Coachella Happens Without The Yellow Press

Only mere miles away, (9.5, eating a taco nopal in the town of Mecca), The Yellow Press missed out on the fun, frenetic, celebrity ridden sweatfest musical orgy known as Coachella. Piloting eastward of the raucous melodic cacophony in the misguided quest of less newsworthy events, TYP was completely oblivious of the heartfelt hand-holding of Robert Pattinson and Kristen Stewart, the freckled midriff lusciousness of Lindsay Lohan in all her insouciant glory, and the mad-bad hard driving abilities of Benny Benassi as he careens a rented white SUV down a lonely desert highway outside of 29 Palms all the while expounding wildly on the potent secret hidden powers of the implicit manipulations of imagery in modern xociety.  What a malfeasance, to be unknowing, ill-illumined in a world where scintillations take place in warm desert sun and beneath starred springtime skies as writhing masses gyrate vividly to sounds that sear their souls and steer the courses of their lives for decades to come. (It’s the butterfly effect.)

The ticket prices disenfranchise the poor at Coachella, just as they do at other venues, including our nations parks, but the music and the movements filter outward, escaping the confines of barrier ropes and ticketmasters to sound their way into our psyches  and we all end up dancing to the music of our different drums. Twas the stars that drove us past the festival, into the hinterlands of blooms of vibrant prickly pear and teddy bear cholla, past the aromatic swaths of octillo, yucca and creosote, stars that still resonate with the songs sounded in the seventies that we hear echos in the music of todays’ troubadours.