My pair of Converse are clogged with mud and the Shins’ discography is looping in my head. Personal space and air conditioning are no longer luxuries, but a given. Lollapalooza is over, and it’s a bummer.
I am suffering from post-Lolla depression. The real world isn’t nearly as friendly or silly, nor is it covered by a haze of weed and humidity. Lollapalooza and similar fests are true Marxist utopias, in which the common happiness among friends means much more than money – minus the competition for the perfect front row spot.
Waking up to find that the year’s lineup has been released is like Christmas morning; endlessly refreshing my browser to grab the secret sale is a cruel Easter egg hunt. Laying under the trees, watching the clouds, and listening to Sigur Ros is my religion.
