My Indian Name is Runs with Beer and Other Happenings at the River Roots Festival

Thank you man in the Poopy's shirt. This Bud's for you.

Frontal shot of the best dressed lady at River Roots.

Action shot of the best dressed lady at River Roots. That cane is priceless.

The real reason to attend the River Roots Festival is mostly for the ribs. Yes, there was some Blue Öyster Cult, but the pungent aroma of pork is what brought me and my lovely little S to this celebration of all things redneck. S is a real treat. She very actively represented the Jewish population today at the rib fest. As the Goy to her Jew, I continually wonder if she is going to get kicked out of the club for such unorthodox eating habits.
Goy (Hebrew: גוי‎, regular plural goyim גוים or גויים) is a Hebrew word which means "nation".[1] Historically and up to modern times it is a synonym for Gentile or non-Jew.

On to other topics. So we wait in line longer than it takes to down our respective Bud Light and Coors Light cans. I was already suspicious of the vendors since I was accosted for drinking the Silver Bullet in lieu of their other piss light offerings. Bah. The ribs were good. The scenery was better. To our delight, a fantastically clad couple sat down next to us and provided us with our gold standard which to judge everyone else for the evening. Her outfit consisted of something akin to a woman lost on her way to a Renaissance festival who happened to have been previously kicked out of Middle Earth. A crimson, Friar Tuck-esque cap with hood, red socks, white sneakers, some sort of dangling bell contraption hanging from what looked like Rosary beads and a drinking gourd. Underneath was a pink flowing skirt and grandma’s Hawaiian shirt courtesy of last year’s garage sale, a bun in her hair, and the pièce de résistance, a large walking stick. She was accompanied by a man, maybe a husband, maybe another Wiccan, who resembled a roadie for .38 Special. Good times.

S appeared hesitant at first, but I needed proof of something so marvelous. Eventually she caved into me taking her “picture” so that I may crop the awesomeness from it for your viewing pleasure. Enjoy.

After capturing the flag, we decided to drink a few more beers and play count the camo, which is a game that centers around us counting how many people are wearing camouflage in a given area and time span. Camo count at last call was 35 in about a forty-five minute window. Not bad. There was a run of camo men’s shorts that worried me to the point of where I may have to investigate if Sears was running a sale or something. Seriously, the animals are dead here and covered in BBQ sauce, which is awesome. Can’t you just put on your “My Indian Name is Runs with Beer” t-shirt and go with it.

Deep special thought by Janelle Greenwood: I believe that you are what you eat and in this case, you may call me Pig. Oink.

I Ought to Sue for Libel…

I have an alter-ego. She is not cool, she is not pretty, she isn’t even the star of the crappy romance novel she’s featured in. I simply cannot have this. Let us look at some of the written facts – “Janelle Greenwood was young, even younger than Allison – midtwenties at most. She wasn’t plain, but she wasn’t beautiful – Lincoln’s favorite type. She had chin-length brown hair, a wide honest face with almost no makeup, a snub nose and ears that stuck out just a bit.” First of all, if I were to date someone, it wouldn’t be Mr. Marfan Syndrome. Second, my face is less than honest and well covered in MAC cosmetics (I practically kept them out of the red last year), and my ears are just fine thank you. Well Kathleen O’Brien, author of Everything But the Baby, it’s on like Donkey Kong. I will be contacting you via your publisher very soon. If I am going to have an alter-ego out there, she better damn well be something along the lines of Jem because like her I am truly truly truly outrageous and I believe that music, drama, adventure, and fashion can save the world. Now all I need is Synergy and the Holograms and I’m good to go.

Five Dollars and a Dream

Several friends have been bugging me for awhile to start a blog to share in writing my misadventures and misgivings. Good dear Lord, help us all.

Today’s inaugural blog features the Jumer’s Casino and Hotel located in fabulous Rock Island, IL. On my way home from work each day I drive by this wonderful establishment and often think to myself that I am so fortunate for this den of sin to be within two minutes of my home. My friend S and I ventured here several times previous, but I decided to brave up and take this one on my own in a spontaneous bit I call “Five dollars and a dream.”

Let this be said that I was listening to Beck’s “Loser” as I drove up to the circular neon habitat and waltzed by some pathetic looking usuals outside loitering/aka/taking up space. This musical sign should have clued me in for what was about to happen. I walk up, present my ID, which the guy has to smear with his thumb several times to get it to scan or whatever casinos do to ensure that I am not cheating the system via a fake ID. What a load. When I was in Vegas, I happen to be with my friend’s brother who gambled and drank every night away without getting carding….EVER. Guess Jumer’s really needs to monitor these things, whereas nobody gives a shit in Nevada.

I am in the casino now, with my five dollars and I scope the place for the best slot, like that exists. I find a cozy 25₵ machine and blow 2 bucks in what felt like 2 seconds. I am dumb. I then find a penny slot and waste away my last 3 bucks that I have on my ticket stub, only to be sandwiched in by the Axe twins within a two minute gap. Yuck. The patheticism is palpable this evening and I am right smack in the middle of it, marinating. I suddenly realize that my adventure was not going to end up with me ahead financially, as it never does, so I walk out and get back in my car. Last thoughts….why are the neon lights so dazzling? Why did I just throw away five dollars? Why does cheese normally smell good, but if it’s associated with my car, it smells bad?