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.

Here is a video clip and some photos from Christopher Blank of Friday’s exquisitely colorful crowd — colorful even when in black. Music is from Charlie Musselwhite’s set.

The Roots cancelled. Ben Folds, too.

It rained and rained.

You couldn’t have kept me at My Chemical Romance if both my legs were broken. But I still had a blast. I spent most of my time shooting dumb little videos you can see here:

www.qik.com/commercialappeal

But here’s some pics, too.

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Internet, let me tell you what’s awesome: Slinking into a steamy tent that’s throbbing, old-timey revival style, and watching a man named Super Chikan and his trio of bluesy ladies jam on their bedazzled git-ars and diddly-bos just enough to get the crowd all worked up into a clapping, hip-shaking frenzy before dinner time.

Oh, Memphis. How I love you.

I’ve been mucking my way through the park all evening — yes, mucking, because that’s what you do when the ground is the consistency of melting ice cream — and snapping as many pictures as possible between downpours. Downpours, plural. Have you heard? It’s been raining a little bit down here at Tom Lee. But most everyone’s got galoshes and ponchos and umbrellas and beer.

So I think the kids are all right.