Whoop, Whoop: A Savage Journey into the Heart of the American Juggalo

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And so it begins. Three years of infatuation with a subculture, and I am one month away from full-on immersion into the Juggalo pilgrimage. This is my Congo. This is my Vietnam. This is my Urban Sombrero.

I grew up in a trailer park in Coopersville, MI. I lived among Juggalos then, but was not aware of them. I remember a boy slipping a pair of headphones onto my ears from the desk behind me. “You have to hear this,” he said, and then he was blocked out and all I heard was someone screaming about slicing open the necks of jocks.

“What is this?” I asked.

And lemme get this straight. Killer clowns? Killer, wicked clowns that kill people? And liking them makes you… a Juggalo? What is a Juggalo?

If you type the question, “What is a Juggalo?” into Google, you will find that Violent J, the Jesus of all Juggalos, gives an answer. That answer is:

“What is a Juggalo? Let me think for a second
Oh, he gets butt-naked, and then he walks through the streets
Winking at freaks with a two-liter stuck in his butt-cheeks.”

Got it.

I had forgotten about Juggalos through college, but saw a few of them again at Festival of the Arts three years ago. A friend suggested we be Juggalos for Halloween, the way your friend might suggest you be a goth or a punk or a nerd — a stereotype. I looked Juggalos up when I got home and found myself fascinated. Bigger than Kiss Army, stranger than Dead Heads. So prolific. So many of them. So dedicated. So down with the clown and down for life, yo. How did two nobodies from the suburbs of Detroit become so powerful? Faygo? How? Why? Everything I knew about Michigan was confused.

Cut to November. Looking over a list of visiting artists, I went to choose two for my national interviews. And there it was: The Insane Clown Posse. How could I choose anything else? Luckily, my editor gave me the go-ahead and I emailed Psychopathic Records, timidly requesting to speak to the hatchet-wielding duo.

What did I expect? I don’t know. After listening to music about Kid Rock sodomizing people, I guess I expected to be told that I was a bitch-ass reporter and to go chicken hunt myself.

Psychopathic is one of the kindest, most professional record labels to work with out of the lot. Violent J was on a bus, on the road, when I called him. He apologized for the wind and walked back into his trailer. He told me he had all day for me and to ask him anything, mentioning it was rare that mainstream media took an interest in them. (Which, at the time, seemed to be true — the mainstream media was only interested when making lists of most controversial, most hated or worst bands.)

During the interview, J swore a lot, spoke just like he does any time the cameras are on, but he was very polite. And I’ve interviewed a lot of celebrities. It was like having tea with a potty mouth queen.

Violent J was honest and open. I asked him about his song “To Catch a Predator,” wherein he pretends to be a little girl and lures pedophiles to his home where he brutally tortures them in his basement. He explains to me that he was molested as a child. He tells me that when children see their moms abused by their fathers or are molested as children, it often makes them angry. His violent music helps him channel that anger into something else. He doesn’t want children who are the products of violence to become menaces to society. He hopes his music helps them, the way it helps him. He tells me he’s a vigilante.

The album the tour was supporting is called Bang! Pow! Boom! It’s a concept album, where ICP systematically phones people from across the country and tells them they’ve won a free trip to a carnival in Nevada. The calls are placed to rapists, racists and rednecks that beat their wives. (Chickens, if you will.) When the scum of the earth arrives to the carnival, a demon-thing rises up and kills them all Old Testament-style. “Nobody escapes,” the song says, “and everybody’s consumed.”

We only hurt the bad people, Violent J stresses.

Violent J: like a man on a subway with a sock full of quarters, waiting for someone to scream for help. Violent J is like… Batman.

Despite being invited to the Gathering that year as well as several concerts including the Halloween bash in Detroit, I am unable to go. I eventually interview Blaze Ya Dead Homie, who is also very polite on the phone and refers to himself as a “straight-up dead gangster.”

One would think that Juggalo infatuation would fade over time, but it does not. Eventually, I meet a boy who is a serious Juggalo and horrorcore rapper, and he invites me to a show. Jake Sebastian and I go, and as strange as it is, there is this sense of family. Family is what Violent J insists being a Juggalo means. Being part of a family, where everyone is your brother and sister and you belong from the instant you meet. After the show, they invite us to their after-party and are very receptive to us. It’s like going to a Jehovah’s Witness meeting. They just want you to be a part of their joy. Their hatchet joy. They have a whole culture. Instead of hello, they say “whoop, whoop,” a phrase that can also mean approval, and various other vernacular.

I almost went last year to the Gathering, but for some reason did Lollapalooza instead, not having anyone who was willing or able to accompany Mary Sjaarda and I into what we heard would be dangerous territory, potentially, for two girls by themselves. I seethed with envy as tales of Tila Tequila bubbled over Twitter.

So, I made up my mind. I must go into the belly of the beast. I must go to the Gathering. Only there can I truly put this obsession to rest. So far this summer, I have gone to DEMF and Electric Forest, become one with ravers, sat with them in forests and let them show me the contents of their silver briefcases as they praise their McKenna God. I have sat with hippies in their drum circles, arms angrily crossed over my chest and swatting away joints. I have gone to a Vampire LARP, a LAN party, S&M Potlucks, walked the Fremont highway with bloody feet, spent thousands in laundered money at the Spearmint Rhino, I have masqueraded as a Republican at a Tea Party rally, I have gone to séances and strange temples, joined the police on stakeouts and won over unruly karaoke crowds over with Seger. If the Gathering doesn’t kick the shit out of all these other experiences, I don’t know what will.

A few weeks after submitting an application to cover the 12th annual Gathering of the Juggalos, Psychopathic granted my request for press credentials. At first, I thought I might be going as the Jane Goodall of the Wicked Clowns. And some people naturally assume I’m going out of some sense of hipster irony, you’re wrong. This is a quest, my friends. This is my DARK DESTINY, NINJAS. And it was with a growing horror that I realized… I kind of like ICP. The more I listened, the less I hated it. Did I ever hate it, or had I just never given it a shot? There’s no way these guys are the worst band in the world.

Cave-In-Rock, IL is in the middle of nowhere. It is 9 hours away from Grand Rapids. There is a private campground called HogRock that the Gathering has claimed as its home for the last five years after being kicked out of several other venues. Champaign, IL is the last major city on our traveling route, though Nashville is supposedly the closest. There is no cell phone signal. There are no cops. In Cave-In-Rock, no one can hear you scream. We have downloaded the ENTIRE ICP discography in the hope of discovering the true meaning of the dark carnival (spoiler alert: it’s God). We’re ready.

* * * *

Day 1 (Thursday)

* * * *

We leave Grand Rapids, MI at approximately 7:00 a.m. It’s the five of us packed into an old Plymouth Voyager, a van with dubious intentions about really taking us to where we’re going.

