If I didn’t know Hanson was playing, I would’ve sworn I was at Lilith Fair. I had no idea Hanson had a huge lesbian following. I’m talking the shorthaired truck driver type. Hundreds of lesbians at this festival, but only one asphyxiated with my aunt’s bug repellent.
Last weekend, QuikTrip celebrated its 50th birthday with a free music festival. My aunt wanted to see Hanson. I wanted to eat $.50 hotdogs. Since everyone we know “wouldn’t be caught dead at a Hanson concert,” it was a perfect match.
To avoid traffic, and walking through a Section 8 area of Tulsa, we parked at the fairgrounds and took the shuttle.
The shuttle was a school bus. I wanted to keep moving to the back of the line in hopes of catching the short bus. I’m convinced the short bus is a smoother ride. Mainly for the extra padding I believe these busses have because short bus riders are seizure prone.
We arrived at Riverpark West at 4:00 p.m.
“I brought my best camera,” I said as we walked to the entrance. “It’s ten megapixels. I’ll be able to zoom in on the stage. You’ll have plenty of good pictures to masturbate to.”
“I don’t need pictures. I have my imagination,” my aunt said.
“Well, you’ll have good pictures to drool over. Oh, look. They’re doing a bag check.”
My aunt opened her bag. Security let her through. I opened my bag. They wouldn’t let me in.
“You can’t come in with a camera,” said the short latino Rent-a-Cop.
“What? I’m only taking pictures.”
“No telephoto lens.”
“I won’t use the telephoto lens. I’ll take wide shots.”
“You’ll have to take it back to your car.”
“I didn’t drive. I took the shuttle. My car is at the fairgrounds.”
“You can’t come in.”
Whining was not working. I switched tactics.
“Are you a model?”
“No.”
“You should be. You have a great physique. Look at those arms. They’re incredible. And I know, I’m a professional photographer. Let me snap a photo of you.”
“Are you a queer?”
“What? No, I’m not a queer. I’m a professional photographer.”
“I think you might be a queer.”
“I’m not queer. I do this for a living.
“You’re getting kind of defensive. You might be queer.”
“I’m not queer.”
“Well, I’m not the one at a Hanson concert.”
“I’m here to eat hot dogs.”
“My point exactly.”
“I’m … uh … Fine … Barney Fife.”
I walked to the Berlin Wall that separated the Section 8 apartments from the music festival. I stood on one side, my aunt stood on the other.
“I can’t come in. My camera is too powerful for them.”
“What are you going to do,” my aunt asked.
“I can either go back, or sit out here and get shot. I’ll go back. Give me your keys.”
She tossed the keys over the fence.
“See you in an hour.”
I rode the shuttle back to fairgrounds, locked the camera in the trunk and rode the shuttle back to the festival. Again, I missed the short bus.
“Good idea to use the shuttle,” I thought to myself. “I’m glad I didn’t waste precious minutes trying to park.”
Two hours after we first parked, I made it inside the festival.
I walked past Barney Fife and snarled. He was too busy tasing someone with a camcorder to notice.
We bought hot dogs, corndogs, funnel cakes and sodas. We found a spot near the stage we believed Hanson would play on. There were two stages. We stretched out our blanket, placed our coronary buffet within reach and listened to Leon Russell.
“Have you noticed the unusual high number of lesbians?”
“I know. There’s a lot of them here.”
“I wonder if they think Taylor Hanson is a girl and no one is brave enough to break it to them.”
I heard a lawn chair crack open beside me. I glanced over my shoulder. She looked like a truck driver.
“Do you think she heard me,” I whispered to my aunt.
“I don’t know, but she keeps watching me.”
I turned and casually pretended to look for someone in order to check her out. I turned back toward my aunt
“I think she’s watching both of us. She growled.”
“Don’t make eye contact.”
My aunt swatted a mosquito.
I’m getting eaten alive.”
She reached into her bag and pulled out a can of insect repellent. She offered a spray down.
“Generic Off?”
“No, bugs don’t ever bother me.”
She started with her legs. The repellent shot out like a Raid Fogger. It formed a toxic cloud that affected everyone within a 10-foot radius. I turned my head and saw the truck driver cover her mouth, cough, jump out her chair and run.
“That was dramatic. She ran off and …”
Before I could finish my sentence, she came back. She bent down, one-inch away from my Aunt’s face, and looked her in the eye.
“You better not do that again,” she said. She sounded like John Wayne.
“I’m sorry. I’ve never used this brand before.”
My aunt used her fake smile normally reserved for drunks.
“I’m warning you. Do not use that again.”
“Ok. Get out of my face.”
“What did you say?”
“I said get out of my face.”
“Or what?”
The last thing I wanted was a fight. I didn’t have my camera. I had to think fast.
“Asphyxiate her.”
“What?”
“Asphyxiate her! Use the repellent!
She pulled out the repellent, aimed at Ms. Wayne and pressed the nozzle. Another stream of fog shot out. Ms. Wayne bent over and gasped for air.
“Run!”
“Grab the blanket!”
I reach for a hot dog.
“Forget the food! Run!”
We ran to the other stage, which worked against us. It wasn’t the stage Hanson played on, and I didn’t eat my hot dog.
At least we heard Hanson.
QuikTrip closed the night with a 6-hour fireworks show. We left after 20 minutes.
At the exit gate, QT gave away free sandwiches, free wraps and free cookies.
I bit into a Snickerdoodle, which made the whole night worth it.
September 23, 2008 at 11:53 am |
It’s really sad that OKC has plenty of Hanson loving lesbians yet no QuikTrip to help them celebrate with song. You could market that bug spray as Les-be-Gone. Many women are in need of such a product.