Orange Blossom Jamboree: Puddle of Fun 21

Entrenched in the very nexus of the Florida festival crowd Cleopatra had certainly heard of Orange Blossom Jamboree but for reasons best left unknown, had never made the trek to Sertoma Youth Ranch. For years her festy besties had raved about its status as a non-negotiable and she’d often speculated on what the hubub was really all about. Off the mountain for three months for the Florida spring festival season she still didn’t have a permanent place to lay her head. Her father had cursed her for a vagabond and her mother had echoed the sentiment suggesting it was the kind of “bad form” that the Denson side of the family used to exhibit in the old days. While none of that was too far off the mark, the beautiful reality of the matter was that no one is homeless at a festival.

Skip to…She and Spacebug showed up early Tuesday to set up the Kamp Happiness Interactive Pleasure Compound in the shade of primitive camping. The cool weather and shady campsite was the perfect canvas on which to paint this masterpiece. Volunteering with Toby they would be there to watch the festival be born around them. Truly the best way to experience this kind of slow burn. Never miss a Tuesday show. Welcome to the Orange Blossom Jamboree: Puddle of Fun 21.

This was a bona fide jubilee packed thick with old friends, new ones, Facebook buddies that until then were only familiar names in the etherweb. Kids with dogs, crackers with guitars and hippies with crackers roamed freely decorated in every manner of ground glitter. Deadheads, bikers and every kind of fan from the pop to the greasy were in attendance in their Sunday finery. Warm showers, clean restrooms and unexpected brethren waited under the fabulous shade of the oak trees. For many folks this would be there first time back into the fray in more than a year and it was obvious they had some catching up to do.

There was Stephanie Perez the ultimate shred machine and the queen of the stink face. There was Mario from Fuzzy Britches trickling with Free Range Strange. There was afternoon Tire Fire, the late ride aboard the the Guava Train and a S.P.O.R.E. set that left the masses drooling. This was a consummate Florida festival with both bands and fans from all over the Sunshine State. Smack it down, flip it over and slap it on the griddle.

“A Florida man today got down and boogied.”

The hobo kamp began to take shape as Wookie Wednesday with CopE blasted a hump-day party that shattered the window panes of the collective. The perfect weather provided a backdrop where the climate suited the clothes or lack thereof. Even the short afternoon showers cooled everyone off and held down the dust. No shoes, no problem. Not all puddles are caused by rain.

Welcome to the Puddle

Tina had suggested to Cleopatra that they dabble Wednesday night and save Saturday night for the famous blown o-ring. The plan was to show a modicum of adult caution but that plan was moot. Cleopatra would get higher Wednesday night that she had since New Orleans with Thatcher Owen Mullins and that was saying some seriously heavy shit.

Like Grandpa Ferdy always said, “Play with fire, every once in a while you’ll get burnt.” Par for the course, Cleopatra was there for the party. Her brain was already rotten with 305s and crotch whiskey when she blindly dumped a puddle of fluff into her waiting palm. When she came to the next day she knew with absolute certitude she owed several people serious apologies. The night had been filled with a cacophony of brilliant sounds and flashing visions that included, but were not limited to, forgotten lyrics, homoerotic promiscuity, historic racism, successful and failed free-style rapping and utterly crushing visual hallucinations. The bizarre images and freakish recollections were impossible to bear but fortunately, most all of it played out in a deep room below the seventh level of her own personal inferno as she sat alone in the dark for most of the night, talking to herself and the nearest tree. Thank ye gods.

For her first time in this forest she felt it was alright to get “lost”, maybe even apprepo. Go head she said. “Join the party. Hit the nail on the head and lick the white foam from the bufo toad’s glands if you dare.”

She finally made it to her campsite about eight in the morning a broken and shattered shell of her former self. It would take some time to heal her bruised head hole but she still took a little more medicine Thursday afternoon just so the CPU knew who was in charge.

“You bought a ticket, you might as well see the show.” -c.w.

It’s a Mott Point. Just eat the sass.