The cast of characters includes #offthegrid editor and radio host Jake Sebastian, Revue magazine writer Nick Manes, photographer Mary Sjaarda, jack of all trades Shawn Avery and yours truly.

With Shawn at the wheel, we drive through the rest of the sunrise, stopping for the first time in Michigan City, IN for cigarettes and Starbucks. The day is rapidly getting hotter and our AC is fickle. Through Indiana and down into Illinois, we start following others on Twitter, including Matt Stopera, Scott Lamb and Dorsey Shaw from Buzzfeed who are on a Juggalo bus coming from New York, Driven by Boredom blogger/Village Voice photographer Nate Igor Smith and Village Voice writer Camille Dodero.

Seeming on pace with other media, we stop a few more times, once just south of Champaign for food. The closer we get to Cave-In-Rock, the more cornfields outnumber lots with actual buildings. Our last stop is a gas station in a town called El Dorado. We’re fist-deep in Illinois, near the Ohio River and Kentucky. Everyone’s got Southern accents. The gas station is running a special on Faygo — two 12-packs for five bucks — and offers both regular and extra-small condoms in the rusty dispenser in the bathroom.

From here, we’re off the highway and it’s an hour down rural roads that become shoddy then unpaved until finally we see a sign directing us to HogRock.

Being private property, the last cops we see are hanging out on the main road, searching a van. We’re on our own now. Finally, we reach a checkpoint. A series of surprisingly helpful and informed security guards send us to a trailer where a pleasant Psychopathic representative hooks us up with our tickets, key cards, a hatchet-man necklace for each of us (though the man has a gun rather than a hatchet this time around), an info booklet and a map/schedule. She wristbands us and they send us to another area, where we finally meet Andy, the Psychopathic PR person I’ve been communicating with for three years.

Extremely helpful and nice, she gives us lanyards with press badges, answers all our questions and lets us know to radio her if we need anything. She’s off on a golf cart and we’re left to find a place to camp.

We set up shop near the woods, where a decline is blocked off with a fence that looks more inclined to hurt us than keep us out of the ravine. There is a bug here that sounds like a toddler being stabbed to death. We’re camped with the wrestlers, which isn’t too shabby… at first. Two tents and our van, we set up, strap on our tactical gear and head out into the festival.

There is a Dark Forest, which is like a deeper, darker, creepier version of Electric Forest’s man-made acid lounge, a number of actual carnival rides, a food court (with a surprisingly great veggie burrito in addition to the funnel cake and corndogs), a city of camps full of girls with no shirts on. Everyone we pass greets us with “whoop, whoop” and you have to “whoop, whoop” back. The Juggalos are much nicer than the hippies and the ravers from the other festivals. When there is no live music, ICP and other Psychopathic acts are broadcasted constantly over loudspeakers. There is a shocking amount of cohesion for a festival without security or direction. There’s no one that tells you have too many Clif Bars (fuckin’ Pitchfork) or you can’t bring that bottled water in here. This is the white trash Vegas of festivals.

One of the acts doesn’t show up, so the Juggalos are restless. We set our walkie-talkie channel to 20, make sure everyone has extra batteries and split up.  Shawn and I pass a pair of bounce houses here and a stage for WFuckOff Radio where Nate Igor Smith promises the crazy shit happens.

The Drug Bridge is REAL. It is real as fuck. It’s not a long bridge, but it is hopping. We were offered pot, coke, mushrooms, acid, Mollie, Thorazine (RIGHT?!), hash, cigarettes, shit I’ve never heard of and shit they’ve never heard of but say it works. We gave a guy selling hatchet pipes a cigarette when he asked and he seemed to think this was all very ordinary, even the guy with a megaphone selling all of the drugs known to man. I am convinced you could take all of one kind of drug to the point of death, then find all the drugs that would bring you back to life. People are looking for the components of a Jeffrey, which is basically a massive joint full of other drugs.

We catch a bit of Hammer, Busta Rhymes and then head back to camp. We’re told that it gets crazier the less sleep and more drugs people do and I don’t want to miss the thrust of the weekend.

Around 6:00 a.m. or so, some guy with a Southern accent starts screaming about needing a bowl. It goes on for so long; I go out and find him one. When I return, he thinks I am some kind of heaven-sent angel and tells me this weed he’s got is SO STRONG it killed Elvis, as well as Michael Jackson. I tell him I don’t want any, but I stand around while he introduces himself as wrestler Jamie Dundee, a white trash Juggalo, “the only racist Juggalo.” He tells me about breaking Kid Rock’s friend’s glass table and doing cocaine all day long to prove to people “their money ain’t no good here.” He’s proud his heart has made it to forty, so he doesn’t do cocaine anymore, but he does talk a lot. Eventually, I tell him I’ll be getting around later on and he says to hit him up with the bowl again if I find it again. His friend, who looks like Fabio, says to hit him up when I want to get around. It takes me all the way back to my tent to get that one. The second I get inside my tent and lay down to go back to sleep, he starts yelling about needing a fucking bowl again.

I suppose it’s time to go explore…

* * * *

Day 2 (Friday)

* * * *

It’s hot. So hot.

Not long after Jamie Dundee starts yelling again about needing another bowl, two security guards roll up on a golf cart and tell us we’re not allowed to camp in the wrestling area. They tell us they’ve set us up a spot basically underneath the bleachers surrounding the wrestling ring. This spot looks treacherous, so we’re forced out into the wild to find our own area.

We find a large water tower next to a small red building. Here, Matt, Dorsey and Scott from BuzzFeed have made their temporary home among a fairly large group of Juggalos. We’re next to the showers and an outdoor galley area with picnics tables, a stove, sink and some outlets. We set up camp and Jake and Mary decide to venture out into civilization in search of toothbrushes, tarps and beer.

In the interim, Manes and I go on a hunt for coffee for Shawn and possibly food for ourselves. Cruising around the midway, it seems most of the Juggalos are still asleep, though a few have come out for food. The carnival rides are not running yet and it’s a pretty sparse smattering of wandering Juggalos. Being an hour earlier than our normal time zone, it feels later than noon. I eat what may be a fake egg and Manes eats an Italian Sausage. Someone is talking about a vodka and milk chugging contest happening at WFuckOff Radio. A girl gets mad at me because I deny her request to show her my “titties.” This is the first time anyone’s asked, but it will not be the last.

Back at camp, we put on our radios, grab the cameras and various other gear and head towards the Bomb Stage where we’ve been informed there is a Lingerie Contest. When we arrive, only seven Juggalettes have signed up and they’re holding for more. One thing I’m realizing is that absolutely everything at the Gathering starts late by at least an hour. When things are too late, Juggalos will start chanting, “What the fuck! What the fuck!”

While the Juggalos wait on the other side of the barricade by the fence, they prep for the contest by shaking their ass, bouncing their breasts and spanking each other. We see Matt and Dorsey behind the barricade and so we show our press badges to the security guard and join them.

