Rock Festival Season is a time of magic.  It's when vegan bar-be-cue scents the air like an aphrodisiac, boys strut around with their artfully trimmed summerbeards and Diamond Dogs-like sunburns on their chests (courtesy of the omnipresent American Apparel deep V that invariably gets shed after day two), and all of the kids shaking their asses to De la Soul like it was 1992.  I can't even begin to tell you how many beer besotted and indie rock induced bad ideas I have had at said festivals over the years.

Even the Pitchfork organization, which my friend Dead Mike abandonded in his role as lead critical uhuru years ago because, in his words, "They were all uptight pretentious dicks," engenders goodwill.  Last year, they brought us Jarvis Cocker in all of his effete English glory.  This is a man who I, and judging by the crowd, about eighty-two kajillion thirty-year-old music fanboys have been in love with since we were fifteen.  At one point, Jarvis C. started pointing at his belly button and jerking his head back.  I didn't even know that navels were sexy, and that navel pointing could be A Move.  It was.  I died with adolescent lust inside my very adult body. 

On Craigslist, I recently saw a 3/4 ton van on sale for $700.  I feel that it would be the perfect vehicle to transport 7-20 of my friends from Buttofmanyjokes, FL to Coachella in style.  Unfortunately, this year, the date for Coachella has been moved up two weeks to mid-April (it usually happens at the end).  In past years, the greatest hazard associated with this festival has been the peril of seeing Chloe Sevigny in inappropriately short shorts.  Now there's a dilemma for both teacher and students: what to do about finals?  How to explain to the kids that there will be no final critique because I have to spraypaint Valkyries riding sledges of fire on the side of a van in order to go see Muse in the desert?

Will Bonnarroo be an adequate rock and beardfest?  It's around the corner, just down the lane, but it's been a while since I've camped for four days, letting my mind turn to jelly, around actual hippies.  I kind of fear hippies.  Hipsters want to sell you their adorable ninja or monster oriented plush crafts, and ride around on Italian bikes from the 70's that are worth more than my last car.  They are either computer programmers, or can make a mean cappuccino.  All of this I support.  Hippies, I think, like butterflies, and dance in ways that are inexplicable to most.  I don't know their agenda, and worry that, like Hare Krishnas, they will try to recruit me. 

I have my Tall Ships o' the Seas calendar out.  I'm in the planning phases, but can hardly wait.  Throw some seitan on th barbie for me, guv'nor.