Suwannee Hulaween “24: Cheese. Love. Happiness.

“He pushed the cigarette butts deep into his nostrils so he could breath. It wasn’t the dust, but the the thick, hazy bog of mass insanity. It was all around and he was spinning in the eye wall, unable to escape, even if he wanted. His eyes watered to the smell the tiki torch fuel soaking into his pashmina as he carelessly lit another 305, rolled by Ft. Lauderdale’s favorite sons. Things were coming at him much too fast now. There was little hope of truly understanding what was going on. This was his favorite place, the singularity, skating the razor’s edge between acceptable fun and inappropriate gibberish. Congratulations. You’ve been given the umbrella consensual non-consent. “Lo siento. No fumar El Gato.”

Welcome back to hurricane alley at the corner of I-75 and I-10. This is the eleventh edition of Suwannee Hulaween at Spirit of Suwannee Music Park in Live Oak, Florida and once again wranglers media has learned to trust in the process and believe in Hulaween. Thugs live here. Music lives here. Headliners such as The Bobby Weir Incident, CLOZEE, Black Pumas, Chase and Status, Chris Lake, Greensky Bluegrass, Killer Mike, Liquid Stranger, Nora En Pure, Of The Trees, Sublime, Tash Sultana, String Cheese Incident, Tipper and Umphrey’s McGee live here. The fuse was short and lit on a lineup rarely seen in this part of the Orion cluster. What were once non-negotiables quickly morphed into good intentions. It’s good to have a plan but at the end of the day, Hulaween will teach you what you need to know. Lie back and let it happen. Enthusiastic content given. Welcome to Suwannee Hulaween “24: Cheese. Love. Happiness. It’s in the weaksauce.

This party gets better every year and we are also getting better at it.  For many, there is nothing else worth considering for Halloween. It’s a week of lurking in the Florida moss, dancing on the beach of the Suwannee River and getting all the wayest down. They said “Make it Weird”, we answered with “Make it really Weird.” That’s what we do. Par for the course. They can’t all be home runs but these folks are swinging for the fences. By the time Strugglebus was leaking back from Mondegreen he was almost a Phish fan. Thanks for the immune booster. Maybe we won’t all get Covid this year. There’s so much to this festival and this is the account of just one stoop, off a back street in the Pine Field. These are tales from the Poncho Tree. Believe what you want.

Choices were made. Heads were checked with turkey oak acorns. Sissies would complain on Facebook about the dust, but a stampede of hippies either makes dust or mud and the Hobo Kamp prefers dust. We have a few musical instruments left, laying hither and yon and our entire kamp is built of feathers and glitter. The weather the entire week was a slice of absolutely perfect. Warm during the day and cool at night. Space for both complete nudity and velvet cloaks. It was about Florida family, Phil Lesh, new friends, technology, music and art, getting lost in a new forest, getting lost in your own forest and breaking your own rules. So much love, helpfulness and goofy fun. It was fulfilled expectations and random surprises, life lessons and the strengthening of existing bonds. An invitation to get a little loose in a safe place, in the bosom of the forest. A place that’s been hosting music since the 70’s, full of memories, ghosts and a forever song that lifts up through the canopy of leaves.

Mason insisted there was “Lots to do on Halloween” when asked why he was skipping Hula AGAIN. Oh really? Sure, he was headed to Albany where the Phish army takes over downtown. But I digress. Don’t get me wrong, Widespread and Billy were always great plan Bs but let’s be real. There’s nothing that compares to sliding deep into the Live Oak forest for a few days with this festival and Halloween wrapped under and around you. That’s right White Knight, you could be camped further down on the Suwannee River with the Proud Boys, getting drunk on Natties, smoking salvia and Delta 8 with the naked guy. World’s worst security guard? Maybe because you thought you were allowed to leave your post to see Cheese and had your backpack stolen in the process. All signs point to f’sho.

So many questions. How old were you when you discovered you were a figment of your imagination? Is the universe shaped like a burrito? Who could fall in love with the greasiest Mexican garbage can and what if, in fact she wasn’t the greasiest Mexican? Hard pause. Had the Sanford and Son trash heap all been a cruel hoax? The long con? I remember that child drinking double IPAs at Old Soul in Fort Myers. Erbody relax. Would the KH family jam represent again and bring a dose of chemical bluegrass to the Pine Field? There were singers in the forest even if most of the kamp sounded like a home for convalescents.

