On these sponsor nights before the festival, the fairgrounds had all the ambiance of night at Coney Island, complete with a strange rotting seaweed smell that I couldn't quite place, but shrugged off upon seeing the Hempy Christmas Ornament Stage and it's occupants. Lucky trailed on my arm like the tail on a kite, fluttering and making me think that in another life, I'd have carried her books home from school for an entire semester. For almost an hour I was subjected to:
"Aw man, check it out Madison! They have one of those 'Are They Real or Are They Fake' Old-time photo booths!" I nodded somewhat appreciatively, thinking to my self that I'd bet the farm they were real, when she fluttered again, "And a 'Hell's Front Row' hotdog stand! Blister-dawgs and S'mores, you can't beat that combination..." thus followed by a toturous turn on the KWOW Oldies dance floor during which Lucky peered up and me and whispered through some sappy number, "How's your headache?"

After our visits to the 'Go-Go Hamster Petting Zoo' and the booth where they told you your 'True BLUES Name', yours truly: "Herniated Watermelon Polk", and herself: "Dyslexic Passionfruit Taft", grabbed our blister-dawgs and walked past the port-o-lets to a stand of mobile trailers at the edge of the grounds. When we were out of sight of the festival, Lucky turned to face me without a trace of the festival fruitcake I came here with.

"All right," she whispered "We've made our entrance, now where to we go from here?"
"Do you have the matches?" I asked. She showed me the matchbook that she had conveniently tucked in her pocket before the police arrived, and after a brief discussion in very close quarters that I wished would have taken place under different circumstances, we set out to look for COSMO.