I’m thinking that 2012 is gonna go down as the year of the funjury.
(That is a word I just made up to describe injuries that you get from doing fun things. And by “fun things” I don’t mean running.)
Having finally recovered from that camping-induced bout of bug bites or sumac or whatever (<—don’t click on that if you’re eating lunch), I find myself once again on the injured list after a weekend of shenanigans.
But first: I’m not sure if I could have asked for a better weekend.
Things that were excellent about Music Midtown:
- The weather
- The venue (stumbling distance from home! city life for the MFW.)
- The people watching
- The funnel cake
- The music
- The bathroom line
- Um…that’s it.
The party started on Friday afternoon with a striptease from TI. Seriously…he started out fully clothed and over the course of his hourlong set removed a vest, tee shirt, and belt (why?). Not that I was complaining.
I don’t think I’d ever seen live rap or hip-hop before and it was awesome.
Our group had set up right between the two stages so we didn’t even have to pick up and move when The Avett Brothers came on next. The sun was setting, the wine was flowing, and the crowd had chilled out enough that was could lay back on our blankets and still have a line of sight to the stage in the distance. We bought a box of barbecue and a carton of fries. Bliss.
We stuck around for a few songs of the evening’s last act, the Foo Fighters, but ended up heading out early. I love 90s music, but Saturday was going to be a big day. So we folded up our blanket and started the two-mile walk home. I was wearing these super squishy new flip-flops and they felt great on my feet.
(That’s foreshadowing, there.)
Saturday afternoon, I squishy-flip-flopped my way back to the park for round two. We arrived right in the middle of Adam Ant‘s set, which was predictably weird. (He was wearing some bizarre Sgt. Pepper getup that must have been horribly hot. It was in the upper 80s and I was all swamp-assed in my jeans and tank top.)
Next up: LUDA! The crowd swelled and seemed to double in size. There was no more lazy lounging on the blanket. We were up on our feet and packed in shoulder to shoulder for the rest of the day.
Ludacris was fun, but if we’re comparing the festival’s two hometown rappers, TI gets the win. Ludacris seemed a little rushed (which makes sense, I suppose, trying to cram a ton of must-do hits into an hour set) and kept stopping to ask the crowd if we were LUDA FANS (um, obviously…we are standing in a hot, dirty field waving our arms around like idiots and screaming).
Then Neon Trees played and were kinda forgettable (I don’t mind them, but they sound the same live as on the radio, which was a little boring) and then Florence and the Machine, whose set I mostly missed because I was waiting in a 30-minute bathroom line, but people seemed to dig them.
After picking up a funnel cake for fuel, I headed back out just in time for Girl Talk, which was unequivocally the most fun hour of the entire weekend.
I don’t even care that it’s not “real” live music or whatever. I’m not a music snob. I like to dance. And I bounced around like a little jumping bean for every second that Girl Talk played. It was a blast.
We stuck around for a few Pearl Jam songs, but honestly, we were all exhausted and as hard as I crushed on Eddie Vedder when I was in middle school, beating the end-of-the-night gate rush was, again, more appealing than staying.
So that was my super-awesome-fun weekend.
And…I woke up on Sunday morning with shin splints.
SHIN SPINTS. From walking, standing, jumping, dancing, whatever for hours upon hours in those stupid squishy sandals.
I haven’t had shin splits since my freshman year of high school cross country, but I remember exactly what they feel like. And, if I’m remembering correctly, there is not a whole lot you can do but rest, RICE, and wait them out. Ugh.
You’ll find me in the pool and the weight room this week, I guess.
Being funjured sucks…but at least I had a damn good weekend.