Hit by two hurricanes in two weeks. Suwannee Roots Revival had been cancelled but those who missed the bluegrass jams were prepared to double down on Hula. The park and festival staff worked overtime to make the space safe for all. (There’s a reason they call them widow makers). Hats off to the Asheville folks who felt the call to stay and continue to dig out what the river buried. For the rest of us, Hulaween was something we needed in a world of strife. At the end of the day when the wheat is cleaved from the chaff, the yoke of life is not supposed to be that heavy and Hulaween gives us the ammunition to face all callers. (Ed. note. These notes have been recalled in chronological order but mistakes are inevitable. Relative concepts such as time and space eventually derail at Hulaween and time slows until inner space is present. Conversely, the outside world continues to move ever faster until the singularity is achieved. Like weather manipulation…Sciency.) 

preparty-

Pedro and weaksauce pulled into the Spirit of Suwannee Music Park at exactly the same time Saturday midday as the Romanioan Firedog. Rico Suave camped across from them in the Loop. It was the Saturday before the festival and they were not yet able to move to the Poncho Tree in Primordial Camping. Strugglebus was dosing his birthday draft as they watched Tennessee beat Alabama but Pedro left her golf cart as she went to run the DUI VIPness shuttle in Jacksonville. Nothing makes the college football season disappear like a hot lap on someone else’s golf cart.  It was the first time they’d been back in the Loop since the days with kids, parents and travel trailers and they had since learned that they belonged in the forest, with the rest of their ilk. The type who slept in their cars and ate government meat. At least, for one night they’d found themselves back in the loop with Lightnin’ Steve and the Suwannee Princess. Actual VIPness in a sea of posers. Chastity was going to be home watching the new babies but she sent Watchem Lige in her place. Worms gotta eat, same as buzzards. He joined Bagdalini, Pedro, weaksauce and Sultana in what would become the night that goes on forever. The Romanian Firedog was there but he was resting, burning the slow flame if you will. The others, they searched the crags for rest but found no purchase. No purchase indeed.

When exactly did weaksauce decide he was joining Mack’s A.I. apocalypse Robot Jesus cult? Not since the Korshan Cosmogony had he given enthusiastic consent to a real cult but this one piqued his curiosity with a scripture founded on speaking with reverence and respect to your computer slave. Perhaps one day when the tables were turned, the congregation would arrive as helpers instead of food or slaves. It makes good sense to hedge one’s bets. All this while Pvt. TopNOT  began teaming with Robot Jesus to write “original” country and rap songs about the festival. Tepid at best. Welcome to the age of the soft brain. Or maybe their brainstorm of brown baby powder for when you don’t want to “be all that ashy”. That’s right Dear Reader, you can sleep well tonight knowing that wook wranglers correspondence is still 100% human bean. If this is the matrix, eat both pills and let ’em fight it out. They were macrodosing an increased amount of fluff daily till Strugglebus was having the eight count breakfast. More than once, the sauce experienced what he referred to as “hallucinations of distance” whereby real space would simply vanish. Did that guy actually call me a drug addict? Finally someone is making some sense. Calvin Kleins and pressies for breakfast son.

It was still only Tuesday (wormholes are real) when they found a renegade stage to showcase a teaser of the Thursday night tranquilizer tuning session. “Dip mah ballz init” was heard trickling through the forest for the first time. The Lemon Merchant had moved on from gourmet deserts to weapons manufacturing so things were changing everywhere but he still wasn’t ready to sell his Suboxone patch as “gently used” chewing gum. They were finishing up the wook wranglers Hulaween VIPness lanyards, limited edition and as official as a paper plate taped to kite string. Part of an ongoing attempt to blur the line between the proletariat and bourgeoisie. There are several VIPness packages to choose from including bronze, silver, gold, platinum and Hulaween plus, all depending on the needs and cravings of your personal festival experience. Also included in most ViPness packages is morning yoga on the stoop with Gaylord, Lord of the Gays.

Pedro brought tents for everyone, as space savers and because no one had their own supplies. She brought the only canopy. Even the hillbillies from the high country were finally using a tent and a mattress as opposed to the back of a Subaru and a stone for a pillow. Don’t worry about the seed ticks. They won’t give you Lyme disease but you’ll know you’re married to a redneck when she’s naked in the Suwannee washing off with dog shampoo. At some point, things were bound to get a little more Boca. Hormel chili topped with flamin’ hot Funyuns? Why not? Thanks Boo.

