“Rice, dude. Lots and lots of rice,” the veteran festival-goer told me. “That’s all I eat for a week before I head to any festival. Rice bungs you up real good, which means you don’t have to worry about using the porta-potties for the whole weekend.”
I totally get it. Bathrooms at gigs can be totally, utterly, supremely gross. But bladders and colons being what they are, there’s no way they can be completely avoided, especially for women. But just the thought of… [shudder].
My worst experience was at Woodstock ’94, one of the least-organized festivals in history. I had the misfortune of opening a porta-potty midway through the event to see that the reservoir was so full that it was above the seat. How was that even possible?
Other PTSD-inducing bathroom visits have included: (a) CBGBs: They lived up to the legendary horror; (b) A Friday night at Rock’n’Roll Heaven in Toronto: the sinks were full of vomit by 9:30; (c) A Pearl Jam show in Missoula, Montana: a bunch of people tipped over a porta-potty while buddy was inside. You don’t want to know what he looked like when he struggled out.
Do you have any such stories? Let me know, but be delicate in your descriptions, okay?