Coachella Survival Guide

So, you're going to Coachella, you crazy bastard. Are you ready for the sweat-soaked crowds, bipolar temperatures, the endless lines? You betcha.

Every year I go, and every year I swear it'll be my last. Then the next year's lineup is announced and, somehow, I find myself with tickets in hand, ready to brave the relentless sun and mobs of pierced-lip weirdos. And for what? For a few blissful days of kickass bands that leave me wanting more way after the last note fades into the distant rose-hued hills.

I'm still going this year, despite the fact I'm no longer officially "press," which means I'm now sans backstage and VIP passes, willing to mingle with the hoi polloi coated in several layers of dusty perspiration. Many -- the campers -- will have gone without showers for days. And still, I'll press through the crowds, hoping not for a closeup glance of my idols du jour but rather for that ephermeral moment of one-ness that was once found only in places of worship, but which can now be occasionally enjoyed at modern-day rock concerts, conditions willing.

And with that, I offer you my novice advice, garnered from four years' worth of Coachella'ing.

What to Bring

• Sunscreen: It's the friggin' desert, people. Add an exponent to the SPF.
  
• Comfortable Shoes: This is not a catwalk. Leave the heels at home. I usually opt for Tevas, though I may bring along my comfy-soled Skechers this time.
  
• Ear Plugs: It's a large field, meaning the music is going to be sonic. If you're thinking of getting anywhere near the stage, you'll want some squishy styrofoam protecting your tympanic membrane. Tinnitus ain't fun.
  
• Hat: Sometimes SPF isn't enough.
  
• Small Backpack: "Small" is relative, but you'll want something that'll get by security. You'll have to trek four miles back to your car/campsite if it'll hold more than a sweatshirt. And, yes, it'll be searched.
  
• Light Jacket: I didn't use mine at all last year, but the year before I coughed up $50 for an extra layer that I ended up wearing once, just to make it through Nine Inch Nails' wind-blown set.
  
• Cash: I've heard rumors the Mafia owns the ATMs. It's called usury, but the 909 is just a step above Thunderdome.
  
• Chapstick: Unless you like it when your lips bleed.
  
• GPS/Map of the Area: Very helpful for avoiding the main roads (the ones named after presidents) and weaseling through the neighborhoods ahead of the car caravans.
  
• Small Camera: Nothing that says "pro," i.e., it can't have a removable lens. Video cameras are not allowed.
  
• Small Pharmacy: Not the illegal kind, just the basic aspirin and such. There are "general stores" set up around the grounds, and they're actually not terribly unreasonable, but if you're partial to Advil over Tylenol, you'll want your own stash.
  
• Tickets: Last year, a friend forgot hers -- in New York. But if you purchased yours through Ticketmaster, you can actually get replacements. It takes a fair amount of phone calls and a wait in the abysmally long ticket line, but she got in without much ado. (Maybe that's what those "convenience" charges are for.)
  

What to Do:

• Pick a Meeting Place: Reception sucks, so it's best to set a time/place to meet your pals. Pick someplace other than the Tesla coil, otherwise you might as well tell them to meet you to the left of the main stage.
  
• Wear a Bathing Suit: Then dress in layers. This way you can frolic in the misting tents or hose yourself off whenever you feel like it.
  
• Remember Where You Parked: I'm saying this from experience.
  
• Refill Your Water Bottles: You won't have to take out equity in your mobile home, plus it's easier on the environment.
  
• Plan Your Schedule: You'll inevitably change it once you get there, but it's good to go in with a strategy. Ask yourself: In ten years, will I be happier that I saw Willie Nelson, or that up-and-coming British band with the asinine name?
  
• Don't Block My View: This is the best tip I can give you. I've seen many a fight break out over some bikini-clad chick on her simian boyfriend's shoulders, or some giddy shutterbug a thousand yards from the stage holding his camera in front of someone's face for an indistinguishable shot of some crappy lo-fi band. If you're one of these people, you deserve whatever you get. Especially if it's my view you're blocking.
  

Are We Dropping the Ball? Dave Winfield Thinks So

Last year, I had the opportunity to help edit Dave Winfield's book Dropping the Ball: Baseball's Troubles and How We Can and Must Solve Them, which is now out in print.

