Every year I am faced with the perplexing and socially contentious decision whether or not to attend Coachella. In theory the weekend seems appealing. I love a good getaway, generally appreciate day drinking and consider myself a dancing queen. Ironically, every year I think of some bullshit excuse as to why I will not be attending. I am sure most of you (especially you pretentious hipster fucks) will draw the conclusion that I limit myself to top 40 music or don’t appreciate the carefree young, wild and free attitude that Coachellians live by. This is just NOT the case. I mean sure I believe crochet halter tops and gladiator sandals had their moment years ago and would rather be at the Staples center seeing Andre 3000 shake it like a Polaroid picture rather then mosh pitting with a bunch of girls in janky Jeffrey Campbell shoes and fucking wide brim hats on shrooms taking excess Instagram selfies with the Nashville filter (nothing screams Coachella like a mother fucking Nashville filter). This year was an especially difficult decision being that I absolutely loved the line up – in particular my bae Pharell Williams who I have loved forever. N.E.R.D is one of my favorite bands of all time and he is a mocha chocolate milkshake I would like to take a sip of #surfbort. Unfortunately even this HILF (headliner I’d like to fornicate) couldn’t drag my ass to the desert. Generally I say I couldn’t find a ticket, couldn’t take off work, contracted some weird virus or whatever else pops into my head.
So year after year I get to classify myself as someone who celebrates No-Chella and consequently feels judged and labeled “uncool” by my peers and fellow Angelenos. Sitting on the 10 freeway for 6 hours to brave a sandstorm on foot with 200,000 people already has me yearning for a Xanax.
All my friends have insisted I could jut come and “do my own thing” like I am a special needs outpatient. “You can just go back to the house and sleep while we go out! I’m sure they will have Bravo at the house we are renting.” I tried to imagine I could rally, go stay in a beautiful home on a golf course, god willing an infinity pool where I could bust out one of my floor length caftans sip on margaritas all day, take a chartered golf cart to see all the bands/artists I love only to be in bed by 10pm so I could be well rested for a 10am mimosa binge. Then reality set in… That would never fucking happen. Knowing my brood they would probably roofie me, draw penises on my forehead and drag me out all night against my free will before that happened.
If you have to be bribed with an early bedtime and basic cable to attend a wildly popular music festival this is a clear indication you should be spending your weekend elsewhere. Listen I am not necessarily proud of my “no-CHELLA” approach and hope this doesn’t come off as self righteous. I will be honest, I have dreamed of being the girl on my boyfriends shoulders singing along to Krewella in denim cut offs and a daisy crown with a glow stick in one hand and a fucking dream catcher in the other but a) I don’t have that kind of upper body strength b) I have too many pollen allergies and c) Krewella actually makes me want to kill myself. For those of you who have attended/ are attending please know that I will be appreciating and double tapping your posts from afar and dreaming of the day when my neurosis permits me to lose my Coachella virginity… without protection.