Journaling

Personal blog posts from 2012 onward.

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Bonnaroo 2013 - A handful of impressions

June 24, 2013

Grief

Sunday, early afternoon, still at the hotel. I'm in a state. I've barely slept the past three nights. I've taken loads of drugs. I've hardly eaten a thing in four days. I'm depleted, exhausted, starving, and dehydrated. I've sent Bryan on ahead of me since a) my stomach is threatening revolt and b) I'm feeling like I need some time alone to get emotionally centered for the day. It's the second Father's Day since my dad died. Normally I'd not let myself sink into that hole, but my body is pissed at what I've been doing to it, and has nothing extra to give me, to keep me afloat.

On the shuttle to the festival, I send text messages to all my friends who are dads. I text Bryan to remind him to call his father. He answers almost immediately. Sent him the sweetest text in history. An ugly, ungenerous part of me responds back in my head. Must be nice. At the fest, I spend the first hour struggling to dial into a happy spot. I watch The Mowgli's, the most upbeat of bands, from the back of the tent, leaning my face against the poles of a raised lounge area. I cling to the posts and mouth the words as I listen to The Great Divide and San Francisco, tracks I've been looping for weeks back at home. I can't sing, because my lips are inches from the ear of a guy reclined on a sofa in front of me. Instead I just press my forehead to the bars like a prisoner, close my eyes, and will myself to count the blessings of the moment until genuine gratitude takes hold. But my throat is tight with grief, and I miss him with an inexplicable fierceness. I wish I could tell him about it, all of it, even the drugs. He'd shake his head and chastise me, but half-heartedly. He'd get it. And he'd delight in my delight. I miss him.

Joy

Two a.m. Sunday morning. That Tent. Billy Idol has just finished playing. Most of the crowd is staying exactly where they are, holding fast to their good spots. It's been a strange Saturday evening. The cancellation of Mumford and Sons cast a bit of a pall on the festival, which, by and large, is vocal about its dissatisfaction with the replacement act of Jack Johnson. Lots of bitter, sarcastic jokes being cracked. Lots of disappointed Mumford fans. There's been a weird hole in the evening where the much-anticipated headliner should have been. People have been wandering, ambivalent about what they wanted to do or see instead. Energy has been low for a couple of hours, as clusters of bummed out fans trickle around the festival grounds in search of something to keep them going. But now the buzz and hum are starting to build again. Empire of the Sun is about to start, and the crowd is fidgety with excitement, despite the late hour, and despite the fact that they're going on nearly half an hour late.

And then they do start. And the roar of the crowd ripples out from in front of the stage, back through and over us, and electrifies several thousand people, all eager to be recharged for the late-late shift. They sound absolutely amazing live, and I'm instantly transported. Everything is blue lights, lasers, and fog. The Australian duo are outfitted in psychedelic costumes, with LED lights lining their instruments. It feels like being in a video. We've somehow, miraculously managed to carve out enough room to dance, cornered against a railing near the back of the tent. While we're not close enough to make out all of the action on stage, we've got a decent view and incredible sound, and I'm beyond thrilled to be able to move and jump like a maniac when Alive comes on. Everyone who knows the words is throwing his or her head back and belting them out. I'm turned around, facing Bryan, dancing with him, singing to him again, smiling and laughing and out of my head with joy.

Affection

It's the Saturday night hole. The empty place where Mumford and Sons should have been. We've just left The Lumineers, but we don't know what we want to do until Billy Idol, at midnight. There aren't any shows going at the moment that are particularly compelling to us. Neither of us is interested in Jack Johnson; in fact, I'm terrified that watching him will actually bring me further down and put me to sleep. We briefly consider the Ferris wheel, but the line is outrageous. Should we take a pill? he asks. I'm unsure about starting on ecstasy this early. It's only a bit after nine, and I'm planning on going all the way until morning. Pretty Lights played until sunrise the night before, so I'm guessing Empire of the Sun and Boyz Noise will go just as late. I want to time my high to maximize on those shows. We could just get high and hang out in the Christmas barn, he suggests. Fuck it, I say, realizing there's nothing else to do. But two caveats, I say. If we start now, it'll be a two pill night for me. He nods. And the other? I reach into my bag, pulling out the tiny baggy from my coin purse. I'm a handful on two pills. Like, I will need to dance. And I might disappear to go do just that, no matter what's on. 

We place the capsules on one another's tongues and toast with our water. See ya later, I say, like always.

The Christmas barn is going strong, and we hang out there for a bit, bobbing to the beat and smiling at all the weirdness of it. It's a barn, in the middle of a farm in Tennessee, in June, decked out like the North Pole, and filled with ravers. It's spectacularly bizarre.

I know the moon rocks have kicked in when I start to obsess about the Silent Disco. Jared Dietch is starting at eleven, and I want to catch as much of his set as possible before Billy Idol. I caught some of his set the night before and it was a blast. But I know that with the fest crowd largely disbanded by the cancellation, there'll probably be a line to get in to the Disco. A very, very long one that starts early. So I ask Bryan if we can go sit on the grass near it, to make sure we don't miss out. He agrees, and we step out of the Christmas chaos into the cold night.

My high ramps up noticeably as we do so.

Cold.

I run to the locker to get my hoodie. I return to find the line has grown. Bryan is socializing with some other very high people. A guy and a girl, who, a moment after introducing herself to me, literally crawls off on all fours, disappearing back into the dark. She just fell into my lap, he says. We sit cross-legged. We chat. We chat faster. Moon rock. Heart thumping. My eyes are wide and I'm rocking to a beat somewhere. I run to the bathroom again. I refill our water bottles. Bryan waits for me. I'm thankful for my warm layers. Recorded music pours over us from a nearby tower. Something awful. Some awful artist. We're too far away from everything live, it's all we hear. What it is? Why aren't they changing it? We laugh. We sit closer to one another. Watch out, I say. I'm coming up. I climb onto his lap and wrap my limbs around him. Cozy. Warmth. I do not love this man. I barely know this man. But he's strong and he's kind and he's here with me, and we're having a good time. We're in a great mood now, the headliner hole forgotten. We're ready to dance. The line grows long behind us, and I feel a rush of gratitude and relief that I'm not going to miss my DJ, that Bryan has patiently waited an hour with me, in the cold grass. He holds me. I bury my face against his shoulder, his neck, this man I do not know or love.

I'm glad he's here.

In the Disco, I cut loose fast and hard. He keeps up with me for a while. We retreat to the grass behind the tent. Room for us to goof, to spread out, to sing to one another. The music is a mix, and frustrates me. Some spectacular EDM tracks, some randoms from the 90s. Bryan sits and watches me. Takes photos of me. He points at me, licks his finger, makes it sizzle on his shirtsleeve. I laugh and dance harder. The line to get in has quadrupled. They watch us enviously. I'm giddy. This is my zone. When fireworks start over my shoulder I can't even stop to watch. Alive comes on and I explode into movement and laughter. I sing the words to Bryan, ecstatic. I mean them. Loving every minute cuz you make me feel so alive, alive. And I do feel incredibly alive. I never feel more alive than when I'm dancing to music I love, and here I am, at Bonnaroo, my god, what an amazing thing, what an incredible experience, out here among the stars, thousands of joyful people around us, listening to musical thrill after musical thrill. My heart fills with affection for this person, for being here with me, witnessing and sharing in my joy. He's made it real, more real than when I do it alone, and even though I don't love him, I love him for being with me in this moment.

Drugs 

Friday, late afternoon. The sun is slowly dripping into the magic hour. The weather is a gift—a godsend really. Nowhere near as hot or humid as last year. There's even a light breeze valiantly working its way through an eighty thousand-strong mass of bodies, lifting skirts, hair, and spirits even higher than they already are. Bryan’s younger brother has joined us for the day, with a one-day ticket so they can rock out to Paul McCartney and ZZ Top together. They haven't seen one another in two years. Lots of laughter, smiling, teasing.

The three of us grab a patch of grass near a hip hop show. We sit only long enough to share a truly wretched soft pretzel and a handful of shrooms before we get up and wander the grounds, soaking up the chill sunset vibes of the festival. They're not attached to anything until the classic rock shows starts a few hours later, and I'm content to meander and take in the sights while the mushrooms gently, slowly curl their fingers around my senses. I let my gaze linger on things as we pass. Colorful clothes, face paint, signage, the oversized grotesque statues spiked in the ground. Everything has the potential to be a playground for my mind. I loosen my thoughts and relax my body into the drugs, letting them take me where they will.

As usual, it starts with water. Water has always been the gateway for me, with shrooms. Especially in the fading light of dusk. The twinkle and sparkle, the splatter and trickle. When water suddenly takes on an extra dimensionality, I know I'm high. The water of the Centeroo mushroom fountain captivates me as we come upon it. I jump on a bench as the guys walk ahead, snapping pics, entranced by the sound and sight of it, which blend together. Synesthesia, my favorite thing about mushrooms.

Mild giggles kick in as we walk up to This Tent, where Jim James is just starting. It's the perfect musical backdrop. A. E. I. O. U. sounds lush in my ears, drippy and loopy and sexy and silly all at once. I post to Instagram with one hand, my other arm wrapped around David as we half-dance, nodding and smiling and laughing.

Surprise

Here's what I expect of watching Paul McCartney: I expect it will be a ton of fun. I expect an eighty thousand person singalong. I expect to enjoy it and appreciate it for what it is: a once in a lifetime experience. I'm a Beatles fan, but I'm certainly not a rabid one.

Well, I get the singalong, and I absolutely get the fun. We end up in a very cool little cluster of people with whom we sing, dance, and high-five throughout the show. But the whole experience is heightened by the fact that while I'm not a rabid Beatles fan, my companion, Bryan, is. And watching any show in the company of a die-hard fan is always much more fun. He knows every word to every tune, and is just generally beside himself, he's so into it. He sings the ballads in my ear and plays the guitar solos on my hip and my arm. And somewhere along the way I get hit with a wave of holy shit emotion, as in holy shit, I'm watching one of the most famous musicians in the world, a man who's not going to be up to doing these shows for too many more years. I think of all the times I've listened to The Beatles either by myself or with friends who were fans.

I think of the fact that my brother was the one who introduced me to them.

And as Sir Paul pauses in between songs to muse about "his friend John", it dawns on me what an amazing, momentous thing it is, to be living at a time when I can watch this incredibly famous and influential man perform. A man whose life and experiences and connections and friendships are so intermeshed with the 20th century historical musical narrative that it's hard to think of someone more important, or integral to, well, the whole fucking thing.

And it moves me, tremendously. And I think of friends that I love, and who I would be crushed to lose, in the way that Paul lost John. And I cry. Unexpectedly, I cry. And I'm strangely happy to be surprised by this moment.

Peace

I don't meet up with Bryan on Sunday. I don't want to. I'm burned out physically and emotionally. We talk about meeting up for Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers, which is the final show, but he's already buried deep in the crowd when I get to the field. I'm feeling really low at this point in the evening. So low, in fact, that I actually consider skipping the show and just going home. Everyone else just seems so connected, and I feel so incredibly alone. There's a special kind of bittersweet energy at the last show on the last night of a festival. People stand closer to one another. They're quieter. It seems like they listen to one another more, perhaps soaking up the last of their interaction with each other before saying goodbye forever. It honestly feels like 79,999 people, and then me.

And then it starts raining.

It isn't pouring, but it isn't misting either. The covered tents at the back of the field quickly fill up, as some people retreat for shelter. But most just hold their ground, some in rain gear, though most not. I'm waiting in line for the bathroom, pulling my ninety-nine cent poncho out of my bag, when the band starts to play. And I know instantly that I'm not going anywhere. The sound is so good, so rich and full and pretty, even way back where I stand, at the far end of the field. It lights up the night and grabs a hold of me and says Hey, look, don't leave yet, ok? It's Tom fucking Petty after all. You can be sad, but just be sad to Tom Petty is all's we're saying.

So I don't leave. I go to the bathroom, where I unfold and don a flimsy, transparent triangle of plastic, and then I step back out into a massive, moonlit singalong. I wander around the field for the entire show, socializing a bit, but mostly just stopping in one section long enough to listen to a song or two before moving on to another area. I watch lanterns being lit, and set out to float off into the night sky amidst cheers and applause. I watch fire breathers and glow stick dancers and hula hoopers. I spend a few minutes running in circles with a group of people who are just randomly running in circles, for the sheer fun of it, in the rain. I do all of this alone, and my heart, which has felt so empty and hollow all day, suddenly is full again. I throw my head back and yell out lyrics along with everyone else. Heyyyyyy baby, there ain't no easy way out. Heyyyyyyy I will stand my ground. And I won't back down. 

I won't say that I feel joyful, exactly. Not akin to other, higher moments of the fest. But I find peace back there, in the dark, aimlessly wandering and singing to myself, to the crowd, to the band, to the sky, to my past, to my present, and to my future. It isn't some great revelatory moment. I'm not high, and I haven't had a single drop of alcohol. It's just a clean, peaceful feeling, standing there in the rain, being alone, and being anything but at the same time

Connection

Thursday night. We've got our festival legs. It's the warm-up day. No major shows, none of the big stages are open, but there are several smaller or lesser-known acts scheduled to kick the weekend off. Last year Greg and I missed Thursday entirely, so it feels like a bonus to even be here tonight.

We drift and sample shows at will, having fun and enjoying the scene but not getting too amped up about anything. Until we stumble upon Django Django. And that's when our festival starts. I've never heard them before, and Bryan has only briefly checked them out online when making his schedule. They're indescribable. Part EDM, part funk, part question mark, and one more part question mark. I've since listened to them on Spotify and something definitely gets lost in their studio recordings. But live? Live they are unreal. So fun, so funky and danceable.

We catch the show from the outside of the tent, nowhere near close enough to see the stage, but the sound hits us—and the crowd around us—just right. We have a blast dancing with one another, laughing and goofing around to the music we can't for the life of us describe or classify, but which is rocking us hard. Some guy near where we stand shines a handheld disco laser under our feet, twisting the grip to change the pattern as we dance. I'm mesmerized and delighted. Bryan is loving the music, loving dancing, loving his first taste of Bonnaroo.

There aren't a lot of moments during the weekend, that he and I truly connect over the music we're watching. But we connect over Django Django, and it's the perfect sleeper hit start to the weekend.

Luck

I lucked out so many times throughout the festival, in terms of catching the one or two songs I'd wanted to see, at shows that I wasn't otherwise interested in. This happened with Maps and Atlases, Beach House, Wilco, ZZ Top, David Byrne, Divine Fits, and at least a couple more I'm not remembering. I just happened to be walking by, or walking up, or on my way to another show, and I caught some of my favorite randoms this way. Super lucky timing.

Regrets

I missed On an On entirely, because we got to Paul McCartney so early. That's my biggest regret. I also missed The XX completely (I missed them at Coachella, too—double fail).

I wish I'd been much closer for Of Monsters and Men and The Lumineers. The Lumineers put on an awesome show, but their sound got completely lost in the back. We could barely hear them. I would have been much more bummed about it if I hadn't seen them here in LA last year, and smack up against the stage at that. And I can't really complain about the Of Monsters and Men show, since this is the third time I've seen them, and both times before were really amazing for me, emotionally.

There are a couple other smaller bands/performers I wanted to see that were earlier in the day, but I was just way too trashed from being up until 6am the night before to get back up early enough to catch them. C'est la festival vie.

EDM

Porter Robinson, Wolfgang Gartner, Boyz Noise, and Pretty Lights are all, predictably, incredible. Danced my face off, loved every minute of them.

Romance

Negative. Chemistry, yes. Lots of laughs and great conversation, definitely. Romance, no. Ellie is officially still single, kids. Hide your menfolk.

Moment of Random Dancing In the Middle of Everything

One particularly Bonnaroo-esque moment was actually on Thursday night. We took moon rocks, which neither of us had ever had before, and it hit us like a tsunami. I consider myself, for lolz or for lolsobs, to be a pretty savvy user of ecstasy/MDMA at this point. And I've never experienced anything like it. It was nearly incapacitating. We both had to sit down when it hit, lest our legs give out from under us. This happened as we were walking through the middle of the festival. We just plopped down right where we stood. That lasted about thirty seconds for me, at which point, I, of course, needed to dance. The closest music source was the crazy Christmas barn, and it was perfect. Bryan just sat watching, dazed but laughing, as I broke it down right there, in the middle of foot traffic. I didn't have a choice. Then we just sat there for a while marveling at how unbelievably high we were, and every few minutes I'd pop back up to dance some more of it off.

To me a festival isn't complete unless at some point I'm randomly dancing in the middle of nothing/everything. So I got that covered.

Favorites

Band - The Vaccines. Holy shit they rocked. Loved loved loved seeing them, especially since they were a last minute, very exciting discovery for me. I've since added lead singer Justin Hayward-Young to my rock star crush list. I mean, come on. If The Strokes + Weezer + a dash of Vampire Weekend sounds good to you, check them out. Family Friend (just the tune, no video) is fucking amazing, I cannot stop listening to that track. Also great are If You Wanna and Norgaard. Oh, and Wetsuit, which was so, so fun to hear live.

Performer - Matt Berninger of The National, who drank his way through the show like a boss, jumped into the pit inches from where I stood, and wandered around the audience for a couple of songs, dragging and violently yanking his mic cord behind him. Such a badass. I Need My Girl almost killed me. I wish it would have. Then maybe Matt would have revived me when he plunged into my personal space, which he totes did on purpose, I'm sure of it.

Song - Alive, by Empire of The Sun. So magical. I was in heaven. One of my favorite festival moments of all time, if not THE best moment, actually. Can't wait to see them again at HardFest in August.

