The Rich Spepherd

Originally Posted Monday, September 1, 2014

Q has gone to the wrong festival, of course.  I just spent the last half hour on the phone with him on his drive homeward from Burning Man. 

"Jesus Christ, man, you're stupid.  Why didn't you go to Electric Zoo?" 

I, of course, know nothing about this stuff.  I had just been reading an article in the New York Times about it.  Some of his old friends were playing at the Zoo festival, so I thought I'd rib him.  He was once part of all that. 

"I kind of miss dj-ing," he said. 

"No you don't.  You miss having everyone looking at you." 

It is true.  It is no fun being on the floor once you've been onstage. 

"I use to stay in the festival's organizer's house," he said, "when I d.j.ed in his club." 

I was looking at the fellow's picture with his pretty wife in their Berkshires house at that very moment. 

"What is wrong with us?" I asked him.  "We are so much smarter than these people.  Why don't we make any money?" 

"That's all they think about."

"I don't even know what that means.  I can't get the concept.  If I could, I would do it.  I just don't get it."

Q was driving with the windows down singing to Bob Dylan to try to stay awake in the California pre-dawn. 

"You should start a festival," I said.  It could be folkdub or something.  Slow down the 4/4 kick."

"Yup," he agreed.  "I'm just the fellow to do it." 

The d.j. pictured above made $32 million dollars last year according to the article in the Times.  Even when Q tries to explain to me what this fellow does, I can't see how it is really different from the d.j. at your cousin's wedding (if your cousin's wedding was late at night and everyone was rolling).  But people are sheep, even if they do drugs and move to Berlin (that is where everyone is now, Q tells me), and if you get enough sheep, you'll be the richest shepherd in town. 

C'mon, Q, I want to be a rich shepherd.  WTF? 

Driving in the pre-dawn, Q said he couldn't find anything open.  He couldn't even get a cup of coffee.  He would be back with his family soon, the vile stink of the festival washed from him now.  I know little about such things as I prefer to be alone.  Last night I fell asleep reading "Burma Days" by George Orwell and listening to sweet bosa nova.  I don't feel superior for doing this instead of the other (yes I do), just. . . something.  I would rather be the people in the last of these stolen pictures rather than the people in the first.