You might be a redneck if . . .

. . . you go to a bluegrass festival, drink beer all day and all night, and then decide around 5:00 in the morning to start whooping it up in proper stereotypical redneck fashion, with no regard for the many people trying to sleep in tents (which is hard enough as it is) all around you. You know, some people are actually proud of being rednecks. These people should not be proud.

This past weekend, Jackspatula, The Doe, and I headed down to southern Ohio for the annual Appalachian Uprising festival. Now, some of you might be thinking, "But flipper, the title of the festival alone should imply the presence of many rednecks. What are you complaining about?" Fair enough. And believe me, I don't hate rednecks, per se. I am someone who has spent much of her adult life hanging out in dive bars and pool halls. I know me some rednecks, and usually I can tolerate them very well. But this was a unique scenario. Allow me to set the scene.

Picture a beautiful valley in southern Ohio, with green grass as far as the eye can see, surrounded by lovely trees and blanketed by a peaceful and wondrous sky. Now picture this valley dotted with hundreds (well, dozens, at least) of tents and RVs arranged around campfires and makeshift canvass lean-tos. It is about 5:00 in the morning, and most festival-goers are snoozing away in tents, campers, and backs of pickup trucks after a night of enjoying kick-ass blugrass music into the wee hours. (Actually, Jackspatula and I, being old and lame, went to bed around 11:00--that was "wee" enough for us and The Doe. But anyway.)

Suddenly, the peace of the morning is broken by an extremely loud, extremely obnoxious whoop and holler--a mere taste of what is to come. For positioned about 20 yards behind our tent (of course) is a group of five or six very drunk, very sloppy, very ignorant white guys (of course) gathered around their souped-up Harley Davidson golf cart (I kid you not), each working on about his 40th beer and none harboring any intention of going to bed (or even passing out) anytime soon. Can you imagine, dear reader, what it's like to be awakened in your tent by said developments, knowing with uncanny certainty that this scenario is sure to go on indefinitely, knowing that no matter how exhausted you are, you will never be able to get back to sleep, and that you won't be able to do anything about it? If you can, you know what it was like to be me on Sunday morning. If I've learned anything in this life, it's that a lone woman should not approach five drunken rednecks and ask them to please shut the fuck up. To do so would not be brave or noble--more like stupid.

So I'm laying there, staring at the ceiling of the tent, unavoidably listening to the ensuing eloquent exchange of redneck thoughts and musings. It went something like this:

--What the fuck you doin'? Crazy bastard!
--Gotta take a piss, man. Fuck you.
--Woo-hoo!
--Yee-haw!
--Did you see that shit, man?
--Hey, give me that beer.
--You want a beer?
--Hell yeah, I want a beer! What the fuck? I ain't sleepin'! You sleepin'? God-damn pussy!
--I ain't sleepin'! Give me another beer, you fuckin' bastard.
--You want this beer, shit-head?
--Ya know who I like? Fuckin' Stevie Earle, man.

This was followed by a less-than-rousing, but extremely loud, group effort at a rendition of Steve Earle's "Copperhead Road," a song I used to actually like. There was much disagreement about the lyrics until they finally agreed on how the song should go, which, in their assessment, is like this:

--COPPERHEAD ROAD!!!
--COPPERHEAD ROAD!!!
--COPPERHEAD ROAD!!!
--COPPERHEAD ROAD!!!
--COPPERHEAD ROAD!!!
--COPPERHEAD ROAD!!!
--COPPERHEAD ROAD!!!
--COPPERHEAD ROAD!!!

O.K., I got tired of cutting and pasting . . . just use your imagination in contemplating how long this "refrain" went on. Curious about how the conversation resumed after the song was finished? See dialogue above.

Well, I couldn't just lay there forever, and The Doe had to pee, so eventually she and I emerged from the tent. If I had to sum up my mental state at this point, the polite way to put it would be "not happy." Unfortunately, my emergence from the tent did not go unnoticed. As I searched the campsite for The Doe's leash, the talk around the Harley Golf Cart Drinking Altar shifted gears a bit:

--God damn! We've been waiting all night for a female to show up, and when one finally does, she's fuckin' pissed off!
--Yeah, man, she ain't happy. Give me another fuckin' beer.

Is anyone else shocked that these gems of humanity seem to have trouble attracting women? Yeah, it's pretty mindblowing. You'll be happy to know, dear reader, that my ability to completely ignore remained intact. I gritted my teeth (which was also necessary in using the outhouse, by the way) and made it through the morning without confrontation. Luckily, soon after I got up, the copious amounts of beer these men-among-men had managed to consume began to take their toll, and one by one they stumbled off to their respective tents. (Plus, two of them drove away on the golf cart--can you get a DUI on a golf cart? Just curious.)

I must say that other than this particular incident, the festival was a blast. Also, it's annual. If you dig bluegrass music and live in the heart of it all, you should check it out next year. I would advise drinking much more than I did, if only to be able to sleep through any Redneck Predawn Adventure, should it occur.