As promised, here are my real-(not)liveblogging dispatches from Coachella! I'd like you to note that I am STILL tired. Baby's circadian rhythms were straight up SYNCOPATED.
A few things to note:
- I will not be using names, because when I asked my friends "How do you feel about being mentioned in a blog along with the use of "medicinal" materials that are 100% legal in the state of California?" -- their response was universally "Mmmmm, no, we do not feel good about that."
- Also, their faces will remain anonymous, and any picture you see in these subsequent posts will be of my "friends." And random ones of me. Because as we all know, I am way beyond no shame.
OK, so let's start at the beginning. My friends and I stayed in a magical mansion in Palm Desert that oddly resembled Osama Bin Laden's compound featured in "Zero Dark Thirty." Surprisingly, the compound didn't come with militant jihadist families -- but it did have a great pool, fire pit and outdoor gazebo (which one friend decided would be his "bedroom" for the next 3 days)! My WEEKS of Coachella dieting paid off and I finally was able to fit into my burkini. I also procured a large lunch sack/paper bag of medicine for my numerous ailments -- anxiety, headaches, anorexia, bulimia, and glaucoma. Because I have so much trouble swallowing pills, the medication came in different forms, such as inhalation mechanisms, lollipops, and baked goods like brownies, rice krispie treats, and something that resembled a slice of Key Lime Pie. I concluded that the first day would be a good time to medicate with a lollipop.
Next was figuring out what to wear. We all know everyone who goes to Coachella looks like an idiot. While some people attempt to make bold (confusing) fashion statements, I try to figure out what I can wear without producing an offensive amount of sweat. I ended up with a blousy tank and jorts, and because my fashion statement is "utility," I wore sneaks and brought my high school backpack out of storage.
We walked to our shuttle stop -- and I think on that 10 minute walk alone, I lost 5 lbs in water weight. After getting off the bus for our hipster teen tour/birthright trip, we found ourselves in some sort of maze for the next 45 minutes. It was miserable. Everyone's rave paint was melting, fake eyelashes were falling in clumps, and amorphous, breezy fabrics were stuck to bodies. After getting though what looked like a Halloween Maize Maze on peyote, we made it to the first checkpoint. They were not messing around -- we were divided into lines for men and women (although there were a lot of people I wouldn't be able to place into one line or the other due to sartorial life choices), and then proceeded through security. They looked EVERYWHERE -- every pocket, every nook, every small pouch which held my tampons that I piled over my medication. Sike, they didn't look there because one of my friends shoved her bag in front of the woman's face before she made it into my side pocket. Right behind the bag checker was the feeler-upper. I turned to face the lines of waiting festival-goers as a security "official" groped me to the point of owing me a hot meal. I think the most awkward part was making direct eye contact with a guy waiting in line as I was getting groped. My only reaction was to connect with a knowing shrug, like "Don't you hate when this happens to you?" The good news is -- no lumps!
Whew! I wiped my brow because nothing was confiscated and a huge puddle of sweat was forming on my forehead. But what lay ahead in the distance? ANOTHER security check. It was definitely the heat and maybe some fear, but I just kept on sweating. Just for future reference: Drug mule probably wouldn't pan out for a career choice. The security at these gates was not as intense, and once we made it in we stopped to wait for our entire group to reconvene. This gave us time to watch one of the funniest sights of the weekend -- a bunch of white dudes entering the festival, arms raised high, shouts of success, as if they were exiting Robben Island.
Our first stop was naturally the bathrooms, or sheds on top of holes that were filled with human waste aka "Porta-Poties." These vessels were actually NOT as bad as one would expect, but I most likely took off a few layers of epidermis with the amount of purell used. As I was waiting for a friend, I noticed two girls go in together (I'm still curious as to if there was a sanitary place to do a line of coke in a porta-potty) and both were BAREFOOT. Their feet made direct contact with whatever did NOT make it in the excuse for a toilet that is a hole in the ground. The thought "THEIR LIFE IS A MESS!" popped into my mind, and then I realized I was 26, surrounded by high schoolers and would be heading back to D.C. where I live with my mother. Who's also my boss.
