“Life is like the ocean. You can gather it by the spoon. If you desire more, you can get a cup. But if you really want to experience its essence, you have no other choice, but to dive in.”

- BABA G#

There we were, Moreno and I, held up by rough looking mercenary soldiers at the frontier of the “maximum security area,” otherwise known as the vendor entrance to Coachella. Moreno was trying to resist their psychological warfare; give them a little of their own medicine:

“Hey man,” he started with authority, “you guys look like some really cool cats. I mean, you jive to Radiohead right? And I jive to Radiohead. You know … I mean, we’re like on the same level here. You and me, we’re like just getting by in this post-modern madness you know. I guess, I just don’t understand the hostility. The agression. I mean we’re all just cool cats. Cool cats, wanting to jive to Radiohead right?”

The guards wouldn’t budge though. It was obvious that they had been too deeply entrenched in Baba G’s totalitarianism.

“If you guys don’t leave we’re gonna call the fucking cops,” they responded assuredly.

So here’s the deal. Hari and I were supposed to be at Coachella at 10:30 a.m. “11 at the very latest,” said Baba G. No problem I thought. I had worked with Baba G last year at Coachella and it was a pretty good gig. A group of about 10 of us, all ridiculouly drunk, serving up chicken masala and checking out the shows in shifts. Plus we got paid $200.

Thing is, bears - every once in a while - must hibernate. It’s built into our genetic code. Especially after waking up at 6:30 a.m. every morning to take my sister to school. So Laura and I ended up leaving the house around 9:30 and got to Coachella just before 1.

El Moreno is not a bear. But he is a hipster and so he had to run to Urban Outfitters to pick up some new socks to show off at the Oasis of Hip. He arrived around 12:30.

We were late and Baba G wasn’t letting us in. Nor were his cronies at the vendor entrance. Clearly it was time for us to turn to covert opperation. In true Jackie Chan form Moreno, was flying all over the place landing his lethal jump kicks and lightning quick head butts on the poor victims who never knew what hit them. I also participated in what Moreno proudly dubbed “impressive and near-equal contribution” to the kicking of security guard ass as our entourage of olive-skinned Mediterranean women cheered us on, jumping up and down in their flowing short skirts that are so (thank you god) fashionable this summer.

It was like being in Kosovo again. Moreno and I each had taken care of at least 15 guards each, but it was hopeless. Baba G clearly had an entire Middle Earth of reserves prepared to deal with us.

Using my supreme intellect, I farted. And we got the hell out of there. Men and monsters were falling down left and right behind us, unable to withstand the peculiar odor which both Moreno and I have accustomed ourselves to from our POW days in Kosovo. Like Spartan athletes, we swiftly jumped over 12 foot barbed wired fencing and ducked under the attempted tackles of two temp working ex-NFL football players in yellow polo shirts.

The Moreno came up with an infallible plan. We would scale up a palm tree and then jump from tree top to tree top with delicate balance like Mario and Luigi on level 8. El Moreno learned this art of palm tree climbing when his father made him collect coconuts along the beaches of Tamil Nadu to sell to tourists for three rupees each in order to pay tuition at the local music conservatory.

I myself have spent a good amount of time in the sub-tropics and could be considered an amateur palm scaler. “Remember to rotate your hips,” Moreno reminded me as we worked our way higher and higher.

Baba G - himself a coconut gatherer as a child (though along the coast of Goa) - was on to us. He pulled out his slingshot and began firing away three-week-old hardened balls of gulab jamun which he intended to sell to unexpecting “yoga hipters.”

After 5 close calls Moreno was hit. And he fell. Straight into the arms of Thom Yorke who told Moreno that he had the most beautiful dark brown eyes that he had ever seen. Moreno was stunned … more at Yorke’s comment than falling 100 feet into his arms. Yorke put him down gently and walked away, inspired to write a song, while Moreno stared off into the distance, his mouth open.

Seeing Moreno’s good fortune, I figured, what the hell. Might as well jump.

Straight into the arms of Gilberto Cerezo, front man of the Mexican band, Kinky. Most would say it is physically impossible for a bear to fall down 1oo feet from the top of a palm tree into the arms of a 4 foot 11 Chaparrito. I can only write it as it was.

Gilberto and the rest of Kinky had been in the middle of their traditional pre-show carne asada when I fell out of the sky. All around the picnic table there was silence. No one was willing to be the first to speak.

Until … Baba G - who by this time looked disturbingly similar to Saddam Husein - rushed into the tent firing away with his slingshot. I had to think quick. My life depended on it. I reached for the tortillas on the table. (this is perhaps a good spot to comment that flour tortillas fly at a much greater velocity than do corn)

I couldn’t believe it. The very first one I through hit Baba G right between the eyes. He was stunned and nearly fell backwards. Gilberto and the rest of the band soon picked up on our dire situation and began throwing tortillas relentlessly until Baba G was forced to cower.

Moreno and I quickly were able to meet back up, embrace in celebration and boast about our respective injuries. Our damsels, however were waiting for us. Moreno borrowed a golf cart from the Radiohead people and I borrowed one from Kinky. We agreed it would be less dangerous if we each completed our missions independently.

That was the last time that I saw Moreno and I hope to god that he succeeded in his mission to bring in the five women who were visiting him from Corsica. I found Laura waiting anxiously for me while writing down the number of some muscular hollywood celebrity. “To get into the concert and find me,” she explained. So smart that girl, I swear.

Then, using my favorite tactic of flatulence, I left a smoke screen at the vendor entrance while flooring the golf cart. We were flying - at least 15 mph.

The concert was great. We ended up seeing:

• Kinky
• Heiroglyphics
• Beck
• Black Keys
• Death Cab for Cutie
• Sparta
• Pixies
• Radiohead

Truth is though, just like the year before, Coachella is too hot and too long to be considered more enjoyment than sacrifice. More than anything else it’s a bunch of Urban Outfitted kids from LA and O.C. suburbs sitting in the shade to see what they should be wearing this summer. Last year it was the trucker hat that is now neatly packed away in the back of millions of suburban closets. This year it’s the (pictured) Straw Trilby. Poor Morenito didn’t have one.

So, save yourself 150 bucks and instead of going to Coachella, go to my zoom page and check out the scene. There are more photos of Coachella in the gallery.

Let us hope that we hear from El Moreno soon.