I would like to be able to say that I stuck it out. I would like to be able to say that I am so hardcore that a little rain never scared me off my beat. I would like to be able to say a lot of things, but I would be completely full of crapola were I to actually say them.

Behold! The scene pre-Sheryl Crow (shield your children’s ears; there is an F-bomb in this video!):

Yeah, it got pretty nasty. A couple of acts canceled, even. I stood out in that mess for quite a while. I thought to myself, Self, if all these puny little skinny little emo kids can make it through this nasty wet electrified mess of a night, surely you can! And yet, as soon as the rain whipped up enough power to make unidentifiable noises (dragons?) and soak itself through every last shred of denim and cotton on my body, I decided it was time for me to depart Tom Lee Park and leave the blogging to the professionals (i.e. everyone else). The good news is that I made it back to my car in one piece and that, en route to my car, only three super-Christian dudes yelled at me to save my mortal soul (compared to last year’s veritable throng of proselytizers). Granted, I did not actually enter the Beale Street mortal-soul battleground, or else I might have seen much more.

And while I would have loved to have stayed for a song or two by My Chemical Romance (I can dig some poppy nu-punk opera stylings … when in the right mood) and Sheryl Crow (did I ever tell you about that time I was at a sleepover for this girl named Gina in middle school and Sheryl Crow’s first album was playing and we were playing tag in the church basement and I was being chased and looked behind me and ran right into a cinder-block wall and bruised my chin something fierce and had to wear heavy concealer for two weeks?), I just couldn’t do force myself to go through with it. I know, revoke my blogging/pajamas media badge! I’m sorry, internet. I’ve failed you.

All I can offer as an olive branch is a photo dump!

I will say one thing about the rain, though. There is freedom in it. Once you’re standing out there in your utter disgusting smelliness, soaked to the bone, there is only one thing to do: ROCK. Or tiptoe playfully through the puddles. But either way requires a kind of selflessness that is reassuring late on a Friday night. To all those frolicking through puddles late Friday night, I salute you.