Coachella

The call came at 3:00 on Sunday afternoon. “Do you want to go to Coachella?” The three day desert rock and roll festival two hours east of LA. We would be getting there late. Perhaps the last people to make it to the weekend festival. We’d be getting back even later, but I’d kind of set up my life to be able to leave town at the last possible second.

I picked up Justin and packed two bicycles into my back seat. The drive out there was smooth and relatively harmless. We parked the car at a grocery store two miles from the concert, pulled out the bikes, and pedaled through the gridlock. We made it to the parking lot where Lynzie led us to her RV.  We noshed on dried fruit while she drunkenly explained how we were getting in. She safety pinned a torn admission bracelet on to Justin’s arm. There was no bracelet for me. “Just act important and like you belong. The security guard, Koko, loves me.”

As we headed toward the entrance a girl tried to sell me her bracelet which allows admission. I asked her out of curiosity, “How much?”

“A hundred dollars.”

It was time to act important. Koko let us right in with no problem but the second level of security was more Draconian. I pulled out my cell phone and started the most important conversation of my life where there was no one on the other line. “As soon as the market opens I need you to buy low and sell high. Set up a meeting for me at lunch. Make it happen!”

They didn’t ask to see my bracelet. We were now VIPs. Amongst beautiful women, music insiders, and people with two thousand dollars to burn to have quicker access to Port O Potties. We got to a palm tree where Lynzie told me, “Wait. Right here. I’m getting you a bracelet. Don’t move.”

I soaked in the polo field with a million hipsters drugged and sunburnt out of their minds. As I leaned against the tree I saw a familiar face. It was the waist high alternative icon, Beck, with his  flunkies and toddler son who all wore the same haircut.

Lynzie made it back. She and Justin now had access to backstage. I now had the VIP bracelet so I could return to the promised land after mixing with the plebians. The problem with the VIP section is you were very far from the stage. You couldn’t smell the sweat from the performers. When Pavement came on I had to run to the front. They were awesome. Although not as much so as when I saw them a couple days earlier. Thom Yorke (the lead singer of Radiohead) had so many fans you couldn’t hope to get within spitting distance. I went back to the VIP section where an obnoxious drunken sot with a white man’s afro was telling every shmo that walked by, “Great set!” Two extremely sexy scantily clad women were standing right by him. Afro man said, “Didn’t I meet you at the Abbey?”

“I don’t remember.” she said.

“Yeah, you were grinding up on me. We made out.” She gave no reaction. “Great set by the way.”

She was offended pretending, “I can’t hear what you’re saying.” and walked away with a huff.

Afroman’s friends said, “Man, that was hilarious. You realize that was Lindsey Lohan?”

Upon closer inspection the object of his ridicule was the hard partying actress from Freaky Friday with her hair dyed black. Afroman was shocked with his accidental comic genius. “Really? I can never recognize celebrities. The only ones I ever noticed were Ozzy Osbourne and Jay Leno.”

Gorillaz came on stage with a million different musicians. With the help of big screen TVs I could see Damon Albarn and his myriad guest stars belt out cartoon influenced dance music. After all the sitars, rappers, and old soul singers left the stage it was just Albarn and an acoustic guitar singing to the crowd like a lost British cowboy. The night ended. We biked back to the car driving west with music in our heart and sleep on our minds.