Party Bus
Transportation to Virgin Festival

Last weekend, a group of friends and I headed over to Baltimore’s Virgin Festival for a day of old people (the Who), crazy people (The Flaming Lips) and people who used to wear socks on their penises, but now just have a whole lot to say about California (The Red Hot Chili Peppers). But through some force of evil, we missed the entire set of the Australian, unicorn-riffing, sex-exuding, second-coming-of-Led-Zeppelin rockers known as Wolfmother. That evil was On Tap Magazine’s deceptively titled “Party Bus:” both the worst party I’ve ever been to, and the worst bus I’ve ever been on.

Intent on traveling to the festival in a timely and cost-efficient manner, my friends and I decided to board a so-called Party Bus, a fleet of charter buses that would ferry us to and from the Virgin Fest. On the bus, exclusively for the over-21 crowd, both drinking and – hold on to your party hats – standing were allowed. But apparently the Party Bus people were too busy bringing the fun-sized Cheetos, crappy keychain bottle openers and the “party” (“But seriously, do not get drunk or I will kick you off this bus,” our bus manager warned us) to bring us to the concert on time. By the time we arrived – two hours late – the party had turned into an On Tap hate-fest.

The trip from hell began, fittingly enough, at McFadden’s. Intent not to pass out face-down in a pool of sweat, mud and strangers at the concert (as later, the girl standing behind me at the Flaming Lips set did), and generally against paying for any drink at McFadden’s, I decided not to partake in the early-morning Bud specials at the bar. Instead, I grabbed a bagel and a wristband and waited for the bus.

We boarded, snagged our complimentary chips and drinks, and waited excitedly for the show, listening to teaser Who, Wolfmother and Gnarls Barkley hits on the radio as our fellow partiers chugged beers and water bottles filled with screwdrivers. One girl downed an oversized bottle of Champagne; another made it to the bathroom four times, touching any man she could as she stalked down the aisle. Neither made it on the bus home.

At first, the ride was pleasant enough – but as time went on, traffic got increasingly ridiculous until we were moving at a snail’s pace. Outside, walkers were making better time than us. We were held captive for hours, only miles from the festival. We began writing desperate signs to the walkers, and to our comrades in other party buses. “HELP,” the signs read, “PARTY BUS MEAN.”

Finally, after begging the bus organizer to tell us how far we were from the festival (neither he, nor the bus driver, had any idea), our frustration culminated in a bus-wide chant of “PARTY BUS MEAN! PARTY BUS MEAN!” Around 2 p.m., I thankfully accepted a Red Stripe from my friend, popped it open with the crappy bottle opener they gifted us at the beginning of the ride and chugged it. Shortly after, we led the bus-wide exodus to the streets, jumping off and running toward freedom and the super-group sounds of the Raconteurs.

If I could give the party bus one out of one million bells, I would. Instead, I’m just going to round it off to a zero.