Brotman touches on the sociosexual dynamics of this new style of travel, a wisp of a thesis I'd like to develop a little more here. She writes: "Ladies, learn from my uncomfortable experience: Reconsider bending to retrieve something from your purse on the floor if there is a gentleman standing inches in front of you. There is nothing you need that badly."
"The haters tryna see a mf Dwn lol Dey gotta b broke and bored wanna upload sum sh— from years ago damnn we winnin it's 2 late...#3hunna," he wrote. "Dis wat doin betta den da next mf bring small s—- it's nothin time 2 turn Uppp f—- it...#3hunna."
Anyway, I've been curious to know what they put in the water over there that they're doing so well, so I stopped in at a Social Week Chicago talk given Monday by the website's chief revenue officer, Andy Wiedlin, about how Buzzfeed tries to connect its advertisers with its audience. The site has a pretty plausible theory on the mechanics of article sharing on the Web, which every Internet user can probably learn from.
"Michelle Fiore was enjoying an evening out with her 11-year-old daughter after Lollapalooza when a man confronted them, demanded the girl's souvenir beach ball and punched the child as he tried to grab it, police and the woman say."
The man in question is 19-year-old Conrad Slimak, who is being charged with misdemeanor battery and assault (and was also cited for being intoxicated while underage). The Trib's piece offers plenty of detail about the attack Slimak allegedly committed, but it fails to mention something else Slimak is alleged to be: a shitty EDM producer.
The megaphone-toting preacher's words stuck with me throughout Lollapalooza. In a way he was right; if hell is a place that punishes people for overindulging in something by forcing it upon them in such quantity that what they once loved becomes vile beyond recognition, then festivals can certainly be a type of hell for anyone who eats, breathes, and sleeps music. Festivals are where cherished bands perform with sound systems so shoddy or poorly run that you regret ever seeing them live. Festivals are where you go—if you're my height at least—to stand on your tiptoes to get a peek at a musician the size of a thimble from the back of the crowd. They're where you ditch any semblance of politeness to muscle your way closer to the stage—only to end up next to a meathead bigger than nearly everyone in sight who's dead set on forcing everybody smaller than him within arm's reach to crowd surf against their will, and he's looking right at you. Festivals are places that trap you for days, stick you in swarming masses of people for hours upon hours, and invade your dreams even after the headliners have finished their "impromptu" encore. Festivals are often held during the hottest months of the year—the weather's quite a bit cooler than infernal fire and brimstone, but unfortunately real.
My thoughts during that first spin of "I Like It," in chronological order, went something like this:
1. "I can get down with this, in a big, broad, 70s rock kind of way." (It's worth mentioning that recently I've been on a Meat Loaf kick for reasons that I'm still figuring out.)
2. "But it still bums me out that so much of rock 'n' roll has made the decision to turn its back on the future and content itself with revisiting its past successes, like the middle-aged former jock reminiscing about the time his high school team went all the way to the state championships."
3. "Wait, is that guy really saying what I think he's saying?"
It turns out that he was, and that the chorus indeed consists of a white dude singing, "That's the biggest black ass I've ever seen / And I like it." No shit.