Lastchella

'No drugs on Thursday.'

It was a pact we had all agreed upon in March, weeks before we made the 150 mile drive east from Santa Monica.

It made sense at the time.

We were, after all, a bunch of twentysomethings closer to 30 than we would like to admit. Our bodies weren't capable of the heroic feats of drinking from college. Gone were the days of week long benders during Little 5, Homecoming, Spring Break, Welcome Week...hell, every week.

At this point in my life, I personally had just enough left in the tank for 3 days and 4 nights. But of course that all went out the window when we left earlier than expected on Thursday, encountered no traffic en route to Indio and somehow pulled up in a camping spot directly next to the Silent Disco at 3pm.

I looked at our van full of beer and knew immediately I would not be able to control myself.

"Well fuck."

***

I came out of my first blackout on Friday at one of our patented half time parties. I was wearing a Pikachu onesie and passing around a warm handle of Prestige Vodka to a motley crew of IU bros, Canadians and of course, Masians. (Inland empire raver girls of indeterminate heritage but probably some mixture of Mexican and Asian)

I realized we had been at the festival grounds for less than 24 hours and had already gone through 300 of our 520 beers. Our table was littered with empties after an especially aggressive round of Landmines and a sawed off wiffle ball bat was leaned next to my buddy's 4Runner. Nothing attracts a group of chicks to a campsite like some Louisville Chugger.

A windstorm had destroyed most of the adjacent campsites, and since I had been on 40 mg of Addy when we were pitching camp, we could have survived an F5 tornado. I noticed that I didn't know half the names of the people that had stopped by. Some saw our IU flag, others the Chicago. Some people just heard some people listening to A$AP Rocky and thought it would be fun to say hello.

This was when I first realized, oh ya, I'm at Coachella.

As the night progressed we finally made it to the Jack U show where my main two pick up lines to chicks were "Let's have a cartwheel contest!" and "Do you think Justin Bieber will come out?" I received mixed feedback, some people just can't handle a sweaty, six foot four Pokemon asking them to dance.

Upon making it back to camp at 1am, I realized that the silent disco is not actually silent until 2am or so, and when you're sleeping in a see thru tent there isn't a lot to break the noise. I decided to head over to see if the one piece would be a hit with the after-party strung-out crowd.

It was.

***

Waking up is the worst part of almost any vacation. You feel like shit, you realize how destroyed your living space is and it dawns on you that you are one day closer to going home.

This is multiplied by 10 when there is a hot sun burning down on you, you're covered in a layer of dirt and you inexplicably find blood all over yourself.

It was just the top of my foot, must have tripped over a tent pole.

So I would wander the grounds, faint hints of dubstep coming from campgrounds far away.

Did they go to sleep? I would ask myself. Is there some Long Beach party gene that makes them impervious to deplorable living conditions?

I would usually walk by the shower line about 3 or 4 times before deciding to rub some drinking water on my face and call it a day.

"Just use a baby wipe on your dick if some girl wants to blow you!" Suggested our neighbor Gessica, a Sophomore at Long Beach State. Sage advice from the undergrad.

Then I would wander around the campsite kinda moving shit around, but not quite cleaning, until my buddies would arise from the Jucy Van (an old Dodge minivan converted into a Coachella optimized mini RV)

Around 10 am we would kick around the idea of playing Dodgeball or doing Yoga, some campground sponsored activity but eventually we would say fuck it and dive into a warmish beer waiting for someone to volunteer to run to the general store to buy ice.

***

Somehow today I'm in an IU cycling kit and people keep asking me if I ride little 5. For the first couple hours I say no, then I start saying yes. Then I get even bolder and tell them that I am a Delt and I won Little 5 LAST WEEK. Me, undergrad Dave the Delt, treated myself to Coachella after singlehandedly winning the biking race.

This story is believed at a rate of 39%

Now I'm running through the beer garden and I am deeply entrenched in a dance battle with a bunch of Swedes. I bust out the exact same dance routine that Will Ferrell uses in the mail room scene in the movie Elf. It kills. They buy me a beer. This is Coachella.

I hit the meat of the festival that night with my boys dressed as absolute savages. On my left were Curious George and The Man in the Yellow Hat. Flanking to my right I had a Cookie Monster and a monkey. I am now wearing nothing but a swimsuit because in the day and a half I've been here I've lost enough weight to look good with my shirt off.

We are all covered in a half dozen flash tats by the time we make it to...Zedd, or was it Disclosure? No maybe there was some guy named Rufus something. No wait, it was Zhu. Ice Cube brought out Dr. Dre and that Grimes girl yells a lot in between songs.

That is my official Saturday recap.

As we are walking back to our camp to set out lawn chairs and smoke cigars, I am randomly offered acid by a stranger because I 'looked like I was having a good time.'

LPT: Dance like a crazy man, get offered free drugs.

***

Sunday is always sad because although you have a full 33% of your trip left (and the best music) the campsite will start to clear out. A few people will leave as early as 9am to get back to wherever they came from. A guy in my group had a nice 8 hour solo drive to SF waiting for him, something I wouldn't wish on my worst enemy. Other people will just start to break down certain parts of their camp to make Monday morning a bit more manageable. I on the other hand, choose to double down.

