Dayblog
Adventures in daily life.
July 10, 2014
Side by side in salon chairs a few days ago, our hair cooking with color, I fell into conversation with a sixty-something woman whose interests and personality matched my own to a degree that was almost eerie. It was like talking to a future version of myself. I take it as an auspicious sign that we liked one another.
It started like this: my stylist (who's also a friend) and I were catching up, chatting about restaurants and shows we've been to lately. He and his wife are foodies, so we were discussing the pros and cons of spending money on concerts vs. dining out. I explained that if I have cash to burn, live music will almost always be my first choice. That while I absolutely understand the joys of gastronomical exploration, it's just not my jam. I get much more emotional fulfillment and sensory excitement from the experience of music than from even the most gourmet of meals.
An older woman seated at the next station leaned over. "Sorry to intrude," she said, "but I have to agree. Music feeds the soul, and that's a satisfaction that lasts much longer than dinner."
And it went from there. We spent our twenty minutes of processing time gabbing about opera, festivals, fashion, drugs, and dreams (the long-term kind vs. the sleeping kind). She was blonde, pretty, and open-faced in a way that made me think of Kirsten Dunst. She was clearly monied, but there was nothing entitled or presumptive about her. When I inquired as to whether she lived downtown (knowing, of course, that she didn't; seniors are the only demographic more rare than children in DTLA, and those are about as common as dodos), I found out she's been faithfully following her stylist (another friend) from salon to salon around LA for years.
When Janice (we finally exchanged names at the shampoo sinks) asked me how I'd gotten so into music, I heard myself giving an answer I didn't even know was the case until it came out. "Well," I started slowly, "I think it was a response to what I went through personally, over the last five years. A lot of loss. A pretty painful divorce and the deaths of both parents. I think music became something safe for me to latch on to. Music isn't going anywhere, you know? It was the thing I found that made life joyful again."
Incidentally, my voice didn't break once during this disclosure; that surprised me as much as the words themselves.
Janice was all empathy and knowing nods. She got it, she assured me, and I believed her. Her eyes were bright and her skin had escaped the harshest of lines, but you don't hit your sixth decade without saying goodbye to at least a few loved ones.
I asked her about opera, which she characterized as "her festivals." She sees as much as she can, usually five or six performances a year. But she demurred when I called her an aficionado. She's just a devoted fan, she insisted. When I asked if she'd been raised on opera, admitting how utterly lost I'd been coming to it for the first time myself so late in life, she told me a story that made me instantly love her. Paraphrasing, but...
"Well, one night back when I was still single, I drew myself a bath. The television was on in the background - there was a show playing, that series Live From the Met, do you know it? Anyway, when I shut the water off, I heard the most unbelievably beautiful music coming from the other room. I jumped out of the tub, grabbed a towel, and sat riveted in front of the TV. I was dripping wet but I couldn't move. I'd never heard anything like it. It was Pavarotti. The very next day I bought myself a ticket - they were showing Madame Butterfly. I didn't know anyone else who wanted to spend money on an opera ticket, so I just got one. I splurged on a Givenchy dress {here she gestured with her hands, running them lightly down the sides of an invisible gown; for some reason I imagined something form-fitting, red, and woven through with gold sparkle}, and I went to the show alone. And I had the time of my life."
Her anecdote concluded with a facial expression that was less triumphant than matter-of-fact. It just was who she was; it was what she would do. Trying to be tactful but curious as to her age during this experience, I asked her how long ago that was. But she knew what I meant. "Oh, I must have been about thirty-five I guess?"
I almost leapt out of my chair to hug her. Instead I told her how much I enjoyed going to festivals by myself, how intimidating it was at first (despite being in my mid-thirties) but how empowering, ultimately; she'd concluded the same thing about opera. We agreed that the company of another fan is best, but going solo is a close second. We agreed on a lot of things, in fact:
We are both mystified by the appeal of jazz.
We both love Radiohead and Muse. Yep, sixty-something Janice used to be a rocker, and she's come back to it later in life.
We are both vain about our hair, despite the challenges that aging presents to it.
We both have enormous respect for our friends (the stylists, a married couple who own the salon), who are fantastic, hardworking, and generous employers.
The subject of drugs came up, as it invariably does when talking about festivals. She wanted to know whether pot was still commonly used. I stifled a LOL and started to explain the newer, more popular choices du jour - but my authoritative feeling evaporated when Janice filled me in on her own former experimentation. Duh, I thought to myself, she lived through the sixties. Three words: ell, ess, dee. Acid isn't something I've tried (*cough*yet*cough*), but let's just say I left the salon with more interesting and helpful tips than what to moisturize my ends with.
