Winter Quarter? I Just Wanna Go to Jambo

We've reached week six of this curmudgeon of a quarter and it's certain that the midterm induced wear and tear has left each of us feeling a little dead inside. It's during times like these that I look at the things in life that produce joy in its purest form.

There are only two of these things. One of which is Cocoa Pebbles, the other is Jamboree in the Hills.

Known as the Super Bowl of country music, Jamboree came into my life in July of 2005. Growing up in southeastern Ohio allowed the legend of this event to grow in my mind to a level that was seemingly impossible for the real thing to match. Somehow though, the event was not only matched, but exceeded...ten fold.

If you can, picture a mud-slickened slope peppered with 50,000 country music fans consuming alcohol for hours that make no sense to be keeping and dutifully tugging along wagons affixed with air horns that are designed to play "Dixie" on command and not a sleeved shirt to be found. Got that? The preceding request should have sent all your sensory organs into overdrive and may or may not have caused some level of epileptic seizure.

The fact is, this spectacular celebration of everything Godless is something that 2/3 of my family looks forward to every year. I still don't know if you fully grasp the situation so let me say this: In my family, there have been pregnancies planned around Jamboree. That's not a joke. I have cousins who have been put on hold so their prospective parents could endure the third weekend of July in all its glory.

The droves of people that turn out, trailers in tow, to camp for this concert is astounding. Thousands of vehicles towing contraptions that look as if they have no business existing let alone housing an undisclosed number of drunkards for 4 to 7 days. These pieces range in outlandishness from homemade wooden units that fit over the top of an extended truck bed to full blown lofts that are assembled on-site over top of a Dead Head bus circa 1967. Other feats of engineering include roundish, fenced in pens that are jammed with suds from a foam machine late at night for people to go ape shit in...clothing optional. (I just questioned for the first time why, with all this spare ingenuity, no one thought to construct a makeshift shower. Hmm.)

All of this is of course accompanied by four days of country music. As anyone worth a damn should already know, when sitting outside in the sun drinking there is only one genre that seems to fit into the delicate, tightly-woven atmosphere that has been created-- country music.

There are those of you who turn up your noses, disgusted at the notion of listening to the musical stylings of a group whose name was inspired by the moniker given to a rig driven by the guitar player's daddy through most of the 70's. To those people, I say this: Get over yourself.

There's a time to worry about the artistic integrity of the act in front of you, this is not it. Instead, just sit back, laugh, sing the songs you know, and learn the ones you don't. You'll have fun, I swear. Hell, you might even buy a novelty cowboy hat.

After one spends all day baking in the midsummer heat, drinking their preference of alcoholic beverages, and eating a veritable smorgasbord of elephant ears and corn dogs, the night envelops the venue and the final act of the night will come on. If it's Brooks and Dunn, it will be a religious experience. That's a fact. Afterwards, those who have survived the awesome power that is Kix Brooks and Ronnie Dunn will meander on back to the campgrounds with all the energy of a marine just finishing 4 days of leave in a whore house. Now the fun begins.

Once back at their respective campgrounds, Jambo-goers start to let loose. Mechanical bulls, wet t-shirt contests, smoking, drinking, singing, and fornicating are all seen around the premises. Of course all of this continues till around 5 am when most go to bed...only to get up around 10, when you're expected to crack open another brew and start playing horseshoes. If you're lazy, that is.

You see, with music starting each of the 4 mornings around 10 am, all the seating in the venue is general admission and thusly up for grabs. This means that each morning at 6 am, a representative from each camp is standing at the gate waiting for it to open. Once the slightest crease is available the runners take off and sprint, assholes and elbows, approximately 200 to 300 yards with tarps in their hands to claim the best spot available for that days musical acts.

When performing with a dire hangover, this practice can cause one to vomit uncontrollably for about 15 or 20 minutes. You're just gonna have to trust me on that one.

My particular experience with Jamboree was somewhat unique seeing as I went there with no particular plan in mind, not knowing where I was going to sleep or if I would even do so. Equipped with nothing but a cooler full of beer, a backpack with a towel in it, and a cowboy hat, I arrived alone.

I first met up with Bryan Conaway who was staying with his girlfriend's father. This man embodied what Jambo was supposed to be. An American flag bandana, cut off jean shorts, cowboy boots, opaque sunglasses, and Mardi gras beads stacked in such great number that one would think it was some sort of twisted punishment to carry them around his neck. He'd been coming for 17 years and didn't show any signs of stopping. We'll call him John.

Spending time at John's camp I quickly learned the lay of the land. The one and only rule- If any piece of clothing might have nipples underneath it, it's getting squirted...hard.

Looking at the different variations of squirt guns one could see a correlation between the design and personality of its owner. A slightly passive man might simply poke a hole in the cap of a bottle of water and discreetly squeeze some liquid out to get the desired effect. A bolder fellow might use a spritzer bottle and laugh a little when he dampens the chest of some young lass. John's weapon of choice you ask? A water pistol around 7 inches in length whose barrel had been modified to look like a rather realistic penis. OUT-FUCKING-STANDING.

John also took the liberty of asking girls if they wanted temporary tattoos and took the liberty of applying them himself, usually on her boobs. (A move I'm stealing next year by the way.)

After feeling as though I'd been taught what I needed to survive, I decided to head out on my own. Searching for my aunt and uncle, I encountered what was surely the embodiment of the American way.

People, as far as the eye could see, dressed as similarly as possible and laughing. Everyone. Laughing. For as many people as there were in attendance I never remember seeing one fight. Not a one. I can't go out for 3 hours on a Saturday here in Athens and not see, at LEAST, a minor altercation. It was as though each man, woman, and child in the venue had laid down whatever hatchet they may have been holding that day....in the name of Hank Williams Jr.

When I finally found my family I was bombarded by laughs, guffaws, and overly excited slaps on the back. It seems I was a bit of a rookie and my mere appearance was a shock to the system of the people here, all of whom are supposed to be considered authority figures under normal circumstances but were now, well, just drunk.

Working back to their campsite, where I believed I had finangled a place to sleep, I decided I buy a pizza as a type of house warming gift. As it turned out by the time we had gotten to our destination I had eaten the majority of the pizza, giving a few slices out to strangers who happened to be walking at my pace and enjoyed my drunken ramblings enough to tag along.....or maybe they just wanted pizza.

Well upon arrival I was propositioned to take a beer bong, something I had learned to do well while in college. Perhaps too well. Not being able to stifle my pride and say no, I downed the frothy liquid in what seemed like record time. It was at this point that I could feel 2/3 of a pizza coming back up. Stealthily sliding behind a camper, I proceeded to puke out what felt like 4 gallons of liquid mixed with a few non-vital organs. At this point I was wondering where those mooching strangers were now for a bit of friendly conversation. Bastards.

The night seemed to go on smoothly, meeting new people whose names I would promptly forget in the morning and proceeding to treat them like family. One of these people owned the camper I ended up falling asleep (passing out?) in.

I awoke the next morning, in a cramped cubby hole, not really knowing where I was. (Scariest feeling ever, by the way.) But I knew that I had partaken in something special. Something that isn't found every day. Something that eluded other men. Men who weren't lucky enough to grow up in a place where both CMT and GAC, (Country Music Television and Great American Country,) are carried on basic cable.

The feelings that these memories exhume are indescribable. In fact, I'm now wearing a cowboy hat without fear of consequence or repercussion. Don't judge me...or I'll squirt your tits.

154 days, 6 hours, 17 minutes, and 15 seconds...until Jamboree in the Hills 2006.