There's nothing more sociologically baffling than a music festival. The proletariat are mixed in with the bourgeoisie, and, for a brief weekend, everyone is on the same level: pathetically idolizing other human beings simply because they can play a guitar or say words that end in rhymed couplets. Ferris Bueller was right, life moves pretty fast, if you don't stop and look around once in a while, you could miss it, which is apropos during an event where everyone's eyes are all fixed on people dancing around on a stage. If you don't stop and look behind you, you may miss the wonder that is the music festival attendee. Apparently, Beta's new tagline is: "Club Culture Evolving." With that in mind, it's a bit off-putting that within this Astroturf dance floor, there is a homo-habilis who has been dancing to the same beats-per-minute for the last two hours. This rare hominid is a walking contradiction to Beta's clever little mission statement. You know, in every movie that involves ghosts, there is invariably a scene in which the character gets in a fight with his or her invisible buddy, and everyone around watches them struggle. Apparently, you can smoke enough weed (or medication) to not only see your invisible friend, but also embrace her while you're on someone's shoulders, listening to Damien Marley sing about something about Zion or weed or, well, this very situation. Seriously, who is drinking all the Pomegranatinis in Lodo if all these girls are here? Right now there's a lonely bartender in an outfit that is one stitch above underwear watching sports with the sounds turned off in an empty room. Oh, wait, I stand corrected. Here's the bartender, only instead of pouring alcoholic gasoline in the date-rape engines of Lower downtown, she's dancing for them. Lodo is officially an empty lot replete with tumbleweeds right now. The problem with defending your village against British soldiers is that they have cannons and guns, and you only have glowsticks. In the grand scheme of things, his final cry of "freedom" will mesh well with the hard house music coming from the Club Beta stage. I swear, white America has taken this whole backpacking culture way too far. Sure, you can stuff her carcass with enough Smirnoff Green Apple to make it through Jimmy Cliff, but why not just bring a cooler? Is it just me or does this picture somehow make you hungry? It's hard to explain -- maybe something akin to word association. In the interest of full disclosure, photographers aren't supposed to influence life, only capture it. I was trying to get a picture of this woman while she repeatedly attempted to make a phone call during My Morning Jacket's rather loud set, and this dude must have thought I was doing so because she was famous. It's not that he has dreadlocks and he's white -- we've been over that. It's just that he's so damn serious with that Frisbee in his hands, which is hard to do when you have a butt plug attached to your belt loop. Because of strict security and limited access, the average Joe usually doesn't get up close and personal with celebrities at a music festival. But Morla the Aged One doesn't subscribe to the hierarchical ideals of Mile High. Thanks for coming out, Morla, keeping the scene alive! I'm pretty sure that's not how you use that.
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