In The Interest of Appropriate Oral Hygiene

Sometimes the things that inherently change a situation, or your outlook on your station in life are things that seems so mundane to the outside world that to mention them is all but pointless. Sometimes when you are so desperately searching for that cosmic-big-bang-universally-explanatory moment…the thing that will crack the code…the “big talk”…all you really need is that one tiny gesture to create clarity.

I created this picture in my mind of the “perfect partner” over many sleepless nights. He was going to be funny, and smart, and tell me repeatedly how flawless I was in spite of all of my many tragic flaws. The words “beautiful” and “stunning” were to be uttered on an hourly basis. There would be some form of initials following his name (ending, for the sake of my mother, in “burg” or “stein”) denoting his station in life. Preferably of the MD, PhD, CPA, or ESQ variety. He would be every perfect thing I could imagine in the gray synapses of my middle-aged brain, because I had waited so long that to accept anything different seemed anti-climatic. Enter The Redneck.

To call him The Redneck would seem cruel and elitist, were it not for the fact that it is etched at the epidermal level into his very being. Somewhere about 180 degrees from the imagined Mr. Wonderful lies the reality. There is no pedestal on which I can daily climb to be reminded by some doting stranger of my glory. There is The Redneck. There are directives. There are expectations. There are a myriad of things that swirl in the ocean of space between his world and mine…adoration on his part is not one of these things. This being the case, maybe there is something a little more real than I could have hoped.

Things can be tenuous in the chasm of space and time that eventually crash into the uncharted realm of “relationship.” In the case of The Redneck and I, if you combined the baggage from my life along with the baggage from his it is entirely possible that airports globally would no longer need conveyors. The baggage in question leaves me (admittedly the more neurotic of the two of us) feeling like at any moment the bottom will drop out, and I will be left in silence with nothing but memories of country music and unconventionally timed beer runs. It scares the shit out of me.
I guess the worst part of loving someone unconditionally for me is in knowing that the other person always has conditions. I find I’m so scared I will crash and burn that I never really fly. I can’t enjoy something I am in constant fear of losing. These are the insecurities placed upon the extremely large shoulders of The Redneck. For this I feel sorry. I only wish he could understand.

We operate on a level that not many ever get to realize. It is a level based 90% on a never-ending stream of laughter and trash talk (so, no MD, but I got the most important qualification), and when that laughter subsides I get nervous that I will be exposed for the gooey-girly mess that I really am.
The need for clarification leads my brain, crammed full of words and explanations I have long used to buffer the world, to spew forth an endless diatribe of crap in order to attempt to process both his perspective and my insecurities. If there is one thing a redneck does not want to do, it’s discuss “feelings.” It is a totally foreign concept. It is like trying to teach a pig to sing. It wastes time, and annoys the pig.

I was treading water in this tank full of “things I wanted to say” and “things I needed to hear” recently. I was feeling totally lost, and unsure about things. I never really know what he is thinking or feeling. He is such an enigma to me that I hate to ask, but desperately want to know that I am still wanted. Still needed. Still have some place in his life that I fit.

We had been spending quite a bit of time at his place. A change of venue after calling my apartment home base for a period of time. Usually our days consist of talk, laughter, bed, waking, and then parting ways for our individual lives. Being that I immediately go home on these mornings, it had never crossed my mind that my oral habits may have been in question. It was what it was. I went home and tended to my dental needs on my own turf.

The Redneck and I were talking, having one of the more serene moments between he and I, when he turned to me recently and said, “Oh, by the way, when I went to the dollar store today I got you a toothbrush and a scrubby thing for the shower, in case you wanted to take one.” There it was. It wasn’t a dozen roses. It wasn’t pathetically sappy verbiage imprinted on over-priced card stock. It wasn’t the eye-to-eye longing glance silver lined with the words “I love you.” It was much more. It was “you have a place in my place.” It spoke more to me than all the words crowded in my head ever could. It said, “I care about you enough to want you to keep your teeth.”

