The Trashiest Place I Have Ever Been

Picture this, if you will...

Me, in college. Dating a boy who just adored country music. I was more into the indie and "good" music persuasion, but I was "in love" with him, so I went along with it all. I even started to like some of the artists. I just might have one or two Garth Brooks cds. Maybe.

I attended a few concerts with him, including Brooks & Dunn, which I have to admit was one of the best concerts I've ever seen.

And then... July of 2000: Fort Laramie, Ohio.

Country Concert.

It was a four-day camping and music festival. A Middle-America Woodstock (I assume), but messier. Dirtier. Muddier. White-trashier. Urine-soaked-ier.

It was a veritable sea of white, chain-smoking, overweight, sunburned, beer-bellied people. And I'm not just talking about the men. Pause on that for a second.

...

There were tattoos, mullets, and piercings as far as the eye could see. Just look at their posted pictures, and you will understand the severity of this event.

Almost every tent and trailer flew a rebel flag.

We drove down to mid-Ohio the night before in order to line up for good camping spots. At the time, it was first-come, first-served, and it sucked. The fees were high, but not unreal, and we got super sweet wristbands to wear for the next five days.

Each morning, we would wake up and take our fold-up chairs down near the stage and set them up. It was imperative that we "get a good spot." Unfortunately, you weren't really able to tell who you were setting up next to, because the chairs were generally already there. And so, on the first day of performances, we made our way to our seats, and... well, I'll just blurt it out:

A big, fat, sunburned, shirtless, mullet-haired JACKASS sprayed my boobs with his super- soaker. And it WASN'T WATER.

It was beer.

I almost hit him. I was so upset. I just couldn't believe it! Everyone kept telling me to loosen up and let it go, because this was apparently the norm. Yay! Objectification of women! Norm! I was told that all the men super-soakered the chests of the women they found attractive:

"Ah like yo titties. Mmm hmmm. Niiiiiiiiiiiice. Let me cool 'em off fo ya. YO WELCOME."

Now, I know that it really wasn't a big deal (it was 95 degrees in the shade - and he probably thought that he was doing me a favor and giving me a compliment), but at the time, I was livid. The feminist in me just exploded on him and for the rest of the day he turned his head away when I walked by. But the next day spawned a new group of people and a new group of water guns. I learned to deal with it. I even got my own water gun and started spraying them back.

But I still felt dirty.

And this wasn't good, because... the showers. The first year we went, there were no showers. Read that again. No. Showers. People were RANK after one day in the heat, so just imagine how bad it was after four...

Luckily, one of the girls in our group was a total tramp (she was, coincidentally, the same girl who, just two months later, tipped me off to the fact that my boyfriend was cheating on me, and for that I will love her forever because I almost ruined my life by staying with him, but... she was a tramp), and she "befriended" a guy who lived a town away. We would caravan to his dad's house each morning to shower and his dad made us biscuits and gravy. It. Was. Great. They were really, really good people.

After a day or two, we needed to make a run for supplies. And by "supplies," I mean "beer." It was my first ever trip to Walmart. In Ohio.

SHUDDER.

It was like they emptied the entire Country Concert campground in a store. They were everywhere, buying beer, Doritos, water guns, and NASCAR shirts (really). The towering display of sunblock sat untouched, like sunburns were a rite of passage or something. It was messy and dirty and it was all I could do to keep from screaming. And it's not like we could go back to the campground to relax, because it was a complete sty. Come Sunday, I was so relieved it was over, I think I cried.

And after all of that, we went a second year. 2001. In the end, now that I look back, I realized that the only reason that I even went was because I didn't trust my boyfriend. Nice, huh? And I still stayed with him for another few months. We are idiots sometimes, aren't we? Stupid, trusting idiots.

It was the same story: get there a day early, set up camp, get trashed. Wake up, do it all again. It was punishment, really. I just wanted to camp a little, read my book, and take some naps. But it wasn't so much a campground as it was a plowed cornfield, so the same camping activities I was used to, like hiking, campfires, and star-gazing, were not so much possible. Plus I got made fun of for TRYING TO READ.

Looking back, I did get to see some amazing performances: Martina McBride, Kenny Chesney (in the "She Thinks My Tractor's Sexy" days. Yes, that was actually a hit song.), Toby Keith, Terry Clark, Vince Gill, Lonestar, Dwight Yoakam, and The Charlie Daniels Band. I even saw Jeff Foxworthy do some standup. The organizers also brought in some great 80s bands one year, so I caught Styx, REO Speedwagon, and 38 Special.

And really? Most everyone there was perfectly nice. The guys with super-soakers were the exception, not the norm. It wasn't the worst experience of my life... just the dirtiest.

And you know how I am always talking about what a good little girl I was? And still am? And how I've never smoked the pot or done anything bad ever?

That second summer, I was *this close* to getting arrested.

I was doing a little underage drinking, mostly because my boyfriend's frat brothers were all about the PEER PRESSURE, and I was a month away from 21.

Oh, hi mom! I'm just kidding about the drinking. I didn't do that. I read the bible in the tent that I shared with all the other women in our group while the other legal people drank responsibly and one of them totally didn't pass out on a hill only to wake up the next morning covered in mosquito bites and vomit. So really, Lady, just stop reading here. It just gets boring now anyway.

Right, so I was a teensy bit drunkardly on the dance floor in the "saloon" and a few policemen asked me for ID.

And my sweet, sweet Bud Light buzz went down the drain.

"Well, shoot! I don't have it officer! It's back at my tent! But I'm twenty-one, I swear! Just had my birthday! I know I look young, I get it all the time!"

They then asked me for my social security number so that they could run it in the computer. I recited mine with ease, but deftly changed the last digit. OH YES I DID. I think that I may have also told them that my name was Heather Smith. Which it is not. When they went to their squad car, I RAN AWAY and HID IN THE CAR. And I drank Coca Cola for the rest of the weekend.

Aren't I such a bad ass?

My relationship went south a few months later, and I haven't been back to Country Concert. I think it's for the best.