We didn't talk about jobs. We didn't talk about our partners. We didn't talk about children. I don't even know if she has any, and she didn't ask me, either. Few and far between are the conversations I have that exclude these Key Adult Talking Points. Few and far between and kind of nice.
August 4, 2014
On a scale of one to wrecked, Hard Summer left me for scrap by the side of the road. I'm a mess. I've got a strained left thigh muscle and a wonky left foot, probably from pulling some sort of Rumpelstiltskin skank-style dance move on the uneven ground. I ate very little and barely slept all weekend, so I'm nauseous and exhausted. There's an itchy insect bite on one of my palms and my jaw feels like it's been moonlighting as a wood chipper. Chaucer keeps pacing around me like one of those grim reaper cats in a nursing home so who knows. Today might be the day. If so, all I ask is that no one look at my browser history.
I had my doubts beforehand, but Whittier Narrows turned out to be an excellent new home for the festival. One of the best things about the park is how the layout and landscaping allow for lots of dance pockets—small clearings perfect for those more interested in having room to move than in Instagramming the DJ's nostrils.
We spent more time just chilling at this fest than I have at any other. My usual MUST SEE MUST DANCE MUST GO NOWWWW impatience was gone. The sound was flawless all around the grounds, so we were able to just sit on the grass, talk, and enjoy the music.
It was a quick and dirty two-dayer close to home, but satisfying and crazy fun in its own way.
August 28, 2014
In order for a music festival to be successful on the most basic level—much less reach the heights that will make it a truly magical experience—two fundamentals need to be solidly in place: logistics and safety. That's it. Attendees can take it from there, because it doesn't take much to satisfy several thousand primed-to-party fans.
Unfortunately, FYF Fest failed on those fronts. I don't know if the blame lies in poor planning or straight up growing pains (this was the first year it was held at LA Exposition Park), but FYF 2014 was a clusterfuck. Laughably long entrance lines, one of four stages repeatedly closed due to capacity issues (because they didn't know how many tickets they sold??), terrible flow, no communication from onsite staff about stage closures and show delays, no posting of the schedule anywhere, an app map that was incorrect and wouldn't even load anyway, and insultingly overpriced food. We saw stretchers being wheeled in, an arrest, at least one girl in a wheelchair being taken out, and if The Arena stage closures had nothing to do with trampling concerns (they kept it PITCH BLACK in there), I will eat my hat.
It was so bad that Terence and I joked that the inflatable poop emoji in the center of the park was the fest's spirit animal.
But a weekend in the sun listening to great music with your love is not an awful way to pass the time, and after we'd adjusted our expectations, we made the most of it. Unfortunately there's no point in doing festival bingo on this one - there really wasn't that much going on. But I've got some notes on the best acts we saw and a slew of pics which are not at all indistinguishable from all the other festival pics I post.
The Strokes
Well, they were everything I could have wished for, and I had some pretty damn high expectations. You know that band you were into Back In The Day that no one else was, and it was special to you largely for that reason? It was your band, and you didn't play their CDs around anyone else? Maybe they soundtracked a special or formative time in your life, when you were going through big changes or just figuring stuff out? That's what The Strokes was, for me. And until I met Terence (himself a huge fan) I'd never even dated anyone who'd been remotely into them - which was how I liked it. Finally seeing them live was pretty emotional for me, and it brought me back to a time in my life when I felt fiercely independent, confident, and sure of who I was. I kept my eyes closed for most of the show (but sang every word I knew).
Phoenix
It's funny, but I sort of shot myself in the foot with Phoenix. I've always really liked their music but didn't know the words to most songs, so in the days leading up to the festival, I decided to finally learn the lyrics to the hits. Which...are kind of weird and nonsensical, I guess? Maybe because they're French? I have no idea, but it kind of killed them a little bit for me. Dumb perhaps but there you go. They gave a great show and Terence loved them, but I kinda felt silly singing along with lyrics I just do not get. Call it the Coldplay effect.
Tycho
Love love loved. They're an instrumental band, no lyrics, just really dreamy, atmospheric background music that you can float away on. Explosions In The Sky Lite. We saw them Saturday night, laying on the vinyl sheet (best festival accessory ever), cozy and cuddly.
Todd Terje
All of the electronic acts were held in an indoor arena that had amazing potential...which wasn't maximized on. Apparently organizers didn't do their homework, or didn't anticipate that so many people would want to attend certain DJs, because twice the space had to be closed due to overcrowding. And when it was, staff didn't tell anyone what the hell was going on. So we just clustered up around the entrance and waited. And waited. And waited. Todd Terje was my most anticipated show after The Strokes and Daniel Avery, so I wouldn't budge. When he finally went on, it took a while to shake the weird vibes from earlier, but he put on a great show. His remix of Inspector Norse went on and on and was a freakin' blast.
