FloydFest ’21: The Inmates are Running the Asylum

Disclaimer: The following article is purely a work of fiction. It’s body is a product of undecipherable ciphers scratched on the backs of random stickers, paper towels, cardboard beer boxes, banana peels, flesh… We are still not sure what many of them mean and some anecdotes are just better left unwritten. Shades and splinters of this meandering parable may be true but that’s irrelevant…The witnesses are anything but expert. Who among the masses can know or remember? This is the hard fact. These recollections have been offered from the hazy tortured minds of the chemically and genetically insane. Hell, you were there. You saw what happened on that mountain. It grew into a blistering, beautiful nebulae of self mutilation and passion, not witnessed since the days of Dionysius. Along with the focus and savagery also came a delicate and perfect honesty to be the best possible version of oneself. The names have been changed to protect the “innocent”. Welcome to FloydFest “21: The Inmates are Running the Asylum. Thank goodness.                       Believe what you want.

On top of the mountain near the campsites and stages of the festival lies a cemetery. Ancient headstones mark the plots of folks long gone and perhaps forgotten. The dates on the stones often show the story of a short life, through disease or war taken before their time. If they could speak to us and share some bit of their wisdom, what would they say? What would they think of this Carnivale Obscure perched high in the Blue Ridge Mountains? Indeed.

FloydFest is widely touted as one of the best festivals in the country and for good reason. The music, spectacle, hospitality and fun are unmatched at this scale. It’s a large festival but the intimate and personal vibe creates a “home town” feel. It’s really just a family reunion for everyone from Virginia and North Carolina and if you live in either of those states and you weren’t here then just tread lightly. They do throw in a dash of South Carolinians to spice things up. And spicy things were, for many, this was their first time out and they were ready to get all the way down. New friends and families coming together to celebrate en masse. It would take a group at least as crazy as them to hold things together.

These inmates are the festival staff. At one time they were just run-of-the mill criminally insane but now they’ve managed to garner a sliver of trust and responsibility and move up the totem pole. Through reliability, hustle and eventually experience they’ve got the keys to the whole shop. The mountain has come to Mohammed. The older ones came up going to bluegrass festivals and rock shows, the younger ones have reaped the delicious evolution of the festival and are way ahead of their time. These are professional festivarians. They are in charge of the store and they know what real fun looks like so sit back and enjoy the show.

The Summer Mountain Festival Lyme Disease Tour has rolled through FloydFest and the only things left are “memories”, tissue damage, Bells Paulsy and bankruptcy. JK! You know it. That shit was transcendent! “21 Odyssey was over and all Lucy and Baitbuckert could do was try to begin to process the universe of wonderment they had encountered. By placing themselves firmly in the tallow of the Virginia summer festival season they had doomed themselves to perfect oblivion. For a hot biscuit of a minute, Roanoke is about two hours away from every summer party and the same beautiful people are everywhere behind the scenes, on the stages and in the crowds.

Lucy didn’t see much music. She never did. She was usually combing vomit out of her hair and like most of the staff, got to see little music. She didn’t care anyway. Mostly she was there to visit cousins and for her money she’d just as soon sip some shine and pick around the camp. The Airstream Stage showcased some fantastic jams where friends and family got to play together and get all the way down. Between the endless songs and the surprise collaborations for many, homemade music is a highlight and cornerstone of the camping/music festival. yezzir.

This Virginia monarchy knows how to throw a party. It was Mountain Music (WV), and Red Wing before Floyd and after that they will all be at Front Porch and Rooster. For those unwashed masses it’s more than a job or a party. It’s a lifestyle choice. Sometimes it’s chill. Sometimes it’s intense. Sometimes it’s balls to the wall. Staff like La Pliclita and Cambolina (formerly Cambone) would help blur the line between work and fun to a point where everything comes together. The math checks out.

1971 is turning 50 this year.

Prologue: Sunday: Lucy wasn’t sure where she was when she woke up but she was surrounded by pea hens. The fog slowly began to lift. It was all coming back to her. After a late evening with the “Uno Mas” crowd at Spirithaven she’d spent the night with the disco turkeys and from there it was only a short drive to Patrick Country. Lucy pulled on to the FloydFest site early Sunday morning as folks were just getting rousted up. Of course she first ran into Piclito on his way to build a meme board. Lucy wasn’t at all sure what that meant. She was looking for a job with prefest and why not? She was already at the party and media didn’t pay diddly, at least at her level. Hawk, a burly beast of a man tried to get her help fix the showers at Delta Lot but Sarah and Steve caught her wandering eye. She would shower with Hawk later.