Were There Any Groups of People Dressed In Banana Suits?

You bet your potassium there were.

vs. 2012? 

Gah, do I have to? Put a gun to my head and I'll say 2012 was better. But that's not really fair. Such wildly different experiences. Last year I went with Greg, and we were pretty head over heels, though the fact is we fought terribly when we were there. Drugs and romance, I have learned, do not mix. Like, at all. 

That being said, some of my favorite moments of this year way, way trumped some of my 2012 moments. It's just too hard to compare, really.

Gonna 'Roo Again Next Year?

Honestly, I'm not sure. I'm going to wait and see what the lineup is first this time. And I'm itching to do a new festival, if I can. Maybe Osheaga, in Montreal. Or, dream fest—the Isle of Wight. And if I don't go to EDC next year, I can pretty much never go, because it'll be my last chance to go before I'm 40. And your girl really doesn't give a whole lot of fucks about age and all that nonsenserry, because she still has a blast going to EDM shows and such...but EDC is a whole 'nother kettle of (very young) fish.

I'm also thinking of maybe just taking a trip to see one of my huge favorites somewhere cool, such as Explosions in The Sky, or The Walkmen. Making a weekend out of visiting a new city, capping it off with a concert. Dunno.

How Bad Was the Comedown After Bonnaroo?

Suicidally bad. That's not an exaggeration, I'm sorry to say. I was an absolute, utter mess. Even worse than after Coachella, which was unbearably bad. Hence my silence on the blog and IG. I was in the throes of some of the deepest despair I've ever experienced. I don't know if it was the moon rocks, or the combination of lots of moon rocks plus lots of mushrooms, or the fact that I barely ate while I was there (I lost ten pounds over the weekend), or WHAT was going on, but I crashed worse than I ever have. Disastrously bad scene. Spent most of Wednesday wanting to hurl myself off of the roof. Really. Luckily friends near and far were there for me, and I had a ton of support when I needed it most. Like, unreal amounts of love and support, which probably saved my life.

Serotonin depletion is bad news for anyone, at any time. But for someone prone to depression, it's actually incredibly fucking dangerous. I've now learned this lesson twice, the very very hard way. It's something I'm factoring into consideration for all of my subsequent festival plans, including Burning Man. That much usage spells serious trouble for me. One or two nights in a row is one thing, but four nights in a row is just not doable for the Ellster.

- - -

And that will conclude your coverage of Bonnaroo 2013, which was written by your blogmistress all at once over the past few hours and therefore on no sleep, so apologies if it's not her best work, etc and so forth, and also apologies in advance for a few more IG shots she's probably going to post because they're pretty and she wants to, even if they're totally redundant (read: sunset Ferris wheel shots) and to all a goodnight zzzzzzz....

Dog Lottery

February 1, 2013

Well, dog, you're five. Happy birthday.

There was a time when I didn't think you'd live much longer than this, because of things I'd heard about giant breed dogs. But it's obvious you're not going anywhere for a while. At five years old, you have the energy and playfulness of a puppy, which is what you're still occasionally mistaken for.

Speaking of which, you were a ridiculous, pain in the ass of a puppy. Adorable, clumsy, hysterical when left alone. You hated to be crated, and you were terrible on a leash. But now that you're all growed up, I can't believe how much I lucked out.

I won the dog lottery.

Let's start with what a pleasure it is to walk you. You trot along beside me, and you only pull when you see a familiar face that you want to greet. The leash hangs slack between us, a wordless agreement to move at a comfortable, companionable pace. People are amazed at how good a walker you are—other dog owners, jealous. Even if you're in a mood to sniff every goddamn tree, you respond to my slightest correction, and settle in by my side, content just to be out and about. At night, when the streets are empty, I unclip you, and we sprint together down the sidewalk, you bursting with energy and joy in the cold night air. But you always stay close, and I never have to worry about you running off, or away. I take you everywhere I possibly can: coffee shops, the cleaner's, the tailor's, the salon, late night pizza runs. I even sneak you into the very edge of Grand Central Market, so I can get juice for our walks.

You're friendly to strangers, stopping cheerfully to say hello when you hear them exclaim over you. You've come to recognize the oohs and ahhs that mean someone wants to pet you. You allow yourself to be stroked, your chin to be lifted, and your gaze to be held, by humans you've never met. You read my energy, and if I'm nervous, so are you—but you never snap or snarl. Most days we can't go a block without at least one person wanting to meet you. You're unfailingly calm with children, even when they grope and pull and scream. You sniff toddlers' and babies' faces with gentle curiosity, to the delight of both them and their mothers.

At home, you're less a pet than a roommate. You keep me company for hours at a stretch, lazing about on your bed or the floor. You've learned to ask permission to be let on the bed: you'll stand beside it and look at me imploringly. Sometimes I'll indulge you, and throw an old sheet on top of my covers, so you can stretch out in luxury.

You're smart. You've learned your schedule, you read my cues—you know how to ask for what you want and need, be it a toy that's rolled under the bed, a trip to the park, a treat, or just a few minutes' worth of caresses. You're completely in tune with my emotions, and it never ceases to amaze me, how much your mood on any given day lines up with my own. If I'm sleepy, you zonk out. If I'm happy, you're playful. If I'm stressed, you pace.

When I'm upset, you're instantly at my side, pawing me, licking my face, whimpering. If I cry, I can't do so for very long—I quickly end up consoling you. But I don't even have to get to that point for you to feel the change in my energy; you reach me before the tears do. You've seen me through the death of two parents, a divorce, three moves, and a handful of breakups. You wait patiently while I travel the world. You never judge a single bad choice I make.

You love your toys, and play with every single one. When friends come over, you systematically present each of your balls, ropes, and stuffed animals to them one at a time, showing off like a child. You're no longer afraid of the toy basket I bought you a few years ago; you plunge your head straight into it and root around to get exactly what you want.

You've learned to talk, small growls and cries and barks and howls that I echo back to you. We converse together in your jowly voice, sometimes throwing our heads back and singing. You ask for meals. You whine for lost toys. You growl playfully for attention.

You've accepted the major changes in your life with grace and even, it seems, gratitude. Suburb to city. House to apartment. Yard to sidewalk. Smaller and smaller abodes each time. And yet you've remained sweet-natured, playful, well-adjusted. You let me know when you need some attention—a few minutes of tug-o-war, or a good long walk and some socialization. You've adjusted to loft life beautifully. You've made friends. You have play dates. You're a recognizable fixture in our neighborhood.

You're never picky. When things are tight and I run out of dog food, you're content with a few eggs, or rice, or whatever I have on hand. You'll eat salad, for god's sake. You love berries and apples, steamed carrots and broccoli. At least a couple times a week, we split a banana during a walk: you eat your half straight from the peel, like me, standing on the corner while we wait for the light.

Your size is never a problem—only a bonus. You're tall enough that in the morning, you can press your face into the bed near mine, wagging your tail when I smile and say good morning. Then, kisses. And yawns—you've learned to yawn loudly because it makes me laugh. Beside me on the sidewalk, I don't even have to stoop to stroke your back or finger your velvety ears. You're a sure, solid weight next to me as we walk. Sometimes when I'm feeling overwhelmed with happiness and optimism, I'll shut my eyes and tilt my head back to feel the sun, the breeze on my face. I keep my eyes closed for a few moments, knowing you'll keep leading us straight.

You delight onlookers with your sweet, puppyish face and goofy gait. When I used to get lonely late at night, I'd walk you by the bars and nightclubs, just to have some social interaction. You've made me friends. You're an excellent wingman, too.

You never complain when I have to leave you for several hours at a time, or if I spend the night away. You never have accidents, even those times where emergencies have kept me from you for half a day.

You're a riot. You'll lick a cut lemon and huge, foamy bubbles will froth from your lips. Sometimes you fart when you're play-bowing, and the noise will startle you. You run and slide down the hallway, slipping clumsily around corners. Your huge, post-meal burps are a viral YouTube video waiting to happen. I'm pretty sure I gave you a contact high a few months ago: you spent five minutes sniffing in bizarre circles and tracking invisible prey around a tree and into the air. You once stole a slice of pizza from a kid in a stroller.

We've perfected our relationship. You know when you can get away with pushing my buttons, and when I need you to be more independent. We understand one another's needs, and we meet them as best we can. And you forgive me every time I fuck up.

We have our own language. I have so many silly, secret, special phrases and pet names for you that no one else gets to hear. I grab you and nom-nom-nom on your head, your cheeks, your ears. You wag and smile. Sometimes when I've been at my desk for a long time, you'll come to me and paw my arm. Come sit with me. And I do. I sit cross-legged in front of you and stroke your front legs, kneading the calluses on your elbows and cooing at you. Every part of your anatomy has a special, silly name. I baby you completely, and you are a little bit spoiled—but everyone comments on how well-behaved you are, nevertheless.

Look, we both know this letter is for me, not you, but whatever. You're incredible, and a birthday card is the least you deserve for all the love and laughs you've given me this half decade.

I love you, dog.

it’s all okay

March 19, 2013

I wake to music. Bass guitar and muffled lyrics: sound checks on the street below. The nostalgia wastes no time settling on me as I lay in bed, a fine dust I know will be difficult to shake off. Last year's St. Patrick's Day was one of the best days in I've had in LA. I spent the day with Cameron and Greg, the two people I felt closest to, men who I knew understood and loved me, in spite of everything awful about me. We stood together, alone amongst thousands of other people, threw our arms around one another, and belted out the words to songs that dialed me back years, to other joyful times in my life. Music and love, romantic and Platonic, memories created and called upon, just steps from my front door. I was enraptured by life that day.

Drugs will do that to you.

And it's drugs that are on my mind when I wake up, because I'm scared. I'm scared that this nostalgia will choke me if I don't find something sweet to wash it down with. So much has changed in the past year. I've grown enormously, yes. I've tried to roll with the knocks, both brutal and easy, and I think I've landed in a pretty good place. But a part of me can't help but long for the life I had 365 days ago. A few weeks after St. Patrick's Day, 2012, I was on a plane to Florida to help my father die. A few months after that, the relationship that I'd clung to like a life raft, terrified of even more loss, ended, sending me into a spiral of desperation and suicidal ideation. And a few months after that, Cameron moved away, taking with him something I hadn't even known existed until I met him.

Constants downgraded to variables. Touchstones crumbled to ashes. Remember, Ellie, this is why you don't hang your happiness on things that can change. 

Yeah, well.

But though my mind occasionally flashes to the contents of the tiny plastic bag inside the vase that's pushed far to the back of my highest kitchen cabinet shelf, I'm determined to give it a go without. I can do this. I'll just get hammered and have a great time with my friends. I won't look back. 

I take Chaucer for a long, brisk walk, and he even gets some rare, off-leash play with another dog. This feels like a good sign, and as we round the corner of my block, the barricades and trucks, the tents and lights and balloons, the early revelers that are already trickling into the street festival, charge me up with positive vibes. It's going to be a good day.

I don't even have a plan, really. I've invited Kerry and Ross to join me, but it's iffy that they're going to come. Some acquaintances from the neighborhood, and another one from my building, have said they'll be there, but we haven't set a time or a meetup point, and it will be hard to find them in the crowd. I consider texting some other downtown friends, but decide against it. If I'm going to spend time with anyone today, it needs to be with people I love. The only people I feel close to that are actually nearby, and that can come, are Kerry and Ross, but as they're not fans of crowds, there's a very good chance that I'll be going alone.

And I'm mostly okay with that, since a) not going is not an option, because the sound of the massive party pouring in my windows would just be too depressing to hide from, b) I know after a few drinks I'll be happy to mingle with strangers, anyway, and c) Greg is going, and I know if I run into him, we'll probably stick together for the day.

I feed Chaucer, slam water to rehydrate from a party the night before, and get dressed while listening to Flogging Molly, loud. It's the one day a year I can blast music with impunity, since my neighbors can't hear it above what is already rocking our building from the street below. I put on a button down, a kelly green sweater, a plaid miniskirt, over-the-knee socks, a skinny scarf, and a pair of combat boots. An outfit that's ridiculous and way too young, but which I can get away with on a day like today, when silliness, spirit, and inappropriate wardrobe choices abound.

I put in a final request urging Kerry and Ross to come over, and head downstairs. Residents of my building have been given free VIP access to the festival, so I get to bypass the block-long line and walk in with almost no wait. I'm trying to psych myself up for the day, but I'm not feeling it. And as I drift into the crowd, populated by clusters of laughing friends, I lose emotional steam. I don't want to be alone here. But the U2 cover band that I loved so much last year and the year before is playing, so I put on my game face and push up towards the stage. The sun is beating down on me, and I realize that a cashmere sweater, wool thigh highs, and no sunglasses was a bad call.

I'm debating whether to get a drink, run back home to change, or leave downtown for the day altogether when I realize someone is talking to me. A guy decked out in festive accessories is asking me something. Who are you looking for? Are you alone? 

No, I'm not alone, I reply. Are you alone? It's only sort of a lie. Kerry and Ross may come, and if not, I know I'll run into people I know soon enough. The guy says he's looking for a girl, a friend he's lost in the crowd. He tells me I look like I just walked out of Hogwarts. I laugh, but have no witty comeback. I can't wrap my head around this conversation, I say honestly. I'm way too sober. Sensing I'm not in party mode yet, the guy wishes me a happy holiday and disappears back into the throng.

I realize I'm sweating in my layers, and that if I don't go home and change, my low mood has a zero percent chance of improving. As I head out the exit, I see that at this point, even the VIP line has gotten ridiculous, and I'll be in for a wait when I come back. But my apartment is just around the corner, so I decide it's still worth being more comfortable.

At home, I tear off my sweater and shirt, my skirt and my socks. Chaucer dances around me excitedly, nervous at all the energy and sound filling our tiny space. I change into a tank top layered under a green and black striped crop top, jeans, and Converse. I drink another glass of water, and lean against the counter, trying to relax. I want to have a good day. I need to have a good day. I can't have last year back, but I can have something equally good, if I choose it. I have to choose it.

But the day has taken on a life and a meaning of its own, and I feel helpless to stop it. It suddenly feels like a litmus test of my happiness. I'm petrified of the comparison between this St. Patrick's Day and the last one, and what it will do to me if today is a bummer. And that's when I decide to write myself a money-back guarantee.

I have to stand on the tips of my toes to reach the vase. I pull it down carefully, and take a small, compressed tablet out of the bag inside. It's purplish-white, with the shape of a cat stamped on one side and M80 on the other. Other than the thickness and the stamps, it looks exactly like my synthroid pills. I force down two more full glasses of water before I swallow the tab, and promise myself I'll get more water at the bar downstairs, first thing.

Back at the festival, I have a twenty minute wait just to get in again. I try not to feel frustrated as I hear the band play songs I love, reminding myself that it'll be at least forty minutes before I start to roll, anyway. Kerry and Ross text to say they're on their way; that they're just drinking some whiskey first. A knot in my shoulders loosens. Yes. I won't be alone today. In just a little while I'll be laughing and singing and cavorting with friends, just like everyone else. Gratitude washes over me, and logistics settled, I focus on guiding the warmth and light that's slowly building in my bloodstream, on channeling it up through my neural pathways, out my fingertips, and into the world around me. I imagine myself a conduit and a receptacle. I can take energy and I can give it. Today will be what I make of it. This high will run the course that I take it on. Make the conscious decision, Ellie. Choose light and love and laughter, and those are the things you will get.

Serotonin is a biological miracle in and of itself, and I'm awed by the fact that humans have figured out a way to hijack and amplify it, purely for recreational purposes. This is one of the last sober thoughts I remember having, before the light and love and laughter float me up to another plane, where I spend the next several hours.

---

To write the rest of yesterday in chronological, sensical, and dryly factual prose would feel like a lie, because my thoughts, feelings, and experiences were deeply colored by the drug I took. I just don't know that I'd be able to accurately recreate what actually happened. What was said, and thought, and felt. Or if not a lie, maybe something even worse - some kind of gross imprisonment of things pure and organic and defying of classification. Things that shouldn't be bottled up or tied down, because they aren't mine alone for the tying down.

If you haven't been there, I know that doesn't make any sense. But if you have, you understand what I'm trying to say, even if my words are overly florid and melodramatic. There's nothing you can say to make someone who's never taken MDMA understand what it's like, because the experience is so individual for everyone. Every time I try to explain it, or write about it, I come up against a wall that divides the words I know from the feelings I want to describe. Everything I'd want to make understood is on the far side of that wall, beyond the reach of description. The closest I could come would be to just write the word euphoria, over and over and over a hundred times.

But since that would be boring, I'll put some more words down, anyway.

---

Back at the stage. Sunlight feels good now. Yes. Really good. The crowd thickens around me. Not pushy, not drunken. Just happy. Or maybe it's me. Maybe that's it.

Tap on my shoulder. Tall young man, bowler hat. Grass green vest, green plaid tie. Green eyes, devastating eyelashes, straight black hair past his shoulders. His exaggerated bow. M'lady. My delighted laughter. A hug. An acquaintance who works in the neighborhood. From New Zealand. His accent and dialect are charming. Much younger. Works at my favorite casual lunch spot. I sit at the counter, we chat while he cooks.

Do you want a drink?

Not drinking today. My meaningful look. But I will need water soon.

He understands. Stay put, be right back. Couldn't move if I wanted to.

A few minutes later, a cold bottle is pressed into my hands. Lots of birds here.

Birds? 

Birds. Women.

Yes. Birds. I love it. The music and sunshine, the connectivity. Strangers smiling. Singing to themselves, one another. Sunday Bloody Sunday. A massive Irish flag, waved across a stage. I can feel it now. It's definitely here. It's good. It's going to be really good. The chatty phase.

