Hi, bloggo. Hi, hi.
Coachella sucked. It was hell on grass. In a polo field. Where there were horses. The horses were pretty, yes. But the sun was bleedin' ferocious and there was hardly any shade . . . there were great big distances to cross on foot . . .
I don't even really wanna type about all that happened. But we decided to leave after Saturday night so we dinna get to see The Cure on Sunday. I promised Trisa I'd get us tickets for when The Cure comes to San Diego or L.A. . . .
The Pixies were pretty good, though. Didn't catch much of Radiohead because I was running about, trying to find a phone, hoping nothing terrible had befallen Trisa (yes, there is a story I'm not telling and I'll just keep it, thank you).
All of the other bands really sucked. Well, Sparta was okay. But mostly it was crap like Junior Senior.
Maybe the best part of the whole thing was the frozen lemonade. Gods, that was good . . .
But even now I feel deadened in a pervasive way or something. Bleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeea . . .
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