Tom Lee Park is a fragmented mess of smelly mud and trampled grass today. I’ve seen lone flip-flops left behind, stuck in the mud — annual sacrifices to the outdoor festival gods. Where do all the abandoned flip-flops go? I’m sure they just chuck ‘em with the rest of the random crap people leave behind, but I’m thinking there’s a higher calling for them. (A good flip-flop is a terrible thing to waste.) Something akin to One Cold Hand. We’ll call it One Muddy Foot. And all the abandoned flip-flops from the previous MusicFest will be on display the following year in a tent next to George Hunt’s art. Are you listening, MIM organizer people? Call me. I’m full of horrible ideas. And I’ll give most of them to you for free.

I’m sitting here in the air conditioned media trailer beside videoblogging genius Jon Sparks, who’s chowing down on some BBQ, beans, and coleslaw and crafting his next piece. He will probably kill me for telling you that (I plan to run away before he finds out), but sometimes I like to hold the curtain back so the people know what really happens behind the scenes at these things. I mean, besides all the boozin’ and torrid backstage love affairs between twentysomething journalists bloggers and the rock stars they blog about.

I’m sad that I missed the action yesterday; I was at my cousin’s wedding (live long and prosper, Keri and Randy!). So I didn’t get to see my girl Cat Power and my girls Tegan and Sara. But today I’m psyched to see my girl Aretha. Actually, I have to remark that this year’s festival has been a good one for female acts. Of course, I’ll be lining up to see Fergie so that I can mark the exact moment that she sets the movement back.

Oh, I kid because I love.