Tim or he who owns the Buick

Tim sparked this whole idea with one sentence: “Rage is playing a show.”

It took all of 24 hours for me and him to decide we had to go, anyway we could. Lucky for us Tim drives a big, old Buick with only about 60,000 miles on it. That beast should ferry us through the desert in comfort, given the enormity of its backseat and cool leather interior, which will probably become sticky as the desert sun does its work.

Like Wayne, Tim also knows a good deal more about these bands than Anthony or myself. He’s helped me become familiar with the Decemberists, Interpol and the New Pornographers. As per my demand, he will don khaki shorts, an Acapulco shirt and a floppy white hat each day during the festival. One’s concert going attire is very important.

A manager at Panera Bread, Tim keeps Anthony and I fed most nights. He hauls home huge bags of pastries and bread. Anthony and I devour them nightly upon his arrival. Tim and I will also put aside a tremendously violent X-Box rivalry for the five days of the trip. No more shouting matches and animosity after heated games of Madden and NBA Street. Just the shared goal of navigating through the desert to arrive at the three days of excellent music that is Coachella.

Tim also has a race against the clock to wage as the date approaches. As per new American travel requirements, one must flash a passport to cross any border. Tim has applied for a passport renewal with plenty of time. His worst enemy now? Possible clerical error.

More on the car later.