Journaling

Personal writing from 2012 onward.
Jump to the beginning.

October 4, 2012

I took myself to The Fonda Theater on Tuesday, to see The Lumineers for their second sold-out night in LA.

The opening band was a spazzy punk quartet of especially dirty hipsters called Bad Weather California that mostly made everyone confused and uncomfortable (at least, everyone around me). Confused because at moments they were quite engaging, while at others, their lack of chemistry was palpable. And uncomfortable because they looked truly miserable onstage, sneering at the audience until halfway through, when they suddenly seemed happy to be there, but curiously angry at their instruments. I've never seen a mic stand pinch hit for a guitar pick. Impressive but rather empathy-inducing for the stand. The lead singer and bassist kept lurching across the stage and plunging to their knees, jamming dueling electric guitars in violent, self-referential irony that had the net effect of making me feel mocked. Oh, I get it. Rockstars who get crazy onstage are so cliche. 

Some openers are like getting a surprise helping of your favorite dessert first, and some are like an appetizer that no one finished and everyone wishes would just get cleared off the table. This was the latter. Their songs were harsh and discordant, and not in that satisfying punk way. I think they're either a band in search of their sound or a sound in search of an audience.

The Lumineers, however. . .

The two words that came to mind again and again while I was watching these folk rock wunderkinds are "charming" and "captivating." That's how I felt, for an hour and a half. Charmed and captivated. It was less like watching a band then a family, that's how genuine and deep the connection seemed between them. After the first song, lead singer Wesley Schultz asked that cell phones be put away, which was brilliant, because it forced the audience to disengage from the outside world and plug in, for ninety minutes, to a visually stunning symphony of sound and emotion. Songs weren't just played. They were experienced, by each member of the band, lyric by lyric and note by note. They could not stop smiling: at one another, at the audience, at their instruments (even when there were technical malfunctions) - even, it seemed, at their enjoyment in Having Their Moment.

I just did a triple gainer off the hyperbole board, huh? Sorry. Let me swim to the surface and catch my breath.

Each track, lovingly sung along to by a house packed with adoring fans, was teased into some slightly different iteration than its album version. Some were made more uptempo; some less. Some were kicked up with the help of a gorgeous, fat bass drum sitting on the edge of the stage, and which percussionist Jeremiah Fraites thumped with verve and obvious joy. And some were slowed down, stretched out like strands of honey-flavored taffy in the graceful hands of cellist/singer Neyla Pekarek.

And, oh god. The duet. The as-yet unreleased duet that she and Schultz sang. Just wait. It is gorgeous, and has soundtrack to Kindle commercial written all over it. I can't wait to put it on loop.

They engaged the audience from first to last, dividing the venue into floor vs. balcony, for singing the refrains of songs that seemingly everyone knew by heart. Afterwards, thunderous applause brought them out for a four-song encore, one of which they performed, a capella, split between The Fonda's two opera boxes - on opposite sides of the theater. Jeremiah played the glockenspiel for that number, and all the band members were giggling, struggling to hear one another's cues from a hundred feet apart. Meanwhile, a hushed crowd looked back and forth, tennis match style, at this utterly captivating ending to their evening. In order to even get in the balcony boxes, they had wade out into a sea of people and climb up into these pockets in the wall, with the help of the audience. It all felt delightfully mischievous.

Finally, they returned to the stage and did a cover of You Can't Always Get What You Want, accompanied by the opening band (which definitely redeemed them). Nine people (The Lumineers had two additional musicians performing with them, but the core group is Schultz, Pekarek, and Fraites) all on instruments, and all singing. It was layered, playful, and charming, and bar none the best encore I've ever seen.

Just a little more gushing, because a review of the show wouldn't be complete if it didn't touch on how they looked. The Lumineers are a folk rock band who describe themselves in humble terms. Schultz has said, "We’re not reinventing the wheel or doing anything that different, the songs are super simple. The ideas themselves are very simple ideas." And the group has done a superb job of translating this conceptual simplicity into their physical aesthetic. Jeremiah: suspenders over a plain white tee, faded black chinos, and slicked-back blonde locks. Neyla: simple jersey sundress, leather jacket, and leather boots that she stomped with girlish glee. Wesley: nondescript vintage cotton from head to toe, topped by a crushable felt fedora that fell off whenever he tilted his face up to the balcony. I felt like I was watching depression-era newsies cutting loose after a long day. I don't think I was the only one feeling positively transported, either, by everything I heard and saw.

And I know I'm not the only one who will keep a close eye on this band, and hopefully for years to come

October 6, 2012

I went on one and one half dates with a boy, the second of which was on Thursday. I found him to be stunningly arrogant, entitled, aggressive, misogynist, inconsiderate, egotistical, melodramatic, immature, self-absorbed, and unethical. In fact, I can't remember the last time I found another human being so offensive. I don't know why, but the whole experience has made me a little bit angry. I didn't even spend that much time with him, but I want those hours back. I want my smiles back. I want to rewind the tape and not put on a pretty dress and curl my hair, and be enthusiastic, and proffer compliments, and listen to his stories, and offer opinions, and share a meal, and show him my favorite bar, and sit close to him, and allow him to push me into a kiss I wasn't ready to give. I'm angry at myself for giving those things away.

- - -

There's a phone ringing somewhere, faintly. I can hear it. I can picture it. An old rotary phone, sitting on a small side table, otherwise alone in a room down the hall. It doesn't ring constantly. It rings for a few minutes, then stops. Then rings, then stops. Sometimes it stops for days. I know I could walk down the hall, find it, and answer it, if I wanted to. I know the call is for me. But I'm scared to pick it up. I'm scared to hear what the voice on the other end of the line is going to say to me. I'm scared there might not even be a voice, when I do pick it up - that the line might go dead. That there'll just be me repeating Hello? Hello? until I hear a dial tone and realize there's nothing there.