As I brushed my teeth before bed that night I had a thought. Sometimes it seems that in this world so full of words and explanations, the things that really speak to one’s heart are the things that can’t be depicted with vowels and consonants. Sometimes the most life-altering, enlightening, and beautiful moments can occur right over the bathroom sink. Sometimes being loved is no more the simple feeling of minty freshness.

The Clang of a Mid-Western Woman.

An interesting series of events has made me do the necessary investigating and re-activate this blog. Why? I'm not entirely sure. Could it be that the view from "Mt.-Thirty-Something" is nearly over half way complete? Is it the goings on in my day-to-day life? I'm not entirely sure...I just know I was compelled today to re-open the wound, and allow it to fester for the ultimate good of humanity.

I have been spending quite a bit of my free time lately with a gentleman from West Virginia. An admitted "Redneck." (It is actually tattooed on his person, so that I might never forget this fact.) I had never really equated West Virginia with "The South," but apparently those from West Virginia do. I always thought of it as coal mines, and mountains, not so much cotillions and sweet tea. My bad. This must be much in the same way that the entire world equates Indiana with basketball.

So, the other night he and I were sitting and listening to music. Something we spend a decent amount of time doing. I find it interesting that in a society that is dialed in, wired, connected with the G3 network, and cosmically linked with the entire cyber universe, he and I choose to sit and listen to music. (It could be the lack of cable, but I prefer the more esoteric outlook.) Anyway, there we were, listening to the country-rock band Sugarland. Jennifer Nettles has this amazingly powerful voice, and I find her a challenge to emulate, so I listen to her quite often. My friend was waxing philosophic about the sound of a southern woman. How he missed the drawl of the south, and how "nothing sounds sexier." I was obviously a bit perplexed. What was so bad about the sound of my voice? I mean, hadn't people paid to hear it for over a decade? Was that all a farce? Then, in what I can only describe as the single most sarcastic tone I have ever heard, he said, "Yeah...nothing beats the 'clang' of a Mid-Western woman." I sat on it for a second. "The clang of a Mid-Western woman?"

I had never really thought of it in that way. Sure, I grew up scant hours from Chicago, and had probably developed some nasal habits that were not exactly the most relaxing of sounds, but a "clang?" Suddenly every word, every sound, is haunted by the twisting feel of abrasion placed upon the tongue by a nose I have never particularly cared for anyway. I had always been told that Northern Indiana was the model for the "American Accent." This always meant to me "you do not have one." Apparently I have been mislead by "The Powers That Dictate What Is and What Is Not." I have a "clang."

All this talk of the regional sound of humanity got me to thinking about the words I have heard in my life...especially from those whom I cared for the most at the time they were in my life. I can still hear the voices of the high school crushes, but they were from the same time and place as I, and therefore sounded (in my mind) just like me. There was Damian. He was from Phoenix. Not much of an accent there, but he had this laugh that seemed to take on an accent of his own. There was also a hint of Hispania that I would only learn years later was as much a part of the Phoenix vernacular as the Chicago "clang" is to myself. Chuckie. Ah, Chuckie. It is unfortunate for Chuck that since he passed away I have glorified him in ways that are probably over the top, but his voice was so distinct, I shall never hear another like it. It was the way he said the "o" sound, like in "open." It was almost like he lent every "o" an "n" to keep it company on its aural journey. "It's not n'open," he would say with this very strange slight bit of Wisconsin in there...I can only assume from his summers growing up in The Dells. Then there is the current one in my life. Being from West Virginia, there is this obvious southern thing, mixed with a hint of ebonics, and lined with this bass/baritone growl that can make it at times difficult for my ear (which is apparently keenly tuned to the frequency of "Mid-Western Clang") to decipher exactly what the message at the moment may be. It is this warm noise that resonates through him like an earthquake, yet stops short at the point of collapse. The Song of The South, I can only assume. That, or the tonal representation of generations of men that have been made to feel that the only way a man can truly survive is awash in a sea of machismo that can only be achieved when "their woman" is in the kitchen, and they have a cold beer in their over-worked Southern hand. (Apparently my childhood Nickelodeon obsession with watching "The Donna Reed" show has created a breach in the Women's Suffrage role to which I have become accustomed...I guess there is something to be said for being "the woman.")

