Beaker Crashes Bonnaroo

One of my favorite adventures began with an unexpected call from a guy who I had met a few months back.

“Wait, who are you? Adam? […] Oh right. The show. Yeah, it was kinda fuzzy.” Come to find out, he had just bought a ticket to Bonnaroo but didn’t have a car.

Fun Friday

I wasn’t planning to go to Bonnaroo this summer, let alone in two hours as Adam suggested, but Fate must have a sense of humor, because my colleagues threw a Muppet-themed “Fun Friday” that very day. I had gone to work sporting a white lab coat, googly-eye glasses, a big orange clown nose, orange face paint, and bright orange hair.

Not only did Adam correctly peg me for a festivalgoer, he also happened to catch me on a day when Jim Henson would have rolled in his grave if he found out that Beaker turned down Bonnaroo.

Quick rewind: When we were kids, my sisters, Amber and Willow, used to tease me because I had a high squeaky voice. “Alright, Beaker! We hear you … shut up!” 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, so I stuffed a few essentials into my oversized lab coat pockets (small spray bottle, Scotch tape, a pocket knife) and took off.

It was about an hour drive before we rolled into Manchester. I couldn’t go to the main gate because I didn’t have a ticket, so we turned into a driveway nearby. As we pulled up, an older couple — retired maybe — greeted us from their rocking chairs on the porch where they were enjoying the sunset. They looked like nice country folks. Adam waved hello as I rolled down my window and greeted the neighbors.

“Meep Meep!”

It took a second, but the old feller squinted hard, then rocked 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 regained composure, Adam jumped in. “What my friend was trying to say, is that we’re looking for a place to park 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, the man wouldn’t have it. “Oh stop. What good is your Muppet money?”

Bright Orange Camouflage

At that point, we split up. Adam headed for the entrance, and Beaker for the back door. Festival staff were everywhere, driving around in golf carts, on patrol 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. I trekked through a couple of fields before entering a wooded area with big evergreens blocking out the Bonnaroo lights. Suddenly, a loud “RRRRIBIT!!!” stopped me dead in my tracks.

“Hmm … bullfrogs usually live by water.” At that moment, my eyes adjusted to the night and I realized that my next step would have landed my ass off a ledge into a slimy pond. I would have sludged back to the car and driven home in shame if it had not been for my little green guardian.

It was a good omen. So I walked around the pond, through the woods, right into the campground I’d been aiming for.

“Aces.”

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, part of the InfoRoo community, the festival’s online forum where people discuss pro tips, afterparties, and where to find … 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.

The festival wall was too tall to climb, so I took off and walked around the perimeter looking for ideas. Then I saw her, yet another friend, growing in the perfect spot. But her lowest limb was about 12 feet off the ground. So I turned sideways and shimmied up between the fortress wall and the trunk of the old oak, until I could wrap my hands around a branch and hoist myself up. From there, it was an easy climb over the fence where I dropped down.

Once on my feet, I saw giant excavators and bulldozers everywhere.

Beaker: “MEEP!!!”
Bulldozer: “Hey! Watch your mouth.”
Beaker: “Uh-oh!”

Someone from InfoRoo must have spiked the punch. It was probably Batman. He doesn’t have any real superpowers. Probably came to Bonnaroo to score some performance enhancers. No wonder he thinks he can fly.

Jack White’s Green Room

After weaving around a maze of machinery, I came to another fence with a long line of campers on the other side. It was chain linked, so I could easily climb up and over. Or so I thought. About five feet up, the whole thing caved forward into the side of an RV. If not for the music blasting inside, I’m sure the occupants would have spilled out to see what the bump was about.

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 a way to regain balance. Luckily, an air conditioner jutting out provided enough leverage to lift myself up and over the fence.

Now I was in. Across the field, I saw someone playing onstage. I was so excited that I broke character and shouted “Wahooooo!” But my elation quickly faded as my near-vision kicked in and I realized just how many people were staring at me. I wasn’t anywhere near the stage but had barged into the middle of a raging party. Open bar, everybody dressed to the nines … a little too fancy for the occasion. One super-tall dude with jet black hair looked familiar.

“Is that Jack White?” I thought. “It can’t be. OH SHIT!”

I had just stumbled into Bonnaroo’s open-air Green Room where all the artists were getting drunk and schmoozing with celebrity guests. I knew the campground looked entirely 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 as dazed and confused as he would on The Muppet Show after blowing up the lab.

White was looking at me like I was a circus monkey that needed to get on with the act, like an Oompa Loompa who needed to sing his little jig, then disappear through a hidden door.

He had my sympathy. I was seeing all kinds of strange and colorful things myself but could not find any crack in space or time through which to escape. My presence was starting to get awkward for the people in feather boas. I was either paid entertainment or a crazy person.

Suddenly, a figure in black appeared. “Sir?” the man inquired (which I thought was rather gratuitous, considering who I was), “Can I please see your wristband?” Rolling up my sleeve was clearly not an option, so I decided to reciprocate with politeness: “No, thank you. I’m good.” The guy 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. “Just let me go back to where I came from,” I suggested persuasively, in a low soothing tone. To my surprise, he obligingly 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. The two are virtually indistinguishable.

