Dear The Moisture Festival,
I didn’t have the best time at you Friday night. It’s not that I don’t love your old-world amusements and nu-circus aesthetic and all those crazy things we used to do before entertainment was invented, because I DO. And it has nothing to do with the fact that I think clowns are kind of boring and confusing—yours were actually pretty cute.
Honestly, The Moisture Festival, I’m really into you, and I think everyone should check you out. I want to make this work between us. But there were problems.
My first mistake was coming to the early show (the PG-rated, kid-friendly one). Half of the audience was children (screaming); the other half was drunk. I was neither. My fault—I admit it. Also, I had the misfortune of sitting in front of the world’s loudest, most cacklingest bitches. The world’s loudest, most cacklingest bitches absolutely could not bring themselves to pay attention—as though the room was too big, the stage too small, and the action too erratic to command the entire audience.
Then there’s your name: The Moisture Festival. It’s gross. When I’m trying to enjoy some kooky diversions, I don’t need to be thinking about the hot, wet, dirty drippings going on beneath all those Utilikilts. Also, I will never eat anything called a “Moisture Munchie.” No offense.
That said, you are pretty much totally magical. Godfrey Daniels—that simple, silent clown with the red balloon—is one of the most effortlessly charming things I’ve ever seen. And the trapeze duo Curly Burly (AKA “If Fabio Were Twice as Handsome and Not at All Creepy and Also an Acrobat”) restored my faith in humanity: the human form actualizing its highest potential for no reason except to create a beautiful thing.
Oh, The Moisture Festival. I can’t stay mad at you.
Love, Lindy
