It would be unfair to blame SXSW, but I might anyway. It happens every year. SXSW opens those great festival floodgates and since that moment (13 March) I’ve been drowning in festival propaganda.

coachella skinny girl in fashion

Sunglass retailers know what’s up, they e-mail incessantly. People in England are panic buying wellington boots in anticipation of another Noah-esque Glastonbury. Skittish parents are dishing out warnings about wacky-baccy and the dangers of the wrong kinds of mushrooms. I am to be found in the cobwebbed recesses of my garage searching for my tent amongst the discarded tennis racquets and rusted golf clubs. I find it; still hungover and coming down from last year. There’s a beer can and a couple of spliff ends keeping it company in its sorry nylon bag.

I check the latest list of what I need to take with me (thoughtfully provided for me by the Internet). I realize I own none of the “top ten must have items” and I have no money with which to buy them, let alone the knowledge of where I could acquire such rare and esoteric items as a camping stove and a waterproof poncho (lest it rain in the California desert for the first time since 1999). So I don’t have any of the shit on the list. Just a fucked tent and a pair of shorts and a shit shirt from a thrift store. I’m going to gamble that my intrepid festival comrades will be prepared. They obviously won’t be. But then again we’ll obviously survive without the camping stove and dry shampoo and band-aids.

rihanna coachella crowd surfing

 

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