I'll wait until there's a knock on the door, with a warm, live body on the other side. That call I will answer. 

- - -

The iPhone app that displays the weather of multiple cities. The one where you can swipe the screen to see how hot or cold it is in Los Angeles, in San Francisco, in Sao Paulo, in Helsinki—wherever you'd like.

That's what depression feels like to me, sometimes. When I wake up, the first thing I do is check my emotional weather. I take stock of my feelings, how low or high I feel. How optimistic and capable, or how overwhelmed and defeated. I swipe the screen, glancing quickly at the different cities in my head: How do I feel about myself? How do I feel about today? How do I feel about yesterday? How much energy do I have for today's challenges, tasks, goals? Where do I stand in my relationships? Do I feel loved? 

I should probably just start the day with some Angry Birds or something.

October 11, 2012

On Wednesday afternoon I received a last-minute invitation to see Don Giovanni at the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion, literally a few blocks up my street. One of the performers has been staying at Chuck’s place, and she gave him four tickets to come see the show.

We met for dinner at Kendall's beforehand, which, no complaints about the food or service, but maybe not the sexiest ambience and crowd? Median age: coma.

This was my first opera, and it kicked my ass a little bit. In some ways it was fascinating and captivating, and in others, extremely challenging. My takeaway from the experience is this, and I'm going to go out on a limb and generalize here: Americans are not oriented towards opera. Not musically, not culturally, not linguistically, and not temporally. So it's difficult to connect with the material, unless you're someone who already has an interest in opera itself, in Italian, or even just in classical music.

I love live theater. I love musicals especially. But most theater I've seen has two things to offer me which this opera did not: more involved visual engagement by way of set design and scene changes, and deeper intellectual engagement by way of a complex, nuanced plot. Don Giovanni had only enough setting on stage as to be structurally and geographically representative. Simple backdrops and scrims. That's it. You've got nothing to look at for 2+ hours but the seven or so people singing their hearts out (though some of the costumes were lovely, and the way they coordinated with those simple backdrops was beautifully considered). And in terms of plot? Very basic melodrama. The amount of music relative to action is overwhelming. Very little happens, but very much noise is made about it.

It's not for the attention deficient.

What I did enjoy, at least for the first half hour, was identifying the various, classic archetypes: the lothario, the long-suffering servant, the wronged woman. There's always something charming about seeing these tropes trotted out in live theater, writ large and playful with exaggerated stage business, facial expressions, gestures. And underlined, of course, by orchestral punctuation. That's a timeless sort of fun, and makes you feel like a groundling. Ah yes, here's the bit where the master abuses his domestic. We boo. And now, the arrogant nobleman gets his come-uppence. We cheer.

But beyond these cues, there was very little in the performance to which I could relate. The music, swelling as it was with painstakingly composed pathos (it's Mozart! I had context!), didn't affect me. Well, other than as a soporific.

So, final score. Don Giovanni: 1. Ellie: 0.

I'll win the next one though!

October 18, 2012

His knock is unmistakable: soft, hesitant, trailing off at the end. It's the one he's perfected in the months since we've been broken up. The one that says I texted, but you didn't answer. I called, too. I know you're asleep. I know I don't really have the right to just come down like this, but I'm doing it, anyway. Please get up and answer the door.

And I do, of course. And I was sleeping, of course. And a glance at my phone as I'm getting up tells me that yes, he did text and he did call first. I'm not mad. I'm not mad at all. I care about him so much and I know if he's showing up unannounced that something is wrong. And he's been there for me at my roughest moments, so there's no way I would ever begrudge him my support. But inside of me, for the first time, is a silent sigh of frustration. Will we ever get off of this ride? 

I let Chaucer greet him while I brush my teeth and decide against running a comb through my tangled hair. Fuck it. When I come out, he's lying on my bed. I'm not bothered by this. There is, truly, nowhere else to go in my apartment. My apartment essentially is a bedroom, it's so small.

He's visibly upset. He's down on himself. He's not happy. He's riding out some miserable feelings. He wants a friend, some support, to be around someone he knows sees value in him. I try my best. I tell him the thing I always tell myself, when I start to slip downward - or when I'm already smack against the ground floor - It's ok. It's just a moment. One moment, that will pass. Life is made up of thousands upon thousands of moments, and this one just sucks. But better ones are just a few minutes or maybe an hour away. 

I point out how successful he's been with work lately. How productive and creatively fulfilled. He's making a killing, and he's showing at some amazing spaces, getting great press and exposure. Nothing I say really comforts him, though. He's in an unreachable place. And all I can do is offer my company and companionship, which I do. We catch up on random things, gossip about our friends, field play attacks from Chaucer. The conversation wanders back to us, as always. Light at first, then, more serious.

"Are we going to tell one another if we meet someone?" I ask suddenly, sitting up.

"Meet someone anyone? Or meet someone someone?"

"Someone someone," I say, knowing what I'm walking myself into.

"Why?" he asks, a bit sharply. "Did you meet someone?"

"No," I say slowly. "Not exactly. But I might. I mean, I will. Eventually, I will." I look at him. "Meet someone."

"I told you I went on a date, right?" he asks. I nod. "It was a disaster. She's completely insane. She gave me a bible. She called and sang 'You Are My Sunshine' on my voicemail." I stare at him for a second before bursting into laughter. He shakes his head and reiterates, "She was nuts."

"Ok," I start again, "what if there was someone..."

His voice goes flat. "So you did meet someone."

"No,"I repeat firmly. "But I want to." I try to explain to him that I want to move on. That I'm ready to. He sighs and runs his hands through his hair, nodding.

"I'm lonely," I say quietly.

"I'm lonely, too," he replies, just as softly.

