by Ryan Ridge
30.
Lisa calls and says my guilt stems from the fact I was brainwashed as a child.
I tell her I was raised by my grandparents. “They were Quakers,” I say. “They didn’t even push an ideology on me. I don’t recall any brainwashing.”
“Of course, you don’t,” she says. “That’s one of the hallmarks of brainwashing: not remembering.”
I feel uncomfortable considering the prospect of suppressed traumas because many of the memories I do remember are already ugly enough, so I change the subject. “What do you think of my festival?”
“It’s fantastic,” she says, “but you’ll need a name attached to it if you want to generate any buzz.”
“A name?” I say.
“Don’t worry,” she says. “I know a guy who knows Clint Eastwood.”
“Didn’t Clint Eastwood just call our generation a bunch of pussies?” I say.
“No,” she says. “He said that about millennials.”
“Aren’t we millennials?” I say.
“No,” she says, “we do drugs. We’re part of a forgotten micro-generation between X and Y.”
“What are we called?” I say.
“I forget,” she says. “The name isn’t memorable, but you know what name is? Clint Eastwood.”
“His star is fading,” I say.
“Hey,” Lisa says, “it’s America. A star is a star.”
29.
Later, my Spotify goes rogue and plays an early-aughts hit that isn’t on any of my playlists. As soon as I hear the initial drum track, I’m transported back to my second semester at Cal State Fullerton when I lived with Dave in a studio above a bakery, and now, listening to the opening synths, I suddenly feel like skipping my History of the Future class, slamming a sixer of Rolling Rock, and eating a day-old bagel sandwich. The name of the song is called “Clint Eastwood.” It’s by Gorillaz.
Right now, Lisa texts: “Clint Eastwood, yo!”
And I’m like: What? So, I text back: “What? How do you know I’m listening to that, you freak?”
And she writes: “What?”
And I write: “‘Clint Eastwood’!”
And she writes: “He’s in for your festival. :)”
And I write: “Seriously?”
And she writes: “As serious as dental hygiene.”
And then she adds: “Off to floss, boss.”
28.
The guy I know with guns always has super original things to say about the Constitution. He also knows obscure stories about the sex lives of the Founding Fathers. For instance, he says that, despite his weird wig and wooden teeth, George Washington ravished more women than the original British Invasion bands. “I mean more chicks than the Beatles and the Stones, combined,” he says.
We’re standing on the side of the 7-Eleven on Sunset, sipping Coca-Cola Slurpees. “That’s fascinating,” I say.
“There’s a reason we erected a monument to his boner on the National Mall is all I’m saying,” he says. “The dude was virile.”
“I didn’t think he had any children,” I say.
“Not biological, but he had his way with an entire nation. Think about it,” he says, pointing to the 7-Eleven marquee. “What if I told you this place is named after him?”
“7-Eleven?” I say. “Yeah, right.”
“It’s true,” he says. “George Washington was a colonial spymaster. Probably the single greatest secret agent of the eighteenth century. Guess what his code name was during the Revolution?”
“American Dad,” I say.
“Good guess, but no.” Again, he points to the 7-Eleven sign. “Agent 711.”
“Interesting theory,” I say. “However, I think they named it 7-Eleven because they’re open from seven a.m. to eleven p.m.”
“Sure, that’s the official story,” he says. “But do some googling. It’ll get spooky.”
And when I get home, I do. Turns out the guy I know with guns is right about George Washington’s Agent 711 nickname during the war. I remove a dollar bill from my wallet and examine his face for several minutes. I bet he was a mean poker player. Just then, I have an idea for my festival so I open the Notes app on my iPhone and type:
711 Fest
But that doesn’t make any sense now that I consider it, so I delete it.
Then I type:
911 Fest
But that sounds dangerous and misguided, so I delete it.
Then I type:
1111 Fest: Make a wish!
My wish is that I could think of a decent name for my festival because this isn’t one so I delete it.
27.
I got the idea for my festival because everywhere I went people always told me they were looking forward to my festival. They said: “We’re looking forward to your festival, man!” However, I didn’t have a festival. It was a case of mistaken identity. I look just like the guy who founded this famous music festival in the desert where the hippest influencers selfie themselves in their expensive sunglasses and unironic rompers. I’ve never attended the festival myself, but judging by the extravagant partying appearing in my Instagram feed it feels like I’m missing out on some serious fun, so I thought: Why go all the way out to the desert? Why not bring the party to me? Why not be the person people think I am anyway? Thus, my festival—and I hope that it will be even trendier and more influential than that other guy’s festival!
26.
I want to invite more people to my festival, but I don’t know more people. Aside from Dave and Lisa and the guy I know with guns, most of my friends are either married or dead. On the phone, Dave is reassuring. He says not to worry.
“Don’t worry,” he says. “I’ll bring the orphans. It’ll do them well to get out and dance. Will there be dancing at your festival?”
“Of course,” I say. “It’s a festival. I’m working on the playlist now.”
“What’s the name of your festival?” Dave says.
