DISCLAIMER: From time to time, we here at Lost in Sound like to remind everyone just how far ahead of the special curve we are. Whether assembling the most hetty-est of super hetty playlists, interviewing your favorite electronic producers, donating synthesizers to local soup kitchens or even teaching magic tricks to a duck-billed platypus sanctuary, sharing highly questionable wisdom as well as creating a lively discourse for the community is clearly our forte. In an effort to better monetize our endeavors while further testing the limits of what’s inexplicably conceivable, we’ve decided that, you know, we might as well continue raising the bar on our humanitarian efforts while we’re at it.
Lost in Sound has been selected by a public interest group, which will remain anonymous for now, to help lead a series of behavioral analysis studies in the hope of thoroughly detailing the current state of Transformational festival culture as it directly impacts the plight of humanity in the Information Age. For those of you out there with a 3rd grade reading level, Sesame Street is on in the other room. For those of you still with us, we have essentially been chosen to curate a social experiment. Not to worry, as we’re being compensated quite handsomely. As I write this, I’m being rubbed down with absolutely delightful, imported cocoa butter by a homeless person I hired to be my chauffeur/assistant for the week. He’s being paid in exposure and Chicken McNuggets™, of course. Ooooo, stop it, that really tickles!
After careful consultation, while sitting around a fancy invisible roundtable, we agreed that the most effective means to carry out this provocative, social experiment would be to choose an unknown test subject from a limited pool of potential candidates. He/she would then be dropped off in the middle of a randomly selected Transformational festival setting to document his/her behavior in this foreign, utopian-like environment. And you may ask, “What if he/she gets lost and can’t find his/her way back home?” I’m sorry, I couldn’t hear a word you were just saying due to the sound of juicy cocoa butter gliding across my silky-moist hot body. Oh wow, that orifice right there especially!
In order to receive the most optimal and unbiased data, it is imperative that subject has had no prior contact whatsoever with festival culture, nor has any possible clue of the existence of such events. Criteria for said subject included that he/she possesses impeccable social conditioning, slightly below average cognitive reasoning, slightly slightly above average communication skills and an obsessive-compulsive fashion sense to boot, all while taking up residence in a pre-fab man-child cave. Potential subjects were also required to pass a rigorous jungle gym course at a local elementary school or nearest Imagistation with a redeemable 2-for-1 coupon.
Our worldwide search for this raw, earmarked prototype eventually led us to a land of familial copulation, man-made earthquakes and egregiously watered-down alcoholic beverages – Oklahoma. A state appearing to have an over-sized index finger cryptically pointing visitors Westward for a perfectly sane reason. Being one of the few who chose to remain inside this unique “territory,” it serves as no surprise that our selected test subject – who is a twenty to thirty-something, one-time push broom mustache enthusiast, Caucasian heterosexual male – is quite an exquisite specimen indeed. Possessing a rather lengthy checklist of personal “nuances,” we will cautiously share information determined to be most pertinent and let you, the audience, form your own conclusions with the rest. The test subject is a jovial, rather whimsical fellow who claims to have a weekly column in a magazine publication dedicated to teenage lifestyle & entertainment, although this may never be officially confirmed. Between an affinity for Fruit Roll-up’s and coloring books along with the bizarre notion he is somehow in direct contact with the partial fecal matter of American hip-hop sweetheart Kanye West, subject appears to be in a prolonged state of arrested development infused with Berry-flavored hallucinations of perverse grandeur. You just can’t invent this kind of shit.
To comprehensively study the effects of sustained exposure to a festival ecosystem, the test subject has been provided with devices such as a journal, audio recorder, camera and a fluffy pen for collecting field data. In order to ensure that subject remains completely oblivious to the proceedings of this extensive research program, he was informed to be on special assignment as an “investigative journalist” for Lost in Sound. However, taking this designation quite a few steps further, test subject now has the fanciful delusion that not only is he a breed of detective/ journalist hybrid, but only seems to respond to a variation of titles involving “private truth sleuther “ (we dare you to say that 173 times in a row). Ultimately, for the sake of not jeopardizing the entire operation, we won’t dispute his bold claims. Lost in Sound warns that if you ever come in contact with subject representing himself as said “private truth sleuther,” we advise playing along by politely nodding and making no sudden movements or secret handshakes. You’ve been warned. Here’s a special cookie. It’s really fucking good. No, but seriously, you should try it.
