Journaling

Personal writing from 2012 onward.
Jump to the beginning.

January 24, 2014

I didn't see him at first. Staring down at my phone, Googling a scene from Othello that an IG friend had referenced, listening to The Helio Sequence with my headphones on (big, puffy ones, that block out the world). Walking through Pershing Square on my way to my favorite local small grocery because I was craving delicacies for dinner - prosciutto, burrata, maybe some balsamic jelly.

But suddenly there he was in front of me, pleading a case I wouldn't hear until I yanked my headphones off, which I did, stuffing my phone in my back pocket. He apologized for startling me, taking a step back and putting his arms up defensively. "I don't want to scare anybody, I just need some help, I'm here from out of town and--"

"I have no cash," I interrupted, truthfully. Four words I've said on an almost daily basis in the four years I've lived downtown. But rather than turn away abruptly as most do - as I've grown used to them doing, both of us moving on as if nothing significant has happened, as if the four words I've spoken explain or excuse the enormous gulf of privilege across which I'm speaking them - he just sort of sank into himself, where he stood. Crestfallen doesn't feel like the right word. Crestfallen is a Harry Potter character getting sorted into Ravenclaw House, when he was hoping for Gryffindor. This boy was defeated. Resigned. And something about his resignation was familiar to me. I found myself saying more.

"I only have a debit card, but can I buy you a sandwich or something? Are you hungry? Do you want--" He sprang into life again.

"Oh my gosh, oh my gosh, that would be amazing. Really? That would be amazing. I'm so hungry. I haven't eaten all day and that's just...can I hug you? Is that okay? I'm just, thank you so much..." He threw his arms around me like we were reunited lovers at the airport.

I don't know how old he was. I've reached the age where anyone younger than twenty-five looks like a teenager to me, so it's hard to say. He had blond hair and blue eyes and filthy clothing, and I believed the story he started to tell me as we walked across the street to Subway. Details spilled out more quickly than I could keep track, but I got the gist. Left home about a month ago. Cincinnati. Planned on staying with friends in LA. Lisa and Brittany, a couple. Hit a snag when Brittany found out he used to date Lisa. Kicked out. Figured he'd be better off downtown than Hollywood. Waiting for a friend driving down from NorCal to pick him up and take him back home.

He lit a cigarette, which he had to immediately extinguish, since we'd reached the door. He tamped it against the wall, apologizing. "I should have waited, that was stupid, I'm sorry." As we stepped into the restaurant, fast food fluorescence illuminated what I hadn't noticed outside: the kid was high. He couldn't stay still. His fingers flitted about like caged butterflies, and he danced back and forth on the balls of his feet. I glanced around nervously, but we were alone save for a sole diner at a table in the corner, and the employee who spoke to my companion with a gentleness that I was grateful for. Meanwhile, I listened to nonstop chatter, fueled by I don't know what drug.

"What do you like to get? I take my Subway very seriously, haha. What did you say your name was? Ellie. Ellie, I'll never forget this. Wow, you are a good person. Can I have a footlong Italian? Extra pickles, please. Yeah, that's great. And could you just give me one good line of that Southwestern sauce? Oh that's perfect, thank you so much. Wow, I just can't tell you how much I appreciate this. That looks so good, I'm so hungry--"

He darted away from the counter to fill his soda cup, and when he came back I asked if he'd like anything else. "Do you want to get a couple bags of chips or anything, for later? Some cookies or something?" And it was the way he looked at me, when I asked this, that made me realize what was familiar. I was standing next to my older brother. I was buying my older brother a meal. The one (and only) that I haven't seen in years. The homeless drifter, the addict, the ex-con, the slightly blacker sheep than myself. His same, sad mixture of dejection and shocked indebtedness, when someone did something nice for him. And I wondered whether under this boy's exterior there was any of my brother's same, sad mixture of deep despair and dangerous anger. I wondered what combination of circumstance, bad luck, and bad decision making had landed him where he was today.

Not that it mattered. In either case.

We said goodbye and exited through different doors, and when I walked back through the park a little while later, a paper bag full of organic vegetables and artisanal cheese crooked in my arm, he wasn't in the same place that he'd been before.

January 29, 2014

Terence, bless his coeur, swears he likes to speak French with me in spite of how badly I consistently butcher it. He tends to speak so quickly that I freeze, too flustered to keep up. (College was a loooong time ago.) But I know it means a lot to him that I try. I imagine that since it's his first language (and the one he still speaks with his dad), it activates a part of his identity that he doesn't get to dial into much otherwise. And I want to be able to give him that, if only in my very limited way.

So I've been brushing up, using iPad apps I already had, plus one I've recently downloaded: Duolingo. I'm barely into the lower levels, but I love it. It's much more interactive and fun than the other apps, and structured with goals and prizes (you can cash in points for things like new outfits for your "coach", a whistle-wearing, pep-talking owl). I do wish there were more vocal exercises, but you can get around that by just reading aloud all of the written ones. The best part is how weird and random some of the sentences are. Le requin est rouge. Ses jupes ont des poches grandes. Also, the section on alcohol is a hoot. Nous boivent beaucoup de vin rouge. Yes. Yes we do.

If you're learning a language or want to bone up on one, I def suggest checking it out. It's the number one recommended app for annoying your loved ones with random foreign language ejaculations.

February 2, 2014

I made a scene in Chipotle tonight. It wasn't a huge deal, I didn't earn a teardrop tattoo or anything. But it did reaffirm that I am my father's daughter. I'll get back to that story in a minute. First I want to tell you about Larry.

Larry called me about ten days ago, responding to the ad I'd placed on Craiglist for a lovingly used knee scooter. He was actually calling from the emergency room, where his elderly mother was being treated for a broken ankle. Larry's call came while I was at the library, and I didn't listen to his voicemail until a little while later. By the time I called him back, he was in a bit of a state. He spoke very quickly and very anxiously. He wanted the scooter, his mother had been in the hospital all morning, even though they'd seen her right away, because the x-rays took forever to get back, and they'd been looking online for some kind of scooter, because obviously the crutches weren't going to work, they wouldn't be comfortable for her, and where did I live? Oh. Oh, that's too bad. We were just by downtown half an hour ago. If you'd called me back half an hour ago, that would have been perfect, because we were just there, by downtown, and now we're closer to home, is the thing.

I apologized for the delay and waited for Larry to tell me what he wanted to do. He wanted to come back, that night, to bring his mother so she could test out the scooter herself, and did I think I could help her with that? Did I think I could show her how to use it, demonstrate it for her? I could, and said as much, though the thought of this older woman hobbling around on one good leg when she was probably exhausted and in pain made me wonder whether it wouldn't be better for Larry to just assess the scooter himself.

But I didn't say that, I just said, "Sure, of course, it's really easy, no problem." I wondered vaguely what California tort law would have to say if she took a(nother) spill on my property.

"One more thing," he said. "It's just, and I don't mean to be difficult here, but I have to be honest. It's just that I'm incredibly allergic to animals, I mean just ridiculously allergic, I never used to be, I don't know when it started but it's very severe and I'm just wondering if the--"

"I have a dog," I interrupted. "But I didn't let him ride the scooter." I could tell by Larry's stiff chuckle that this wasn't a laughing matter, however. So I explained that my apartment is very clean, that the scooter was metal and vinyl, that I'd wipe the wheels down thoroughly beforehand, that I'd put my dog in the bathroom, and so on. But Larry made it clear that he wasn't coming anywhere near my apartment or my dog, and that I'd need to bring the scooter downstairs, where he'd have his wife clean it with disinfectant before he touched it.