What is it? Sound? This thing that can link you to a person, place, or situation at the drop of a hat? It can put you back in a place in the past, or with someone long gone, just with a few tones. Tones that are really tiny movements of a miniscule vibrating bone turned into a thing with tangible meaning. What is it that makes some of these sounds "home," and some of them as foreign as walking on the moon? What is it that gives sound the power to be sweet and kind, or tinny and clanging without prior knowledge of the orator of said frequency? Why is a New Yawk accent always going to be pseudo-arrogant and twitchy? What makes the Bah-ston sound so deliciously eastern? Why do the southern girls seem to be able to achieve a level of manipulation few others can touch with the simple twists and turns of some strategically mis-placed vowels? Why does the "clang" of the Mid-Western girl bring to mind images of corn-fields and basketball? I've always liked to think I was sandwiched quite nicely between the "hey yall"s and "there's a nyce myall outsyde of Paramus"s of the rest of this amazing continent. How much value really lies inside the passage that is travelled from our lips to another's ears. In other words; "What messages are we sending that we have no control over whatsoever? And...further more, how do we make those messages our own?"

Later in the night I was in bed attempting to doze off, and began to think about this whole "clang" situation. I was in the middle of rubbing the back of said West Virginia Redneck out of habit to put myself to sleep, and there was one of those inaudible sighs from his body that says "the last of the day has just left me." Spoken without saying a word. No vowels. No consonants. No twang. No clang. No accent. Just a message. At that point I realized; no matter how the message is transmitted...if it's a touch, a sound, a smell, a look, it matters not if sometime there is an extra vowel or nasal expression contained within...as long as the message is "you make me happy..." I think The Clang will suffice just fine. And, should it not, I guess "get back in the kitchen, bitch," will have to run a close second. That is, as long as the kitchen is where my clanging ass really wants to be, anyway...

Well, yall, apparently (for today at least) it is.

SuperBowl-ed Over

Last night was the XLIII SuperBowl. (For those less versed in the calculations of Roman numerals, that is "43.") It was a battle between the Steelers of Pittsburgh, and the Cardinals of Arizona. I am not a huge football fan, as hockey is my sport of choice. I was, however, happy to see that the gods were shining down on me, and there were enough altercations on the field to make the game more interesting in the eyes of a blood-thirsty soul such as myself.

There were several reasons I choose to dedicate a few of my finite hours on this earth to this particular event. One: My good friend owns a bar and is a huge Steelers fan. It was more of an opportunity to share his night than anything. Two: I am in love with Ben Roethlisberger. He is the quarterback for the Steelers. He is "drag-me-in-the-cave-by-my-hair" huge, and makes me want to renounce my morality in a myriad of ways. All in all, it was a night I felt no qualms in taking part in.

As I was watching the game, I found it was not so much the television I was watching, as the goings on around me. I watched a room full of grown men run the gamut of human emotion. There was fear, joy, hate. love, evil, envy...everything...and it came with a six pack of Bud Light.

Accompanied by these men on their emotional journey were there she-halves. These women also wore the jerseys of their favorite players. They had gone the extra feminine mile of adorning their hair with bows in the color of their favorite team. They screamed and yelled, but it was only after the end of the 4th quarter that I really fully grasped the reason they were there. Don't get me wrong. I'm not saying women can't love football. Shit. I live for the Detroit Red Wings. I'm saying there is an emotional agenda with women. There always is.

