Get one. A press pass. they are astounding.
I should admit I may have just talked myself into something I didn't deserve- at the Will Call booth, I put on my most official face and 'Expressed My Concerns' about accessibility- all I know is that I'm wearing a leopard printed wristband, one that seems to be 'go everywhere' pass- every door is open. I'm now sitting feet from the main stage at the George Clinton show, behind the fencing, where they fancy people sit.
It's a little asinine, I know, to feel privileged o sit on a cold stone floor no different from the main floor- even a little lamer because of the lack of great fun that is clearly washing over the audience- but still, the notion of VIP-ness is cool. To sit and blog so close to the action is a thrill.
Mr. Clinton is a midwesterner. Perhaps not by origin, sure, but he does- or at least did- live outside of Ann Arbor, MI, where I spent my formative years, and we would see him in the music stores, all blazing neon hair extensions flowing, every rock and roll inch of him in full force. You know how funky he looks on stage? He leaves the house to buy eggs and a carton of milk in the same uniform.
The rock here in the Pavilion is of full force as well- Massive screens are set up, people are screaming, George's clipped up dreads like a dandelion behind his head, as he spits, and I quote
"Skeet skeet skeet, skoo skoo, to the walls to the the floor, to the shake............Awww S***.....Are you ready to party? All that is good......is nasty..........."
In fine form tonight, my funkadelic Mr. Man.
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