"Ah," I said, because I didn't know what else to say. "No problem."

So Larry brought his wife, and his disinfectant cloths, and his two little boys, who sat in the backseat of their father's sedan while their grandmother gamely staggered around the sidewalk outside my building, getting the hang of the knee scooter.

But I've skipped the bit about the pencil, which Terence tried to whittle into something to substitute for an allen wrench, when we couldn't find the one that goes with the scooter. He found the instructions on Life Hacker and spent several minutes carving the tip of a Dixon Triconderoga into a tool we could hopefully use to collapse the scooter, so it would fit in Larry's trunk, if Larry in fact wanted it.

But the pencil trick was a bust, though totally worth the effort for the sight of Terence hunched in concentration over my bathroom sink, shaving flakes of wood onto the counter with a kitchen knife, all while wearing a blazer and dress shirt, because that is what he always wears. (And that is not a complaint.) Oh yeah, and he also cleaned the scooter with disinfectant, Windex, and stainless steel spray, despite my protestations that such lengths were unnecessary. Unnecessary, I said, since I was convinced that Larry wouldn't want the scooter because, well because he sounded high maintenance and difficult, to be honest. So I wasn't too bothered about the lack of accompanying hardware.

Larry did seem a bit high maintenance and difficult, but he was also a really nice guy. He was extremely solicitous with his mother, germophobic, nervous, talkative, indecisive, but gracious and friendly. He reminded me of every extended relative on my father's side. And his mother was spunky, scrappy, and good-humored, and very friendly as well, despite what she didn't hesitate to tell me had been a nightmarish ordeal so far. The way she glanced up at me with clear, sharp eyes when I sympathized with her predicament and wished her the speediest recovery possible reassured me that she was going to be just fine, both here on the sidewalk where I lived and back home where she lived, in New York. (The poor woman had just been in LA for a visit. Some vacation.) Larry's wife rolled her eyes good-naturedly at what was clearly a familiar scenario as she wiped the scooter down under her husband's guidance.

It turned out that a demonstration wasn't even necessary. Larry's mother figured out what she was doing very quickly, taking tiny hop-steps across the pavement while carefully resting her leg on the scooter. I walked alongside her feeling helpless but wishing to seem the opposite, and she gave me a look which I read as Okay. This is doable. I got this. I sure as shit don't like it, but I got it. 

"Your butt's going to get really tight," I ventured, with a wink in my eye, and I saw Terence suppress a grin behind her. Without missing a beat she informed me that she did yoga and her butt was already tight. She was eighty if she was a day, and it made my week. I wanted to think that if my mother had reached eighty, she'd have been just as full of sass. I threw my hands in the air. "You do yoga?? I don't even do yoga! You're going to be back on both feet in no time."

In the end, however, Larry didn't know if he wanted the scooter, because it didn't have a locking brake like the other one they were considering. He hemmed and hawed for a minute, conferring with his wife quietly while Terence and I moved politely out of hearing range. Then I stepped back over to them and asked, "Do you want to just take it, try it out? If it works out, you can pay me, send a check, come back by, whatever. If not just bring it back."

Larry was unsure about this, but I assured him it was perfectly fine. "Really, it's no problem. I'm happy to help. I just want her to be safe. I've been there and I know how awful it is. Just let her try it out and see what she's most comfortable with. I'm not worried," I added with a smile. "I have your number." Larry didn't strike me as the kind of guy who'd go to the trouble of changing his phone number just to steal a $100 scooter.

Larry was grateful and thanked me extensively while helping his mother back into the passenger's seat of his car. His wife nodded at me, then joined her children in the backseat while Larry continued to thank me. He kept doing so until he shut the door and drove his family home. He didn't shake my hand goodbye.

- - -

This afternoon, Larry brought the scooter back. He insisted on giving me twenty-five dollars as a sort of rental fee. I told him it was completely unnecessary and tried first to hand back the twenty, and then the five. He just shook his head. "Really, you were so nice to my mother. I can't tell you how much I appreciate it. Very generous of you, not knowing me, trusting me. So nice," he repeated.

When I pushed the scooter back into the apartment, Chaucer barely sniffed it before going back to his toy. If there were strange or unfamiliar scents on it, they didn't faze him a bit.

- - -

A little while after Larry dropped off the scooter, I took his cash to Chipotle to get dinner. The line was already several people long, and I ended up just in front of Captain Special Order Businessman, who wanted a few different items, all with extra this or extra that, cut into halves, No wait, actually can you take the cheese off and put it on the side? More meat. Little more. Now wrap those tacos individually, no they have to be in separate foils, yes, and cut the burrito in half and wrap those separately and...

And so on. And fine, if that's your deal, if you're a Captain Special Order or a Princess Special Order, god bless you and your little entitled heart. You do you. Lord knows all of us are pains in the asses about one thing or another. Lord knows we've all held up a line or two with our needs at some time.

But then he was a dick to the employee serving him, because he didn't like the fact that, anticipating that his various special requests were going to hold up the line, she made the smart decision to help the next customer simultaneously, to keep things going. And when Captain Special Order Businessman figured out what was going on, he was a dick about it, pointedly asking her why she was helping anyone else when his order wasn't completed yet, and when she quietly and diplomatically tried to explain that there were other customers, he got snippy with her and raised his voice in complaint and you guys, it just pissed. me. off.

So I made a scene.

I raised my voice, and I said basically (because who remembers what they say in the heat of such moments), Yo, Captain Special Order, why don't you chill out. She's just doing her job, and if you're going to ask all of us to wait to accommodate you and your special requests, you're just going to have to be patient, okay? And he puffed up in his suit and demanded to know what his special requests were, which I was more than happy to enumerate for him and the rest of the line which by now was watching with great delight, whether because Frumpy Girl was dishing it to Captain Special Order Businessman or because it's just gratifying to see other people be confrontational while you remain Calm and Mature, I don't know. But watch they did.

It didn't last long and it wasn't overly dramatic, and the looks on the faces of both the abused employee and the cashier ringing me up were thanks enough (if I interpreted them correctly, that is) and made me feel like it was okay that it happened, and that I'm not an asshole. That I'm just someone who wanted to stick up for someone who wasn't in a position to stick up for herself - at least not without getting in trouble, probably.

I'd like to think she thought it was nice of me, that my heart was in the right place even if my head was not, but I don't know.

February 14, 2014

Every night as we're going to sleep, Terence and I play a game. We call it the question game, but it's technically more of a fill-in-the-blank game. We take turns completing two statements: 1) My favorite part of today was… and 2) Today I love you because… 

We can give up to three answers for the first question (because awesome days happen, and when they do, RTFO), but for the second question, the answer should be specific and relatively simple.

If we've spent time together that day, we both tend to name some moment when we were with one another, though often we'll say different times that were favorites for us. For instance, if he made me laugh really hard at something, that'll usually be one of his. Here's mine from this past Saturday (which we spent goofing off downtown then taking the train to Hollywood and wandering around there): When we walked into the Ritz and Lumineers was playing, and you skipped and sang with me through the lobby. (I mean, how could that not be a favorite moment?)

