The cologne Biffy wore was completely disgusting. He smelled like tundra. He must have accidentally poured the whole bottle down his shirt.
  • The cologne Biffy wore was completely disgusting. He smelled like tundra. He must have accidentally poured the whole bottle down his shirt.
The jaw of a music festival can clench in different ways. Take for instance, the girl in high heels vomiting near Vera Stage last night. As TV on the Radio wafted their spirals into the Capitol Hill evening, this girl grasped her hands hard on a chain link fence and violently threw up. She lost the absolute core of her lunch's soul. She was with her boyfriend, slightly to his right. His collar was popped, the necklace around his neck was gold, and we had the following verbal exchange:

Me: She Ok?

Vomiting Girl’s Boyfriend (let’s call him Biffy): Does it look like she’s doing ok?

Me: She should be doing that into a paper bag, not onto the ground. You know there are vomit police now?

Biffy: I’ll clean it up.

Me: No you won’t.
Biffy: You’re right.

Me: Fuck you.
Biffy: Fuck you.

Me: So have you seen the new Harry Potter?
Biffy: No but I really want to.

Me: When Harry Fucking Potter yukes, he cleans it up.
Biffy: Harry Fucking Potter has people do that for him. Or he puts a spell on it.

Me: You're probably right. Are you enjoying TV on the Radio?
Biffy: Fuck you.