The Gay Republican #1 - Coachella? I'll Get My Wax!

Before Coachella, I’ll embark on my ridiculous aesthetic preparation routine. I’ll forego sugar in all its refined forms and do extra cardio and crunches every day to reclaim abs #7 and #8 from my winter coat. I’ll have dermabrasion every two weeks until late March, when I’ll start spending each lunch hour at Hollywood Tans. The last weekend prior to April 24th (drive-out day), I’ll visit my hairstylist and then get waxed…. Everywhere… And on the 24th, if I’m not dark enough, I’ll top my fake bake bronze with a coat of Mystic.

This is all so I can assure myself that I’ll be better looking than, at the very least, 90% of the vast sea of sweaty, shirtless boys dancing to techno in the Sahara tent.
Fun takes work, dammit!

I emailed my boss to tell him that I’d be taking vacation on Friday April 25th and Monday April 28th. He replied, “I thought you said ‘Coachella was played.’”

“Did I say that? That doesn’t sound like me!”

And I was pretty sure of myself on that one; my buddy Levi had brought his hot friend, Steven, in 2007, and together we’d staked out the master bedroom in the house as “gay territory.” We didn’t even go to the festival on Sunday.

“Yeah, something about just being over it...” my boss continued, “You know, being done with the super-late nights and the being hammered for 4 days.”

“OK, that part sounds like me.”

At 25, I’m still recovering from growing up in a very Catholic house, where “fun” is essentially a four-letter word ("funn"). I’m getting better (really, I am) but on the flipside, at 25, I’m also seeing the wisdom of the finger that shook at me while the mouth it connected to said “shame on you!” I feel like crap when I’ve been drunk for 4 days. I get cranky when there’s no shade at 2pm and all the bands on stage seem to suck. Plus, waking up at 6am every day to be in and out of the gym and into the office by 8:15am means that I go to bed around 10, so by 2am, I get very tired; even on weekends.

I’m the youngest member of the Party Crew.

“How does everybody else do it??” you ask.

Answer: they have fun; I have funn. Mine has strings attached. Planning. Resources. Privilege. Work.

Is that a blessing or a curse? I’m not quite sure.

The lineup for Coachella 2008 was announced this week. I know this because I’ve been checking Coachella.com every day since Christmas. As usual, I’ve heard of almost none of the bands. I’m pleased with my minor rocker stripes that I know a few Datarock songs; they’re definitely on my “see” list. Portishead I like, though it seems like it might a bit of a downer as the Saturday night headliner. Sasha & Digweed, Fatboy Slim; nice, nice… Hey, the Verve! There’s the “used to be on KISS-FM” throwback.

As for the rest of the bands...
My "Team Flawless" friend (and former roommate) Leah and I will probably divide them up in an organized fashion and start scouring the web for music samples to see whether or not they suck. Then, when the stage schedule comes out in April, we’ll prioritize and map out our days.

I pasted the lineup graphic from the website into the annual “who’s coming?” blast email and fired it off to our Coachella Party Crew.
Fun takes planning, dammit!

Then, I contacted the owners of the house we rented last year to confirm that we’d be back. They want a steeper rate and a bigger deposit because some of the comforters smelled like cigarettes after we left, and a few golfers complained about beer cans on the fairway behind the house. OK, I’ll mail the deposit tomorrow morning.
Fun takes resources, dammit!

Our Coachella Party Crew usually consists of a dozen people. About eight regulars, and a few one-offs. A couple inside connections usually guarantee at least an entrance to the VIP beer garden, where we stake out a spot underneath the palm trees. If we really luck out, a couple of artist parking passes are in the mix, which means that when the music dies around midnight, a short walk to a convenient lot and a brief drive along empty roads will get us back to the house, where the night is just ramping up.
Fun takes privilege, dammit!

“Well, whatever I said, I’m definitely going this year,” I told him, “So can I go ahead and block off my calendar for those days?”

“You know, I did the same thing the last year,” my boss blathered on, “I went to the White Party. I said that the year before would be my last, but when the next one rolled around, I had to go again, just to prove it to myself that I was over it.”

I just couldn’t help myself.

“And were you?”

“Yep.”

“Well, thanks for the advice... And the vacation days.”

I’ll check in with you, dear reader, after April 28th. You’ll know what I decide.