an argument for coachella: personal essay


co/ pinterest

co/ pinterest

[A letter to a friend, on why he should attend Coachella 2010]

There’s something to be said about going to a good show. Dammit, okay there’s nothing like it. And I’m not just talking about the joy you feel when someone puts their finger up your ass while you crowd surf, as you give the band on stage a vigorous, “fuck yah” with your fists up in the air. No, that is a whole different joy on its own. I’m talking about that moment in time when the flood lights come down and you take a look around you and you are so fucking stoked that you are young… and beautiful… and surrounded by young… and beautiful people… who are equally as fucked up as you are on the ultimate drug cocktail. That feeling of freedom and youth is unlike anything else in the world. It's better than any delicious steak, better than getting an A on your midterm, almost better than sex.

The truth of the matter is; I’ve had a very rough year. Believe you me, I’ve had my heart ripped out of my rib cage and smashed around by the most amazing man in the entire world… who just happened to bounce on my ass and leave me for dead. I’ve had to face childhood traumas left upon me by a deadbeat dad and fears of abandonment that have been further reinforced by being left by another deadbeat man whom I thought I was going to marry. And that isn’t the end of it. I’ve faced sexual advancements from bosses, an economical downturn that has forced me to be unemployed, and an excess of disappointments because my “experience and qualifications” just isn’t what they are looking for. I’ve lost the love of my life, I’ve lost my box in the city, but I haven’t lost my cahonies. Because all you really need to get back up at the end of the day is - a good friend… and the soundtrack to the soul.

As grim as it may be, this year has also been the best fucking time of my fucking life. Because of this amazing man who left me for dead… he showed me that I’m alive. And that on my own, I can feel more alive than I have ever felt before (thanks, Babykins I love you, you bastard. And why the hell did you have to steal my dream and become “cool” now that we aren’t together anymore? Fuck, now I’m a single-dog-mom). And in finding my independence, I've been able to see the world through rose colored glasses - meeting incredible people from renowned world leaders like Pete Tong and Richard Branson, to the homeless guy on the block who takes my leftovers but never seems to recognize me. I’ve pushed myself to make my own dreams come true. No longer “our” dreams, but my own. And more importantly, I'm living my life on my terms. I don’t know where I’m going and I don’t know where I need to be. All I know is that I want to get there and I want to take the carpool lane.

In just about another month, Coachella is once again upon us. This three-day binge on sex, drugs, and dirty djs has always been the highlight of my entire year. But this one will be different. This Coachella is my baptism, a cleansing of all the negative passings by dancing it off into a bloody sweat under the sweltering dessert sun. I will once again surf the crowd with the anticipation of having my oil checked by a white dude dancing to techno with his shirt off. I will wearing my Sunday hipster best, watching people's faces melt as the flood lights come down. I will be doing loads of cocaine and ecstacy and smoke my brains out silly, which will all be washed down with loads of beer. I will have multiple eargasms listening to the best indie rock bands and dirty bass-line djs drop the pressure. Coachella will be religious.

And it is with this, friend, that I invite you to come along for the ride. I want to look over my shoulder and watch you shuffle your feet and sway your hips in unison to the songs that fill the night's sky. With you, friend, riding along shot-gun to my journey to Coachella, I won’t be alone in the carpool lane to finding myself.
Thanks, bro.