We go around for a while, coasting bigger, then smaller, then bigger emotional waves. He says he doesn't want to run into me with someone else. I say that it's my city, too. He says he's thinking about moving to Hollywood. I say that he's lucky he has friends to room with there. He says that he doesn't want to leave downtown, because he doesn't want to move away from me. I say nothing. He says I'm the most amazing woman he's ever met. He says I'm beautiful, smart, talented, and self-aware. I ask where I'm going to find someone else to make me personalized wrapping paper and arrange stuffed animals, en flagrante, on my bed. I say I've never known anyone as honest and direct and authentic as him. I want him to understand how valuable those qualities are.

Inevitably, we rehash for a while.

- I was really unfair to you toward the end. I'm sorry.
- It's ok. And I know, we fought all the time. I get it.
- That's a lie, we didn't. But you did get really frustrated with me. Really, really frustrated. 
- I know.
- El, this was a mutual decision. We went back and forth for a while, and maybe at the end I was more resistant to giving it another shot, but don't act victimized. We both agreed this was right.

A pause, then him: "Can I ask you something? But don't get upset, ok?"

"What?"

He chooses his words carefully. "Did I...did I at least help to undo some of the damage that...?" He doesn't need to say anymore, and he couldn't anyway, because I'm already, instantly sobbing and nodding. He jumps up and moves behind me, putting his arms around my shoulders. "See?" he laughs weakly. "I told you you'd get upset."

I cannot get ahold of myself. Emotion is pouring out of me. Anger, even still, at myself, for letting it happen. Sadness, for that time lost, and for the pieces of me that were damaged by it. Happiness that I'm not there anymore, and that I don't ever have to return. And relief, to know that I've grown worlds away from the person who'd let herself be there in the first place.

Never again.

I tell him yes, of course he did, he knows he did. "Good," he says, smiling. Then he laughs wryly. "I'm really good at messy breakups, but leaving the person in a better state than when I found them."

I collect myself, embarrassed and sort of shocked at my outburst. We take Chaucer to The Counter, sit on the patio, and split a cheeseburger in the fast-cooling evening air. Afterward, he walks me back. At my door, he kisses my cheek. "I felt really bad when I came down here," he says. "Thank you." I tell him that I didn't do anything, and he shakes his head and repeats, "Thank you."

I close the door behind Chaucer and I without turning back.

It's a moment. It's just another moment. There are thousands upon thousands more of them to come.

October 20, 2012

My friend Ben had his fashion show on Friday night at Sky Bar in Hollywood. Well, not his, but the shop's where he works downtown. But boyfriend had a huge hand in designing the line, and has been working his ass off for weeks to complete the pieces, and on a deadline - he left for Bali the very next day.

I hitched a ride to the show with another designer friend of his, who was hilarious and sweet and did his best to make me more comfortable at the event (I felt crazy out of place and a bit intimidated, bumbling about with eight hundred fashionistas in head-to-toe editorial).

We sat by the pool, drank dirty martinis, and scouted guys (for him) while we waited for the show to start. At one point possibly/probably the one straight guy at the whole event glanced my way for about .005 of a second, and my companion, who caught the look, informed me that this dood was an ace in the sack.

"O rly?" I asked, laughing. "How can you tell?"

"Well, I have terrible gaydar, even though I'm gay. But I have incredible technique-dar. I can tell immediately if someone is good in bed."

I said that since the glancing dood was actually a bar back working the show, he probably felt just as indifferent to the whole thing as I did, and that would make an excellent ice breaker. We hatched a plan for me to "accidentally" bump into Bar Back Boy and spill my drink down the front of my dress, at which point I would DEMAND a room at The Mondrian, as recompense (etc. etc.). BBB walked by again, this time deliberately holding my gaze, and my new friend busted up.

"Damn girl, don't fall in love! Tonight only."

He wasn't actually even good looking, but it was a fun diversion from feeling painfully out of place in Glamoramaland.

At this the point show started, which basically consisted of models perching on resin cubes behind the pool, while a bank of photographers and industry peeps shot and Instagrammed the shit out of them.

I have absolutely no idea what I'm looking at/talking about, when it comes to high end design, but I had the ultimate tour guide - this design friend of Ben's has worked for Theory and Theyksens Theory, among other lines. He broke it down for me with helpful comments like, "That jacket is nice, but it's a bit derivative of DSQUARED2, two season ago..."

Awesome.

Anyway, I really didn't care about the actual clothes, though it was cool to see some of the pieces I tried on for Ben at the shop when he needed to tweak the pattern, finished in leather, on actual models. Plus, I got warm fuzzies from being able to stand back while everyone was gabbing about the whole scene and think, "Yeah, all that fancy stuff you guys are scrutinizing? My buddy did all that." I know the show was a big deal, and it was amazing to see that kind of talent being beautifully showcased and celebrated, but to me, he's just my awesome, fun-loving friend Ben of whom I have a small cache of bribeworthy, incriminating photos.

And who is now in Bali until after the New Year. :( :( :( for me but :) :) :) for him.

On Saturday, I went with Kerry and Ross to the Taste of Italy festival over at the Pico House. Had never been, but since this was their second time going, they knew the score. They said last year they left hungry, so we spent our time strategically weighing our options as to how to spend our food tickets, so we'd actually be full. We ended up getting stuffed on pasta and gelato, then slightly shitty on red wine. Later, we got slightly shittier at Association and Casey's, and decided it would be a brilliant idea to walk Chaucer back over to their place so he could meet their cats.

Did not document. But was awesome. I think.

November 7, 2012

I'm gearing up to mop when he calls. "Listen, I gotta meet a guy in a little while, but you do want to get coffee?" I ask if he means right now, glancing at my sink, stopped up and full of steaming water. He does. "Meet you downstairs in five," I say.

