It's good to be back, mostly. It was great to spend some quality sibling time down in Southern California, but now the show must go on; he left for New York, and I've returned to the grind. We drove to the airport Monday night in a stolen Dodge Charger - our valiant ivory steed - galloping down the 101 at ludicrous speeds. I tried inviting him to stay in San Francisco a bit longer, perhaps indefinitely, but he didn't fall for any of my ploys. I tired trickery and guile, clever and cunning, honest truth and pleas - none sufficed.
We fled Coachella Sunday like screeching albino bats smothered in sunscreen, flapping madly beneath coffee stained clouds. There was a dust storm Saturday night, and 60mph winds. During the storm the sand must've made its way into the clouds, giving them that strange muddy color. While we slept, I dreamt a troupe of dwarves hopped up on steroids were breakdancing riotously against our tent. When I woke, I realized it wasn't a dream. The wind tugged fiercely at the tent, jostling it wildly, menacingly, seeking to uproot it. We watched an EZ-Up sail across the sky - a four-legged tribute to Mary Poppins' umbrella.
While we were at the festival we met some interesting people. One of them, a member of a gang of attractive girls camped beside us, kidnapped my brother on Saturday, just before dawn. She held him hostage in their campsite, right under my nose, dressing him up as a unicorn and force-feeding him pints of beer through a perforated garden flamingo called a flabongo. I found him, a helpless captive in the midst of their torture, and fought off the lust-crazed horde of women, escaping narrowly into the show. Camouflaged by a sea of concertgoers, we were safe from any further brutality. Afterwards, I made my brother a POW MIA patch, which he wore on the brim of his hat.
We saw performances by The Afghan Whigs, Washed Out, Pixies, Fatboy Slim, Queens of the Stone Age, and Outkast, to name a few. The real story though, at least by the media's standards, was Leonardo DiCaprio's drunken dancing. It's true. He too gets drunk and has fun at music festivals. Believe it brothers.
The biggest shocker though, wasn't the music or the antics of an acclaimed celebrity, it was an experience I had at a food truck inside the beer garden near the main stage. The sun had just set and we had 2 hours to kill before the next band, so naturally, I suggested we grab something to eat. There was a truck with tasty smells emanating from it called Me So Hungry. The line looked short enough, and the menu offered a variety of sliders and sweet potato fries. I settled on the prime rib slider and waited patiently to reach the window. My brother, craving something simpler, made a bee line for the pizza line. I stood waiting for what felt like tens of minutes; I couldn't tell, my phone was dead. Maybe it hadn't been as long as I thought, I thought, but I knew the line had barely moved. He finally returned and was astonished to see I was in nearly the same place as when he'd left. He ate his slice, then went to stand in the long ATM line to withdraw more cash. Then he went into the beer line to grab a drink, and drank it. At this point there was only one more person ahead of me at the counter.
It had been 30 minutes.
I placed my order and handed the guy at the window $19 for the burger and fries. He asked my name and told me he'd call me when it was ready. 5 minutes passed. Then 10. Then 15. Blinded by rage and hunger, I nearly stormed the truck and robbed them of all their cash and burgers and fries; I could taste shards of salty vengeance crunching sweetly between my teeth. Then, as I was about to go into a berserk fugitive frenzy, they called my name. After 45 minutes the two little burgers were mine. And they sucked, majorly. They tasted like they'd been cooked by a blindfolded ape with a deteriorated and defunct olfactory system. Given the time it took them to produce the burger, I expected far more in the way of quality. It seemed, to me, that while I waited surely they must have purchased a large acreage which they then turned into a farm; a bunch of young cattle, which they'd raised to maturity, feeding them and letting them graze uninhibited in wide-open green pastures, making them strong and healthy and bounteous; expert butchers, world renown chefs and a slaughterhouse, all housed inside that small truck. Instead I got a mediocre burger that might as well have been prepared inside a highschool cafeteria.
It was a travesty. A food truck catastrophe. I don't even want to tell you about what it did to the portapottie when it came out. It was like the scene in Alien, except, my anus.
Alienus.
What if the movie Alien is just an allegory for slimy, stinking, belly-busting diarrhea? Ridley Scott; Scott's toilet paper. Coincidence?
You decide.
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