I've never been a sports nut, but if I had to pick a sport to get behind, it would be baseball, if only because it was the one sport that resonated in me for most of my childhood. I understood it, unlike football. I could play it, or at least its female counterpart, softball. And I could appreciate its long, storied tradition in American history. When baseball's popularity began to wane and basketball became the trendy sport du jour, I lamented the decline of legacy, which was replaced by marketing and celebrity.

So when I had the opportunity to work on a project by one of baseball's greats, I jumped at the chance, and was pleased to see that some of my layman's views fell into line with Winfield's own. Although I don't think that much can be done about the commercialism of sports as a whole, I do agree with his major points about the benefits of sports for kids, and that what the sports world in general needs is a good kick in the pants to unseat it from its pedestal of celebrity and return it to a level playing field for all fans.

It's a good, fun read. And I'm saying that not just because I had a slight hand in the book, but because I had such an enjoyable time working on it.

My Brother, Minus a Finger

Haven't heard from my bro in months, only to get pinged by him today to tell me he has some cool pics I have to see. I think, well, it's gotta be pics of our niece and nephew, since his MySpace page is full of them. But nooooooo... Instead I get gnarly shots that made me want to hurl chunks on my computer screen while I'm working.

And now I'm sharing with you. Because I'm caring that way.

Long story short: Seven years ago, bro ripped off the top of his finger in his motorcycle chain. It's been bothering him ever since and had gotten so bad that it was impairing his other fingers, so he had it removed this morning. Luckily, he wasn't planning on using his ring finger any time soon. Thank goodness it wasn't the other finger, which he uses a good deal more frequently and which would have suffered a great loss in impact had it been cut down at the first joint.



See his take on the magic finger trick.

I'm Cleaning My House With What?!

Check out my latest article. Then allow me to explain what prompted it.

Perhaps it's just what they say about growing old: Some of your personality traits tend to become accentuated -- the moody become downright grumpy, the frugal pinch even more pennies. I've become more environmentally conscious (amongst other things, but that's the trait I'm choosing to highlight here). What started with recycling back in the early '80s has turned into planting trees after every plane flight and, just recently, replacing almost every one of my commercial household cleaners with homemade, environmentally friendly versions.

Some of the concoctions -- I tried almost every trick I mention in the article -- were surprising, most notably the furniture polish made of lemon juice and olive oil, which looked more appropriate for that night's pasta than my precious wood armoire. But I was shocked how well it worked. Even my real-wood Ikea products look tons prettier. And the boiling baking soda trick worked such wonders in the microwave that several of my friends scurried home to try for themselves.

One of the sources I didn't mention in the article came from the UK Guardian, which I omitted due to the tendency of newspaper URLs to change frequently and, therefore, cause a dead link in my copy. Here it is, dead link in my blog be damned: http://environment.guardian.co.uk/ethicalliving/story/0,,1994096,00.html. I'm actually quite impressed with the Guardian's Ethical Living section in general and am wondering if it's just the publication's stance or a reflection of the country's increasing environmentalism that prompted the addition to the paper.

What else have I been doing to reduce my carbon footprint? As much as I can, which I still feel isn't nearly enough. Sure, I bought a Prius, but I've doubled my commute, and I haven't cut my fuel consumption in half. I take the stairs instead of the elevator, have replaced most of my paper-towel use with reusable cloths, started practicing more-conscientious shopping (e.g., choosing items with less packaging, local produce, animal-friendly companies), etc. But what the hell else can you do, aside from dropping out of society and joining an island tribe (which I haven't entirely ruled out)?

I'd move, in order to cut my commute, but that would mean living in the Valley. And that's going too far, even for me.

Concert Review: Muse at Great Western Forum

I'm taking a page from my pal TixGirl's blog to add a concert review to the ol' blogging mix. I was inspired to do so not just because I'm going through concert-reviewing withdrawal, having given that up when I quit the CityGuide gig back in December, but because last night's show was phantasmagorical.

I've been in love with Muse since a friend gave me a copy of the band's Absolution album just over a year ago. It quickly became one of the few CDs I just couldn't seem to take off repeat; had it been a cassette, it would have warped to near nothingness in the first few weeks I had it.