One of the Juggalettes’ hidden talents is that she is lactating, and she proceeds to squirt her milk for Matt, who looks shocked, and another girl in a camo bikini. The bikini girl drinks it.

After what seems like an unbearably long time, Ron Jeremy shows up in track pants, a baggy T-shirt and Crocs. He looks weary. He climbs up the stairs, gets a bottle of water and starts announcing the contestants.

Each Juggalette is introduced, asked her favorite sexual position and preferred orifice of penetration, and then asked to dance for a few minutes. While he cautions that Juggalettes should be judged based on their dancing, tease and outfit, it is clear the crowd prefers contestants who take off all their clothes immediately. Props go to boob juggling, nipple-licking, willingness to be sprayed with Faygo, vagina-showing, and girl on girl mock-cunnilingus.

Jeremy kept interrupting to remind them that the faster they took off their clothes, the better, but only one contestant seemed to master that. In the end, the contestant that showed the most vagina won.

After the contest, I was bestowed the extreme pleasure of watching Ron Jeremy sign boobs. He doesn’t just SIGN them… he fondles, kisses and caresses them. He’s a boob-signing artist.

It’s at the lingerie contest that we meet Andrew and Sasha, two radio co-hosts from Baltimore. We end up following them over to the ICP Seminar, which is where we meet Igor’s partner from Village Voice, Camille. We wait around forever, but when ICP shows up, it’s like someone set off a bomb. Violent J and Shaggy 2 Dope, in all their facepaint glory, arrive on a pair of golf carts. They apologize for being late, citing sleepiness as the reason.

They announce a few things:

A new record, Vanilla Ice signs to Psychopathic Records, they’re writing another book (a sequel to Behind the Paint, if you will) about the last decade, and they’re doing the Hallowicked Tour again this year. They also told Juggalos that there were a lot of reporters out there at the Gathering, and that it was good they were there because Juggalos deserved to be represented in mainstream media. “They’re trying to put their finger on us,” J says, “but they ain’t never gonna understand us.”

The response to journalists from the Juggalos seemed pretty hostile in the seminar, but so far, only a few Juggalos have actually been shitty to any press. It helps that I’ve stopped wearing clothes and have only been wearing short-shorts and sports bras everywhere.

After the seminar, J and Shaggy get mobbed by fans. J stops to do a brief interview about the 62-minute rap he’s just recorded. I stop to take a photo of two girls who are wearing clown faces painted over their breasts instead of shirts.

We wander around for a bit. The Drug Bridge is sleepy at this time a day, save a guy selling “dollar Molly,” which I’m sure will kill you.

Manes, Shawn and I take a ferry into Kentucky for beer only to find ourselves in a dry county. We drive to Sturgis, pick up some Budweiser (only choice other than malternatives) and I fall asleep. I wake up to find us running out of gas and lost, far away from the nearest gas station and doing exactly what we said we wouldn’t — being out in the woods in a group of three. Manes is the middle piece of the centipede. No exceptions.

We barely make it back to camp. Venturing around again, we catch Ice Cube, who seems to think “whoop whoop” sounds a lot like booing. Lil Jon joins him on stage for some serious crunk-ery. There are a few guys on some kind of hallucinogens bobbing in the crowd telling us how great everything is, eyes glazed over. It looks like the fence next to the stage is the refuge for Juggalos who take too much, man, as several have passed out there, one of them looking on the verge of sleep, kept awake only by his sobbing. He is having an epiphany no one else can understand.

Wandering around some more, the Drug Bridge has become crowded. Someone calls me an uppity bitch for just smiling when they ask me if I want to buy a T-shirt, and several other Juggalos turn around to tell him it isn’t cool or to tell me not to worry about him.

There is a tent where a strip club has been set up. A completely naked Juggalette dances around a pole while men offer dollars, though no one is offering enough for a private dance. Everyone has their cell phones out and when she gets into a position where her thighs are spread, they shine their flashlights on her vagina to get a better snapshot. Coming from Grand Rapids, where it’s illegal for strippers to show even their nipples, this is like some kind of lawless oasis. We spend several minutes here, basking in the glow of a society that praises, rather than fears, nudity.

An act called Kung Fu Vampire is going on in another area. His set piece includes a statue with a fetus bursting out of a decapitated woman, who is stacked onto two other chopped up women. He’s singing a song about having sex with dead girls, something that seems to be a very popular topic here. For a shock act, he’s pretty good and definitely succeeds at being intentionally disgusting. The whole thing reminds me of a 1970s Italian horror film. I’m disappointed we only catch two songs before it’s over, but it at least affords us the opportunity to sneak in for a photo of the stage set as the crowd dissipates.

We check out the comedy stage, where Harland Williams is just finishing. Brian Posehn takes the stage. His set is brief, but includes a bit where he talks about how he doesn’t smoke pot anymore. The Juggalos pass a six-foot bong to the stage and talk him into it. After the hit, they start offering him mushrooms. He declines and finishes his set. A wrestler/comedian who isn’t funny who no one seems to like takes the stage, so we leave. The craziness seems subdued tonight, save a gigantic bonfire people keep throwing fireworks into. The fireworks then spray off in all sorts of random directions and most people are backing up. When the scaffolding that makes up the tower of fire falls, several Juggalos keep trying to jump over it.

We try to check out WolfPac, but their set is late and taking forever. We head back to camp. Most of the people we encounter are two things: a) mostly naked b) friendly.

We have learned how to “whoop, whoop” well enough. We settle into sleep.

I awake early when it gets hot. I keep trying to sleep but am unable to, so I get up and take a shower. The showers are relatively pleasant and private and the other girls are nice. I run into a Hunter S. Thompson fan who remarks on my tattoo. We talk about how nice the lawlessness of Cave-in-Rock is.

Returning to the tent, I see Dorsey again who talks about wandering the fields at night later on. Matt is lying in front of the Love Bus, a school bus with the top cut off that transports Juggalos from one end of the festival to the other, wearing a Twizted T-shirt.

“I’m blending,” he shouts.

* * * *

Day 3 (Saturday)

* * * *

Violent J told people not to attack Tila Tequila, and that worked SO WELL that his speech about allowing mainstream media in because Juggalos SHOULD be on the cover of Time Magazine has had a similar effect. ”Fuck the media” is a new chant and many of us have taken to hiding our badges until we get to the stage gates. I assume it’s because the Juggalos who were at the seminar are telling the Juggalos who weren’t about media presence, and the part where Violent J is welcoming the media has been lost in translation. While there are only a few Juggalos who have turned to hostility, it’s enough to give us the sense of anxiety that means you’re really at a party.

After passing Matt attempting to “blend,” I ventured out again into the carnage. We stopped by the media tent to find a pair of journalists from a Juggalo website from LA who had also run out of gas. We ask several people, but only the man who owns the property here, Tim, knows about a little shop five miles away. We worry this might be too far. Which leads me to some interesting questions — these people who OWN the property? They’re all older types and don’t seem to be Juggalos. Why did they take on the festival no one else wanted?