Football, to this observer, is a sixty-minute homage to all that is the American Male. It is a sweat-soaked, grunting, crashing, hetero-ass-slapping, land acquisition game that is drenched at its happiest moment in faux orange drink. Essentially its a game of, "This land is your land, this land is my land, but I'm gonna take your land...yard by yard." It stands firmly upon what this country was founded on. Taking other people's land. Historically there was much less dancing in joy on that land, but you get the idea.

Men, being men, can not help but feel the joy of those doing the conquering. It is in their DNA. There is a suspense that builds during a close game. Will the home team prevail? Will there be a happy ending. Will the cowboy ride off across the range without fear of a scalping? This is football. It only makes sense that at the end of the journey there be great joy, and a wild celebration. Enter the female agenda.

Last night, as I watched the spectacle both on television and within 20 feet of me I noticed something. These women, as soon as they reacted to a play or incident in the game IMMEDIATELY look at their other half. It was not a look of "should I like this?" It was a look of "what the hell kind of mood will he be in?" They cheering was just as much for their favorite team as it was for the fact that there may be nookie and perhaps even a load of laundry in their near futures.

As soon as the game was over, and the Steelers took the podium to accept their trophy, I again picked up on an interesting phenomena. Within minutes of this event I witnessed no less than FOUR of these couples making out. Was it the joy that a successful season had been marked in history with a 6th ring on the hand of the Steeler Nation? Was it the fact that the tension of sixty people in a room had all lifted at once, and the great cosmic orgasm of the group dynamic had lifted to the cigarette and cuddling aftermath? I'll never know, but it was there, and I saw it, and suddenly I knew: THIS is why women watch football. It's not for the game...it's for the post-game wrap up. Literally.

That having been said, I can only hope that Ben Roethlisberger's post-game wrap of was worthy of his amazing season...but I know I could scream louder than any bitch out there if it came right down to it.

Once again I find myself falling from your graces
Asking for space is
Becoming something akin to your modus operandi
I will take the fall I
Knowingly take it all.
Again.
Because you will always win.
One moment you’re my teammate.
Hand off the ball.
Reciprocate.
A heartbeat later I am public enemy number one.
Where is the fun?
In all life’s lessons
I never learned
The one about the friend,
The time you got burned.
Turned out okay in the end.
Alternate definitions of “mend.”
And I thought there was a refresher course.
Flipping with ease from bad to worse…
When it was someone you trusted,
But instead I just found myself dusted.


So when you’re sitting out there-
Wherever you are,
And something quite near becomes too far…
And you wonder where is that sound
You thought you found?
The sound of someone tried, true, and real.
And suddenly you remember,
There is no deal.
Remember that you asked
That I should pass
And merely nod on the street.
Staring at my feet.
And pretend that I don’t know
What dwells inside your mind.
Believe there is nothing there more to find.
Play along with the charade that I am the pest…
…and fuck all the rest.


But know that I am something
Much more than disposable.
I am a force much like yours
That is not easily opposable.
I am the punch line that only you hear.
I am the thing that maybe you fear?
Because every time I get pushed aside
Eventually I wind up back in the ride.
Like that flu you can’t quite shake.
I know eventually you will break.
And I will get the call,
Or the look, or the sigh,
And I will wonder “Why?”


Why should I gamble
when I know the score?
What is the preamble to
This ego really for?
But I forgive you each and every time.
Even when I’m
Knowing I’m the fool…
…and repeat my mistakes.
My heart aches
For the laughter
That always comes after
And, so, I will silently find my place
Until you once again ask me
To resume taking your space.

Safes

I have recently found myself in an interesting position. I was offered the opportunity to work this summer with the elder generation of Americans as a receptionist in an assisted living facility. At first I was trepidations to say the least. I did not know what to expect. I was fearful that somehow it would rub off…this being “old”. Little did I know I was about to realize that there was much more to anticipate than to fear.