“No idea,” I say, and right then another random song starts playing on my Spotify. I listen to the first verse. It’s about a guy on a horse, and the horse doesn’t have a name. “How about I call my festival A Festival with No Name?”
“Hmm,” Dave says. “It could work if you’re aiming for irony, but everyone hates irony now. These days it’s all about positivity and hotness. You should call your festival Burning Ma’am.”
“Did you say Burning Ma’am?”
“Yeah,” Dave says, “and at the end of the festival, you can torch a wicker woman instead of a wicker man. The future is female. You’ll be lauded and loved.”
“I don’t think so,” I say, but I type it into my Notes app anyway because I don’t have any better ideas.
MAKE MY DAY with Clint Eastwood Fest
No Idea Fest
Burning Ma’am?
25.
The city weekly called the guy who founded the famous music festival a “provocateur” and a “madman genius.” I wonder if you have to be a madman genius at provocation to throw really great festivals or if throwing really great festivals instills these skills. Either way, I hope that my festival will be a wildly provocative event! I’ve been practicing my madman moves in the mirror.
24.
The guy I know with guns says he can see the madman in me, sure, but if I genuinely want to be considered a genius, I should wise up and get myself an arsenal like him. He says that it’s only a matter of time before the shit hits the fan and do I want to be utterly helpless after such a paradigm-shifting event?
“No, no, you do not,” he says. “Guns save lives. They are as important as the Constitution itself. Shit, we wouldn’t even have a Constitution if it weren’t for guns. We’d all be drinking tea all day like d-bags and venerating the damn queen. Fuck the queen.”
“How do you really feel?” I say, sipping my Mountain Dew Slurpee outside the 7-Eleven on Sunset.
“Other than this brain freeze,” he says, killing his Slurpee, “I don’t feel. I’m always rational, a
lways armed. And you know what the experts say about a well-armed populace, right?”
“It’s the best defense against tyranny.”
“That’s right,” he says, “and you don’t want any tyranny at your festival. You could even call your festival No Tyranny.”
“It’s called EchoFest,” I say.
“Nice,” he says.
23.
Lisa texts, “Paul, I’m so excited for your festival.”
I text back, “My name isn’t Paul, Lisa.”
Lisa texts, “You’re such a Paul, pal.”
22.
Paul is the name of the guy who started the legendary music festival in the desert and otherwise throws really great festivals. He’s also got another phenomenal one on a mountain in Ecuador where there isn’t any music, and instead of song, everyone stays silent and juice-fasts for the six days leading to the solstice. Then everyone gorges on magic-mushroom tacos and drinks frog-venom tea from crystal chalices and listens to their own crazed interior monologues until they puke their brains out and reconnect with the wide-eyed wonder of their inner children. From what I’ve read on Reddit, this festival sounds intense and awesome, but I hope that my festival will be even more impressive. There are only six days left, and I still don’t have any supplies for my festival. I do, however, have a pretty decent playlist.
21.
I go to the Whole Foods Market in Venice Beach to buy artisanal sandwich supplies for my festival and whom do I meet in the beer cooler but Paul, the guy who throws great festivals.
Paul says, “Dude, I can’t wait for your festival!”
I say, “Dude, you’re coming to my festival?”
Paul says he wouldn’t miss it for the world, which means a lot because he’s so worldly. He only dates European auto-show models. “Can’t forget the limes,” he says, picking up a couple of limes to accompany his case of Corona. “My girlfriend’s girlfriend would get all stabby.”
“So,” I say, “I’ve got to ask: What’s the secret to throwing great festivals?”
Paul sets down the beer, does a short sequence of standing yoga poses, and then he stops and lifts his left arm and begins rotating the limes in the palm of his hand as if they were a pair of Chinese medicine balls. The limes circle themselves slowly in a clockwise rotation through his fingers and I’m transfixed as he completes five full revolutions before reversing the direction.
“Exploitation is key,” he says, eventually. “Bottom line: if people aren’t exploited, it isn’t a great festival.”
“Exploitation,” I say. “Got it. Anything else?”
“Yes,” he says. “Aim for the youth tourism demographic. It’s a bull’s-eye every time. If you can afford to build out your PR team, do it. Hire some savvy media folks to make you some super sick memes. You’ll need a slick tagline, too. And most importantly: sell things at your festival. Lots of things. Do you know the easiest way to sell things?”
I nod like I used to nod at my professors back at Fullerton when I didn’t know the answer to something but nonetheless bobbed my head to avoid them calling on me. It worked every time.
“Hot chicks and hashtags,” Paul says, answering his own question. “Remember that.”
I tap, tap, tap my index finger to my temple. “I’m taking notes.”
I unlock my cell, open the Notes app, and hand Paul my phone. “What do you think of this?”
He squints and says, “Burning Ma’am?”
“Sorry,” I say, “scroll down.”
The festival that echoes all of the greatest festivals!
*featuring Clint Eastwood
“It’s not bad design,” he says. “But it could use a pop of color, and a better tag.”
20.
Exploitation. Youth tourism. PR team. Sick memes. A slick tagline. Sell things. Lots of things. Hot chicks and hashtags. A pop of color. Check.
