You know, I love Cornerstone. I love almost everything about it. I love the music. I love the seminars. I love the art exhibits. I love the fried and not-so-fried foods that I eat only this one time out of the year. I even have happy memories of dealing with bad weather some years. But there is one thing about the festival that I do not love and, indeed, will never learn to love.
I speak of course of Portapotties.
Look, I’m no shrinking violet. I know that a person’s got to do what a person’s got to do, and I know that providing indoor plumbing for 25K people one week out of the year would be a logistical nightmare. The portapotties are a necessary evil, but they will never be more than that for me.
So I found myself in one yesterday. Doing… Well, doing what everybody does in there. Suprisingly, there came a knock at the door. Like all right-minded people, I became suddenly and profoundly bilingual:
Moments later, the knock returned. This time, with a voice asking: “Is there somebody in there?” “Yes, there most definitely is,” I replied. I was getting a little nervous. Because if portapotties are a necessary evil, portapottie incidents just evil. And, I thought to myself, weren’t there plenty of empty portapotties available? Strange.
Little did I know that at that very moment, the 20 or so shockingly well-organized teenagers who had been congregating outside were springing their trap. Donning transformers helmets, they took up stations to the left and the right of the door, raising their arms high in the air to form a natural lane.
As I emerged, blinking, into the sunlight, they burst into applause and began to cheer raucously. Dazed, and most definitely confused, I could do nothing but run down the natural gauntlet, saluting.
Well played, over-organized youth group kids. Well played.