The Queen of Bravo Lot:

Don’t miss your chance to catch one of Steve Little’s bone fide hands on clinics! “How to Lay Out a Parking Lot in Seventeen Easy Steps”. “Is it right on sixty feet?” Steve would bellow. “Close enough I guess. Who cares?” Foam would form around the corners of his mouth. “If it’s a few inches off there it’ll be feet off somewhere else! Cross me again and I swear to God I’ll bury you in the back of the Overflow Lot.”

Lucy knew it was never good to push a parking guy. They were a twitchy bunch. After sitting in the sun for forty-five minutes she realized Rose wasn’t running to Delta yet (good advice Steve) so she hitched a ride with Charlie (who had recently been finger stung by some Virginia insect and was literally wailing to the two young volunteers in his truck) and headed back to the site.

She immediately came upon Mr. Beautiful picking mandolin by the front gate. Serendipity. Mando pickers like to say “Now let’s play a fast one. Slicker than deer guts on a door knob!” The two had recently crushed it together at Red Wing and were chompin’ at the bit to get more downer. Their mid-day session was noted to be the first of the festival and they made $1.65 in tips from a passing group of adolescents. Things were looking up.

Monday. Fog:

Heavy fog blanketed the site as staff worked hither and yon setting things up. There was an ethereal quiet to the heavy clouds as they shrouded the main stage. Lucy still hadn’t found work so she just sat around drinking and playing guitar music. Painting rocks and clothespins. Mr. Beautiful would say, “Mandolin, if you pick at it it will never heal”. What the hell? She needed to find work. There was a Goddamned carnival happening here. How could there be no extra work? Maybe they’d heard the “legends”.

The Kamp Happiness wook nook:

This isn’t primitive camping anymore. Forget what you think you know. Welcome to Primordial Camping.

Lucy followed Mr. Beautiful passed the gas tank, at the base of the hill from RV camping and down the road from glamping, into a hole in the trees…where everything changed. Inside hid a perfectly shaded glade of soft grass. The prophecy had been true. This naturally exquisite hobbit hole would be the setting for acts of debauchery and hedonism not witnessed since the height of Gomorrah.

Over time the space began to slowly take shape. Lucy returned to the nook to find several tents had sprouted up around hers. Unbeknownst to her, the one most dangerously close belonged to her amiga, Litter Kitty whose domicile would rise to become the official Dance Tent. She was obvious North Carolina trash, having served a year of probation for attempting to smuggle raw gluten into Boone.

Come visit Cynthia Mabe’s Home Cookin’ Hideout at Front Porch Fest September 2-5, 2021

Proudly serving all the the best in Southern cuisine.

                                                                                  (Ed. note: Now that is a lie. They will be serving Natties and bullshit.)

Tuesday night: Strap on your festicles for a Volunteer Party with Mike Helms:

Cow tippin’ and rock and roll in the pasture! Welcome to the Delta Lot fire pit with margaritas and something they called “punch”. Steve Little had gotten into the jello shots early and was in the volunteer parking lot doing doughnuts with the “Farm Use” truck kicking mud and manure over random vehicles and tents. “Just let him get it out of his system”, Sarah mused. “He’s much better after he’s had a good yee-haw. Bri and Lolo put stakes down for Kamp Happiness Delta Lot and shared chilled tequila shots. Pura Vida. The moon was saying it would be full by the weekend.

Wednesday. A real job interview in the middle of the fray? Low Man on the Totem Pole:

Mr. Beautiful introduced Lucy to the suits in the trailers behind the main stage. There was a chance of an opening in Artist Transportation and while that sounded a little serious to her, a hustler’s got to hustle. She’d pulled in with about eighty-five bucks and it was going fast. In the crowded RV it was explained to Lucy that she would be driving artists and others any time of the day or night. “Can you stay sober?” Short pause. With her most sincere and trustworthy voice she replied, “Yes” and it sounded reasonable.

Wednesday Night:

By the time Lucy met the squad at the Abby Bryant show the band was knee deep into Pigs: Three Little Ones (what do yo hope to find? Down in a pig mine) and worked a slew of other Pink Floyd greats. The mushrooms were kicking in and it was becoming obvious what actually lay ahead of them. Hand shakes and hugs were lasting longer. Eyes were looking deeper. This was going to be both a sprint and a marathon. Lucy ended up at the nook with Mr. Beautiful and the Senior Consultant until 5 am solving many mysteries of both the known and unknown universe.