From the media area, we make our way to the Freakshow Stage where Ladies’ Oil Wrestling is in full effect. A skeezy guy with a megaphone instructs the girls, all wearing short boxer shorts and bikinis and Slick Chix shirts to opposite corners of a large inflatable pit. The girls are oiled up and doused in Faygo, then pitted them against one another while guys spray them with a gross mixture of Faygo and water taken from a cooler next to the stage. The host keeps yelling at all the media to remember that this is SLICKCHIX.COM, promising credit for YouTube videos. This guy’s in luck because I’m video-ing the hell out of this.

The object of the game clearly isn’t to pin the other girl but rip her clothes off. The final round is four women. The last one with any amount of clothing on wins. It’s a fierce battle and floppy breasts fly as the shirts are ripped to shreds. I climb up on the stage over the pit for the best view.

I’m not sure who won the contest because I’m pretty sure everyone ended up naked, covered in Faygo with the host explaining all the ways he’d like to have sex with them and then motorboating them while everyone cheered “whoop, whoop.”

From this stage, we check out the Neden Game. In the Juggalos’ native language, Neden means vagina, singular or plural. You cannot call someone a “neden” the way you can call someone a pussy; you can say you want to see a neden or get some neden.

The Neden game is a wicked version of the Dating Game. A Juggalo is in a vision-proof booth and three Juggalettes compete for his affection. Our host Ron Jeremy (who it seems always wears the same clothes and travels everywhere with three cups and a bottle of booze in a large Ziploc bag) does not ask them who they are or what they do for a living or their opinions on politics. It’s mostly all about where they like it, in what position and will they show their boobs? The three contestants end up naked and Jeremy prompts two of them to make out. They do, but also reveal that they are both first cousins to each other.

In the end, our Juggalo bachelor chooses the middle girl. Ron Jeremy cautions everyone NOT to miss Miss Juggalette 2011, happening shortly. Then it starts to rain. Like, SERIOUSLY rain. A torrential downpour. Shawn and I leave our radios with Manes and make a run for it.

About two minutes into this run, both of my contacts dislodge and I fall down a hill and scrape up my leg. It’s a lot of staggering back to the camp before I manage to work my contacts back into place. Here, Matt, Dorsey, Jake and Mary are taking cover near the camp area. The rain dies down and everything is just wet, grey and muddy. I feel okay standing in a clearing talking to Matt and Dorsey about what we’ve just seen, but I make my mistake of turning my back on the Love Bus.

The Love Bus is a school bus with the top cut off, like a janky school bus convertible. Standing too close, already drenched with rain, is how I get hosed down with diet Faygo Root Beer. I smell delicious. Then the Juggalos start yelling, “Show your tits” or “pop a titty,” assuring me that their small size is no issue in Juggalo culture. If you won’t show a titty, the Juggalos will offer an alternative suggestion. That is: “Show your butthole.” I have never heard those words uttered even once, but have already heard them perhaps 50 times by this point. Because I refuse to show neither tits, neden or butthole, the Juggalos just keep yelling. They are not discouraged. I tell Matt to go get the Lady Gaga blow-up doll they brought with them for some reason and save me, but instead, Shawn lifts his own shirt to show them his titties. A girl hollers in approval, but the Juggalos are not satisfied and keep yelling until they pull away, loudly reminding me that Juggalos get to see tits FOR FREE.

I go rinse off the Faygo in the shower and trudge back to camp.I notice the water tower we are camped next to has a ladder, so I decide to climb up for a photo, but I only get halfway before I become so visible that all around is a chorus of “show your butthole,” so I climb back down.

From here, we head to the famed Miss Juggalette competition. This contest is wilder than the previous ones. Contestants start out mostly naked and continue from there. The clear winner is the same girl we saw dancing in the makeshift strip club the night prior. She knows all the right stripper moves and starts round one already naked save stockings, a garter belt, a bikini with no cups and heels. She is helpful to the second contestant by prompting her into girl-on-girl action. And oh, how the girl-on-girl actions proceeds. With Jeremy coaching everyone on, the stage is nothing but naked body parts and grinding to Boondox’s “The Love of my Life is a Knife,” a song about how the love of his life is a knife, naturally, which he introduces to a girl at the end of the song, with screams rising up over the chorus.

Contestant No. 1 has a secret talent, which is squirting all over everything. When it comes down to the final round, she and her girl-on-girl partner are named the final two. When asked to give a speech to determine the winner, the stripper girl proclaims her love for Juggalos. The second girl calls out her dumbass not-boyfriend who has been coming with her to the Gathering every year for eight years but still considers her nothing and won’t put a ring on it. In retaliation, she shows her vagina to the crowd and everyone starts yelling one of many common Juggalo chants: “YOU FUCKED UP! YOU FUCKED UP!” Juggalo Dave, wherever you are, you’ve lost your Juggalo princess forever!

“You fucked up” is also chanted when shows are late and “what the fuck” has gotten old, or when a group of Juggalos who have hotwired and stolen a golf cart flip said golf cart on a hill.

The sympathy vote is not enough to beat out the squirter and so the first contestant wins.  I have a video of this entire thing. It did occur to me that I am in the background of a million porno videos right now, trying to get a better angle. Hi, Mom.

As the attendees of Miss Juggalette 2011 wander off to other activities, Ron Jeremy poses with the two girls, both beaming.

We get some food and run into a Juggalo we know from Grand Rapids who is selling merchandise. He’s with another guy who tells us all about how we suck because we’re media, how you shouldn’t get a tattoo here because someone got hepatitis last year doing that and how shit’s only gonna get crazier.

I head back out after dark, alone. I hide my press badge and make it to the stage without getting harassed. Mary and Manes were told to get the fuck out for being media a few times, but are in one piece.

Vanilla Ice has gone dubstep but George Clinton is AWESOME. In his deep voice, he says, “Can I get a whoop, whoop out there?” and the crowd obliges. One member of the audience has a Shepard Fairey-style Sheen poster that bobs over everyones’ head. A Black Escalade pulls in and Mary assumes it’s Sheen.

The question of Sheen’s survival is a popular one. I saw some people carrying around a blow-up Sheen with white powder all over its face and DUH WINNING written on his chest with a Sharpie.

Clinton really wins everyone over, and the set is amazing. When he finishes, everyone stays, waiting for Sheen and Blaze Ya Dead Homie. As the Juggalos get restless, Faygo and water bottles are thrown all over and we hide in the corner of the photo pit. People shooting off firecrackers are hauled off by security and at one point, security returns with a real hatchet they have confiscated. As time passes and boredom rises, the guy with the Sheen sign is pelted while everyone screams, “FUCK THAT SIGN! FUCK THAT SIGN!”

But finally, their lack of patience is rewarded. Sheen comes out and says, “It’s all about hatchet love! Clown love!”

