Every year in the aftermath of Gonerfest it is customary for many attendees to take to F-book to hail the event’s awesomeness and pay tribute to the hosting/booking/crowd control efforts of Eric, Zac, Madison and others, often declaring the long weekend, “the greatest thing ever” or “I never wanted it to end” or some such hyperbole.
I’m very tempted to write something similar and detail several of the highlights, but maybe this a moment better spent on careful reflection. Was it really the most crucial life-experience imaginable? I’ve never been to a sweat lodge (though I’ve seen multiple bands with that name across different decades). I’ve never attended (or participated in) a mass Moonie wedding. I’ve never gone big game hunting with Minneapolis dentists across the Sudan, nor have I tried to re-create the Ice T star vehicle, “Surviving The Game” with other jaded, wealthy persons looking to satisfy their bloodlust (preferably with someone less wily & cunning as Ice T as the target). Haven’t tried cannibalism (though I did read “Alive : The Story Of The Andes Survivors” in elementary school and though, y’know, the author MADE A MEAL OF IT).
Still haven’t made it to Bonnaroo (which sounds scarier than the Andes cannibalism book), still haven’t made it to either of the Dakotas.
I guess what I’m trying to say is fuck bucket lists, fuck buckets (or to paraphrase David Sedaris, fuck fuck it buckets). Gonna go way out on a limb here and say MUSK were way better than 10 mass Moonie weddings.