Falkenburg wasn’t yet sure he liked the sass. He’d tried it once with a girl that smelled like a Golden Corral with whom he didn’t really want to make out with so his control had no factor to be applied. To find romance, Mott Guilty had been using a gris-gris recipe from his grandmother in Alabama made from powdered frog bones and stem cells from Erin’s unborn child and up to that point the strategy had born no fruit and he remained a consummate bachelor. Pregnant girls should be wary of hammocks strung from snags. Oops, there goes third grade. Finally, after watching the young couple crawl all over each other like spider monkeys for most of Saturday night the kamp braintrust agreed that a positive conclusion had finally been reached. Sass: It’s for lovers and at least worthy of a lateral trade. As for Cleopatra, it would be another lonely Saturday night of mop head wigs and angry handjobs.

Top 10 Best Stripper Names:

10. Charity
9. Harmony
8. Dementia
7. Chlorine
6. Genocide
5. Monsanta
4. Faygo
3. Noeisha
2. Sunshine
1. Gary

“How’s your Tom and them?”

On top of the fact he was a cantankerous old coot, Gary was livid! He was late facilitating his advanced nitrous clinic and after the unitiated volunteers at the turn relayed that no more cars could enter primitive camping he screamed that his brakes had gone out and attempted to rush the gates. Moose, falling out from his own privater balloon party, haphazardly tried to roadblock the plan and gum up the works but the Destin annex stayed the course and found their spot in the sand pit vacated by Tim and Sunnie. How many hippies does it take to unstick a party van from the powder sand?

Kamp Happiness

They came from all over the state and for several it would be their first shot at OBJ. Would they be able to hold it all together amidst the frenzied craziness pouring in from every direction? Dock that hippy a day’s pay for napping on the job. Erin brought the aluminum foil space caps so the aliens couldn’t read their thoughts. The Gainesville Boys, Smittisha and Bob Dylan’s cousin came south to sow the seeds of homegrown music around the fire pit. Big Betty joined in with the bass fiddle and the rest was just face lasers, walking tacos and three-part harmony.

There was the Hometeam parachute relaxation station where the line between musicians and spectators became permanently blurred. Overrun with puppies, this commons area served as a meeting place for constant music where friends could enjoy lounging on one of the several couches in ergonomic comfort. Stumbling pickers traveled from camp to camp sliding into inviting jam sessions where ever possible. This was Cleopatra’s favorite part of any festival. The de-evolution where everyone joined in the circle. Who took Zach’s hammock and Brian’s bowl? No one. Tweakers love speakers. Welcome to the fruit basket.

A.P. Release, Brooksville, FL: “Panhandle thug returns stolen Papadosio fan. Maybe you can groundscore the world.

Thanks to Toby, Stephanie and Patricia for keeping the front gate free of malice and confusion. Thanks to the think tank (Gary and Shannon, Brian, Katie Mac, Mott Guilty, Blancita, Tim, Erin, Linda Joy, Adam Smitty, Moose, Jodie, Shon, Brian, Maso and Jaco. Mysteries were delved into and solutions were discovered for many of the timeless questions of our world. Hopefully someone took good notes.

Thanks to Russ, Andy, Toby and everyone who helped create the space for Orange Blossom Jamboree. Thanks to everyone who contributed photographs. When brought together they paint a and complete picture of all the wonderful silliness.

Had it all been a dream? Some of it to be sure. There was great music, delicious friends, some serious butt kicking and a little extra sleep but that happens in the topsy turvy world we live in. Who can predict which direction the wild winds will blow? There’s just no telling.

Had someone actually said that Skippers was going to reopen? That was certainly good news. Plan B was in effect. Screw the Everglades they were headed up to Field and Furrow Farm on Craig’s Creek and then it was off to New River Gorge for some mountain music with Big Betty in West Virginia. Now it was only dealing with that old problem…How to make money on the road with no merchandise or skills. Stay tuned dear reader. It should get sporting.

Keep up with the wranglers and Kamp Happiness as we head north to Mountain Music Festival,  Floydfest, Summer Camp and anywhere that wants to get involved with getting down. Next stop, the mountains of Virginia. It’s for lovers you know.

#freebritney