All You Need is BASS

Glow Stick Chronicles: The Piss Slip ‘n’ Slide


In order to protect the not so innocent, this story takes place at a festival that shall not be named. Due to its strict no drinking policy, it may be frowned upon by some to learn of my backpack beer adventures – but I must admit drinking beers is something that’s always gone hand in hand with my festival journeys, and has definitely been a factor in some of the good times (and bad times) that have resulted.


This time was no different. A prime example of good times rapidly turning bad. Not as severe as a flash flood inflicting destruction on an entire life, but definitely worse than dropping your toast butter side down on the kitchen floor before your first cup of coffee.

The year was 2008, and it was an especially rowdy year at the festival that shall remain unnamed. Everything had clicked together to form the perfect party. Good friends, awesome music, and best of all it was the first year we had a VIP area at the stage … a stage that was my home away from my tent. Elevated above the back of the stage, the VIP area was a bird’s eye view to the happenings at front of house … a perfect viewpoint for those not wanting to be crushed amidst the rowdies in front of the bass bins.


Now rewind to a few months earlier. A couple months before the festival I’d been diagnosed with a vocal chord problem, in which I had formed callouses on my vocal chords from years of abuse (read: going to parties and yelling over music coupled with being a generally loud and robust person.) I was under strict orders from a vocal therapist to drink one glass of water for each alcoholic beverage consumed. Naturally, my festival backpack was a disaster of half crushed water bottles and spent beer cans. Every pocket of the bag was littered with soggy trash. Even worse, a constant stream of urine trying to escape my body limited my activities.

Every time I’d return from the port-o-potties, I’d already have to make the trek back again. Besides the obvious issues of missing the whole party and losing my spot on the rail of the VIP area with each trip, there was the added terror of the port-o-potties themselves. With each hour that passed, the facilities became more and more terrible. If you’ve ever visited a festival bathroom at night, I don’t need to go into detail of the kinds of evil lurking there. I needed a solution, and I needed one fast.

The obvious choice was to stop the flow of liquids into my body. Unfortunately that didn’t stop the liquid flowing out. I was overloaded. I needed to do something else.

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