So the Internet has this thing called “Caturday,” which is sorta (I think) like a day that cat people gather together to celebrate cats; and worship them. There are probably like, Cat Saints and shit, but I don’t know. I assume it’s a Cult of Caturday, but not entirely sure. Either way, I have four cats and no one has EVER invited me to participate in Caturday Events, which makes me feel like I’m not as special a snowflake as my Mom once told me I was.
There’s also: Wordless Wednesday, which is, from what I can tell, a really easy way to be all, “I posted shit” when really you just googled pictures and slapped ‘em up. (please don’t lob things at me).
You wanted the best? YOU GOT THE BEST.
Caturday + Wordless Wednesday:
GOLLY GEE WILLAKERS! Look at those fucking CATS getting MARRIED! How’d the cats get into those wee costumes? DID THEY HAVE WEDDING SEX?
ARE THESE THE CATS WE WORSHIP FOR CATURDAY?
HAHAHAHAHA! Those fucking meerkats are getting married, motherfucker! HILARIOUS. And it has “kat” in the name, which I assume means that these mereCATS are a part of Caturday! Plus, this is a photo I found on Google, so it’s Wordless Wednesday TOO!
Oh noes! Who let the dogs out? Was that me?
OF COURSE IT WAS, SILLY! Who DOESN’T think that dog weddings are awesome? (answer: people who love Hitler).
Maybe NOW I’ll get invited into the super sekret Caturday Society?
“Do you think Ozzy is alive?” Dawn asked as we made our way to the Black Sabbath stage on Day One of Lollapalooza, trying to distract me from the guy wearing a skin shirt.
“Nah, he’s probably been propped up like the guy in Weekend at Bernies, or shuffling around backstage yelling, ‘SHAARRROOOON.’ I mean, it’s Ozzy, right?” I replied.
“Do you think they’ll be okay to play a full 2 hours? That’s a long time for an old man,” Dawn suggested.
“Shit,” I said. “How old IS he?” I asked.
“2,084,” Dawn said smartly.
“Well, I think staying here to see Black Sabbath one last time is important – yeah, the Black Keys are awesome and all, but let’s be realistic: Ozzy won’t be around for another tour,” Dawn brought up a very good point.
“Yup,” I agreed, neatly avoided the stray beer cans left on the ground, which, I’ll confess – I wanted to pick up and recycle.
We stood; a moment of silence for Ozzy, before finishing our walk to the stage.
Surrounded by metal heads again, I felt right at home.
I even found a boyfriend:
Stand back ladies (and gents), he’s taken. BY ME.
Finally, the Prince of Motherfucking Darkness took the stage:
He looked good … for a dead guy. I noticed then that my feet, well, the flippy-flops I’d carefully selected (read: thrown on in seconds before walking out the door), they’d begun to…hurt. And not in a “oh that’s cute” kind of way: more like in a FUCK MOTHERFUCKER PAY ATTENTION TO ME sorta way. Standing didn’t help, but after watching the chick in front of me vomit onto the lawn only to have some guy then take her spot and PUT HIS HEAD IN HER VOM, I realized that I was better off standing than not.
Vomit – or the threat of sitting in vomit – does that to a girl.
And then, THEN true love began:
Really, I’d like to moan about my blisters, but that guy leaves me speechless.
Because I bet THAT guy has the joy, joy, joy, joy down in his heart. Or is very intoxicated – hard to tell the difference.
I blearily rolled out of bed Friday morning (Lollapalooza Day One), my to-do list a mile-and-a-half long. Turns out that moving, trying to find work, and setting up for an SuperFun Internet garage sale is a metric fuckton of work. But no fear! I made myself my famous “coffee brewed with Redbull” and hoped I didn’t have a heart attack from all the caffeine.
(spoiler alert: I didn’t)
I’d leave that fucker out just to make people who come over VERY uncomfortable.
Or this, which I’m dying to own so I can put it on my pillow every night before I go to sleep:
But, considering I need things like “toilet paper,” and “things to drink out of,” I sorta feel like that’s a pretty um, juvenile thing to do.
About 2:00 (or maybe it was 1 or 4 o’clock, I don’t fucking know), Dawnie came over to find me almost entirely dressed – save for a pair of shoes. We chatted a bit about this and that before embarking on our Journey To Day One Of Lollapalloza. She’d warned me (needlessly, or so I thought) about the heat and the importance of proper footwear as well as explaining that coffee, my lifeblood, is dehydrating, so I should stop drinking it.
I made a second pot and drank it in her honor.
I also decided that a kicky dress would be fine, paired it with some comfy, blinged out flippy-flops and off we went into the wild blue yonder.
Traffic, if you’re not aware, in Chicago blows hot ass because half of the roads are shut down due to construction, and, well, our dumbasses were driving from the ‘burbs inbound at 5PM. You may commence mocking me.
