Couchella

Couch-surfing Coachella: Togo sectional sofa, Ligne Roset. Grey throw: Zinc Details. Orange suede pillow: Angela Adams. Leggings, United Bamboo. “Furkenstocks,” Celine.

You couldn’t throw a rock at a fashion blog, or any blog, really, without hitting photos of Vanessa Hudgens or Kate Bosworth lookalikes at Coachella peacing-out to the cameras, far far away from any actual music.

Headband? Check. Isabel Marant Dicker boots? Check. Floaty floral frock? Check. Frayed denim vest? Neon anything? Check, check and check.

Of course the too cool for the pool Man Repeller was there too, looking thankfully out of place amidst the sea of boho/hippy chic sameness fighting desperately to make waves. The thing is, everyone under the age of 30 goes. Or seems to. And now everybody knows about it, in which case one can feel left out. Or. Not.

Reason number 7,483 that getting older is liberating: I. Don’t. Care. About. Not. Going. To. Coachella. It. Sounds. Awful.

Even in my formative years, I could only handle a few sets of Lollapalooza, at best. I remember being super high and super hot at the Shoreline, doing my version of dancing (which unfortunately falls somewhere between Elaine’s dry heave/hitch-hiking moves on Seinfeld and olive Oyl’s Popeye Samba) to the Red Hot Chili Peppers, only to come down hours later onto a bed of chicken bones, smashed fries and half-eaten hot-dogs, thoroughly grossed-out.

Back in the day, you slapped on a tank and shorts and shoved your shit in a backpack. I’m sure more thought went into it than that, but really not much. Today, that trampled and littered lawn is yet another runway, a place to be photographed and seen. The music is an afterthought. Was it always an afterthought? It seemed back then, our eyes and ears were on the stage, not each other, and our fashion cues came from Stevie and Blondie, not Miley or Paris.

I truly love music and would love to have seen the Wu-Tang Clan, Dinosaur Jr. or Nick Cave. But just not outside, standing up, surrounded and squeezed, tired, hungry, in the heat, and bummed out that my skort went unnoticed by style bloggers.

Which is why I am grateful for the internet and Coachella for this: They live streamed the show, which is available for free here. For ladies of a certain age like me and Jslow, nothing beats watching your favorite bands from the lying down position, in a climate controlled environment, front row center. I’d far rather surf for bands than crowd surf any day. At least now. Which is not a bad thing.

If anyone out there actually went to Coachella, please prove me wrong and tell me we should go. Or. Not.

Peace out.