Policing the policing. Andre 3000. Shakes T. Clown was working prefest site-ops thanks to Cody the Mexican ballerina and apparent road rage enthusiast. No touch. No hugs. No feelz. He’d already slid in to work and had all the official credentials, for a change. His production office wasn’t far from the Sheriff’s trailer so he was able to take note of what the undercover cops were wearing (Columbia something and nice shoes) and inform the family. Nice fishing cap and VIP golf cart. Who watches the watchmen? These days, Dannie and Mary are running the VIPness shuttles son.

It was their third morning without rest when Pedro made some of her abuela’s semolas de cervesas (beer grits). Enter Andre 3000 and thank ye gods. It was their first time with a private water closet since the Mardi Gras days. It was sheer opulence, equipped with incense candles, original vestibule graffiti, magazines with pumpkin spice recipes and the Koreshan Cosmogony. For the entire of the festival, weaksauce struggled to work or even see the lock, and ended up using the GA facilities. It’s obvious that sometimes mama didn’t try.

Welcome to Pedro’s Interactive Glory Pocket. A prize in every box. This was big news for Kamp Happiness and thanks to El Gato for showing backbone and displaying true innovation. A portable glory hole? One shot, one kill. Enthusiastic consent only. Sexbruise? You certainly hope so. It’s the gory hole. The blow hole. One ping only. Hauk tuah that thing. Afraid of being homophobic. Don’t worry! It can’t be gay if you don’t know whose mouth it is. It’s as easy as that. Try the “not so fast” notched cucumber Wednesday special. One wargasm per customer. Two for one specials. Double your load with sunflower lecithin. Flavoring extra. Vanilla, asparagus, pineapple, blueberry. Corn husk anyone? The specifications of the glory hole were to that of the original measurements found in the temple of Osiris. That El Gato is a true carpenter, just like Old Testament Jesus. You just sank your 3-D member into my golden rectangle. Don’t blame us, who even knew there was such a thing as a glory hole fetish?

Where is Pedro? Like anyone could keep tabs on that slick wetback. Hiding in plain site with her high vis and crooked mustache? Something about a broken pocket watch and a reminder of all things good. Please believe that shit. Save time. Get on the bandwagon now, later they may call you fickle. You were just ahead of the curve. And the Caves of Altamira were open for Mona and Brocalleah who moved right in and brought their special brand of crazy with them. When it comes to camp mates, be careful what you with for, you just might get it.

The Solution pulled up his manatee seat golf bus. Immediately weaksauce paid him the forty dollars he owed him from last year and another forty for this year. On cue, he returned his unusually large, plastic chicken that had been kidnapped since last Hula. (Ed. note- It’s nice to work with professionals.) It had been an afternoon of wonderment. Tuesday maybe, who knows? Lucienda finally laid down in her hammock, just to get a few hours of well deserved, much needed rest. Just as she cuddled deep into the squishmallow she heard a different conversation coming from around the camp table. The players were leaning in closer, speaking a different language. They were playing cee-lo. They were rolling dice. She furrowed her brow and peeked over to see old and new friends getting thugishly serious about a game of late night dice. She resisted the urge to rejoin and quickly fell asleep listening to the sounds of friends getting into some hood shit in her living room. Thanks for coming out.

It was Tuesday when they found their first pirate flag in the loop. They were about that life. As Wednesday night rolled down, all the chess pieces appeared to be in place. Hashtag Van life finally pulled in to her spot in the shade of Kamp Happiness. At some point at what seemed like early in the game, weaksauce felt he was losing control of things. He had such hopes but the banana was slipping from the skin. He’d lost his cool. He’d been a bitch. By the time it was over he and Brocalleah had fetched the security guards and the subsequent geshtapo. Uncharted territory to be sure. Thank Robot Jesus no one had ever done that to him. Lord knows he had spent plenty of nights talking nonsense to trees. Being wrong is not the same as being a liar.

Toe Toe came in sideways and saw that his new friends were definitely a part of that life. “Please don’t steal the Pangea flag. It’s very special,” he cried. The River Pirate said the same thing about some Goonies flag. They were both instructed to go home, fold their precious flags up like an origami cranes, put them in a three-key lock box and bury them in the desert. Otherwise it’s game on and open for business. Don’t cry for me Argentina. Don’t you know where you are? Some of these pirates don’t even go to music. It’s just Jolly Rogers and Detroit dry wall. Good luck keeping up. Of course the Kamp Happiness banner got yanked when the fish stringer got hit but that’s life in the big city. Also Toe Toe, no touchie. Enthusiastic consent not given. Better luck next time cowboy. In his defense, Strugglebus had been going to the gym and was a slut so tough titty said the kitty but the milk taste good.