I sent the lead singer some photos I got of him a couple years ago, and he loved them.

Yeah? Did he ever try to holler at you?

Holler?

Holler at. You know, like, ask you out.

I love this, too. Oh no, nothing like that. I never met him or anything. 

Well, he would if he met you. You know that right?

Turning to face him. What...?

You have no idea. You're the most radiant woman. When you walk down the street... He trails off.

I smile. Looking straight at him. Leaning close to his ear. That is such an amazing thing to say to a girl. Really. That's the most beautiful compliment, and I'm so flattered. But we're friends, right? And we're going to stay friends? You know how old I am, right?

Oh, I know. I know. I wasn't... His face is sincere. He's just being sweet. And drunk. Confessing a crush. No hurt feelings. It's good. Everything is good. He drifts away soon, though. Later, I'll bump into him. Bombshell redhead, green halter dress. Seems genuinely happy to be talking to him. Yes. Good for him. An introduction. I tell her with honesty how stunning she is, how much she stands out in the crowd. His smile is even bigger than hers. No trace of resentment or weirdness. Everything is okay. I've lost nothing. Maybe even gained something.

I float a little bit higher, and memories form with a bit more disjointedness.

---

Kerry and Ross arrive. Kerry's tipsy, but rattled by a dog attack they witnessed on the way over. Me joking and laughing. Cajoling her out of a bad mood. She's okay. She's happy. A friend of hers is here. We meet up. VIP section. Our group grows: friends of friends, coworkers, partners. Laughter, random connection, coincidence in a not-small town. Wait, you know Stacy too?

Cameron texts me. He's not having a fabulous day. I tell him how much he's missed. Do you remember a year ago right now?

- I do. That was quite a day. How are you doing? Celebratory? Wistful?

- High. Little bit wistful too, yeah. ...Ok, a lot. :(

- Sorry doll. Maybe it's just down payment on future joy. Plus wistful at least means you had good stuff. Nobody's wistful for crap times.

It's cold. I'm cold now. I run home again for a coat. This time I'm not made to wait, and I rejoin my friends quickly. The wind. We huddle together. Drinks, more drinks. Water, more water. I'm in conversation. I'm miles away. I'm face to face. I'm above myself, looking down. This is my life. These are my friends. I live here. I've made this my home. I have work to do, to improve myself, to be a better person, but I've achieved this at least. These good people care about me. There's nothing more beautiful than that. My mind is quick. I'm wittier. I'm making strangers and new friends laugh. The hum and buzz of energy builds around our small cluster in the chilly afternoon. We are happy people, in this moment, on this day. 

My heart full. I did it. I made today ok. I feel fantastic. The smiles on the faces of my friends mean everything to me. It's enough. I need nothing more. I deserve nothing more. But I'll get more anyway.

---

We leave the festival, but the group falls apart. Confusion, disagreement; scattered, drunken minds. Some tension. Too much to drink. They want to eat, to slow down and stop soon. I don't. None of that. No way. Not yet. I'm still high, not ready for the weight of reality, of arguments and frustration.

I text Greg again. We've been texting all day, on and off. He's high too. He was at the festival, felt like painting, went home to do work. At a bar now. Come join me, he says. I look at my friends.

Guys, I'm leaving. You're arguing, and I love you, but I'm really high, and I need to keep moving. Okay?

Kerry is hurt, angry. What? No! We'll come with you.

No. I need a Kerry and Ross break, okay? I love you guys to death, but I'm gonna go.

Anger. You're full of shit. You're going to meet someone. 

Yes, I am. I'm going to meet Greg He's high too. And I want to see him. Please don't be mad. Are you mad?

Are you leaving because we're fighting or because you want to see Greg?

Both. I want to see him, so it's convenient that you're arguing. 

Honesty: a side effect of the drug. Her face softens.

Okay, go. 

Are you mad?

No, get out of here.

---

A bar a few blocks away. Crowded, dark. He's not alone. I don't want to be here. I want to be back at the music, under the lights and in the crowd. He agrees. Let's go. Should we take more? Do you have more? I do. Let's split one. I reach deep into my pocket for another tablet, which he carefully bites in half, grimacing at the bitter taste. I drop the other half in my water bottle, shaking it vigorously before taking a sip. His friend leaves.

Just us. Again. Walking down the street. Laughing, talking, reminiscing. Harmless. Happy. High. It starts slow. Can I hug you? I just want to hug you.

Yes. You can. That would be ok. That would be fantastic.

His arms wrap around me from behind. Strong and tight and warm. Back at the festival. Music. Cold. We dance, we play. We hug and hold. I slip my arms into his sweatshirt. What happened? How did this...? Time machine. It's the exact same fucking moment. Almost, anyway. And better, in some ways. No hurt on the horizon. We know the score. This is a safe place we visit. A well we drink from when we're dying of thirst. He gazes down at me. I gaze back up. The grinning. Our grins, always. We must look ridiculous.

Stop.

You stop.

No, you. 

The words start.

There's no one like you.

There's no one like you, either.

And so it goes. We walk hand in hand to the bookshelf, and we take it down together. Be careful, it's heavy. We flip through the pages. I point to a picture. He tells the story. Remember? Remember? Sighs that are more happy than sad. That song. Remember? That day. Remember? Bonnaroo. Remember?

We cling to one another, sway to the music. I rest my head against his chest, low because of my flat shoes. His eyes are bright. He is so happy. So, so happy.

I lower the bucket, bring it back up for him to drink from. You know you're the reason I started writing again, right? I mean, serious writing? You unlocked it. You were the muse. You probably saved my life.

His turn. Lower the bucket. Bring it up. I'm thirsty, too. I've never felt better than when I was with you. You made me feel like I'm ok. Like it's ok to be who I really am. 

This is what we do. This is the gift we give one another. We've done it over and over, in the months since we ended. And we'll probably do it again.

You have no idea. You're such a happy person. I wish I could be that way.

Do I really seem happy?

El, I've seen you at your absolute worst. The lowest you could possibly be. And it was bad, right? It was really bad. But I see you, and I know who you are, and you are truly so happy. You make yourself happy. You're amazing. 

I swallow this, bury it deep down in the safest part of me, and then I give it right back. I praise his talent, his ambition and drive, which are unlike any I've ever seen in a self-employed creative. I don't know how you do it. Every day, you work so hard, and you make it happen. Other things he deserves to know, too. You were the best boyfriend I ever had. You showed so much care and consideration for my well being and my happiness. ...You are the most authentic person I've ever known. Even at your worst, you are always just...you. No artifice. No hiding who you are.

---

It's inevitable, and it starts with the kiss. Minutes long, lingering, in plain sight of everyone milling around us. Drawing the attention - and occasionally the comments - of strangers walking by. Unlike any kiss given back on earth. We're not on earth. We're way, way above it. The things in the kiss are timeless and beautiful: friendship and understanding and compassion and comfort. We are on the exact same plane, physically and emotionally. It's okay. It's so, so okay.

Soft blankets. Candlelight. Silly Chauc, go lie down. Laughter. This is so great. How do you feel?

Amazing.

Me too. 

He asks whether I've been writing. He doesn't read my blog - only the occasional post that I want to share with him, and that I send to him. Not much, I say. The GOMI thing really fucked me up. I don't want to be judged. Sometimes I wonder why I do it. What am I putting myself out there for? To what end? Even Instagram. It gets exhausting. I think I need a break. 

He tells me a story about an artist, some woman who wrote on her website about the lowest, ugliest moments of her heroine addiction and depression. And how it was so relieving to her, to have it all out there. Like, go ahead, judge me if you want, it's just who I am.

Yes, I say excitedly. That's exactly it. It's like a confessional where I can just lay myself out, and people can either accept who I am or not. 
Music. Explosions in the Sky, is that ok?  

That's perfect.

Postcard From 1952. A more perfect song has never been written. It rips through my heart and my soul, leveling me where I lay, pressed against him. Sheets, smooth and soft. It's cold, though. Put the heat on. Yes. Come back. Come close. You are so beautiful. Your body. Oh El, your body.

Your shoulders. They've been molded. I trace their lines with my fingertips. They're like those things football players wear, what are they called? 

Shoulder pads? He laughs. Be quiet. 

We talk and talk and kiss and talk and kiss. We talk about our romantic lives, about the people we've met, dated, and connected with - or failed to. We talk about my father, about how experiencing his death together was one of the most powerful and bonding experiences of not just our relationship, but of our lives. I struggle to find the words to tell him how amazing he was for me at that time. Husband-like. That's all I can say. You were just...husband-like. You took charge and did what I couldn't, and you got me through it. Emotionally, logistically, everything. 

I'm still so high. I close my eyes and describe the visions in my mind. The faces and shapes and colors and movement. I change the music. Of Monsters and Men. I sing softly in his ear.

A wave of clarity washes over me, and I realize what it is I love most about this man, what is so unique about him to me. He's the only man I've ever known who has willingly, openly, and happily laid his whole heart on the table for me. He's the only one who's been truly emotionally available and vulnerable, ready to take on the happy and the hurt, come what may. His attention and love were undivided, and mine for the taking. I try to explain this to him, but fail. Dating in LA is hard, he says. Everyone is looking for something better. But you'll be ok. I want so much for you to be happy, El.

Another music change. Youth Lagoon. I'm sleepy. I'm drifting. He tries to pull me back in. I know what he wants. My mind wants it, too, but my body is maxed out. I can't, I say. I'm sorry. I'm so tired. Holding me close. But the music expands, reaches out to me. The songs I love most pull me back to the moment: Posters, Daydream. I shift positions, I feel his need.

I whisper in the flickering light. What do you need?

No, it's ok. We shouldn't...

What do you need...? I reach out, touch him, answer my own question. His sighs. I've always loved his sighs. Rewards for piecing the puzzle together correctly. This. You need this. And this…

- - -

Something to hold. Something to know. Something to believe. Something that is sure and true and won't change. You are a beautiful person who changed my life forever, and for the better. We aren't right for one another, and we know it, but you are an oasis in the desert that is sometimes my life, and I'm one in yours.

No one was hurt. No betrayals, no infidelities, no lies. I have no one special in my life, and neither does he.

Friends. Bodies. Comfort. Love, of a kind. Serotonin. St. Patrick's Day, 2013.

It's all okay.

Coachella 2013

May 9, 2013

I'm already beside myself by the time I get to Palm Springs, from which I still have another thirty minutes of driving. The ride out has been nearly four hours of stop and go festival traffic: cars and vans and small RVs loaded with kids in shorts, telltale wristbands, and not much else. Legs on dashboards, tanned arms tapping window frames, sunglassed smiles sizing one other up across lane dividers. For my part, I've switched from an electronic stream on SoundCloud to blasting Of Monsters and Men. 

I am so, so ready.

Greg texts me as I'm about to pull off the freeway. I take it all back. I don't know how much of that to take. I took some a little while ago and it's mixed. Maybe try taking 1/3 of what I gave you, waiting an hour, and then going from there.

He's talking about the handful of dried mushrooms that are sitting in a small baggy on the hotel room desk, atop a laminated room service menu. I picked the shrooms up from him at his apartment the Friday prior, where he carefully portioned them out into what he imagined would be three solid trips.

My hotel is way beyond what I expect, because I haven't really paid much attention to where I'm staying. By the time I booked it, my choices were very few, and I don't care what it looks like as long as I have a roof over my head at night and a place to shower in the morning. Well, it has that and then some. In fact, it's pretty impressive, which makes me feel substantially better about the arm and leg I've forfeited to pay for it. I have a room over the pool—a really nice room, in fact. And the staff is incredibly friendly. 

I unpack while I text with Cameron, who's late night channel surfing.

- I wish you were here. Palatial hotel, massive two bed room over a waterfall pool with tiki torches, and enough drugs to make Pablo Escobar blush.

- Where are you? Coachella? Thought that was all tents and such. ...You had me at drugs. 

- I'm not camping. You don't have to camp. There's tons of hotels.

He sends me a picture he's taken of the cable guide channel: a title and a description. The American Bible Challenge. 11-12 am. A game show in which teams answer questions about the Bible. (Game Show, 60 mins.)

- What do they win? A cruise on an ark?

- A single box of Rice-A-Roni, but Jesus will make it last a whole year. ...It's so sad. The nuns are playing to support some nuns without any retirement.

- Doesn't exactly recommend God as an employer.

- Actually, since they're brides of Christ, I think it's less about the lousy boss and more a matter of marrying badly. Next game: guess the biblical tweeter.

As curious as I am about biblical tweetage, I tell Cam I need to finish getting ready for tomorrow and crash. I skit nervously about the room, arranging and rearranging what I've brought. Clothing, toiletries, snacks, my own blanket, sheet, and pillow. Scissors, tape, rubber bands, and baggies. 

I text Greg again.  

- Hey, what was the verdict on the mushrooms? 

He replies by way of a painting. It's...intense.

- Whoa. That's amazing. It's so different for you.

- I'm very stoned.

- I see that.  ...Can you give me a lil guidance on the shrooms? I don't want to overdo it or underdo it. 

He replies with two more photographs of two different paintings. Vivid color, abstract human form, oversized and aggressive. 

- Greg? Focus. Did you do anything other than the shrooms?

- Stick with what I said last time. Take two caps and two stems to start.

He calls me and we chat for a few minutes. He's high, but lucid. He's leaving for New York the next day, for his niece’s naming ceremony. He wishes he could come to Coachella instead. He's going to get off the phone now, because he misses me and he's going to get sappy.

After we hang up, he sends one more text.

- I hope you have the best weekend ever. :)

It takes me hours to fall asleep, exhausted as I am. The anticipation is a stronger drug than anything I've brought from LA.

---

Friday morning I do a thing that can't really be called "waking up", because the transition isn't that defined. I just sort of drift from a state of wakeful dreaming to one of dreamy wakefulness. I haven't gotten nearly enough sleep to healthily sustain myself for what the day has in store, but whatever, it's Coachella. I've been banking “healthy" for weeks, for just this scenario: eating well, exercising, barely drinking, and sleeping on as regular a schedule as I can.

I've been hoarding vice points, and I'm going to cash every one of those suckers in this weekend.

But it's only eight a.m., and vice is still fast asleep even if I'm not, so I order a small pot of coffee from room service and slide the heavy balcony door open. The desert morning is everything I remember: that certain quality of light, the redness of the dirt, the subdued chirping, and the unmistakably dry smell in the air. When I retreat back into the still-dark hotel room, I notice how prettily the daylight spills in, and I take a couple pictures of the view—and myself inserted into it. I post a risque shot to Instagram, feeling giddy and hedonistic. And we're off...

After coffee and some emails, it's still only a quarter after nine, and much as I'd love to sneak in a nap, I know my excitement will make it impossible. So I slip on my shoes and head downstairs to explore. It's hot, really hot, but before I know what I'm doing, I've broken into a light jog around the grounds. I quickly realize this is a waste of my energy, and head back to the cool of my room.

Showering, hair and makeup, dressing and packing my backpack are a snap, since I've already got everything neatly laid out for the day. The only thing that remains to be done before I leave is portioning out and hiding whatever drugs I want to take to the festival today.

Despite having meticulously planned out every other detail of my weekend, I'm still not sure how I want to go about this. I'm assuming that security at Coachella will be similar to what it's been at Bonnaroo and Outside Lands: a quick once-over of my bag and belongings, and the most cursory of pat downs. I've never had a problem smuggling contraband into a festival, whether I hide it in my bra or leave it more or less in plain view in my bag; say, inside my sunglasses case, or zipped into the coin pouch I use as a wallet. It's just never been an issue.

On this trip, I've brought a couple of small lidded mixing cups from an art supply store to stash my, uh, stash in. I wanted something that would keep the MDMA tablets and the mushroom pieces from getting crushed, when they were transferred, post-security, into my backpack. The cups are about the diameter of quarters, and maybe half an inch thick. They cost three dollars, I think, for a set of twelve.

Never in my wildest dreams would I have anticipated the near heart attack that these stupid little pieces of plastic would give me, in about two hours' time.

---

On the shuttle ride in, I'm antsy and anxious. I switch my phone back and forth from airplane mode about a half dozen times, trying to gauge how much battery power I lose after sending a handful of texts and replying to a few comments on Instagram. I've brought a mobile charging pack for my phone, but I hate the feeling of being incommunicado, and don't want to go dark until the last possible minute.

I glance down the front of my camisole about every thirty seconds, where I can see two lidded cups plainly. I've carefully divided out today's serving of Happy between them, as well as extra, Just In Case. Each container has a few pieces of shroom and two purple tabs of ecstasy—way more than I'll need or should take, but You Never Know. The tiny cups are resting in the space between the corset wiring of my top and the bottoms of my breasts. I plan on buttoning up the second shirt I've brought over my camisole, as soon as I get off the bus. The containers will be completely out of view, and can only be felt if someone very deliberately feels me up. The security persons who patted me down at the previous two festivals I attended barely touched my rib cage and sides, much less the area around my breasts.

I'm convinced I'm going to breeze through without a problem.

Well.

Well, get out your popcorn, bitches, because shit is about to get entertaining.

There are two security checkpoints to get into Coachella, when you enter the festival on a shuttle. I did not know this.

Both security checkpoints are incredibly thorough. I did not know this.

Pat downs at these security checkpoints are extremely thorough. I did not know this.

I'm gonna paint you a picture of the next twenty minutes, which were some of the most nerve-wracking, if hilarious, of my entire life. First, know that it is some ninety degrees out. Blazingly hot. It's noon. The sun is beating down on me and a few ten thousand twenty-somethings. Fuck them. This is my story right now. But they were there. In clusters and pairs, loud, drunk, excited, singing, sweaty, and also loud.