And everyone chants, “CHARLIE! CHARLIE! CHARLIE!”

Mainstream news organizations will report Sheen being booed because they do not understand ‘whoop! whoop!’ Sure, they pelt him with shit, but unless it’s literal shit, it’s pelted with love. Miraculously, Sheen catches a can that is thrown at him, thus securing his position of #winning. He introduces Blaze, a “straight-up dead gangsta” according to my interview with him, who wears a giant clock. He raps about being dead and bitches and pot and it’s surprisingly catchy. Manes and I are afraid of (or excited by) the prospect of becoming Juggalos.

We stop at a speakeasy for a cocktail then head back to camp. It rains a shit-ton, so I hide out in the tent and fall asleep.

In the morning, I awake to find most of the crowd turning into zombies. The hostility toward media grows and I fear it turning into a Cannibal Holocaust.

I shower, get dressed and take a walk to the bridge to see what’s for sale. The day prior, I saw a girl with a sign around her neck that just said “SEX. $100.” I decide I cannot go to a place where drugs are openly sold on a bridge and not do some commerce without getting my Gonzo tattoo removed from my thigh. Plus, one of our camper neighbors has been having panic attacks all morning. I buy three Xanax for five bucks from a guy with a Hatchet Man backpack. He tells me he’s running low because people are starting to snap. Then he tells me they’ve got two kinds of blow, best on the bridge, and I can try before I buy. I politely decline and return to camp. Here, Scott has managed to bring us back five gallons of gasoline, which Jake and I pour into the van using a cut up water bottle as a funnel while Juggalos shoot fireworks all around us. I check Pill Identifier to verify the validity of the Xanax. It’s good. And I’m not surprised. I’m told Juggalos caught stealing or selling bad drugs may just wind up in one of the twin cages outside the underground stage for a bit of harmless, but extended public humiliation. That’s what happens when you attempt to betray your family.

I dispense the Xanax and the panicky camper feels better within a half hour. Call me Dr. Benway.

The walk to the media tent was fairly unobtrusive and although I haven’t been getting harassed nearly as much as Jake and Mary about being “faggot media,” I fear I may not make the whole weekend without showing some tits. A Juggalo did tell me I had a cupcake ass. Thanks?

Is this the calm before the storm? The helicopter rides constantly running over the festival make this feel like Apocalypse Now. Is this the end? Is this the day that separates the who’s from the we’s?

* * * *

Day 4 (Sunday)

* * * *

Shawn decides to leave the media tent to nap while I finish writing and uploading Day 3. I promise to bring a coffee by later. I swing by the medical tent to see how they’re doing and ask for crazy stories and sunscreen. The attendant gives me a small paper cup of sunscreen and tells me they’ve only dealt with dehydration so far, which seems impossible. This crowd? This is a music festival, at the very least. I ask him what they’d do for someone having a panic attack and he says they’d just talk him down.

“What would stop them from just buying Xanax or another benzo-y type drug from the bridge?” I ask.

“Nothing, I suppose,” he says.

I wander around the merchandise area, looking for Faygo. I haven’t had soda in quite a while, but it seems like a good time. Matt, Dorsey and Scott are seated at a picnic table. Matt has somehow acquired yet another ICP T-shirt. We take note of the Juggalo children wandering with Juggalo parents before Dorsey and I head back to camp to charge up for Violent J’s Michael Jackson vs. Prince Dance-Off, whatever that is. Back at camp, the Love Bus has taken to throwing full cans of Faygo at people while a group of people throw water balloons and Faygo back at them. A girl on the bus is topless and wielding a sword she uses to fend off incoming objects. I once again deny a request for boob-showing. Cries of “show your butthole!” echo throughout camp as the bus disappears down the hill.

At the Michael Jackson vs. Prince dance-off, Violent J has two impersonators doing different dance numbers to Prince and MJ songs. One thing I know about Violent J is that he’s a huge MJ fan. This is one thing we discussed heavily in the interview, an interview that occurred shortly after Jackson passed away. By power of applause, the MJ performer wins and is invited back for another number. He performs “Thriller” to an appreciative crowd of Juggalos. We are standing in the back near several flats of Faygo. Shaggy 2 Dope comes through and we get a photo with him. He is very polite.

Meanwhile, Violent J has acquired a pan of hot dogs and is passing them out free of charge to his fans. Everyone comes on stage to dance until he declares there are too many people for it to be safe. The crowd dissipates a bit and somehow, he miraculously disappears, as though he was never there at all. We have NO idea where he went.

Disappointed at the lack of J, but in high spirits, I insist that we ride on the Ferris wheel and take some aerial photographs. Manes insists he hates heights, but obliges. From high above the grounds of the Gathering, we can see all the tents overlooking the Ohio River, all the Juggalos meandering, and the trailers behind the stage in production. While it looks somewhat sparse in the hot, early afternoon, it is easy to see how secluded from all of civilization we are.

The nearby jail only has room for eight people. If shit hits the fan, it’s really going to hit the fan. And while the sun is shining and we’re excited for this dance-off, the hostility toward the media has only increased. I start telling people I either work for Psychopathic or High Times and they leave me alone or ask how to get a press pass next year. The High Times trick backfires for Jake and Mary, who say that the Juggalo who confronted them about their media badges (by pulling on them and trying to take them) responded to their claim to be from High Times by demanding they photograph him pouring hash oil all over his face. Shawn has discovered that explaining what kind of media we are (namely, not TMZ) generally works to disperse any aggression. Personally, after reading the Deadspin article by a girl who makes it a whole 12 hours wandering around the Gathering in facepaint, coming off as a condescending hipster in the process, I don’t blame the ‘fuck you’ attitude.

From outside camp, Jake and Mary say they’re having trouble getting back in from their food / gas run. Cops are blocking off the usual entrance and they’re being sent around due to some unnamed situation.

Manes is approached by a guy who tells him he absolutely has to meet his friend who can lift a large water jug using only his penis, and cinder blocks using his nipples. Fortuitously, it is only fifteen minutes later while standing in line for a slice of gross carnie pizza that I see the man in front of us is carrying around a jug of water with TIMMY’S DICK TRX scrawled on the side with a Sharpie. I tap him on the shoulder and ask him if he’s the guy who can lift a water bottle with his dick. He tells us he normally charges five bucks a go, but since we’re media with cameras, he’ll just do it. He pulls off his pants. His penis has a hook through the head, which he attaches to a hook on the bottle. And sure as shit, he lifts it using only his dick — and this is a jug. Not a bottle. A jug. His name is Tim Casey, a pierced, tattoo-ed Spencer’s employee who lives in Kentucky.  You can like him on Facebook if you want to see what other tricks he has up his pant leg.

He tells us in the days that follow; he feels a certain amount of pain in his penis from this performance. Always the gentleman, Manes says, “Can I buy you a slice of pizza?”

