Trendysomething in somo
Summer Fest survival essentials: Victoria's Secret drug mule, booty shorts & a dodging Happy plan
This weekend is year two of Free Press Summer Fest, a two-day bacchanallia on the lawn of Eleanor Tinsley Park. The lineup of over 70 national and local acts is a lot to take on, so take a sip from my sage wisdom and follow these tips:
Dress to impress.
Since it's rather warm outside, you'll be striking a careful balance that communicates your inner indie god/goddess with as little clothing as possible. I say, go for the gold and don gold lamé unisex booty shorts.
Last year, I was gifted a pair of vintage (1996) Atlanta Olympic Games running shorts that boasted a breathable textile and just enough fabric to legally cover all the essentials (as long as I was standing). I've been laying out a different potential 'stume every morning for the past four months, and so far it looks like I'll be going for a pair of recently-gifted pink snap-up shorts — because nothing spells Summer Fest success like easy access and pastels. Ms. Tinsley would be proud.
At last year's festival, long entry lines left hipsters feeling as bored as they always try so hard to look, and "hill surfing" above Eleanor Tinsely Park became a popular distraction for those who were already reveling in an 11 a.m. buzz.
"What you do is, you take the cardboard trash cans, and slide down the hill on them," explains a friend, who was a 2009 festival attendee and remains an eager ironic hipster impersonator. "That's about it — but from what I can tell, it's very indie."
Pack organic snacks.
Nobody wants to hear you talking about how the "whole world looks tie-dyed" or spontaneously filling out Peace Corp applications on your Blackberry. If you were at Summer Fest 2009, then you remember "Happy," the official mascot, who had clearly accessed some basic kitchen cleaning essentials, and could be spotted rolling around on the grass or frolicking in the rancid waters of Buffalo Bayou.
Avoid Happy's fate, and at the very least, don't get caught alone under the Waugh Bridge, talking to an empty bottle of Fuze as if it's your new best friend.
Wrap it up.
If you passed through D.A.R.E. graduation, then you know that harboring your favorite distractions while slinking through a guarded gate can be a difficult task. Last year, I stumbled upon a blissed-out friend on a blanket, who instructed, "Smoke this with me and let's talk about these beautiful clouds." I asked her how she snuck in her loot, and she informed me that she had slipped her stash into a pair of pink panties.
The lesson learned? Being a drug mule's a lot more glamorous when it's enveloped in Victoria's Secret.
Keep it casual.
There's nothing like a summer fling, especially at a music festival. It's critical to have a partner in crime with a plus-sized messenger bag for sneaking in beer, who will guard your lawn snuggie and make out with you behind the Porta-Potties. But Summer Fest is no time for launching a serious relationship.
Case in point: Last summer, two friends were tripping acid, and after diving head-first into the puple paint slip-and-slide, declared that they were "soulm8s" (as the mass text read), and needed to get married. The rocky engagement was broken by Halloween, followed by a string of "You're dead to me"-style texts.
Consider a music festival romance as a temporary tattoo: A flashy novelty of which any memory can be easily washed away during a Monday morning shower.