So while you eat your special cookie, herein lies a detailed experiential account based on the observations, interactions, ramblings, babble, falafel and general confusion stemming from our test subject’s virginal amalgamation and coalescence within the burgeoning world of Transformational festival culture. Although it has taken us much longer than originally anticipated – between having to corral the test subject, attempt to subdue his hyper-stimulated sensory overload, collect substantial volumes of field data and complete a strenuous scientific peer review process – we are finally prepared to share the initial findings of this unusually unorthodox method of social experimentation. With that being said, and without further delay, we assume absolutely no responsibility for the “contents” of this journal and do not support nor deny the ideas, beliefs, preconceptions, misconceptions or potentially questionable representations put forth by this, our “Blissful Idiot.” The following is based on actual events.
Yes, this is real.
Matthew A. Cremer reporting = 0 )
To whoever the golly heck finds this hot doozey of a mess:
Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God! You guys, you guys, you guys! You’re Totes Mcgillicutty’s gonna have to sit your silly butts down for this stuffs. Oh sweet Monte Crisco, I don’t even know where to begin here. Because what I’m getting ready to scandalously unleash on you might just be one of the most incredible, most fantastical, most unthinkable, most outlandish, most cockamamie, most harebrained, most crazy shit-ball stew mad capers of an inside scoop packed into a tall-tale variety fudge pack bedtime story bonanza ever known to man in all of the fruity-ass animal kingdom come forever and ever and golly heck ever, infinity phooey! True effing story. Wooooooo – and I told myself I wasn’t gonna get over-stimulated!
But that’s ok, that’s ok – I’m pretty sure I got this. With a real super duper solid background in hard-hitting investigative dick sleuthing journalism skills, not to worry, cuz I gots private truth sleuther moves for dayz, beeeotch! Woop woop! The kind that’s willing to get his hands super filthy and dirty findin’ the real inside scoops. That filthy, filthy dirt. It’s just so gosh darn filthy. My long list of guerilla journalism safari exposés includes real deal deep cover stories for publications like Glitter Magazine and…Glitter Magazine. I know, I know…so my résumé still needs a little massaging. Maybe even some taint tickling too. Hey, look at that – alliteration! It’s super duper swell as fuck though cuz any day my column dedicated to everything Kanye West Sharts is gonna really blow ass! I mean, blow up! Wow guys, that was a close one!
So yeah, I was the lucky winner of a raffle contest on the Facebookles for a free fun zone pass to one of those socially redeeming “EDM” pacifier conferences that were just invented a few weeks back. It was through some goofy website called “Lost and Found.” I’m thinkin, “Okay, this site looks a little off but maybe it’s time to step out of the ole Kanye Shart comfort zone!” Apparently, that’s where the real magic happens! Maybe I can get a big ole whopper of a juicy story and then next thing you know I’m the publishing editor for TMZ or maybe even Nat-Geo Kids! Ohhh, the possibilities!
After settin’ me up with a 401K, some sandwiches and a ride in the company minivan, the hot shots over at Lost and Found (those crazies) put me on special assignment to go off to this strange, far-away fantasy realm from another galaxy called a “Trans-infomercial Tai Chi clambake” or something. Sounds like quite a caper indeed! Now hold on just a gosh darn minute, that doesn’t sound right at all actually. Oh, here it is inside my Trapper Keeper. Ok, ok…wait a second…they are called “Transvestite fashion week gatherings.” Ohhhh, the filth! No, gosh darn it; some wise guy must’ve put that there. C’mon, pull it together now. My readers demand the truth! Ahhhhhh, here it is. Oh geeeez, it looks like I had it written down in my secret diary the whole time. How embarrassing is that?!? Ok, for realz now, apparently they are called “Trans-form-a-tion-al” festivals? Yeaaah, that’s the stuffs! Aw shucks guys, I’m so glad we got everything sorted out once and for all. Things could’ve gotten awkward as all get out. Can’t be havin’ any of that now. = 0 )
