Real Estate, Lord Huron, Dirty Gold, Peter Wolf Crier and more to play San Diego’s little-known indie rock festival.

For two days, female musical comedy duo Garfunkel & Oates brainstormed what a penis looks like. The girls, actresses Riki Lindhome (Garfunkel, 32) and Kate Micucci (Oates, 30), were writing the lyrics for “I Don’t Understand Job” — a little ditty about uncovering the mysteries of third base. Their mission: A clever way of describing male genitalia.

Due to my friend’s incessant reminders, I am well aware of the fact that Coachella Valley Music and Arts Festival is this weekend. And no, I’m not going.

I usually try to steer clear of making generalizations about a group of people, but this time I can’t help it: Conspiracy theorists are total freaks.

Talking about the insignificance of the Grammy Awards is kind of like making fun of Nicolas Cage; its awfulness is so universally acknowledged that there’s really no point to it at all. Nonetheless, it’s still strange that a once-respected music industry institution has fallen so far. A Grammy used to be the greatest honor in music; now it’s standard "Cribs" décor.

There’s a scene in the 1999 tree-kissing SNL movie “Superstar” in which socially awkward Catholic school girl Mary Katherine Gallagher (Molly Shannon) is approached at lunch by popular guy Sky Corrigan (Will Ferrell, the quintessential hot teenager, of course). Sky tells Mary that he saw her doing the robot outside. “You have some nice moves!” he says. It’s then repeated in slow motion: “Niiiiiiice mooooooooooves . . . oooooooves.”

At this point, I’m pretty sure it’s safe to admit that I don’t pay for my music. I can’t remember the last time I bought a CD, and the lowly vinyl collection I began my sophomore year of high school is mostly comprised of my parents’ old records. It now sits in my room, collecting dust.