Mr. Beautiful’s tent was an amazing display of glamping professionalism. Tarps, tables and hanging laundered clothes on the outside and two beds inside covered with blankets and animal furs? Say what? Lucy noticed that most nights Mr. Beautiful slept outside on a cot while his tent was occupied by passed-out fiddle players or drunken poobas.

At this point it was time for Lucy to slow down her internal clock and celebrate every microsecond. The slow climb was always her favorite. There would hardly be enough days to get to everyone. It would take a normal person two weeks to fit in the kind of jubilation she was going to pack into five days.  A common story was beginning to be heard regarding old people with busted knees on wet grass. The thirty-five degree angle at many campsites made folks appear more drunk than they were. And that was saying something. It was good policy to face the chair downhill so one could use gravity in the exit strategy. And gravity can be a fickle mistress.

“Thou art weighed in the balances, and art found wanting.”

Lucy was spending lots of time in the Kamp Happiness lounge with Girth, Crazy Chlorine and Ellen. “Always keep your teeth and vagina clean”, she advised as she handed out wet wipes. Baitbucket leaned in and asked to use hers when she was done.” Camping next to new people sometimes means unwanted nudity and smattering of inappropriate suggestion. Sexbruise. Question mark?

Thursday Night. Some who wander are completely lost.

And what of Steve Little? Last seen in Site-Ops he was curled up in a pile of plastic fencing surrounded by empty pouches of Masala lentils. His beard had filtered out several garbanzo beans, but still no beard glitter. It was well known that was where he drew the hard line. Something about a glitter explosion back in Pennsylvania.

Lucy got kicked out of the photographers pit during Old Crow Medicine Show for not having the correct credentials. What? No photo creds for the wook wranglers? “Fine with me” she spat. “There’s no room in that pit anyway. More photographs of hippies I guess. Then you get what you get and you don’t throw a fit. Tough titty said the kitty but the milk tastes good.”

It was just about that time Girth began losing it completely. He was stumbling around, wasting people’s Allegra, pretending he wasn’t allergic to cocaine. Bfly found Spat By Kat on the side of the Hill Holler Stage for Billy Strings, which was as usual, shredding rock-n-roll, bluegrass fun. Never miss a Thursday show. Baitbucket stood in the back taking photographs next to Jody Carbone, whose camera was the size of an electric automobile while his literally sponsored Andre Agassi.

FloydFest Site-Ops Rules:

• Place like with like.
• Don’t open another container until that one is gone.
• Send the cart back with no gas
• Kitty litter soaks up gas
• Sand soaks up urine
• It’s the Quartermaster’s fault.

The Importance of Forgiveness:

Welcome to the mestival. Mistakes will be made. On a few occasions Lucy had to stop and recognize that she herself had made an error. perhaps a gentle slip in the wrong direction. Sometime she would call herself out on talking with authority about something she knew nothing about. In the future she would need to budget an assistant to keep up with that kind of data.

“Where did I touch her? Forgive me for falling into your tent. I’m terribly sorry. It might never happen again. Was his inappropriateness unforgivable and did he even want to be forgiven? Sometimes weird things happen. It’s not the end of the world. He knew they had been protecting her from him. From him? That’s just crazy. Who would protect him from himself? Who wrangles the wranglers? The offense is not as important as the apology. Sometimes one must take hat in hand and venture back to offended campsite. It can often be chalked up to no more than drunken stupidity. Lest ye not cast the first stone. After all, we don’t get to chose how or when other people lose their minds.”    -Thatcher Owen Mullins’ Book of Maxims

The Kamp Happiness usual band of helpless thugs was improved upon by several musicians camping in the nook. Mason, Waverley, Jamie, Mr. Beautiful, David and others kept the tunes blasting up the holler all weekend. Lucy and Big Betty tried to keep up with David and Mr. Beautiful as they tangled their mandolins in beautiful knots. When DT saw that Big Betty was having trouble keeping up he’d say, “just hold on”  right before he falling into her tent, which possessed some strange gravitational pull because along with the mountainous grade became buried under an avalanche of what appeared to be drunken bison. One young doe continued falling into the tent screaming that next year’s staff shirts would be 100% cotton. The music played all night and continued to deteriorate into that loud, belligerent half-song that lasts till sunrise. Never miss a Thursday show.

