I joined a cult at Coachella, complete with a charismatic leader, ritual beverage consumption and uniform golden raiments. Like with most cult memberships, it snuck up on me. Mind you I am not a hedonistic youth escaping the bonds of a Bible belt upbringing or a disillusioned middle-ager searching for meaning in a post-modern consumer culture. Rather I like to think of of myself as a progressive environmentalist enthusiastically embracing the potential of the third millennium who just happens to love great music. I didn’t really go looking for inclusion in the secret society of “F”; but the “F” found me. “We want your soul”, the leader said, and hand over my soul I did.
Yea, the “F”. In some cults it is all about the Thetans, Helter Skelter or the Nike Cortez athletic shoe, but in our cult, it is all about the double F…with a few shot-gun beers and some wack glasses thrown in for good measure.
Tucked among the joshua trees, manicured golf courses and mid-century architectural oasis that is Palm Springs, a small compound of structures is tucked away behind a eight-foot high nondescript wall. Behind the seemingly average exterior, a few dozen enlightened souls rejoiced, celebrated, transcended, danced and visited altered planes of ecstasy. We are the Freeland Fighters and if the “F” is our Hamsa, then Adam Freeland is our Jim Jones.
Behind the wall, as we readied our realities for the rapture that was to occur at Coachella, I was welcomed into the fellowship at a spirit-filled revival of wack-glasses that would have made Billy Graham and Karl Lagerfeld jealous. The jovial membership bespectacled in fabulous glasses, danced off their modern day attire to don robes of gold and hearts for Freeland.
During the revival, I was adored with my magical golden robe. All of the followers, with the exception of two silver-clad high priestesses, wore these uniforms of midas. They allowed the followers access to amazing new worlds of color and light. My robe would become by security blanket, back-stage pass and picnic table for the next three days. If I am completely honest, even to this day, in my post-Coachella world, I periodically strip naked and drink rum while dancing to Hate in my shuttered living room. The power of the “F” is undeniable.
The robes allowed all other unenlightened souls at Coachella to wonder, inquire and marvel at the power and joy of the Freeland Fighters.
The true epiphany of the cult occurred on Friday afternoon as the Freeland Fighters Silver “F” processional took the stage to Give Me Shelter, paid homage to the leader and then stage dove into a crowd of devotees. The leader then proceeded to communicate to our very essence through beat and rhythm and LED. A keyboardists took the leader’s thoughts and materialized them more potently than any of Brigam Young’s writings. We were told “you are correct”, and at that moment I knew I believed. The rejoicing was contagious and the next few days melted into a haze of heaven complete with a prince, whale riders and beautiful union of souls…all intertwined with the sacraments of the music.
Yea, I joined a cult at Coachella, and now I will dance forever with the F in my soul.
The Silver Lining 
i found this randomly on the internet. thank you jaime from the bottom of my soul, thank you.