So apparently at these Trans-Siberian Orchestra happenings, they’re some kind of “brave, new world” playground where everyone touches each other A LOT, listens to computer beep-boop musics from the future, talks to aliens and even shares funny ideas on how to change themselves and the whole freakin’ world while they’re at it. Gee whiz…I dunno, you guys. I think I’m doing pretty fine and dandy as it is in the “fine and effing dandy department.” Clearly I know what the hell I’m doing here. Clearly. I mean, what could they possibly have around this place that could do me any good anyways? Besides, that all sounds like a whole lotta really hard work. Can’t be havin’ any of that now! Surely they’ll pair me up with a special helper buddy or at least hand out a sparkly “how-to” info-guide or whatever’s clever. If not, then I’m throwing a lawn chair at somebody! Just kidding, just kidding you guys! Ok, maybe just a smidge-a-roo. But anyways…oh yeah, I almost totally forgot – what a big dufus I am! So yeah, they have these things there called “workshops.” Oooooo-ahhhhhhhh! I’m not too sure if they’re New-Agey self-help support group cult training seminars or some carpentry classes where you get all sweaty and stuffs. One way or a golly heck ‘nother, they enlisted yours truly to be the private truth sleuther reporting from the front lines about all this Age of Aquarius forbidden fruit business. I guess the Lost and Found shareholders thought it would be just effing hilarious to sign the new guy up on the company bulletin board in the break room. Those silly sons of bitches. And as titillatingly tantalizing as it would be, I’m not sure if my super swell truth report from the trenches could even begin to speculate on how many pole dancers that zany Polish diplomat can fit onstage at once. Even if I spent an entire freaking day in the truth lab (my secret tree house – no girls allowed! Lol) coming up with a super-algorithm, there’s no effing way I’d be able to figure that hullabaloo out! And as much as I’d be just tickled to pen a detailed dissertation on how the keyboarder guys from Papa Gino’s strangely look A TON alike, all that late night robot fondling is just way too golly much past my bedtime! So before anyone gets their jimmies or Stan Van Gundy’s rustled, just for the record – any mentions about musical artist celebrities or funny sounds coming out of speakers are merely happenstance, hearsay and maybe just plain ole poppycock too. Cuz erry’one knows poppycock ain’t nuttin’ to fuck wit! Oh boy, trying to act like I’m not Caucasian as fuck sure is fun. Anywho, as much as I’d just love to give a meticulous cattle prodding on how music from the future somehow works, I hear the Kanye West Shart column over at Glitter Magazine is blowin’ ass these days! On that note, I’m puttin’ on my investigative journalist hat along with a snorkel, some latex gloves and a spandex body condom. I’m ready to jump into some real action! Okay guys, see you on the other side!
(Okay, before I jump completely in, I want to sincerely thank you people up front for taking the time out of your crazy, busy-bee, cubicle-worshipping day to study every corner of my super terrific journal. In fact, I expect an analysis of my diary entry truth report facsimile from each and every one of you. In turn, I will do an analysis on your analysis of my analysis. An analysis reach-around, if you will. Oh boy, don’t you just love saying “analysis”?!?! So by saying nice things, I can then say really, really, really nice things about your nice things and in turn successfully complete the reach-around. And then we can become pen pals – promise! Yay! Full disclosure: I’m not really sure what a reach-around is, but I bet it’s a boatload of fun!)
Well geez Louise guys, where should I start? Where should I jump the golly heck off? Oh sweet Mary Poppins, the possibilities! So I got assigned to go on this super duper top-secret mission to one of the most far-out, unusual Treasure Island spectacles ever known in the history of pretty much…everything. Sheesh, I feel like we already covered this. In fact, between you, me and the lamppost – no, not that one…keep going…keep going…that lamppost…right there – no one even knows that these wild and wacky reach-around jamborees even exist. Shhhhhh…don’t tell anyone. Can’t be messin’ up that whiz-bang of a swell job America’s gots goin’ these days! We gotta keep this one a big ole secret. Try not to fuck it all up for everyone. = 0 ) But yeah, those goofy, tea-sipping bastards over at Lost and Found sent me to this place called the “Gratifly Music and Arts Festival.” Ohhhhhh, such a cleverly delightful play on words indeed. The hot shots running this conjunction function festival must be savant kid geniuses or something. I bet this doozey of a hot escapade is a real can’t-miss! I might’ve just pissed myself from all the excitement. No promises!