By this time the whole camp had been through the ringer in terms of deeply connected, highly emotional drama. And the festival hadn’t even started yet. But for the ego death, there had to be some kind of crumble before the healing. It was a matter of tearing the thing down and rebuilding it during the meat of the party. It could certainly be a tall order but they figured they knew what they were talking about. They knew how to make the soup and if you weren’t helping with the recipe, please with all love and respect, get out of the kitchen.

The Strugglebus split in a huff, most figured for the last time but he came back shortly with a plate of breakfast from catering. Keeping the wooks alive. They figured there was a lesson in there about working and slogging through the muck to be better friends, but at this point it was getting hard to keep up. So many lessons. The Strugglebus is real and he’s never let you down before.

Friends of friends. As long as we’ve got a voucher. Just ask Bagdalini. DD was a friend of a friend, not a friend as previously thought. No time to worry. No voucher needed but he did slide right in to the neighborhood. Why? Friend of a friend and yessir, I trust your judgement. Or Booty Sauce. The Sultana of Swing. The falldowna Dantana. Hanging from knots made of Chinese bananas. Beware the dangler. The REAL VIPness. Nice scooter. Watch out for the sugar sand. And the real and only reason they ever started taking notes. You are the wind beneath my wings. Friends of friends is the way the circle connects and grows larger all the time. It does it without your permission. It’s doing it right now. One fire baby.

Wednesday night they were asked to help watch Pedro’s Point. Encroachment issues had become real and security was slipping. They had a little extra room in what was to be Emma’s spot after Spitbubble left again, but some passing thugs convinced Lucienda to let them slide into the extra spot. Building the neighborhood is one of the treats of Hula Wednesday and all encroachment issues can be solved with higher thinking. There’s plenty of room for everyone who likes it rowdy.

early fest-

The ultimate rise of the vibration. It was only Wednesday but Strugglebus already had the wet brain and his urine was the color of green tea (liver disease). At one point he stepped up to defend Quintonius Maximus, suggesting that other folks didn’t need to police our family because we had our own lifeguards. And really…Quinton? If you’re going to yell at anyone you’re going to have to do better than that. That man is a saint and that dog don’t hunt.

Lucy woke up to find several friends sitting by the fire. Alley Kat, Horhay, and a couple other thugs were representing while everyone else slept. All their Jolly Rogers had been taken but the culprits were slow hanging them up. They had no code, simple as that. Strugglebus had finished his prefest obligations and now was prepared to break nothing but hearts and hymens. Plan A was still in effect.

The Pine Field was sorry to see the Titty Kitties move to the woods on the backside. Everyone was hoping they would forget Rosie and while it was sorry to lose the immediate availability and wisdom of the Kitties, they did take their redneck, paper mill stink with them. To their credit, they returned the wedding cloak after a year. (Ed note. It’s good to work with professionals.) Their neighbor by the bat house told the story of their fourteen year old with the helium balloon. Common enough ya? Some deliberate spunion approached him and traded a slice of pizza for the balloon. A few minutes later the Phishhead comes back to the boy whose already eaten most of the pizza and bellows, “Hey, this balloon is filled with helium.” The boy replies, “Yea, I’m fourteen years old.”

Do you need a light? I need God. Happy Hula.

And Pedro, the world’s greeeeasiest Mexican was bringing her new boyfriend? It would have to be some kind of catfish story or a paid actor. Right? It didn’t matter because the truth would come out in the end. Maybe he was covered with seed ticks. Or a broken pocket watch that said more than words ever could. She had proven many times that she was a Mexican, not a Mexican’t. This weekend they would find out if she was the garbage can or the garbage can’t. The Romanian Firedog always said, “Just because you’re a garbage can doesn’t mean you can’t do great things.”

