|Don't stop, git it git it.|
I don't know what you people do in your spare time. Obviously you watch crappy television, but maybe you also read books? Naw, no one reads books. Do you play sports? What a strange question, "Do you play sports?" That's the kind of question you'd ask a child. I'm guessing you don't play sports. You probably go to Chuck E. Cheese every Saturday afternoon with your stupid, fat kid and shove pizza into your dumb, fat faces. That actually sounds amazing, anything with pizza sounds amazing, but not as amazing as my afternoon this past Saturday at the Philadelphia Caribbean Festival. I'm guessing you weren't there, because if you were, your head would've exploded all over your dumb, fat face, and you wouldn't be able to read this post. It for that reason that I can say without any shadow of a doubt that you need to reevaluate how you live your life.
Going to a Caribbean Festival is pretty much the most bonkers way to spend a Saturday afternoon in this whole entire stupid bonkers world. I am a veteran of the festivals, and have now been to three of them -- Cambridge Mass, New York and Philly -- and each one blew my butt right off my fat face. At my first (on a 95-degree day in Cambridge, 2004), I witnessed first hand as a Bahamian woman locked eyes with me and poured water all over her glistening face, neck, chest and breast area. It was -- and still is -- the most incredible thing I've ever seen (even more incredible than this Antonio McDyess tip-dunk). But at this past weekend's carnival, held in Philadelphia's Fairmount Park, I saw a couple things with my own two eyes that I just had to share, hence this blogpost that has absolutely nothing to do with TV my Non-Trinidadian wife watches.
First though, let's paint the pictsh.
For any of you who have never been to Fairmount Park, it is a green, sprawling, urban shit palace that stretches all over Philadelphia. It extends a whopping 9200 acres, which I believe -- and I'm completely making this up -- makes it the biggest shit park in the entire world. The Fairmount Park system actually consists of 63 parks, each one covered in broken glass, weeds and trash. There's seriously so much trash. While walking around the park this weekend, I tripped on some trash and almost sliced my hand open on a downed telephone wire, but was lucky enough to cushion my fall by landing on some more trash. The Philadelphia Carribean Festival didn't take place in the shaftiest, dirtiest, trashiest part of Fairmount Park, but for any person who is not used to partying in a place coated in human blood, it may well have been.
|Where's Oscar the Grouch??? |
lol lol lol jk jk he doesn't live in Philly lol lol
omg does he?
Now full disclosure, I didn't actually plan to attend the Festival. I only happened upon it after purchasing tickets to a really, really, lame concert at a nearby music venue. I don't really wanna tell you what concert it was -- cuz it will totally blow my reputation as a bad-ass, renegade blogger -- but I will. It was The Postal Service. And while I recognize that The Postal Service is not the lamest concert to buy tickets for (that'd be the Cranberries, who I saw perform at the Tower Theatre in 1994 and they were AWESOME) it's certainly not the coolest either. But in order for you to fully appreciate this story, you have to understand where I was coming from at the time -- a place of sheer gaiety, giddiness and whiteness.
After buying the tixx and skipping back to my car like Julie Fucking Andrews, I heard some HOT REGGAE BEATS MONN coming from not too far away, so I decided to take a stroll down toward the music. I wasn't exactly sure what I was walking into, because reggae music and giant clouds of smoke are not abnormal for Fairmount Park, but as I got closer to THA SWIFT SOUNDS OF SHAGGY, MONN, I saw all the things that one might expect from a Carribean Festival: hot chicks, hot dudes, hot dogs, enormous tractor trailers with speakers loaded on top of them as high as the eye can see, lined up one-by-one down the street for as far back as the eye already used that phrase in this sentence.
Each big rig (that's a trucker term) came complete with just the front part of the truck (that's not a trucker term), with speakers sitting in the bed of the truck (not an actual bed) and a guy holding a microphone screaming at everyone to rep their countries, "WHERE TRINIDAD AT? WHERE BARBADOS AT? LEMME HEAR YOU SAY FYE-URR!" and then the whole crowd would respond by yelling, "FYYEEE-URRRR!" There was also a DJ on each truck, and around 45 scantily clad Caribbean women dancing and shaking their bodies in ways that no Jewish wife who watches TV has ever done. Below them in the street were hundreds of other scantily clad Carribean twerkers, as well as tons of lecherous dudes draped in the flags of their homelands, while the sweet smell of bbq, sweat, sex and Drakkar Noir filled the air. I walked around the entire perimeter of the festival scouting everything out in my homemade Christian Laettner Dream Team jersey, a baseball cap and women's sunglasses, while giving off a combination of scents, mostly sun tan lotion and Jew.
