have been jogged. So many new, sparkly (thanks becca), energetic, young people excited about live music and a festival called Bonnaroo.

Oh, how I have always loved and been influenced by music. It has woven in and out of my life like a beautiful tapestry that has helped me become who I am. Music, particularly live music, touches your heart, your emotions, your spirit like so few other things can. Like the smell of warm cookies that were baked for you by your mom or your grandmother. It is also tribal, reaching back eons into humankind's existance. Over the centuries, music has evolved and become refined, but even in its refined state some of it seems to always be raw, enciting so many of our emotions. I second that emotion...doo doo doo, dah dah dah.....

I spent my childhood in the fifties, growing into adulthood in the late sixties. Bare with me here, you now know I'm old and frankly, my memory just ain't what it used to be. Plus, I think there are some other reasons my memory of those times have been hampered by my experimantations with all the fun I had imbibing in whatever I came across in this brave new world that was being created by Timothy Leary, Hunter Thompson, and the increasing availability of a weed. I took the Electric Kool Aid Acid test. Quite a few times it seems during those years. I went to college and saw Big Brother and the Holding Co. after Janis Joplin went solo and left her back up band. I saw them in a club in Columbia. It was the first live "rock" music I had been exposed to. I spent my high school days hooked on Motown and saw a bunch of the original ones. I did love the Beatles, the Rolling Stones, Bob Dylan and the others, but my chances of seeing them in SC was nil.

In the summer of '69 I went to my first rock concert. I saw Steppenwolf at Littlejohn Coleseum in Clemson, SC. WOW. I was hooked. I saw the Grateful Dead in Atlanta a couple of times after that. I went to see Procol Harem. I was groovin' to the scene in Columbia, SC. The first hippies were living there and I was one of them. I had even lived for a year in NY, so I felt ever so cosmopolitan, too.

Quickly now, I know I am running out of time. From Columbia I hitchhiked with 2 friends to western Montana and took in some Big Sky country for a while. When I came back to SC, I started moving around. West Virginia. Mountain mama. Heard that good ole bluegrass right in the midst of the mountains. It is how neighbors got together. Everyone that played an instrument, a fiddle, banjo, mandolin, or guitar would bring it to get togethers and everyone would play and sing the old songs of the hills. The coal miner songs. I moved a few miles away out in the country in southern Ohio for a couple of months. No indoor plumbing, that's right, we used an outhouse. Then a friend of mine who was living in Kentucky got in touch and said "Hey, I have a girlfriend who has an aunt living in Palo Alto, California, near San Francisco, and she invited us out. We have a place to stay, but no way to get there. How would you like to trade a place to stay in CA until you get a job or whatever, for taking us in your VW Bug all the way out there?"

I had been ready to go to CA since I started reading about what was going on out there when I was still in high school. I was more than ready. I hadn't been working in WV, so I was very broke. I told him he had to buy the gas. The three of us took off to CA with about $80 between us. I had $30 and he had $50. Gas only cost about 50 cents a gallon, so it was no problem. I can't believe that now! I ended up living out there for 5 years. I never thought I would come back to SC. I was in a land of enchantment.

Oh, the music I heard out there. Damn, I wish I could remember this part better. I saw the Dead numerous times. Many other smaller bands Music in the park, music in large concert halls like the Filmore West. I saw the Who and the Grateful Dead in a large baseball stadium that has since been torn down. We went early so we could get a good place. We had our blanket on the ground just a few rows back from the stage. I just couldn't believe my luck at being there.

Next, back to SC. I was in my late 20's, my parents had recently died in their mid 60's only a year apart from heart disease and cancer. It was the late 70's and I moved to a beach town, Folly Beach, near Charleston, SC. A friend of mine had just opened a beach bar featuring live music on the weekends. He wanted me to invest in the business and help him run it. What luck I was having. We had a blast and had live music on the weekends. Local bands, an old blues singer from SC called Drink Small, and some larger bands too. Little Feat out of Atlanta came. We must have had 400 people that night. It was great to be around live music every weekend. I turned 30 in that wonderful beach bar called the Dancing Bear in December of 1978. I couldn't have been any wilder than I was there. It was the time of my life. Unfortunately, we made more fun than money, and it only lasted another couple of years after that.

Next, I moved to Jacksonville, Florida. I had a best girl friend who I had met at the beach bar that was from there. We shared a house in Mandarin, FL. She actually had graduated from college and had been teaching high school since then. We were the same age. She had a 10 year old son from a previous marriage. We saw some great mucic together in Jacksonville, home of southern rock and roll.

