You know in high school when you would hear the “cool kids” discussing their awesome weekend of going to the movies then meeting up at Friendly’s like they were straight out of the show Friends or something? Or that rad house party that was SO crazy and how Bobby’s older sister scored them like a bottle of Kamakasi and they all got sooo wasted. And if you were anything like me, you were recalling your weekend of your mom driving you and your friend to the drive-through ice cream shop, scoring a sundae, and calling it at a night by 10 p.m. Sigh.
If you recall that feeling of desperately wanting to join the “cool kids” and would pretty much sell your soul to do so, feeling like the biggest dork on the planet … well, that is how I’m feeling when it comes to Coachella. Coachella has become synonymous to the “cool kids” going to the movies than meeting up at Friendly’s … and me sitting on my couch in my cat pajamas writing in my diary about how I wish some magical fairy could come down, Cinderella-style, and make me super cool and pretty and finally make it to Friendly’s … dammit. (flash forward … big dreams of going to Friendly’s? Cool self. Real cool.)
Look, I’m a grown ass adult. I do things now. COOL things (weeelll…). And my mom doesn’t have to drive me places to get there anymore, okay. I have a life, a career, friends. I don’t have a bedtime. Yet, I see all these pictures of celebs dressing like they fell out of Woodstock, at all these amazingly swanky slash weird parties and all of a sudden I mine as well have braces, under developed taas, and a shrine in my room dedicated to Justin Timberlake (okay MAYBE I still have that).
If I ever did get the opportunity to go to Coachella, I just have this weird feeling like the record would screech and Kendall Jenner and Beyonce who would be having their awesome convos and taking their awesome shooters would be like, “who the fuck is she? Bahaha back to being awesome!” And when I would wave like a dork and be all, “hey guys … Kendall did you get those macrame shorts at Urban Outfitters? No way! Me too. TWINSIII … oh you didn’t? Ricardo Tisci made them and they are one of a kind from a fabric I’ve never heard of? Oh cool … whatever. WHERE DA PARTY AT :::raises roof:::?!” And then I probably would be escorted out … to the dork wing, or the “press” section. Whatever.
Dude … I don’t even know what the fuck Coachella is. I know it is a music festival, and I know it is like a Woodstock revival and I know everyone and their mom get a free pass to dress like a freak of nature for a few days (seriously, these outfits are laughable). Wonder if someone showed up in a boring ass business suit with like a slicked back bun? I’m not talking about a chignon, I’m talking about a boring ass … slicked back bun with a scrunchie. A SCRUNCHIE. What would happen?
But seriously. What is it? And why is Beyonce there? If Beyonce is there dressing like a hippy, I feel like it is pretty substantial to life. But I could be wrong. All I see are celebs wearing really inappropriate head dresses and lots of fringe wandering around pretending their pic isn’t getting taken. But outside of that … what is happening? And why are they there? And why do I want to be there SO badly, dammit?
I’ve already decided if I ever got cool enough to attend Coachella, I would just dip myself in glitter and then add feathers and call it a day. Maybe rock some clear stilettos. Who knows. But what I’m saying is, I’ll probably never be cool enough to attend Coachella. Just like I was never cool enough to attend a movie and kick it at Friendly’s after back in the day.
So thanks, Coachella, for bringing back lots of repressed memories for past dorks all across the country, like myself. We sincerely thank you. Now if you will excuse me, I’m going to sit on my couch in my cat pajamas … stalking Coachella pics on Instagram … a-thank you.