A (nearly) sober account of the Disco Biscuits’ drug-addled electro music festival.
The rain is coming in sheets from all sides. It’s streaming in from every corner of the tent soaking my sleeping bag, book bag and my bag bag.
This downpour is worse than the day before, when violent thunder and a hailstorm whipped through the campgrounds for a few terrifying minutes and threatened to blow the tent clean away.
Today, the steady rain is in its fifth straight hour, and I need to figure out a way to keep at least one patch of tent dry to avoid a bone-chilling, awful night sleeping in mud and standing water. And piss. (More on that in a bit.)
The rain won’t let up, so I abandon the fight and venture into the night with the rest of stinky humanity. I join the wide-eyed, drugged-out zombies who stroll outside my tent by the thousands.
Certainly they’re as miserable in the cold rain as I am.
Only they aren’t. They are happy—smiling and dancing.
Difference is, they’re high as shit.
Well then, me too.
This is Camp Bisco, after all, and I’m entirely too sober.
Right at the crossroads of Where the Fuck Are We and Who the Fuck Cares sits Mariaville, New York, and a 200-acre slice of heaven called the Indian Lookout Country Club. Lush, green hills are broken up by strategic tree lines. Catch the right place to sit, and you can see miles of rolling wooded hills that make up Schenectady County, and one of the world’s most gorgeous sunsets.
Last week, as you may recall, I angered the rabid fans of Disco Biscuits by painting an extremely accurate portrait of them in a cover story I wrote. As someone who’s usually hailed as a genius with very succinct insight, the torrent of angry emails from Biscuit fans has been a bit of an adjustment for me.
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