Thursday, April 15, 2010
Plenty of you are headed to Coachella this weekend, I’m sure (hipsters!), and as a first-timer, I’ve got several worries on my mind. Like pitching a tent for the first time since 1995, which I haven’t accomplished since I was an eight-year-old Brownie, and using a public shower (two words: water shoes).
But these matters - food, water, the campground's glass bottle ban – are trifles when it boils down to what’s really important at the 3-day-music fest: wardrobe.
Let's get real. While some of you may be going for Thom Yorke, Them Crooked Vultures, or even Jay-Z (where the real sideshow will be a cameo from Queen Bey, am I right?) we all know the event promises to be a verifiable sartorial showdown, a survival of the hippest, if you will.
And while I’m not striving for cooler-than-thou Kate Moss status, standing out amongst the bazillions of bowler hats sounds tempting. The desert weather the event promises, however, does not, which brings me to my next dilemma: coverage, or lack thereof.
I have this silly rule, you see, one that I abide by come rain or blazing 100-degree Indio heat. It involves short things, and my, ahem, deep-seated refusal to wear them sans black tights.
Why? To say the least, the last time I bared my legs at a public poolside, a chivalrous stranger chucked a bottle of sunscreen at my back. I'm serious.
Sure, I still plan on donning the Coachella uniform of choice – a mini-something with boots, lest my pinkie toe meet its demise in a mosh pit – but going bare? Like Conan O’Brien, my alabaster alter ego only comes out at night.
Still, three mini-dresses, a romper, and $150.00 of tip money later, my suitcase is packed.
My editor, Angela, has asked that I chronicle the weekend's crazy-cool (and just plain crazy) ensembles a la The Sartorialist for Culture Lust, so if you see me, come say hello.
You know what I'll be wearing.
Part II to be continued next week, pending the physical state and location of my camera.