I approach the first checkpoint, which is a series of metal scanning machines (for wristbands), manned by security teams of one man and one woman—men to pat down the men, and women to pat down the women. Since I'm one of a small handful of people disembarking the early shuttles, there are essentially no lines yet. So everything happens really, really fast.

Before I know it, I'm standing in line behind two girls, both of whom are handing over their purses to be checked. I notice that security is looking through these purses pretty closely. Ok, no problem. Nothing in my bag, anyway.

Then I witness the first pat down. And I realize I'm fucked. Eight ways from Sunday fucked. I watch as the female security officer runs her hands over every inch of the girl's body. This is only a slight exaggeration. Forget rib cages. The security staff person not only firmly, slowly, and thoroughly slides her hands up and around the girl's sternum and bra line, she lifts the bottom of the girl's bra.

LOL

Now, imagine being me, with my load of organics/inorganics tucked oh-so-conspicuously into a bra top that, in about twenty seconds, is going to be completely felt up and pulled out. There is no way this woman is not going to feel these containers in my shirt. No way in hell. The jig is up. And if by some miracle she doesn't feel them with her hands, they're going to fall out when she slides her finger underneath the top with the express purpose of dislodging exactly this sort of shit.

But there are already people in line behind me at this point, and there is nowhere to go. If I were to step out of line, a) it would look majorly suspicious, and b) I'd have nowhere to go, anyway! There are no bathrooms at this checkpoint. The shuttles are leaving. The only traffic flow is through security and into the festival. Not to mention, it's broad daylight and I'm amongst maybe ten, fifteen people tops, most of whom are either looking directly at me or facing my general direction. If I reach into my shirt right now, it's going to be clear as day what I'm doing.

So as far as I can tell, I'm totally fucked. And there's nothing I can do but just go with it, and when I get busted, say something like, Oh well, you caught me, haha, you can just keep that stuff, thanks...I can haz entrance into Coachella Music Festival now, plz?? 

Well, this is what happens: I'm next. I step up to the female security officer. I'm asked to take off my outer button down. I do so, and hand it over. She shakes it out. She looks through my bag. She asks me to open my sunglasses case, to unroll my socks.

All of this takes maybe fifteen seconds. It feels like hours.

She asks me to turn away, and then she pats me down, just as thoroughly as she did the previous two girls. My hips, my sides, my thighs—even the area around my crotch. Aaaaaand she gets to my top. Aaaaaaand sure enough, she feels the plastic containers in my bra. She's standing directly behind me as it happens. She's about twenty eight, maybe thirty years old. She's somewhat shorter than me. My face is turned back toward hers, so I see the look come into her eyes. A slight crease in her brow. Wait a second, what the heck is--

"It's the boning of my corset top," I blurt out, in the snottiest, smuggest, most condescending Valley girl tone I can muster. I look directly down at her, over my shoulder, as I say it. My voice brooks no dissent. It's the voice of a girl who is NOT going to deal with this shit, thank you so very much, because ohmygawd, it's hot okaaaayyy? And this is my rully awesome Free People top with CORSET BONING, okaayyyyy?? And could you be any stupider for not realizing that that's what you feel??  I mean, HELLO??

And people? It works. It unbelievably fucking works. The girl has her hands ON these plastic cups, she can feel them plain as day in her fingers, but whether it's my ohnoyoudon't tone, or the fact that it was all happening so fast, or the fact that she knew but just didn't want to deal with it...it works.

And she says "Okay," and waves me through, and down the dirt path towards the festival field.

Which is great. Except that it's only the FIRST. FUCKING. CHECKPOINT.

---

So now I'm shaking like a leaf, obviously, and I know this isn't going to fly a second time. And people are starting to pour in by the thousand from the camping section, into the grassy area that constitutes this next, main security checkpoint. Lines of several hundred people are forming quickly. Clusters of kids singing, cavorting, downing the beers they can't bring in. Hot. So, so hot and sweaty.

By now I've transferred the containers to my backpack, for the short term, while I figure out what I'm going to do next. My "plan" (LOL) is to hang back and watch this security, to see what if any loopholes there are to getting through. There are so many people streaming in and pressing up that I'm convinced this has to be a more lax checkpoint—otherwise it would take an hour of waiting in line to just get into the festival.

Well, yeah. That's exactly what's going on. It is about an hour wait. And security is just as tight as it was at the first point. I see that almost immediately. In fact, it's even stricter—there is the added measure of requiring attendees to spread their legs as they receive their pat downs (#foreshadowing). I also see mounted security officers on horses, scanning the crowd for precisely idiots like me—people panicked and scrambling at the last second to hide their drugs.

At some point, I have a truly cringeworthy inner dialogue with myself, where I act as both my parents, every guidance counselor I've ever had, and a handful of my favorite professors (including my high school French teacher)—all shaming and scolding me for this ridiculousness, while I cower in a corner and just nod balefully. What the ever loving FUCK, Ellie? How old are you again? Are you really a nearly forty year old woman, trying to sneak drugs into a music festival?? Mon dieu!! 

Oui. Oui I am.

Welllllll, if you're a woman—or at least a man vaguely familiar with the female anatomy—you know where this story is going. It's going the only place it can go. It's going to the only place it can be kept a secret, and out of sight. The only place it will safely fit.

Yep. That's right. In broad daylight, in plain view of about a thousand (mostly sober) festival goers and at least one pair of mounted security officers (that I saw), your blogmistress crept off to as "private" a patch of grass against the fence as she could find, knelt down to pretend she was adjusting something in her backpack, and shoved two quarter sized plastic containers full of drugs up into her underwear. Thank GOD I was wearing a skirt, right?! Not to mention tight, non-thong underwear!

And let's get specific here. These pat downs? They included a nice little pat-pat-pat of the girls' bikini areas. This shit was no joke, yo. So I couldn't just slip those little guys down the front of my underwear. Oh no. They had to ride up in the undercarriage, if you know whumsaying. Without the help of any, you know, fastening agent? Like tape? Or pins? Or anything at all? That's how secure the cups were. In other words: NOT AT ALL. That's what I had to concentrate on not dropping, as I waddled walked back into line.

FUN TIMES.

Your blogmistress then maneuvered her way—with as natural a gait as she could muster—through a densely packed line of singing, cursing, yelling, laughing, drinking, and sweaty revelers, only occasionally reaching down to make, um, adjustments to her wardrobe and ensure the success of her mission. Basically, I looked like some kind of physically impaired person with a raging STD that I needed to scratch every other minute.

SUPER FUN TIMES.

But bitches, success was had. I was patted, petted, felt up, looked over, and finally, nodded on through, at which point I shuffled my way into The Promised Land, with as cool a game face as I could fake, even though the whole time my thoughts were something like Ohholyshitohholyshitdontdropthemwalkslowohmygodaretheyfallingoutohholyshit, and proceeded with all due haste (if not much grace) to the nearest Port-a-Potty, where I triumphantly relocated my party favors into my backpack, where they goddamn well belonged, because while yes, I admit to enjoying the occasional hallucinogen or empathogen with my live music, I'm still a lady, goddamn it, and I don't appreciate the inconvenience of The Law getting in the way of my Recreational Drug Use, and forcing me to such drastic and truly unladylike measures, okaaayyyyy?

At any rate, I was in.

- - -

So now I'm in. I'm frazzled and sweaty, I'm furious at myself for not having been better prepared for security, but at least I'm in. And I'm glad I've come as early as I have, because in spite of lines that are choking the entrance, the grounds are still pretty sparse. The relatively clear expanse of the main field is relieving to see, and I feel like I can relax, catch my breath, and get the lay of the land.

And it doesn't take long to do so. When I walk the perimeter of the festival, mentally ticking off each of the stages, I'm shocked at how much smaller it seems than Bonnaroo and Outside Lands. I see immediately that this layout has a vastly better flow for foot traffic; stages are closer together and arranged in a way that makes sense and will be easy to navigate in the dark.

While it normally takes me some time to get my "festival legs", at Coachella I feel comfortable almost right away. Bonnaroo and Outside Lands are massive, sprawling festivals which felt intensely crowded, all the time. Coachella instantly feels different to me. Roomy, chill, not overly packed. There's plenty to see—art installations and sculptures and various structures for viewing and climbing—but it doesn't feel nearly as chaotic and jumbled as Bonnaroo, or as epically huge as Outside Lands.

Despite having taken the first shuttle, what with the first day security lines being so ridiculous, I've missed Lord Huron. But I'm okay with it; they're based out of LA, and I'm pretty sure I can catch them back at home sometime. Next up on my schedule, my first show of the festival: Youth Lagoon, in about forty five minutes. This is perfect, because it gives me time to sit down for a bit, take in the sights/sounds, and eat.

On my lunch menu: grilled chicken pita with rice, and a small handful of magic mushrooms. And lots and lots of water to wash it all down.

I find a shaded spot under a tent next to a string of food vendors, near the tented outdoor stage where Youth Lagoon will soon play, lay out my vinyl-backed sheet, and sit to have my meal. Music floods in from every corner of the festival, weighing heavily in the bright afternoon glare. There are small groups of people sitting all around me, and festival staff tending to the tables beside us. I'm completely alone, but surrounded. I'm anonymous.

The food is decent, but nothing remarkable, and I make to myself the only negative comparison that I'll log the whole weekend, between Coachella and the other fests: the food is nowhere near as good or as varied as the gourmet food trucks of Bonnaroo and Outside Lands.

This is the first time I've eaten loose mushrooms; I've only ever had them mixed into small bars of chocolate before. Greg has warned me that they'll taste bitter and awful, and advised me to to tear them into tiny pieces to sprinkle on my food. They don't smell bad at all, I'd said, when he'd handed me the baggie and I'd held it under my nose. They'd smelled to me like tea, or herbs. Trust me, you won't want to eat them plain, he'd replied.

I glance around before casually reaching with both hands into my backpack, which sits open beside me. I carefully pop the lid of one small plastic cup and pick out what looks like a tiny, twisted twig. It's shriveled in a way that reminds me of something my mother kept all of her life, much to my horror and fascination, in the sewing box that now sits on my sideboard: a small section of my umbilical cord.

The stem is easy to crumble into smaller pieces, and I carefully wedge one into a lump of chicken before chewing the combination down to bits and swallowing.

I taste nothing but chicken.

I repeat my efforts with a slightly larger piece of the stem, but again I taste nothing unusual. I have a few more small bites of regular food, sans toadstool, again chewing fastidiously, and follow up with several large swigs from my water bottle. I'm aiming to eat enough to give the high legs, but not so much that it will be eclipsed by my body's digestive efforts.

When I figure I've had enough chicken and rice, I pluck the rest of the allotted shrooms from the container and cup them in my palm. I pinch a centime-sized cap between my fingertips and examine it. It looks like an acorn top, and smells earthy. Gingerly, I take the littlest of bites, careful not to let any flake off and be wasted.

It tastes bland and inoffensive, dry but slightly chewy; like a tiny leaf giving up the ghost in autumn.

I slowly eat the rest of the shrooms in this way, unbothered by the texture or flavor, which actually strikes me as strangely pleasant. This having been done, I pause for a moment—a deep breath, a conscious effort to take inventory of my senses, my surroundings. I've just eaten enough mushrooms that, if I've estimated the dosage correctly, will take me on a harder, deeper trip than I've ever gone before. I've done this on purpose. Today I don't want to experience just a happy, lighthearted and lightheaded tingling of my senses.

Today, I want to hallucinate.

Today I want to feel the full range of effects that this organic drug has to offer, for better or for worse. I've primed myself by reading and listening to the stories of other users. I have some idea what to expect, and I'm both excited and nervous. A tiny voice in the back of my mind has started chirping what ifs at me, posed less like questions than vague threats. What if something goes wrong. What if you react badly. What if you freak out. What if you have some kind of seizure.

But I'm not scared. I've done enough drugs by now to understand how important the mind-body connection is, despite being someone who once scoffed at such a new age concept. It's true though; I've learned that, as with much of life, attitude has a big role in the experience of a drug. Sure: there's only so much conscious effort we can direct into it, and at a certain point chemistry and biology are going to do what they're going to do. But fear makes for a terrible guide, because he just slaps a blindfold on you behind which you cringe and cower until the ride is over.

And I want to see everything today.

I gather my things, shake off my sheet, and slowly drift over to the Mojave tent, stopping to snap pics of some art along the way.

There's a bit of a crowd at Mojave, but nothing overwhelming. I check them out as I pick my way through groups and pairs, curious to see the sorts of people who are just as into the dreamy, trippy, shoe gaze sounds of Youth Lagoon as I am—to see who cared enough to get here early, and get a good spot.

For myself, I choose the back left section, where I'll have some room to myself but still be in direct line of a massive, angled speaker. It's important to me to find my concert "sweet spot" (that place where I have some breathing room, though not so far back as to feel left out of the scene ), but that's all for naught if I can't hear the music good and loud. Nothing I'm going to think or feel, nothing I'm coaxing my mind and body into experiencing will matter, if the moment isn't scored correctly. Because I'm here for the music, first and foremost. I put down my sheet, though folded up to only allow enough room to sit cross-legged with my bag in my lap. I know there's a good chance I'll want (need) to sit when the shrooms kick in, no matter who's standing around me, and I don't want to be a space hog. Once situated, I look around at the crowd. Young. Really young. Eager. Happy. Gearing up. I check the time. Five minutes until the show starts; twenty minutes since I've finished eating...

It starts fast.

Shockingly fast, in fact.

In my previous experiences with mushrooms, the effect settled on me slowly, almost imperceptibly. There would come a moment when the glint of sunlight would be especially golden and warm, or the tinkling sounds of a fountain would linger suspiciously long in my ears, and I'd know: something was happening. But that was a gentle intensifying of my senses—a teasing them into a state of extra wakefulness, and heightened capacity.

This is something different. This is what I'd seen mentioned on one forum online, in doing my dosage research. The phrase had jumped out at me from the screen, intriguing but a little bit scary, too: The only thing I don't like about shrooms, this poster had written, is the rocket ride up.

The rocket ride up. Rocket ride up. Rocket ride. 

When I'd read that, I'd dismissed it, based on my other experiences. Nah, I'd thought. That's not how they are for me.

Well. Amendment time. That's not how they were for me. Until today.

All of a sudden, it feels as if the air has thickened. That's the first thing I notice: the change in the atmosphere. In my atmosphere. The breeze that was playing across my bare arms is still there, but someone somewhere is squeezing a handbrake, and it h a s   s    l   o   o   o   o   o   o  w  e  d   d o w n. And it feels less like air than...water. The smoothness of water; the way the miniature tides of a heated swimming pool will caresses your skin, in subtle jets and waves—that's what it feels like.

And now it's above me. This water. This weight. I feel as if I'm being pressed to the ground, but not in an oppressive, uncomfortable way. Just a matter-of-fact way. Like, Hm. Well. There's absolutely no way I could stand up right now, even if I wanted to. But whatever, that's cool. I'm sitting. And it feels almost as if there's intent behind it. As if, while I'm obviously not in control, someone or something else is.

I'd shortly know who that someone was.

But for right now, I'm here. I'm sitting. In water. I look around. Whoa. The sun. Very bright. Okay. It's starting. And now color. Color makes itself known. Presents itself. Again—intention. The colors of things shrug off a dull outer layer, like when you run a fingertip down a foggy window. What was there on the other side is suddenly really there. Flushed cheeks are pinker, more alive. I can't see anyone's pores from here, that would be ridiculous!—or the movements of their tongues behind their teeth...but that's what it feels like. Life, magnified. Life, coming to life.

And then I get the giggles. In a really, really bad way. Like, sitting-in-the-back-row-of-homeroom-with-your-best-friend-making-faces-at-you type giggles. Like, absolutely-cannot-make-a-sound-because-if-you-do-you're-getting-detention type giggles. And I'm fascinated by how it happened, because though I may be reaching, I think I understand the genesis of it.

From the moment I'd gotten to the festival, I'd been more than a little bit ... spooked, by how young the crowd was. It seemed much younger to me than Bonnaroo or Outside Lands. And it had challenged me somewhat, and made me more self-conscious than I usually am. And I'd realized when I'd been waiting in line, pressed up hot and sweaty with all of these kids, that I was going to have to work a little bit, to get past those feelings. And the strategy I adopted for the short term? Ignore them. Just blot them out of my sight. Look through and past them. Focus on the fest, on the sights and sounds, and on myself.

And that had worked great up until the mushrooms found out about it. But when they caught wind of what I was doing, they were all, Nuh uh, Ellie. Not so fast. Let's have a closer look at that, shall we? I found myself gazing around at everyone who, wait just a minute--what's going on with time??

And that's when things, heretofore a little bit weird, get really fucking weird. Because I realize, with what remaining shreds of lucidity are fast fleeing my brain, that I have no idea how much time has passed since I've been sitting down. I can't tell if I've been there for hours or seconds. I mean, I know the music hasn't even started yet, I'm aware enough to realize that. But it's as if I've blacked out during the minutes that all of this has been happening. Lost time, as they say.

At any rate, I barely have time to register this psychological development because I'm gazing around at everyone, at all these legs, bare and young, all these faces, bright and smooth. I can hear their voices, emerging into a cacophony of sound that just ... sounds ... so ... young. Like, like...like b a b i e s.

Yes. God. T h e y  s o u n d   l i k e        b    a   b   i   e   s.

You know the dream where you're naked in front of a class, or a lecture hall? And it's the worst, most mortifying and embarrassing thing ever? Now invert that, in every way possible. You're not naked—everyone else is. You're not humiliated—everyone else is. Well, that's what happens. I am suddenly about to watch Youth Lagoon with a crowd of crying, naked, crawling babies.