Manes and Tim toast their greasy slices and we head our separate ways. We chill out at the camp for a bit with Dorsey. Manes has sold a cigarette for a can of Dr. Faygo, which we appreciatively pass around.

Now it is the calm before the storm. ICP is due to play much later. Boondox, Paris, Mystikal, Xzibit and then the original wicked clowns themselves. The Drug Bridge is absolutely packed with Juggalos getting ready for the evening. The signs around necks have become more desperate, the calls of the drug dealers more rushed. Everyone is excited beyond belief. The Love Bus continues to roam around and around, Juggalos screaming for “titties” and “buttholes.” I’ve made it this far — I will not give in.

We return to camp and get suited up in only clothes we will not miss. I trust my American Apparel fanny pack to be waterproof, after running through a torrential downpour to find my iPhone perfectly dry. Clearly, I should be a spokesperson for BOTH things. I ain’t afraid of no Faygo shower.

On the Drug Bridge, a girl is selling slaps of her ass, covered in only a tiny thong, for a dollar.

On the main stage is Boondox, the Juggalo scarecrow with a Southern drawl. Boondox has a song about how he wants to use various kinds of lubricant to slide his member between some “sweet, supple jugs” where the lyrics are:

“Take ‘em out, make ‘em bounce. Juggalettes, let’s see them jugs.
Take ‘em out, make ‘em bounce, pull up that shirt, let’s see some love.”

This is what he is performing as we approach. There are over a dozen girls in the front of the crowd alone, sitting atop the shoulders of various guys, bouncing their breasts in time with the music. Kind of everything I hoped for and more. Especially the Juggalo whose shirt says, “It’s Not Rape If You’re Dead,” which seems to tie in with the themes I was getting from the Kung Fu Vampire set the night prior.

Jake texts me from back at camp telling me to hide my press badge, saying he’s been getting harassed a lot.

Everyone is predicting that Mystikal and Xzibit will get pelted with cans and things, but they are left alone just as much as everyone else. Shawn convinces me we should go into the belly of the beast during ICP. I chain-smoke three cigarettes, take off my jacket and hand it to Jake, and as the crowd begins to thicken and intensify, Shawn and I head straight into it. None of the other journalists will join us.

Shoulder to shoulder with Juggalos, we’re in a crowd of people whipping bottles of Faygo and water into the air. They shove, they curse, they yell “FUCK THAT SIDE, FUCK THAT SIDE” and throw bottles at the opposite stage side of the crowd. A guy lights off a fire cracker and everyone starts chanting, “YOU FUCKED UP!” or “FUCK THAT GUY!” As time goes on, the crowd becomes restless, throwing things higher and harder and yelling for ICP. When the host of the night’s events, Flava Flav, comes out, he tries to get everyone to do this call and repeat chanting thing, but no one gives a fuck. They just yell ICP until he goes away.

And now it’s the point of no return. The crowd has become so thick, there’s no way Shawn and I can get out without some serious Juggalo shoving. And I don’t want to. This isn’t Cannibal Holocaust; this is Man Bites Dog.

A projection that says ICP in red, white and blue backs the stage and a carnival version of “God Bless America” starts blaring over the speakers. When it finishes, Violent J and Shaggy 2 Dope ride out on bicycles to everyone screaming “whoop, whoop.” Two towers of Faygo three-liters stacked on pallets reside on either side of the stage and they waste no time in dispensing them.

There’s something seriously impressive about the way these two perform. They perform with vigor, running back and forth, their songs seamlessly blending into one another, never doing an entire song, only picking the hot spots. They can take a three-liter bottle of Faygo, and with practiced effort, pop the cap only to have it become this projectile object soaring over the crowd, dousing everyone in soda.

Shawn horrifies me by revealing he knows all the words, claiming it’s only his extensive Gathering-preparedness research. He’s probably also the Ice Truck Killer, I just know it. Then I realize I know some of the songs (maybe a lot of the songs?), so I join the Juggalos in yelling “fuck the world,” and various other pieces I remember. Not that it’s hard… every song sounds familiar after being at the Gathering for four days listening to it over every loudspeaker between live acts and near every campsite. So familiar… and so catchy.

Every few songs, they have a Faygo break. They have their own Faygo song that plays while clowns come out and hose the crowd with super soakers loaded with Faygo, tossing bottles and buckets of the shit into the fray.

They play “Miracles,” which is fucking great, but it’s “Chicken Huntin’” that breaks the crowd into abandon. A mosh pit breaks out near us and crowd surfers are generally too large for the lack of density in our area. We put our best efforts into keeping them afloat and directing them toward the front. We’re constantly shoving people away from us and hoisting Juggalos, all the while getting sprayed in the face with Faygo and dodging high velocity water bottles. Someone elbows me in the face and I’m worried my nose is bleeding. I’m pretty sure it’s just Faygo. My assumption is confirmed later when I have what cocaine users call “the drip” and it tastes like diet root beer.

I hate to admit it… but it’s pretty damned fun. And I like how the larger Juggalo dudes protect the smaller Juggalettes from moshers, tweakers, and surfers. Near me, two Juggalettes are wearing only panties and sitting on shoulders, screaming along to every song. I see the Buzzfeed guys’ blow-up doll surfing the crowd and I hope they haven’t been overtaken.

Violent J and Shaggy 2 Dope break into the slow jam, “If I Were a Serial Kiler.” I’m pretty sure it’s their “Free Bird.” This soulful ballad is about all the ways they would kill people. “If I was a serial killer,” J croons, “I’d be strange and deranged and I’d never change.”

The crowd holds up their lighters, all arms swaying back and forth, everyone singing, “I wanna run with this hatchet” during the song’s triumphant refrain.

They pick up the tempo and change songs to “Bang Pow Boom,” a song about a demon (or something) that rises up and consumes all the rapists, wife beaters and pedophiles ICP has lured to a dark carnival in Nevada in some kind of cleansing fire. The stage is suddenly filled with people throwing Faygo, shooting Faygo out of a firehouse. I don’t even know who these fuckers are, but they have literally hundreds of 3 liters left to go. If i wasn’t covered in Faygo before, I am now. I can barely see through the Faygo bukkake. This is a Faygo baptism, except it makes more sense, sort of, than actually being baptized. Are we family now? Every Juggalo that turns to me and says, “That was awesome,” I find I am in complete agreement with. That WAS awesome.

The Faygo shower lasts long after the song is finished. Shawn and I somehow stagger into the photo pit only to find the security guards all covered as well. Jake and Mary are huddled in a corner, relatively dry. Doused in soda, it’s fucking cold so we head back to camp for showers.

On the way back, people are either preparing to leave, saying, ‘see you next year’ or looking to re-up on their drugs, namely Mollie. Matt, Dorsey and Scott have left (kindly leaving us some rum and an extension cord) and I haven’t seen Andrew or Sasha in a long time. Lonely media, we trudge the hill to the showers only to find the groundskeepers telling us the Juggalos have destroyed the water main and there are no showers.