Armed with this knowledge, I turned and disappeared whence I came. Only I wasn’t about to climb the wibbly-wobbly fence again, so I skirted along the line of campers, stopping occasionally to listen to the music inside. I had recognized an Avett Brothers song earlier when I crashed into the camper, but realized now that it was the Avett Brothers. They were rehearsing.

Finally, I found the exit to the VIP camp which connected to the main festival grounds. As I beelined through, I put my hand on the bouncer’s arm and said, “I’ll be back,” reassuringly, pointing to his eyes and then to mine as I gave the googly eye glasses a little jiggle. He inaudibly mouthed “What the fuck?”

I never returned, but I wanted him to remember me so I could get back in. Like right before the festival ended, it would have been a fun place to get kicked out … for real.

I must have been the whitest orange person pounding my fist to ’90s gangsta rap. It was totally surreal.

Thirty thousand protesters shouting, in unison, “Fuck tha police!” No one demanded to frisk me. Nobody asked for my wristband either; 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, with 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 up at Batman. He gave me a wink and reassured me that I had made it home safely to the InfoRoo tent. After breakfast and lots of laughter, I took my leave and headed to the campground exit to look for wristbands.

Sure enough, someone forgot to wear sunscreen the day before and was burnt out. The car was fully packed and the driver did not look happy.

I waved him over and asked nicely, “Hey, mind giving me your wristband if you’re not coming back?” The guy said, “Sure” and let me cut the wristband off with my pocket knife. “I’m just glad someone can use it.” I told him his contribution would not go to waste, that we were kin — me from the orange, and he from the red-faced clan.

The Scotch tape in my lab coat pocket came in handy as I put the band back together. This was far from 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 backward through the exit, which consisted of a giant arch with a constant flood of people passing through … in one direction. 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 put myself back in reverse until my ass was in. I got ten bucks for winning that bet.

Baptized in Alien Blood

A few years later, in 2010, the lead singer of GWAR singled me out in the audience with his big black alien penis cannon.

Shortly before production staff rolled the prop out, 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 surrounding 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 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. The spot on my spine where his head hit 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 crossed my mind and didn’t even sound possible. The rat bastard broke my fucking circle! Then I turned around to find, not a rat, but a bro twice my size, staring down at me, looking more like a bull. And not the sweet flower-sniffer type like Ferdinand.

A Bonnaroo Bullfight

I wanted to be pissed off, but the giant didn’t give me a choice. I knew the only way to beat Muscles was in a meeting of the mind. So I pretended to be a Spanish matador and moved gracefully around the collapsing circle as I twirled my cape, taunting the beast to join me in a dance of death. Surprisingly, he caught on and made horns with his fingers above his forehead. Fully transformed, he started kicking the dirt back with his “hooves,” signaling that a charge was imminent.

“Let’s dance, bitch!”

So we did this whole routine where he chased me down and ran through my cape. All the while a giant stream of alien penis blood was raining down upon us. It was metal as meep! The circle opened back up, but now people had their phones out taking videos.

I’m pretty sure GWAR kept the song going just for us, but at some point, we must have drained that alien penis dry. The band repeated the hook during the final refrain and it all came to an end. This was it. As the bull passed through one last time, my foot was strategically planted just out of sight behind the cape. As the beast ducked under my arms, he tripped and fell forward. There wasn’t enough time to get his hands down off his head, but thankfully for him, his face was there to soften the blow.

“Splat!” … right into a puddle of mud.

The bull got up on all fours. His face besmirched, completely caked in alien penis blood.

I was satisfied, but failed to plan for anything past revenge, let alone the possibility of being gored to death. I should have been dribbling in my pants, but I was still high enough to think it was hilarious.

Dude jumped to his feet and lurched forward. I jumped back, but he had already grabbed a hold of my hand. I wasn’t expecting what came next. With a firm grasp, he simply wiggled my limp arm up and down as if to say, “We’re even.” The gentle beast then pulled me in and gave me two “Well played!” pats on the back before disappearing into the pit to batter someone else’s brains. I was flabbergasted. It was a Bonnaroo miracle. Turns out the big softy had a little Ferdinand in him after all.

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 five months. One thing’s for sure, I was not built for the pit, but I do like to be front and center.

Becoming a Breeze 101

Which brings us to my last magic trick. If you want to rock out next to the band without having to camp out by the stage for hours, bring a spray bottle full of ice water. The next part is simple: Just spray your way to the front. Moses would have been proud, for a mere Muppet 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 and revealed a few places that needed an extra squirt. She was super hot and needed extra cooling, so I sprayed her entire body down. I didn’t mind the detour (for science, of course). There was lots of homeostasis happening as I parted the Partying Sea.

The crowd practically rolled out the red carpet as I misted my way through. I wasn’t cutting; it was an unspoken understanding. They moaned in ecstasy as I breezed by. I gave them a nod that shook my googly eyes and they giggled from the gut. It was a good deal all around.

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.

The pit is where you’ll find my people. We’re a little crazy-looking, or looking for fun, rather. We’re lovers of loud music. It’s gotta jiggle 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.