Bare with Peabs, it's been awhile. Obvs, you've missed me.
In the beginning,
Peabs created all things and saw that they were fucking bovs. Besides being fucking gorgeous, obnoxious and self-centered, yours effing truly is also a lover of music. And whilst it wouldn't be so far-fetched as to call me an elitist, I consider myself more a vast appreciator of all things cultural - most specifically that of music and even moreso, independent music (lest we forget recreational drugs and call girls, snatch). That said, the Coachella Festival held annually in late April outside of Palm Springs, CA is a bit like Mecca for my pretty ass.
My third consecutive year in attendance, I had learned from past experiences in order to best the previous year's trip. So far, so good. In 2004, while battling the heat and subsequent hallucinogens, I survived with many a battle scar, poised for the next year with the knowledge that
Peabs would fucking own Indio. Schmobvs, I did, and in 2005 myself and my merry band of misfits (
Glenn Danzig and
Rodney Roo included!) managed to top 2004 - a year that included my favorite all time band, no less. So how could I possibly manage to make 2006 the best evs? Simply put - I'm fucking amazing and everything I do should be envied and cherished and scripted permanently as though it were a fucking relig. Lick it.
So here it goes, my recap of year three - 2006. Yet another amazing year, only to be followed with many more. Dude jones.
Day One (Thursday, April 27)--
I had played a show the night before (I'm a musical prodigy, suck my fucking D™, you effing momo cockring), so
Peabs was a tad hungover at work the day I was to leave for CA. Being a superhero with a liver only comparable to that of
Mookie Wilson after a week-long binge of scotch and hot flaming gay buttsex, my sheer excitement and superhuman powers got me through the morning until noon, when I was to leave for the airport. It also helped that on my morning drive into the office that I mainlined some
Chyna Phillips into Euphrates, my left testicle. Ain't nothing says "Good morning,
Peabs" like a needle fulla smack in your fucking gargantuan D™. Bovs. Oh please, don't act like you've never shot horse into your genny-wennies before hitting the place of employment. Oh, you haven't? Then kindly take my
Uncle Festicles in between your lippy-poos and suckly-duckly on 'em like they was a newborn duckling guzzy-wuzzling Cold Duck with
Tom and Huck, you effing handjob motherfucking assbob. Mars.
Arrived in Ontario, CA, after many pre-flight drinks with
Doc and
Coz and proceeded to meet
Agent Jack Bauer in the men's bathroom for a fancy dinner of tossed salad with fat-free spedunkadunk dressing; filled me up quite nicely and not unlike my fat cockadoodledoo filling up your
Shaq-Diesel stankonia with a steady as she goes stream of Premium ooh-jah. Boo-jah boo,
Bodney Sue!!! Anyhoots, Palm Springs was in our sights for the following morning, so we opted to get some shuteye. And by shuteye,
Peabs really means meth-fueled threesome with a box of Krispie Kremes and a copy of
King Missle's "Happy Hour". She mars
Dick Smothered all over your motherfuckin' druthers,
Peaches! Regalia en this! BOW!!!!!!!!!
Day Two (Friday, April 28)--
As if you didn't already know,
Peabs is fucking loaded. What with all the philanthropy, drug-dealing and supermodeling yours motherfucking truly has done throughout the years, this should come as no surprise to thee. So it was decided that myself and my procol harum would blow whiter shades of
Yo-Yo Ma in a private condo - owned by two gay dudes. Best.
Now, normally I don't jump to any conclusions regarding ones sexuality, and by no means do I chastise anyone for their particular persuasion. Look at
Peabs for instance. I'll buttfuck just about anything (and I have; I'm looking your way,
Divine!) if I'm feeling
Glenn Miller about your snatchakins. Be that as it may, I prefer to rent houses/condos from gay men. Why? They're fucking neater than my morning glass of scotch. Plus they typically stock their place full of crystal meth and
Crystal Gayle records.
Ratzo!!!
You can pretty much guess how I spent the rest of the day. And yes that includes a group singalong of "Too Many Lovers" and tongue-jacking the shitbox of the poolboy,
Hector. Mmmmmmm, Mexican ass. Makes me wanna fist
Cesar Chavez with a buckle full of table grapes and a head full of bad memories. Obvs.
Day Three (Saturday, April 29 - Festival Day 1)--
I had been up all night freebasing a hybrid of
Snap, Crackle and Pop, wango tango mangos and a vial of
Tsitsi Dangarembga's flappityfloofloo, so I elected to treat my friends to a morning flex before we were to head to the Polo Grounds in Indio.
Most people eat breakfast. Not us (especially me, robvs). I chopped up a kilo of mannitol and sodium bicarbonate and we collectively blew eight-ball sized rails off of my rippling
Abby Hoffmans in preparation for the long, hot day ahead.
