I just woke up from a dream where I was giving a blowjob from the passenger seat of a flying version of the Ferris Bueller Ferrari.
The car had actual wings, and we were doing all sorts of low altitude aerial acrobatics by the Santa Monica Pier as if it were one of those Red Bull air races.
Every time the faceless Ferrari pilot would do barrel rolls his belt buckle would hit me in the head, and I would feel genuine embarrassment that tourists on the pier were looking up at me sucking his cock.
Day two. Every part of my body is sore, including my pussy. I feel fucking great, though. No hangover, and still rolling a little bit from last night’s impromptu desert resort love fest.
I’m half-retarded at the moment, so I’ll make this short. Yesterday was amazing. Kate Miller-Heidke was adorable. Iglu & Hartly had fantastic energy. Yeasayer rocked my fucking world. Passion Pit wasn’t loud enough to seep into my soul, but I’m sure all the folks up front tasted the rainbow. La Roux was awkward. I was crammed next to a jealous lesbian couple who radiated negative energy to every cute dancing girl in their vicinity. Petty bullshit, but it kind of ruined the moment. LCD Soundsystem killed it, and Vampire Weekend was like a delicious palate cleansing morsel before Jay Z came along and did his thing.
All in all, a great day. They oversold the festival by tens of thousands this year, so it’s a total clusterfuck out on the field. Great people-watching, though.
We’ll be dragging ass Sunday, but fuck it. We’re professionals. It’ll be straight to Rusko followed by The Glitch Mob for some dubstep day dancing. We’ll cut out early, because I definitely wanna see Matt & Kim.
After that, it’ll be time for a break. We’ll walk by Yo La Tengo on the way to the bar, but we definitely won’t stop.
We’ll find a soft spot on the grass and watch the hippies weave around to Jonsi. Then we’ll hustle over to Mojave for the first half of Miike Snow, but I’ll be watching the clock, because I won’t want to miss one second of Phoenix. They go on at 7:10, and if they time it right, we’ll all be listening to Love Like a Sunset as the sun actually sets.
Hopefully, we’ll still have some pills left for Orbital. Around 9:00, I’ll do my damnedest to convince everyone to stick around and rock out to The Big Pink instead of running off to listen to Thom Yorke whine. (No, it’s not just like Radiohead.)
To be honest, we’ll be lazy poolside bitches all morning.
We’ll probably roll in while Old Crow Medicine Show is on the main stage. Everyone in my crew will act all surprised when they really dig them, and I will have to explain that Bluegrass is not country music to at least one drunk asshole.
After that we’ll head over to the Sahara tent for some jaw-dropping turntablism from Craze & Klever. Then we’ll get high as fuck and wander around the field for a while. We might stop by Gossip, but that’s really just a time killer until the XX, Hot Chip, MGMT threesome that will anchor the evening.
If we get second thoughts during Hot Chip, we’ll shoot over to Kaskade and drop another pill. We’ll definitely be back in time for MGMT, though. I don’t care if their new album sucks. They know we’ll never forgive them if they don’t play all the good shit from Oracular Spectacular.
At some point, we’ll make our way back to the tents. Depending on the gravity, we’ll get pulled in to either Major Lazer or David Guetta. We’ll definitely make it over to Flying Lotus for some chill time before raging at Die Antwoord.
I’ve seen Tiesto too many times to give a fuck, so we’ll probably stick around the Sahara tent for 2ManyDJ’s. Then again, we may have to satisfy our morbid curiosity and catch Devo out of respect for the eighties.
There’s no way we’ll be getting there early enough to catch Kate Miller-Heidke, but on the off chance we make it in by 12:30, it’ll be straight to the Gobi tent.
Realistically, we’ll wander in during Deer Tick. If we get antsy, we’ll catch the end of Iglu & Hartly. After that, we’ll kill some time making fun of the urban woodsmen plaiding it up at the Avett Brothers set, or we might get our grind on with Sleigh Bells.
Really, it’s all a waiting game until my first must-see of the festival, Yeasayer. It’s no coincidence that their set time begins at 4:20. If I time it right, my roll will peak during the chorus of 2080.
After that, I’ll be ready to dance, so Aeroplane wins by default. Eventually, it’ll be time for a break. We’ll walk by The Specials on the way to the bar, but we won’t really stop.
Passion Pit is the next must-see, and then we’ll hit Pretty Lights for a few minutes until it’s time for La Roux. Next comes LCD Soundsystem, but shit will have gone pear shaped by this point, so who the fuck really knows.
Then it’s time for a little Vampire Weekend followed by some Jay Z. It will be worth walking all the way back to Sahara to end the night with deadmau5.
In the artificially sweetened language of soulless corporatism, my company went through a major restructuring due to shifting trends within the industry that dramatically impacted the state of my career.
I survived it. Technically.
I still have the same desk, but I don’t know why I’m sitting behind it anymore. On one hand, it’s nice to know I’ve got the salt to handle this level of occupational fuckery, but I’d be lying to myself if I didn’t also face the brutal truth that this whole process has had the cumulative effect of killing my dream.
That’s fine. It’s not the first time. Sacrificing your dreams at the altar of reality is a rite of passage for everyone but a handful of rock stars and ballerinas. You can’t ever let that shit get to you, or else you’ll end up leading one of those lives of quiet desperation.
The trick is a healthy line of succession. When a dream dies, you gotta pick up that crown and put it on the next head right away. It doesn’t matter if the new dream is thirteen years old and terrified, that bitch is queen now.