It was either the fall or winter of 1983 or 1984. I was about four years old and I was holed up in a San Diego hospital intensive care unit for about six months. Without getting too much into the back story, I was crossing the street and was struck by a drunk driver. My recollection from this time is obviously very fuzzy and consist of mashed-up stories from my dad, mom, brothers and sisters.To this day all I’ve gathered of what really happened is tidbits of words like “near death,” “unrecognizable,” and “blood transfusions.” I can, however, vaguely remember being in a hospital bed, having faces looking down at me, people trying to make laugh, and never once wondering why I couldn’t move or how I had gotten there.

As it was, at four years old I was in a complete body cast, left leg held up by metal rods, the whole shebang. The only actual pain or suffering I can recall is the frustrating urge of not being able scratch every itch.

My family and hospital staff went above and beyond trying to please me. Getting me whatever meal I wanted, keeping me company, making me laugh (I often blame them now for my selfishness and spoiled behavior).

There was only one thing that really brought me back to life, they say. And so the story goes: As soon as anyone  played “Billie Jean,” I’d try to shake around in the bed, but I couldn’t move! So I’d just wiggle my toes!

My family became fascinated by how this one song constantly put a smile on my face and made me utterly happy. They’d play it over and over again so visitors could see me in good spirits. My father even joked that perhaps during my blood transfusion, the doctors must have given me some of Michael’s DNA. Being completely gullible and always believing whatever my father said, I thought this notion was true. For years afterward, if anyone made racist jokes about African Americans, I would remind them that I was partially black.

Time passed, yet anytime I’d hear negative news about Michael Jackson I’d brush it off as hearsay. Instead, I’d recall the time when he made me want to move again.

Let’s get one thing straight. I’m a city girl: always have been, always will be. I like electricity and I like to shower. However, I’m very spontaneous. So when the idea of going to Bonnaroo came about less than a week before the event, there was little to think about. All I really needed was gas money, bug spray, shades, sunscreen, toiletries, and a man that would take care of the rest.

Case in point: Justin Reynolds, a former boy-scout, camping expert and driver was the key to my happiness. Yes, we drove (well, he did). The only way to get through a 15-hour trip (each way) from New York to Manchester, Tennessee was something called 5-hour energy drinks, playing six degrees of Kevin Bacon, and making up lyrics to whatever was on the radio.

Although the enthusiasm sank mid-way through the trip, we perked up when we arrived at Manchester and drove the opposite direction from the scores of people in stalled traffic waiting to enter the festival grounds. Certain guests (i.e., guests with press passes–Lille)  had access to a different route; that’s just how I roll. But I was aghast at the never-ending miles of cars and even more startled at them.

By them, I mean those people that I really thought was just a myth. How could hippies still exist? I’m quite aware of the folks who are passionate about Burning Man and Phish, but how could hippies shell out $300 for a music festival? That, I’ll never know. But they were there, thousands of them, in pajama-like clothing, some with no shoes, some with hardly any clothes at all.

Coachella did spoil me. That was its own wonderland of celebrities, trendy clothes, grass and palm trees galore, lavish hotel suites, goody bags and on and on. Bonnaroo was a different kind of oasis. Tucked away on rural grounds with slight patches of grass, surrounded by mud, was this spacious festival. It was to be our home for the next four days. Here’s the gist straight and simple:

The bad news: I was bit by a tick (I had forgotten to apply the bug spray) and was freaked out for approximately 24 hours; it rained a ton; I thought we were going to drown in our tents on the first night; I wore rain boots 90 percent of the time; I was quite perplexed by the hippies that at times varied between my own breed of Williamsburg hipsters and the token drunken homeless person; mud everywhere; I missed Phoenix (too embarrassed to say why); the Beastie Boys, sadly, sucked; morning shower lines; the only people worth hooking up with were either on stage or too close for comfort; Gomez is good for only drunk types, got sunburned, almost lost the car keys at 2 a.m., missed Springsteen doing “Glory Days”; the reggae loving couple/neighbors who looked more like father and daughter; wished desperately that the “Which Tent” wasn’t so close to our camp especially when Jimmy Buffet was singing “Brown Eyed-Girl,” Kristen Schaal blocked my Wilco view for a mere second until I regulated her ass; Phish; Trent Reznor said it was the last U.S. NIN show ever.

The good news: Bonnaroo was great!; the hippies were freakishly too nice; I didn’t hear one Phish song (or covered my ears when I almost did); Jeff Tweedy made me believe in music again; Chairlift has the chops to back up their shit; I was hit by Jimmy Fallon’s charm; Passion Pit front-man is not a douche; Justin hooked up our camp/home in every way possible (he cooked everyday!); learned a ton about Pete Seeger; Grizzly Bear saved me; Bon Iver melted my heart; fell asleep to the sounds of thunderstorms and Delta Spirit; TV On the Radio didn’t suck; my tick bite wasn’t the end of me; can finally say that I’ve seen the Yeah Yeah Yeahs at every music festival in the United States; found the car keys at 3 a.m., loved that the “Which Tent” was so close to our camp especially during David Byrne; watched David Byrne perform with the Dirty Projectors; The Dirty Projectors; St. Vincent rocked; woke up to MGMT; heard a real-life Kennedy speech; was offered weed by grandparents; heard Springsteen do “Santa Claus Is Coming To Town”; saw NIN once last time; arriving back in New York City.