Coachella is like a giant exhibition of Roomba vacuum cleaners, where restless young beings motor along toward one end of the giant field, bump into someone or something at the other end, and then head in a different direction, continuously for three days straight. Occasionally, one might stop to check out a band, buy a tofu naan sandwich, or take a puff of something. But mostly you just kind of amble around, smiling with kinship at each person whom you passed by a couple of hours earlier.
This seemingly underwhelming activity is actually quite joyful, and I do plan to one day attend as an actual ticket-holder. This year, I served as a med-student-helper-outer-to-the-EMTs, (but not officially as an EMT, as my license expired a few years back). The Company (not HIPAA) forbids us from speaking even generally about the cases we saw, but I'd say that the biggest progress made involved my riding of an awesome John Deere Gator everywhere. Thus, the lingering childhood resentment over my lack of Power Wheels (Miskeena!) is now officially resolved, sans therapy.
I am a medical student in California. Disclaimer: I take patient privacy very seriously. When I talk about a 22-year-old, 5"5, 125 lb. African-American female with juvenile rheumatoid arthritis, please understand that my real patient might be a 65-year-old, 6"2, 220 lb. Caucasian patient with lung cancer. In other words, I have completely distorted the facts about my patients, and sometimes even completely made up stories. Additionally, I am not a licensed physician, and you should trust your grandma's shaman for medical advice before you trust this blog.