Launder my karma.*

So, on Saturday Red and I went to KarmaFest. You probably want to hear all about it, don’t you?

We left early, yoga mats in tow, because it was supposed to rain later in the day and we wanted to take advantage of all the free yoga that was promised. Because we are congenitally unable to be late for anything, no matter how hard we try, we got there as the gates opened. This made us feel lame because nothing ever happens for the first hour or two of a festival anyway, but there we were, early as ever.

We sat at a picnic table, and I took pictures of us. It is my mission in life to de-sensitize Red to having his photo taken.

Aren't we sexy?

Aaaaaaahhhhhh, it's too bright out here!

Doing our best dirty-hippie impressions.

No workshops were happening yet, so we strolled around (it was not a big setup) and browsed the vendor tents and tables. I bought a coin purse from a chill dude who ignored us and probably couldn’t have cared less if we bought anything, which is exactly how I like my vendors. Red was ecstatic because I’ve been walking around with a hole in my wallet for probably a year now, and he’s tired of watching me dig around in my purse for change.

Now, allow me to disclose a prejudice of sorts. As much as I liked being outside in the sunshine and on the grass, KarmaFest weirded me out a bit. I realize that I am kind of a contradiction in terms. I am very much the vegan, natural-living, yoga-practicing, tree-hugging pagan. Shit, I’ll even read tarot cards for you, if I like you. So for me to feel uncomfortable in a crowd of people offering Reiki and angel readings and magic water and shamanic journeys is surprising. I mean, I should feel the love, no? But the problem I have with things often labeled “holistic” or “New Age” is that they tend to attract the flakes: people who are ungrounded, confused, or just plain loopy as all hell. I get enough practice warding off wacky energy on a day-to-day basis, so to feel it in the midst of an otherwise chill place was unexpected. It shouldn’t have been, because I checked the website, but I was trying to be optimistic. Oh well. Bring on the cynical, bitter vegans and crank the Nirvana.

Boomtown Hoops, which was easily the highlight of the whole place.

[Also, oh my God, Crazy Flute Lady was there. I won’t identify her for real because it isn’t her fault that I have such an aversion to her. Crazy Flute Lady, I’m sorry I hate you so much. It’s not you, it’s me. Actually, it’s whoever asked you to play your flute at my friend’s funeral. You were just motherfucking horrible with that half-assed cover-that-wasn’t-really-a-cover of “Amazing Grace.” My friend rocked out to Springsteen and Weezer and Metallica and cool noisy shit like that, not airy-fairy Native American windsongs (or what urban white people think said songs should sound like). For many reasons, not least of all Crazy Flute Lady, that funeral ranks as the most surreal experience of my life.

So, um, needless to say, we left before she took the stage.]

It was almost time for Qi Gong, which neither Red nor I had ever tried before. Finally, we could do something! But first, we had to find the yoga “pavilion.” There was, you’ll surely be shocked to hear, no such place. There were two people at a picnic table, one of whom specialized in the kind of not-all-there vibe I mentioned a paragraph or two ago. He was very happy to see us once I mentioned that we were looking for the workshop, as we were his first students. I mentally stabbed myself in the head because now, he expected us to stay, and it was my fault. I was not at all into the idea of one-on-one instruction with this dude. Luckily, I no longer care about offending people, so I told him we’d be back for a later workshop. We fled back to our picnic table.

Herbs!

During the three or four hours we were there, I saw not one person do yoga. I felt a little cheated.

All hope of Downward Dog abandoned, we turned our attentions to something a little more guaranteed: food. If there’s one thing you can count on a bunch of hippies to deliver, it’s vegan noms. True to form, The Yabba Pot was there, slinging vegan soul food. As we chowed down, we decided that we might as well head on home. On our way out, I snagged a fantastic green smoothie from Under One Sun (please get a real website, because linking to MySpace makes me feel dirty). I hope York, Pennsylvania appreciates them, because it was delicious.

Queen’s Greens and Citrus Soul Ribz

Chick-un Pasta Salad

Smoothie goodness, with bonus flier for the Mother Earth Harvest Fair!

We came home, played with Lucy, then flopped onto the couch and watched The Wrestler. It broke my heart a little, and not only because I’m in mourning for Mickey Rourke’s original face.

Long story short: we started off the day with crunchy-assed granola goodness, and ended it by watching a brawny dude get the shit pounded out of him. And that, dearly beloveds, is the circle of life.


*First person to correctly identify the song gets praise for his or her excellent Googling skills.