Then came Black Holes and Revelations, and once again I was floored in a way I haven't been in years. Their sound re-instilled my faith in the music scene, which had been waning since, oh, 1994 or so. Sure, I've had my occasional doses of The Killers, Suede, and a handful of other soul-lifting bands. But there was something about Muse -- the Queen-like anthems, the multi-layered sound -- that made me yearn for more. And so I didn't hesitate to whip out the plastic to make my first concert-ticket purchase in several years. (My last job had also spoiled me with more press passes than I could handle.)

Because I first saw Muse with my pal Nne at KROQ's Inland Invasion a few years back, I invited her along for another ride. We trekked down to Inglewood for our virgin trip to the Forum (aka, the LA venue most in need of a facelift), stopping at Porky's BBQ ($2.99 for a ginormous salad? Sure, I'll go back) to fuel up before the big show.

Since I didn't plan on writing a review, I didn't bother to take notes, like I once did more studiously than I ever had for any college class. So I'll just sum it up by saying that these guys know how to put on a show. Pyrotechnics and video imagery aside, Matthew Bellamy and company simply rawk like no one's business. Halfway through the performance, I was tired just from watching Bellamy bound about the stage, switching instruments every other stanza.

For once, I lucked out. Our section was pretty laidback, so although we sat down a few times, we could still see because, well, the other old farts like us were also resting their dogs. Although I couldn't watch the sweat pour off the band member's faces, I was much more comfortable looking down on the mosh pit, and I couldn't believe there'd been a time where I would have killed to be smack dab in the middle of the sweaty, swarming mass of delinquents shoving each other.

To top it all off, the trio performed not one, but two sets of encores, with at least three songs in each set. In all, the concert lasted more than two hours. Considering the distance to the stage, I got some pretty good shots and video, mainly due to the stageside screens and killer stage visuals. Near the end of the concerts, security guards tossed a half dozen confetti-filled balloons into the crowd, which made for some awesome snaps.

During one ballad, when the arena was aglow with swaying green cell phones, like a nighttime sea come to life with bioluminescence, Nne stopped herself before commenting on the handful of odd yellow lights in the audience. "I just realized those are lighters." My, how concert-going has changed. At least with Muse, it's for the better.

Now, can someone tell me why my videos look so crappy and pixelated when I upload them? Is it because they're AVI files?

Why I Rule: Reason #465

As I've grown older, I've also grown more precautious. I no longer leap off cliffs (as I did in Brazil to celebrate my 21st year on the planet), run off to foreign countries to chase rock stars, or drive my car at breakneck speeds around sharp turns (as I once did in my Firebird on the road around the Jones Beach Obelisk, scaring the bejebus out of my pal Dimi, whose nails left permanent marks in Bertha's upholstery). But there are times I still take the odd risk, whether that be jumping into a shark cage or, as I did this evening, doing my own plumbing.

I've always said that I'd never screw with plumbing or electrical work, but tonight I found myself with a clogged drain that spat up nastiness from within my garbage disposal for a good hour. A few oddities floated up out of the works, including several pieces of intact plastic knives (I don't use plasticware) and a disfigured, slightly hairy mass that at one time may have been a small child. I considered calling in an expert, then remembered that, hell, 11 years ago, I installed my own toilet. I could handle a little drain clog.

And although I rarely trust the Internet for important information, I decided to give it a shot, searching several trusted sites on how to rid my sink of the mass within my kitchen pipes. Then, thinking ahead for just a second, I called my local Home Depot and was soon put in touch with Ricardo the Plumbing Wizard. He assured me that I could handle this simple project on my own and, after scooting over to meet the wizard in person and buying a wrench, I headed home, certain I was up to the task.

If you ever decide to unclog your own trap, do so slowly. I loosened the plastic rings around the pipes a little too quickly, only to watch a fount of foul water bubble up and over the tray I'd laid out to catch leaks. The cause of the clog was soon evident: uncooked brown rice that I'd poured down the disposal after discovering my new Ralphs purchase was infested with six-legged invaders. I tossed the muck, screwed the pipes back together, and voilà! Cleared drain.

