New Southerner Blog Float On: Keeping My Head above Water at Forecastle

Through the festival gates, rough waters lay ahead of me. The port-a-potty was more like a THC sauna, as I must've slipped in right after a patron who hot-boxed a doob. From the smell of it, Louisville seemed to be chiefing on dirt weed, but every once in a while, it reeked like I was on a Bullitt County back road and somebody had trampled a skunk. It may be hard for a person without the addict gene to comprehend, but one drink or drug can send a person such as myself on a wild spree where by the end of the night, I'll be saying, "I must've taken a wrong turn at Albuquerque."