Thursday night. San Francisco. Groove Armada. Rockin. That night was spent grooving out with Dave, Andrew, and Dara, who had mentioned her upcoming trip to Coachella. By around 2 am that night, I decided that I would try to find my way down to the festival, particularly since I know someone who's going. By 4 am, I'd made god-knows-how-many inebriated phone calls to Sarah in LA, promising to find a way to get there. By 5:15 am, I went to bed, determined. By 8 am, I was at work, somehow focusing beyond the fog of the previous evening and - miraculously - landing last-minute Coachella tickets, including VIP wristbands. Needless to say, my lack of sleep had no effect on my energy level the rest of the day.

By the next morning, bleary-eyed-yet-charged-up, I was getting on a Southwest flight at San Jose airport headed toward Burbank. Three bottles of water, a can of tomato juice, and a spilled Mountain Dew later, I was on the I-10 East with Sarah. Although I usually curse at any situation that puts me on the 10, I was about as happy as a guy can be - between gorgeous desert landscape, good company, and the prospect of going to one of the biggest shows of the year, how could I not be?

To be in Southern California again - and to see the scenery - was worth the trip alone. Ah, to get away from Silly-con Valley. And look! There's snow in them thar hills. (This would be a sign of the desert weather to come...) Thanks to massive irrigation, there were many green vistas as well. We arrived at the hotel in Palm Springs and met up with Dara and Faith, who were kind enough to provide crash space - as well as great company - for the weekend. If fate wasn't smiling on me enough by virtue of landing tickets alone, then voicemail determined that it was a weekend of destiny. In order to find the hotel room, we had to call the place, phone number 323-1328. Those of you who know me understand the significance of that ;) We took some time to get ready, stowed whatever contraband we could in my allowed fannypack (i.e. the digital camera whose pictures you now see), and tried to figure out what on earth we'd wear. We all very wisely chose sleeveless numbers. One group picture was taken before we left - in case they caught me with my camera - to prove that I'm the luckiest guy around: I'm going to the biggest festival in the country with three cool-ass girls!

After a nice wait in the street on the way to the Empire Polo Club, it was time for a parking lot drink or two, and then off to the gates for what we figured would be an invasive, Draconian cavity search. It turned out getting in with the camera was a breeze, as proven by the guy who immediately came up to us inside and offered to take our picture for his web site. (Photo courtesy of Webbpics - check out the site, it's pretty interesting.) And no, I'm NOT that short, I happen to be leaning down in this "Hey Hey Kids! I'm Krusty the Clown!" pose, alright?

Once well inside the gates, it was awfully relieving to pull out all of our strategically (and uncomfortably) hidden mini-bottles. We then quickly made our way to the huge electronica/dance/whatever-you-want-to-call-it-this-month tent and were greeted by the deep, funky sound of Miguel Migs with Lisa Shaw on live vocals. I'd traveled 400 miles from San Francisco to see artists I see just about every month. Brilliant, aren't I? But what we were waiting for was Groove Armada, whom I'd seen, oh, 36 hours earlier. Does that make me a groupie?

Now the great thing about a rave-type-thing in the daytime is that you can dance with your dark shades on without looking like snobby LA megaclub dweebs... [cue Corey Hart]

Groove Armada absolutely rocked the tent, and to see that many people bouncing up and down and singing along was quite an experience in and of itself. It put Thursday night's Ruby Skye crowd to shame. It was also a treat to see the dynamic and cameraderie betwen the guys on the decks... And there's nothing like watching one of your favorite DJs quaff down beers while spinning. Of course, with this being the Coachella Music and Arts festival, there was a cool art installation next to the decks, providing a little extra visual kick.

The set built into a frenzy, and like a good trip, it seemed as though it wouldn't stop peaking. When it finally did build to the set-ending crescendo, we were left pretty much breathless - and deaf. (To Sarah - I apologize for all the embarassing times I was yelling in what should've been 2-person conversations, not everyone-within-a-20-foot-radius chats.)

As we came out of the tent, night was falling. In the desert, that means despite the 80-degree weather two hours earlier, you're going to freeze your ass off. We took refuge in the lovely porta-potties for a short while, but since that's no solution for maintaining a core temperature of 98.6, we whipped out an extra layer of clothing while making our way to the main stage. There, a reunited Siouxsie and the Banshees had just come on. Being a child of the 80's and having grown up alongside (not in) the goth scene, I was really looking forward to seeing this. Unfortunately, the fantasy show in my head was vastly superior. While the music was great, I could only si tthere and wish Siouxsie Sioux would shut up and stop blabbering whatever the hell she was blabbering between sets. The tunes still sounded relevant, but the banter was older than Budgie's mascara. Oh well. We all huddled together on the ground for warmth... or rather vanity - we used several cameras to take group shots. The one you see here is from Dara's 35mm disposable. To see the digital version, click here. Photography students, take note of the advantages of each, then submit a 1-page essay on your thoughts.

