There are some things in life that trigger grand responses and extravagant opinions. For example, the first time I discovered hot nut machines. What a great moment. And remember Bambi? That movie was so sad. The newly conceived Pemberton Festival, however, is not one of these things. There seems to be no emotion hiding in my chest for this three-day extravaganza, just my regular old black heart and even that seems to be beating a little slow these days. I’m 100% Switzerland on this one, guys. Does Coldplay suck? Yes. Am I going to be anywhere near them the weekend of July 25th? No, I will not be. Coldplay can jerk off onto 50,000 straw cowboy hats all they want as long as I don’t have to hear them, and seeing as they’ll be playing somewhere close to where Bambi’s mom popped it, I won’t have to. I’ll bet the organizers of this event are so proud of themselves for succeeding to have something exist in Buttfuck, Nowhere* that even a lukewarm response is a welcome compliment.
But seriously, it’s hard to care when Logan is neck deep in southern pussy at SXSW and a number of the rest of us are busy buying resort wear and speedos for Coachella (but mostly Palm Springs). Those that were going to Sasquatch have canceled their plans and are pretty amped for Pemberton instead, and good on ‘em. So if you are a hick from outside of Whistler, and Merritt is just too far to drive drunk this year, enjoy yourself and don’t forget to catch Buck 65. If you are like me, you’ll probably be spending your time doing something more productive, like compiling a list of synonyms for “boring,” or going to your psychologist about those Bambi-triggered abandonment issues.
*It should be duly noted that Buttfuck, Nowhere is an area where potatoes are virginal and sacred. I’m not kidding: Pemberton is a designated seed potato plantation, so all outside root vegetables are banned from city limits. By law all patrons of this event are subject to being searched for potatoes. This is probably the most interesting thing about this festival.