–3:30-4:30 Artist meet and greet at Piclito’s cooler. Cocktails to be announced.–

Friday. The push:

The bullwhip came out around six am and it had a new cracker. Peter had already consumed burritos and coffee and was perk as a ruttin’ buck. By that time they were out of water and Lucy and Less were both drinking out of a dirty cooler.

As for Mr. Beautiful the less sleep he got the faster his fingers moved on the mandolin. By day four it was turning into Chinese math and getting hard to keep up.

Lucy was still wearing the same clothes due to the fact her vehicle was parked in that Constantinople known as Staff Parking.

There was the Friday night Turkuaz Talking Heads set with Sarah an the full moon coming up behind the main stage. Boom. Mission accomplished. It’s a Turkuazathon.

She got back to camp about 11:30 pm and decided to get some sleep before her two o’clock run. Her tent door had been open all day and she could feel legs crawling over her as she tried to rest. She wasn’t sure if it was scorpions or just tactile hallucinations from the Dragon Lady’s acid. Litter Kitty clarified that scorpions were not indigenous to Virginia but it might be daddy long legs cause those damned things were just about everywhere. Or it could be the acid. Or both.

When Lucy showed up the artist asked, “Are you alright to drive me?” “Of course.” the words barely audible from her over-used and likely damaged throat. “I stopped drinking around four and the acid has almost worn off. Just kidding. Question mark.” “Hell yea.” he shot back and they listened to Van Helen on the back roads to Roanoke. Somewhere in the conversation she shared that she needed to buy cigarettes for everyone and have an overdue movement. They passed an open store and the artist suggested she stop, to which she relied, “I’m a professional my man. I’ll do it after I drop you off.” Leaving his Roanoke hotel, the last thing she heard him say was “Go take a shit” and Lucy realized by the time she got on 221 to Floyd the mistake she had made. There would be nothing open at this time of the night. There would be no Turkish Camels for Girth and no self-respect for her as she was forced to leave her undergarments in a pile of filth in the front yard of some random industrial plant. By the time she got back to the festival, the sun was coming up in the east and all signs pointed to more class, style and continued greatness.

Saturday. How’s my tie?: As a collective it was time to start taking inventory and both ration and abuse. Girth was sleeping until two in the afternoon as usual. The Dragon Lady tried to accost Billy Strings in the bubble trailer. The Kamp Happiness family band spent most of the day at the Airstream Stage. That is, until the call came.

What lurks behind merch? Rain Session 1:

Who knows how Mr. Beautiful found the Birdman of Richmond but Lucy had no choice but to go meet him somewhere in the not-so-quiet camping. The storm clouds were brewing and everything she owned of value was likely uncovered, but this was the Birdman and non-negotiable.

They got to enjoy the rain together, huddled under a pop-up with the Headcount Goddess and twenty new friends of questionable repute drinking crotch whiskey and smoking reefer. For the folks out in the shower, the more it rained on the  Turkuaz set, the louder they got. Both the Dragon Lady and the women from Field and Furrow Farms added indoor pools to their tents after their tarps came off in the wind.

Bri tried to homestead Casey’s HoloRhythm Community Drum School tent while waiting on the Delta Lot bus. Waffle screamed, “Get up! I’m not missing this ride to Delta. These women must have driven chicken buses in Guatemala. I’ll pay extra for a seat in the back if she does a power slide.” She was also hoping someone would propose to her on the bus. Word had it that was going around.

“You can’t change the world handcuffed to a gold cart.”

Lucy’s calves were getting stronger. Her altitude acclimatization had gone well and although she would surely fail any concussion protocols she was ready for the Saturday night summit push. By now her greatest pleasure was finding Steve Little’s wook traps in the parking lot and shredding them. The low tight strings were meant to bring down the huskiest, fasted moving bucks in the herd. After she went down into the wet grass with the bass fiddle there would be no quarter for any poor fool found involved.

Baitbucket was falling fast. He desperately needed a nitro-glycerin pill and it was back in the nook, likely being snorted by someone with a bench warrant. He’d  heard a “legend” at the Airstream Stage about a guy scuba diving for golf balls that was raped by an alligator. Goat meat used for steak biscuits? What are you talking about? Can’t you see I am in the middle of a full-blown crisis. Oh Chip, if you could just pilot me into the harbor. Or is that Coast Guard flirting? The last thing she remembered was stumbling around the Airstream Stage and diving into a bowl of leftover gumbo that turned out to be brown kiwis covered in ants.

