Few things test the limits of human endurance quite like the three-day Sasquatch! indie music festival. What follows is one humble critic's thoroughly dishonest attempt at capturing some of the most memorable moments from day two of the festival. The facts are questionable, but the names remain unchanged in order to implicate the innocent. Or is that the guilty?

10 a.m. to 1 p.m.: Matt Driscoll, Jennifer PhD and I brave rain squall after rain squall on our journey from Tacoma to the Gorge Amphitheatre with three Pretty Girls Make Graves CDs and Pearl Jam's latest as the soundtrack.
1:30 p.m. Secure spot on first-tier lawn with Driscoll's Native American blankets. Say high to fellow Volcano scribe Angela Jossy who lounges in the same spot as last year ââ?¬" just off the main cement path.  She's digging Gomez.
1:31 p.m.: Drain wallets with several rounds of Jack rocks with 12 other people. Eight bucks a drink forecasts a dry night.   
2:30 p.m.: Take in Stephen Malkmus' fractured pop sensibility ââ?¬"  clever hooks, lines, and sinkers.  Snap a few photos via phone.  Driscoll adds a tag line and I post it on Spew.
3:40 p.m.: Back to the lounge where we find Ginger Knoxx and the Italian.  Some poor slob, who Ginger had to tell the ATM was out of cash after she drained it, latches onto them.  Announce we need the half-pound burgers and 24-ounce Coors and leave.
3:45 p.m.: No buns!  Forced to wait 15 minutes for burgers.  I run over to check on the blankets. On my way I overhear a guy loudly proclaim to his companion his gratitude for the festival's having offered an alternative to "all that corporate shit that the Man thinks it can force down our throats this summer." He then takes two more quick gulps of his Coors Light, tries to squeeze into the Xbox line and continues on toward the Dakine booth.
4 p.m.: A sea of humanity has consumed our blankets/spot on the lawn.  SOL.
4:15 p.m.: Soak in Band of Horses' guitar heavy Neil Young-like craftsmanship.  Say goodbye the rich dream-pop of BoH singer Ben Bridwell and Mat Brooke's former band Carissa's Weird. I snap more photos as the rain begins to fall.  Crap, Cingular totally lets me down.  I can't post to Spew.  Should have went the press tent route.
4:20 p.m.: Tea time.
4:45 p.m.: Secure a spot in the main stage pit before Neko Case.  Driscoll and I froth over Rachel Flotard.  The Visqueen singer/guitarist is touring with Case. I would like to live in her hair.
5 p.m.: Hail the size of gumballs smash the Gorge for 20 minutes sending the crowd, talent, and crew for cover.  Piles of hail.  Lightning.  Then rain. Thousands of unprepared people shouting as they are the God of Hail.  Driscoll and Jennifer PhD huddle.  I'm snapping photos as my hands welt up.  Cingular screws me again.  Driscoll and Jennifer PhD run for the Port-O-Potties where they secure one for 20 minutes.  I scour the grounds for a signal.  Jump inside the packed Rockstar Lounge.  Steam rises off the crowd.  Def Leppard screams "Pour some sugar on me" over the loudspeakers.  No signal. Lightning and rain now torment the temporary suspended show. 
5:45 p.m.: I run into my travel mates next to the river rushing down the main cement path.  We run for the car.
6 p.m.: We change into dry clothes.  All my polyprop clothes are soaked in my backpack. I have to wear cotton.  Driscoll bare asses my passenger seat.  We crank the tunes and watch two hippies make out on top of a hippie bus for a half-hour while trying to warm our bones. Ponder where we're going to bed down since we can't find Ginger Knoxx as shw knows where the crash pad is.
6:30 p.m.: Dressed inappropriately, we head back inside to see what's what. The Yeti and Wookie stages are shut down due to unsafe conditions.  The main stage is an hour behind.  We find the only coffee shack in the venue ââ?¬" one pot brewing.  We wait the entire Tragically Hip set in the coffee line with the most annoying people on earth.  I spot several hundred potential pneumonia cases.
8 p.m.: The Shins save our lives.  The melodic sensibility warm our souls, although we agree the singer James Mercer's voice wobbled and the keyboardist Martin Crandall acted like a buffoon.
9-something p.m.: The wait before The Flaming Lips is excruciating. Still no signal on the phone.  Still no Ginger Knoxx.
9:30 p.m.: Announcer man, er, announces Ben Harper will play next and the Lips will follow.  I want to die.
10 p.m.: Cotton kills is no joke.  I'm freakin' freezing.
11 p.m.: Kill me. Ben Harper's neo-soul-blues-reggae-gospel-rock-funk is far too tiring, at best. I didn't buy his message.  I think he lacks focus, which is disappointing because dude's got Robert Randolph skills with that slide. The flames of thousands of lighters ignited light the venue during Harper's mellow, solo set. They aren't sparking off because folks are holding them up in that standard rock-concert-lighter-tribute shtick. No, thousands of lighters are going off because thousands of people are, in the time-honored tradition of Ben Harper concert behavior, lighting thousands of joints.
11:15 p.m.: Seriously, kill me.  He's still playing. He's playing his entire two-hour plus headlining set.  Inappropriate condering the weather and time constraints.
11:30 p.m.: Harper's 12th encore ends. Finally, the Lips are next.  But the combination of sleep depravation (poker the night before), Ben Harper, no crash pad, the ever-changing elements and my own hideous body funk were finally too overwhelming, and I decided to abandon my appointed duties. Screw the Lips.  We jump in the car and head for Tacoma.  Driscoll and Jennifer PhD fall asleep.  I'm left with a Band of Horses' CD three times straight.
2:30 p.m.: I fall sound asleep in my own bed, still slightly shivering. â�" Pappi