My brain has seized upon this idea that everyone is so much younger than me, has thrown a jet pack on it, splashed in some nitro, and strapped it to a rocket ride to the fucking moon. And there is absolutely nothing I can do about it but hold on tight. I'm not in the throes of hallucination—not yet. I don't actually think I'm seeing a crowd of diapered infants. But my brain is so complicit with the drugs in wanting to see this, in wanting to burst through this barrier I've subconsciously set up for myself, that I don't think I would have reacted much differently if I'd been fully hallucinating. The absurdity of my thoughts pins me down and tickles me until I can't breathe. I look around at these people—adults, all of them—and all I see are helpless, wailing babies.

Already sitting with my knees pulled up tight against my body, I stuff my face into the crook of my elbow, horrified. Oh my god. I'm giggling. I can't giggle. I'm at Youth Lagoon. I look around me, desperate for a partner in crime. Someone must surely see the state I'm in, and even if they don't see what I see, they'll sympathize with the poor girl who's clearly tripping, and smile at me, and wordlessly tell me that it's ok?

Yeah, no. No such comfort to be found. No nasty looks or anything like that. Just, no one's looking at me because, because, wait, what? Because...

...because the music has started. How long has it been going?? I don't know. I don't k n o w. I  d o  n  o t  - - -  w  h  o  a . . .

Down, look down. Dizzy. Heavy. Washing down. Don't look up. Nausea. Too much. Water. Water? On me. Around me? In me? Water? I slowly, slowly, slowly tilt my head down and see a water bottle poking out of my backpack. I take a sip, and in doing so, throw my head back. No. Noooooo. Not up. Don't look up. No. 

Grass. The grass. Focus on the grass. Yes. Just the grass. That little bit, right there, right in front of your legs. Yes. Ok. Ooooooookaaaaay. Grassssss. Green and yellow and you can breathe and yes. Grass. 

Sound.

Sound.

Sound.

Music.

Oh. My. God. The music.

Stop reading this post for a minute. Stop and pull yourself out of it, leave the scene I'm describing and think of a time when you felt immense, jaw-dropping wonder. At some sight maybe, a breathtaking landscape or a beautiful woman—or your first taste of fois gras. Whatever. Some moment when life put out its hand, flat and hard against your sternum, and stopped you in your tracks.

That's what it feels like, when one part of my brain catches up with another part, like kids skipping together on a playground, who've dropped hands when one stopped short, and the other goes on ahead but then her friend runs to catch up—and I realize what I'm hearing, and it isn't just music, it isn't just the same collection of sounds I've been looping on Spotify for months. It's dimensional. It's layered, but not layered in the abstract way music is always described. It has actual, physical layers that I can feel, as if someone is throwing blankets on top of me while I sit there, then yanking them off again seconds later, and then throwing another back on, this one silky and cold, and now here's a quilt, lofty and light, settling s l o w l y and airily on me but wait now it's gone, oh here comes something thick and heavy, wool, on top of me, but now that's gone and here's just the whisper of a sheet and and and

This is what it feels like, but translated into sound.

And I'm staring at the grass, which has started to pulse, the tiny blades are moving, like a moving sidewalk, pulsing and swaying and and and now they're starting to breathe, oh my god, it's breathing, it's alive, the grass is alive and everyone is standing on it!! They don't know! THEY'RE GOING TO KILL IT THEY'RE GOING TO KILL THE GRASS I HAVE TO ---

Shhhhh.

I hear him before I see him.

Shhhhh, he says softly. It's okay. Shhhhh.

And I believe it is okay, because the voice is so sure and true and I trust it. I trust it completely, even if I don't know where it's coming from, even if --

Oh. There. There you are. I stare down at my patch of grass, my safe place to direct my thoughts, my energy. I can see him there. He's in the grass. Was that you?

Yes. It was me. Shhhh.

The tiny blades of grass pulse and sway, some move this way, some move that way. And just in the same way you see shapes emerge from the clouds, I see the monkey in the grass. The shading of colors in the ground is just right; the bits of dryer, yellow grass form his two eyes, his nose, his lips. The slightly shaggier green edges of the patch form the fur around his face. His jaw is lean and angular. His features are sharp. His eyes gaze up and bore into me.

He's actually rather terrifying, but I don't have time to react because because because time is speeding up and slowing down, all in the same split second and and and

this is all too fast, and who's driving? are we moving? is this safe? please slow down (music music music), this water is wet, and the grass monkey said it's ok, because he's obviously not a baby, and is made of tiny yellow pasta noodles, like penne or or or what's that other tube? Macaroni? 

And he's (music music music) directing all of this, conducting it. He's rising floating should I close my or just keep them rising floating directing he's a puppet? No. No. He's a     ....    ringmaster conductor monkey. Just for me. He's just for he said it's ok I'm scared by I thought I was here for the music but Youth Lagoon he's at an organ in the back of the circus tent I'm at a circus for me just my circus the ringmaster monkey is above and floating, large just a face, it's ok, he's in charge, I watch soundtrack by Youth Lagoon and I h a  v  e    t   o   c   losemyeyes now. Now. Now.

But closing my eyes is exactly what he wants me to do. Because that's where the the the

the circus tent what's the circus who's in it animals? no.  people? no who who what is this circus, I can see a big open tent

music music music 

Oh. Oh. Of course. I suddenly get some traction to my thoughts, to this whirlwind of nothingness and everythingness that's spinning me around in my own mind. It becomes clear and simple: just colors and shapes. That's the circus. That's all. I'm going to watch a circus in my mind, with my eyes closed, but instead of animals or people, it will be performed by shapes and colors. Easy peasy. I can do that.

And so, with my ringmaster monkey friend floating up in the corner, overseeing and directing, and Trevor Powers off to the side, working away at his keyboard and his computer, I watch a circus, my eyes shut tight for an hour, while I sit wrapped up in my own limbs. And what sucks is how predictable it is that I'll say something like And it was the most beautiful thing I've ever seen and heard, but I have to, I have to say it. Because it is. It is geometry and light, for an hour straight, behind the drawn curtain of my mind. It is planes and patterns, shrinking and growing, zipping and cutting, flexing and bowing. It is sound that oozes and drips all over everything, coating it and stretching it, teasing it or smashing against it. The mushrooms take the music and enrich it in a way that defies metaphor, and you guys know I love me some metaphor, but I can't even try with this. Just: rich, richer, richest. Enriched.

And there are other things that sneak in there, too. Faces, some scary, all foreign, all with intent that I don't understand. They're there when I open my eyes, hovering in the glow of the afternoon, flattened against the backs of people who don't know they're there. But I like it better in the dark, with my eyes closed, where they recede quicker into the black, and I can contain them. Sort of. All the while, though, I know I'm safe. The monkey figure is a guide and a guru. It feels like he knows me, like he's always known me. I don't know what part of my subconscious has projected him out of me, or what he represents, but I know he won't hurt me, even when his face contorts with the music, ugly and elastic.

It is probably impossible to convey these feelings and thoughts from my brain into yours, even if I spend hours describing them. Or maybe it's not. Maybe you get it. Or you get it enough, anyway. I don't want to sound mega hyperbolic or crazy dramatic or any more obnoxious than I know I already do with this hard-to-read stream of eyeball-stabbing consciousness. You could be sitting there like Lady, enough already, you tripped on mushrooms, we get it. 

If so, I'm sorry, because holy shit was it incredible to me, and exactly what I'd wanted and hoped for, so I can't help but be effusive. It was intense, but not overwhelmingly so. I felt like I went right up to the edge of whatever it was I wanted to edge up to, but I didn't fall off. I just leaned out over the abyss, anchored by some invisible thread, and surveyed the things I knew existed but had never seen.

tldr; Youth Lagoon on shrooms was amazing, and I loved it.

(Even though it didn't even remotely compare to the way I would feel two days later, when everything I thought I knew about the way my mind and body could make me feel would be turned inside out and upside down, taken from me and given back, a promise and a lie that I will tell you and tell myself and nothing will change except for the fact that it happened once, if never again.)

Two caps and two stems. That, I now know, is the going price of admission to the color sound circus in my mind, orchestrated by a macaroni monkey and scored by a genius with black curls and a heartbreakingly haunted look.

I just wish I could have bought him a ticket, too.

—-

Opening my eyes slowly, taking a breath, taking in where I am and what I'm feeling. My senses and motor function are on a few seconds' delay, so standing and gathering my things, dusting the dried grass off my skirt and putting my backpack on again all represent fair-sized challenges. 

And when I start to walk, picking my way through the dispersing crowd and those who are still on the ground nearby, I realize that I am exceptionally high. The sunlight hits me as I emerge from the shade of the tent, and everything just sort of goes haywire in my brain. All I can think about is the light, which is blinding and hot. So bright. It's really bright. Whoa. Bright. 

I have no idea what I'm doing, or where I'm going. My schedule, so painstakingly put together, flies right out of my head. I'm aware of being at Coachella. I'm aware that there's music to be watched. But I couldn't tell you where on the festival grounds I am, what time it is, how long I've been there, or what on earth I should do next. 

I'm vaguely aware that I should be self-conscious about this, that I'm really on the edge of being in kind of a bad spot—I mean, if I'm so high that I've lost the ability to even navigate, then hell. That's a pretty expensive overdose. But I'm unbothered by this possibility. I only feel a massive sense of bemused detachment. Despite not knowing what the hell is going on, I'm having a blast.

The good news is, the stage I've just left is right beside the one I'm supposed to head to next—literally, a few dozen steps away. And the music emanating from it drifts to me, creeps into my brain, wraps a tendril or two around the right neural pathways, and I realize: Dillon. 

I can't run. That's not a possibility. But I'm okay with that. The sun and sound float me in the right direction, to a tent that is spilling over with a crowd that can't keep still. Everyone is dancing. It's like nothing I've seen yet, at a festival—this daylight-soaked chaos of joy and energy and heat. There are no half-measures. No standing back and watching, no casual swaying and foot-tapping. All these thousands of people are lit up with the music. Skin and sweat and smiles and this is some serious shit, right here. 

The closest I can get is a good ten feet past where the tent ends, in the far back. But it doesn't matter. Others in the same boat as me are just as happy as me just to be there, flooded over with the songs we've been rocking out to in our various ways for months and months. The crowd is one giant animal with a few thousand hearts, all throbbing outside its body. The feedback loop of energy from dj to crowd and back again is incredible, and almost overwhelming. I close my eyes and dance, scorching hot in the afternoon sun. I'm here.

I picture my arms and legs extending out, my fingers reaching to pull into me all these split-second moments and impressions I don't want to forget. I'm sponging it all up frantically. I'm not in any state to think of taking pictures, but here's one from Dillon Francis's Instagram, taken from the stage, that gives you a great sense of the scene:

When it ends, I'm in a bit of a state. Overheated, dehydrated, disoriented. Even a little bit emotional. I buy a bottle of water and try not to bump into anyone as I wander in the direction of the main stages, gulping down water and searching my mind. Next. What's next. 

Stars. Stars is next. 

I've been listening to Stars since college—when I listened to them on CD. I remember the very first time I heard them. Borders Books and Music used to have these listening stations where they'd put up new and popular music. You could pop on a pair of headphones and preview entire CDs. I used to go to the one in Tucson, at Park Mall, and spend inordinate amounts of time at those listening stations. And Stars was one of my finds there. 

Things I associate with their music include, but are not limited to:

relationships in my twenties

existential angst in my twenties 

Okay well that list was going to be much longer, but I realize that pretty much covers it. Suffice to say, Stars were the soundtrack to my twenties. If you're not familiar with their music, it's pretty heavy on romantic narrative, which was the perfect backdrop for the OMGdramaz I (thought I) went through. I really believed I was living a romantic comedy at the time. Zero self-awareness for this one back then. 

Anyway, I've never seen them perform. They're from Montreal, and they tour (and release new albums) with relative frequency, but I've just not seen them yet. And again, totally obnoxious to drop one of those OTT And omgooddddd it was even more perfect than I could have imagined, I know, but it is. It really is. 

I sit off towards the front right. It isn't overly crowded when I sit down, but I do have to move a few times when I keep getting boxed in by standers, because I really, really want to sit. Eventually I give up and have to go pretty far into the foul ball zone, and initially I am frustrated by this, but the sound is still incredible, and when I close my eyes, it doesn't matter where I am. Only once do I have the urge to tweet over the weekend, and it's during the beginning of this show. Because I'm doing this thing I've learned to do at festivals, which is where I shut my eyes and just slowly, slowly let everything and everyone but the music fall away. Then I reconstruct the scene in my mind, bit by bit. First the field, then the stage—then myself. I imagine sitting exactly where I'd want to be sitting. And then in my mind, all with my eyes closed still, I let the field fill back up. But because this is all in my imagination, I'm in complete control of the crowd—how close they are to me, whether they're sitting or standing, and so on.

In other words, the mental space I'm inhabiting at this show looks nothing whatsoever like reality. And that's an awesomely empowering thing to be able to do. So the tweet I briefly had in mind to send was something like Did you know that when you close your eyes, you can be anywhere? But then I realized how random and dumb that would sound, and that I wouldn't be in any kind of state to answer anyone who might reply to it. 

So I sat and listened in my wholly fabricated imaginary environment, and I just let the music have its way with me. And the mushrooms stopped being about heightened sensory awareness, and started being about the Bigger Picture of Life, as they'd been in San Francisco last year. And this really magical and beautiful (I know, I know) thing happened where I had long overdue funeral for my twenties (I know). But really, that's the best way I can put it. I just put to bed some of the demons that have been lurking in my head, that I didn't even know still kept a room up there. A really damaging relationship. An abortion. A mixed bag of regrets related to my family. It just all sort of spilled out onto the table in my head, and bit by bit, I picked it up, looked it over, and then set it down again, finally done with it. Finally at peace.

Oh and the whole time, tears were streaming down my face. 

I was sitting crosslegged by myself, on my little sheet, with my sunglasses on, and my face tilted up to the sun, listening to songs that had moved me so deeply, for so many years, and now were moving me again, across time and emotion to places that I didn't even know needed a return visit. And like I say, I know how ugh annoying it is when someone gushes over some experience, but jesus. It was so beautiful. And it meant the world to me.

After a while I gave up wiping the tears away, because I figured if anything that would draw more attention to the fact that I was crying, if anyone was even looking, and I just let them come. 

And now I'm going to get a little bit elliptical because if I don't I'm never going to get through writing about this weekend. 

Of Monsters and Men is similarly emotional. Again, I lay my blanket down far to the side—all the way to the side, in this case, because the stage is packed. And that's actually a bit of a bummer, because I'm so far over that I'm actually up against a fence that borders a service road. Hence, there's the noise of golf carts motoring by a few feet away. But I've seen Of Monsters and Men before at Outside Lands, and it was a really great experience for me then, so I don't feel overly anxious about having the perfect show today.

Instead I just lay down completely, listen, and just reconnect to thoughts of my dad, which is something I don't "indulge" in all that often these days. And there were tears, but they weren't grieving tears. They were just pure neutral emotion, neither good nor bad. The sun was setting and I rolled over onto my stomach and looked out to see my first Coachella dusk. I saw the crowd silhouetted against the sun, and the ferris wheel and the balloons in the background. And it was breathtaking, and I was overcome with gratitude to have been born when and where I was, to be able to experience it.

Senators

July 4, 2013

I wake up well past twilight, my forehead pounding. I have a couple of missed texts and a missed voicemail. Invitations from friends to hang out that evening. One is from a girlfriend who lives in West Hollywood.

Ellie! I'm heading out with Dean to Pink Taco on Sunset around 8. Come!! I haven't seen you!! 

I take inventory of my body. Headache. Stuffy nose. Dry throat. Stomach still stuffed from the two slices of pizza I scarfed down that afternoon before dozing off. Definitely an empire waist kind of night if I do go out, which I know I probably shouldn't, but I really want to see my friends. It's one thing to stay in when there's nothing going on, but I hate the feeling of missing out. 

I listen to the voicemail. Lorena reiterating her invitation, making sure I get the details in case I want to join them. I glance at the clock before calling her back. She tells me the plan: swing by Pink Taco for a drink and to say hi to some friends of Dean’s, then Bagatelle, then some club in Beverly Hills. Dean has the hookup and we won't have to wait in line or pay a cover. Also—and this is pitched as selling point—the club is straight. I laugh and tell her I'm in, but that they should go on ahead of me. I'll get ready, take the train to Hollywood, then cab it the rest of the way and be there as soon as I can. 

It's been gorgeous out at night, and I'd love to wear something tight and black, but my pizza lunch has ruled that out. I guzzle water while I'm getting ready, telling myself futilely that I shouldn't drink tonight. Knowing that I will anyway. I pull on a sundress with a forgiving waistline. It's cute, but not the right look for where I'm headed. I stare at my dress rack for half a minute, trying to envision what I can get away with comfortably, then decide not to worry about it. I need to hurry anyway.

The subway feels like a swamp, and I'm grateful not to have had to dress more warmly. While I'm waiting at Wilshire/Vermont to switch lines, I text another friend to let him know I slept through his invitation, but would love to make plans for another night. A man on the bench besides me asks if I'm getting cell reception. I nod and point above us.

"I think we're right below the entrance," I say. He offers me his seat, and his friends groan, pretending to object to having to move. I laugh and tell them to stay put, that I'm fine. They ask where I'm headed. I cautiously say West Hollywood, not sure how deep into this conversation I want to go. But they're very chill and friendly, just being generally chatty. They're on their way home from watching jazz and drinking wine at LACMA. 