I throw on my favorite scarf and hoodie, slip into my cleanest pair of Converse, swipe on some lipgloss, and head down. When I get to the lobby, he's waiting just outside the front door, in the crisp night air. The wool of his winter coat feels smooth against my cheek as he gives me a one-armed hug. We grin at one another and start walking.

It's the tail end of rush hour, our bodies and faces illuminated by headlights as we cross the street. I wonder what we look like to those drivers, what descriptors, if any, come to their minds as they watch us walk by them. A thought flashes through my mind, a recognition that how I must look in this moment would have appealed greatly to my younger self. Casually dressed, but stylish. Stepping lightly across a busy city street, in the company of a dark and handsome young man, smiles on both of our faces. My twenty-seven-year old self would have looked wistfully at me, wondering at my life, at who I was and what made up my days.

It's been about a week since we've seen each other, and we've got catching up to do. As we wait in line at Starbucks, he tells me he has good news. "I'm not leaving downtown. I'm staying here." At first I don't realize what he's talking about, but he quickly fills in the gaps. He's found a new apartment, a few blocks away. He's signed a lease and given notice. He's moving out of our building in a few weeks. He looks at me carefully as he says all of this. I smile, genuinely happy to hear he's found a place he likes. I ask questions about it, and congratulate him. "I wanted to tell you first," he says in a gentle voice. "I know I'd be a little hurt if you left." I say it would be silly for me to be hurt; his move isn't something I should or do take personally. I don't even know if I'm staying, after all. Neither of us can really afford our lofts.

"Still," he says. "even though we're not together, I feel like we have a responsibility to protect one another. You know what I mean, right?" He's looking directly at me. I know exactly what he means, and my heart squeezes with gratitude and joy. I add what he's just said to something else he said recently, when I had an exceptionally bad few days and reached out to him for support - which he gave: "I will always be there for you." Lucky. I am so lucky. He's a good man. He's a good friend.

I feel like I could quickly become overcome with emotion, so I glance away. There's a massive clear plastic tube filled with caramel on the espresso machine in front of us, and I point at it. I tell him I'd like to cut the end of it and just suck on it. "Do you think they'd mind?"

"Excuse me," he says to the barrista preparing our drinks. "How much for this caramel right here?" We're informed, unsurprisingly, that it's not for sale. "Well, can we at least touch it?" He reaches over the glass and pokes the tube, which squishes in response.

"Ew, stop," I say, trying not to laugh.

We sit outside for a little while, and he brings me up to speed on his work, which is going great. I bring him up to speed on some nice developments in my personal life, and he's sincere and warm in telling me how happy he is to hear it.

"You bounce back to vibrant," he says. It's not the first time he's said this to me, but I carefully file the compliment away in my mind. It's one I'm happy to have multiple copies of.

It's gotten chilly, so we finish our drinks and walk back. He links his arm through mine as we cross the street and again I wonder at the figure we must cut together, silhouetted in headlights. I briefly rest my head on his shoulder. As we wait on the corner for the light to change, we reaffirm our affection for one another. "I think this is going to be good for us," he says. I agree, because he's right. He won't be far. We can still meet for coffee on a moment's notice, but we won't have the stress of running into one another unexpectedly. We'll be able to bring dates home without fear of surprising the other into painful feelings.

He walks me back to my apartment, coming in to play with Chaucer for a minute, and to fix a few things for me, including my yet-again on-the-fritz printer. Then: another hug, kisses on one another's cheeks, and he's gone.

I walk to my kitchen sink and tentatively stick a finger into the water. It's still warm enough to mop.

November 8, 2012

I can hardly sleep the night before. That's how excited I am - like a child waiting to wake up and go to Disneyland. I'm going to an amusement park of sorts, too. I really am going to a park, after all, and my body and mind will be amused. Greatly so. In some ways they'll be the amusement park.

Sleep comes finally, though very late, and I don't wake up until a couple of hours before the festival starts. But that's ok, because events like this are one of the rare things in my life that I prepare for ahead of time. I've cleaned my entire loft, so that when I come home and crash, hard, for two days - sore, exhausted, dehydrated, and depleted of serotonin - a messy apartment is one less thing I'll have to worry about. I've stocked up on groceries - including lots of juice and fruit - so I won't have to go to the store. And my sheets, blankets, and comforter are all freshly laundered. And I've used extra fabric softener.

My outfit and everything I need is already laid out, ready to go. I put on my jeans and tennis shoes first, then slip into a cropped cotton eyelet bustier. It's tricky to catch the back hook-and-eye closures myself, and I consider knocking on my neighbor's door for help, but I eventually manage it, and zip up a hoodie over the top. I stuff my metro card, ID, cash, and keys into one pocket, my lip gloss and gum into another. I check that Chaucer has water and that his favorite toys are within reach. Finally, I carefully safety pin a tiny baggy containing two white capsules to the front of my underwear, just below the button of my jeans. Then I grab my phone and headphones, lock the door behind me, and head for the train.

There are a few festival goers at my stop, but it isn't until I get to Union Station that I see the hordes. To me, they all look like teenagers, though I know they're not. I know some of them are in their mid- to late-twenties, though to my eye, they all look heartbreakingly young. I also know that there will be some people closer to my age at the festival, but they'll be few and far between.

Almost all of the kids are dressed in costumes. Those that aren't in recognizable Halloween get-ups are in festival wear of some kind: neon, lace, spandex, lycra, fur boot covers. And lots and lots of glitter and facepaint.

I'm used to the girls by now, and how shockingly little the really young ones wear. Forget tight and short. Think next to nothing. Many don't wear shorts or pants at all.  They wear actual underwear, usually hip huggers or tangas, though sometimes thongs. And up top - bras, bra tops, and bikinis. So much skin, it would be downright lurid, if these were girls who had grown into the sexuality they're putting on the display.

