I ran into some festy friends at the hospital who had just had a new born baby born and I was like “Whaaa? You guys got a baby? That shit is a lot of responsibility you know that right? You know you’re gonna be taking care of that kid for a long ass time?”

They humbly responded and were like “yes.” They appreciated that I acknowledged and marveled at their child, but I wasn’t exactly saying a congratulations.

I was like, “Glad you like your baby, but summer’s coming up and there’s mad festivals to attend. We always travel the road and the circuit together, we have been for years. So what’s up? You gonna keep that kid in the tent, or leave it at home with a babysitter?”

They said “No festivals for us this year” and I don’t know how they could even say that. We’re supposed to be fam. Summer is what we live for. It’s the only time we all really see each other or talk. What about all the Molly we’ve done together, or the matching bracelets we made? Are we still fam?

I got flashed a couple summer bracelets and was told “We’re still fam, we’ll always be fam. Those moments are something we’ll never forget.”

And honestly, the forgetting part isn’t the problem. I can hardly remember large chunks of my summers, or even my life for that matter. What I care about is raving all night until the sun comes up with close ones. What I care about is us laughing and bonding through weirdness. What I care about and look forward to the most are the “Survivor’s Breakfasts,” where those of us who didn’t pass out or fall asleep during the night share a celebratory meal together in what is, unquestionably, an epic marathon of bizarre behavior and madness.

And what I heard….. “How can we forget about the blueberry pancakes?”


We’ve always said there’s only two seasons: festival season, and the remaining bullshit season. It seems as though with the birth of this baby, festival season will here on out contain some bullshit as well. That’s it. It’s over! Nothing good lasts forever!

I couldn’t help but audibly sigh and say “Kids suck” under my breath. Seeing two of my favorite festy pals do something like this? It honestly felt like a stab in the back.


“Next summer the baby will be a year old…”

“And of course we’ll take him on the road with us. He’ll be ready then!”

I needed a moment to think.

And more time.

Maybe I am the one giving up on the fam here? Maybe my response has been, well, a bit selfish? And this baby could be a prodigy baby, you know? Growing up at the festivals and in the right environment, it’ll likely develop extraordinary skills and rhythm, and could easily become like, really really good at the bongos or something. He’ll have the headstart that I never had—that I wish I had.

I needed many more minutes to think…

But eventually…

“It’s a boy!?! Congratulations!”

We sat and began talking excitedly about how cool the kid is gonna grow up to be, and how we’ll all help raise him and give him water and teach him how to glowstick.

And like that, it felt like fam was back together all over again. This baby is only a minor setback. This upcoming summer might be a bit less exciting, but things will bounce back and be better than ever. The fam will have a new member next year.

It was then that a nurse came in in a panic and escorted me back to my room. She was saying there was an alert that I went missing. But really, I found what I needed to.

End of the World Foolery

Let’s party like it’s 1999. Let’s create a stockpile of canned goods and water and then hide in the basement like we’ve got Y2K to endure.

We can bolt lock the door and arm ourselves.

We can eat canned olives and rehydrate some dehydrated milk.

We can pray to the muffled sounds of fireworks and mislead ourselves into believing it’s the sounds of war and absolute, apocalyptic destruction.

We can resurface 12 weeks later and tell the neighbors that we were “on vacation” for the past few months.

We can keep it a secret to ourselves and never tell the embarrassing truth of what we really did.

Wanna party?

Party Room

Phantom Rider

It’s never safe to make assumptions — unless you’re driving around in the dark without headlights on. I tell myself that what I hit was either a coyote or a giant raccoon; I find these assumptions to be comforting.

Or maybe that 5’5″ tall figure was actually a mannequin that someone haphazardly left in the middle of the road? I’ll probably never know for sure.

I know when I’ve hit a guardrail because I can see the sparks, but other than that, I almost never see anything at all.

But it’s OK.

I don’t get the paper or ever watch the news.

And I really don’t care about the damage that I’m doing to my car either.

The only thing I care about is…

The thrill I get from driving around without headlights on.

I am the Phantom Rider.