One of them sits beside me on the train, and we make small talk for another two stops. Have I been to the jazz nights at the museum? No, I have not. Sounds fun though. It is, I am assured. I'll have to check it out sometime, I say. How about next weekend, he smiles. I smile back. No, thanks. Can't make it then. He's unoffended and impassive, and wishes me a goodnight as he and his friends disembark.

The tourist throng at Hollywood and Highland isn't too thick, and I get a cab with ease. It's a van, and I have trouble shutting the heavy door behind me as I climb in. The driver—a hulking, smiling Eastern European—realizes as we're stopped in traffic a minute later that I haven't closed it properly. He reaches back with one arm and pulls it tight.

"Oh, I'm sorry about that," I say.

Without turning around, he points at his cheek. "One kiss," he teases. I laugh and my phone lights up. Lorena telling me they've made a first stop at Saddle Ranch, and to let her know when I'm close so they can walk over to meet me. Don't get whiplash riding the bull, I say.

Distracted by the scenes of Hollywood street life on a Friday night, I don't pay attention to where we are, and before I know it, we've arrived. I send a quick text before pulling cash out of my wristlet. Oops, I'm here. She fires back: We're walking down now. 

Getting out of the van with anything remotely resembling grace proves beyond me. Our proximity to the curb combined with my ridiculous clog heels spell disaster, and I nearly break my neck in front of an amused patio full of diners. I scuttle to a corner out of view and text L. I just made a scene trying to get out of the cab. Totally mortified. We have to go somewhere else now, sorry. 

The two of them walk up a minute later, bubbling over with Friday night energy and smiles. Hugs are exchanged and we go inside, where Dean greets a large table of friends of his. Lorena and I hang back, use the restroom, get a drink. We only stay long enough for Dean to have made an appearance at his friend's birthday, then we take a taxi to Bagatelle.

We spend the next hour drinking champagne, sharing appetizers, and taking turns updating one another on the men in our lives. Dean makes us groan with jealousy when he shows us pics of the model he's seeing. Lorena and I have had very similar romantic lives for the past few years. She and I are the same age, yet we both tend to date younger guys. For her, this is a deliberate choice. She likes how playful, affectionate, and attentive they are. For me, it's accidental. At least, as best I can tell. But I definitely agree with her on the benefits.

Sufficiently liquored up, we join some coworkers of Dean’s who are heading to the aforementioned club in Beverly Hills. The three of us ride in the backseat of a spotless black X5, joking and singing along with the music. My headache, I realize, has been temporarily bullied out of existence by the champagne.

We valet the car in front of a smallish club entrance with a massive line of anxious looking, stunningly beautiful people. I'm too tipsy to pay attention to exactly where I am, to glance up or down the street for landmarks—not to mention note the name of the club we're entering—but the immaculate state of the sidewalk registers with me. Yep. Beverly Hills.

Since we've tagged along with a friend of a friend of the promoter (or something along those lines), we are escorted through and past the waiting crowd, to present ourselves to an attractive middle-aged woman in a skintight cocktail dress. She verifies who we're with, then deftly outfits us in wristbands before unhooking the velvet rope to let us pass. I don't make eye contact with anyone waiting in line as all of this happens, but I make a point to politely thank the door staff who usher us inside.

The club is small and very dark. A tiny bar, smallish dance floor, and a raised seating area with about ten sofa groupings for bottle service. There aren't many people here yet.  The three of us fix ourselves drinks at the table the friend-of-a-friend has, and look around. I stash my wristlet and phone under the table, and we take our drinks to the near-empty dance floor. The DJ is jump-cutting crowd favorites from the eighties onward, and we sing to one another as we goof around, still plenty of space between us. Two minutes have barely passed before someone bumps into me, spilling vodka and Red Bull down the bottom half of my dress and my legs. I'm unbothered by the accident—in fact the splash of cold actually feels good in the stuffy nightclub—but we're forced to move to a dryer patch of floor lest we slip.

It fills up fast, and with people that are even more beautiful than I remember them being outside. The three of us have a grand time nudging each other, pointing, giggling, and speculating. Is he looking at you or me? Another drink and another half an hour later, we're ready to mingle.

It's actually a fun little club to be at; it's small enough to not get separated from your friends for too long, but it's filled way past capacity, stuffing patrons into a space that's obscenely undersized for the crowd, and therefore allowing for (forcing, really) plenty of opportunities to socialize with the people you've bumped up against. The three of us are having lots of laughs and enjoying ourselves immensely, and I get pretty brave in my flirtation. Lorena and I have only hung out a few times, and we're still getting to know one another—including figuring out one another's "type", for wingman purposes. She nods towards a tall, polished-looking guy in a white button down who's dancing near us.

"What about him?" she asks me. I check him out. Kind of smirky looking. Smug, really. But he has an interesting face, and I put him closer to my age than most of the crowd.

The man notices us noticing him, and before I know what's happening, he's navigated the two or three steps between us and is dancing with me. In the space of five minutes, I learn his name (Alexis), his occupation (investment banker), and the depth of his arrogance (vast). I almost immediately forget the sarcastic crack he makes about barely being able to afford going out in LA, but it's enough to give him my best really?? glare before mumbling something about needing to find my friends and moving off. But as I do, he says something I don't quite catch. I lean towards his ear to ask him to repeat himself, and he suddenly turns his face to kiss my cheek, though it feels rather like he was aiming for my lips.

"Whoa!" I say, pulling back and putting both my hands up in front of me. If Alexis even recognizes my indignation, his face betrays no embarrassment or regret. He just disappears back into the crowd, as randomly as he'd appeared.

The night goes on.

Emboldened by the drinks and unfazed by Alexis, I press on, making a game of singling out for conversation any of the men the three of us find cute, just for fun. They're all twenty-something. They're all gorgeous. And for the most part, they're very friendly. We take turns being wingman and recruiting for one another, but nothing really sticks.

I have another mildly shocking interaction with a guy who I notice, and who notices me back. Blondish, chiseled, built but very pretty. A poor woman's Tom Hardy. We throw looks at one another for a few minutes before he maneuvers himself next to me. He's about to speak when suddenly a dazzling platinum blonde appears, wrapping herself around him like a blanket. He kisses her. I turn my back.

A moment later the girl moves away from him. As she does, the man extends his arm just enough to touch my waist and back with a deliberate, slow stroke. I jerk my head around to look at him, and his expression is clear. No, he hasn't mistaken me for his companion. He knows he's touching me. My jaw falls open and I laugh out loud. Unbelievable. I'm too drunk, too surprised, and too amused to react in any way other than to return to my friends.

I see him once before we speak. He's stepping past Lorena and I, his body and face mostly angled away from us as he squeezes past, trying to get out of the seating area. Thick, wavy, sandy blonde hair that he's bound up in ponytail at the base of his neck. I can't tell how long it is exactly, but I suspect chin length. Smooth, slightly tan skin with an even tone and pinkish cheeks. The kind of skin that betrays an excellent diet and more daily water consumption than I manage in a week. Pale eyes, though at first I can't tell what color. He isn't smiling, so I won't see the diastema until we're in conversation a little while later. But I do see his very full lips. About six foot, maybe a bit less. A healthy but not ridiculously-so build. There's definitely cardio in his regime. He's wearing a chambray shirt underneath a kelly green blazer, and black jeans. I put him at twenty-five. He is, in my opinion, easily the best looking man I've seen tonight. A true California beach boy. Probably a surfer.

I point him out to Lorena as he passes and she gives me a look that says, Yep. Definitely nice. Also definitely young, girlfriend. She's right, I know. Out of my league looks-wise and way too young. I inwardly sigh and think not for the first time how much aging sucks.

A few minutes later I head to bathroom. I'm not really paying attention to where I'm stepping, other than to avoid the toes of the patrons I'm walking with, so I'm surprised when I feel my foot connect with something solid, send it flying across the hallway, and into the wall next to a photo booth. I realize I've just kicked a glass, full force. I look around guiltily, trying to figure out whose glass I've just punted, and I find myself face to face with Probable Surfer.

He smiles widely in sympathy. Diastema. He looks like Heath Ledger, but prettier. Less angular, less gaunt in the face, which glows with...something.

"Don't worry about it," he says. "I think I kicked it before, too."

"You can't take me anywhere," I reply. He laughs and we just sort of look at one another for a moment, assessing. Are we going to keep this going? Do we want to? I want to. Do you want to?

Apparently he wants to, because he makes a subtle join me gesture with his arm as he moves out of the flow of foot traffic, to the only space where we can stand that isn't in the way: next to the obnoxiously glowing photo booth, which is pouring hallogen light on my face at one a.m. I am not happy about this.

I also have a thought as it happens: This is what they mean by "falling" into conversation. 

Over the course of the next several minutes, I gather the following bits of information: he was born and raised in ____. He went to {Ivy League University} for undergrad. He just graduated from ____ law school. We've been to some of the same music festivals, the same years, where we could conceivably have seen one another. He wishes he were going to Burning Man like me. He likes my dress. He really likes floral prints, in fact (I greet this statement with a skeptical smile, as I suspect he's teasing me. No really. I have two floral print sofas at home.) His name is Matthew. He smiles a lot.

Enough time has passed that now I really have to use the restroom, and I say as much.

"So what," he says playfully. "You're walking out of my life, just like that?" Walking out of his life is the very last thing I want to do, but I refuse to ask him to wait for me where he's standing.

"I'll meet you back inside," I say with much more nonchalance than I feel. I'm only 80% sure I'll be able to find him again—it's a tiny place but the crowd is thick—but it's the only option.

"Okay," he says. "You better. Same team, right?" he asks, raising his eyebrows in mock seriousness.

"Same team," I nod. He nods too, and then we turn away from one another.

While I'm waiting in the line for the bathroom, I chat up two tipsy girls behind me. They compliment my dress, which, if nothing else, is inarguably unique in the mix of sleek, fashion-forward outfits everyone else is sporting.

"I look like I just came from church," I reply. One of the girls shakes her head vehemently.

"Do you have a ponytail holder?" she asks me.

"I wish," I reply. She bites her lip thoughtfully, looking me over.

"A ponytail and some eyeliner. That's all you need," she declares. I smile, not offended at all. She's exactly right.

"Next time," I assure her, feeling as if I've just promised my daughter to make a bigger effort towards looking cool at her soccer games.

It takes a few minutes to find him again, but serendipitously, his table is just a few feet away from ours. The next half hour: dancing, drinking, talking, joking. I introduce him to my friends. I try not to stare at him. He slowly ups the physical ante, and eventually, his arm is wrapped around my waist. I am okay with this. There is no arrogance in the gesture or, it seems, in him at all. In fact, I'm beginning to get the impression he's pretty crunchy. I squint at his ponytail. How long? I ask. He responds by reaching back and pulling the band from his hair. I notice it's the same "ouchless" kind I use. I watch as he finger combs his hair down to show me. Yep. Chin length. Golden and wavy and soft-looking. Devastating. I want to run my hand up the back of his head and gather it into my fist. Instead I just smile.

I allow myself one more moony question. "Twenty five?" I say, cocking my head as if studying him. He snorts, throwing me off. "Hmm, really? Twentyyyyyyy-seven?" I say, hoping I don't sound hopeful.

"Twenty-eight," he says, and that line of discussion stops there. He doesn't reciprocate the inquiry.

The club lights come on. Lots of lights, in fact, which seem unnecessarily bright. I catch my reflection in the mirror beside us. I am, undeniably, a hot mess. I've had a sinus infection for a good week, and have been losing sleep steadily because of it. I haven't touched up my lipgloss in hours. I cringe, taking myself in, and think wryly of the expression we used in my dancing days: ugly lights. Strip club owners, it seems, take malicious glee in flipping the light switch the second the clock strikes 2:00 a.m., leaving the girls to scramble to collect payment from their customers and scurry back to the dressing room, lest the brutally unflattering light turn them into pumpkins in the eyes of those men.

Knowing that these ugly lights aren't doing me any favors, I brace myself for a blowoff. But it doesn't come. In fact, the opposite: do I want to come to after hours with him and his friends? I consider. I know my friends are going to be heading home anyway. But if I leave with Matthew, it'll most likely mean spending the night with him. It doesn't necessarily have to, of course—but I don't predict asking him to drive me back downtown at three, four in the morning.

But I'm enjoying him. I can't say that it's any kind of off-the-charts connection, but he is so, so very nice to look at. My ego is tugging on my sleeve. Do it. Come onnnnn, please? You never go to straight bars! You never meet straight guys! What's the harm? Please? For me? LOOK AT HIM.

He turns to face me directly, and his eyes search mine. "What do you say? Same team?" It's that moment—the one where two near-strangers have an unspoken, closing-time exchange. I'd like to hook up with you. Would you like to hook up with me? Where the terms of the hookup are undefined, precisely, but not by a whole lot.

"Same team," I reply, and he accepts this answer with what I decide is an appreciative smile.

I say goodbye to my friends, and we head out into the warm night.

- - -

Once outside, we spend several minutes confusedly trying to coordinate plans with his friends, all of whom have scattered into smaller groups and couples, and none of whom seem to know where any of the others are going. Some are trying to flag taxis, which are in high demand. Some are waiting for the valet to retrieve their cars. Let's go to McNare's, someone says. Hearing his name, McNare joins the conversation. No, not my place. I don't have any liquor. Frowns. Shrugs. I get the feeling Matthew's friends are gamely trying to accommodate his desire to keep the evening going for our sake. I also get the feeling that what they really want to do is go home.

We walk up and down the sidewalk, milling with faces familiar from the past few hours, trying to put together some kind of plan with a quickly vaporizing group of people. One of the men I'd spoken to earlier, Alexis, is standing on the curb with a pair of his friends, waiting for his car. I can sense him staring at me as we walk past, Matthew leading me by the hand. I don't look up.

After a few more moments of chaos, he finally stops and turns to me. "Okay, look. Do you want to just go to my place, maybe open a bottle of wine and talk or something? I can take you home whenever you'd like." The trepidation in his face makes me laugh.

"That sounds great," I say.

A moment later, we find ourselves in the backseat of a cab. He's incredibly polite to the driver, apologizing profusely when there's confusion about the address of his condo, which is just a few blocks away. As soon as that's settled, Matthew leans close to me. He puts both of his hands on my legs, just under the hem of my dress, and squeezes, hard. Too hard.

Ow. It takes a second for me to register why I'm in pain: fingernails.

I don't really have time to adequately process this fact, however, because now I'm being kissed. His kiss isn't particularly aggressive or forceful—certainly nothing to match the attack on my thighs—but it isn't exactly skilled, either. The word for it, really, is immature.

I have the first stirrings of a thought, floating to me from a familiar place: This is why we decided to stop dating so much younger, remember Ellie? It's been our experience, says my brain dryly, that the under thirty-five set has some learnin' to do in this arena, yes yes? 

Chastising myself for not feeling more gratitude for the gift sitting beside me, chatting me up about law school and writing and the Los Angeles light rail system and how nice my "energy" is, I try to get my head in the game. But I can already tell that even if I bully my brain into submission, my body wants nothing to do with this scene. My body, in fact, is making some brutal calculations and comparisons.

We head down one winding street, then up another, onto what appears to be a private drive. Seconds later we're parked on a semi-circular drop off in front of his building. Plate glass windows frame a small, minimalist lobby, manned by a single, suited employee, who opens the taxi door, greets Matthew by name, and hands him a bundle of pressed white shirts shrouded in cellophane.

“Thanks, Doc," he says jovially, taking his dry cleaning and stepping to the elevator, me quietly in tow. Doc reaches in, hits 17, and nods goodnight to both of us. I haven't said a word since we exited the cab, though once the elevator doors close, I ask if the doorman's name is really Doc.

Matthew shakes his head no. "Long story," he smiles.

The lobby, Doc, and the sheer proprietorial air with which Matthew entered the building have all prepared me, so I'm not surprised when we exit the elevator into a lush hallway lined with tasteful carpet, textured jacquard wallpaper, and glinting, mirror-finished tables. Still, I'm not expecting what comes next.

He slips his key into the lock of a door a few paces away from the elevator. After you, he gestures. The first, slightly echoing footfalls of my heels on the hardwood floor give it away: his place is large. Exactly how large I won't realize until a few minutes later, but just walking into the kitchen, which opens to a grand living room, connected to a full dining area, which is lined by an entire wall of floor-to-celing windows, is enough for me to realize that, three years into my residence here, I'm about to have my first glimpse of Serious LA Money.

I do my best to take it in stride. I don't stare in the way I would have, had I been even five years younger. But details are popping out at me left and right, and I'm frantically cataloguing them for my memory. Oh yes. This will be blogged. 

His home is astonishingly beautiful, in the way that would make me sigh with envy and delight, had I seen it in a magazine, or on a Pinterest board. Immaculate. Stylish. Youthful. Stunningly decorated and accessorized. Every last inch of it has had, if not love, plenty of consideration poured into it—and plenty of cash. I'm already strategizing how I can sneak a few photos for my friends. I note random things. The wall-mounted rack of radiant copper cookware. The kitchen cabinetry, which is white, but manages to be everything unexpected about white kitchen cabinetry. It's fresh and pretty, the cut and hardware like something out of Restoration Hardware, but still somehow nontraditional. A crystal chandelier above the dining table, the prisms of which bear not a speck of dust.

Crown moulding lines the entire apartment, which has several built-ins filled with books and framed photos. Walls of a pale blue the exact shade I can't make out in the dimmish light. Two giant midnight blue velvet chesterfield sofas face one another across a flat file that I suspect was commissioned. And the piece de resistance: a giant glass-framed vintage American flag, spanning an entire wall. It's easily fifteen feet wide and ten feet high. I step over to examine it, marveling at both the flag itself and the frame, which is a solid, chocolatey wood, a good six inches thick. I cannot fathom how something like this could be framed, much less transported up to the 17th floor and through a standard doorway. I want to ask how old the flag is, but I'm afraid the question's subtext (how much it cost), will be too obvious. Instead I point at the velvet chesterfields.