So yeah, what can I say about this wacky Gratifly tomfoolery I got myself into? Was it all scary and stuffs getting mixed up in the thick of this hell-scape nightmare? Quit asking me all these freaking hard questions already! Was it a big ole pain in the collective booty butt getting into the festival? No comment. Was it an integral part of the adventure? Abso-freakin-dubitly! I think it’s safe to say that I’ve never participated in a “trailer grab” before. Yes, that’s what I said. As in, you park your talking car behind a white supremacist barbeque joint next to a good ole, rundown Dollar General store in the Deep South of all places. Ahhhh yes, the plot thickens. Then you transport yourself, your frans, your stuffs and even more stuffs out in front of the jukin’ joint. Then you wait to board a shuttle. Except, it’s not a shuttle. “You mean there’s no shuttle??” No ya big silly, it’s a farm trailer! And it’s completely open to the woooooorld! As in, there are no seatbelts, trailer belts, door trailers, sunroofs, moon doors or sense of common decency for that matter. Then, at a moment’s notice you had to be ready to strap every article of gear to your body in one fell swoop, heaving yourself and all of your stuffs (Mount Kilimanjaro expedition pack, bright pink tent, no sleeping bag, Pokémon cooler, waaaaay too many painting supplies, feral cat, lasers, flashy-blinkey toys and all) onto the back of a trailer as if it was in an impromptu free-for-all land grab of grab-assery proportions! Except, it was a farm trailer…being towed by a farm truck. And it was only “Yay” by “Yay” big. And the guy in overalls driving might’ve had it in for us (Maybe not. He let me sit on his lap for the first half-mile. I refused to give him $3 dollars for the ride though.) One way or another, this concept was definitely kooky to the max. Oh boy, was it ever! Aw shucks, I wonder if all the Transient fun factories are like this?!?! I will say this though: even if it was pretty hectic and peculiar at gosh darn best – everyone was pretty freakin’ civil and super swell to one other. So major props for humanity bringin’ up the rear! Sure can’t say it was the most stylish means of transportation, but there were plenty of fancy style points to go around for somehow making this cockamamie dream a reality. It was swell to know that everyone was along for this fantastical ride, wherever it was taking us. One thing I learned was that you must set the tone early and often at these odd happenings. Often and early. Shake and stir. Rinse and repeat. Tickle and giggle. Whatever. It’s pretty safe to say that these Transformer festival peoples seem pretty determined to make stuffs work. To summon all the real juicy energy to not push or drag their happy asses through the weekend, but to be within it. All the while with smiles and smiles that go for the miles! You heard it here first folks!
After I finally got off the magical mystery trailer, I soon realized a good ole pick-me-up was needed in more ways than one. Oh golly, did I ever! Being that I didn’t know how to hot-wire a hovercraft or transcend time and space for that matter, I must’ve had the length of about three friggin’ football diamonds to get wherever I’d eventually be erecting my pleasure fort. Hey, I don’t recall this being anywhere in the welcome pamphlet! Plus Mr. freaking Sunshine pants had already done his filthy deed, going down on yours truly along with all these goofy glue-sniffers teeming around me. Oh boy, was it spooky as all get out around this place! Not to mention there was a scary ole forest trail I’d have to mosey down all by my merry self just to get from A to golly heck Z. If only I could make it to safety before the freakazoid Middle Earth weirdoes came out of the filthy woodwork. Just don’t make any eye contact with any of ‘em or flash any gang signs. Good lord, the last thing I needed was some snaggle-toothed hippie witch person on a broomstick trying to whisk my ass away into a voodoo orgy pit run by little gremlin peoples hopelessly dressed in paisley silk bathrobes. And surely that’s just the tip of the hocus pocus hedonist iceberg! I mean, if that doesn’t make your asshole pucker right up, then I don’t know what would! With a wave of the jimmies, willies and Stan Van Gundy fear sandwiches starting to come over my precious, innocent body, I made the executive decision to get out of this mud crater of a “parking lot” while I still could. Trudging along with my stuffs falling to the ground every so silly often, this private truth sleuther was gonna need a life raft or some schizzle to smuggle my happy butt deeper into the heart of this filthy beast. But ohhhhhh thank God! Fortunately, not far into this terrifying misadventure, a golf cart was nice enough to stop by and offer me a ride. Wheeew, that sure was a close one! Driven by a cheery gal introducing herself as “Alix Marshmallow” (whatever that means), she must’ve sensed I was having some cargo reach-around malfunctions among other things. Shortly after getting on, the girl they call Marshmallow tried super duper hard to make me feel at home – no promises! She did all sorts of fun stuffs like read a Shakespeare sonnet from a scroll, gave me a neck massage, made some frappuccino’s and even warned me about all the naked people. Oh Jesus, the filth! As a way to thank her for the hospitality, I figured I’d offer a tip for steppin’ up the fun zone game. But the only stuff I had was a bunch of traveler’s checks, bitcoins, Candyland figurines and big-pimpin’ twenties on me. And not to say she didn’t deserve a baller-ass twenty, but I really wanted to have enough bones to buy a new scarf to launch my own collection. I mean, geez Louise, who doesn’t love a good scarf? You know, maybe even assimilate with the “indigenous” folk while I’m at it. So get this – after asking ole girl for some change, the dialogue took a rather barbaric detour of a twisted turn, if I do say so myself. (You might want to put the kids to bed first and close your eyes for this one. Ok, on second thought you’re gonna need those to read. Oh boy, how super silly can I ever be.) “Actually, I do NOT happen to have any change on me. But…I’d gladly break your twenty with my butt cheeks.” Wow, the gall this talking golf cart Marshmallow had! Is this some kind of after dark adult riddle? And I don’t even have my portable truth lab on me! I mean, gosh, her filthy response was just totally on the risqué side of the naughty electric fence, wasn’t it? “What is this coming out of your mouth I hear? I thought this was a family-friendly festival, missy?!?” I asked in a state of dismay. “Oh, it’s quite friendly around here alright…” And what does that even mean? What the freakin’ heck just happened here? I was a little bewildered to say the least, yet deep down thoroughly tickled. (Shhhhhhh, don’t tell anyone. That’s yours and my little secret, okay? Promise you won’t tell anyone? Ok good, glad we got that settled. Hugs and kisses.) But golly, you know what? She sure made me giggle quite a bit as a matter of friggin’ fact. It’s as if I totally forgot about how simply getting inside this surreal love fest of a cluster-jerk was indeed a huge pain in the freaking pirate booty ass! Oh wait, I had already “no commented” on that one. Motherfucker. Oh boy – I guess the monkey is out of the bottle on that one! So much for journalistic integrity.