Albert Hammond, Jr.
The guy's a badass, and the beating heart (if not the soul) of The Strokes. The end.
Presidents of the United States of America
I only caught two songs before I took off (I refused to miss a minute of Daniel Avery), but Terence said they were a hoot. I believe it; he bounced into The Arena after watching them, crazy pumped up and giddy and ready to dance.
Daniel Avery
Ugh, mixed feelings on Daniel Avery. I could have sworn someone gave him a valium before he went on; it just seemed like he was slowing all of his tracks way, way down. In fact I made Terence test the bpm so I could be sure. But nope. It was just me, or it was something about the remixes that I wasn't into. Kind of a let down, but I'm not pinning it on him. I was pretty pooped come Sunday night so maybe I just had had enough.
November 1, 2014
The cooking class is held in a loft in an artists' complex about a mile north of downtown. When we walk in, I'm momentarily dazzled by the racks of colorful cookware lining the walls until I realize that everything is stacked in multiples, and brand new. It's all for sale—not for use in the class. Indeed, the space looks more like a shop than a kitchen; there's an oven and a refrigerator, but no proper stove. Just a couple of portable camping burners on a semi-circular wood-topped island. These burners are on, with food already cooking in them. Several cups of milk warm in a Le Creuset and a massive saute pan simmers gently with a colorless stew of leeks, onions, and bok choy. Steam issues from the mixture but no smell. The individual cooking stations I had imagined are nowhere to be seen, and I start to realize that the format here is more observation, less participation.
Clustered around the island, one couple per cutting board, are our classmates. We join them, smiling hello and taking an empty spot in the middle, directly across from the instructor, Tory. Tory is friendly but not particularly effusive. If not exactly on autopilot, any enthusiasm she once had for the gig seems as faded as the leeks. Her voice rarely rises above medium-low. Perhaps to belie her flavor-challenged personality however, Tory assures us that the goal tonight is fun. "Fun! Because if you're not enjoying yourself in the kitchen, you're not going to want to get in there and cook, right?" Right, we nod dutifully. As if reading our minds, Tory then adds that the wine promised in the syllabus will be available after we complete the knife skills portion of the class. In the meantime there's water and tea. Terence gets us some tea but gives me a look: Really? I give him one back: Apparently. I'm only thirty minutes out of a deep nap followed by a scalding hot shower (our plumbing is jacked). I'm cranky and hungry and starting to suspect Hipcooks is not as hip as we'd hoped.
Tory launches into a lecture on the importance of hygiene while I size up our peers. To our left is Hipster Cooks: she placid and wide-smiling, in a porkpie hat and Anthro ensemble; he a Warby Parker model, frowning obsessively over the contents of the Le Creuset which he's been assigned to stir with a figure-eight motion. To our right is Second Date Cooks: impossibly tall, exhaustingly earnest. They smile a lot but stand further apart than any of the other couples. Beyond them is Sporty Cooks: buff, sunny, giggly. They poke one another and whisper, though there doesn't seem much to whisper about—we haven't touched a single piece of food yet. I tune Tory back in; she's still on hygiene. She encourages us to wash our hands often, warning that it's a must if we accidentally touch our faces, our hair, our phones. She demonstrates the correct way to sample a bite of food: by tipping one's head back and dropping the bite in rather than putting hand to mouth. Tory urges us to always use a clean fingertip for tasting, and when she splays the digits of her right hand one by one to illustrate, I am reminded of a song from sixth grade chorus:
Gloves / on fingers and thumbs! / we know that these highly useful tools with never get numb!
I sip my tea, wondering how long knife skills will take and whether it would be inappropriate to nick a grape from the bowl in the middle of the island. I also wonder what the grapes could be for; tonight's menu is coq au vin, mussels, a two-bean salad and pots de creme. J'aime Paris is the name of the class, which Terence found online and booked as a gift to me, knowing coq au vin is one of my very favorite dishes. He's spent all week listening to me speculate on the likelihood of whether we'll make it properly, with rooster not chicken ("There's no way they're gonna have actual rooster. No way.") Tonight while getting dressed I asked him if he was ready for Cock In a Van class. I may have made the same joke four additional times.