The lollipops were distributed to those who were suffering from headaches and or "general pain" and we meandered over to our first show -- Youth Lagoon. I've never heard, or heard OF them. Everything you need to know about this band can be summed up in this one picture:
Next was figuring out what to wear. We all know everyone who goes to Coachella looks like an idiot. While some people attempt to make bold (confusing) fashion statements, I try to figure out what I can wear without producing an offensive amount of sweat. I ended up with a blousy tank and jorts, and because my fashion statement is "utility," I wore sneaks and brought my high school backpack out of storage.
 |
| The festival is a haven for skanks. I'm reading you, child Ambrosio in your see-through dress. I'm read. ing. you. |
We walked to our shuttle stop -- and I think on that 10 minute walk alone, I lost 5 lbs in water weight. After getting off the bus for our hipster teen tour/birthright trip, we found ourselves in some sort of maze for the next 45 minutes. It was miserable. Everyone's rave paint was melting, fake eyelashes were falling in clumps, and amorphous, breezy fabrics were stuck to bodies. After getting though what looked like a Halloween Maize Maze on peyote, we made it to the first checkpoint. They were not messing around -- we were divided into lines for men and women (although there were a lot of people I wouldn't be able to place into one line or the other due to sartorial life choices), and then proceeded through security. They looked EVERYWHERE -- every pocket, every nook, every small pouch which held my tampons that I piled over my medication. Sike, they didn't look there because one of my friends shoved her bag in front of the woman's face before she made it into my side pocket. Right behind the bag checker was the feeler-upper. I turned to face the lines of waiting festival-goers as a security "official" groped me to the point of owing me a hot meal. I think the most awkward part was making direct eye contact with a guy waiting in line as I was getting groped. My only reaction was to connect with a knowing shrug, like "Don't you hate when this happens to you?" The good news is -- no lumps!
Whew! I wiped my brow because nothing was confiscated and a huge puddle of sweat was forming on my forehead. But what lay ahead in the distance? ANOTHER security check. It was definitely the heat and maybe some fear, but I just kept on sweating. Just for future reference: Drug mule probably wouldn't pan out for a career choice. The security at these gates was not as intense, and once we made it in we stopped to wait for our entire group to reconvene. This gave us time to watch one of the funniest sights of the weekend -- a bunch of white dudes entering the festival, arms raised high, shouts of success, as if they were exiting Robben Island.
Our first stop was naturally the bathrooms, or sheds on top of holes that were filled with human waste aka "Porta-Poties." These vessels were actually NOT as bad as one would expect, but I most likely took off a few layers of epidermis with the amount of purell used. As I was waiting for a friend, I noticed two girls go in together (I'm still curious as to if there was a sanitary place to do a line of coke in a porta-potty) and both were BAREFOOT. Their feet made direct contact with whatever did NOT make it in the excuse for a toilet that is a hole in the ground. The thought "THEIR LIFE IS A MESS!" popped into my mind, and then I realized I was 26, surrounded by high schoolers and would be heading back to D.C. where I live with my mother. Who's also my boss.
The lollipops were distributed to those who were suffering from headaches and or "general pain" and we meandered over to our first show -- Youth Lagoon. I've never heard, or heard OF them. Everything you need to know about this band can be summed up in this one picture:
 |
| My mother will be ecstatic to hear jean jackets are back. Since she's been wearing hers since '93. |
Here's one of their songs:
I started mindlessly eating the lollipop and before long was at the point where I was biting off sugary chunks while looking at a group of "youngsters" in front of us. They were circled up, looking anemic and judgmental (I'm one to type...) passing around a joint. That's right -- they were smoking the dope. One kid, who was about 107 lbs, was in a Smiths Tshirt, black skinny jeans transformed into long jorts, and a pair of potentially ironic transition lenses. My guess is the kids hit Urban Outfitters HARD before piling into one of their parents' cars for the trip to the desert. I've never felt so old. Oh wait, no, there was the moment shortly after, when my friend witnessed a group of KIDS snaking their way through the crowd, all holding hands, and turned to her boyfriend to exclaim "THAT KID IN THE FRONT IS NINE YEARS OLD." Unfortunately a kid further down the line thought this comment was directed at him and responded, oh so confidently -- "UM, EXCUSE ME. I'M FIFTEEN." At my age, I can safely say that's basically the same thing.
I'd just like to make a note of something -- most L.A. area private schools now GIVE THE STUDENTS THE FRIDAY OF COACHELLA OFF. It's an Angeleno holiday. AND, of the absences from other L.A. area schools -- the majority are "Excused," meaning THEIR PARENTS CALLED THE SCHOOL TO SAY THEIR KID WON'T BE IN ON FRIDAY. These parents are oddly encouraging their children -- and I mean children, because I don't even know if any of them had their permit or could grow facial hair, to go do drugs in an environment with a high risk of dehydration!!! I mulled this over as we walked out of the tent, and witnessed a group of teenagers doing key bumps while sitting on the ground. AH TO BE YOUNG.