I felt the need to get on with my life in a more serious manner than waitressing, so I signed up to go to school to be a respiratory therapist. It was a year long program. My best friend fell in love and moved out of the house we shared in Mandarin and shortly after I fell in love (I thought) and as a result, I found myself just out of school, working in a great smallish (300 bed) hospital nearby, 34 years old and suddenly pregnant. WOO HOO I din't know how my life as I knew it was suddendly going to change.

He decided he wasn't ready to commit, and while I was not happy about it at the time, I now count my blessings that we didn't get married. He never could stop drinking, smoking stuff, partying, doing other indulgencies. He's still a mess. Oh, I know we all probably have had relationships that didn't work out.

There is one relationship that did work out, and that is the one I have with my 23 year old daughter who will be coming with me to Bonnaroo. I ended up moving back to SC when she was 2. My sister talked me into it so that I would be close to "family support". My family at that time consisted of her family who lived in the country near where we had grown up in Darlington. She raised 4 children while I was away playing with the world. I got a job at a nearby hospital in Florence and moved there, or should I say here, 'cause that's where I am currently living.

I worked at that hospital for the next 13 years while I raised my daughter. I worked in intensive care and emergency life and death situations. I set up the life support machines, ventelators, and I drew arterial blood so that we could see if we were saving this person or if their time was up. After 5 years, I moved from adult care to neonatal care. It was a different world. Now the emergencies were in the delivery room instead of the emergency room. I loved the babies, I learned how to set them up on life support, put a little tube into their windpipe so they could be ventilated, draw arterial blood for many tests. I was in my element. I was able to handle emergencies with the babies with a certain calmness that often surprised the nurses I worked with. I rode on the ambulance to get sick newborns in hospitals in towns in our regions. The work was so specialized, working to save the lives of these very sick newborns, that when we got to the outlying hospitals everyone there, doctors and nurses alike, sighed a sigh of relief and immediately stood back to let us work. They always stood by to help. The adrenalin that pumped in my veins gave me the energy and knowledge to do my job well. I never went on a transport that we didn't save the baby and bring him/her back to our hospital.

I worked in the NICU for 8 years. It was highly stressful. Suddenly, the therapists were taken out of the NICU's control under nursing, and placed back under the respiratory boss that I never liked and the reason I got out of adult care in the first place. He didn't like me. I was a little outspoken and I questioned. He wanted robots that never thought for themselves. He knew he could replace me with a new student just coming out of school, and pay them a whole lot less, and teach them to be a robot. He had it out for me and I knew it. He made it impossible for me. The stress of life and death was nothing compared to the stress of hospital politics.
He looked out for his bottom line. Unfortunately, hospitals and the medical industry in general are more about their bottom lines than good patient care. He was more interested in how fast his robots could give a treatment and move on to the next than taking time to do it right. I couldn't work under those conditions. That was just not fair to give short treatments so he could look better to hospital administration.

I broke. I had two nervous breakdowns requiring hospitilization within a period of 5 months. After a few months of trying to get better, I realized I would not be able to return to the hospital, or anywhere else to work again. My brain was different. I battled depression, panic episodes and post traumatic stress syndrome, I still, even after being at home for 7 years, have horrible nightmares about working in a hospital situation. I sitll battle with the depression demon but I am in charge of it and it is not in charge of me. I haven't had a panic episode in quite a while. I'm hoping the next panic I have is seeing the band Widespread Panic. Music and laughter are the best medicine I can think of.

I look on the outside like a normal person. I hide my mental illness well. There is still such stigma attached. Unless there is stress, I do well. So I stay away from stress.

My daughter has some friends who have gone to Bonnaroo for about the past 4 years. Every year they come back and tell me I should go. That I would really like it. They talk about the good music, but they talk about the good vibes even more.

I have really wanted to come to Bonnaroo for several years now. My car was not up for a trip, though. It really died this winter, so we had to get a new (to us) car. Well new to my daughter, Katie and I. A month ago she came to me and announced that she and a friend were going to Bonnaroo in our car. I told her that she would not be going without me. I really wanted to go bad.

I immediately went to my computer and Googled Bonnaroo. One of the first things I found was Inforoo. That was about a month ago. I feel like my life had changed. I was suddenly full of energy and anticipation. I read and read. I became a contributing member of the community. I was thinking and dreaming about all the things I needed to get to make this wonderful trip to 'Rooland. I don't know why the voice of reason didn't stop me right there and say "How do you think you are going to buy all these things you need?" I guess it is the same voice of reason I ignored when I moved to California with $30 in my pocket!

I couldn't believe my luck when I saw this contest. I couldn't stop laughing when I saw the pictures we needed to work into our story.