We take turns introducing ourselves and telling "the last yummy thing" we ate. I look at Terence in a panic. Last yummy thing? "Korean BBQ," he whispers. Oh yeah. Hipster Cooks, Second Date Cooks, and Sporty Cooks all name impressive-sounding homemade dishes. Whatever. I help myself to a grape, popping it quickly into my wide open mouth, challenging the others with my eyes while I chew. What? I'm fucking starving, okay? There is no way Tory has four goddamn roosters in that fridge.
For knife skills, each couple is entrusted with a sharpened, 8-inch Wustof chef's knife to share. "Make sure you each get a turn practicing these techniques," she instructs. Unless at some point I blacked out due to hunger, I am fairly sure we still haven't laid hands on a single piece of food. Tory spends some time extolling the virtues of the blade, enlightening us as to the differences between German and Japanese cutlery. She passes around a honing steel, which we obediently glide our Wustofs against once, twice, three times. Terence, recently fed, is in a better mood than I am. Tory has tasked him with periodically stirring what she's now identified as the "sauce base" for the coq au vin. (That is, for the cornmeal-breaded chicken thighs already washed, cut, seasoned and breaded, and ready for the oven.) He laughs, self-deprecatory, at his ineptness. Tory laughs too, more enthused than she's been all night, telling Terence he's doing great. She maintains eye contact with him for longer than it took me to eat the grape. I test the knife's edge with a very clean fingertip.
We chop. We slice. We chiffonade. We do all of this on handfuls of grapes, cherry tomatoes, garlic, bok choy, herbs. To help us remember the correct, safe way to cut, Tory pretends her clenched fist is a bunny, jumping out of harm's way at the last second. "Hop, hop, slide. Hop, hop, slide." There is still no wine in sight. Each couple contributes its efforts to the prep bowls passed down the line. "Wait, is that the basil or the tarragon?" Amidst the low-level, sober chaos, Tory disappears and reappears with two massive platters covered in wet white kitchen towels. Mussels. Ten pounds of them. Alive.
It's finally time for wine.
For the next ten minutes, I clutch my chardonnay and watch in horror as Terence, similarly horrified but gamely partaking in the exercise, prepares shellfish to be cooked. My horror, born of the realization that we are boiling animals alive, is too much on an empty stomach. I feign interest in the process, which involves snipping off the mussel's "beard" with scissors and cupping questionable specimens to makes sure they are in fact alive. He glances at me, stifling laughter, his eyes wide. What the fuck. He ventures a "This is so weird!" but none of the others seem remotely disturbed. Tory picks up on our reticence and we are forced to confess: neither of us has had mussels before.
The sauce for the chicken thickens and starts to give off an enticing aroma, but I'm stubbornly noting the lack of red wine, carrots—of any of the traditional coq au vin markers, in fact. Tory says something about it being a "mediterranean version." Ah. She dribbles mouthfuls of the broth from her large spoon onto our smaller ones, for tasting. "We'll mama bird it like this, so no dirty spoons go in the pot," she explains.
We pile the mussels into two Le Creusets, one of which catches on fire a few minutes into cooking. No harm no foul though; nothing gets burned. There are now multiple dishes being prepared at once, and multiple glasses of wine being drunk. Tory manages and directs. We watch. I lean against my boyfriend, weak with hunger. He smuggles me another grape.
A salad is made. We're invited to put in "as much or as little" of its ingredients as we wish. The "as much or as little" directive has been a theme all night, actually. Rather than give us specific portions, Tory has her students guesstimate how much of each thing we "think will taste good" in each dish. My boyfriend looks adorable in his apron, and the burgundy we've moved onto is actually quite good...
We eat at a farm table, on benches Terence has some difficulty climbing in and out of. I slide over wordlessly to give him room, my head down over my plate like I'm in trouble. Which is what it feels like. I pick at the mussels, nibbling dry bread, privately impressed by the lack of Instagramming going on. No one seems to notice or care when we casually switch plates. We are clearly the odd ones out; the others are discussing recently made (or invented) recipes. Second Date Girl asks the group what everyone's specialty is. "Dr. Pepper ribs," say Hipster Cooks. "Waffle iron sandwiches," say Sporty Cooks. "Microwave burritos," I say. My boyfriend snorts.
The chicken tastes like Shake and Bake. The sauce is barely more than watery, white-green mush. The pots de creme, however, are undeniably bomb. Someone, I think Hipster Cook Guy, suggested we add cayenne. And the flakes of salt we sprinkled on top are almost making me forget that there is no cock in my vin.
