A month late is better than never. I've always wanted to start a blog, and thanks to continued inspiration by fellow blogger, Angel Raper, over at Market Snodsbury, I vowed to birth something into existence. With the excursion to my very first Coachella, I thought it an appropriately powerful occasion to breathe life into my creation. However, I clearly did not ride out the tidal wave of excitement from that experience to immediately launch into a frenzy of inspired documentation and musing. While I can't affirm that I wasn't slowed down by the post-Coachella hangover or my typical laziness, I was also going through a complicated personal situation. However, today seems as good a day as any to put an end to my procrastination and so I finally bestow upon the world the sloppy product of my misenfranchised consciousness.
So without further ado, let's talk about Coachella.
The enormous west coast hipster retreat of a music festival marked my first return to California since my inaugural visit in 2000 when I was eminently escorted by my high school band organization around on a tour bus throughout the Los Angeles region, from Hollywood to Pasadena to Disneyland. This detached bus tour was a giant group vacation, tethered together by the Tournament of Roses Parade, which I was esteemed enough to lead my band of 300+ brothers and sisters through (as drum major, I got to walk in front of the band and carry the banner; equivalent to a flag boy in an army battalion...).
ANYWAY, on my second voyage to the west coast, I felt assuredly cooler. Yet by the second day, I still felt decidedly like a tourist. But I don't think this is necessarily because I didn't fit in. I'd posit that I blended in pretty well (although I may not be hip enough, I'm probably pretentious enough). Yet I still felt like a tourist because in many ways that is simply my personality. Especially when I am faced with a new environment or experience, it is most common for me to first observe and then act. And it is not like I have never been to a festival before, but anyone who has been to Coachella and Lollapalooza (my only large festival attendances) can attest that they are very different. Also, part of it too may be the small number of people I knew going into the festival. I traveled to The Golden State with one sidekick, and met up with only one more. And although I believe small numbers suits my festival style more, I can't help wonder what an experience with a larger band of unlike-minded partiers would be like.
But this digression and reflection should come later. Let me begin telling you the who what where and when and put off the why how and what-the-fuck until later. (I may as well throw in the caveat now that this is my first foray into journalism since my cathartic confessional ramblings in my Xanga during my frustrating college years. Apologies in advance.)
I started off my transcontinental journey and sub-Burning Man experience with potential disaster: I missed my departing flight. My travel buddy was flying the same flight, but we traveled to the airport separately, and my carelessness let me get raped by the Chicago morning commuter traffic so hard that I could do nothing but lay at the gate for the next flight, sobbing in the fetal position and worrying that I may not reach western enlightenment this summer. Fortunately, I made the next flight 1.5 hrs later and landed only 1 hr after my friend, and was able to catch our ride out to the annual hipster mecca with only slight delay.
The two of us rode through South Central and out of LA with hearts ablaze in the middle section of an aged but durable domestic minivan, driven by the friendliest Latino couple I have ever met. One glance at the stocked back of the van quickly educated me of their preparedness, and I learned that at least one of them have attended the fest since 2002 (only two years after its inception in 2000). We stopped once to pick up supplies at a tan Walmart (they get much more sun than their pasty brethren in the midwest), then once more to fuel up at In-N-Out Burger ("Those are good burgers--" "Shut the fuck up, Donny." Couldn't help myself...).
After what I assumed to be my last heavy meal for the long weekend, we arrived in the dusty Coachella Valley. This year the festival offered car-camping, where you camp right alongside your car, but I learned later that hiking to a separate site is not only the more traditional but really the more rewarding way to go. We had to pass through an inspection tent on our way to the site, where all our bags were essentially ransacked, but once through there, we were through the toughest security of the weekend. We were free to walk to and from our car afterwards, and we could even technically bring beer (cans only) but no liquor. Of course, the easiest solution is to replace some of the water bottles with some "little water" (see Russian translation). Boom. Vodka-to-go!
We set up camp when the sun was setting. We had two ~15'x25' spots, and we were able to set up two larger tents and about five smaller ones surrounding a large square canopy that turned out to be our salvation every hot sunny morning. I had already been drinking on the ride over, and so by the time we were set up, the sun was down and I was ready to party. My friend and I headed over to a tent by another field where the party was already started. DJ was spinning for a packed crowd under the narrow tent, shadowed by a looser groovin' crowd out on the lawn. We pushed ourselves into the tent and started dancing away, letting all the long-term buildup of excitement for the weekend finally transform itself from potential to kinetic energy. Whether it was this excitement or the alcohol or just everything about the moment, but this was the moment of the weekend I most didn't feel like a tourist. I felt at home.
The rest of the evening was just taking in the atmosphere. Dancing, watching other people dance, walking around to check out some of the initial festival events-- old coachella merch sale, rollerskating rink, lit up swingsets-- and unfortunately forcing myself to retreat to my huge tent early in the night while most of my neighbors partied on so that I could conserve energy for the weekend. At least I got to fall asleep listening to the last few tracks of Kid A coming from a neighbor's sound system.
"Everything is in its right place...."
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