August 31, 2023
Nonfiction by Darby Jones
Beaker Goes to BonnarooOne of my favorite adventures began with an unexpected call from a guy I had only met once at a show. Cool dude named Adam, but I sorta forgot about him until several months later, when he called me up out of the blue to ask for a ride to Bonnaroo. I was sorta like, "Wait, who are you? Oh right. The show. Yeah, it was kinda fuzzy." Come to find out, he had just bought a ticket to the festival, but didn't have a car, so he was hyping the pity party pretty hard. "I could Uber, but that'll cost me a fortune."
Now I wasn't planning to go to Bonnaroo that summer, or in two hours as Adam suggested, but Fate must have a sense of humor, because earlier in the day, my colleagues threw a muppet-themed “Fun Friday,” so I went to work sporting a white lab coat, googly-eye glasses, a big orange clown nose, orange face, and bright orange hair. I was Beaker baby!
That's what my sister Amber called me when I was little because I had a high squeaky voice. So when Adam asked if I was going to Bonnaroo, what else could I say, but “MEEP MEEP!”
For those of you who don’t speak Beakonese, that translates to “HELL YEAH!”
Even Mrs. Beaker agreed that the universe had spoken, that it was too good to pass up. So it was decided. I threw my toothbrush, a small spray bottle and some scotch tape into my lab coat and took off.
It was a short trip – 'bout an hour drive. Pretty uneventful. Cops were all over the place, so we were mostly law-abiding. We rolled into Manchester around eight. I couldn’t go to the gate because I didn’t have a ticket, so we turned into a driveway next to the campground. As we pulled up, there was an older couple – retired maybe – sitting on the porch in rocking chairs, enjoying the sunset, chewing the fat. They looked like nice country folk. Adam waved hello as I rolled down the window and greeted the neighbors. “Meep Meep!”
It took a second, but the old feller squinted hard, then cracked his head back and exploded. He wheezed hard as he exhaled; a laugh that sounded as funny as my stupid face looked.
After we all wiped our tears, Adam jumped in. “What my friend was trying to say, is that we were hoping you'd let us park here for a few days.” The old man didn’t hesitate. “Absolutely! Right over there would be fine.” The neighbors were charging 30 bucks per day, but when I asked if we could pony up for parking, the man wouldn't have it. "Oh stop it. What good is your muppet money," he said with a wink.
At that point, we split up. Adam headed for the entrance, and Beaker for the "backdoor." Festival staff were everywhere, driving by in golf carts, looking for idiots like me. The bright white lab coat and orange hair didn’t make for the greatest camo, so I was ducking for cover, dashing from ditch to ditch, avoiding flashlight beams.
Thankfully, there was a farm up ahead where I took refuge. Trekked through a couple fields, before entering a wooded area with big evergreens blocking out the Bonnaroo lights. Suddenly, I heard a loud “RRRRIBIT!!!” which stopped me dead in my tracks.
“Hmm … Bull Frogs usually live by the water.” At that moment, my eyes adjusted to the night and I realized that my next step would have landed my ass off a small ledge and into a slimy pond. If it wasn’t for my little guardian, I would have sludged back to the car and drove home in shame.
It was a good omen, one of the many voices of the gods I heard that night. “RRRRRIBIT!” was reason enough to push forward. So I walked around the pond, through the woods, right into the campground. There wasn’t even a fence between the farm and the border of Bonnaroo. I was in.
After a few phone calls, I got a hold of some friends. They had a giant lifesize Batman figure on top of their camper, so it was easy to find. These guys were die-hard fans — a part of the InfoRoo community, which is the festival’s forum where people discuss pro tips, after parties and look for ... how do I put it?... fun ways to feel smarter and better looking than they really are.
My friends were all flipping out over me showing up on a whim … as Beaker! We hung out for a bit, but I was eager to see Ice Cube. He was about to go on, and there was still the business of breaking into the festival grounds, so I said goodbye. Onwards and upwards I went.
The festival wall was tall and purposefully unclimbable, so I walked around the perimeter, looking for ideas. Then I saw her — yet another friend sitting in the perfect spot. But the lowest limb was about 12 feet high. So I turned sideways and shimmied up between the fortress wall and the old oak, until I could wrap my hands around a branch and lift myself up. From there, it was an easy climb over the fence where I dropped down.
When I got to my feet and looked up, there were giant excavators and bulldozers everywhere. “MEEP!!!”
"Hey! Watch your mouth," said one of the bulldozers. Clearly someone from InfoRoo spiked the punch. But who? It was probably Batman. He doesn't have any super powers. Pretty sure he's taking performance enhancers. No wonder he thinks he can fly.
