The last day of the Willamette Valley Folk Festival is here, and not a moment too soon. I volunteered four hours of my Saturday to sell CDs at the merch booth and watch old hippies dance in a fashion that can only be called "expressive." For Anchortowners, this is like the stage from the forest fair (and half the food booths) plunking themselves down on the student union quad for the weekend. For once, the folks tripping around on one substance or another aren't necessarily students. The music has been mostly hit or miss, but entirely local. The Ovulators, a chick glam rock thing, played a good set, and a woman with guitar number -- Laura Kemp -- sold most of her CDs within twenty minutes of her set's finale. She was good too. But the screeching/wailing/moaning has yet to stop wafting through my window, as well as the tantalizing meat-on-stick (and other fair fare) aromas. Funnier than the dancing: shirts with sayings like "FREE TOMMY!" on them, with Mr. Chong's face emblazoned behind bars, and the lemming-ness of the crowd's search for shelter from Eugene's ever-present rain showers.
Me? I'm doing homework. Or rather, I was. Now I gone done distracted mahself.
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