“I love liquid from red cups.” These were words spoken by the lead singer of Deer Tick, the first act I soaked in at this year’s Floydfest. Between songs, McCauley lit cigarettes for his bandmates and revealed himself the quintessence of New Jerseyan superhero Sgt. Kabukiman, NYPD.

On my way to the Dreaming Creek Main Stage where Deer Tick performed Friday afternoon, a pair of teens mistook me for a mushroom peddler. I was flattered. Since before I’d arrived, I’d felt like a tourist. Cruising up Route 8 in my Ford Focus, wearing a tattered cowboy hat and singing along to an Everclear mix CD, I didn’t feel like much of a Floydfest-er.

Fortunately, Floydfest isn’t a kind climate for feelings of displacement. When I arrived feeling out of place last year, I forgot my anxieties amid losing my underwear and tongue-kissing a camel. In other words, it’s hard to feel like an oddball while surrounded by shirtless elderly men and drunken pirates on stilts. At Floydfest, personal insecurities dissolve faster than Mel Gibson after a highball.

This rise and fall of my feelings of displacement this year, in brief: I stepped off the shuttle bus the same time as the rain did—felt displaced—hid under a stranger’s tarp to keep dry—searched for a space to prop up my tiny tent—needed neighbors’ help to set up tent (just like last year)—still displaced—saw Deer Tick—disappointed ‘shroom hunters—yes, felt terribly displaced—ate beef jerky in my tent—locked self in tent—(did not panic)—drank responsibly—felt less displaced—ran into an acquaintance from high school—jammed to awesome music of Cornmeal—saw editor Tim Jackson watching me dance but continued dancing anyhow—kept dancing crazy—couldn’t believe I was still dancing crazy—no longer displaced—have reached end of displacement story—will stop using dashes now.

Having successfully relinquished my social programming for the weekend, I headed to the beer garden at 8 p.m. to catch Do It To Julia. The band was mid-song at the commencement of the time-honored power outage. The music stopped, the lights went out, and the beer vendors ceased vending.

Before the old men could remember the shame of their flesh and crawl back inside of their shirts, Do It To Julia descended the stage and performed unplugged Beatles covers among the crowd. I appeared the only member of that crowd who didn’t know the entire Beatles catalog by heart, but the sing-a-long was loud enough for me to get away with “da-da-da”-ing. Do It To Julia delivered the Platonic ideal of showmanship. In my gratitude, I made sure that theirs was the one CD I bought at the merchandise tent. (Thank you and you’re welcome, violinist who calls everyone “Friend” and guitarist who sounds just like Conor Oberst.)

Shortly thereafter, I somehow found myself in a conversation with a group of friendly but dedicated hippies.  When our subject matter turned to the gradient of my inner light and an ill-fated anarchist puppet show, I somehow found myself an out from the conversation.

After I slipped away from the beer garden, a woman stopped me to ask if I was hungry. When I responded by salivating, as I always do in response to food-related queries, she gave me half of her quiche. I accepted the quiche and called her the nicest lady in the universe.

“Blessings,” she replied. “And spread them along. Spread the blessings.” I didn’t have the heart to tell her that her pay-it-forward mentality reminded me of the unfortunate 2000 film of the same name. Forward payment landed me a free quiche; it landed Haley Joel Osment a fatal knife wound and an unintentionally funny on-screen death.

No longer salivating, I stalked the festival grounds with my lantern until the lights came back on. I smoked American Spirits while Dance Afire performed a pyromaniacal pantomime of old-time religion, watched a giant mechanical dragon blow flames into the sky, and thought, why yes, this is what every Friday should feel like. Then, when I remembered that I’m no longer a smoker, I turned away from the flames and returned to my tent.

One of my lessons learned from camping alone last year was to not go to sleep in a drunken stupor. This year, I learned to not pursue sleep while not in a booze-induced stupor. Being that I wasn’t up for much of the liver-sauce this year, I tried to turn in early.

Don’t be fooled by Soulive‘s name like I was. I figured I could sleep through their set, no problem. Yes problem, seeing as how Soulive rocks harder than Keith Richards’s healing factor. My tent was trembling long after 1 a.m. From my neighboring tent, the aural delight of close-range vomiting kept me up until 3. (Maybe he had a quiche.)

On Saturday morning, I woke up at 6, stepped over the sleeping strangers littering the grounds, and packed up. Camping alone is demanding. I drove back to Radford, picked up my lovely assistant, and returned to the festival grounds to test a theory. I hypothesized that, while attending a music festival alone is fun, sharing the experience with another human being would produce a higher measure of fun. Two beers and a funnel cake later, and my hypothesis was fact.

While showering ourselves in the powdered sugar of our funnel cake, my assistant and I encountered my Mr. Jackson. Mr. Jackson asked that we snap some photographs of Mountain Heart. Due to a miscommunication, my lovely assistant and I instead photographed J.J. Grey as Grey discussed how fishing can neutralize all of life’s “so-called problems.”

The southern rock of J.J. Grey and Mofro was almost, but not quite, as savory as the funnel cake my lovely assistant and I were wearing. Please note, Mofro aficionados, that this is not an insult; post-beer funnel cakes are a terrible act to follow.

Also note that, while bringing your small children to Floydfest is alone a debatable chink in your parental competency (other than to perhaps the Children’s Universe, of course), leaving your toddler on the ground front-stage is like putting a sign around his neck that reads, “How’s my parenting? Call [SOCIAL SERVICES].” I’m pretty sure I used a kid’s head as an ashtray before I noticed him there, which never would have happened had he not been so insistent on treating my right foot like a drum set.

To make an already long recap a few paragraphs shorter, my assistant and I stuck around to see Old Crow Medicine Show before departing for home and early signs of sun poisoning. I didn’t lose any undergarments or wake up in broken glass. What I did do was have a great time listening to an eclectic collection of talented performers. If you haven’t yet been, I suggest you change that next year.

Lastly, and only because I owe a stranger for a free quiche, I bid you all “blessings.” My debt is paid. If this gets me stabbed to death at the end of a bad movie, it’s up to you to resurrect me at next year’s Floydfest.

Charles Smith is a columnist for the New River Voice and a bohemian mystic adventurer. Well, he is a columnist for the New River Voice.