Coachella Valley Music Festival used to be one of my favorite Southern California activities that I would attend every year. I haven’t been able to go back since moving to NYC and that’s very sad. Not as sad as how afraid I am of those creepy windmills out there in the desert, but sad anyway.
Several years ago I lost my mind at Coachella. All day I was wearing a navy blue T-shirt with “SECURITY” printed in bold yellow lettering. I didn’t think anything about my choice of clothes until later that night in the dance tent. Two of my best gays and I decided to push our limits and ingest an entire eighth of shrooms. I was dancing/flying through the music and people, in the middle of a terrific experience, then, out of the electronic shadows, a guy threw himself at me and pushed me on the ground, yelling “Whatever, security!”. My brain twisted. My soul caught on fire. I knew I had to leave the dance tent immediately.
Outside in the fresh air, I was a little relieved. I felt like everyone had seen and heard the incident. I was embarrassed and felt bad that I possibly gave someone a bad trip for thinking I was “SECURITY”. I thought I should go meet up with my besties back at the spot we designated as a meet up point, but that spot was back inside the tent! I definitely could not go back there! I had been invisibly banned form entering the tent. That was absolutely not an option. I walked away from the tent towards the bright ball of purple and blue thunder.
Along the way, I passed a group of hot chicks that were giggling. As they floated by, a blonde one laughed and said, “Whatever, security!” I walked faster away from them. I couldn’t believe everyone knew about this incident! I got so self-conscious of my shirt, I had to get rid of it. A brilliant idea ignited. I will go to the bathroom and turn it inside-out! Problem solved! I will be able to go back to the tent and see my friends!
The problem with the outhouse situation was that it was an outhouse. Every hippie and coked out frat dude were told to poo in this muddy, stinky, slippery field-like area. There were no lines, just a mob of sweaty humans – way too crowded. I wondered where Cameron Diaz went to the bathroom when she was at Coachella the year before. I wanted access to that bathroom. Just as I was about to walk into a stall, I heard a voice behind me say, “Whatever, security!” I turned around and saw some teenager boy laughing. What an asshole! Why do you have to keep reminding me? I ducked inside the outhouse and turned my shirt inside-out. Done deal! All better! The inside of the dingy bathroom felt like salvation.
Upon exiting I heard someone say, “Oh thats the guy with the security shirt, he just turned it inside-out.” My head exploded and I ran away. Off in the distance I heard the soothing sound of Bjork. I followed her voice.
I got lost and ended up sitting down next to a deserted trash can at the edge of a field. I played the What’s-in-my-pockets game for a few minutes/hours. I studied the intensity of a one dollar bill. A straw wrapper freaked me out. Bjork sang about children. I looked up from a giant blade of grass and an old dude looked down at me. “Whatever, security!” he said and threw his half-eaten burrito in the trash. I clearly was not welcome at Coachella any longer. Even though the tent was a world away, word had spread about my shirt and I was a marked man – the scarlett letter.
I traveled through the other end of the huge polo field and out the front entrance. I thought if only I could get to my car and listen to some of my CDs, I could get myself back to “normal” and re-enter society. Sitting in my mom’s Aerostar mini-van proved to be a whole new problem. I sat down and automatically buckled my seat belt. I reached back to grab my CD case and couldn’t reach so I tried to unbuckle my seat belt. It was stuck. I thought I was just tripping so I tried again. No, it was actually, very soberly, broken. I was trapped. Without music, without love, and without sanity. I came up with a plan.
I figured I would look suspicious just sitting in the front seat of my car, so I pretended to talk on my cell phone. The occasional hippie in the fields looked at me, but I didn’t care because I was busy “talking on the phone”. Then the phone actually rang and I almost pooped my pants. I talked to a few friends over the next several minutes/days and grounded myself a little better. I turned the radio on to a decent station (static?) and closed my eyes. I watched the little movies unfold in my little head for a little while. I zoned out and fell asleep? Anyway, I was startled by a loud knock at the window. It was my bestie gays! I had felt so separated from them and I was so happy to see them! I was instantly back to “normal”. They hopped in the car.
One of them said, “Whatever, security!” I almost died. Without missing a beat he went on to explain how some security guard was being a jerk to them on the way out. It was then I realized that I hadn’t heard all of those people say that (except the first guy who knocked me down). I was tripping! We were all so excited to be together again. They had been looking for me the whole time! I told them I was trapped in the belt and they had to use a switchblade and set me free. We drove to the Motel 6 and I was so excited to be in a new place.
Then my foot started to feel like it was falling off.