No one leaves this campsite until all alcohol and drugs are gone.

A quick look of solidarity and we set up a quick game of rage cage in the 90 degree sun.

We go in earlyish today to soak up every last joyous second Indio has to offer. Thomas Jack was probably first, but somehow we ended up over at Matt and Kim, one of my favorite bands. We staged a photoshoot atop some brass lion statues. I gave the camera a thumbs up and a little rave toddler on her dad's shoulders returned my thumbs up. As I hopped off the lion he approached me.

"My daughter thinks you're awesome man."

Ha! That's great, is this her first Coachella?

"Fourth."

Me too.

A pair of girls drag us to trap master Baauer, to which I resist, but quickly accept when I become entrenched in a mid crowd mosh pit under the Sahara tent. Never have I accidentally elbowed so many girls in the face and had them be totally ok with it. In fact, I may have stuck around to try to get the rare mid mosh-pit kiss, but I heard a member of my group shout MAJOR LAZER and again I was sprinting across a polo field, an activity usually reserved for horces. Doing cartwheels like a five year old girl who just finished her first tumbling class, it's no wonder I'm 10 pounds lighter today than what I was Thursday at noon.

Day became dusk, and dusk befell night. I realized my group was starting to pair off with various girls they had met in the crowd. The old me would have taken this as a cue to find a dance partner stat, but I couldn't help just watch the faces of all the people around me and how much fun they were having, it was almost a perfect, absolute bliss.

I get back to the campsite and realize most of my group hadn't made it back. Probably chasing the night at the silent disco or hailing a ride back to some girl's hotel.

I popped over to the Canadian's tent for one more joint before I laid my head down on the Empire polo fields ground one last time.

As I took my last hit and stood to leave, Igor, a Serbian born Vancouverite, stood to shake my hand.

"So Dave, see you next year?"

I let the words echo around in my head a bit and at that moment for maybe the first time all week I was absolutely present. I had let all this #lastchella nonsense get to my head. Turning 30 is not a death sentence, in fact the best part of Coachella is the seamless blending of cultures in one big celebration. Just this week I had partied with old, young, foreign, domestic...hell, I didn't know half of my OWN camping party when I signed up for this and now we leave friends for life.

"Ya Igor...weekend two, 1003rd and Main. See ya there."

And then I laid down as the (never) silent disco, played me to sleep with one last opus.

***

"SOS. We're at a hotel in Indio. Plz send help."

I haphazardly shoved all of our shit into the Jucy van and hit the road. Out of my initial group of six, only two woke up at the campground the last morning. We braved the hour long traffic to the gate, all the while watching people abandon entire campgrounds in favor of a quicker trip to McDonald's and then home. Although the mood was definitely a bit more somber, there were still residual smiles stuck to everyone's face and I swear I saw at least one guy still drinking a beer.

We got to Indio to pick up the rest of the squad and swapped a few stories before dropping about 40 bucks on some McDonald's breakfast. Then there was a bit of a lull before someone said, so how about that fucking weekend? Let's blast some tunes.

Grimes (the girl that screams sometimes) and good conversation got us all the way back to LA.

I was dropped off in Venice around 3pm. Looked at my bank account and shuddered, then watched Game of Thrones on my iPhone and went to bed.

Tuesday, I drank about 3 gallons of water and showered three times, the last of my flash tats coming off at around 7pm. Then at 8, I clipped off my wristband. Coachella 2016 was officially over. I hope I go back with the exact same crew next year.

From 9-11pm I put the finishing touches on a pilot that I was supposed to send the showrunner of Rosewood. If he likes it, he'll put me in the writer's room in some capacity for season 2. Shouts to my unofficial management team Dana and Anna, you guys rock.

Then at 1130, exhausted, I tried to go to bed.

I couldn't sleep Tuesday night because I had so much anxiety over my impending trip to Copenhagen. I had decided, shamefully, to cancel. My flight was only about $400, I was physically in no shape to continue any sort of partying/adventure. I would just pull the plug just as my fellow travelers had a few days before.

But then I checked my Facebook. I forgot that I had thrown up a status right before I went for a pitifully short run asking people if I should go.

About 50 of my friends responded with some version of 'yes.'

So I got online and booked the shittiest hostel I could find, found the 4 sweaters I own and threw them in a backpack. Now in about 2 hours I'll be walking to a bus stop and heading to the airport. (Riding the bus helps me mentally prepare for Europe)

There are always going to be five reasons NOT to do something for every one reason that there is. But that doesn't mean you need to listen to logic. Life is an adventure and following my heart hasn't gotten me into too much trouble yet. So off I go on a solo adventure to Scandinavia,

It's now Wednesday at about 2pm. The #Lastchella group chat is still going strong. Someone is missing their shower kit and someone slept through work today, but 72 hours later it's apparent that everyone is still riding the wave of euphoria from the weekend. I hope this chat stays active for months...only thing is; it's going to need a new name.