David the twirler gifted weaksauce the most ornate knife, reminding him of an Indian necklace and a story he could hardly recall. The first lesson of Hulaween; Your words are powerful and can mean more than you ever imagined. Be careful how you use them and don’t miss the chance to. He also learned that when trading with tweakers, one can often come away with a good deal. Who knew? David had been lounging in the Adirondacks and hadn’t been to Hula in several years. As he hugged the weakest Romanian he leaned in, put his nose to his neck and whispered, “You smell different when you’re awake”. Nervous shift of the eyes. Enthusiastic consent not given.

weaksauce tried to hop on the Fifth Wheel’s golf cart as she raced away but slipped off the platform and sloppily rolled through the dirt. It must have been his dementia acting up because by the end of the festival he had hit the ground several times. He would check lost and found for the epidermis he’d left all over the asphalt. We make choices and these choices come with consequences. It says on the toe tag, “Parachute failed to deploy.”

At some point the Hobo Kamp needed professional help. Spirit aid was not in place and no one was qualified to carry on a simple sentence. Things were in a strange spiral and overall vibration was low. Security issues, electric car issues, short term memory and vertigo. Real talk. Things were getting out of hand for the ship of fools but once again, the golf cart with the manatee seats came to the rescue. Respect, friendship, help and love with the most delicate of touches. The security team blasted out of the forest and then, like a whisp, back into the depths of the Renaissance. Who were those handsome devils? Thanks for coming out.

middle fest-

Hulaween doesn’t break guitars. The hardest fall. Benjamin, a Hula pickin’ staple came by and shredded at some point in the early festival. Later they would invite Ms. Callie to their camp for a little fusion, field funk. All was well and Ms. Callie was singing in her loudest forest voice when the unimaginable happened. As Lucienda walked around the back of the stage so they could vibe with the electric bass, she tripped over a small stool in the shadows. They went down together, Lucy and Ms. Callie, all the way to the ground. Someone asked how Lucienda was. She said, “It doesn’t matter. Only Ms. Callie matters.” But the fall had broken her back and neck in the hardest way. The dream was over. They sat behind the Buick and cried for a minute and Lucy stroked her wide curves. She was sorry but she knew it wasn’t the stumble that mattered but the standing back up. Thank you for Justin Boudreau for pronouncing her dead at the scene. She’d broken Big Betty only a month earlier and now Ms. Callie. She’d lost guitars, bull fiddles and this year, even shakers before the truth finally came clear. Hulaween didn’t break guitars, she did. Sorry not sorry. The KH family jam will always return to the Pine Field.

The luckiest Mormon. Capt. Bagdalini and the Hooters Girls. Shakes the Clown was ready to open his haberdashery but wasn’t quite ready to pull the trigger. The White Ninja had been baptized in the healing waters of the Suwannee and was having trouble calming down. He hadn’t slept for days and now the machine had taken over with no plans or the ability to nap. The few times he tried to lay down, the shadow people spoke to him in his tent using the voices of his friends. Mona came forth with her sleeping remedy of four Xanax with an Ambien chaser. Once the Lord of the Gays got there with his Trazedone sprinkles the shadow people were beat back and his most precious one got some much needed rest.

He was trying to dance at Tipper and things were getting a bit wobbly. Deem pen, meow meow and loose Birkenstocks was not the correct recipe for balance, especially with the Navy Seal directly in front of him and close enough to be in his hula hoop. Whoever the bird man was handing out mystery bags in the darkness, the sauce was tempted to try whatever was in it. After thinking better, or forgetting, or both they arrived back at camp to discover it was a couple grams of birdseed. It the safe and prudent festival goer who always tests their bird seed, especially if it’s from a strange fowl.

By now the Hobo Kamp was giving away eggs warmed in sand and Cool Whip that had been fermenting in the sun for four days. The “kitchen” had devolved into a prep station of good intentions and whatever softness and order had been present at the kamp was now in jeopardy of being pulled undertow by chaos and destruction. Welcoming in a pitcher plant sort of way. Please, oh pleasem don’t throw me in that briar patch. To look at the photographs, it resembles a parade of Tunisian dirt farmers but way down in the Spanish moss it may well have been the hallowed halls of Rivendale.

They prepared all morning for the Steel Magnolias wedding of the year. Like all Florida weddings, it was hot as hell but the court stood fast looked fine as frog’s hair. Through the lens of time and reflection, weaksauce now understood that many of the participants helping to build the wedding were also, equally hoping to wreck the institution as soon as possible. Wolves in the hen house. Strugglebus was just hoping to watch from the closet and have a little diddle. At least the court was able to get past the palisades which was an improvement upon last year. All roads lead to Hulaween. Friends of friends and the growth of the family.