Anyways, things started to get weird. After weaving around a maze of machinery, I came to another fence with a long line of campers on the other side. Thankfully, it was chain linked, so I could easily climb up and over. But after I got about 5 feet up, the whole fence caved forward, sending me headfirst into the RV on the other side. “BAM!!!” If it wasn’t for the loud music blasting inside, I’m sure people would have spilled out to see what happened.
So there I was, teetering atop one wibbly wobbly fence, leaning against an RV, trying not to get my nuts sliced off, grasping around in the dark for something to regain balance. Luckily, there was an air conditioner jutting out which provided enough leverage to hoist myself off the fence.
As I walked around the camper, across the field, I saw someone playing on stage. I was so excited that I broke character and shouted “Wahooooo!” which quickly faded as my near-vision kicked in and I realized just how many people were staring at me. I had just walked into the middle of a raging party. I'm talking about an open bar, everybody dressed to the nines, but a little too fancy for the occasion. One super tall dude with jet black hair looked familiar to me. “Is that Jack White?" I thought. "It can't be."
“Oooohhh sh!t!” It dawned on me at that moment, that I had just stumbled into Bonnaroo’s “green room,” where all the artists playing that day were getting drunk and schmoozing with other celebrities. I knew it looked way too posh. There were far too many feather boas concentrated in one place for these to be normal people. And then there was Beaker, looking about as dazed and confused as he would on the show after blowing up the lab. I was back in character.
White was looking at me like a circus monkey that needed to get on with the act, like an Oompa Loompa that needed to sing his little jig, then disappear through a hidden door. I was seeing all kinds of things, but I could not find the door – no crack in space and time through which to escape. It was starting to get awkward for the people in feather boas. I was either paid entertainment or a crazy person.
Suddenly, a black figure ran up. “Sir” the man inquired, which was pretty gratuitous considering who I was. “Can I please see your wristband?” If I had rolled up my sleeve, it would have been over, so I politely replied, “No thank you. I’m good.” The guy looked perplexed. He didn’t expect that one. “Stay here. I’m getting my supervisor.”
In a last ditch effort, I put my hand on the gentleman’s shoulder, leaned in close, and looked directly into his eyes. In a low voice, I suggested, “Just let me go back to where I came from.” To my surprise, as if hypnotized, he soothingly repeated, “Just go back to where you came from.” I totally Obi-Wan-Kenobi’d the man in black. I was a golden god … or copper-faced muppet on acid. Same difference. The two are virtually indistinguishable.
So I turned and disappeared whence I came. Only I wasn’t about to climb the wibbly wobbly fence, so I skirted along the line of campers, stopping occasionally to listen to the music inside. I recognized The Avett Brothers song earlier as I crashed into the camper, but upon further examination, it *was* The Avett Brothers. They were rehearsing.
Finally, I found the exit to the VIP lounge, but it was way out in the open, so I had to beeline it. As I passed through the gate, I put my hand on the bouncer’s shoulder and said, "I'll be back,” reassuringly, pointing to his eyes, then to mine as I gave the googly eye glasses a little jiggle. He inaudibly mouthed "WTF," wondering how the ghost of Carrot Top had made it past him earlier. I never returned, but I figured if I was going to get kicked out, that would be a fun place to do it.
I must have been the whitest orange person pounding my fist to 90’s Gangsta Rap. It was surreal. Thirty thousand protesters shouting "F@#$ the Police" in unison. No one stopped to frisk us. Nobody stopped to ask for my wristband. The lab coat covered the spot where it should have been.
The rest of the night was wild, a blur, like an impressionist landscape painted with fluorescent watercolors. My canvas was alive – every person enveloped in a warm glow. I don't remember all the details, but the feelings are ingrained into my subconscious. The freedom to live large in your own little way is a legacy that I hope to pass on.
The next day, I woke up on a blow up couch, staring at the sky. Batman reassured me that I had safely made it home to the InfoRoo tent. After breakfast and lots of laughter, I took my leave and headed to the campground exit. Sure enough, someone forgot to wear sunscreen and was already burnt out. So I waved the car over and asked nicely, "Hey, mind giving me your wristband if you're not coming back?" The guy said, “Sure.” He let me cut the wristband off his arm and shook his head. “I’m just glad someone can use it." We were kin. Me from the orange, and he from the red-faced clan.
The scotch tape in my lab coat came in handy as I put the band back together. This wasn't my first rodeo. During my college years, when I was broke, I had perfected the art of sneaking into Bonnaroo. One time, I literally walked backwards through the exit, a giant arch with lots of people passing through. Every time a staff member looked at me, I started walking forward like I was walking with the crowd. As soon as they looked away, I continued to walk backwards until I was in. Got ten bucks for winning that bet.
