They have questions.

"How long does it last?"

"What color will it be?"

"I want mine to mean something."

"Do you have anything, like, tribal?"

"How much would this one cost on my lower back?" The lower back is, true to my prediction, the spot of choice.

The girls' shaven-headed and dreadlocked boyfriends (in no shirts and even huger pants than their girlfriends) stand by and snort.

"Is this, like, fake tattoos or something?"

Business is good. I'm losing my voice. My allergies are acting up.

"If you're going to vomit, don't do it in my booth."

A few yards away, a beer-soaked voice rises from deep within the chest of a mullet-bearing, blue-collar man.

"ROCK 'N' ROLLLLLLLLL!"

Toto, we're not at Brushwood anymore.

The crowd around the booth is huge. The wait for henna stays about six people deep all morning, and I manage to stumble away for lunch after about four hours of serving as Reverend Bunny's idiot sieve.

The catered food for vendors and roadies is pretty bad. My allergies are worse. My cold hamburger tastes like post-nasal drip. As I poke at my food, a dopey-looking blond guy catches sight of me.

"You okay?"

"Yeah, I think so."

I look up as he walks away, and I suddenly realize just who this is. Be still, my heart. I've just come face to face with Shifty Shellshock, the singer from Crazy Town. My friends would be jealous. Shifty continues to walk away, probably about to go on stage. He continues staring at me the entire way up the concrete steps. This is weird.