"Those aren't floral," I say.

"Those ones are in my room. I'll show you in sec. Come here, help me pick out music."

Matthew rounds the corner of the living room into the adjacent room. I follow, and find myself walking into a space about the size of my apartment, divided clearly into office/workspace, and den/library. I bite my lip lest I laugh. I'm standing in a residential library. An honest to goodness home library. I pivot on my heels and take it in, less concerned with reading the titles on the shelves than getting a good impression of the whole room, before we open the wine and my short term memory gets drowned. I suppress a hilarious urge to twirl in my dress and sing Little Town.

Meanwhile, my host is leaning over his desk, clicking through his music library. When I join him, he sinks into a leather office chair, spreading his knees to invite me between them. "Your home is beautiful," I say softly, telling myself to leave it at that. He knows, after all. But he smiles in acceptance of the compliment.

"I did it myself. Gutted the place. Picked out everything, all the furniture, the fixtures, the art. The floor was parquet. It was a disaster. Do you like art?"

"I do, but I'm not all that educated about it, I'm afraid." I watch him select a playlist, his face bathed in light from a desktop monitor roughly the size of my desk. "How long have you lived here?"

"Three years." He rises and takes my hand, leading me out of the room through a different entrance. I realize the apartment is even bigger than I'd thought. "Do you want anything?"

I ignore him momentarily, thrown off by my realization that we're now walking through an entirely separate wing. Before I can stop myself, I ask how many square feet the place is, my voice almost accusatory in tone. I can't help it. It's one of the biggest apartments I've ever set foot in.

"Little over thirty-five hundred," he says lightly. There's no arrogance, no boastfulness. He's matter-of-fact about it. Matthew walks back down a hallway lined with built-in shelves towards the kitchen. I trail him like a puppy, glancing as I pass them at the dozens of framed photos that line the walls. Many are black and white. In the kitchen, we contemplate the contents of his fridge. "Do you want wine?" he asks.

"Not really," I say truthfully. He pulls out a large blue glass bottle of water and walks backwards out of the kitchen, grinning and pulling me to him for a kiss. He dips his head slightly to kiss my chin, which he then bites. Hard. And it hurts. And not in a good way. I wince and pull away and laugh a laugh that I hope communicates Slow down. I'm starting to second guess my decision to come. It's the second time I've been in actual pain since he laid hands on me.

As we're making our way through the room I suddenly realize there's a massive sliding glass door next to the dining room table. "May I?" I ask, letting myself out onto a balcony with a small contained garden and a few teak lounge chairs. Matthew is saying something about the food he's trying to grow but I'm not paying attention. Instead I'm staring out across the glittering city lights, at the cluster of high rises in the distance that denote my own neighborhood. I sigh. I feel arms wrap around me, again, too tight, too rough, and I realize that if I'm going to leave, I need to do it now.

"You look amazing in this dress," he says, the fabric pulling under his weird, pinching grip. "Oh yeah, let me show you those sofas," I'm taken by the hand and led back through the photo gallery hallway, where he stops and pulls a frame off a shelf. Black and white. A football team. {Ivy League University} football team. He isn't bragging. He's only showing me because when he'd earlier mentioned having played, I'd been skeptical, due to his lithe frame. "See? Thirty pounds heavier."

I skim the picture politely but my eyes flit almost immediately to another on the bookcase before us. A family photo, which, when Matthew follows my gaze, he lifts down wordlessly to let me examine close up. Later I'll tell Mason about it. You should have seen these people, I'll say. They all looked like senators.  

LOL, he'll reply. My family photos everyone looks like bank robbers.

I hear myself saying something inane about the photo but now it's my companion's turn to ignore me, because he's busy pulling me down the hall, toward his bedroom and the two floral sofas that constituted our initial talking point about an hour ago.

- - -

Sure enough, there are two floral love seats in the sitting area of his bedroom. They face one another across a coffee table littered with cards and crumpled wrapping paper. Two foil balloons on their last breath of helium hover just above the table.

"Birthday?" I ask.

"Graduation. Did I tell you that? I thought I told you that." He did. I'd forgotten in the space of an hour. He walks to the further sofa and stands behind it, running his hand across the back to showcase the print: cabbage roses the size of his palm, strewn across an optic white background. Designed by a friend of his, using vintage fabric from the UK. “She's amazing, so talented. They're one-of-a-kind. Cool, right?” I suspect that the friend he's describing is a current or former lover. There seems to be no other excuse for these couches, which sit there embarrassedly, like a pair of lace hankies left in the men's locker room.

I turn to take in the rest of the room, but when I sense Matthew approaching me, I bound across the bed, pretending to inspect the stack of books on the opposite nightstand. The top one is a collection of Matisse prints. I touch it absently, as if admiring the texture of the jacket's paper.

"That's nice," I say, pointing towards a painting on the wall. I'm kneeling on his bed, turned completely away from him, still in my heels. "Who did that?" I'm given a short speech about the artist, a local woman who's "about to blow up", according to my host, who has now rounded the bed to stand in front of me. He tries to push me backwards, but the position I'm in prevents this from working very well, and instead I just sort of tip over awkwardly onto my side, in the way Chaucer does when he finishes a particularly arduous side scratch.

"Hang on," I say, aware that a passive-aggressive primness has crept into my voice. I take my time pulling the jewelry from my fingers and wrist before setting it delicately on top of the Matisse book. "Don't let me forget those." Rolling over to sit back up on the edge of the bed, I reach down to unbuckle my shoe straps. I hear myself sigh with genuine difficulty at the maneuver and wonder what interest this paragon of youth and beauty could possibly have in me, and how many minutes I have before he sobers up and I see the desire evaporate from his perfect face.

As if to answer my question, Mathew, still standing beside the bed, pulls off his shirt. He has the sort of physique that comes from natural athleticism vs. long hours logged in the weight room. Proportionate and muscled, but not unnaturally defined or bulky. I can see the yoga; the football is long gone. It's a delightful sight that I can certainly appreciate, though that's about the extent of my response, mental or physical.

Five minutes of disastrously bad making out ensue, during which I alternately deflect, unsuccessfully attempt to redirect, and just plain suffer through more of the weird chin biting, some alarmingly rough handling, and general ineptitude of touch. When I can't stand it any more, I launch myself out of the bed, claiming a need to use the bathroom. I pad back down the main hallway in the dark, unsure of where I'm going. I sense more than I see an open doorway beside me, reach in to fumble for the light switch, and stand gaping at a room that I instantly decide I could happily reside in.

The master bathroom is about a third the size of my loft, with a toilet room, a walk-in shower, and a massive, gleaming, stand alone bathtub at which I stare for a good minute. Nearly as long as my sofa, the smooth white lip of it reaches to my mid-thigh. An impressive network of chrome hoses and four-pronged faucet nobs anchored to the wall beside it promise unfailing efficiency. And the sheer, egregious size of the thing promises relaxation on a level I don't reach unless Vicodin is involved. It looks brand new, but I know it's not. I know the housekeepers just want me to think it is.

"That tub," I say, walking back into the dark bedroom.

"Yeah, you like it? You want to take a bath?" Before I can answer, he springs from the bed, injected with purpose and, I suspect, hope for amplified interest from me. "Let's take a bath!" Despite my better instincts, I follow him wordlessly back down the hall and into the bathroom.

I watch as Mathew expertly wrenches faucet dials left and right, calibrating the temperature with his bare feet as water pools quickly around them. I shed the last of my clothes, silently cursing my cheap underwear, and climb in beside him, feeling childlike in the oversized tub. He uncaps a bottle sitting on the ledge beside the tub and tips it carefully into the stream of water. Creamy white suds form around my ankles, and an unmistakable scent fills the room.

"Lavender," I say.

"Lavender," he echoes. "Lots of lavender. Be right back." Mathew steps nimbly onto a crisp white bathmat and then disappears back down the hall. I sit down in the bubble-filled water and look at my surroundings. A shelf behind me is lined with various bath and grooming products, mostly Kiehl's. There are fluffy white towels stacked on a built in shelf below twin sinks. I can't tell if the walls are painted the same icy blue as some of the other rooms, or if they're greener. A small silver square has been pressed into the edge of the tub's enamel: the manufacturer's seal. I run my fingertip across the single, cursive script "m".

When Mathew returns, he hands me a highball filled with some pungent, amber liquid and lights a candle on the vanity. I sniff the glass, but cannot determine the contents. I set it on the ledge behind me and watch the man I've known less than two hours join me, naked, in his tub.

Several minutes of tragically comic fumbling follow.

At some point we move to the shower, which is large enough for me to lay completely flat in, with my arms extended straight above my head. But the change of location doesn't improve things, and after what feels like a polite amount of time has passed, I announce that I need to go home. When Mathew expresses surprise and disappointment, I am genuinely befuddled. Our complete lack of chemistry and physical incompatibility could not be more glaring. But his objections seem sincere, and I reject offers of breakfast in bed and an early morning ride home as kindly as I can. "I'm sorry. I really need to go now. My dog has a small bladder," I lie.

"Okay, but you have to come for yoga on Tuesday," he says, reaching for his phone to arrange a ride home for me.

"What, like, here? Private instruction, at your house?"

"Yeah."

"Fancy!" I exclaim teasingly. I don't actually respond to the invitation. Instead I inquire about the car service. "So, this isn't a taxi then? I don't have much cash..."

"No no, don't worry about it. It's taken care of." I thank him, feeling guilty as I gather my things. But he doesn't seem fazed or upset or hurt, just mildly surprised by my abrupt departure. He walks me as far as his door, slipping on a pair of seersucker shorts he grabs along the way. He thanks me for coming over, for the dancing, etc, and I thank him once again for providing a car for me. I close the door gently behind me and walk to the elevator, glancing at my phone to check the time. It's just after four am.

When I reach the lobby, the first thing I see is Doc, his hand on the backseat door handle of a shiny black Lincoln MKT. The lobby doors have already been propped open in preparation for my departure. I'll tell Mason about this moment later, too. It was like an invisible red carpet leading me straight to my Ride Home of Shame. I walk the ten steps to my waiting chariot and Doc bids me good evening with a tired but neutral expression.

I feel pretty tired and neutral myself.

I tell the driver my cross streets and he nods quietly before asking me if I'd like some water, or gum, or a change in the temperature. I decline all of these and relax into the cool leather, grateful that the sun hasn't yet risen. When we reach my building, I unzip my clutch to look for cash to tip the driver. "No, is payed for," he says, shaking his head. I hand him a ten anyway.

The next morning there's a missed text from Mathew on my phone: a picture of the two rings and the bracelet I left sitting on his Matisse book, captioned Perfect for a still life. I mentally kick myself, hard, before replying.

- Gah! I knew I'd forget those.

- I take it as a lovely reason for us to hang out again this week.

I have no idea what to say to this. I finally settle on Yeah? What do you have in mind?, mostly because I'm curious.

- Hmm, putting me on the spot for an adventure... Picnic in the park? Reflexology in side by side chairs?

- Wow. Those are some graduate level activities right there.

- Haha, I also cook dinner and watch movies.

I don't answer. Instead I text Cameron. Are you around? I had an adventure last night...

- - -

Mathew texts a couple more times over the next few days with invitations that I decline. On Friday, I take a break from writing the final lines of a blog post about him to ask if he'd mind dropping my jewelry in the mail. No rush, just whenever you have a chance. He answers immediately.

- Boo! No hanging out for us?

I tell him that he's awesome and very fun, etc., but that I don't have a car and he lives hecka far, blah blah blah. I put the phone down and return to writing my post.

He counters right away with an offer for a "subway date". Meeting me somewhere I can easily take the train to, like Hollywood. I also bike downtown all the time, he adds. I stare at his text, reflecting back on the evening, wondering if it was really as bad as I've since made it out to be. His enthusiasm for wanting to see me again is, after all, really nice, and not something I've experienced very much in the past year. I think of what Lorena and I discussed that night, about the attentiveness of younger men.

I look at my phone.

I look at my blog post.

I don't know what to type in either place.

Dichotomy

July 8, 2013

I know a man who mistakes arrogance for confidence.

Every morning, he dresses himself in his accomplishments. One by one, he lovingly pulls them on like beribboned medals, pinning them across his shoulders, checking the mirror to see how they reflect on him. He's quite satisfied with what he sees.

He walks out into the world, clinking and clanging, proudly announcing to anyone within earshot what each token represents. Everyone he meets already knows, though, because he's a record on repeat. They nod politely, abiding his conceit with patience, wishing he'd stop making so much noise.

He fancies himself an expert in the art of achievement.

He's happy to tell you what you're doing wrong, because it's an opportunity to talk about what he does right. He is his own favorite example of success. 

He is the master of the humble brag, and he never met a buzzword that didn't get him hard.

Women exist as an abstraction to him. He'll talk all day about how much he "values" them, but that's because he thinks he's supposed to say that. But listen to him speak about them and you can sense his misogyny. Women have hurt him, and he's out to hurt them back. He views them as challenges, as objects to be conquered. Beauty is their only selling point. The more attractive a woman he can place on his arm, the more impressive he deems himself.

He belongs to several dating sites, because he thinks he looks irresistible on paper.

He is incredibly, devastatingly, transparently insecure. Validation is heroin to him. The envy of others, crack cocaine. He is exhausted by the need to prove his worth to others.

He is extremely passive aggressive. When he cannot have something, he immediately and loudly dismisses it. He finds ways to subtly criticize the choices and lifestyles of those who threaten him, because he cannot stomach coming in second in any of life's competitions. And that's what life is to him: a series of competitions.

- - -

I know a man who has no idea how sexy his humility is.

He places his achievements deep in his pockets, assured of their existence, but with no need to put them on display. He makes me dig to find them, and when I do, they are like treasures unearthed. I unwrap the details of his life with delight, while he quietly watches. He doesn't need to say anything, because they speak for themselves.

He accepts praise with modesty, often deflecting it. And when he does, I am moved by a need to make him understand how impressive he is. I want to cup his face, look into his eyes, and tell him that he's amazing. I want to kiss him, utterly charmed by the secrets he's too modest to wear on his sleeve.

He's outgrown the need tick off boxes on a public bucket list. He either does things or he doesn't, but he doesn't parade his privilege in front of others, tone deaf to how entitled and boastful he appears.

If you asked him about the woman he loves, he'll tell you how smart, funny, and talented she is. "And she's pretty," he'll add as an afterthought.

I know a man who makes me feel like there's room for me in his life, because it isn't already too full of himself.

Sawyer

July 19, 2013

Sunday

Closing my tab at Piano Bar. My friends are waiting outside. I'm fairly tipsy.

"I like your boots." I look up to see a tall, dark-haired guy beside me, smiling and gesturing towards my feet. I hold up a finger: just wait. I reach down and grab my right ankle, then fold the back half of the rubberized heel of my combat boot nearly ninety degrees. Tall guy laughs. 

"See that?" I say, pointing at what looks like a glob of dried honey on the edge of the heel. "That's rubber cement. I've already Superglued them twice." Tall guy nods with mock seriousness. Says something I don't remember. I say something I don't remember back. This continues for another minute, while the bartender retrieves and then runs my debit card. As I'm signing my receipt, tall guy says something else that makes me laugh. I don't remember what it is. 

The important part is what I say: "Okay, this is what's happening now. My friends are waiting for me, so I have to go, but you're very cute, and I wish I'd met you earlier. So," I continue, tearing off the bottom half of my receipt, "here's my number. Use it." Tall guy holds the slip of paper up to the light. The digits are not very legible. 

"Here," he says, and pulls a business card from his wallet. "Just in case." We make solid, smiling eye contact for a moment before I say goodbye and leave.

I join my friends outside, triumphantly waving the card in the air. "I got a number! I got a number!" Dean and I get bacon-wrapped hot dogs from a street cart vendor and compare notes.

"I saw him," he verifies to the others. "He was cute." 

"Ooooh," says Lorena. "What does he do?" I read the card aloud. He shares a surname with a character from a novel I read and loved. His occupation is listed as "Executive Director" of what I gather is a non-profit. 

We’ll call him Sawyer.

Monday

I wake up to a missed text. Nice meeting you last night. You're going in my phone as "Ellie Boots". ...(This is Sawyer btw...)

I Google him. There is a LinkedIn, which backs up the information on the business card. There is also an IMDb listing for someone of the same name. I glance back at the LinkedIn, compare photos. It's the same person. Director of a non-profit and an actor. The profile photo appears to be from some kind of awards ceremony, or possibly an opening. I Google some more. There are professional head shots. Classy, cute, not overly cheesy. There is a Twitter, similar to mine in spirit and popularity: snarky one-liners and the occasional personal tweet. There is a private Instagram. There is a sketch comedy video on a popular website, which I watch, biting back a smile. He's undeniably cute and funny, in a John Krasinski sort of way. Exceptionally blue eyes. Great hair. I do some quick math, based on his graduation date. Early thirties.

I text back. In that case it's a good thing I didn't wear clogs. ...Nice meeting you as well. I'm glad my hastily scribbled receipt survived. 

- If I lost it, I would have just searched "Ellie Boots" on FB and found you.

- Good thinking. Though you'd have to wade through thousands of comments on my fan page to find any dirt.

- All boot-related comments I'm sure.

- Yes. I'm like a meme. Ellie Boots. You should see my Reddit presence.