Peabs has done enough babbling. On with the actual review of the performances:
First act we caught was a solo, acoustic performance of
Rob Dickinson, formerly of the late, great
Catherine Wheel. His new album is inconsistent but he managed to play the three best tracks off of said album, along with old
Cat Wheel faves "Crank" and "Black Metallic." Hearing "Crank" made me a little frisky-wisky, so I excused myself and used my VIP privileges to get backstage and hunt down the singer of
White Rose Movement (who we planned to catch next). I take full blame as to why their performance was a little "off." And by "off", I mean this brosnan was so cranked out of his
Dr. Mindbender that he couldn't even step up into the micodin. Fucking lightweight. Mars.
Moved on to catch
the Walkmen on the main stage.
Peabs had seen them before in a club setting and it was far better. Would've been much better in a tent, or if I had been less agitating and itchy from all of the effing speed in my system of a down. Duh.
From there we hit the beer tent, originally planning to purchase a frozen lemonade for bovs reasons. Alas, their marketing was slightly deceptive and we chose to slam one or twelve Hennies and check out 'hard-on-of-the-week'
Wolfmother. Too many people crowded the tent so
Peabs and
Coz hung out stage left, dancing like effing
Mike Gordon wearing a granola strap-on and fucking the filthy Moe-Moe anus of a hippie hippie shamrock shake. Spread your panic wide! MUHHHH!!!! Anyway, for those of you who haven't seen
Dr. William H. Cosby and myself dance, I highly suggest scheduling an appointment with a box of Kleenex™ and a mug of cobalt and ferric chloride and we'd be glad to give you a private, discreet session (read: I'll jerk off in your face and clobber your skull with a copy of
Men's Fitness). Robvs.
All that dancing made us want to check out the Sahara Tent, where the electronic acts were performing.
Joey Betram was DJing, so
Cosby and I popped a half a jar and rubbed our respective
Lester Bangs all over the floppy-joe joe tees of the super-cougars desperately trying to relive the days of yore at Studio 54. The E must've been laced with some potent Cialis®, because I had a
Pinnochio rockin' the size of the
Nina, Pinta and Santa Maria, causing yours truly to uncontrollably masturbate for all to watch in wonder and amazement. You'd have been proud,
Peter North!! I knocked over an unsuspecting slooty-sloot with a moneyshot that hit her square in between her eyes. Call me
Isaac Fucking Newton and I'll shit in your mouth and call you
Sierra Madre. I'm a treasure.
Speaking of "shitting in your mouth," we then moved on to catch some of
Animal Collective. Umm, yeah. I'd rather watch
Sophocles spanktropita his cucumber sauce all over my gyro appendages and feast on my lamb-limbs like a platypus on blotter acid.
From there we checked out
Clap Your Hands and Say Yeah!, who were actually quite good. Helps when your name forces the audience to, well, clap their hands and say yeah. Coz actually
Jacked Off His Kids and Said "Flazzum," which is pretty much exactly the same thing. Hogsviously.
Last minute addition
Kanye Best Ever was next, as well as
My Morning Jacket. Luckily they were on the two parallel outdoor stages. And what separates them? Yep, the aforementioned beer tent.
Doc, Coz and yours effing truly made our way to the alcoholic oasis and started pounding beers, shmears and bloody hymens. We also learned that if you stand in the appropriate spot you can hear each act on their respective stage equally. With a combo of "Jesus Walks" in one ear, "Off the Record" in the other ear, and gallons of dutch bovness in your
Liv Tyler and Injuns, the result sounds a bit like hot man-on-man copulation between
Liberace and
Halston. Heeeeeeeyyyyyyyy!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Sigur Rós, a huge mchugerson favorite of mine, was next and I found myself to be the only one able to sing along. Why? Because I'm brilliant and actually
created the Icelandic language. Duhvs. Dude, shmeariously - just fucking lick it.
On to the Gobi Tent to catch the last few songs of hippie wacko
Devendra Banhart. Brosnan smokes a lot of pot; all I can really say. Followed that up with a taste of
Cat Power, which was as yummy as being face down in
Indira Gandhi's vaggie-vag.
Depeche Mode was next and they were effing tigs shats to the boombies, pardon
Dave Gahan's attempt at showing me up for best body in Indio. Shmears. Get back on the smacky-wacky and then maybe we can talk about whose 'ceps are more mantastic. Schmozzle.
It was at this point in which I received a text from myself reminding me that
Coz and I were going on in the Sahara Tent promptly at 11. Few know this, but
Peabs and
Bill Cosby had been creating phenomenal disco-techno for the last name under the monicker
Daft Punk, and pretending to be French robots. Robvs.
Needless to say, we were simply amazing. Perhaps it was the speedballs we snorted before going on, but I'd go so far to say as we were the highlight of everyone's weekend. Duh, that's about as bovious as
Peabs is endearingly obnoxious and self-referencing.
Peabs is pretty.
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Peabs is pretty. BOW!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Day Four (April 30 - Festival Day 2)--
After an overall bovsworthy day one, it was going to be difficult for day two to compare. In preparation,
Peabs attempted to sleep for the first time since 1997. It didn't work.