Now time to scope out the best place to watch women grind their butts against dudes, I settled on a shady spot right in front of the truck with the most women grinding their butts against dudes. I guess seeing women twerking isn't really that big of a deal these days, but to a 36-year-old blogger whose doctor recently told him to incorporate A LOT MORE BRAN INTO HIS DIET, it's still a pretty big deal. Also, watching a dumb teenage white girl twerk on YouTube is one thing (link link link), but seeing THE PRIDE OF BARBADOS bend over like a giraffe, put her palms flat on the ground and waive her Caribbean donk in the air while dudes in army fatigues take turns SIMULATING BUTT SEX behind her, is really a sight to behold.
Later, one of the women decided to straddle the hood of the truck (they can do that) while a dude took his package and grinded it into her face. Amazingly, she seemed to thoroughly enjoy this, as did Microphone Guy who demanded the entire crowd chant "Giveittoher! Giveittoher! Giveittoher! Giveittoher!" Remarkably, this was only the second-most unbelievable thing I saw all day.
The most amazing thing happened during a break in the action -- a forced break in the action really -- when Microphone Guy told the DJ to shut off the music.
MICROPHONE GUY (with Caribbean accent): Turn down the music, turn down the music, now. Hear me now. Hear me now. Calm down. Calm down. I have an announcement now, I have an announcement. We have a missing child.
At this point a subtle gasp came over the audience, but not nearly as gaspy as you'd expect after an announcement of this nature. The mother of the child -- completely freaking out -- lifted herself onto the truck and grabbed the microphone from Microphone Guy (the audacity of her!) and started speaking VERY quickly.
MOTHER OF CHILD: I am missing my daughter! Her name is Charisma! Please help me find my child. I am missing my child.
Microphone Guy then took back the mic.
MICROPHONE GUY: Okay, calm down, calm down. Everybody calm down. Let the executives handle this. Calm down, calm down. There's no reason to roll around on the ground, crying and screaming. Calm down, calm down. We are missing a child. Calm down, the executives will handle this. Calm down.
Now keep in mind, most people had stopped dancing at this point -- but there were still a few random people twerking and hula hooping, and there weren't really any people hula hooping, that'd be ridiculous, but there were a few people doing stuff -- I honestly can't remember because A GODDAMN CHILD WAS MISSING, but Microphone Guy was telling me to calm down so I was trying to listen to him as best I could while scanning the park FOR A MISSING PERSON.
MICROPHONE GUY: Now Philadelphia, we want to come back here next year, and the year after that, so you're going to have to work with me now. Calm down. We want to come back here in 2015. We want to come back here in 2020. We must all work together now. It might help if we had a description of the child. Do you think that might help? To have a description of the child?
The mother of the child was pretty much hanging off of the truck at this point, almost inverted like Nadia Comaneci, trying to kick the mic out of Microphone Guy's hand so she could give a description of her goddamned child. He pretended not to see her.
MICROPHONE GUY: Okay now calm down, calm down. Let the executives handle this. It would really help us to have a description of the child. So Philadelphia! Would you like to have a description of the child? Because if you'd like to have a description of the child, lemme hear you say "FYE-UR!"
ENTIRE CROWD: FYYYE-URRRR!
Now, it was at this moment when my mouth pretty much fell right off my face. Not that the crowd didn't have the right motives, they totally did!, but uhhhh, folks?!? FOLKS?!? I started looking around at everyone around me and thinking, "THERE'S A CHILD MISSING" but the words never really came out of my mouth, they just sort of hung there like a string of drool after biting a meatball hoagie. My head was now on a swivel, not looking for the child, but trying to find SOMEONE to connect with, to understand why this was so amazing! but no, everyone just stood there looking up at Microphone Guy waiting for his next request.
Long story short, Microphone Guy never gave us a description of the child, another child was reported missing seconds later, but then both chirdren were found shortly after (they were off getting cherry Icees).
I stayed for around another 10 minutes, watched a few more women dance, accidentally made eye-contact with the only other white person there, and then went home to see my beautiful wife who I love very much.
All in all, it was wonderful afternoon in Fairmount Park, mostly because I managed to not come home with any sexually transmitted diseases.
Now lemme hear ya say "FYEEEE-URRR!" ...