While Faith and Dara chilled on the lawn, Sarah and I took it upon ourselves to begin a quest for food and water. Along the way, we heard bits of Cake and the Beta Band on other stages. I found myself wishing I could have several clones of myself walking around the venue. Alas, such genetic experiments are merely fantasy, but it looks like grafting a happy face to a human is possible. If you enlarge the picture and look at the prices behind Mr. Happy Head, you'll see why this concessions guy is smiling. He struck (price gouging) gold! We grabbed some not-so-warm pretzels for dinner and continued our quest. There was a giant buzzing sound near the gate of a fenced-off area. Looking up, I saw what looked like a bunch of Tesla coils arranged in a ring, shooting out purple electricity like the Emperor at the end of Return of the Jedi. I think it was just a beacon signaling the holy grail - BEER.

We got back in front of the main stage as the lights went up for none other than the spectacularly weird chanteuse Björk, in what is rumored to be her final North American performance (ever). While that makes me feel really special, I hope it's not true, because she was amazing. In spite of the fact that we were on a giant polo field, her voice was incredibly clear and sharp, as though it was cutting through everything and coming straight at the listener's head.

The light of the full moon behind us set the perfect atmosphere as Björk sang and "sankyu sanku"ed her way through the set. At some point, we made a mocha run (thank goodness for hot drinks!) and simply kicked back in the middle of the field while enjoying the rest of the set. Notice the additional layers of clothing. During our trek earlier, we bought these new shirts to stay warm. Fortunately, the shirt prices were pretty reasonable, and the mochas were damn good. (We had to make a second run later.)

After the Icelandic queen of weirdness, it was time for Saturday's headliners, the Chemical Brothers, to close out the first day of the festival. The crowd was amped and ready... and by the looks of this picture, on fire!

While the Chems kick all sorts of ass, I'd seen them before, and we were dying to use real bathrooms, get more mocha, and maybe a couple more real drinks. We put the VIP wristbands to use and indulged in luxuries that - in any other place - would be considered the rights of everyone in attendance. You know - flushing toilets, vodka cranberries, coffee, and celebrity run-ins. I have to say, it was cool to just kick back there and listen to the show while scoping out the likes of Beck, Ozzy Osborne's daughter, and someone Sarah swore was Scott Ian from Anthrax. We reunited with Faith and Dara shortly thereafter, divided by the fence between the haves-and-have-nots. I couldn't help but taunt them. But before you feel bad, don't worry, they got wristbands the next night.

Alas, it was time to call it a night. But the adventure had just begun. Getting out of the parking lot was an ordeal unto itself. Finding the car wasn't so bad, but lining up to leave was maddening. Particularly with some irritatingly passive drivers who simply wouldn't move when they had the chance. Eventually, we found our way to the far lane that would've been moving the fastest, had it not been made of deep, soft sand. I was driving Dara's rental Alero an somehow didn't get it stuck, but others weren't so lucky. I tried helping one truck out of the sand, but to no avail. We finally got out of the sandpit of a parking road and were well on our way back to the hotel...

Once we were back, the girls rightfully crashed out. Me, on the other hand, I decided to reward myself for taking the driver duty on the way home by mixing myself a stiff drink or three and relaxing in the jacuzzi. I was dead tired, but I have this nasty problem - I don't know when to stop partying. I met some people out there who were having a room party and opted to join them. There was dancing, there was DJing, there were people half-crashed out on the bed. It was like a big house party, but in a tiny hotel room. Throughout the evening, I kept going back to our room to refill my drink, and apparently I kept trying to tell the girls to join the party. I should've followed their lead and slept, but I'm stupid like that.

It was definitely cool to party with a bunch of strangers from LA. I don't remember any names (except I think the DJ was named Robert G. or something). These two guys here look like they're dead serious about their partying. I handed the camera to others to get a few snaps of myself with these fun people. Instead of serious, the photographer of the middle picture said to "look sexy." Obviously, only one of us succeeded. I must've been tanked enough to think that looking like a mongoloid is attractive. Now see, the natural unposed thing on the right is much better. I love pictures like this, because I pretty much guarantee you I'll never see these people again in my life.

I woke up the next morning realizing that somehow I'd gotten back to the room, changed completely into my jammies, brushed my teeth, and taken out my contacts. How I accomplished that in my state I'm not sure, but according to my roomies-for-a-night, I sang some unidentifiable song all the while. After some non-breakfast (warning to all: Ruby's calls itself a diner but doesn't serve breakfast after 11:00), we got our stuff sorted out and I tried to straighten my head out. I must've done some serious damage, because as of this writing, it's just over a week later and my brain and liver have only now started talking to me again. Dara and Faith, gluttons for punishment, got ready for another day of Coachella action. While both Sarah and I would have loved to score tickets for one more day (we're talking Oasis, Foo Fighters, and the Strokes here, folks) we did the wise thing and hit the road back to LA... We'll end this series with a movie to capturea little of the feeling of the trip. [Check back for it soon!]

The ride back to LA was more or less painless, and I made it back to Burbank just in time to check in for my flight home. (This includes a stop at the Crate & Barrel outlet and Starbucks and a wrong turn, of course.) During the whole ride back, we kept talking about the Foo Fighters, and Oasis and... Oh well, no regrets, right? We had a complete blast. Besides, they're all playing the festivals in Europe this summer! ;) See you there..