That was the same year that the lead singer of GWAR singled me out in the audience with his giant alien penis cannon. The crowd had opened up a large circle for me to swirl my Tree of Life tapestry. As I flew by, my cape created a powerful fanning effect that cooled the crowd. Becoming a breeze 101. We’ll come back to that.
So when the singer for GWAR saw me prancing around out in the open, he turned the cannon and blasted me with a steady stream of alien penis blood. I mean, it was dark red, so that's what I'm going with. I'd hate to think I was getting peed on.
Meanwhile, the circle that opened up for me was expanding, to the point that I remember seeing the mosh pit come into view at one end. Shortly after this realization (or warning) out of nowhere, someone ran up from behind and spearheaded me in the back, tackling me to the ground. It should have hurt, but the adrenaline was masking the pain.
Clearly, someone thought I was having too much fun and wanted to steal the show. I was slow getting up. People were closing in to fill the space. My circle was coming to an end! The idea of a circle ending doesn't even sound possible. The rat bastard! Then I turned around and there was a bro twice my size, staring down at me. He looked more like a bull at the time, but not the nice Ferdinand type. He was not a flower sniffer. No, he looked mean.
I wanted to be mad, but I didn’t really have a choice. I knew the only way to beat Muscles was in a meeting of the minds. So I pretended to be a Spanish matador and moved gracefully around as I twirled my cape, taunting the beast to join me in a dance of death. Surprisingly, he caught on and stuck both hands above his forehead, making horns with his fingers. Dude even started kicking his "hooves" back, signaling that he was about to charge. “Let’s dance b!tch!"
So we did this whole routine, where he chased me down and ran through my cape, all the while a giant arch of alien penis blood was raining down upon us. It was metal AF. The circle opened up, but now people had their phones out taking videos. I'm pretty sure GWAR kept the song going just for fun, but finally I heard the last refrain and knew the song was coming to an end. This was it. As the bull passed under my cape, this time, my foot was strategically placed on the other side, out of sight. As the beast ran through, ducking low to the ground, he tripped and fell forward, only there wasn't enough time to get his hands down off his head, so thankfully his face was there to soften the blow. "Splat!" … right into a puddle of blood. The crowd gasped.
The bull got up on all fours, face completely caked in muddy alien penis blood. "Sh!t!" I hadn't planned for anything past revenge. I thought for sure I was about to be destroyed. I wanted to laugh but I was too busy dribbling in my pants. Dude jumped to his feet then lurched forward, grabbing my hand. It was completely limp, because I wasn't expecting what came next. With a firm grasp, he simply wiggled my arm. Sweet Jebus. It was just a friendly handshake – his way of saying, “We're even."
I was flabbergasted. The gentlebeast then pulled me in and gave me two pats on the back; a half bro hug, as if to say, "Well played." I saw a subtle smile behind his mud mask before he disappeared into the pit to batter someone else's brains. It was a Bonnaroo miracle.
After the show, I had groupies who followed me around from one party to the next. I also had a bone bruise on my spine that stuck with me for about 5 months. One thing's for sure, I was not built for the pit, but I do like to be front and center.
Which brings us to my last trick. If you want to rock out next to the band, without having to camp out by the stage for hours, just bring a spray bottle, fill it with water and ice, then spray your way to the front. Moses would have been proud, for a mere muppet, Beaker, parted a great sea … of sweaty men and glistening women. Only, this was no miracle. It was just homeostasis. Hot hippies + cool water = equilibrium.
One lady signaled for more with her hands and revealed a couple other places that needed squirting. She was super hot, so I sprayed her whole body in ice water. She clearly needed extra cooling. I didn't mind the detour (for science of course). There was lots of homeostasis happening as I parted the Partying Sea.
They practically rolled out the red carpet as I misted the crowd on my way through. I wasn’t cutting; it was an unspoken understanding. They moaned in ecstasy as I breezed by. I thanked them with a nod of the head, which shook my googly eyes and made them giggle from the gut.
This completes Becoming a Breeze 101 for today. Your homework: Take a picture of the band, UP CLOSE, no zooming. If it's pixelated you get an F.
Go to the front. This is where you'll find my people. We're a little crazy looking, or looking for fun rather – lovers of loud music that jiggles your innards. You'll find us swaying together in solidarity. When the sound is especially exhilarating, you might catch us acknowledging the glory by looking directly at each other … eye to googly eye.