Outside, Terence is energized, playful. He picks me up, howling, wrapping my legs around his waist and pinning me against a brick wall near the car. "Nooooo!" I laugh. I'm still hungry, we both know the class was a total bust, but the wine's loosened us up. I realize I left my wallet in the kitchen and we sprint back to get it. As we walk to the car, breathless and silly, we compare notes. "Where were the carrots??" he wants to know. I'm still hung up on Tory's cleanliness fetish. "It's cooking for Christ's sake. It's supposed to be messy."
We agree that the next class we do will be in our own kitchen, just the two of us, with as much wine as we want, following an actual recipe, start to finish. We just need a name.
November 11, 2014
I spend Saturday afternoon organizing my closet, pulling winter clothes for donation and boxing up summer stuff. Kerry texts to confirm dinner plans for that night: am I down for Mexican? I am always down for Mexican. She invites me to meet them at her place but for once I flip the invitation. You guys are welcome here for a change. I have liquor.
My place it is.
There's much to catch up on over drinks; they've been house hunting in San Francisco since I saw them last. Though her transfer date hasn't been determined, it's definite: Kerrbear and Ross—Kross, as I’ve dubbed them for texting shorthand purposes—are leaving LA. I have all the sads in the world about it, every last motherfucking one, and have since she told me the news about a month ago—but I am very, very happy for her. A promotion less than a year after joining the company, and a move to SF, where she and Ross ultimately wanted to end up anyway. They pass their phone across the kitchen island to me: pics of the Nob Hill stunner they've got their eye on. I ooh and ahh appreciatively and feel weirdly proud to count such a successful, ambitious couple as my friends.
It's just me until Terence joins us later, but there's no sense of being a third wheel with Kross. There never has been. We talk about real estate, about work, about music and movies, about mutual friends. They gamely play with Chaucer when he shoves toys in their laps, and as we get cozily tipsy, I take a mental snapshot of the moment. Grateful for my friends, grateful for their laughter and easy conversation, grateful to realize I've enjoyed 3+ years of it. Knowing I'll see them again, even after they move, knowing the jokes about their second bedroom being our guest room aren't bullshit.
I remember the boots, and dash off to my closet to get them. Maison Martin Margiela, acrylic faux wood grain high heels, mahogany leather so sumptuous my neighborhood shoe repair guy marveled at them admiringly before asking where they were from.
(I got them online, I admit. Crazy discount, but final sale. I couldn't return them. They're my size, but too tight. My broken left foot can't deal. Please say you can stretch them? He tried his best.)
Kerry's a half size smaller than me and I'm hoping they'll fit her. I'm also hoping she'll be blown away. Not for gratitude's sake, but because she would never in a million years splurge on something like these for herself. I could sell them, but the thought of her wearing them makes me way happier than the relatively little I could recoup on eBay. Kerry is a hard-working, career-focused, badass professional woman in her early forties who just landed a promotion and a transfer to one of the coolest cities in the world. She deserves a pair of luxe designer boots. She's fucking earned them.
They're snug, but she's game to break them in on the hills of San Francisco. Yes! The smile on my face watching her model them in the full length mirror has very little to do with my Pimm's Cup. I don't say out loud that they're my goodbye gift. I don't want to talk about her leaving at all. But privately I feel pleased as punch to be able to do something special, to commemorate this milestone in my friend's life.
We take an Über to Silver Lake for dinner. Margaritas straight up, ice on the side. Terence arrives halfway through dinner and walks up to applause from Kross (he's just finished a show) and a burrito steaming on his plate. We catch him up quickly, eat slowly, and linger over second margaritas. When I return from a trip to the bathroom I am met with wagging fingers and tsk tsk's from Kross. "I'm going to kick your ass right now," Kerry declares. I frown. What'd I do? "You didn't vote??" she asks, exasperated but smiling. Ross shakes his head at me, also smiling. I am so busted.
I shoot Terence (who voted) a look. "Of all people, you told them??" Kross doesn't fuck around when it comes to politics. Which is what we discuss next, Kerry admitting to not having known much about some of the initiatives on the ballet—"But at least I made it!" (She barely had time to get to the polls after a day of work and a stressful doctor's appointment.) I pledge to my friends to never again lapse on my civic duty and change the subject, tangentially, to John Oliver.
Later, more drinks back at our place. We are officially drunk. I want to play darts, so after I let Chaucer out for a quick potty we head downstairs to Casey's. But the patio is too smoky, so we get a table inside instead. I'm still clutching the high ball full of arrows I've traded my ID for when we decide to duck around the corner and check out the live music. Female duo, Fleetwood Mac cover. Perfect: Kerry's an 80's music freak. The four of us stand and watch and sing, and I take another mental snapshot. Then an actual one, of Terence and Ross. I plead with Kerry to take one with me, but no dice. (There is rarely dice on that table. Kerry loathes having her photo taken.)
