Folks. Call me a traitor to my generation. Call me a whiny b*tch, call me a shut-in, a recluse, a nerd that no one likes, or a misunderstood loner with the heart of a poet.
I absolutely HATE Coachella. Absolutely hate it. On so many levels. For so many reasons. I despise it. I loathe the people who organize it, attend it and talk about it. I find it so repulsive and rank, I honestly and truly don’t know where to begin with my explanation.
Let’s start with the basics: A bunch of dirty hippies clowning around in the hot desert.
Wow, that sounds like a real picnic.
Oh wait, I know, let’s make it even better.
A million dirty hippies pressed up against each others’ bandana clad bodies, writhing to tepidly composed, but loudly played music.
And now, to really give it a crowning jewel, let’s put half of those dirty hippies on drugs, let’s get all of them sweaty and gross, let’s make swimwear the fashion accoutrement of the day, and let’s set it all in California to ensure that only the most insipid conversations happen during the entire event.
One time I had a second date, with some dude and he got out his laptop and said, “Let’s talk about the upcoming and rumored bands scheduled to be at Coachella this year.”
And I said “What’s Coachella?” And he balked, sputtering, as if I had said, “What’s this thing called HBO?” and replied, “It’s a music festival.”
And I said, “Oh.”
And he said, (I’m not kidding), “That was what I had planned for us to talk about. ”
And I said “Oh.” And that was one relationship that never got off the ground, why, because I was too busy dodging the bullets of his planet lame second date conversation.
A girl on my Facebook posted how she got new sandals in preparation for Coachella. And I found that so nauseating. To me, Coachella sounds like a prison sentence set to music. Purchasing new sandals for such an event seems like getting a new pair of Crocs for your upcoming stint at Pelican Bay State prison.
Another time I was at a bar, and these two gin drinking middle aged women kept:
A. Talking to me, which I don’t like.
And B. Squealing about how, oh my God, I’ve never been to Coachella, and how, oh my God, I have to go. This kept causing them to share more and more Coachella stories with me, about how one woman would get up in the morning and put on a big purple tutu and a bikini top and go bicycle around and buy ice and meditate. I know, I know, sounds amazing.
Worse than that are the pictures that people post on their Facebook profiles, showing themselves getting hosed down by stage hand #11 and swooning and swaying at this simple pleasure, that unevolved people like myself can never enjoy. If somebody tries to turn the hose on me, I’m going to take out a gun. The pictures that bother me the most are the ones which show all the ungroomed flower children laying on each other in various renditions of the same swimwear, resting upon what appears to be dirt. And they have these expressions on their faces which make them look so teeth-achingly pretentious as they attempt to project this higher level of meditative reality and sensory achievement they’re currently undergoing.
Apparently, I’m so uptight, that laying naked in the soil appears unpalatable.
However the part about Coachella, that I find equally mind-boggling and hilarious is that Kanye West showed up this year. Kanye West may as well be the poster boy for spoiled, catered to people, the Joan Crawford of African American men. But really, the more I think about it, the more perfect he seems. Because by and large the majority of the people who show up to Coachella are privileged middle to upper middle class people, who have the luxury of checking out of life for a few days to roll around on the ground listening to live music. They derive pleasure, not just from the music, but from the slumming aspect of the festival and the subsequent thrills of putting down their Mac books and picking up a musky incense stick.
In that case, the Coachella organizers should pack the guest list with posers, inviting everyone from Gwyneth Paltrow to Meredith Viera. Heck, throw in John Stamos for good measure.