As I can formulate life it goes something like this: You are a kid. You are a teenager. It is at this point that you come into “Who You Really Are”. Whether or not you choose to take this identity and nurture it, or if you decide it is not acceptable in some way is entirely up to the individual and their surroundings. In my theory it is at this moment…somewhere around early adulthood that the essence of Who You Really Are is forever locked into some internal safe inside of our souls. Then you become Who You Are SUPPOSED To Be. Meanwhile the safely locked in an indestructible box are the things you can not deny. It is this safe that protects us. It is within this safe that, no matter how much we try to deny it or silence its cries, Who You Really Are dwells until you reach a stage I call “It Just Doesn’t Matter Any More”. This is, for the majority of human beings, retirement.

The safes hold things much more important that wills, or jewelry. They possess things much more finite and destructible than birth certificates, or social security cards. They possess our very essence. They hold our souls. It is at some point in our “golden years” than the safe is ultimately unlocked. Sometimes it is because there is no longer a need to guard and protect who we really are. We have paid our dues. We have completed the task. Other times, it is because our brains have exceeded the maximum amount of storage available, and things that should be locked in this safe just have to come out. The end of our lives is an interesting journey to say the least. It is like the end of the roller coaster when you are pulling in to the loading dock with the adrenaline still buzzing through your body, and a thin spray of sweat on your face. You get that thought of “Good, God, I can’t believe I made it”, and euphoria ensues.

So, when it is that these safes are opened in the final days, and all the Who You Really Are-s get together in two room units setting mere feet away from each other…and they all are still coming off that buzz from the ride, essentially what has happened is all the thoughts, hopes, feelings, and dreams you locked down in your adolescence come flooding together with those of one hundred other people. The only way to describe this is sad, but true: You finish out your days living as an adolescent in high school. There are popular clicks and nerd clicks. There are tables you can and can not sit with at lunch. There are crushes on the “New Guy”. There is competition to see who can have the baddest-ass Rascal Scooter. There is gossip to make high school look like a convent. There is love. There is SEX (believe me…more than you could ever imagine). There is competition for status. We end our days somehow, (magically), in the place where they were the most intriguing.

The thing that I feared the most was facing the monster. Dementia. I feared it, knowing that I am forgetful now, and my own safe is not all that secure at thirty four. As much as I was fearful, I now think maybe it ain’t so bad either. You get to spend the last of your days in a place where you were the most happy. In your mind you are still there with your first love. Singing Rogers and Hammerstein on stage to a packed house. You are still fifteen and invincible. I know it is hard for the families of these patients to grasp, but for the most part, the elderly that are “confused” are honestly probably in a very happy place.

So in light of the past few weeks of my life, I have come to some conclusions. I have decided that maybe instead of waiting until the end of my days to allow Who I Really Am to breathe in the open air, I may just try to do it now, and if people don’t like it…screw ‘em. I have decided to open my safe, and let myself out to walk among life so I don’t deny the Real Me anything this life has to offer for it. I will not fear the places I am destined to go. If my time comes, and I am perpetually twelve and singing in a summer stock theatre, well, that rocks. Last but not least, when it’s time to go to a place where one hundred plus people are opening their safes for the last hurrah…for the big all-nighter…I am going somewhere where the staff wears tie-dyed shirts, the scooters have V-Twin air cooled engines, and they blast Led Zeppelin over the hall PA all day long. Open up your safe and let Who You Really Are out a little early…it may never be too late to change your stars. Why wait?

The Giant File Cabinet of My History

The human brain is an interesting beast. It internally bares the scares of emotional wounds inflicted over an entire lifetime. It has to sort through the “keepers”, and the “trash”. It is a mental colander filtering the finite seconds of our lives into some tangible story that becomes “Who I Am”. Memories that are to be held in regard (either for their pain, or their pleasure) must be sorted and placed properly into the Giant File Cabinet of My History.