Sometimes our favorite moments will have nothing to do with one another. If he nailed an audition, for example. Or if Chaucer got to play with another dog at the park, or someone said something nice about one of my posts - either of those will definitely end up on my list.

Often, one or both of us will name sex as our favorite part of the day. Sorry not even remotely sorry.

The second question can be as superficial or as meaningful as we want. Today I love you because you look so cute in that scarf, or Today I love you because you were so patient when I was cranky this morning, or Today I love you because were such an awesome listener about ___, or Today I love you because you're just fucking hot. It can be as loving and personal as we want, but we can't just go on and on with a laundry list of the other person's qualities. The point is to show we paid attention that day, that we were present, and that we're grateful. We're big on gratitude.

I doubt I have to explain why we love doing this, or why it's such an awesome and powerful way to connect with one another. But I'm telling you, try it for a week. It is fucking amazing.

I introduced the question game, and Terence loved it immediately. That right there—that he enjoys it—is unbelievable to me. But even more unbelievable was what he did one night when we were playing it. "Wait," he said. "I have a new question to add: When did you feel loved today?"

His idea. His question. His priority. His need to make sure I feel loved by him, every day. His desire to let me know when he feels loved. And from that point on, we've had three questions to answer every night.

February 24, 2014

80s prom party this weekend, at The Fonda Theatre in Hollywood, put on by Drink Eat Play. Second year going with this group of delinquents. Used the same alternate high schooler identities we made up last year, ate at the same restaurant beforehand, ordered the same drinks, made asses of ourselves on the same subway. Totally tubular traditions, basically.

If you're in LA, I can't recommend this event enough. People get into it. I guess it's strayed from being strictly formalwear to anything-80s-goes, really. Any 80s character (one guy came as the Karate Kid, complete with a shiner), any 80s look. The best outfit I saw was actually a girl in retro aerobics wear, layered up in leggings, leg warmers, a leotard and thong, and an amazing poofy-bang ponytail. Instead of dancing, she spent the whole time doing exaggerated side stretches and other hilarious aerobicise moves. Stole the whole show.

Last year I half-assed it with my costume, so this year I went big and replicated Madonna's 1984 VMA ensemble, sans veil, dirty blonde curls, and general sex appeal. I was actually able to pick up almost everything I needed cheaply in the fabric/fashion district, which is walking distance from where I live. $1 bracelets and necklaces, crazy cheap corset and bra, gloves and socks at Beverly Hills Hosiery (which, while it is run by a very lovely man and is stocked to the ceiling with fun costumes and accessories, is not exactly as glamorous as its name implies). For the BOY TOY belt I bought a premade $5 sash at a quinceanera shop, and found letter stickers at Moskatels. The only thing I had to order was the skirt, which I got from Etsy. Any excuse to wear a big fluffy tulle skirt, I think, justifies its purchase. But I know with all the dumb and random stuff I do anyway, I'll find reasons to bust it out again.

February 26, 2014

The ocean tried to follow me home tonight. Did you notice? I didn't want to say anything, didn't want to distract you while you drove. But I wondered if you saw it in the rear view mirror, black and surging and foamy with hate. I guess I know what it wanted. I guess sometimes I want the same thing.

It kept up with us a good while. I could hear it, even though I didn't turn around. Flooding the highway, waves crashing and tumbling over one another in desperation to catch me once and for all. It must be tired of getting so close each time. It must wish I'd be more realistic.

But then you said something, I don't know what it was, but it was like that moment when a sail unfurls, snap! and the wind slams into it, and we picked up speed like a boat on the water, except this water we left behind, because all of a sudden we were flying. And that's how we got home.

I don't think it knows exactly where I live. I think I'm safe. But I'll deadbolt the door and check over my shoulder for the next few days, just to be sure. The dog will keep an eye out, too. He already knows to.

Anyway, that's why I was quiet tonight, in the car. The ocean tried to follow me home.

February 13, 2014

A few minutes ago, I carried an industrial-sized bucket full of sopping wet towels and clothing two flights of stairs up to my building's laundry room, since this morning, my Eurotrash combination washer/dryer choked on the nickel I accidentally left in the pocket of my jeans, flooding half my apartment. It was a 3/10 on the scale of Things That Suck, a notable improvement over the 6/10 I'd been engaged in a few minutes prior: sitting on the couch, crying, and missing my parents.

Today wasn't horrible by any stretch. Worse things. There are always worse things. It was just one of those days when a few key details go wrong, and you're too tired to shake it off like a normal adult does, and instead you slowly give in to inertia and self-pity, until eventually you find yourself in a mental fetal position where all you want to hear is the uniquely comforting sound of your mom or your dad saying simply, sympathetically, Oh, sweetie.

Some days you just need an Oh, sweetie. And the fact that you can't have one becomes this deliciously self-indulgent shroud of melancholia with which to wrap up and keep warm. So picture me in one of those right now. It looks like a Snuggie, but less dignified.

My friend Tricia, who has experienced grief both of a kind I can understand and that which I never will, once gave me some great advice about how to handle losing my dad. Keep him alive, she said, in the details. The sensory impressions. Butter melting on bagels. The smell of a Sharpie. What made him him.

No butter or Sharpies today. Instead, a dose of my dad's uniquely dry, pragmatic humor. Not for the faint of heart, probably, but what the fuck. I'll keep him around any way I can.

- - -

When my dad got sick, everything happened mercifully quickly. He lost basic functionality over a matter of days. And wow was that a fun sentence to write, as if he was a fucking toaster, but I don't know how else to put it. First he had trouble walking. Then he had difficulty even balancing himself while sitting. Then he lost speech…and other powers. After that, I assume he started slipping into a state of total disorientation. I assume, that is, because he couldn't tell us. But the way he looked around in bewilderment and fear suggested as much.

Are we having fun yet? Excellent. It gets better.

By the time Greg jumped on a plane to come help out, my dad was still able to speak, still had mental clarity - but bodily, he was falling apart. Those were some of the worst days for me, since, lacking the physical strength to support him, the helplessness I felt was infuriating. He hated using the walker I'd gotten him, even after, desperate to make the house safer and more navigable, I had a late night Craiglist furniture fire sale, just to get some of his bookcases out of the fucking way. He was restless and scared, and kept himself distracted from what was happening by moving around constantly. He'd sit in one chair for ten minutes before insisting I help him move to another. I was always terrified one or both of us would go down as we shuffled along, inch by inch, on the cold Spanish tile. I'm sure he was, too.

The day Greg arrived was especially bad for my dad. He was more or less bound to the hospital bed hospice had set up in the middle of the living room, because there hadn't been time to disassemble his own bed yet. He could no longer get up without help, and, due to his size and lack of balance, it became a massive ordeal for him just to go to the bathroom. And on this particular day, whether due to exhaustion or apathy, my dad decided to forgo the hassle and formality of pants.

Honestly, who the fuck could blame him?

Two things happened within seconds of one another: Greg pulled up in a taxi, armed with his indefatigable grin and a battery-operated, barking toy dog on the box of which he'd written Chaucer--and my dad realized he needed to use the bathroom.

My dad had never met Greg Never lain eyes on him or spoken to him. Knew him only by my description, and barely at that, since we hadn't been dating long. For his part, A. had just stepped off a trans-continental flight minutes before. We barely had a chance to greet one another on the driveway before I heard my dad calling for me from inside.

