More TACO

As Phil mentioned, The Annual Celebration Of Life And Rebirth Of The Earth Festival was some affair. Over 100 (peaking at maybe 200?) Lancaster County merry makers gathered over a hundred miles from home (the only site I remember was near Greencastle about 102 miles from the 340 Club) engaging in loud, raucous, bacchanal. I’m hoping Johnny Johnson or George Zangari (or others) – 340 Club members – who are more stooped in the tradition, history and origins of TACO might send some comments to this blog regarding TACO background and their experiences. I remember Johnny as an affable host whether at TACO or his home and George as the consummate gap filler in whatever needed to be done be it at 340 or on the road.

For me, TACO was just another drunk (albeit a major one). There was no one at TACO less prepared for the wild than me. I’d drive up to TACO late in the afternoon of Saturday and pull my car up as close as possible to the campsite and that would be my spot, my tent, my car. I would then partake of copious quantities of beer, dogs, burgers, salads, chips, pretzels, shots of booze and more beer. Sampling the contraband (nice word Phil) and taking in the scene. Then round midnight or late retreat to my tent (i.e. my car) and wake up when either noise or heat or some slob opening my fucking door whichever came first occurred. Sundays at TACO (Fridays, Saturdays and Mondays too for the true believers) were an ordeal that began with a nice breakfast and perhaps some Wild Turkey certainly more contraband and then beer. It can be pretty swarm on McMorial Day weekend and drinking all day (God help you if, unlike me, you had drank all day Friday and Saturday) under those conditions can be a difficult assignment. Although, it would be nice to have such an assignment today. All day there would be music in many campsites, Frisbees, and puppies abounding. Delicious aromas in the air; have I mentioned contraband. Late in the afternoon it would be a retreat to my car or the back of a pickup for a siesta of sorts although sleeping during the day was dangerous particularly if one fell out at a strange campsite. You could be wearing or not wearing strange things and substances and may well have been the brunt of some sophomoric humor while you napped. It is my recollection that there was some sort of Sunday services in the most informal fashion with unordained ministers. When the sun went down the tempo picked up and reached feverish pitch around the campfire. I remember being jealous of the guys with the guitars and the abs. It was a nice combination to have in the company of the lovely TACO damsels.

Monday morning was a chore rising. This time, for me at least, it was a breakfast devoid of the most popular libations and then off home. For others, it was more drinking and the tearing down of a camp. It is my memory that I would get back to the 340 – this would have occurred in 82 or 83 – and get another nap in before a caravan of merrymakers – both TACO attendees and the usual gang of idiots – descended on the 340 to wrap up the McMorial affair. On one of these occasions I could not stop my big stuffed bear from partying, perhaps, just a little too much but that is another post.