While we were stopped at a stoplight, Dawn practically begins hollering:
“Oh My GOD. That Guy is styling his beard.”
I swiveled my head around as I reached for my iPhone, “No fucking way.”
True to her word, he was, in fact, not JUST styling his beard, he was styling it with a motherfucking comb.
I snapped exactly one picture of the dude before he noticed me.
Back off, ladies. HE’S MINE.
Finally in the city, wristband FIRMLY in place and itching horribly, we were off.
This wristband took bionic hands of doom to snap on – Lollapalloza wasn’t kidding about making sure people didn’t slip off their wristbands and sell them to other people. If only they’d been so vigilant about booting the super drunk(slash)barfing people out.
Alas, I digress.
While I love music and have been to numerous festivals in my lifetime, nothing could’ve prepared me for this. Honestly – nothing.
Wall-to-wall people. People peeing on fences. Lines of porta-potties (not a one, I’m sad to report, had a great name). Food everywhere. Garbage everywhere. I stopped in the middle of the (closed) road to just gape – because holy SHITBALLS, Batman. My initial reactions were as follows:
Gape at the half-dressed people -> Notice that everyone – despite the ridiculous temperatures and 900% humidity – is fucking hammered -> Marvel at the smell of vomit -> Elbow some people who’d pushed into me -> Have sudden urge to crawl somewhere and hide, where no drunk people could excrete bodily fluids on me.
Instead I just kept walking, while cursing my choice in blingy footwear. It’s perfectly comfortable for a short walk, but we’d hauled ass from Dawn’s office to Grant Park, which meant that my feet were complaining loudly. I told them to “suck it up, cupcake” and continued on our merry way, snapping photos and photoboming other people. It really IS the small things in life.
In a lull between bands, we decided to take a walk through the “farmer’s market” which really seemed to be more about calling itself a farmer’s market than selling fresh greens or anything. Well, except for this:
Notice the decided lack of people clamoring to slurp down what appeared to be blended kelp? Wrong crowd, Wheat Grass Shots People. Perhaps they’d have done better in Oak Park.
(that was a jab that two of you – IF I’M LUCKY – understood)
Also: you couldn’t PAY me two bucks to drink that shit.
Unlike the poor Wheat Grass stand (I nearly bought a shot JUST to make the guy feel less bad about his decided lack of customers), this stand was bumping like WOAH:
Now, I have to make a confession (whispers): with the exception of fondue, I’m not really in to cheese. STOP THROWING SHIT AT YOUR MONITOR – it means MORE for YOU! I was deeply saddened by this because – generally speaking – I adore food on a stick.
Anyway, unlike the poor Wheat Grass Shot dude, the grilled cheese on a stick was bumpin’.
Now THIS is where marketing comes into play: had there been a guy IN a suit of cheese, I’d have bought some. Why? BECAUSE DUDE IN CHEESE COSTUME – WHAT’S THERE NOT TO LOVE?
And on the following end of the “farmer’s market,” we found this:
They had a chocolate bacon cream puff, and while I could be a crazy internet person and be all OMFG BACON CREAM PUFF, THIS IS BETTER THAN THE BACON-FLAVORED SALT I PUT IN MY COFFEE THIS MORNING, I’m going to tell you the truth.
I tried the bacon-flavored cream puff and…
(whispers)… It creeped me out.
I know I KNOW, I’m a failure at life AND at loving bacon.
On our way over to see Black Sabbath, we stopped so I could snap a picture of this:
While the name “chubby wieners” is awesome, no doubt, what really struck me was this the guy in this shirt. I thought the dude wearing the Camelback was wearing a shirt. I looked closer and realized that he was not, in fact, wearing a shirt, unless he was wearing a SKIN shirt, which goes to show how truly overwhelmed I was.
“Dawn,” I whispered loudly (dead sober, I should add). “That dude is wearing a skin shirt.”
She looked blankly at me.
“A SHIRT MADE OF MOTHERFUCKING SKIN,” I went on. “See?” I pointed at him.
She stared at me.
“I hope you’re joking,” she said.
“Uh….heh-heh-heh,” I replied.
“Becky,” she said as though I’d grown a second head in a manner of seconds. “THAT GUY IS NOT WEARING A SHIRT.”
“So…wait,” I wanted clarification. “That guy is not, in fact, wearing a skin shirt.” I stated.
“We’d better get you into the shade, dude,” Dawn said, dragging me away from the guy wearing a skin shirt.
“But…” I protested. “SKIN SHIRT.”
I was handily escorted into the shade, where I drank my water bottle and stared at the guy wearing a skin shirt on my phone until Dawn saw me and threatened to take it away.
Which, I can hardly blame her for.
How was YOUR weekend, Pranksters?