Greg didn't blink, when he saw what was happening. In an instant, he was at my dad's side, helping me help him stand - discombobulated, weak, needing to pee. And completely naked from the waist down. Really, if you want to see what your boyfriend is made of, throw your pantless, dying father at him and see how he fares.

But this isn't Greg's story. It's my dad's. And do you know what the first words out of my father's mouth were, to his adult daughter's new beau? The very first words he uttered, standing there shakily between us, clutching both of our arms, and in the sort of exposed, heartbreakingly vulnerable state that nightmares are made of?

"Welcome to Apollo Beach."

Because what else was there to say? Manners are manners, whether your guest is living or Death or both, and my dad was fucked if cancer was going to touch his sense of humor just yet. So help him god, that would be the last thing to go.

March 2, 2014

I saw Trevor Powers last night, waiting with Terence and some friends to get ramen in Little Tokyo. He's the musician behind Youth Lagoon, which is my favorite avant-garde, lo-fi, neo-psych dream pop art project, of all the avant-garde, lo-fi, neo-psych dream pop art projects I listen to (currently, one).

Cool, right?

Except this person claimed not to know who I was talking about, when I approached him on the sidewalk outside the restaurant after much urging from my friends (who, when I showed them the above picture on my phone, agreed that it was most definitely him).

I wasn't going to say anything in the first place. I didn't want to be annoying and intrusive and fangirly while he was just waiting for some damn noodles. But the guys said he'd probably be flattered, so I prepared a little speech in my head which went something like I apologize for disturbing you, but I'd never forgive myself if I didn't tell you what I huge fan I was, and that your performance at Coachella last year kind of changed my life.

But when he responded to my opening line of "Sorry to bother you, but has anyone ever told you that you look exactly like Trevor Powers?" with "Huh uh, I don't know who that is. I get Bob Dylan a lot, though..." I had to turn, tail tucked, back to my friends who were watching from a few feet away and explain that it wasn't him.

Only, they don't buy it. Terence neither. They think it was him, and that he was lying to me. I've since tried to triangulate his coordinates via social media and his tour calendar, but no help there. If it was him and he fibbed because he didn't want to deal with me, naturally I am mortified. If it wasn't, I'm still mortified at having bugged some random kid on the street.

So maybe I saw Trevor Powers tonight, in Little Tokyo, and maybe I didn't. It would be kind of funny if it was him, since I was waiting to get NOODLES after all...but I'm gonna just let it sit as a big question mark until I know otherwise.

April 4, 2014

Gifting is such an interesting cultural phenomenon. Bestowing our loved ones with something by which to remember us is how we, as a society, have decided is the best way to express affection and gratitude. But when you think about it, it's actually pretty presumptuous to burden someone with some thing that you've decided has value, meaning, beauty. To essentially say to them, I'm giving you this physical item with the expectation that you will carry it with you throughout your entire life, because I think it's special - and because I think I know you well enough to know that you'll think it's special, too. I expect you to pack it and unpack it, every time you change homes. I expect you to find a place for it in your life, for the next several decades.

It's not that I'm so cynical and minimalist, though I cop to both in small measures. It's just that as a lifelong apartment dweller (whose residences, by and large, have gotten progressively smaller over the years), I think about this a lot. I have to, because every single time I move, I must assess the value of my belongings. What's worth the effort? What's worth the expense?

The other night, Terence and I spent about an hour going through several boxes and bags he'd carted over from his house but had yet to go through, because they were an overwhelming jumble of essentials, gifts, junk, and emotionally-charged things that he'd been lugging around for several years and was none too sure he needed anymore. We all have that stuff. The stuff we're keeping for one reason or another, about whose necessity in our lives we're conflicted. The stuff we just can't bring ourselves to ditch, but when pressed, whose presence in our closets and cabinets we can't really justify.

It's much easier to be stoic about the things we buy or acquire ourselves. It's difficult to part with the things others have saddled us with, especially when they were given in love. Thanks in part to my mother's shopping habits, which clued me in at an early age to the dangers of hoarding, I, however, am pretty ruthless about it.

It started right about the time I was headed to college. My mother took it upon herself to go scouting for deals at discount outlets and thrift stores, on things I was going to need as an independent adult: home goods, bedding, kitchen items, etc. And while it was kind of her, and her heart was in the right place, I knew her - and the shopper's gene I inherited from her - well enough to know that she was feeding her spending addiction, as well. Calling out those two birds, one stone doesn't make me any less grateful - though as a teenager, gratitude wasn't my strong suit. Opinions were. And I had opinions about the silver flatware set she scored for me at Tuesday Morning, and the Pfaltzgraff serving bowls she unearthed in the shelves of Goodwill, and those opinions were basically, Ugh, do not want. Would rather pick out my own.

Still, I kept the things she chose for me, and I lugged them from my first apartment to my second and third and fourth and so on, until I earned enough money, and enough time had passed, that replacing them didn't seem like such an insult. But years of schlepping several dozen pounds of wares that I never asked for in the first place left an impression on me, and I vowed never to give anyone any thing, unless I was at least ninety percent sure they'd want it, or it was cheap enough to discard guilt-free.

I've penned a lot of silly, personalized birthday poems, for this reason. I've read long-winded toasts at parties, filled with inside jokes and sentiments intended to show their honoree that I know and love what makes them them. I've written and performed mini plays (one a few years ago with popsicle-stick puppets), invented games, created goofy graphics and flyers - anything to make the recipient feel special and understood as a person, without burdening them with a material good they might have no use or desire for.

I've done all this because I hate the hassle of the haul, not because I know for certain they do. And I've reached such master status at remorseless purging that I'm happy to oversee and advise on the efforts of others, including the boyfriend with whom I just moved in. Because it's a lot easier to raise my eyebrows at the fourth Ganesh idol he pulls from the carton than to direct my critical gaze to the bottom shelf of my console, where a sticker maker I've used once in the past five years sits laughing at my hypocrisy.

When we were finished, and while he was waiting for me to change so we could go grab a celebrate-the-decluttering bite to eat, he grabbed his ukelele and started strumming. "See?" I lit up. "Do you see how getting rid of actual physical stuff clears the way mentally, makes you want to create something to fill that void?"

I had no idea what the fuck I was talking about, and still don't, but it sounded true-ish and like a good justification for the donate/sell piles we'd rather hastily created, so I was definitely enthusiastic about the idea. So was he, I think, because he smiled and kept playing.

The ukelele is not going anywhere. The sticker maker, however, is living on borrowed time. I mean, no way am I carting that thing around to more than, say, the next four apartments.

April 17, 2014

Last year Coachella was like a spiritual retreat for me. And I write that as someone who really hates the word "spiritual." But that's what it was. I was alone. I was super introspective and emotional, and I had no one to talk to but myself. So that's what I did. I went deep inside and connected to parts of me I hadn't realized a) existed or b) needed connecting to. And I know how silly and navel-gazing that sounds, believe me. But that's how it was. And it was amazing. This year I was with Terence, and save for the few times we separated for short periods, we experienced everything together. So while it was, again, intensely emotional at times, those emotions weren't of the sort one feels alone. And that's what made it both completely different and totally awesome.