Terence leans in and cups my ear so I'll hear him over the music. "Baby, do you want to go play darts? That's why we came, I know you wanted to." Nope. I'm good right here, happy that Kerry's happy, cheerfully wasted and enjoying music she likes. There'll be plenty of time for darts when she's gone.
Terence hears the subtext of my response, the not-so-deeply buried heartbreak and disappointment I have been suppressing since I got the news that my best girlfriend in Los Angeles is moving away. That I'm saying goodbye to another friend. That I'm losing another friend to San Francisco. (Fucking San Francisco loves to steal my friends.) My boyfriend reads my expression and understands that I'm hurting even while I'm happy, and he cups my ear again.
"You should have heard what she said about you, when you were walking Chauc." I shake my head, but don't pull away completely. I let him tell me. And it's hard to fight back the tears when he does—but I do. I'm a little shocked by what he tells me, because even though I know Kerry cares about me, she's not an overly demonstrative or sentimental person, and I've learned to feel her affection through actions, not words. So the words I hear repeated to me, about me, blow me away in the best possible way. I feel relieved and validated to learn that she thinks of me as I think of her. That she doesn't find me to be the frivolous, foolish person I'd always sort of assumed she did.
Where's Ellie? Is she gone? she'd said.
Yeah, she took Chaucer down.
Okay well I just want to officially say, on the record, that she is the most amazing woman I know. Like, seriously.
That sounds like some Ellie and Kerry type stuff that you should probably tell her yourself.
But it's okay that she didn't tell me herself. It's so totally okay. I shrug off the compliment when Terence relays the exchange, but secretly it hits me right in the stomach, like a swallow of something warm and wonderful. It was the liquor talking, I know that. It was hyperbole and exaggeration, but even if all that's true is a tiny seed of it, now I know I am genuinely loved and respected by someone I love and respect. And knowing that makes it a little easier to say goodbye.
Later we walk them home with Chaucer, whom I pass off to Ross so I can lag behind with Kerr. Four friends, sobering up, semi-stumbling across downtown Los Angeles. Two men, two women, a Mastiff, and a box of boots. Snapshots mental and real. Grateful, happy, sad.
Later still, Terence and I are sitting on the steps of the Aon building, eating Haagen Dasz bars from Famima. Closing time, the sidewalk filling up with stragglers much drunker than the two of us. A group of dudes is taking selfies against the tower behind us. Terence cracks jokes about the scene and I throw my head back, laughing loudly. As the group descends the stairs to head off into the night, one of them pauses. He's clearly been drinking but he looks squarely at us, pointing a finger, and says in a respectful, friendly tone: "You two look extremely happy."
Had I been more sober, I know I would have responded more enthusiastically, thanking him sincerely for saying something so sweet. But as it was, his pronouncement felt like the cherry on top of a night so simply awesome that I couldn't do anything other than nod matter-of-factly as I licked my ice cream.
"We are," I assured him. And I hoped it didn't sound smug, because it was all I felt capable of saying, on a Saturday night worth writing about, the first chance I got—a Saturday night I don't want to forget.
November 28, 2014
The only way to top Drinksgiving with friends is to come home and drunkwalk yr. favorite dog (mine is Chaucer) through quiet city streets, softly singing songs he doesn't understand though seems to like anyway.
The neighborhood is empty but strangely cheerful. Christmas lights strung on trees. A tiny, temporary ice skating rink. Everything peaceful and still. No security guard at the library tonight because of the holiday, so Chauc gets unclipped and can roam free, sniffing to his heart's content. Two slinky black shapes scatter but not before he sees them. He gives half-hearted chase for a few steps before remembering that it's pointless. Dogs can't catch cats.
Meanwhile I hang back, wrapped up in the warmth of the evening, buzzy with wine and reflecting on the mysterious cement that is friendship. I'm stuffed with food and laughter and a bit melancholy at the thought that all good things must come to an end.
But nothing good ended tonight.
December 21, 2014
Suck it, Marshburger.
December 22, 2014
Some date nights are what you do because you love one another, and you love one another's company, and because you have the time to share it. They are the evenings carved out of busy schedules, prioritized over personal time, or housework—pursuits selfish or selfless that can eat your life if you let them. Some dates nights feel cut, measured, and portioned. Which is not to say that they're not great. But some date nights, nice as they are, just fill a few hours between days.
Some date nights, however, fill the space between two people—space that sometimes builds up inevitably, despite the best of intentions. Because misunderstanding and impatience and a host of other things conspire to worm their way into that space.
