Neon Indian. Governor's Island.

 

After hopping one of the last ferries over, not catching any of the openers (except Prefuse 73, unfortunately) and cozying up to the whiskey tent — which, for all intents and purposes will from here on out be called "the watering hole" — my pal Brittany and I slipped up to the side of the stage to enjoy the show, and everything from there is a blur. That ol' watering hole and its free-flowing booze got the best of me, and the show became a mix of shimmying along to "Deadbeat Summer" to throwing an arm around DOM and drinking out of a bottle someone was carrying.

It was a happy mess, and the ferry ride home is a distant memory of people plopped on the boat's open lower level in ridiculously baggy clothing and boots in a similar state. But, the show was a riot, and I guess that's what summer is all about — silly, sweaty, drunken nighttime fun. And hey, after this summer, I can't say I didn't need it.