It’s hard to state the exact moment at which an annual countercultural event sells out. It’s usually a process. Inevitably marked by Paris Hilton showing up in expensive clothes made to look vintage. Coachella was a music thing until somebody realized it could be a monster fucking money making thing and suddenly Jay Z and Beyonce are headlining an indie music and arts festival in the desert. The entire list of Hollywood connected have their stylists dress them in ‘modern hippy’ and head out to the desert to get high and put some cash in Brandon Davis’ pocket. The celebrities are escorted to a VIP area cordoned off by three layers of Stalag 13 barbed wire and shepherds from the 60,000 baristas and Forever 21 junior managers who spent three months salary paying for tickets and travel. If we had hot zone protocols in place, we could nuke the premium section and set worldwide HSV2 back seventeen mutations. Everybody left for the after-party before the show even started. Coachella is L.A. Three hours East.
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