There’s too much pressure to have fun at Outside Lands. It’s is ground zero for art, culture, and astounding prices, celebrated over three days, currently in its sixth year. Many musicians and exhibitions litter the Golden Gate Park glens, but none are as important — for the purposes of this blog — as the Barbary tent. Ostensibly a comedy club, co-curated by SF Sketchfest, the parlor amplifies glade giggles like the historic Comedy Day, hopped up on steroids and Aderall.
I had a nightmare, a flashback to last year’s fiasco. The gung-ho Sylvan, vikingesque spirit in the morning devolved into utter agony and sunken morale by nightfall. We struck a contingency plan, but it relied on rest and strategy.
Sleep remained elusive as a will-o’-the-wisp; I only managed to dominate three or four “Z’s”. After the glorified nap, energy trickled in adequately, a lazy aqueduct flowing past bodies, the night’s leftover affiliates. A hot roll of hearty spray reset my decay. By three-o-morning I stood alert inside sodden jeans, a Sylvan tee, neon-green Newport cap, rolled-sleeved collared shirt, everyday shoes, Miramonte hoodie, gardening gloves (lesson learned) and a considerable amount of anxiety. The rest of SylvanHouse floated lazily in stasis.