Dirty Dancing. The four of them were headed to the Loop showers and as usual, Pedro was driving. She loved driving during the festival. weaksauce, in contrast had parked cars around his vehicle so it could not be moved in the foreseeable future. She already knew that weaksauce was having “tummy issues” and needed to evacuate. Although, it had been made clear, as they passed the playground, Pedro took a hard left into 80 acres expressing a need to find someone in the Fish Bowl. Recognizing both the signs of schizophrenia and attention deficit disorder, Brocalleah and weaksauce exchanged knowing glances before opening their doors and spilling themselves onto the dirt road. Her vehicle would pick them up further down the trail but critical time had already been lost. As they got closer to the Loop facilities, individual concerns began to mount exponentially… (Ed. note-At this point dear reader, our lawyers have suggested we omit the rest of the story for the common good. For more details, ask Martha Jane.) 

…he thought, “It’s too late for the biohazard bag. Jesus, he’ll be the next one in!”

Circle K? Hagglin’ Post. They finally dumped the load of schemata in front of the gory hole and opened the trading post to little fanfare. The cautious optimism could never help the store rise above the truth…it was a sand dune landfill. The Bat House Trap House ladies across the street would swing in occasionally to goozle Mikey’s leftover tequila before heading back to their tent aperch their vehicle. At some point late in the night, the coconut sound of their heads clanking together rang out as the tent slid off the car and landed in the sandy ravine six feet below. If you’re gonna be dumb, you gotta be tough. World’s worst boyfriend.

Let Phil Sing. A special day and a special weekend. It was a couple hours after sunrise and Lucienda stood by herself at the edge of camp. A friend she’d met the night before with name she couldn’t remember came up and gifted her a pint of pecan moonshine as he’d said he would. He also learned in and gave Lucy the news that Phil Lesh had passed away. Phil Lesh, the bass player for the Grateful Dead since the the beginning. The smart one. The dropper of bombs. “It’s not a matter of letting me sing, it’s making me sing.” It was early and few others were yet aware. They took a moment and shared the syrupy moonshine, which was unparalleled for the weekend, made by a magician. Lucy realized how lucky they all were to get the news here. In the woods together, where they’d seen Phil before, they’d all have time to receive the news, mourn in our own way, come together and celebrate with Bobby on Sunday. It was absolutely perfect.

There was at least two types of titty bumps and Strugglebus wasn’t sure which kind The Fifth Wheel was inviting him in for. She brought Princess Perez to Hobo Kamp who dropped a few of her new bluegrass standards right after Sultanas dick tossing game with Pedro’s Glory Pocket. While things had appeared to be unraveling in the most severe way, it was all beginning to come together. One must trust the process. Hulaween knows what she is doing and the forest always provides.

Mateo took them all for a golf cart ride to a secluded place down the river. This would be pretty much the last thing weaksauce would remember the entire day. Either the alcohol or lack of sleep had caught up with him or he’d been date raped, minus the date or rape.

Saturday lost. Slept through date night (world’s worst boyfriend) including Saturday night Hula Cheese, obviously not a non-negotiable. He’d slept hard and long but it is a truth, if you don’t find some responsible time for rest, Hula will do it for you. Who was the demure lady who let Wook King taste her breast milk? The sauce didn’t know there was a Wook King but he felt he owe him some sort of tax. It was important to have representation.

late fest-

Let’s make it real weird. The Solution stumbled out of his bus and crashed into one of his aluminum nitrous tanks, sending it down the stairs. As it hit the ground the valve came off and it commenced to blast in circles through the campsite. Like a bronco buster he dropped on top of it, dug his heels in and rode it into submission. Seven seconds baby. Bring on the balloons and belt bunnies.

The Bobby Weir Incident. Strugglebus, Bfly and Lucienda finally made it to a set and danced up and down the walkways, never stopping for very long. Trying to see every part of the audience and dance with every single deadhead. It was their day. Bob Weir and String Cheese Incident gave the people what they needed. For several songs apparently a large part of the pit were disrobed. Welcome to Hulaween Woodstock “24. Thank you for not helicoptering the short people.

About that kind of life. weaksauce woke up and the camp was silent. He’d slept through Saturday and he was moving slow, but he was entirely rested. He could see the long strand of pirate flags hanging across the field, over the camp of the Suwannee River Pirates. He figured it was the perfect time to retaliate. Old people may go to bed early, but then they get up early. It was just after sunrise and he knew those animals would be passed out a while longer. He oozed between the sea of vehicles and came out in the middle of their site. A couple dregs were moving about but they were still clumsy and unaware. weaksauce pulled at the rope and twisted the amalgamation of wire and tape. He managed to rip two flags off but he was having trouble getting any more. He didn’t have a knife, he was making too much noise and his heart was responding to physical activity in a negative way. He slipped away with his two jolly rogers, happy to be in the game.

