late April sometime, 2007 – post-Coachella – Palm Springs
We are delirious. Wheeee are deleterious.
We’re sitting by a pool at a hotel with air conditioning. For a minute. Going back into the hotness that is Cyclecide‘s camp at Coachella to break down the rides and take them to Riverside to set them up for a show at UC-Riverside tomorrow.
Then re-breaking the rides back down and re-taking them back to the polo fields in Indio to re-re-set them up for Stagecoach Festival. Which judging by all the purple wristbands on the 60-year-old vendors and whatnot outside at the hotel pool right now …. it’s going to be Bizarro Coachella.
OMG swimming is about to happen.
Two kinds of music next weekend: country and western. We need to go into town to buy a new set of Billy Bob teeth to plump up the ol’ Southern accent and bark at the Cyclofuge or whatever ride we’re running this weekend — just to scare the kids. Hopefully we won’t get our asses kicked. This writer’s from Mississippi though so we’re allowed to talk like that.
But right now all we want to do is take a nap in the shade. Someday we’ll get a whole night’s sleep again.
Overheard in the bar by the pool just now:
“did you find my shorts in your room last night by the way?”
“No but I heard somebody lost their panties.”
“That might be the pair we sold.”
(All this said by a guy who’s got a nametag on his chinese coolie hat that reads “HELLO MY NAME IS GET OUT OF MY FACE”)
OK bye. Swimming
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