Sort of. I began scrubbing the pan I'd used to cook tonight's homemade Thai spicy mint tofu, only to watch my sink's water levels rise as if I were in steerage on the Titanic. I surmised that there was more rice in the trap, performed pipe surgery a second time (more slowly than the first), and my drain has been clear the rest of the evening. (Of course, my next post may very well be "Why I Suck: Reason #2," but I'm being unusually optimistic.)

And Reason #466: I finished an online crossword in 3:55, an all-time best. Rawk on.

Valley Sky

As I hump over the Sepulveda Pass each morning on my way from the South Bay to the Valley, I marvel at the instantaneous change in climate, as if some giant paw has flicked an electrical switch from "foggy" to "muggy." The sun cuts through the gloom as if on fast-forward in some National Geographic documentary. But it's all real, in real time. That's the miracle of the LA basin's micro-climates.

From the patio of my office building, several of us looked on as the sky grew ominously gray, and I found myself hoping an East Coast storm was brewing. The palm fronds rustled just a few feet below us, as I noticed the incongruous reflection of pale blue skies painted in the glass windows of the office building opposite. We never saw that storm, although a co-worker swore he could see the raindrops falling several miles away.

A few days later, I thought we might finally be blessed with a true downpour. The sky was ashen, and I recalled the OC fires from several years back that left half an inch of cinder blanketing my car. Sure enough, a friend pointed out the columns of smoke billowing from the Hollywood Hills, where a line of flames rushed towards the far side of the ridge, not terribly far from the notorious Hollywood sign. But, being jaded Angelenos, we shrugged our shoulders and ducked back inside to our cubes. Yes, we're glad the sign remains intact, but it might have been more dramatic to watch a cultural icon go up in blazes as we watched live -- on streaming video, of course.

You Say Topanga, I Say... Topanga, Too

When I tell my East Coast friends that I'm going hiking, I often hear silence on the other end of the phone -- and not because Cingular has dropped my call again. It's not simply because most of my Manhattanite comrades are more at home within canyons of steel and asphalt than those of rock and foliage. It's because most can't imagine that I'd have anywhere to hike within the LA city limits.

Sure, LA traffic can make a leisurely jaunt to the seemingly nearby smog-shrouded hills into an all-day affair, especially if you're traveling up PCH on a weekend, but for the most part, nature is never very far away, from most any point in the city. And for back-to-nature rusticity coupled with stereotyped LA looniness, nothing beats Topanga Canyon.

Fittingly enough, I'd just seen Colin Hay, himself a Topanga resident, play at Largo two nights earlier. His wife -- a cross between Elvira and Janeane Garofalo -- seemed Topanga born and bred, what with her swishy hand gestures and attempt at playing the "air flute" (much more entertaining than it sounds). Hay, whose set was split 50/50 between music and comedic banter, quipped, "I met a woman in Topanga the other day who claimed she wasn't psychic." After the chuckles had died down, he added, "Later she admitted she was a little." That's as apt a description as any I could come up with for this quirky LA outpost.

And that's where I went a-hiking with pal Eric last weekend, under perfectly azure skies. The California State Park website claims Topanga is "considered the world's largest wildland within the boundaries of a major city." Once you're inside the park, that boast is easy to believe, as there's little sign of city life in view, except for the occasional McEnclave on a distant hillside.

Eric suggested we take the Santa Ynez trail, which, he led me to believe, had an idyllic waterfall at its end. After only five minutes of tramping on cracked earth, I knew he'd said that just to get me to agree to his trail choice, since I'd already groaned for two days prior about not wanting any elevation gain. He admitted that, given the time of year, the only thing at the end of the trail was most likely a "waterfell," but we soldiered on anyway, enjoying the perfect spring weather and occasional lizard spotting. (If anyone can tell me what kind of lizard this is, I'd be much obliged.)

After our jaunt, which was just under four miles, we met up with Tabitha at Froggy's, an old-time Topanga watering hole that would fall under "cafeteria" in Zagat's were it not for the wonderously quaint structure (built in the 1920s), picturesque scenery, and friendly waitstaff (would-be actors these ain't). When I finally returned to my South Bay nabe just after sunset, I felt refreshed, as if I'd been out of the city limits for longer than just a half day. Try doing that in Central Park.