Some date nights are how the street looks after a storm, clean and glinting with light. They're laughing until you cry, logging a dozen new inside jokes, and remembering why relationships are worth the hard fucking work. They're (for instance) a subway ride to K-town for barbecue and not caring that you have to wait an hour for a table, and then another half an hour for the train back home. They're not caring because something has shifted and you're back in that awesome, easy place, and because this date night could last a week and probably not stop being fun. Some date nights are makeup sex with your clothes on.
And you don't understand it, not even close, but you're glad for it anyway.
December 23, 2014
Holiday Headlines in DTLA:
1. Christmas Miracle! Downtown Couple Fit Tree, Mastiff, and Several Drunken Adults In Tiny Loft Apartment; No Fires or Deaths Ensue
2. Seven Year Old Dog Experiences Snow For First Time, Declares it "NBD"
3. Financial District Hanukkah Display Increased In Size By Seven Percent, Moved to Dedicated Peninsula
4. String Lights Add Festive Element to 7th Street's Homeless Quarter
5. Area Hipster Covets Giant Corporate Lobby Christmas Tree Scarf
6. Polished Hotel Floors Reflect Guests' Already-Abandoned New Year's Resolutions
December 26, 2014
Me: Listen kid, I'm just gonna give it to you straight. You can't have the toys until you wear the sweater.
Chaucer: .…
Me: I know, I know. It's pretty bad. Look, I don't make the rules, okay? I just play by them. I'm a blogger. I have certain expectations to meet. And you, well, you're the youngest, cutest thing living in my home. Which means it falls on you to wear something ridiculous and be paraded around in front of strangers for their amusement and my gratification. Do you understand?
Chaucer: ....
Me: Alright listen, just five minutes. Just long enough to take a few snapshots. But they need to be quality shots, no horsing around making them blurry or we're gonna have to do them again. Then you can go to sleep, forget all about it, and in the morning you'll have a boatload of brand new stuffies to destroy.
Chaucer: ....
Me: Thanks, buddy. You're the best.
December 27, 2014
Ellien's log, stardate 201412.24
11pm
I have successfully infiltrated a dwelling in a populous, temperate region of Earth, coordinates 34.0500° N, 118.2500° W. My stated mission is to observe and document the behavior of a typical adult human female during the annual celebration Earthlings refer to as "Christmas." However, I also hope to gain a deeper understanding of the more specific socioclassificationblogger, a bizarre subset with whose psychological expressions I have long been personally fascinated.
Ellien's log, stardate 201412.25
8am
My host body awakens. Thanks to the 24-hour Sub-Wernickian Mind Meld I initiated upon arrival, she is unable to detect my cerebral thought-tap. I note a number of interesting physiological conditions, recorded below:
Stress. Immediately upon waking, subject becomes aware of the various tasks she must accomplish over the next several hours, some of which she feels trepidation toward. Subject visualizes herself in various chaotic situations involving burnt food, bored guests, and other scenarios unpleasant to humans.
Withdrawal. Subject manifests a clear and urgent need for caffeine.
Excitement. As suggested by our observations, the Christmas holiday induces a mild euphoria among humans, perhaps due to the increasingly frenetic rate at which they consume the sugary liquified foodstuff identified as eggnog. I also suspect this effect is triggered by auditory cues, particularly those involving the incessantly broadcast seasonal soundmix, one arrangement of which seems to be permanently lodged in the subject's brainstem.
9am
Subject and mate engage in gift exchange ritual. There is much bodily contact and high-pitched verbalization. Interestingly, I detect a slight undercurrent of negative emotion in subject's brainwaves.
10am
Subject has removed herself to private quarters. Neural pathways have overloaded and temporarily blocked the thought-tap; however, I am able to shift 30% of the mind meld to the subject's temporal lobe, where several dozen memories have come loose and are now flooding the brain. Subject is experiencing a vast array of feelings which are challenging her ability to remain upright. (Note: I believe this is what is known as a breakdown, a phenomenon hypothesized by our scientists but as yet unobserved.)
1pm
Party preparations begin. Subject, in a near-manic state, assembles and cooks a variety of foodstuffs. Mate assists nervously. Alcoholic beverages are consumed and subject eases considerably, though occasionally still emitting verbal imprecations and expressing regret about decision to host assembly in own habitat.
4pm
A pair bond of two adult humans arrive at the dwelling. Subject and mate greet the pair bond and another gift exchange occurs. Beverages are prepared, distributed, and consumed repeatedly.