What a cruel and twisted fate. Covered in fucking Faygo and no way to rinse off. Shawn decides to pour a bottle of ice cold water over himself (it sounds painful) while I go for baby wipes and hand sanitizer. I pull on as many dry clothes as I can find and we decide to go exploring.

For the first time this whole festival since we arrived, the five of us head out together.

If things were ever going to get post-Apocalyptic, now was the time. We follow a Juggalo down the hill who kicks over a trash can and a porta-potty. We cross a menacing drug bridge only to find Juggalos have started fires all over the place. Whatever wood they have started the fires with — oftentimes set up in the middle of roads — is not as significant as other things. Groups of Juggalos bring offerings, yelling the same three-syllable chant they’ve been yelling all weekend on the way.

“FUCK THAT CHAIR! FUCK THAT CHAIR!” and a chair goes in the fire.

“FUCK THAT TENT! FUCK THAT TENT!” and a tent goes in the fire.

At one point, someone brings a jar of Miracle Whip to the fire yelling, “FUCK THAT MAYONNAISE” and two Juggalos argue over the difference between mayonnaise and Miracle Whip.

In the middle of the grounds where the main stage now sits quiet, the fire rages so high you can feel the heat from several yards away. The heat begins boiling the Faygo mud and creating an eerie mist. We all carefully tuck our press badges into our jackets.

The makeshift stripper stage is going wild again tonight, with Miss Juggalette back at it, writhing around the pole, then licking her fingers and masturbating for a crowd of salivating men. For the record, this girl’s is the only “butthole” we’ve seen despite the cries for anal revelation that permeate the festival non-stop, and I’ve never seen her and NOT seen it, though I’ve seen her three separate times. A number of extremely young-looking boys are appearing in Hollister and American Eagle, apparently having just walked into the grounds. Jake sees two of them offer one of the dancers some money and follow her into a trailer.

Wandering further, we find several of the Juggalos have been left here and are wearing cardboard signs around their necks asking for rides to cities all over the country, from LA to Detroit to Memphis. One Juggalo tells us that several Juggalos have had problems with items from their camps being stolen. Purported thefts include a cooler full of a diabetic girl’s insulin and someone’s car. These Juggalos are upset that anyone would steal from “family.”

Shawn and I head back to the camp in the dark while Jake and Mary head off in another direction to find more weirdness.

We see more of the golf carts have been hijacked and their riders are driving them at high rates of speed. We see one of them take a corner too sharp and spin-out, just barely failing to roll over. Rumor has it one of these carts may actually be J and Shaggy themselves, but we can’t tell. We try to go to the porta-potties near camp, but one of the groundskeepers stops us.

“Where do you think you’re going?” she snaps.

“To the restroom?” Shawn says.

“No, you ruined it! You have to go over there! You ruined the porta-potties and you guys ruined the shower.”

“We didn’t,” I say.

And she starts to protest, so I quickly pull out my badge. “We’re with the media, and we didn’t break your shower.”

If I’ve learned ONE thing about music festivals, it’s don’t take too many drugs. If I’ve learned another, it’s use the press badge to your advantage when talking to press, medics, cops and crew. By the end of the festival, these people are so overwhelmed with weirdoes that a sober person to unload all their stories on is a welcome relief. I tell her we’ve been getting harassed ever since the ICP conference where Violent J addresses that media was even here. And so, of course, she levels with us.

She tells us that this is the worst year of the Gathering since it came to Cave-In-Rock. Theft has been rampant, as well as tagging and blatant destruction, including the showers. People have been lighting porta-potties up with M-80s, resulting in feces being sprayed everywhere, knocking over porta-potties, destroying picnic tables and lighting them on fire. Host to a few bike weeks, the groundskeeper tells us she’s never seen more disrespectful people come to Cave-In-Rock than this Gathering.

Three wandering Juggalos start to go in the direction that the groundskeepers prevented us from going. The Juggalos yell at them, saying they can’t be told what to do at The Gathering. They claim they’re not doing anything wrong, just looking for “free shit.” They wander off, saying, “Apparently, YOU’RE not a Juggalo,” as if not being one of the fam-i-ly is just about the worst thing that someone could say to you.

The groundskeepers are clearly ready to be done with everything and the man sitting next to the woman we’re talking to tells me to be very careful walking around alone on account of my being a woman. I tell him that I’ve been screamed at all weekend to show my boobs, occasionally being called an uppity bitch or a cunt for not doing so, but never really physically threatened and he just keeps saying to watch out and stay away from the Love Bus. The woman says she doesn’t understand why they pick things to destroy, then systematically destroy them while chanting, “Fuck that (insert noun).” She tells us they have more security over in this area to protect their own things, and I’m pretty happy about our decision to move camp over here and not stay where they originally suggested.

One thing she says that sticks out is that Psychopathic agrees to pay for every piece of damage. It’s in the contract. Everything the juggalos break, Psychopathic buys.

We’re interrupted when someone on the radio requests assistance. Apparently, the Juggalos are now ripping porta-potty doors off the hinges and throwing them into the raging fires, fires which are now somewhat out of control. The porta-potty fire is exactly where it was originally suggested we camp. Given the hostility toward media, I’m surprised we haven’t been sacrificed while Juggalos scream, “FUCK THE PRESS!”

Shawn is tired and I don’t want to leave him alone, so I sit with him in the tent, listening to the crackling over the radio as the fires rage and more picnic tables and wooden spools fall victim to the post-ICP partying. Faygo-soaked Juggalos keep trudging to the showers only to be turned away. They complain about having come all the way up the large hill that divides the campground. Several signs have been posted along the hill that say, if you haven’t ascertained already, “FUCK THIS HILL.”

When Jake and Mary return, they tell me that some guy has taken to laying in the middle of the Drug Bridge saying he won’t move for anyone, even people on golf carts, until a Juggalette urinates on his face. He is having some success in this area, but is never satiated.

Manes returns and taps on the tent. He tells me another groundskeeper has been listening to the scanner all day. Apparently, the disturbance that would coincide with Jake and Mary’s issue getting back into camp was a body floating ashore on the other side of the Ohio River. He also tells Manes rumors of sexual assault and violence. Things are a little dicey, even if neither of these rumors are true, because one of the road fires is apparently right near the guy who owns the property’s house.

I huddle in my tent and somehow manage to fall asleep for two hours, when the sun has just come up.

I emerge to find Jake and Mary gone and Manes’ shoes still on the ground by his tent. I decide to go find Jake and Mary and survey the carnage while Shawn and Manes sleep.

