Whether it's your first Bonnaroo or you’re a music festival veteran, we welcome you to Inforoo.
Here you'll find info about artists, rumors, camping tips, and the infamous Roo Clues. Have a look around then create an account and join in the fun. See you at Bonnaroo!!
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 f**kin' 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 f**kin' do."
"F**kin-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.