Buy a plane ticket to Los Angeles. Rent a car from the Enterprise booth at LAX. Make sure it's a truck of some sort—an SUV should be fine—and request air conditioning and a CD player. Demand that the woman at the booth read the first three pages of the introduction to the Penguin Classics edition of Saint Augustine's Confessions aloud to you, right now.
"Why?" she'll ask. "I should get security—"
"Forget it," you'll say. Get the keys and haul ass to Tijuana. You are not fucking going to Coachella.
Find a cool, carpeted spot at the Brooklyn Library on Grand Army Plaza, preferably near an [...]