But yeah, Marshmallow – what a super swell person, that gal. She knew I was physically and mentally worn the golly heck out and needed an aww shucks kind of boost. It wasn’t just about smuggling me in a silly golf mobile though. Or the curiously enchanting frappuccino’s either. Or taming all the goosebumps from my willies, jimmies and Stan Van Gundy’s of a hot pocket fear enchilada. No-no, I think all that filthy, filthy, super filthy bawdy talk was her way of lifting my spirits. After letting me off near the bridge on the opposite side of the field, we merrily parted ways. Even though I proceeded to wander off into a roaring creek and then shared a Fruit Roll-up with a Mountain lion – God bless that Marshmallow lady! She was the first of a handful of morale boosters I would encounter throughout this strange, utopian fart knocker island. I call ‘em “The Fun Zone Sauce All-Stars.” You know, Trans-fixated hippie peoples who deserve their own trading card. And on the back of it, instead of a bunch of stupid little asshole numbers, it would say “You’re Just Like Totally Awesome. Don’t Change A Gosh Darn Single Thing! High-Five! Yay!”
Sometime before noon the next morning, I was roused from my deep slumber by wild banshees somewhere out in the festival grounds who must’ve been performing a ceremony or sacrificing an animal or whatever’s clever. No matter what those banshees were up to, it was pretty obvious the festival was already in full-on, balls-deep festivity mode. The chants, choruses and overall jubilation of its proceedings were penetrating. Lying in my tent still wearing my jammies, I came to the conclusion these people were ready to get after it – whatever “it” was. After watching an hour’s worth of cartoons and deciding what outfit to wear, I figured I’d go ahead and rock out a plastic Wal-mart bag as a makeshift scarf in the meantime. You know, maybe poke a few holes in it. Wow, talk about being resourceful! Indubitably, the time had come to spring into private dick truth machine mode! The time had arrived to gloriously emerge!
Wait…wait…you know what? Just hold on a gosh darn second. I know I just put on a Wally world scarf and stuffs, but maybe this is waaaaaay more than enough crazy talk about all this zany ballyhoo nonsense for now. I should probably slow down a smidge-a-roo before I get in a big ole tizzy trying to process everything at once. I mean, what do I look like, some kind of high-powered supercomputer laser windmill? Besides, this might be waaaaay too much TMI for you to wrap your filthy head around right now anyways. I know, I know – it sure must be a whole lotta Sweatin’ to the Oldies kinda work readin’ 4,300 words. Wooooooo! Not to mention how nobody’s supposed to even know about any of this fairy tale crapola from outer space in the first place! Don’t you dare go fuckin’ telling anyone now. I know we’re pen pal buddies and all. But as enticing as golly heck as it would be to give you guys a special headline-grabbing sneak peek into all the fun zone sauce meet-and-greets I had with the “common folk,” we’re gonna slow roll this kooky mofo down nice and easy breezy mixed in with a dash of yeezy steezy. In the meantime, I’ve got yet another hot doozey of a Kanye Shart exposé burning a hole in my cargo shorts that I gotta tend to. Might as well lather myself with Jell-o and binge-watch me some Perfect Strangers too while I’m at it. I highly suggest you do the same before all of this hot filthy action seeps into your silly soul! Oh geeeez, the filth! It’s just so filthy, ain’t it? And I told myself I wasn’t gonna get over-stimulated! But yeah you guys, the places we shall go…
P.S. Big hugs and kisses
P.P.S Ok, ok – with sprinkles on top too! = 0 )
BE SURE TO JOIN US FOR NEXT WEEK’S BLISSFUL IDIOT EPISODE: “THE PENETRATION OF STUFFS”
Special thanks and extra sprinkles to Lovemore Creations