The Giant File Cabinet of My History is an unruly beast. Not some high-gloss IKEA creation, equal in both form and function (that could possibly pressure cook chicken if needed), but a big, grey, industrial-strength, fire-proof mother with a padlock only one person in the entire history of man will ever have the combination to. It is in this file cabinet that all of our hopes and fears, longings for the future and the past, and faith in whatever it is we believe resides. It is the place where all the thoughts we ever dare to think become tangible in a cartoon sense.

This past weekend, unknowingly at best, I was forced to open The Giant File Cabinet of My History and delve into some of the most deeply buried and tender memories I could recall in a file entitled “Innocence”. The Giant Filing Cabinet of My History houses many files by this point in my life. There’s “Love Lost”. “Forgotten Friends”, “Dreams That Had to Die”, just to name a few, but “Innocence” always knocks me back to reality.

I was lucky enough to be invited to the bar mitzvah of a close friend’s son, my “nephew” Julian. This rite of passage took place in the town of my birth, Ft. Wayne, IN. We arrived at the house too late to ride to the synagogue with the rest of the party, so we ended up driving across town to join them. It was on this journey I saw the place where my grandparent’s house once stood…the shopping center where my mother would take me to ride the penny mechanical horse…the tiny yellow house in which I lived as a toddler. It was like The Giant File Cabinet of My History had a very important folder into which I had to be thrust to remember that there was another person I was, and another place I came from.

I began to wonder, “What happened?” When did I incorrectly file away all I thought I could be at that age? When did I push the thin manila folder that held “Expectations of Life and Love” to a place I couldn’t reach? When did my Mom and Dad stop being “Mommy and Daddy”? Where has it all gone? What happened to that little red-headed girl who knew it all? Where had I filed her?

As we set through the service I found myself thinking about my own growth. Myself at age 13. The singing of the Hebrew over my thoughts sounded somehow reminiscent to the blues songs I have become so comfortable singing over the years. The cries of suffering, and the relief that can only come from some higher power. (It is all the same in music.) It was when Julian’s father wept in joy with the man his son was becoming that I felt the tears sting my face. (Every parent should be forced to stand in front of a room full of friends and God and tell them all how much they love their child.) I never had a destiny. I merely had a life. Maybe my cabinet had been filed just the way it was supposed to be…I will only know on the day it is finally locked forever.

Everyone should have a day in their life that can file in The Great File Cabinet of My History under “Progress”. I do not know where the time went that an ice cream cone and a wagon ride were replaced with dirty martinis and stick shift cars. I do not know if I have fulfilled that little girl’s destiny, but I still continue to try. I do not know if there is a file of the day I finally “became a woman” or a file that holds pictures of my parents glowing…ethereally proud of my accomplishments. All I know is that these files, one and all, make up the whole of all that is “Me”. Some of them hurt. Some of them heal. Some of them are questions that will never have the luxury of an answer. The Great File Cabinet of My History is mine. All mine….and it is the only thing you can take with you when you go…Better do your damn best to try to produce the best files you possibly can.

Rock out with your...eh...you get the point...

Summer.

The mere word in itself conjures up a myriad of memories lingering in a haze of Bar-B-Q and Freon that ignite a convective event of cataclysmic proportions. For three months every year (and sometimes four or five if you want to tip your hat to Global Warming), we are allowed to take part in the rites of the Season of the Sun.

People crowd into the streets, anxious to encounter those that have eluded them during the cold hibernation of winter. Men suddenly seem to call in to work more frequently with a bug that can only be cured with a nine-iron. Women peel off as many layers as possible (right down to the bra…you know who you are), and shun societal conventions in a season long art fair that hangs just above the thong line on their lower back.

