Well, we again ventured into the swamplands of South Florida for the four-day musical extravaganze known as Langerado. We loaded up the shaggin' wagon -- a.k.a. 1984 Ford Econoline Clubwagon Van -- with our family of four, add one child -- Morgan, a friend of the kids -- and three more adults: Amy, Alisha and Randall.
After getting lost somewhere in the middle of the Mickosukee Indian Reservation, finding a little gator hole place called Debby's Crab Shack to refuel, losing our tickets and almost our wits, we set up camp. Randall and Alisha ran off to catch the Wailers while I stood in line at will call to get replacement tickets to cover the ones we lost, which we can only presume flew out the window at some point near Debby's Crab Shack.
The first night of shows, after we set up camp (including three tents and an awning at the back of the van) reminded us of why we do this time and time again. The first night of torrential rain reminded us of why we put up rain guards on our tents, which Alisha and Randall skipped. We found them in the back of the van in the morning. While we were drying out all of their stuff and engaging in a friendly game of bocce ball (that is SO fun -- we must get a set!) sheer winds started ripping through, lifting Randall and Alisha's tent up off the ground in tumbleweed fashion and just ripped the kids' tent up completely. There was no saving the kids shredded tent, which was some 1956 version of a tent we found in our camp stuff complete with aluminum poles (think very triangular, nothing bends) and a "Missouri Trails" logo on it. The kids would be the ones to inhabit the back of the van from then on, which was probably the sweetest spot in the camp since the sheer winds were followed by freezing weather. Well, freezing to us island dwellers anyway. It got down to like 48 or something.
The last day, while the kids were doing one of their infamous walks of shame (picking up trash all over the campsite because they were getting snippy and snooty and 10-year-old girls are pure evil), they got out of my eyeline, so I started walking after them. When I stopped to look around, I noticed I was standing on a mound of fire ants. Of course, it took me a minute because fire ants don't actually start biting until about half of them are up to your knees. Trying to not completely freak, I brushed them all off, yelled at the girls to hurry back to camp and trotted like a little pony back to our tarp. I doused my legs with cold, bottled water and instantly knew why they call them fire ants. It's not because it feels like fire when they bite, it's because when they're attacking your legs and climbing ever upward, you want to douse yourself in gasoline and light yourself on fire to get them off with a quickness. Now it appears they -- as a communal tribe throughout the world -- have spread the word within their little ant mounds, complete with Internet access I presume. I say this because that was the first time in my life I'd been bitten by a fire ant, much less dozens of them, and just this week AGAIN one bit me on the toe while I was at Claire's school. Maybe I taste like watermelon.
To see the complete lineup of audio treats at the fest, visit langerado.com. For me, the Beastie Boys was the absolute pinnacle since I've never seen them before AND they were as good as they were in the 80s; REM because I made it to the front row, albeit Amy and Alisha didn't beeline there with me and I saw the show solo; Built To Spill's performance of "Strange," my theme song; State Radio, a band I've never seen but shows great promise on the jam scene; Gov't Mule, which I think even the kids really enjoyed; and of course Phil Lesh and Friends, the grand finale. They whipped out an awesome "Dark Star," which was nice to lie down in the grass and watch the stars to mid-show, and ended with a supped up "Casey Jones," with an ever increasing rhythm that was trully indicative of "drivin' that train, high on cocaine." Phil's got himself a lineup that Jerry would be proud of, and, funny thing, the whole night seemed to be Jerry all the way.
Did I mention the glow puppet? Or Melon-head Dude? Or the guy who freaked out and left a smorgasboard of drugs at our camp site? The short bus? Painting the van? No? Well I guess you're going to have to find your own damn festival to understand. Look hard, you might see us there, too! We'll be the ones wrapped up like Jihads in Mexican blankets.
