adrizzle.com | the bodacious excursions of adriel luis

I was going to sleep instead of start writing at this ungodly hour but I kept thinking about this conversation I was having with press folks who were basically talking about how posting an article about Coachella on Thursday would be so un-newsworthy. So bliggity-blao.

I suppose no other moment describes the intensity of my Coachella experience as well as Saturday night when I was trying to decide whether to take my bathroom break during Animal Collective, Portishead, or Prince--or to just hold it for four hours. After reflecting on my day and realizing that I had downed two quarts of water and hadn't peed for over five hours already, I decided to take my break during Portishead, since their name most closely resembled Port-o-potty. As I stood inside the grimy outhouse, staring into the makeshift toilet bowl filled with everything that comes out of humans besides music, I decided that the next time I'm at Coachella, I'd like to be a performer. Mostly for the thrill of rocking Coachella, but also because I'm sure all the artists get gold-plated toilets lined with roses, as opposed to the herd of nasty poop rooms that the 20,000 of us civilians were forced to share. And even if the artists have to use outhouses too, at least they're using the same one as Prince.

Anyway, there's probably not much that resembles heaven as much as Prince coming on stage along with Morris Day and the Time, Sheila E, and Ledesi. And YO. Check out his cover of Radiohead's "Creep." Had I been in possession of panties, they could have very possibly been tossed on stage.

DISCLAIMER: I have no qualms with my previous statements about sharing a restroom and tossing panties at Prince. He's Prince, dammit.

Anyway, I don't know how all the journalists do it. By Sunday afternoon I was basically scavenging for any performances that weren't electronic so I could just sleep on the grass.

More borderline paparazzi-ish pictures of people I dig: