Tuesday, October 04, 2005


After brunch on Sunday, Amanda and I went over to Golden Gate Park to join Gia and Rick at the Bluegrass Festival. Instructed to get snacks (as Rick was bringing the beer) we popped into some shitty convenience store and purchased supplies, including a loaf of bread and some mustard that had been sitting on that shelf for decades. Informed that parking would be impossible at the 22nd and Fulton entrance, we pushed our luck and found what appeared to be a spot on 21st. Amanda got out to guide Rhonda the Honda in.
“Oh, that’s perfect!” She smiled as a woman leaned out her window and screamed at us.
“Actually, that’s not perfect.”
Ewwww. Screw you, lady. Not wanting to risk a tow, we got back in and drove around some more. Well the joke was on her, because we found even better parking. Where? Oh, at 22nd and Fulton. Deal with that!
It’s amazing how stellar parking in San Francisco can brighten one’s mood. As we hiked along the park to the “Rooster Stage”, we marveled at the hippies and bumpkins gearing up to see some banjo playin’.
“I can’t believe we’re bringing that decrepit mustard.” Amanda cringed.
“Whatever. If we were a Bluegrass band, we’d be called Dusty Mustard.”
And thus, the catchphrase of the day was coined. All day long, we’d ask people, “Are you hear to see Dusty Mustard? Did Dusty go on yet? I can’t wait for Dusty Mustard!”
Once we found Gia and Rick, camped out with blankets and chairs for us, we sold them on our Dusty Mustard concept, evolving it into “Dusty Mustard and the Deli Meats.”
“Smoked Turkey on the banjo, Hot Pastrami on the washboard…”
You get the idea.
Every time a band would finish some lonesome, down-home tune about dogs and gin, we’d scream, “Dusty Mustard!”
It was pretty packed amongst the five different stages and my big plan was to hold out and stay for Dolly Parton at 4:30. But Rick pulled out his jug of beer at noon, Big Chris showed up with his typical Tecate and by the time 3 rolled around, I was sleeping in the grass surrounded by patchouli and dreadlocks. The place got packed. So packed, in fact, hippies were dangling from the trees. Suddenly, some chick with an abundance of armpit hair approached us and offered us organic, raw energy balls. That was my cue to go.
Mandy, Chris and I packed up our crap and split, but not before screaming one last time, ”I fuckin’ love you Dusty Mustard!!!” to which some hippy responded, “Fuck yeah!”