(Ed. note–Events from late Saturday night will not be included due to 1.missing or non-existent notes and 2.complete roaming blackouts.)

Sunday: The Senior Consultant and “part of the cost”: 

At seven am, Lucy woke up in the front passenger seat of an unfamiliar vehicle, not far from the Volkswagen camp. She left a note on the dashboard that read, “sorry for leaving the dishes in the sink.” She was found messaging her fontanel and urinating next to Will’s Festy Westy party wagon before being directed home toward the nook. She would have to take an inventory. Her baseball cap was missing and that would surely be a portent of things to come. Lost drugs, broken tents, insane friends, wet phones. According to the Senior Consultant it was, “All part of the cost.”

Mr. Beautiful woke up in an accusatory mood. The night before Bfly had to steer him home, through the central eye wall of a mountain “fit”. He insisted that someone had drugged him the night before. That there had been a foreign element introduced into his system to which he was unconditioned. Was this a chemical toilet that hadn’t slept for three days accusing someone of poisoning him without his knowledge? Literally date raped without either the date or the rape. Indeed.

At Dirt Track’s Lucy and Piclito shared a Pedialyte and a kiwi health shake, sans ants. Did the words “flacid penis” just come over the radio? Lucy could no longer trust her ears or eyes. This would be White Claw Sunday. There were six pallets left and a metric shit ton of kombucha. They sat together and tried to break down the past few hours but it wouldn’t be easy. Where had they been? Where were they going? Lucy knew she wasn’t a prophet and Dirt Track echoed she was surely “not for profit”. It was all coming too fast. Jeremiah’s B-11 shot hadn’t kicked in and the tequila in Piclito’s cooler was looking pretty good. How would he even be able to catch her? He’d literally worn holes in the soles of both of his prison flip flops.

Baitbucket’s right leg was swollen to the size of a barber’s pole and he would need to get with Doug and Steve about the compression socks. Other than that his body was feeling better. Some of the pain was gone and by then, between walking up and down the mountain and forgetting to eat solid food it seemed everyone had lost twelve pounds.

The Legend of Big Dick Sam. The crucial foundation of trickle down cool.

Rain Session 2, The Airstream Stage Sessions. Luckily Lucy had found her way to the music circle for the Sunday evening deluge. Nothing better than string music pushed together under a dripping pop up. T.C. broke out the brandy while the jam closed out the rain. Lucy’s voice having been brutally abused was finally returning.

Lucy could hear Andy Frasco getting pumped up and considering she’d never seen him and it was the last set of the weekend she and the crowd made the short walk up the hill. “That kid’s got some pep.” Their musicianship, audience interaction and classic, spastic rock-n-roll energy was a perfect way to tie off the weekend. After Sam gave permission for the show to run a little late, Frasco could be heard leading the choral chant “Big dick Sam!” with the audience. The rain was over, Frasco killed it and the inmates were running the asylum.

Festivals, like most corporations are constructed by a framework in which the behavioral attitudes of the few at the upper management tiers, naturally trickle down to each subsequent level of employees. In the days leading up to and during the festival, Sam’s management strategy could best be described as easy-going and hands-on. While still giving the staff the flexibility to operate with a creative autonomy, he could usually be found out front, standing in the sun and dust, shuckin’ and jivin’. And always with that same friendly manner. The intensity looks very much like the calm and this disseminates down to every staff member and patron, where at some point, one can see his calming influence over the face of the entire festival. Live it like you own it.

Sunday Night Jam: Thanks to Jesse, Kyle, Rebekah and Mr. Beautiful for the late night jams at the Dirt Track Stage. It took only a broken string and a gentle nudge from the Senior Consultant to shift the music down to the nook for more late-night revelry. The last thing Lucy remembered was something to the order of Dr. Bacon’s Auyuwaska Mountain Retreat Session? Was it just a fanciful jest or was she clinically involved? No matter. She had the strength of youth and if God be for her, who could be against her?