Most of them, however, have not.

Most of them are stick-legged, hipless, gawky things, with hunched shoulders and nervous eyes. Their bodies don't display the curves and muscle tone that will come in a few years, making them self-aware and self-conscious. They haven't yet reached the age where keeping those curves and that muscle tone takes work. They haven't had enough experience with the opposite sex to appreciate precisely what powers they possess, simply by virtue of their chromosomal makeup. And few of them have developed the confidence to put their shoulders back, hold their heads up, and boldly meet the gaze of onlookers.

And those that have? Terrifying.

But for now, they're mostly just shy teenagers in the standard festival uniform, clustered in groups of the same, and more or less oblivious to the effect they have on the adult men sharing their train car.

We get to the festival grounds, and several hundred people pour out of the subway to join the thousands of others already streaming in.

It's carefully organized, strictly monitored mayhem.

Cops. Lots and lots of cops. Drug-sniffing dogs. Barricades and gates that take several minutes to get through. We are shown a video while we wait in line: a pretty woman in a lab coat lists prohibited items (including purses, wigs, candy, pacifiers, pens, stuffed animals, stickers, eye drops, and unsealed/open gum, tampons, or cigarettes) and makes sexually explicit jokes as she encourages us to enjoy ourselves. We empty our pockets, take off our shoes and hats, and hold still for a cursory pat down from a gloved festival employee, before gaining admittance.

Once through security, I head straight for the furthest stage.

It's still pretty light out and I'm stone cold sober, but I'm ready to go.

- - -

I'm practically skipping, as I head towards the back end of the cornfield. But it's early. And it's still light out. And while in a couple of hours, I won't be the only one too excited to walk at a normal pace, for now, it's still pretty quiet in terms of activity.

...but not in terms of sound. Already, music is pouring forth from multiple stages and tents staggered about the grounds. If I hadn't mapped out a schedule ahead of time, if I didn't already know which DJs I wanted to hear and when, I'd let myself be pulled in the direction of whatever beats moved me most.

Tonight, however, except for a small block of time in the middle of the evening about which I'm undecided, I know whose sets I want to watch. First up: Clockwork. There's already a decently-sized crowd in front of the stage, but not so many people that I can't get close. I find a spot slightly off to the right, where the crush breaks up. I really only care about two things, when it comes to where I stand: I want to be central enough that I'm totally absorbed in the sound, and I want enough room to dance. For me, ideally, that's a good four feet of empty space around me. I...get into it.

By now I've figured out my own, personal festival sweet spot: just where the crowd starts to thin out, often at the edge of the standers, just before the sitters. These are the people who aren't obsessed with getting close to the stage, and who'd rather hang back, still enjoy the fantastic acoustics, dance, drink, and socialize, without thousands of strangers slamming into them for an hour at a stretch.

Clockwork is good, if a bit rough for my tastes. I realize I'm probably going to need a drink or two, in order to get into them. So while the field is still filling up, I jet over to the designated, cordoned-off drinking area and have a quick screwdriver. A double, actually. Time is of the essence. When I get back a few minutes later, the crowd is fully warmed up, bathed in light and sound. This particular style of music is not really my wheelhouse, but I still enjoy it. As I'm dancing, a kid in a full-body squirrel costume comes bounding by. He's completely dialed in, jumping and bouncing and twisting and thrashing. I find myself grinning; the sight of him is just delightful. The whole scene is, in fact. I'm suddenly awash in the happiness I knew would hit me: and I've got eight hours more ahead of me, of enjoying some of the top DJs in the country, spinning cutting-edge music they've meticulously designed to help transport me to a state of elation. And I'm well on my way to that elation already. What more could I want?

I stop moving and just take a deep breath. I close my eyes. The knots I carry deep in my shoulders come a little bit loose. I'm miles away from the things that keep me up at night. They didn't make it past security. I couldn't have smuggled them in if I'd wanted to. They would have slipped through my fingers the minute I lifted my hands to the light.  My head is clear save for a neon-lit sign spelling J-O-Y that grows brighter each minute. This is the feeling I chase. This is the in-between that I crave. And I haven't even done anything illegal yet.

November 12, 2012

Every once in a while, the subway car will start to move, but I won't feel a thing. There's a disorienting and slightly nauseating few seconds where it feels like the entire world is moving around us, while the train stays still. While I stay still. Then I realize it's just an optical illusion - the train on the opposite platform has started to leave the station, giving me the brief, false impression of personal momentum.

This is what depression sometimes feels like: an inability to distinguish my own inertia from the progress of the world around me. I can't tell if everything is moving past and beyond me just because I'm still for the moment, or if I actually am moving forward, and just can't tell yet.

- - -

Recalibration is such an emotive, empowering concept to me right now. To shift the standard, to reset the bar according to my own scale. Zero goes there. Ten goes there. Negative ten goes there. I can take control of my experience of some input, therefore getting a clear idea of what output I can expect.

- - -

The other day I bought a plain white, crew neck t-shirt. Unbelievably, it was the first time in over fifteen years that I've done that. I've had a couple of otherwise white graphic tees, an off-white, v-neck tee, a sheer, white long sleeve v-neck layering tee, even a few plain white men's v-necks for working out. But this was the first completely plain white, short-sleeve women's crew neck tee I've purchased in nearly two decades. WTF.

I'm obsessed with it. I want to wear it every day. I love how bright and clean it looks against the grime of downtown - against the all-dark uniform of so many of its inhabitants. It's so quiet that it practically screams. It's ironic without being so, because how the hell can a white t-shirt have anything ironic to say? And because I'm relaxed and happy in it, I know it probably looks better on me than shirts I paid three times as much for. 

