Wear as little clothing as possible. Much like the mating rituals of the peacock, in order to capture the affections of a Coachella concert go-er you must take part in the elaborate and ancient ceremony of the many fanny-pack-clad founders who came before you. Tortoise Shell Ray Bans, neon Chubbies, and the biceps the Good Lord gave you should do the trick. Think of it as an intricate dance, except that you should not, under any circumstances, attempt to dance. I find staring with my mouth open until she feels like I have lazer beams in my eyes burning straight through her nips to be very effective.
Use subconscious cues. Say loudly and to no one in particular, “sure is hot as balls out here.” Alternate between the phrases “I hear it’s supposed to be up to 120 degrees inside the crowds” and “God, I’m so tired of carrying around this CamelBak completely full of ice cold water.” Her survival instincts will kick in and, before you know it, she’ll be drinking out of the palm of your hand and following you to The Do Lab, if you catch my drift.
Ask her what she thinks about the upcoming sets of artists whose names you’ve just invented. Ask her how she feels about the Middle Class Lettuce Mouses’ most recent EP, ask her if she caught the NPR Tiny Desk Concert of The Jellyfish Patriarchy Volcanoes. When posers feel threatened with their backs against the wall they are eager to please. Throw her a bone, ask her if she likes Rudimental and she’ll be so relieved she’ll follow you to the ends of the earth. Or, at least the Sahara tent where you can grind all up on that sweet, sweet booty.
Add her on Instagram and then post 60-70 photos of you with various B-list celebrities. Nothing gets a girl hot and bothered like knowing you spent 700 more dollars than her in order to stand next to Blake from Workaholics. Make sure you post to Facebook too and don’t stop until she’s begging for it. And by begging for it, I mean begging for you to get the fuck off her newsfeed.
Obtain access to the hospital tent. Bitches loooove regaining consciousness. One IV bag to bring her back to life after a little too much Molly and she’s yours. Like a baby duck imprinting on its mama, when she wakes up out of that Ecstasy coma, she’ll be begging you for mouth-to-mouth, if you know what I mean. Or like, also, actually she might want mouth-to-mouth. Because she’s in the late stages of heart failure.
Get really, really uncomfortably close to her body without her noticing. It’s cool it’s cool. Get a little closer, it’s fine she’s too busy screaming the lyrics to “The Wire” to notice that you’re breathing on her daisy chain Urban Outfitters head costume like a fat dachshund. Mmm, what’s that smell? Is that, Herbal Essence Color Boost with a faint hint of – oh yes – bong water? Nectar of the Based God. Bend closer, breathe in her sweet elixir. Closer now, yes, keep going. Doesn’t the back of her head look, sort of, I don’t know, tasty? Like, if we’re all just particles that started as stardust then we’re all brothers and sisters in this galaxy, right? So close, you’re almost there. Stick out your tongue, taste the soul connection, lick the back of her head. Just a little – be cool, casual – so she doesn’t notice. Like a frog catching a fly, a quick little taste. God damn that’s delicious.
– Clancy Tripp CMC ’15