Remember the Olympics a few years ago, when the media oh so cleverly dubbed Atlanta "Hotlanta"? I sure thought that was dumb. Still do, in fact. But allow me now, as an esteemed member of the media, to coin the equally lame phrase featured in the headline above. Think it'll catch on?
Yes, it's gonna be a hot one this year. 102 degrees, or thereabouts. And the music's gonna be even hotter, baby! Tomorrow alone I'm going to try to catch the Noisettes, Satellite Party, Of Montreal, Amy Winehouse, Arctic Monkeys, Rufus Wainwright, Peaches, Jesus & Mary Chain, my aforementioned future husband Jarvis Cocker (he just needs to divorce his impeccably chic fashion-mag-editor wife and, you know, actually meet me), Interpol, and Bjork. I'm obviously a Bjork fan judging by my feathered Halloween-costume pic at left; sadly I forgot to pack that 0utfit for this year's Coachella excursion , but it'd probably be too hot to wear it anyway.
So tonight was the calm before the desert storm. I went with my pal Mara to the annual Filter magazine Coachella pre-party, which--much to my delight--was sponsored by Red Bull this year. Of course, judging by my fatigued end-of-evening photo above, it doesn't look like I drank enough Red Bulls. Oh well. I just hope there's Red Bull at the VIP bar tomorrow too, because it's gonna be a looooooong day, and if I want to manage to fit in all the bands I perhaps a little too ambitiously plan to see, I'm gonna need my wings for sure.
All right, my craphole motel only has dial-up (this dearth of DSL is an Indio-wide problem, I've sadly discovered), and therefore this blog has taken much, much longer to write than is acceptable in the year 2007. So I'll sign off for now, but check back tomorrow for my report on all of Friday's (literally) hot rock action.