Trudging down the hill again, I see the zombie aftermath of the Gathering. Someone near me is warning a group of people that he’s starting to feel like killing someone. Every passing “whoop, whoop” is deflated. The grounds are covered in trash — empty Faygo cans, beer cans, balloons and Whip-It canisters, condoms, sex toys, bottles of lubricant, discarded signs advertizing drugs or asking to see titties. A pair of guys lounging in lawn chairs half-heartedly ask to see mine, but are apparently too tired to tell me I’m a bitch this time when I just ignore them. Crossing the bridge, I see a Juggalo who has had someone shave the word “Family” into his back hair. People are nervous about cops outside and trying to move their drugs for cheap.

The raging fire is still smoldering and one lone Juggalo sits near it, passed out in a chair. Here, I find Jake and Mary taking photos of the field of trash. We encounter a guy from Detroit who says he had his friends leave him here to stay longer and has just recently found a ride home. Mary and I creep toward the foliage near the river where someone is screaming they’re going to slaughter everyone, though when the voice gets louder, we shrink away.

They tell me about a guy last night who was so high he was ripping through the barbed wire fence near the river and running at security guards. They said a medic joined a group of people photographing him and laughing at his plight. They said the medic watched him tangle himself in more barbed wire and stagger at least thirty feet away, finally collapsing before he decided to pick him up and bring him back to the medical tent. They also confirm that J and Shaggy were indeed driving golf carts around the grounds all night, at one point even chasing Jake and Mary as if trying to run them over, but most people were too obliterated to even recognize them.

While the morning seems safer, albeit messier, we decide to get out. I am still covered in Faygo, after all.

We return to camp and pack up. I offer the gasoline can that Scott brought us to get home to one of the groundskeepers. He tells Mary and me that things got pretty wild the night before and he hasn’t been able to sleep at all. He cautions us to be careful and wear our seat belts because of all the cops waiting outside.

On our way out, we see some Juggalos wandering down the roads, but no cops. It becomes pretty apparent that the small group of police officers in the area, even with state help, is unable to detain as many people as they could arrest. The first one we see is miles away and he does not stop us.

On our drive home, during which we have to deal with a tire blow-out and our own cumulative crankiness, we find a report on the news about the body washing ashore. That’s true, but the other claims made are never mentioned.

Later in the evening, I read a Salon article saying that the death of one Juggalo should be proof they need to shut The Gathering down.

I disagree. Someone dies at nearly every music festival, and according to some quick and easy research, it’s not even the first time at the Gathering. It’s bound to happen when you have a large group of people doing drugs and drinking in the heat. The openness of drugs at the Gathering could be a benefit, whereas the hush-hush nature of other festivals may prompt those in trouble to remain silent when they need help. If every music festival where someone died was shut down, there would be hardly any left.

What is completely unique about this festival is the entitled nature of the Juggalos who attend. This whole festival is theirs to embrace and also destroy. Despite the press hostility, most Juggalos were peaceful and friendly and we saw no physical altercations the entire time we were there. For being outsiders themselves, the Juggalos seem to hate other outsiders who come to their pilgrimage unless the outsiders can prove a legitimate interest. It’s like they’re afraid of every high school comedy where the popular kids invite the nerdy girl to the cool kids’ party only to embarrass her — except in this case, the cool kids’ party is fucking boooooooring while the Juggalos know how to party so hard it may literally blow your mind.

We weren’t really family, even though I was genuinely interested in ICP, enjoyed my interviews with Violent J and Blaze and found them both to be good performers who put on an engaging show and seemed to genuinely interact and appreciate their fans. I want to say Violent J is right when he said the media will never understand, never put their finger on a subculture defined by wicked clowns and a love for cheap soda and hatchets… but I’d like to try. If you were down with the clown, the mayhem would make sense to me somehow. If you were down with the clown, you wouldn’t have been horrified and run off like a pussy after 12 hours of wandering around in shoddy facepaint. You would have partied your goddamn ass off and fucking loved every minute of all four days. Because being a Juggalo isn’t just liking a band and seeing their shows when they come to town — it’s a lifestyle. Like Deadheads or Kiss Army, but stronger, fiercer, weirder. These people have been outcasts, denied access to the mainstream just as much as they don’t crave access. This is what they say in songs, to us when they accuse us of being from TMZ and only here to chase around Sheen, and it might be that ICP gives them a home, a sense of belonging… a fam-i-ly. And in some ways the Gathering IS a giant family reunion for Juggalos, and many are more than receptive for those who want to get to know them. And what other music festival has FREE carnival rides? Okay, fine. What other music festival has SO MANY BOOBS?

It’s easy to say these people are fucking dicks. But that’s because I was told they would be. Frankly, the percentage of Juggalos that are dicks at a music festival are just the same as the percentages of people who are dicks at a bar. Most guys did not get upset when a girl declined to show her boobs, the way most guys in the bar will back off when a girl says she wouldn’t like a drink. To even be asked to show your boobs at the Gathering and be upset by it is kind of like going outside when it’s raining and being upset that you’re wet.

It’s easy to talk about the person who shit in the showers, but it’s less interesting to talk about the kid who went around with a megaphone reminding everyone how Cave-in-Rock had taken them in and how it was important to be polite and NOT shit in the showers.

The Gathering has already moved several times before landing in S. Illinois. It began in 2000 in Novi, MI, then to Toledo, OH, then Peoria, IL. Each of these resulted in some kind of riot, either stage-rushing or police attempting to stop Juggalettes from showing their breasts with smoke grenades. Because outside of Juggalo Island, remember, people are terrified that nipples will mark the breakdown of society. SO terrified, they’d tear gas a crowd for popping them out. 2003 marked the first outdoor Gathering at Nelson Ledges Quarry Park in Ohio. It remained there for three years before being kicked out due to unruly behavior.

Gathering number eight was the debut at Cave-In-Rock, and here it’s remained. Next year? We’ll fucking see. But as for us, we might have been converted.

* * * *

In the days since we’ve been home, ICP’s become a regular part of our iPod shuffle, right up there with my Springsteen and Pulp and Shawn’s Iron Maiden and Archenemy. I find myself defending Juggalos and the Gathering, from the perspective of someone who’s actually been there, not just read about it on some snarky blog. I accepted an invitation to be a guest lecturer at a Christian college on subculture in late September and have spent time comparing horrorcore rap to mainstream rap, preparing similarities, asking questions. Maybe, just maybe, I’ve become a Juggalo who wears no paint. Is there a support group for secret Juggalos, where hedge fund managers and stock market analysts and managing editors sit in a circle to solemnly exchange whoop-whoops?

P.S. If you have to leave your hair drenched in Faygo over night and it dries, and the showers still aren’t fixed and you have to complete the 9-hour drive home including a detour through the middle of nowhere to get new tires after one blows and the spare is janky as fuck (FUCK THAT TIRE, FUCK THAT TIRE), your hair eventually becomes soft like a BABY’S. #beautytip

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2011 Gathering of the Juggalos Photo Galleries

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Gathering of the Juggalos 2011: Part I **NSFW**

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Gathering of the Juggalos 2011: Part II **NSFW**

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Gathering of the Juggalos 2011: The Aftermath **NSFW**