When my waspy wingman, Kerner, invited me to JewJet out to Coachella, I thought it was an isle near Capri. It wasn’t until I arrived in Palm Springs that I realized I was one PSP-induced fist pump away from the orgasm of the end of the world.
Far from JEWtacular.
Think “Myspace meets Meth” brought to you by Marlboro’s new line of menthol mesh condoms. The last time I saw this many pieces of shit walking around smoking, I was at Tenjune trying to score a B&T’s T&A. Festival-freaks appeared straight out of Woodstock – except all the women were too covered in soot for me to want to “stock” them with my “wood.” This was Van Nuys on vacation, literally living in the “Van.” Conditions were so surreptitious, you couldn’t lay on the grass for fear of hypodermics, you could only smoke it. The crowd was a cross between the Los Angeles Department of Motor Vehicles and Pacha. Menches galore. You know, the kind of chaps who blow coke during the day to get through their shift at Coffee Bean. The most normal looking diva looked like she shopped at an Elvira Trunk Show. Even the most attractive drug addict woman at the festival stunk of such carcinogens, that Tommy Lee wouldn't ash in her tray.
And then there were the tattoos. People were so excessively inked, that the only race you could determine was to the bathroom for another hit. One woman had a tattoo on her (far lower) back that actually said “best if used by 11/23/10.” I wasn’t sure if this was the date of her “Armageddon” or if she wanted me to use my “arm-to-get-in.” When I confronted her about her impending expiration, she said she was having the date lasered off in favor of a write-in system, kind of like an asshole white board.
Lounging at Palm Springs Riviera Resort & Spa was lovely. It was the upper echelon – still high, but not quite ready to die.
Coachella was a drug derby fueled by a rapacious rhapsody of wannabe anarchists, too high to understand the meaning of their t-shirts. But you want to know the real reason Coachella jumped shark? JRL was there.
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The comments stated in this column are Justin Ross Lee's personal opinions and do not represent the opinion of Clubplanet.com or any one of its parent companies.