Even in a jumpsuit with enough pockets for the apocalypse, no one is fully equipped for this weekend. People will lose flutes in teepees and see alligators in guitar-neck shadows chomping on the heads of musicians; and emerge from Pioneertown alleys on Sunday morning without pants.

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Finding the teepee involved receiving intentionally vague directions from two groups of kids, navigating a sudden neighborhood with way too many lawn ornaments, and sneaking into someone’s backyard via a labyrinthine system of wooden gates I opened by tugging on bits of fishing wire tied into little loops. Inside the teepee we found Matt as well as Ed Sharpe (“Has anyone seen my metal flute?!! Who took my magical flute?!”) and a pack of orgasmic chickies in face paint.

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