Coz thought it would be funny to replace my Soma® with asparagus, fried beet ooh-jah booj and special K and I found myself flipping out ten kinds of
Shasta McNasty. It was only comparable to a gerbilized caramel blumpkin and slice of pumpy-wumpkin monkey-dunk! Isn't that right,
Coz?
"Y'seeeee, youuuuuu've gots to know that Rodney Roo flizzum-flazzumed the chism-chasm-jism-jazzum puddy-wuddin' cuz Coz is bovs and the Rascally Wabbit is Dizzie and fizzy like the Honky Tonk Man!! Bozzle!!!!!!!!!!!"Schmobvs.
Our day opened with Brit dance-rockers
the Infadels. You can have your
Franz, Killers and/or Bravery -
Peabs will take these guys anyday over them. They had more energy than
Bodney Sue with an ass fulla glass and a pouch fulla marmalade Meprobamate. Probe this fucking asshole, you fucking handjobs!
Speaking of Australians and other people who don't matter much, we managed to see most of
Youth Group's set on the main stage following the sheer hotness of
the Infadels. They were the Walkmen of day two; should've been in a tent. Regardless,
YG still sounded good, but we were all so effed up on mushrooms and 714's that we needed something either crazed or Canadian.
We opted for the latter and headed to the Mojave Tent to catch Montreal's
the Dears. They were rather spectacular for both my ears and my overall buzz; and maybe I was just tripping, but the singer looked black from where I was standing. Is that your broshay,
Dr. Bill Cosby?
"Y'seeeeee, yooooooou've gots to know that I am his father, much like Theoooooooo!! Flazzum!!!!!!!!!!!!"Managed to catch part of
Mates of State and
Ted Leo after our Mojave excursion (each rad brad and rigatoni roni roo!), and then prepped ourselves for
Metric by getting to the stage early. Huge mistake, since
James Fucking Worst EVER Blunt was on beforehand. I swore we were all of the sudden transported to a fucking Hollister store at a New Jersey strip mall. Listen,
James. I know I'm fucking beautiful. I tell myself
on a minutely basis. I needn't have your trite fucking white-ass telling me as well. Bovs.
moving forward,
Metric followed the pusbag frat party and they were fucking bozzle bop. The things I would do to
Emily Haines can only be described using the words "hot," "carl" and "Abe Lincoln." It was clear she was begging for
Peabs to tea-bag her as though her name was
Lavender Verbena. Spooky!!!
Waited around for even more Canadian hipster indie rock by way of
Wolf Parade, but they went on way late. Being from Motown and accompanied by an African-American, we made the decision to check out Jamie Lidell in the meantime (
Spacehog-stizz). He combined the best of both world by being white and sounding black. 'Twas rather hot, if not somewhat awkward watching a man sing and beatbox over his own beats. Not that I had never seen that before;
John Wilkes Booth made a living out of it in the roaring 1850's before becoming a professional hitman. But that's common knowledge.
Jazzed and flizzum-flazzed, we went to the Sahara to unce out to the fugly
Paul Oakenfold, whom was as fucking ugly as ever. But he wasn't all starry-eyed surprised; he was like
Tranceport Oakey, which is
Ma-Ma-Ma-Mars Blackman in my
Humble Pie. 45 minutes of candy-flipping later and we went to go check out
Gnarls Barkley. Maybe it was the rather healthy mixture of glutethimide and Midol®, but
Peabs is damn sure they came out dressed like the
Wizard of Obvs. Mars she all over your effing
Barkleys, Cee-Lo. Mars she, indeed.
Better-than-
Interpol/Joy-Division-soundalikes
the Editors were next and they were one of my top three performances. Raw energy, tight. It reminded me of a hot, sloppy, lubed-up HJ from
Keith Hernandez. Man, I'd love to ride that mustachio with a pint fulla pistachios! Roo!!!!
Our festival shelf-life was nearing the end.
Madonna, the second most famous Michigander ever (besides
Peabs, duh), was next. Not only was she late but also about a mile away from where we were standing. Therefore, my perception is a tad skewed, no thanks to
Rodney Roo! That damn 'roo-jah boo boo convinced me to inject some Burmese kit-kat and liquified 69's in between my toes and I suddenly thought I was turning into
Hans Eysenck! "Arousal would be analogous to warmth, inhibition analogous to moisture!" NUHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
We closed out the festival with
Massive Attack and a collective syringe full of Horsey Sauce. 'Twas a wonderful way to come down from a glorious and rather excessive weekend. Marzipan.
All in all, Coachella gets better every year and 2006 was no exception. Of course when you live in this body, everyday is fucking incredible. I'm a sage, a demigod covered in demigloss. Lick my penis and call me
Susan Sarandon. Surrender your inhibitions to
Peabs, for I love you all.
Oh, wait, what was that? I'm sorry, but did you say this was long-winded and self-aggrandizing? Well pretty please with
Sugababes on top, be the angel to my dirty sanchez all over your fucking mizzle-mazzle, you uneducated fuckstick. I still love you.
Forever Obvs™.