There were some changes this year that I had mixed emotions about. For one thing, they moved the Do Lab off to a far back corner of the festival, probably in response to complaints about noise contamination, since last year it sat squarely in the middle of the grounds. And while I agree that it was a good idea to move it, I kind of missed seeing/hearing that big, hedonistic mosh pit of wet, throbbing bodies every so often. They scaled it way down in size and, inexplicably, redesigned the shade structures in an inverted fashion, rendering them sort of useless.

I wasn't particularly into any of the DJs playing the Do Lab, so it was just as well that it'd been relocated to Siberia. We didn't spend any time back there (we didn't really have a lot of downtime, period), but it definitely made for some pretty photos. The art installations change every year, and this year's showpiece was a massive, mobile astronaut who crept slowly around the grounds and whose mask lit up at night with looped video. Last year's boat, great for climbing on and getting high-up vantage points for photos, was replaced by a huge, stationary, flower-wielding robot.

The shade structures of the Do Lab that had been so central, and so convenient for both recovery and people watching were replaced by a flower-covered, upside down arc off near the Gobi and Mojave Tents. One of my favorite moments of the weekend ended up being in here. Sunday night, a rare break, waiting for Arcade Fire. We were a little cold, a little tired, and a lot high, and we curled up against an inner wall of the arc and just held one another, soaking up the last hours of the festival. It was lovely.

Scheduling conflicts prevented us from seeing any of MGMT (though we heard Electric Eel loud and clear from across the grounds—a huge advantage Coachella has over other fests is that acts on the main stage can be heard no matter where in the fest you're at) and Pet Shop Boys, but we both agree that we have absolutely no regrets. Other than those two misses, I saw virtually every show I'd hoped to—and virtually every show was awesome. No sound problems, no complaints about the set list, no issues whatsoever. I felt spoiled rotten by this year's music. Top overall performances: Muse, CHVRCHES, Bastille, Washed Out, Broken Bells, Beck, Dillon Francis, and Frank Turner.

And speaking of Frank Turner, he was just delightful. I was hoping his show would be something of a singalong, and oh man. He did not disappoint. You want a rock star you can feel good about supporting? It doesn't get more humble, more down-to-earth, and more classy than this guy. Not to mention hilarious, engaging, and extremely talented. I predict (and hope for) great things for him. His fans were out in full force, as I expected, and they even started a little mosh pit, if you can really call running around in a circle, jumping, laughing and high-fiving one another a mosh pit.

Terence hadn't been to Coachella in ten years, and even then, he'd been hanging out backstage. So this was really his first time attending as a fan, and his first time seeing all of the new developments—including the awe-inspiring EDM cathedral that is the Sahara Tent. Walking up to the Sahara Tent for the first time—the hugeness, the lights, the unbelievable acoustics—is pretty exciting. It was so fun to see it hit him and to experience that thrill all over again, vicariously. I didn't get stuck in Sahara this year, thank god (it was the reason I missed many of last year's headliners); I feel like we saw just enough EDM to satisfy me: Dillon Francis, Martin Garrix, Gareth Emery, Zedd, some of Duck Sauce—and while Terence stayed at Outkast, I snuck over to a nearly-empty Michael Brun show and got my fill of dancing alone.

I never mind being far back in Sahara. Not only is there room to actually move, the breeze comes in and totally invigorates everyone, and the whole last section turns into a massive dance party, and people actually interact with one another rather than just stare forward. We worked out the perfect meeting place, which is directly in the middle and under the very back edge of the tent. No need to text or worries about miscommunications. Also? Makes for great pics.

During the day, Sahara can get pretty unbearably hot, which is all the more reason to stay back where the air circulates. But if you're going to go in, a good spot to get is immediately next to the tech platform. You've got a slightly raised platform that's only wide enough for you (so no one will be standing on top of you), plus a railing to your side for extra room. We snagged this real estate for Gareth Emery (Long Way Home). Perfect for me since I also had the convenience of Terence the Shade Tree blocking my sun. Dancing with Terence was so fun. He totally gets that I like space and room to breathe. He stood behind me, or next to me, or in front of me, happy (and tall enough) to just watch over my head, while I closed my eyes and floated away, my hand resting lightly on his chest to steady myself. Heaven.

There's nothing like the sunset shows at the main stage. The energy and joy is palpable and infectious. Everyone running around, cavorting like kids, jumping and skipping and laughing and playing. It's like a life recess.

Other random notes…

They doubled the size of the Yuma tent. And while I understand the decision (it was tiny and way overcrowded), this made it, I don't know, less cool? In fact, now it sort of looks like a big gymnasium at the end of prom, with kids scattered and recovering in all corners. But that's okay, because it has a massive disco shark hanging from the ceiling:

Lana Del Rey was absolutely enchanting. She descended on the chaos that is Coachella like some kind of heavenly songbird and soothed us for an hour. I was way gone for her set and just sort of clung to Terence, and we swayed while she serenaded us. It was so gorgeous.

Beck played Loser and Que Onda Guero, and that made me very, very happy.

Empire of the Sun was just as good as they were the other two times I saw them. And Washed Out's set was way, waaaaay better than their Outside Lands 2012 set. Made me cry, in fact.

As far as surprise guests, we saw Diplo join Dillon Francis and Blondie join Arcade Fire, but we missed everyone else (and it's a good thing we did, because Nas's superstar blowout kept everyone's attention and was what allowed us to get so close to the stage at Muse).

Muse covered Lithium as a tribute to the anniversary of Cobain's death, and it was pretty unreal.

Even though I love The Shins, I didn't go to Coachella as a huge Broken Bells fan. But wow did they sound brilliant. I may need to revisit them.

I didn't take much in the way of video, but I did throw a few things up on my Viddy.

Coachella totally satisfied my festival needs this year. I feel more than content skipping OL and Bonnaroo and EDC, partly because holy hell am I exhausted. But I really just couldn't have asked for a better, more rounded-out festival experience.

April 29, 2014

Her Past is a terrible conversationist. It has nothing new to say, and can only tell the same stories over and over.

Her Past loves to crash parties. It gets terribly jealous when it sees the fun Her Present is having without it.

Her Past doesn't care about Do Not Disturb signs, even those written in flashing neon lights. It will come knocking at any hour, no matter how late.

Her Past hates feeling invisible and forgotten. It will kick and scream until Her Present acknowledges it.

Her Past has all the usefulness and appeal to Her Present as expired milk.

Her Past is a book she's already closed. It can't open itself again without her help.

May 5, 2014

Life is meaningless. We waste so much time looking for a meaning to life when our primary purpose should be to enjoy living. On the entire planet, among all the animals, only man is arrogant enough to believe that he was put here for a purpose, different from all other animals.

- my extremely smart friend, Bill

He'd probably credit such wisdom to his years, but I suspect he understood it very early on. I told him this little snippet of pragmatism is, for me, a glass of ice water at the end of a long, hot day spent in pursuit of some magical nectar that doesn't exist.

May 6, 2014

Life lately is long walks with Chaucer and longer naps afterward. It's watching Last Week Tonight projected on the wall, a night at the speakeasy, and a visit from Terence’s dad. It's bomb new headphones and hairstyling LOLs, and a Wall of Joy for twelve cents a print.

It's nesting and decluttering and unloading what's no longer useful. It's a special trip for pizza with Chaucer, goofing around, a lobby Ellie, and as always, lots and lots of music.