Epilogue. Monday: Someone had double parked the Sales and Production golf cart on the Kamp Happiness dance floor. There was a nearly empty handle of Even Williams sitting on the floor and a pocket knife still protruding from the ignition where the perp had left it the night before. Lucy took the cart for a hot lap to Site-Ops for pork skins and cheap vodka on her way to Staff parking for a change of clothes.The Senior Consultant woke up smelling bacon only to find it was his hoodie after standing next to the smoke ring all night.

Tuesday: Baitbucket stuck around long enough to get on with postfest. He spent the day cleaning out freezer trucks and groundscoring pop ups for the festival. Talk about working toward your strengths. Lucy was drying all of the blankets in the car camping field shouting “For sale! Tuesday friend prices! And it comes with a free angry hand job. No eye contact guaranteed. They groundscored some Zing Zang and Tito’s and enjoyed the long walk around the site with the sunset over the mountains. Once most of the people were gone the natural splendor and beauty of the mountains quickly returns to the fore front.

Wednesday:  Like Chihuahuas looking for chicken bones the raccoons had begun moving in. Baitbucket knew how to build a snare from his time in the Peace Corps and planned on a breakfast of trash panda and gravy. “We don’t usually see media around this late in the game” The Site-Ops Manager noted. Never miss a post-party. It was the best way to stay on site camping for another week with no one to care. Picking through Dirt Track’s camp leftovers, he came up with tonic water and cranberry juice cocktail. Perfect for the rest of the Tito’s and now he knew where the rest of the ice was being kept.

Thursday. Leftovers:

Baitbucket loved staying late after the festival as a way to truly appreciate the site. After the lights and decorations came down all that’s left were the lush verdant mountains of Virginia. Also that’s when all the leftovers came out. Would you like another pouch of Masala lentils? Stick around long enough to get a golf cart and radio. At some point someone asked him if he could drive a lift. Short pause. With his most sincere and trustworthy voice he replied, “Yes” and it sounded reasonable. Finally he was sweating. He’d managed to stay out of trouble through the entire epic and now he was loading pallet furniture on the the Hill Holler Stage with some tremendous machine. “Go slow and don’t break anything.” Later that night Baitbucket confiscated a cooler of confiscated White Claws and barricaded himself in one of the leftover travel trailers that littered the compound.

Conclusion: From the alpha to the omega this was the party you deserved delivered by a staff that has been training for it their entire lives. This was a monster achievement and a normal group of adults couldn’t have pulled this off. It took more “creative” solutions. The job was to make people happy and often that means very little sleep and music. Intense, long hours just to create place where people can be free to relax and fall in love. What have we learned? Never skip a year of FloydFest. It makes people crazy.

By the time it was over Lucy ‘d been able to see the festival from many different sides. Like much of the staff, she just wanted to be there and would do just about any job to be part of the silliness. Many times she thought of Clay, the Shawsvegas Mafia who covered the festival for our their year in 2018. With the passing of friends and family comes an increased drive and focus to enjoy what time we have left. Lucy knew he would have appreciated what they did here. They skirted the edges. They reaped the harvest. They bought the ticket.

They saw the show…

Visit some classics from the archives as the Summer Mountain Festival Lyme Disease Tour continues.

Red Wing Roots Music Festival 21: Assault on Chimney Ridge,

Mountain Music Festival “21: Please Don’t Eat the Cicadas,

Orange Blossom Jamboree: Puddle of Fun 21

Follow the wranglers as we meet up with Ban Jovi for Phish at Deer Creek and then it’s on to Summer Camp with Mi Kulture. From there we caravan out to Arkansas for Backwoods at Mulberry Mountain, but it’s never over. Keep up with September as the Virginia/North Carolina season closes out with Front Porch Fest, Merlefest, Blue Bear and Rooster Reunion.

At that point we head south for the Kamp Happiness Suwannee Family Explosion with Roots Revival and Hulaween. But let’s not get ahead of ourselves. Plan A is still in effect.

Thanks to Sam, Brian and the rest of the All the Way Productions hydra for letting us be be part of the magic on the mountain. We are just getting started. Follow the FloydFest social media sites on Facebook, Instagram and Twitter. Thanks to everyone who contributed photographs. Visit this Facebook link for more FloydFest photographs.

Leaving Sarah’s Bravo lot for the last time Lucy noticed another cemetery across the street. The question remained. What would the dead say? About this party? This complete and utter silly celebration of life and love with friends, music and laughter. Would they say pull it together, straighten up and fly right?

Maybe not.
They might just say…

rage.                                                                                                                                  copy that.