Somehow, in the dystopian festival bureaucracy Emily so lovingly described, my girlfriend and I were (seemingly randomly) placed in the "gold" camping section - the premium-priced land of camper vans, pop-up tents, and seasoned fest-heads. Also: free showers. Apparently over at the other campground (which we half-jokingly titled District 9, after the alien shanty town from that fantastic sci-fi flick), you must pay to take a rinse after a hard day of eating $11 deep-fried dough and sweatily grooving to blog-house. In our idyllic, arbitrarily-assigned little corner of the campground, you don't, which leads to people in official-looking neon vests to unironically whisper into their walkie-talkies the security requirements for "gold showers."

Never in my life has a gold shower sounded so refreshing!

Yesterday's highlight performance-wise was unequivocally Panda Bear, whose techno-hymns sent soul-bro vibes ricocheting through the canyon. Between the landscape, the amped-up crowd and a possible case of early onset sun fever, all the pieces aligned for a mesmerizing and visually tripped-out set. Panda played some highlights from his career-defining previous two albums, then snuck in a few unidentified tunes, majorly whetting appetites for whatever long-awaited new opus he deigns appropriate for mass consumption.

As for M.I.A., I will once again defer to my esteemed colleagues, who I'm certain will have more insightful observations than I. And, as with the gyros, so go the French fries. I can't overstate my case here: don't trust the chili fries. "Festival farts" are truly in a class of their own. Until next time, your intrepid fest-virgin correspondent is signing off.