Life lately is Hey, I'm back downtown. Wanna go to the observatory?, shoe gazing on the train, and cuddles with Chauc. It's parks and high rises and the Hollywood hills, and still finding Uranus funny, at 36 and 38.

May 12, 2014

I confessed them to you today, my fears and insecurities. Words and tears tripped one another in a race to be first; every last ugly thought to make it real and raw and awful. Because they'll see I'm a phony, I said. They'll know I'm a loser, and they'll tell you, and then you'll love me less. 

You'll love me less, I said, and it was like turning out pockets full of worms. You didn't know I was carrying them around. You thought I was just a girl. But nope. I am a walking tackle box. You kiss me and tell me how happy you are, and it's nice, it's so so nice, but meanwhile? Worms. In my pockets. That you don't see. That I use to catch all manner of horrible, slimy, deep-dwelling creatures (that you also don't see). 

But today you saw them, and you said, You don't need those, baby. Or the equivalent of that, anyway. You don't need those worms. And you told me why I don't have to be afraid. You made me look you in the eye instead of the shoulder, and you didn't loosen your grip one bit, even though we were both covered in the worms that I have been carrying for a very long time, since way before you even knew me. 

And that is why I will always try to keep my pockets free of the things that can weigh us down. 

May 16, 2014

Summertime blues that aren’t. It's been stupidly hot. I've been lazy. Chaucer's been lazier.

May 29, 2014

Back-to-back weddings this past weekend, Saturday and Sunday. Terence was a groomsman at Saturday's, and there was a head table at the reception - which meant bridal party members were seated apart from their dates. And other than my date, I knew exactly no one at the event. So I was just slightly intimidated going into it. Okay fine, I was terrified.

I sat nervously with a group of other plus ones for about five minutes, sure I was going to drown in my own lame small talk, before looking up to see some close friends of Terence's (that I had only met ten minutes prior) stealthily waving at me to come join them. My heart melted into gratitude; I grabbed my wine glass and snuck over to their table, taking the one unclaimed seat at the wedding. Between getting to know his friends (who are awesome), I chatted up a documentary filmmaker seated beside me, successfully fooling him that I am socially adept. Sucker!

The wedding itself - held at a mountaintop ranch in Malibu - was spectacular. It was officiated by a friend of the bride and groom, and the vows (as well as a poem written and read by the groom's mother) were beautiful. The food and catering service (Heirloom LA) were phenomenal, and the DJ had been recruited from Burning Man. After dinner and dancing there was a silent disco, and after that, guests were invited to camp for the night in tents along the ridge (ocean views, trees, boulders, and a koi pond - crazy pretty). Everything went off without a hitch; in fact, I was so impressed that I sought out the event coordinator after the reception to say how unsurprised I was by her great reviews.

Highlight of the night, however, was the best man's speech. Apparently he had spent nearly every day with the bride and groom around the time they had met, working on some project. He talked about having had the rare opportunity to witness a couple fall in love, day by day. "I watched you become essential to one another," he said. I've grown pretty cynical about weddings since my own (which I subsequently dubbed The Great Cash Bonfire of 2008)...but that part definitely got to me.

Didn't take many pics, but here are a few #onblurpose (haha NOPE not even close, just one too many champagne toasts to focus) of the reception area.

Sunday's event was a much more casual affair, held at a kid's camp in Altadena. I had my date all to mahself for that one. Badminton, parasols, and Chinese lanterns, oh my.

Tomorrow is the anniversary of my birth, and since my brain is already checked out in anticipation of the revelry, I should probably stop now before I ramble on into some awful Upon Entering The Final Year of My Thirties treatise (and reveal just how little I've actually learned in four decades).

May 19, 2014

I could live to be two hundred and never get used to the particular happiness that comes from receiving an unexpected invitation from a friend to hang out. A simple Drinks? text, and I light up along with my phone.

So I was grateful when yesterday, as I was just settling in to Part II of Breathing Lessons by Anne Tyler (it's fantastic), I got one of those thrilling little messages. We're at the Akbar parking lot party. Super good music and a performance at 6:00. Come out! 

Of course I went out. And I spent the evening with friends I haven't gotten to see much of lately, in a scene I haven't been around a lot over the past year, because life. I've missed it—both the friends and the scene—and it was just a really awesome way to spend a Sunday in May.

June 5, 2014

The living room windows are open right now, so my apartment is filled with noise. I can hear the hum of generators on the surrounding rooftops: a long, slow, windy whoosh accompanied by the clacking of something come loose. The machinery is old; we occasionally see technicians poking around with flashlights in the dead of night. Fixing, adjusting, cranking dials. Setting things in order for the safety and comfort of tenants in the buildings below. Beneath this ever-present din of automation is the sound of traffic. Snippets of horn and siren; the deep whine of an accelerating bus.

If I were to close my windows, and if I were to stop tapping the keyboard long enough to cock my head towards the source of it, every few seconds I'd hear another sound: the crackle of glass breaking. The glass that is breaking has been doing so for three days straight. It is the frosted glass panel fitted into the door that separates our bedroom from the rest of the loft. And it is breaking because on Monday night, I lost my temper and slammed an upright clothes steamer against it, shattering it into what I presume is now a thousand-odd pieces. They were getting pretty small already when we carefully taped it up in a sheet of wrapping paper, and by the sound of it, they haven't stopped forming yet. 

The sound I've been hearing these three days is a tiny ping! of the sort you'd get from gently flicking a fingernail against something hollow and smooth and thin, like an empty champagne flute. At first I thought it sounded like tinfoil being crumpled. And maybe it did. Maybe the tenor of the breaking changed as the splinters spread, due to some relationship between gravity and pressure that I could hear explained a hundred times but never understand.

We watched it for several minutes, when it happened. All the anger and tension evaporated out of the room, replaced by pure fascination at what I'd done. We peered at it from a foot away, then two, then three, as we became convinced that any second, the whole panel was going to give and collapse, raining glass down on our feet and across the floor. We knew we had to do something, but the sound and the sight were too captivating to look away quite yet. The door snapped and popped as it fragmented into a random, spiraling puzzle. Terence kindly pointed out that it looked pretty, like stained glass. I was just grateful the subject had changed.

In the kitchen, at a safe distance, with Chaucer cordoned off behind guitars and chairs, we strategized. I put my arms around my boyfriend, feeling ridiculous and ashamed and furious at myself. "Is this a metaphor for our relationship?" I joked, weakly. "No," he said. "But how we fix it is." He vacuumed the few splinters that had escaped upon initial impact; a bullet-shaped hole towards the top of the door showed just how little glass was missing. "This would make a great play, actually," he said. "The entire time, the audience is just waiting for it to fall. Can you imagine the tension?" I could. His comment made me wonder whether I shouldn't try to write a short story similarly plotted, and I spent much of the evening distractedly ruminating on what the rest of such a story could entail. Eventually I'd decide there was no way the event could be anything other than a blog post. A great big arrow pointing at me, labeled Idiot. The small print would read: F- in Anger Management. 

After much back-and-forthing, we decided the best stopgap measure would be to wrap the entire thing. Poster boards wouldn't cover the whole panel, Saran Wrap or foil would be too difficult to maneuver around the hinges, a bed sheet wouldn't be large enough to span both sides, and butcher paper was impossible to procure at such a late hour. So, wrapping paper. We stuffed a sheet under and around the door to minimize the mess in case it gave while we were away, pulled on shoes and jackets, and walked around the block to the all-night Rite Aid.