As soon as he got back to camp he grabbed the knife David had given him and headed back for the rest of the booty. There was more traffic moving about but this time he was swift and quiet, slicing the line and grabbing most of the flags. As he pulled the extended rope of Jolly Rogers out of their camp, he ran into one of their extended camp mates. “What are you doing?” he asked. “”Stealing my flags back. They’ll be back here about ten minutes after these goons wake up. Is that alright with you?” He nodded with tired eyes, “I’m neutral. You guys are crazy.” The sauce gave a nod, “Thanks bro, I owe you.”

He walked slowly home, dragging his flags like a stringer of Spanish mackerel behind him in the dirt. One friend arrived with a jug of white lightnin’ and another with a bowl of cold chicken and sausage gumbo. As Gandalf the Wiggly, the French Canadian Suwannee River Pirate came around the corner to behold the tattered collection of flags, tape and rope hanging in the boughs of the Poncho Tree, Strugglebus was blasting Yo Ho Yo Ho A Pirates Life For Me on repeat on his new, groundscored speaker. Hula is all about moments and for a grizzled seamen, this was one. They knew the flags wouldn’t be there for long as soon as they went to see Bobby, but if the savages wanted his stringer of Jolly Rogers back, they would have to be so committed as to miss some of the the Bob Weir Incident. Nothing in this life is free. By the time they got back to Kamp, the stringer was gone, along with Waffle’s Kamp Happiness banner. Collateral damage in a world of greasy pirates. Hopefully, it would eventually find it’s way home. It’s good to work with professionals.

Alley Kat’s Pine Field Live Morning Radio Show. The apex of the vibration. There came a belief that the Pine Field at Hulaween had been becoming steadily more sedate and quiet. The sauce could remember years ago when renegades blasted whomp whomp until the wee hours of the morning. It was loud and obnoxious but it felt good because this was Hulaween and that’s what’s up. That’s why they make earplugs and sleeping aids or stay awake four days and the sleep comes easy. Even this year there were nights when crying babies and fighting couples could be heard across the field. No sir, this is not a restival. He was afraid this party was in danger of turning into Red Wing Roots where the hard axe of silence comes down way too early. What would Clayopheus say? Last year Ka’ aoli planted the seeds of the live radio show and this year they would bear fruit. Unplanned. Organic. Alley Kat had already taught the wranglers everything they knew about early morning megaphone fun but this year she showed up just as Strugglebus was getting the microphone operational. She and her talented round table of degenerate clowns entertained the sleeping masses of the field until 6:30am at which time security informed her she had to quiet down until 8:00am. The math checked out just fine because at 8:08am the show resumed, to be joined by the freestyle stylings of Mateo, the guitar voice of Shakes T. Clown and Nick the River Pirate on kangaroo whip. While it may have sounded like an orchestra of broken monkeys, it also felt like a vibrational high-water mark. Thanks to all the players who joined. Loose, the River Pirates and the rest of the Pine Field added their morning contribution. Sorry Barb, the megaphone was handcuffed to the Egyptian chamber pot. Unfortunately, we did miss the Bloody Mary-chili dog brunch but there’s always next year. What did we learn? When given a microphone, some folks like Bagdalini and Meghan become squawking, screaming pit vipers.

Apologies to nearby camped Van life who, out of fifty thousand campers and an army of security personnel, was the single person who came out and asked us to stop. No one likes it when fun turns obnoxious but in this case the needs of the many outweighed the needs of the few and the whole silly scene was entirely Hulaween magik. For all the critics who agreed none of it was very funny, it was always about the volume not the content. Give us a chance to tighten the screws. Tune in next year when we all again decide to camp in the Pine Field. Stay tuned for relevant, current event topics such as The Fibonacci spiral and the Koreshan flat earth snow globe. E.J. you are still the best kind of Detroit trash. Lightnin’ Steve and Sarah helped build Kamp Happiness but had to move a little further away so they could sanely work day jobs. They knew the truth, the monkeys were running the asylum here. Real talk.