There are a myriad of moments that can only be defined as “Summer”. Grilling out at any place or time…a favorite of the Midwest, “Corn Hole” (or as I like to call it, “Hole in a Board”)…beer that goes down smoother than water…driving with the windows rolled all the way down, and the radio all the way up…the ice cream truck that plays a never-ending chorus of “Turkey in the Straw”…Sitting on a covered porch during a tornado warning instead of hauling ass toward the basement…all of these moments melt together into one giant tie-dyed T-shirt of awesome that lasts for a finite time, and hosts some kick-ass moments. Of these moments, the Apex of All That Is, The Alpha and the Omega, the Hall and the Oates, has got to be the summer music festival.

The music festival is nothing new. It is as old as time itself. From the moment Og took his stick and bowl out of the cave to the yard in front, there have been summer music festivals. They are not just a chance to go and see music performed, they are a magnet for performers as well. For all musicians know that the best parts of a music festival are not the ones you see on the stage, they are the parts you find on the lawn, in the camping area, in the parking lot, and in line for the port-a-potties. There is a definite vibe that can only occur when thousands of human gather to celebrate the most basic and celebrated form of art we, as a species, can claim…music. As soon as there is a momentary break in the jam of the moment, someone can be heard uttering the all-too-familiar phrase, “I’ve got my guitar in my car…”

Being from Lafayette, it always seemed that to find these moments in the sun, I had to find the festival itself, cram into the car with three other sweaty humans for eight hours, and suffer through some bizarre rite of passage to truly enjoy whatever place it was I was headed to. There was the lead up to the trip itself (“Man…this is gonna be bad ass…”), the event in its own right where you spent most of the time looking for the three people you knew in a crowd of 20,000 people (“Hey…any of you guys seen a dude who’s kind of a regular looking guy and answers to ‘Chris’?”), and the inevitable long-ass drive home wherein someone was hung over, someone was having hook-up regret, and someone else played Radio Nazi (“Just listen to Jerry’s solo, man…”). This is no longer the case. God has given us a gift, and it is the LayFlats Music Festival.

If none of you have been to LayFlats, then SHAME, and your chance for retribution is coming in a mere four months. It is truly the best part of All Things Outdoor Summer Music Festival, and a little bit even more badass. This is why I am compiling my own official list of…

REASONS WHY YOU HAVE NO CHOICE BUT TO ATTEND THIS YEARS LAYFLATS ARTS AND MUSIC FESTIVAL!!!

1. Longer is better!!!

This year the festival has increased to a two-day event. This makes it totally logical to cruise into town on Friday, and stay for day two. If you aren’t from Lafayette, the cool thing about us Lafitians is that we are way too cool for our own good, and surely will loan you not only the shirt off of our backs, but the cushions off of our couches, as well…ESPECIALLY if you drop the phrase, “support live music” into the conversation. I am willing to bet a warm living room floor for your and your fifteen buddies lies only a few feet away.

2. It’s not easy being green, but they’re doing it anyway!!!

The promoters of LayFlats, Travis Easter and Johnny Klemme, are doing their damndest to see that this event doesn’t add to the carbon footprint. They are doing all in their power to keep the site clean, utilize carbon offsets and use products that will not destroy the planet. Last year the clean up was a team effort that was not only efficient, but well-organized enough that the good people at the Amphitheatre are actually giving these guys AN EXTRA DAY! Tell that to the guy in Woodstock, NY who still has a mud pit in his yard. Outdoor festivals should respect the outdoors. Period.

3. Lafayette Brewing Company Beer!!!

Not only does this festival have a beer garden, it has a beer garden full of beer that will knock you on your ass. For those of you out there who consider yourselves, “beer connoisseurs”, yet don’t know the power of LBC beer I offer a challenge. That challenge is to get to the LayFlats Music Festival. Period. This stuff is not only as tasty as the nectar of the gods, but will also leave you with that, “I can totally go talk to this chick/dude” feeling. Magic.