Face to face with the rack of wrapping paper options, the comedy of the situation set in. We considered, knowing we might well be looking at several days or more of a gift-wrapped bedroom door until maintenance was able to secure a replacement. "Pick your three favorites," I said, figuring we'd have some overlap in our choices. Without hesitating, Terence reached down and grabbed a roll from the Characters Kids Love section: Bert and Ernie on a bright blue background. The thought of having to stare down a pair of muppets every day and night as penance for my stupidity made me smile. "Though I guess this would be more fitting," he said, tapping a roll scripted with Happy Birthday! over and over in a loopy cursive font.

"Is that supposed to be funny?" I asked, rhetorically and with no malice. I'd been hoping there would be something in a solid light green, to match the frosted glass we were going to cover. But the plainest choices were various wedding papers: off white, lightly embossed - Rite Aid's classiest wrap. We ended up choosing a striped silver pattern which offered the most square footage. We hadn't thought to measure first.

Back at home, the glass was pinging and splitting, though still hanging snugly in the door's wooden frame. Terence unrolled the paper, draping it from the top down, while I tore off strips of masking tape. When we were finished, we stepped back to admire our handiwork. I remembered once pranking a hallmate in college with a gift-wrapped door. I wondered whether I had any ribbon laying around, to complete the look. 

That was Monday night. Neither of us has submitted a work order to the leasing office yet.  

Tuesday evening, I was sitting in the tub when Terence came into the bathroom to keep me company. It was dark except for the light of the office building next door, which crept in invasively, stopping just inches from my body. "What do you think the difference is, between couples that make it and ones that don't?" 

He sighed. "Well, what do you mean, 'make it'? What constitutes making it?"

"I don't know," I confessed, because I didn't. "Ten years?" He didn't have an answer at first, and we just sat quietly in the dark. Then he did have an answer. Something about connection, and always being able to get back to a place of mutual respect and love.

There's a metaphor he came up with a few months ago, about our relationship being like a table that we can pile things on - good and bad - but that remains a sturdy constant underneath it all. "As long as we always have our table when we clear everything else off," he'll say, "we're good. Our table is really strong. It's really fucking strong." He talked about the table that night, in the bathroom. And I talked about how sometimes I get so angry, so unbearably angry, that I flip the table and everything precious that it holds. (Well, I didn't say that exactly, because honestly he's much better at the table metaphor than I am - but that was the gist of what I was saying. Owning my awful, ugly anger.)

"Yeah, but what happens after that?" he prodded, and I knew the answer he wanted, which is the true one, and which I said. 

"I apologize."

"Exactly." And he went on to say that doing so made it right, or made it better, or showed I was making an effort, or something generous and forgiving along those lines.

"Do you think I could just stop it?" I asked. "Like, stop being angry, ever? Just stop right now and never be that way again?" (I was speaking very softly by this point, because I was trying not to cry.) He put his forehead against mine and said yes, he bet I could - but that it's okay to be angry. That we're human and we have strong emotions and things happen. And I thought of our gift-wrapped bedroom door and how unnecessary those particular emotions were, and I felt very, very grateful that he saw it that way. 

And then my boyfriend - who sometimes bears the brunt of a temper I don't talk much about but that sits inside me like a hungry animal - stopped making excuses for me and climbed into the water, even though I like it much hotter than he does.

And that is what happened in the days following my birthday.

June 14, 2014

I don't want to let my birthday go by undocumented, but there isn't a whole lot I can write about it that doesn't sound like an eighth grader's diary entry. It was really fun! I love my friends!  But it was really fun, and holy hell do I love those people, all of whom traveled at least an hour to come for the weekend. Some of them collaborated on Mason's surprise visit (I had no idea he was flying in from AZ). Some of the pooled together to send Terence and I to HardFest in August. Some of them chipped in for a table at Avalon to see Dirty South. And some of them printed up and framed a photo from 80s Prom Night for me. We spent days goofing around at various pools and nights goofing around at various bars. I spent twenty minutes collaging the pics that can be shown, so here's hoping they give a good idea what it was like.

That was really fun! I love my friends! Got a hundred on my pre-algebra quiz!

June 16, 2014

Well, it’s happened. I’ve turned into my mother.

She used to tell a great story about this headshot. She'd gone into the city (she lived on Staten Island but worked in Manhattan) to have some modeling photos taken. Before she left home, she applied false lashes (thus achieving the utterly obscene bedroom eyes seen here). But she wasn't familiar with them and didn't put them on right, so they gave her some trouble—particularly on the windy ferry.

And apparently, she'd agreed to a first date immediately after the shoot (this was before my dad). So by the time she got to cocktail hour, the glue of the lashes was a sticky mess. She said she had to excuse herself to go to the bathroom so she could rip the damn things off before continuing the date—still looking killer I'm sure.

June 17, 2014

Killing time in the train station. Shows at The Orpheum and King King. Drinks at Casey's, a backyard BBQ, and the Make Music Pasadena street festival. My second-annual Bon Anniversaire crepe, cashing in a Burke Williams birthday massage, and the faces that I love so very much

June 18, 2014

A couple weeks ago, early on a Sunday afternoon, I stumbled into an underground dance club. I had no idea that's what it was at the time. I just thought there was a cool, if unexpected, event happening on the outdoor patio at one of the local bars. It's not a place that typically plays electronic, so when I walked by and heard the music, my curiosity was piqued.

The music sounded good. Rather great, actually. And people were dancing - enthusiastically. On a Sunday afternoon. Random in the extreme. Twice over the next few hours, I invented excuses to run errands around the corner, so I could further investigate this intriguing little pop-up party. By the time I did a second drive-by, the tiny dance floor was packed - in the cold light of day - with some of the chillest-looking revelers I'd ever seen in LA. People in shorts, t-shirts, sneakers. People who seemed to care much less about what they were wearing than what they were hearing and how they were moving.

Fascinated, I found a spot on the railing and watched the scene for a while, along with a handful of other passerby. "Do you know anything about this?" I queried of a guy standing nearby. "I've never seen DJs playing here."

He did know, and he explained to me: this was a weekly event that runs all summer in Los Angeles, and has been doing so for years. House music at rotating venues throughout the city. Various DJs. "But this guy's the best," he added. I believed it. The music was incredible.

"How late does it go?" I asked.

"Until ten. But he's only on for another hour," he said, pointing at the man behind the turntables. That was all I needed to hear. I bolted to the apartment to drop off my things, changed into comfortable jeans and a tank top, and headed back to the bar. Terence was in New York visiting family, so I went alone. No problemo: I'm a veteran at going out solo...at night. In dark clubs, where I can slink into the shadows and anonymously enjoy the music. This wasn't night, it wasn't dark, and there were no shadows for me to slink into. If I was going to dance, it was going to be straight up stag and in full view of everyone; including, potentially, familiar faces from my neighborhood.

But that was the thing - the thing that had me gawking from the sidelines, wanting to know what the hell this was - everyone looked strangely solo here. The vibe of the event was less nightclub and more festival; people weren't clustered up in the usual cliques and pairs one sees on the dance floors of LA. They were all just sort of floating about, mixing it up, as if they had all come independently with the intention of just dancing to great music. And everyone was into it. Like, really really into it.