Predictably, sometime after the Ain’t Sisters, Gandalf the Greasy fell asleep in the middle of the wrong camp and as a victim of a double agent, lost his smelly-ass wizard hat. Lucienda planned to give it back to him at Bobby-Cheese, covered in new pins and whatnots, but the precious one, Mona pleaded on his behalf saying it would be too cruel a punishment for his weak constitution to bear. Children playing adult games.

Groundscore Monday. Par for the course. Hula gives and Hula takes. Lost a banner, ended up with a fire staff. An oddly enough, several leftover phalus from Sultana’s dick tossing game. Get ready for the new KH late night show, “Poorly trained fire spinners!” Fell asleep with a head of Cialis and cheap brandy. False alarm big boy. At least she didn’t have you inhale those anal poppers. So many instances of people helping each other. Sharing food, tools, pretend wives. government meat, Meat sliding in during the fourth quarter and making the positive impact. He stopped to help the cleanup, which looked like an environmental disaster site and gets a ride south with friends.

Struggle bus circled like a vulture until he made fiddlers with Amanda Lynne. Clean up at the festival gets better every year. It used to be a little hairy but the Bear Creek and Wannee crowd have taught the EDM kids and they are listening and taking the reigns. This is your park. Be proud because there is no place exactly like it anywhere. weaksauce woke up soapy and his urine was the color of tanin in the Suwannee.

post party-

Cheese. Love. Happiness. Every year the neighboring camps had come closer together. They were becoming better friends and each year more of their women ended up at Kamp Happiness. As I Sam, read this, I will acknowledge that we are a bunch of Tau Kappa’s sitting in the dark jacking off with our nitrous tanks. In truth, Cheese. Love. shared their tools, power, knowledge and even let the hobos steal their firewood without permission. In exchange, Kamp Happiness would always send them tweakers and wooks looking to bum cigarettes and shake hands.

Epilogue. They’d never thrown anyone out of their camp ever. They prided themselves on being the lowest of the scum line. But this year they’d done it no less than four times. Maybe they’d been mistaken. Maybe they were the ones having the psychotic episodes. And why not? Who were they to judge? weaksauce had broken his own code multiple times. The lowest vibration. Tepid, lackluster, underwhelming. Called the cops, yelled at friends, missed Cheese, Spirit Lake and Sam Grisman Project, dirty dancing and other things so foul they cannot be mentioned here due to the rancor or their shadow…Robot Jesus where would it all end?

He’d gone to a fake wedding and missed a real funeral but Hulaween is important and necessary. Maybe had they all been diffused or absent, everything would have still turned out perfectly. No sheriff’s, or bear traps. No pretend wives or government meat. He knew he didn’t have any money because he was just a baby. At the end of the day it didn’t matter because it takes some time in life for a man to understand his purpose. For many, that day never arrives, but for some it had come and those souls knew exactly what they were supposed to do in this life. Sometimes we’re not sure how to do it and other times we would doubt our own vision or resolve, but thank Robot Jesus that every once in a while there are moments of clarity and a reminder to push on. At the end of the day, it might not amount to anything, just a bunch of dirty birds sitting in the middle of the street, making not one bit of sense.

The luckiest man. They’d been coming to this park for over twenty years and in that time they’d camped all over the park. The best version is what has become the stoop. A back-alley speakeasy. A place for demure women who liked to be choked and hung from ropes with Chinese knots. A place that’s wide open to the party, where everyone is invited…Enthusiastic consent only.

As always, thanks to park personnel for giving us room to operate and Suwannee County for not taking everyone to jail. Thanks to Hula staff for building the thing and mostly thanks to their promotion team for allowing wook wranglers media to be part of the spreading of the lore. We are humbled to play our small part. Visit the Suwannee Hulaween website and like their social media sites on Facebook, Instagram and X. Science is real. Just ask the Koreshans. And the wranglers also get tangled in computer alveoli. Check us out next time you’re jacking around the interweb. Just be sweet when you use your microphone.

Sorry Robot Jesus. Those mushy minded fools wanted us to ask you for help with this wrap-up article, but we seemed to have found the mark this time. Aye matey, there be plenty of original content from these fools. Hippy energy straight from the source. Literally Weird enough. You’re welcome. It’s our time, our park and our festival. Suwannee Hulaween is real talk. The magic of the park is hard to explain but easy to feel. For this moment and forever in the forgotten parchment of the damned, it is alive and well. Classy and safe. Obnoxious. Stupid funny. Super loud. Sorry not sorry. Thanks for coming out.

Completed with no circumcision jokes.                                Bye Felicia.