I love wearing something so absurdly simple, in a city that's anything but. It's like turning in a blank sheet of paper, five minutes into the essay exam. Everyone in the class glances up, nervous and embarrassed for me. She knows she has to write something, doesn't she? She's going to fail if she doesn't at least try...

Anyway, I realized how apt a metaphor this is for the way I live my life. I refuse to let anything be simple and easy. I refuse to do what's best for me. I embellish, needlessly. I complicate. I choose poorly. I choose too much. 

I need more plain white tees in my closet life. 

November 15, 2012

Took myself to see Generationals tonight er, last night, at The Echo.

Great show. Fantastic show. They played most of their latest album, a few older tracks, and some from a new EP. They definitely sound grungier, more distorted live - but it works. I think a fair metric for how good a show is could be whether it makes you want to listen to them more. And this absolutely did. There were two openers, Francisco The Man (pretty good) and Races (awesome).

It was the first time I'd been to The Echo, though I've been to The Echoplex downstairs a few times (Dragstrip 66 wut wuuut). Not a fan. It's very small, which, ok. But when a tiny venue gets oversold, it's pretty miserable for everyone. Not that it technically, legally was oversold - I'm sure they adhere to fire code, etc. I just think after a certain point (that point being when I can't move an inch without getting to third base with someone's elbow), club managers and promoters need to worry less about their bottom line and more about the experience of concert-goers.

Because while they probably made a killing selling tonight's show out, I guarantee I won't be the only one never returning to that venue, unless it's a band I HAVE to see. I was that uncomfortable, with how packed it was. And I'm a festival goer, fer Pete's sake. I know crowded. So they lose in the long run.

Other Notes For the Management of The Echo, in case they stumble upon this post:

1. Please shut off the TVs in the bar area during performances. That extra light is really distracting.

2. Please wait until the show is over to restock the bar. Your staff was wheeling empty kegs through the audience - albeit towards the back - and shining flashlights on us, during one of the most anticipated songs of the night.

3. Please consider asking opening bands to wait until the main performance is over to start carrying their instruments out the front door. Again, all this activity was carried on in and through the crowd, and really killed the mood.

4. $8 for a pint of cider? RealIy?? You do know you're in Echo Park, right? Not WeHo?