I got myself a drink and hovered around the perimeter. Delighted. That's the word for what I felt, even just watching. It was such a casual, comfortable crowd, and they all looked to be having the time of their lives. Also? Diverse. I'd never seen anything like it. It's not a complaint or a criticism, but most of the clubs in LA are pretty homogenous. Here there was a strikingly wide representation of age, ethnicity, and orientation - the one common denominator being a clear love of the music.

It was fucking awesome. In fact, no lie: for a split second, I actually thought maybe I'd died and this was what heaven was like: a big dance party with people from every walk of life, giving zero fucks about anything other than the music.

Eventually, I sucked up my shyness and joined in. And I had a blast. It was just such a good vibes crowd; no one was there to impress, no dudes scamming on girls, no scenester bullshit. I met some really cool people, too: a twenty-something couple that was boycotting Pride (they feel it's become too commercialized and expensive); a flannel-clad, barefaced woman - forty if she was a day - who had by far the best moves of anyone; a fifty+ dude who neither stopped smiling nor dancing for the entire three hours I spent there. Near the end I did have a slight run in with a pushy kid who didn't understand the meaning of No thanks, I'm good, but overall? Great, positive energy and fantastic music.

Before I left I had a short conversation with one of the DJs who told me more about what this was: an underground dance club that holds different events throughout town, all the time - this was one of their more public offerings. The only reason it was here, tonight, was that the scheduled venue fell through; it was a last-minute booking. Was I on Facebook? That was the best way to keep abreast of future goings-on (for the weekly public events). I told him I wasn't, not really, but that I would manage to check it out anyway. Then he told me the name of another website to Google. And Google I did, later that night. And oh boy, was I tickled when I found myself reading the mission statement of an invitation-only, semi-secret dance club to which I applied for membership (I had to fill out an ironically rigorous online form detailing the when and how of when I was invited) and to which I was accepted, and for which I am now in possession of a legit, bar-code having membership card that arrived by post a week later. Hot damn.

June 19, 2014

Oh hi there! How was your day? Yeah, it was good? What's that? You saw something cute on the internet? A basket of kittens on Reddit?

That's nice.

TODAY AT THE PARK MY DOG PLAYED WITH A FOUR MONTH OLD BASSET HOUND, AND LATER MY BOYFRIEND CUDDLED A FIVE MONTH OLD NEWPROSHIAN CUTEHOUND AT THE FARMERS MARKET.

But hey, I'm sure that kitten gif was really cute too.

**drops mic**

June 20, 2014

Every once in a while, someone will ask why I write so often about my father and so seldom about my mother. This can be awkward, particularly since the someone asking is me.

My mom and I had a "difficult" and "complicated" relationship. The scare quotes aren't to mock; they're to acknowledge the nebulousness and overuse of two words that, at the end of the day, don't say much about what two people mean to one another. The shorthand works for shallow conversations (and blog posts), but it doesn't get to the heart of why I'm mostly mum about my mom. So I thought I'd explain why it is I rarely blog about her. 

When I think about my dad, if I let it, the flood of memories will come fast and furious. I can easily picture him in a hundred different settings, saying a hundred different things to me. Random associations pull me from thought to emotion and back again, and if I'm not careful I'll get whiplash from the ride: the horsehair shoe brush on the shelf of his closet, sitting near a stack of thick, scratchy wool sweaters he used to wear in Alaska when he had the handlebar mustache from those epic Polaroids; I can see that same expression twenty years later and ten states over—laughing, holding a beer, that dangerous twinkle in his eye when he'd had too much and he'd sing too loud and he'd smack my shoulder with a comradely slap like I wasn't a child at all but a drinking buddy like I wasn't his sensitive and hesitant and people-pleasing daughter but his brother or his son…

And so it goes, ranging as far and wide as I want it to.

But with my mom, there isn't this facility and clarity of reminiscence. Thinking about her with prolonged, concentrated intention—as I do with my dad now and again, to keep him alive and close and familiar—is like swimming out into the ocean, holding my breath, and letting myself sink down beneath the waves...then trying to take stock of what I see. It's possible, but it isn't easy. It isn't easy to see things underneath the blue, which turns quickly to black the deeper I go. Even on the brightest days, when my heart feels full for her, I look at my mother through a wall of water that distorts and disfigures whatever truth is there.

Have you ever stuck your hands below the surface of a fountain or a pool, and noticed the way they shimmer and twist, light and liquid playing tricks with their shapes? That's what it's like, remembering my mom. She's both the light and the liquid and my shimmering, twisting hands. I can't make out what's reality and what's trompe l'oiel.

Why is this? Simple: We just didn't know each other very well. We began our slow withdrawal from one another when I was about twelve, and family dysfunction took as its first victim our preteen-mother relationship (it eventually took a toll on all relationships in our foursome; no pairing was spared). She retreated in her own way, to her own safe havens, and I retreated in mine, to mine. And over the next ten years, as I fled the nest and began to build a new one of my own, her role in my life evolved into something best described as aunt-like. We saw less and less of one another (and one another's homes), knowing less and less of one another until eventually, I couldn't tell you whether she still used the dish set I'd grown up with or if she'd replaced it—or how she felt about doing so. Or how she felt about anything at all. And then another ten years slipped by before we knew it, as if we'd hit the snooze button on our own lives. And then she was gone.

I have to go back pretty far in my mind, to reassemble the collection of various household objects that speak of my mother. There's no horsehair shoe brush within easy reach, leading me to the next emotional totem, and so forth, such that I can resurrect for myself, for you, for anyone, the narrative that was Ellie and Her Mom. Because we stopped writing it. And when two people cease constructing a narrative with one another, they have two choices: they can either quit altogether, and move on with their lives; or, if it's too painful to just leave a void, they can continue to construct that narrative on their own, filling it with whatever stories and facts they need there to be, for their own sanity and peace.

I think that's probably what we both did, my mom and I, for a while. We told ourselves what we needed to about why it happened, and we told ourselves who the other person was, that we no longer knew, but whom we would always love. And I can't speak for her, and she can't speak for herself anymore either—but I know that I'd rather let my version of our narrative float just out of view and out of reach, underwater, rather than tell a story that isn't true. And everything I know about us is tied to everything I know about her, and both sink a little bit deeper every day, no matter how good a swimmer I am. No matter how long I can hold my breath to take stock.

That's the difference, anyway, between remembering and writing about the two people who made me.

June 23, 2014

There is clearly something wonky with the time/space continuum, causing summer weekends to speed up.

Friday - Little Tokyo with Ross and Kerry while Terence pulled a late night shooting (something very exciting that I unfortunately can't brag about on his behalf - yet!).

Saturday - Watched Terence perform in a Hollywood Fringe Fest play; afterward we went for cheesy pizza and even cheesier piano jazz at Miceli's.

Sunday - Slept obscenely late and invited the pup into bed for some intense weekend cuddling. Finally got up, destroyed a baguette from Les Noces du Figaro, then wandered around town in pursuit of a decent Lambrusco for Sunday dinner with friends. Didn't find one. They didn't complain. Black and white pasta with shrimp, gnocchi, ricotta cheesecake and tiramisu. Lotsa laughs and celebrating.