6pm
A second pair bond arrives. There are now six adult humans and one animal in the home. The four pair bonded outsiders engage sociably with subject's mate. Subject appears withdrawn and uncomfortable, and often repairs to food preparation area alone. (Later analysis shows a correlation between spikes in thought pattern and certain phrases uttered by pair-bonded outsiders, including "moving" and "San Francisco".) Additional beverages are distributed and consumed.
8pm
A ritual of some kind is conducted, involving a large, rectangular cardboard tablet and multicolor totems which are moved across the tablet incrementally. Laughter increases in frequency and intensity. Subject's thought-tap flows with increasingly positive feelings. Multiple bottles of reddish-purple fermented juice are consumed.
9pm
The store of reddish-purple fermented juice depleted, subject offers others a pale yellow version, similarly packaged. They assent emphatically. "You guys want me to rinse your glasses first?" she asks. "Oh god no," one replies. "Yeah, don't care at all," says another. Subject nods. "You are my people," she says.
10pm
All remaining bottles of fermented juice have now been consumed. Chilled bottles of fermented grain are produced from a sealed metal storage container.
10:15pm
Thought-tap becoming hazy and difficult to access. Suspect correlation to consumption of fermented juice and grain.
11:00pm
All stores of fermented beverages depleted, group decides to remove from dwelling and relocate to nearby sky cave. Short journey to sky cave filled with animated conversation and raucous laughter.
11:05pm
Sub-Wernickian Mind Meld has now expired. Remaining observations compiled externally. Submitting preliminary report to Control, withdrawing from host body and returning to mothership for full debriefing within the hour.
December 30, 2014
"Wanna go to Malibu?" he suggests, when he sees the Santa Monica exit choked off with traffic.
"Sure. Why not." It's only another ten minutes further, and I'm happy just to sit in the passenger's seat and gaze out the window.
We've driven to the coast on a whim, because it's a pretty Sunday afternoon and we're already out and about. We're already out because we've just finished a reconnaissance mission to check out the venue for a New Year's Eve event we're considering. Tickets are pricey; I don't want to commit until I approve of the place in person. I want to wear the floor-length chiffon gown that sees action maybe twice a year (Valentine's Day being its other night out), and I'm hoping for an event that's fun but also a bit glamorous. Two-thousand fifteen seems like a year worth dressing up to greet.
The recon mission is mostly a bust, though. The venue doors are locked tight, not a soul in sight. Peering in through stately (if dusty) doors, all we can see is the sweeping staircase just inside the entrance. Rather fancy looking, I have to say. I'm just about sold.
Walking back to the car a slice of low winter sun hits my face. The crisp cold feels like an invitation to play, and back inside a stuffy apartment is the last place I want to be. "Let's go somewhere," I say. Like Chaucer, I'm asking to be walked. I need stimulation and fresh air. If I don't get out of downtown every so often, if I don't refresh my eyes with the sight of trees or sand or just different buildings, moodiness sets in and the loft starts to feel like The Stanley Hotel. Terence gets it, and obliges, nodding. "Let's go to the beach."
The beach it is.
There's a seafood shack a little ways past Pepperdine on the PCH that I like. The food is overpriced and nothing spectacular, but I don't go for the food. I go because it sits opposite a movie-scenic bluff, over crashing waves and aimed at sunsets that never disappoint. There's only outdoor seating and it's chilly even in summer, but sourdough bread bowls of clam chowder help with that. So does hot apple cider, which they're serving today.
Terence orders a fish sandwich, and I get fried clam strips (along with the bread bowl) so he can try those, too. They come in a red and white paper tray and are never fully rinsed of sand. The occasional bite of grit doesn't bother me, though. Neither does the cold, which is bracing. We pull up our hoods and huddle close, and I glance furtively at the other patrons. I once sat a few tables over from the kid that played Draco Malfoy, and I've seen both a Ferrari and an Aston Martin in the parking lot.
Malibu isn't what I imagined it would be, before I moved to California. Or maybe it is, and I just haven't seen the parts of it that would match my expectations. It's beautiful but largely inaccessible. All the best parts are closed off to tourists, which I guess is how it should be, considering what it costs to live there.
When we drive back after sundown, I marvel at how tightly packed together the homes are. Not a single sliver of space in between them through which to see the beach. Like a finger wagging at me: nuh uh, not for your eyes, outsider. I picture clean, wide stretches of sand below sharply dropping cliffs. Living rooms with massive picture windows through which the contentedly rich or the creatively tortured watch the peaceful sea. I wonder what they think about while they enjoy that view, and if they, too, sometimes pine to get away.
By the time the houses open up enough to see in between, we're past the prime real estate. I crane around in my seat, but it's too dark to make anything out. Malibu keeps its secrets another day.
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