We walked over to the next tent where Dillon Francis was DJing. We were boppin' around having a gay ole time when I had another aged moment. Intermitendly, Dillon Francis would scream to the crowd things like "I fucking hate you Coachella! And you fucking hate me! OK LET'S DO THIS!" To which we would kind of look at each other thinking, "Well. That's not very nice is it?" He also said "REMEMBER: YOU CAN'T GET AN STD IF YOU NEVER GET TESTED!" Seeing all the kids screaming and cheering I just wanted to grab the mic and say "YES YOU CAN! PLEASE GET TESTED BECAUSE I'M SUPER SCARED OF MAKING OUT WITH SOMEONE WITH HERPES! OK COOL YAY COACHELLA!"
Here's a video of his performance:
We took a seat across 2 picnic tables under a tent. This is when things started to get "interesting." Apparently, people reported to their medical professional (me) that they started feeling the effects of the lollipop. I didn't think I was feeling anything at the time, but I was also trying to eat my bowl made of mango after devouring all the sorbet -- ripping and running the skin through my teeth. One of my friends started to feel light-headed. We just assumed it was dehydration and she should have more water. We realized it was something a little more serious when she somehow could no longer communicate with words, and attempted to explain she was having a heart attack. One of my other friends clarified that it was merely the insanely loud bass coming from a musical act. But, because I'm a Jew + Hypochondriac (perhaps one in the same) I dispatched a friend to get the medics. I would like to note, everyone sitting at our table had a lollipop. The medics biked over and took her blood pressure, and pulse. They then started the inquisition. I believe it was at this point that the adrenaline in my body overtook any other "influence." They asked about her hydration, and then when we thought they would treat her for that, the main medic turns around a la a spandex-clad Columbo, and asks "Oh... one more thing. Did you have anything else today? Any drugs?" The other people at the table and I were looking anywhere but this man's face. She shook her head. He then said "Listen, we're not the cops... we need to know." There was then the longest pause in the history of pauses. Or maybe I couldn't process time in the same way as someone with all their faculties, WHO KNOWS. Finally, she whispered "A weed lollipop." "A weed lollipop? Did I hear that right?" She nodded slowly. "And do you know the person who gave you this weed lollipop?" WELL, THAT'S ALL FOLKS. I started mentally apologizing to my parents and my coworkers (one in the same), convinced I was going to the police tent, but then, the clouds parted -- she shook her head no! That's my girl! So instead, the festival medical crew thought she had been given tainted candy from a stranger. OK, could've been worse... not really, but OK. They took her away to the medical tent for some R&R (if you call getting an IV and sleeping in a MASH unit R&R).
I followed her and sat on the grass next to her cot. By the low-key nature of the doctor and staff, I could tell this wasn't their first hipster rodeo. Which I guess is roller derby...? As I sat in her "room" I watched numerous people enter due to "dehydration." So now we all know what celebrities mean when they use that as an excuse. Any time she turned or made a noise I would get in her face asking "Are you OK? It's me! How are you feeling? Are you OK?" And would receive a response of that face cats give you when they know you're mocking them with the feather toy. I was also convinced that my eyes were bright red, and that everyone in the tent was on to me. I had to think fast, so I started rubbing my eye makeup around and made wincing noises as if that was the cause of my ocular irritation, and then if I made eye contact with a medical staffer while doing it, would make that same "Don't you hate it when..." shrug as the boob line.
I guess there were some more acts during the day. The medical tent was near the main stage so Passion Pit sounded great. At around 5:30/6 she started speaking again -- her first words being "What the hell happened?" I just said "You got really, REALLY tired, and basically took a nap. With an IV. And medical supervision." We exited the tent and somehow got lost on our way back, ending up outside the artists' "green room." This space consisted of an outdoor lounge area with ping pong table. We stopped and observed the happenings, which looked the least "rock and roll" of any VIP area. Super low key, just some slow ping pong rallying, people lounging around speaking at a reasonable volume. I wanted to stay there forever.
Instead we hopped back on the shuttle. My ride nap was so rudely interrupted when we reached the Pavilions but at least I knew I was somewhat close... ish... to our house. If I knew exactly how to get there. But who needs to actually know where one is going, when one has Waze! Waze is an app that tells you the best (DRIVING) route according to traffic. So I turned it on, entered our address, and ended up spending an hour walking back to the house. Also -- apologies to anyone commuting on Hwy 111 who saw there was almost standstill traffic -- that was just me walking at about 2-3 mph.
My friend said I didn't have to accompany her home, but here's the not so secret secret -- I like my sleep. We got home, fell into bed, and thus ended our first day, Coachella 2013.
I'm going to give a non-endorsed shoutout to "Group Me" an app we used to group communicate during Coachella. Which led to some great conversations, such as:
Person 1: We're looking for you, any special landmark?
Person 2: We are too, stay by the lions.
Person 3: I'm between the loins.
Person 4: I am the lion.
Also, also -- this is not a sketch. This is what we lived for 3 days:
Coming up... Day 2!
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