Coachella Bound
I’m coming down with a cold and so even though my body is telling me to sit the fuck down and watch Big Bang Theory re-runs while eating dried mango and overdosing on Zicam in a weekend I’ll call: Couchella, I’m actually substituting that U for an A and enduring the cooler option. People suppose that second weekend showgoers are essentially a compilation of first weekend residue: the freaks that couldn’t get tickets to it. I resent that, though. Some of us were far too busy commemorating the seven days of unleavened bread and eating matzah with our families to be able to cross coasts in order to get down with Snoop and friends. Have we lost all gauge for that which is holy? Family time and edible cardboard, people. I will say, however, that the tents in Palm Springs do bring an element of realness to the shit I was doing here. Ultimately, the fact of the matter is: I’m going, flip flops et al. So, below please find a dance that I choreographed just for you and the occasion. I call it: Boogie Woogie, Mother Fuckers.
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