A charcoal and ash-coated man stands shirtless over the firepit turning a grasshopper the size of a pig on a spit, occasionally dipping a large syringe into a bucket and filling it with a thick and savory brown liquid. He injects the marinade into the bug in the plumpest spots. The smell is tantalizing.
Gwodder is seemingly in a trance, eyes in the flames, eyes on the great insect. He'll respond if you talk to him, agreeing to whatever you say with long run-on sentences that veer far from the initial topic and don't enable real conversation, but you can follow his line of thinking if you care to. He amiably refuses all libation, all intoxicants, any offer of food. Focused on the roasting of the grasshopper. The juices drip and sizzle in the flames.
He pulls a leg off of the bug. "Oh yeah, that's done," he says loudly. "Who wants a leg? Don't be shy, I've got three dozen of these suckers on the bus." You're salivating at the smell. He carves up the bug and walks through the crowd of revellers with a platter of the succulent meat. When there are only a few morsels left he leaves the platter near one of the bands taking a set-break, pulls a pitchfork out of the ground, and heads towards a tour bus parked in the driveway, which rocks gently back and forth.