I have come to a more peaceful easy feeling over the past few years. I have started coming out of my shell. I learned to make jewelry so that I can add a little extra support to my disability checks. This is the thing, though, I never have enough to pay all the house bills and have any left over. It doesn't take Einstein to figure out that if I pay the bills and have no money left over, how will I get a ticket and tent to go to Bonnaroo. I did manage to squeeze out enough money to get my Bonnaroo shoes. A pair of crocs! Then the car payment was late. I felt bad. But after all Mr. Einstein, I hadn't bought shoes or clothes in a couple of years. I need your guidance, Mr. E. You know I almost think he would say, screw it all and go!

I paid half for an EasyUp tent about 3 years ago with my former jewelry business partner. I called her the other day to tell her I wanted to use the tent in June and she said that she thought the tent was all hers now since she decided to quit our business association and she would have to think about it. What? Now it looks like I won't have even that tent for shelter. I am going to do my best to put some pressure on her, though.

The first thing I thought of when I saw the K-Y Jelly was ..... Hot Ferris Wheel Sex. This has been the most entertaining thread on the whole of Inforoo. The Sex at Bonnaroo? thread. Twenty seven pages and counting. It is the thread that never slips down the page. One topic that seems to please everyone is the idea of having hot ferris wheel sex at Bonnaroo. Now the pirates have invaded and they want to get in on the hot ferris wheel sex. Arrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr. I say the more the merrier! Get you a tube of K-Y and go for it mates. Slip sliding away on the ferris wheel.

Group #3 reminds me of a joke I heard some years ago when I lived in Florida. Here goes....

What sex toy is frequently found dead along the side of the road in Florida?

an armadildo.

I know it is corny, but it has made me laugh every time I see a picture of an armadillo or even one on the side of the road. If you are from Florida you know what I mean. If you're not, there is a lot of armadillo road kill on the highways and biways of Florida.

There was only one thought I had with the fourth group. My eggbeater is on the board. I have had one just like that for umpteen years. If I get to come to Bonnaroo, I will whip up a couple of dozen scrambled eggs for y'all at the Inforoo Breakfast get together. Along with a big pot of grits and some local SC sausage to go with it. Yum, yum.

Oh, and all the stories you care to hear about my lucky wonderful life so far. This is only the tip of the iceberg here. I hope I made my 500 words and all. I just don't want to be like my old car, or the man in the flood and die before I make it to Bonnaroo. When I get to heaven at least I can tell Him that I did enter the Bonnaroo contest that he sent me, and WTF?

Please consider my entry with the idea that I love all of you that I have met here on inforoo and because of you, my life has once again been changed.

Well, I have an hour before the deadline.....anyone want to hear some more? Just kidding...

Entry #20

This entry is from member "lkshwb"

The reason I can’t get to Bonnaroo this year is the result of a series of events. The scenarios build together to construct the sad joke that is my life. It may not seem that individually these occurrences were detrimental to my presence at Bonnaroo but they merely demonstrate the type of luck or lack there of that has graced my life. Let’s start at the beginning, age 5 I spot what appears to be a quarter on the edge of the stairway. The way they were positioned I had to stick my head between the bars in order to reach it and the answer is yes I did in fact get my head stuck. However, the worst part was that my mothers solution. After trying many different household items to get me out we were still unsuccessful and she absolutely refused to cut the banister. That was when she decided that the best way to get me out was to cover my head and neck with her own personal tube of KY Jelly. Gross and not to mention probably harmful to my mental health. Fast forward to age 9 when my mom takes me to her friend’s house that is overflowing with her kids toys. I immediately choose the pogo stick to begin with. Never having gotten on one before it turned disastrous. My first and last attempt ended with a backfire straight to the eye. What is intended as joyous child’s plaything gives me a black eye and blurred vision in my right eye for the last 14 years. Three years later my friend invites me to a monkey party. No shit, they really exist! Her Grandma had a pet orangutan. Everyone around the country who has a primate as a pet gets together once a year at a hotel. You walk in and the place is a freakin zoo. Not only are the hallways filled with monkeys but then you walk into the actual conference room and they’re everywhere, literally climbing walls and hanging from the ceiling. In theory it sounds like a very interesting event. It’s not. They’re evil. The night consisted of getting nuts thrown at me and one of them pulling out so much of my hair that I was bleeding profusely. Currently at age 23 it seemed as if my luck had changed. I had saved enough money not only for Bonnaroo but also to put a down payment on a new car. I was driving home from the dealership and having a moment reminiscent of The Dude while rockin out to CCR when I leaned over to get another CD and everything goes to nuts. Smash, no more new car. Now all the money I have left is used for taxis and buses. I am so broke that I applied for food stamps on Friday, officially cementing my status as white trash. I have always been unlucky to say the least but being so poor and carless could have happened after Bonnaroo.