4. MUSIC!!! DUH!!!

LayFlats Music Festival is one of the true remaining outdoor festivals that feature not only nationally touring acts, but many local acts as well. This year LayFlats will feature 62 live acts during the two days of the festival. They have a variety that covers everything from ska, to blues, to swing, and of course, good old fashioned rock and roll. It’s not a jam event. It’s not a thrash event. It’s not a reggae event. It’s a music event. Also, while other events forget the people who keep them afloat, LayFlats truly is a music festival for musicians. They give back to those who give so much to them.

5. Like kids and dogs??? They do to!!!

Last year there were as many kids and pets at this event as there were grown-up people (although I use that term very loosely). There is no problem with bringing anyone, or anything, to LayFlats that you want to spend some QT with. If they like to wiggle their diaper encased butts to music, there’s an extra bonus. Kids under 12 even get in FREE. That’s right. Free. As in, “for nothing”. There are even kids’ games and art and music workshops as well. Who says family values are a thing of the past????

6. More bang for your buck.

Let’s face it; gas is pound-you-in-the-kiester expensive this summer. If you drive to other music festivals, you’re not only going to pay close to $300.00 in gas there and back (if you’re lucky), you’re also out a few hundred in tickets to the event itself. Grab a few of your buddies, get a DD, cram in the Ford Focus, and at $10.00 for a single day ticket (a whopping $15.00 for the 2-day ticket), you can have an ass-kicking time for less money than a night at the bars. LayFlats is better for the environment, better for the wallet, and better for the soul.

7. You like to be the nice guy!!!

Not only are you taking a two day vacation from reality, you are giving someone else a little bit of a vacation, as well. All of the proceeds from LayFlats Arts and Music Festival go toward local charities in Tippecanoe County. Every bite you chew, every band you dig on, and every beer you sip is giving a little of itself to the less fortunate in the area…and everyone knows nice guys/chicks are super hot!!!

8. There’s more than corn in Indiana.

There is art, and great food, and local vendors, and music of all styles, and beer, and people you haven’t seen in years, and smiling faces, and an awesome vibe! Food at LayFlats is the bizz-omb with everything from Cajun BBQ, grill and roasted sweet corn to vegan. If you leave LayFlats hungry, it’s a damned shame.

9. Volunteering is good for your karma!!!

For those that not only want to attend the most clearly awesome music festival near the Wabash, but want to be a part of it, too, remember this…volunteers are sexy. Not only does it make you feel better about the world as a whole, it makes you a part of the whole world. Volunteers are being asked for a 5 hour commitment if they work both days, and a 3 hour commitment if they work for one day only. Yes, admission is free. I also have it on good authority that vols get not only admission AND lunch, but also (drum roll please)…A FREE T-SHIRT!!! That’s right. No jokes. A free T-shirt. If that doesn’t make you want to get on the list to sign up right now then you are a damn fool. Of course, nothing motivates this girl like the feel of a smooth cotton blend against her skin on a September night…or two September nights…take your pick.

10. You could be in on the ground floor of changing the world!!!

How cool would it be in twenty years when you are coming back to LayFlats #21 to tell your kids that “you were here, man…you were here”. It’s almost like the fall of the Berlin Wall, or the Grassy Knoll…only not even close to those things, but, you get the point. Some day when you return to throngs of hundreds of thousands stretched out across the land by the river, you can close your eyes and remember the best outdoor summer festival you ever attended, and how it has only gotten exponentially cooler in the years since. Be a part of history.

There. You have heard my schpeel. I have presented my case. There is no reason or way you can refute the fact that LayFlats Arts and Music Festival is one of the coolest, most progressive, most entertaining ways to get the best bang for your buck you will find in the upcoming summer months. I look forward to seeing you all there. I will be the one in the T-Shirt, drinking 85 from the Lafayette Brewing Company, and generally enjoying the best that summer festivals have to offer.

Hope to see you all there. It could possibly be the best damned outdoor summer music festival in the Midwest…or maybe even the universe. You decide. Get your tickets now. Get your buddies lined up, and get to enjoying your summer. I will look forward to our time in September.

See you there.