Okay, after fish and chips, I can now manage words, so here are some moments:
The Psychadelic Amoeba enveloping all
Loosing control of everyone else’s insides in the cuddle puddle
Heavy Metal WakeUp Call!
Showering outside in a thunderstorm
Judging the Kiwiburn Show Jumping – judges need more bribing!
Sevenites Disco Breakfast
brings the shiny, brings the spicy, I bring the ratchet straps
Polly Put The Kettle On
DJ Fetal Position
The JAFAB Ferals
The Wellington/Auckland Thunderdome Grudge Match, and Rock-em Sock-em Carl
People with one word job titles
Combat Medic, bringing the energy and a rucksack full of useful
The devouring wolves eating the Temple, in a nice way
Gadget’s gas-powered nail gun – want one!
Those making the duliveries
‘s rocket science
/JetPilot’s stunning sets, with Old School Techno – On Fire, Mark 2 for the lightshow
All the committee.
And this seems relevant:
Nigel the Cockie – the volunteer fire service turns up, thinks at first we’re a bunch of hippies in a field. They realise we are not. One of them, Nigel, who’s a farmer from the next hill over, 19, never been to a dance party, goes home, gets changed, comes back, we shine him up, dances all night, goes home for milking at whimper o’clock, milks the cows still wearing his glowsticks, comes back to us with fresh milk for breakfast tea.
Nigel – “What do you do then?”
Californian – “I worked in SF as a software upgrade rollout project manager.”
Nigel – “So many words, I’m a farmer!”
All together now: “One of us! One of us!”
It comes down to this. We’re not a bunch of hippies taking drugs. If you want to do bad poi naked in a field and you’re Swedish, blonde and six foot tall, then your life is probably pretty easy, and I’m pleased for you that you have an easy life, but honey, when you do poi, you slouch your shoulders back and it takes your whole balance away and makes you look real slack. We are not slack. We are an organised bunch of crazies. We are focused as fuck and have determination to spare. Want some?
Pics later from other people.