November 19, 2012

1. He loved crossword puzzles.
2. He was born and raised in Queens, NY.
3. He loved roadsters and convertibles.
4. When I was 17, things were really bad for me at home. My brother was out of control, my mother was drinking incessantly, and my grades were starting to suffer. So for my last year of high school, he moved from San Diego back to Scottsdale so that I could live with him, successfully graduate, and generally enjoy my senior year without domestic chaos.
5. He pretended not to love animals—it was his schtick to play the curmudgeonly old man—but he really did. Especially cats.
6. Despite having raised two of them, he was clueless around babies. His idea of playing with them was to shake his keys at them.
7. When we were in Buenos Aires in 2010, he confessed to me his disappointment that I wasn't going to have kids. But he also told me he understood and didn't blame me.
8. He really, really, really listened when I spoke to him. He looked me straight in the eye and heard me.
9. He loved pistachios.
10. And coffee ice cream.
11. He was a very aggressive driver, but a very good one.
12. He'd never kill insects if he could help it.
13. When he lived in Alaska, he used to hunt caribou.
14. He was a very skilled and highly trained scuba diver. When my parents were younger, they traveled the world, and he scuba dived in nearly every ocean. Later, he'd go diving in Lake Michigan, and bring trinkets and things home to me that he'd found in the water.
15. He enlisted in the Navy when he was 16.
16. He was an impossible flirt, often to my mortification.
17. We watched The Gods Must Be Crazy at least half a dozen times, and he would laugh like it was the first time, each time.
18. He had an infectious laugh, deep but raspy. He'd often laugh himself to tears, especially around his clever, wise-cracking brothers.
19. He forgave my brother, again and again and again.
20. He bought me all the books I ever wanted, whenever I wanted them. When I was in high school, he'd let me pile up stacks of them at the bookstore. Later, I had only to mention a title I was interested in, and there'd be a package from Amazon at my door.
21. When I was a little girl, he used to let me sit in his lap and draw small emblems on his sweatshirts, with a black Sharpie. I'd ask him what kind of animal he wanted (hoping he'd say rabbit or unicorn), and he'd say cockroach or spider or fly. I'd laugh and say, "Nooo, something pretty!" and he'd insist, "A cockroach! That's what I want!" So I would carefully smooth out the fabric on his breast, then do my six year-old best to approximate a pair of beetle antennae, or eight tiny spider legs, right above his heart. I told Greg about this one day towards the end, when there wasn't much left to do but wait. I said I could still remember what some of the insects I'd drawn so many years ago looked like. When I finished telling the story, he got up, walked into my dad's office, and returned with a pad of paper and a Sharpie. He set them down in front of me and said, "Show me." And I did.
22. He loved to go tubing on the Salt River. Every year until I left for college, he'd take me and one of my girlfriends, or my boyfriend if I had one.
23. He never wore sunscreen, and was very proud of how deeply he could tan.
24. He tried to teach me how to drive a stick shift, but I was impatient and frustrated, and we both gave up.
25. He lied about his age on dating websites.
26. He loved his extended family very much, and kept up with cousins, second cousins, and even further-removed members far into adulthood.
27. He grew up afraid of his father.
28. He loved cheese and yogurt, but he hated milk.
29. He loved Chinese food, but he hated Mexican.
30. When he disapproved of something, he'd frown exaggeratedly and make a deep grumbling noise in his throat.
31. He'd sing when he got drunk.
32. He loved boxed wine. He drank gallons and gallons of the stuff, as if it were water.
33. He was a pack rat, but a very neat one. When he died, I had to face down an attic stuffed to the rafters with every document he'd ever touched—but it was all perfectly organized.
34. He regularly wrote letters to his congressmen and the president.
35. He often wrote letters of complaint and commendation to companies he'd done business with.
36. He was incredibly vain about his hair, which was thick and soft, and which he let grow long enough to wear in a ponytail. When he was dying, one of the hospice nurses would comb it out for him gently before binding it back up again. He'd already lost the ability to speak, but we could tell he enjoyed that.
37. He was the most stubborn and proud man I knew.
38. He taught me to question everything and everyone, including myself.
39. When I was a little girl, we used to sing The Unicorn Song together.
40. We sang On Top of Spaghetti, too.
41. He loved Johnny Cash and Patsy Cline. And Crystal Gayle.
42. He was mechanically-minded and could fix almost anything.
43. He could explain how almost anything works.
44. He was vicariously vain about my looks; he often told me how proud he was, that I was pretty and fit.
45. He always called me Deborah or Deb, but never Debbie (Elizabeth is my middle name; I only started using it when I moved to LA).
46. He never once touched me in anger, or physically punished me.
47. When he was really angry at me, he'd say I was just like my mother.
48. He taught me how to ski.
49. He had the best vocabulary of anyone I'd ever met, including all of my college professors.
50. He loved the ocean.
51. When I was younger, I'd lay next to him, following along while he read Stephen King novels that I was too scared to read on my own. He'd say "ok?" whenever he got to the bottom of a page. When I caught up, I'd say "ok," and he'd turn the page for both of us.
52. In the later years, after the divorce, when my mother was at her worst, at her weakest and sickest and most unhappy, he'd help her out. He'd send her money when he could, and talk to her for hours on the phone about my brother.
53. When I was a teenager, he teased me about being flat-chested. He said once, "Not exactly a sweater girl, are we?"
54. When he found out he had cancer, he told me how proud he was of me, of the person and woman I'd become.
55. He loved to make me spaghetti. Overcooked, with sauce out of a jar and a massive amount of Kraft parmesan on top.
56. He loved to make me bagels from the freezer. Lender's garlic bagels. He'd split one, still frozen, on a plate, and carve huge chunks of Land o' Lakes whipped butter on top, then microwave it until the bagel was soft and the butter melted. To this day, I don't think I've ever had anything so delicious.
57. He loved maps. His walls were covered with them.
58. He had a master's degree in engineering.
59. When he was in his 40s, he went back to school to study pre-law. He then went on to attend law school, though he didn't finish.
60. He lived in New York, Michigan, Alaska, Arizona, California, and Florida.
61. He didn't sing along to the radio, but he'd make a curious whistling/hissing noise that drove me crazy.
62. He loved Trident gum.
63. He was a true libertarian. Not the bullshit, hateful Tea Party variety that the Republicans have appropriated and whose beliefs they've tried to skew. True, hands-off, do-what-you-want libertarianism. He believed in women's rights, reproductive freedom, and marriage equality.
64. When he was dying, he was very restless, even though he had no energy with which to move. He was always trying to sit up and hang his legs over the hospital bed; but after days of not eating, he didn't have the strength to do it. Pillows didn't provide enough support for the position he wanted to be in. So during those last days, I used to climb into the bed behind him, and use my own body to prop him up. The nurses would help me sit him up, turn him sideways, and slowly scoot him to the edge of the bed. Then I'd wedge two or three pillows between my own back and the railing, and use my chest and shoulders to support his weight. He would lean back against me, relaxing, finally calm. All he wanted was to feel his feet on the floor, just for a little bit. He couldn't speak, but he seemed happy to be exercising some control over the situation. I'd talk in a low voice, close to his ear, and tell him how much I loved him. He couldn't see the tears streaming down my face, and he didn't know how helpless I felt. He didn't know just how much strength it took for me to do that. But he seemed as content and at peace as he could be, in those moments, resting against me. Later, A. would tell me that it was the most selfless thing he'd ever seen, the way I used my body to help and hold my father. I didn't get to hug my dad goodbye, not in the traditional way. But I got to do that.
65. He regretted falling out of touch with his brothers.
66. He took every pain to make sure it would be as easy as possible for me to handle his death, logistically and financially.
67. His favorite boyfriend of mine was my high school sweetheart, JJ. For decades after, he'd ask about him, always seeming surprised when I told him, "Dad, I haven't talked to that kid in years. I have no idea how he is."
68. He grew up going to Coney Island.
69. He had a tattoo of a pair of lips on his butt cheek. He got it in the Navy as a rite of passage when he crossed the equator.
70. He loved Elizabeth Taylor and Natalie Wood.
71. He loved, loved, loved chocolate.
72. He had a beautiful smile.
73. When he died of small cell lung cancer, he hadn't had a cigarette in his mouth for forty years.
74. He would have been seventy-four today.

November 23, 2012

Mason flew in late Wednesday night, and at the crack of dawn on Thursday we hopped in a rental car to head to his family's annual Thanksgiving reunion in Fresno, where I would be a complete stranger.

The drive was uneventful save for how stupidly excited I was to be out of the city, shouting and pointing whenever I saw distinctly non urban things. "HOLY SHIT! COWS!" ...  "Oh, look at the colors of the treeeeees!" ...  "Hang on. I have to get a shot of these power lines. There's just open sky behind them!" He'd barely pulled in to the rest stop when I jumped out of the car and made a beeline for the OMG red leaves on the ground. There was also fog, which M. was less than thrilled about, but which I just thought was fun, in a creepy movie sort of way.

Incidentally, this was the first time Mason had ever been to a rest stop. Ever. I don't know, I think he could have shown a little more enthusiasm for the experience. I personally think rest stops are fascinating. They're these desolate, metaphoric and literal way stations that exist in between everything. In between destinations. In between stories. I'd love to spend a day at one just talking to random people on their way elsewhere, find out who they are and where they're going. And why. 