He texts a photo of a billboard. A blonde in a skimpy halter top, cut-offs, and Timberlands. The heading reads WORK BOOT WAREHOUSE. This is you, isn't it?

- BRB, calling my publicist.

We text on and off over the next few hours, some banter, some genuine questions. He sends me a photo of himself in a suit, seated at a desk with multiple computer monitors visible behind him, mugging with an exaggerated pout. Look at me in my monkey suit! All official up in hea!

- Well this is awkward. I thought I gave my number to a middle-aged black man. 

He tells me he lived in Malibu until recently, that his landlord died and he lost his place, that he's been couch surfing and housesitting until he gets settled. I have tons of friends still in Malibu, though.

- I met a really cool seagull in Malibu a few months ago. ...Maybe you know him? Frank.

- Frank Ramone or Frank Arnell? ...Did you get his number?

- Fassbender. Of the PCH Fassbenders. ...Don't be ridiculous. Seagulls don't have phones. 

And so on and so forth, here and there, all week, until Thursday night, when we make plans to get together Friday night.

And oh look, it's Friday night. I better go find some boots.

Spoon

July 29, 2013

He texts me at ten o'clock on Friday night, as I'm fixing something to eat. I think you gave me AIDS. Or a cold. Nope, wait, nope, yup. Yup, it's totally a cold. And I probably got it myself. Disregard. 

I feel myself smile, maybe bigger than I have all week. Maybe bigger than I should. I haven't spoken to him since Sunday, and wasn't sure I would again. I saw him only long enough to have a couple of drinks with he and a friend of his, the night following our first date a week ago—and something had seemed off then. I couldn't tell if it was distraction or disinterest or something else, but despite his having invited me to join him at the bar, he didn't seem overly excited to see me again. And our texts on Sunday had been few and short.

So I'd more or less written him off, assuming the fun I'd had on our date was because I'd had too much to drink. And that I was alone in having had that much fun.

All of this considered, I'm feeling cautious. I'd been surprised by the weird vibe on Saturday, and don't want to walk myself into...something. I text him back a picture of me on crutches. Don't talk to me about your "problems". That's my new Late Summer 2013 look.

What did you do? Oh, is that your apt. complex? I wouldn't remember what those are like because I'M HOMELESS. Sawyer problems > Ellie problems.

I explain how I sustained my injury and he explains how he caught a cold: overworking, lack of sleep, and the stress of couch surfing until he finds a new place to live. When I ask specifics about a fundraising event he's directing, he begs off. Too long to text about right now. I'm falling asleep. Must. Rest. Before. Drinking. Tomorrow. 

I spend most of Saturday dozing on and off, my foot throbbing. When I finally wake up around six pm, I've got a handful of missed texts from him, starting around noon. He's in Venice with friends. My drinking has cured my cold for a couple hours. I'm gonna crash hard tonight. ...in your bed. Beware. I can't tell if he's serious.

- I'll put on my sexiest Ace bandage. 

- Rawr. Tell me more.

- I"ll beat you with my crutches?

More tipsy, slightly incoherent banter, as his phone is dying. I have no idea if really intends to come downtown tonight, and can't get a straight answer. He's sick and been drinking but he wants to see me, but he probably shouldn't, but he'd like to, if I don't mind hanging out with a sick person, or he can go back to Hollywood for the night, he's losing battery power...

I bristle a little bit at the idea that this is some kind of drunken booty call, and debate between telling him to get back to me when he's sober and ignoring him completely, knowing that when his phone dies in a moment he won't be able to get permission/confirmation from me.

I choose the latter.

He finds an outlet and charges his phone enough to continue the conversation.

He wants to take a bus from Venice to downtown and come spoon with me, if I'll have him. "Spoon" momentarily disarms me like kryptonite, but I let him know in no uncertain terms that I am a bit of a mess with a jacked-up foot and there will be no messing around.

- I'm not asking for that!

- I didn't say you were! ...Just disclaiming. 

He gets to my place an hour later, and I'm mildly surprised that's he actually come. I know an hour bus ride sucks under any conditions, but is hellish when sick. I feel a little bit of my wariness melt away, seeing him walk into my apartment.

He laughs at my jerry-rigged rolling desk chair scooter and greets Chaucer, who is thrilled to have someone ambulatory to play with. He doesn't look sick, but he's clearly miserable, sniffling and coughing and pressing his palms against the sinus pressure points on his face. I announce that he needs Emergen-C, and hop one-legged into the kitchen to fix it for him. All of my glasses and mugs are in the running dishwasher, so I stir the powder into a small bowl, which he looks at with skepticism.

"Just pretend it's a cafe au lait," I instruct, handing it to him. "Like the Frawnch."

He's genuinely exhausted, and we don't stay awake for long. Rather, he doesn't. I spend most of the next five hours laying quietly awake beside him, knowing I should get up and work, but loathe to move away from the warmth of his body. When we face one another, I steal moonlit glances at his shoulders and chest, and at the tawny scruff along his jawline. When he feels me turn away, he wraps his arm around my waist and pulls me tight against him, careful not to bump my bad foot. He finds my fingers underneath my pillow and laces his own through them.

I may as well be strapped in with cables, for how able I feel to move.

I try to direct my thoughts to the writing I’ve been working on, but it doesn't stand a chance against the skin, the breath, and the hips of the man pressed to my back. Eventually I disentangle myself, hungry and restless. I fix cereal, tipping the box an inch at a time, not wanting to disturb the guest sleeping just feet from where I stand. I eat in the dark, sitting atop my kitchen island, Chaucer staring silently up at me. I hop back over to my desk, adjust the brightness on my laptop screen, and answer a few emails. He wakes periodically, sniffling, moaning exaggeratedly, and joking with me.

Daylight finds me tucked back in beside him, finally starting to get tired myself. He slumbers on. I reach down with one hand to pet Chaucer, who snoozes deeply on the rug beside the bed.

Late morning. We're both awake now, though diametrically opposed in sleepiness, with me entering the state he's passing out of. We spend an hour or two talking, lazing about, walking/crutching Chaucer, climbing back into bed, and rinse, lather, repeat. We decide to watch an episode of Orange is The New Black. One episode turns into three. We watch with my laptop propped on a tiny three-legged table we balance on the foot of the bed, pillows piled behind us, and his arm around my shoulders. He plays with my finger tips; I let my hand rest on his thigh. We doze in between the second and third episode, my head on his chest. When I wake to find myself still in that position an hour later, I'm amazed; very rarely can I fall asleep cuddled up like that.

At some point, he leaves to procure lunch, walking four blocks to the grocery store to get himself soup and me a sandwich. I text him my order. HELLO THIS IS MY SANDWICH ORDER PLEASE AND THANK YOU: turkey, cheese, tomato, onion, peppers, olives, oil and vinegar, and a Shetland pony.

- Pony meat is DELICIOUS.

- PONY FOR RIDING ONLY.

- Too late - shit's on the grill.

He returns with soup, a sandwich, heat-and-serve vegetable lasagna, beer, and a box of E.L. Fudge cookies. We eat and return to bed, where we watch a comedy special. We take turns playing favorite songs on Spotify. When I play songs for him, he taps the beat on my back while I lay against him. I try but fail to recall the last time I spent an entire Sunday laying around like this, with someone else. I know it's been years.

Ross stops by around six with a load of groceries from Trader Joe's for me, a list of things Kerry insisted upon my naming, when she found out about my foot. This is not an optional situation, she'd said. We deliver. Sawyer waits upstairs for me while I hobble down to the lobby to let my friend in. "Remember that guy I told you and Kerry about, that I'd met? I showed Kerry a picture of him, when we went to trivia?"

Ross nods. "Yeah?"

"He's in my apartment," I say. "So when you walk in and see a dude, that's who that dude is." I'm strangely pleased about getting to introduce him to Ross, who has only heard tell of the guys I've dated over the past several months—none of whom ever made it to the meet-the-friends stage.

Sawyer doesn't leave until dark, and I fall asleep almost immediately after he goes. I don't move an inch until midnight, when an incoming text wakes me up. Spooning would be nice.

I smile and answer immediately, feeling sleepy and warm and glad for the disturbance.

Indeed, I start...

Pure Promise

November 18, 2013

Because there'll be a moment a few short weeks down the road, when you'll be hit with a wave of happiness that rips your breath away and leaves you wide-eyed and wondering. Walking down Broadway, just past sunset. The shops still open, glaring fluorescent light and racks of t-shirts spilling out onto the sidewalk. Rush hour pedestrians file past, some catching buses, some catching your eye since it seems like everyone feels it—the high of this November chill, finally, the holidays around the corner and optimism seeping out of our pores in spite of ourselves.

In spite of our uglier natures, our jealousies, petty rivalries, insecurities and rootless anxiety, we all get moments like this. Joy grips your soul, your best friend by your side. He knows the scents and sounds and his prancing gait suggests your mood has infected him, too. And you don't want to go home. You want to stay out in the busy streets, the comforting bustle you've missed for months. So you'll roam, Youth Lagoon on an endless loop, using the dog as an excuse to stay out later than you should, because there are things to be done. There is progress to be made.

But it's intoxicating, the simplicity of just this single, amazing hour of your life. You're alive and well and healthy enough—and you're in love, shamelessly, with no reservations, no "if onlys" to hold you back this time. It's wide open and it's yours and cynicism has nothing to do but hide in the corner, cowering, unwelcome. Though you know better than to actually do it, you'll want to dare life to do its worst, because you feel untouchable. This is the space you know, though it's eluded you these months, waiting for you to exhale. And when you do, releasing the fear and worry that robbed you of nearly a third of your year, the breath back in is pure promise.

My Super Power

November 29, 2013

In 2012, my friend Mason invited me to spend Thanksgiving with his relatives in Fresno. It was the first Thanksgiving since both of our dads had died, earlier that year. Since he had family to return to (the same aunt's house he's been eating turkey at ever since he can remember) and I didn't, I was adopted for the day by his. They were lovely and welcoming to me, and I thanked them by managing not to break down in tears until I got in the car to go home.

Ah, the posthumous romanticizing of the family experience.

Perhaps the best thing to come out of that day was my friendship with one of Mason's uncles, Bill. And right about now, he's probably blushing, because for whatever crazy reason, Uncle Bill took a shine to me, and became a reader of this dumb little blog, an erstwhile pen pal, and a capital f Friend. He doesn't miss a post, and often emails me thoughtful, funny responses to what I've written, one of which I printed out and tucked into the corner of my mirror, so I can read it every day.

I don't want to casually or cheaply drop a phrase like "father figure", because wow is that problematical and pat and overly facile and all kinds of things I don't want to characterize my relationship with Bill as. That said, it's been really nice to have someone older and wiser checking in on me, as I stumble through life. As much as I love and miss my dad, there were some serious deficits in our relationship, which I'll probably feel keenly until the day I die. For one thing, I can tell you he certainly wasn't reading my blog and chiming in with the occasional bit of guidance. My dad was many wonderful things, but a fan of my writing he was not.

Bill has followed my romantic adventures with interest, amusement, and at times, concern. (No one likes to see their friends get hurt.) When October rolled around and he saw how attached I'd gotten to Terence, he said I should bring him with me back to Fresno this Thanksgiving. This invitation was co-signed and ratified by Mason, so I got to spend yesterday in the company of my three favorite men, among other wonderful people who treated near-stranger me and my complete-stranger +1 like family.

There was champagne, thrust into my hand within a minute of walking in the door, and lots and lots of wine. There were aunts and uncles and cousins and kids and a Pomeranian-Chihauhua mix named Tiny, who let me hold him in my lap long as long as I liked. There was turkey and glazed ham and everything you'd want to go with them, including my second taste of Aunt Janie's Lemon Lush pie.

I didn't sleep much the night before, so I wasn't at my best. I was overtired and overly emotional, and Bill's kindness and warmth - and his stories of working as a young man in downtown LA, a mere block from where I live today - put me over the edge more than once. Thank god for kitchen-adjacent bathrooms, to which a girl can beat a hasty retreat, splash some cold water on her face, pull her shit together, and return to a table full of laughter and love and just feel fucking grateful to be there.

I've said it before but it bears repeating. I suck at so much in life, but apparently my super power is making incredible people care about me, despite my not deserving it half the time. I came out of yesterday determined to do a better job of giving back the consideration I'm shown by those who know the absolute worst things about me, but love me nonetheless.

I guess that's kind of how family works, anyway.

Small Kindnesses

December 22, 2013

The vendors in my neighborhood are awesome, and they blow me away with their small kindnesses and general friendliness. Maybe it's the time of year, but I'm feeling really sentimental and grateful.

There's the crew at Starbucks, who hail me as "Miss Ellie" and get started on my regular drink the moment they see me come in. They ask about my plans for the day, my dog, and even the men in my life, when I see them before and after shift, out on the sidewalk. One of them called me "Hopalong" this summer while my foot was mending, and filled my cup a bit less so it wouldn't spill when I wheeled back out on my scooter. Today, out of the blue, I was gifted a venti Macchiato by the barista who turned me on to the advantages of having my coffee prepared 'upside down'. "My Christmas gift to you," he said.

Next door is the sandwich shop I don't go in much, but whose proprietor, when he does see me, always inquires about Chaucer and invites me to bring him in (I don't, because I know not all diners are as enthusiastic about a drooling mastiff slobbering inches from their lunch). A few days ago as he was ringing me up he said, "I never got a chance to ask how you hurt yourself." I realized he must have noticed me hobbling/rolling to and fro in front of his restaurant for months, and I was touched that he made a point to ask, even though I'm basically a stranger - and an infrequent patron.

The woman who runs the closet-sized takeout place on my block asked after me, too, when I was finally well enough to limp by her again. She speaks hardly any English, and most of our conversations consist of me pointing and her smiling and nodding (and spooning steaming ladles of curry sauce onto a bed of chicken and rice). Nevertheless, she made her solicitousness clear with gestures toward my leg and a concerned facial expression; she wanted to know if I was all better. "Just about!" I replied, with a thumbs up.

Around the corner from her is a printing place I've never once set foot in, and barely glanced at in the almost three years I've lived by it. A couple of months ago, when I was at my absolute most frustrated and depressed, mystified as to why my foot wasn't healed yet, a man with bushy grey hair and a bushier grey mustache stepped outside to where I was struggling with a dog leash, a dog, a pair of crutches, a pile of poop in a tree well that I couldn't reach, and a really bad mood. He asked if he could help me, and the sympathetic look on his face obliterated me: tears started streaming down my face. I thanked him and explained that some days were better than others, and that while it was frustrating, I was surviving. He told me that he'd seen me on my crutches, then the scooter, then back on the crutches, and had felt awful watching me shuffle around for weeks and weeks with obvious trouble. "If you ever need anything," he continued, "I am happy to send one of the guys..." He nodded over his shoulder to the shop. "We can get you food or whatever errands you need, no problem."

Not long after that encounter, I was back to walking unassisted (if with a limp), and when he saw that, he rushed outside to greet me, all smiles and applause and "I am so happy to see this!"

A few days ago I popped into the dry cleaning place to see if they could reattach a dangling cardigan button. "Give me ten minutes," said the cashier who never has to look up my phone number to locate my stuff, and with whom I joke about the stains on my party clothes when I bring them in Monday morning. He matched the unusual thread color perfectly, and returned the cashmere sweater to me folded primly over a hanger and shrouded in plastic. "No, no charge," he smiled, when I asked how much I owed him.

Down the street there's a shoe repair shop where I occasionally take a pair of boots I've beaten the soles off of, or heels that need juuuuust a touch of stretching. The owner/operator chastises me for offroading through the dog park in such nice shoes, and refuses to clean them for me, after mending the heels. "Do it yourself," he says, exasperated, and hands me a ninety-nine cent pre-soaked polish sponge. "If we do it I have to charge you five bucks. It'll take you two minutes, seriously." Once I brought him a boot I'd ordered from Free People that had arrived with a stuck zipper. I was crazy about the boots, which were sold out, and didn't want to give them up. He looked at the zipper then turned the boot over slowly, examining the craftmanship. "How much did you pay for these?" he demanded. I didn't want to answer.

"Why? Are they poorly made or something?" He gave me look.

I sent them back the next day.

- - -

Instagram is flooded right now with images of holiday cards, which seem to be the metric for tallying social cache. This made me feel like a loser for a few days, since the only ones I've gotten are from my dentist, my real estate agent, and a few non-profits I've supported. I was actually feeling genuinely down about it until Friday, when in the space of an hour three different friends called to see what my holiday plans were and if I was free to get together, making my heart feel all full and fuzzy again, without even having to resort to John Williams.

Yesterday I had a brunch-then-shopping-then-cocktails-then more shopping day with my girlfriend Kerry, and we talked about the holiday card phenomenon. "Yeah, that's the big thing," I explained. "People make cute displays of them and then photograph them to post online or whatever. The more cards you have, the cooler you look." Kerry, who has no social media presence, was fascinated.

"Really?" she asked.

"Really," I said, taking a sip of my one p.m. Negroni.

"Huh," she said, and took a sip of hers.

She's not a big card sender, except to immediate family. And neither am I. I don't really have any family to send them to, and my friends? They know. Even if I haven't spoken to them in a while, they know. And I know. And they know I know. And we're okay with one another's laziness, which we recognize as such, and don't mistake for a lack of care.

But the people in my neighborhood who make my errands, my meals, my caffeine hits and dog walks that much more pleasant - they probably don't know the impressions they've made on me. I don't think greeting cards are quite appropriate (though in some cases tip$ and long-overdue Yelp reviews are), but this week I'm going to stop by, say happy holidays, and patronize their businesses in whatever ways I can, to try and return the small kindnesses they've shown me this year.