19.
Other than artisanal sandwiches, I can’t figure out what to sell at my festival. Dave suggests I sell orphans. He says, “You could sell them to happier homes.”
“Think of something else,” I say. “You’re imaginative.”
He says he can’t promise anything. He’s mostly moronic when it comes to business stuff. “Otherwise,” he says, “I’d be speaking to you from my party yacht instead of this awful orphanage.”
“Are you still writing your poetry?” I say.
“The other day I did an erasure of my W-2,” he says. “But that’s about it. My chapbook keeps getting rejected.”
“It’ll hit,” I say. “Unlike me, you’ve got the gift with words.”
“You wrote most of my essays for me at Fullerton,” he says.
“But that’s a different kind of writing,” I say. “What’s a catchy tagline for my festival?”
“Let me think on it,” he says. “I’ll call you back.”
Five minutes later, the phone rings, and when I answer Dave asks if I’m ready.
“Hit me.”
“Hotter than global warming!” he says. “That’s your tag.”
“It’s definitely memorable,” I say, “but it might be a bit arch.”
“How about keeping it simple then? THE PARTY OF THE CENTURY. Put it in all caps. Who’d miss that?”
“I’d be afraid to miss that,” I say.
“Me too,” Dave says.
18.
I get a second opinion on sales tactics from the guy I know with guns since he fancies himself as a tactician of all sorts. He thinks I should sell cheap bump stocks and more affordable AR-15s at my festival. He says that cheap bump stocks and more affordable ARs are hard to come by these days and that I’d be doing good, honest Americans an actual service if I sold them these items at a discount. I tell the guy I know with guns that I don’t know where to get any cheap bump stocks or more affordable ARs, and he admits that he doesn’t either. “Check this out,” I say, handing him my iPhone.
THE PARTY OF THE CENTURY!
*featuring Clint Eastwood
“Sweet,” he says. “Looks killer. I’ve got a better slogan though. Try: The most revolutionary cultural experience since the Revolutionary War.”
“That’s great,” I say. It’s a lie. I habitually lie to people with guns.
17.
Lisa says since my festival is just a baby festival I should sell tickets to more established festivals at my festival. She says she knows a guy who knows how to get cheap tickets to most festivals. I say why not because I don’t have any better ideas. She says I don’t have any better ideas because I was brainwashed as a child. My theory as to why I don’t have any better ideas is because I drink too much and masturbate and always feel guilty afterward.
“See,” Lisa says, “I told you.”
16.
I’m feeling guilty right now.
15.
“Say what you will about living in the end times,” the guy I know with guns says, “but this sunset is spectacular.”
He’s right. Tonight, outside the 7-Eleven, the sky is glorious—a purplish pink like the color of a cruise ship drink. Speaking of, we’ve spiked our Piña Colada Slurpees with strong rum, and this reminds the guy I know with guns about the time Benjamin Franklin got blackout drunk with a prerevolutionary dominatrix and forgot the safe word. “Have I told you this story already?” he says.
“I don’t think so,” I say. “I think I’d remember it.”
“So,” he says, “Franklin’s at the hottest brothel in Philly in July. We’re talking pre-air-conditioning-America here. Plus, Franklin only screwed with his clothes on, so it was even hotter. Have you ever done that?”
“No,” I say.
“Makes for a long night,” he says. “And it did. Next morning, Benjamin Franklin walks out of the brothel with a pair of broken bifocals, a black eye, and some real pep in his step. Then he goes to sign the Declaration of Independence, because it’s July fourth, 1776, but since he can’t see the document he’s supposed to sign due to his broken bifocals,
he gets nervous, which causes everyone else to get nervous, too, and the Founding Fathers are all standing around second-guessing the whole endeavor, but all of a sudden, this mysterious figure in a black robe appears out of nowhere and says, ‘Sign that parchment!’ And everybody is like: Wait, what? Who the fuck is this guy? Then the mystery man gives this rousing speech which concludes, ‘If I were dying right now, you cowards, I’d muster my last ounce of strength and sign that parchment.’ And then everybody rushes in and signs the Declaration of Independence, and the rest is literally history. Happy America, America!”
He hands me his flask, and I add more rum to my Slurpee. “Who was this mystery man?”
“Certain folks say it was the alchemist: the Count of St. Germain. Others claim it was the ghost of Francis Bacon and some even argue that it was death incarnate who appeared that day. But most scholars say that the event never happened.”
“What do you think?”
“I think it was Agent 711 in disguise. The Maverick of Mount Vernon.”
“To George Washington,” I say.
“Cheers,” he says.
And then it hits me: I’m drunk.
14.
Dave calls the next morning and interrupts my hangover, says, “What name did you land on for your festival?”
I feel like I’m going to die. “I feel like I’m going to die,” I say.
He says, “That’s the worst name ever for a festival.”
“No,” I say, summoning my inner–George Washington. “It’s called EchoFest.”
“Why?”
“It’s in Echo Park.”
“I get that, but the name fails to properly frame the focus of your festival,” he says. “Also: What is the focus of your festival?”