On the way, we did a quick drive-through of Visalia, so I could see some of his roots. He ragged on the town, but I found it sweet. I mean, you’ve gotta have a little room in your heart for anyplace that has a Candy Cane Lane. It doesn't get more earnest than that. Mason pointed out the hospital where he was hatched. "Only baby born that night," he said. "There, I mean."

Eventually, we got to his aunt's house in Fresno. She greeted us outside, on the quiet, tree-lined street where she lives, and ushered us into a modest but lovely home, frozen in time in the way that only an eighty year-old's is. Knick-knacks, carefully maintained but out-of-date furniture, and decades' worth of framed bragging rights lining a prominently featured bookshelf. 

We entered the house through the garage, and I barely had time to get my bearings in the crowded kitchen before an elderly man came charging at me with open arms. "I'm Uncle Bill," he said. "And I give hugs to pretty girls." And so it was that I met my new favorite octogenarian, a man who'd spend the day going out of his way to make me feel as welcome as possible in unfamiliar, emotional pang-inducing surroundings.

He was warm, spirited, and utterly engaging. He started chatting me up immediately, and pulled me back into conversation whenever he saw me getting overwhelmed by—or left out of—the bustling family scene. I was the only non-family member there. He asked me about my background, my interests, my political leanings—Mason snapped got a shot of us bonding over a shared love of Christopher Hitchens.

In Bill's previous, pre-retirement life, he worked in retail. When I asked him what he'd done for a living and he said, "I spent most of my life in women's clothing," I decided I was going to adopt him as my uncle, too. He invited insisted Mason and I come to Georgia to visit him, and I pretty much decided on the spot that I'd be going alone if I had to. 

There's been a lot of loss in Mason’s family—not just his father, but a few other family members, as well. There's almost a complete generational gap between grandchildren and surviving grandparents. In a fucked up way, this made me feel even more at home there. Little Orphan Ellie wasn't the only orphan.

The other person I bonded with was M.'s aunt BG who was AMAZING. I'm not even sure how to explain this woman. Eighty-something firecracker who got absolutely plastered and spent the evening variously assaulting me with vaguely TMI family history, harassing the one teenager in attendance, and complaining about the food. All of this with language that would make a sailor blush. She was a riot in the best, most lovable way. Straight out of central casting, she is the perfect, slightly loopy great-aunt who adds hilarity and a touch of scandal to Thanksgiving dinner. 

I was a total interloper, but everyone was very kind to me. And I enjoyed seeing a family do the family thing: laugh, love, talk, connect, argue, snipe, and then laugh and love some more. A couple of times I overheard myself being talked about ("...both her parents...so sad...very sweet girl...") which kind of made me feel like I was floating above, looking down at the scene in a detached way. Me? They're talking about me? Why, what's the...oh. Oh yeah. But the moments of feeling maudlin and self-indulgent were few and far between, because I really was mostly busy enjoying talking to everyone.

Dinner was your typical Thanksgiving affair: jovial, boisterous, with occasional awkward silences when sensitive subjects came up. And the food? Well, nothing can touch my mother's Thanksgiving meal.

Nothing.

But I'll tell you what. Each bite was delicious if only for the fact that I was so, so, so grateful to be in the company of loving, welcoming people - and my best friend - eating turkey and stuffing and cranberries, rather than holed up in my apartment alone, munching on frozen pizza.

Everyone hugged me goodbye, and I purposely saved Uncle Bill for last. Saying goodbye to him was surprisingly sad-inducing, in much the same way that it was hard to say goodbye to Ezra, in Israel last December. I don't know what it is about me and old men. But damn do we connect.

I didn't get emotional the whole day, which I was rather proud of. But once we got out the front door, the tears hit. It wasn't as bad as my father's birthday, which had me positively wracked, sobbing for hours in the tub. Thanksgiving was always the holiday I spent with my mom, and that loss isn't quite as fresh. But just being around a family - god, the envy. Palpable envy that makes my stomach flip even now, if I let myself dwell on it. 

But I won't. Because I'm a damn lucky girl, all things considered.

November 27, 2012

Time doesn't march. Marching is regular, paced, predictable. Time isn't that accommodating of our need to apprehend it. It's erratic: indifferent and cruel at times, forgiving and patient at others. But either way, there's no stopping it, no matter if the walls we throw up are made of laughter or tears. It blasts through them all.

Days and months and years slip through our fingers, and the best we can do is desperately cup our hands and hope that the bigger, more beautiful pieces won't fall through, too. That we'll walk away with a shiny, solid memory we can drop into our pocket, pull out on a rainy day, and put on the mantel like a trophy. This. I had this.

People come crashing into our lives like lightning, or they float in like fog. They take up residence in our heads and hearts. They take our time and our energy. They take some of our life away from us. They help us die, a little bit. They stay for minutes or decades, but eventually, they all go.

They all go.

Sometimes they vanish so quickly they take the oxygen with them, and we're left gasping for breath, and reasons why. Sometimes they melt away imperceptibly, like a glacier drifting and cracking as summer sneaks in.

And it hurts. If we're lucky, it hurts.

If we're lucky, we get to say goodbye first. We get a hug. A kiss on the cheek. We get a laugh and a wave when we're caught taking a picture of a moving truck.

If we're lucky, time was generous and moved slowly, and allowed us to steal from the calendar days and weeks so faceted with amazing moments and incredible dimension that they've become like diamonds in our palms. And even as our bodies crumble and our minds cloud, the truth of those diamonds will never change. We need only to hold them up to the light, to see them sparkle and glow again.

I've been a thief. I've stolen so much.

December 19, 2012

I am way too . . .

a) nice
b) lazy
c) amused by myself
d) all of the above