Sunday, May 29, 2005

Applied at the same complex, I'll know Tuesday if I get it. This is going to be rough, but wish me luck. Oh, and bring me booze. Housewarming party June 10th if everything works.

Saturday, May 28, 2005

Comments seem to be broken. IM me at tenebras23 (AIM) or email me

Thursday, May 19, 2005

Okay, further updates will be even more sporadic for the next few weeks. I have to find someplace to live by the end of the month.
Okay, this is a start. I promise to finish soon.

It’s been a long time, I know, but I’ve been busy getting drunk and getting laid. The usual, one might say. So here’s the low down on the Coachella trip. I should have been taking notes, or at least written this two weeks ago so please forgive any poetic license.

Friday night; a friend from Bakersfield is coming in to town and of course I forget. Luckily, I’d left AIM open with an away message telling people I was at Cheers. Not having a phone can sometimes make it difficult to find me. Well, not really, I'm usually at home or at the bar. My friends find me at the bar and take me to their place. I wasn’t sure what time I was getting picked up Saturday morning so my main object was to get piss drunk and pass out on the couch.

I hadn’t seen Aaron in quite some time. Once, a long time ago, we hung out on almost a daily basis. He lived (and probably still lives) with his parents and just wanted someplace to hang out, drink, and watch porn. I’m usually good at providing such a space. We spend a few hours catching up and getting buzzed before he drives me home. Of course I’d totally forgotten to pack so in a mad rush I threw some things in my bag and packed some CDs in my binder. I grabbed a few extra outfits since I never quite know what I want to wear. I manage to pass out on the couch, leaving the door unlocked since I know it’ll take a lot to wake my ass up.

My friends arrive Saturday morning, not bothering to knock since I’d told them I’d be passed out on the couch. We grabbed my gear and headed to I15 for the high speed burn across the desert. There were four of us, the happy couple in the front, myself and someone even more jaded and depressed next to me. The two of us had significantly more luggage than the happy couple. Crazy Goths, I swear. I should have planned a little better and grabbed some bourbon to mix with soda but somehow I managed anyway. We make the traditional stop in Baker for some grub and a beer at the Mad Greek. I had some good falafel and a Mythos (Greek beer). My companions eat more regularly than I do so I wind up eating with them. We wanted to get to the venue in time to see Perry Farrell’s set but we’d left too late and still had to drive through Palm Springs to get to the hotel. The hotel is quite nice, nicer than I’m used to. The happy couple is somewhat spoiled. Last year, by comparison, (with a different happy couple) I spent a night in the car. This year, we had a refrigerator, two large beds, decent television, and the rest. After scraping off a layer of dirt, we head the 30 or so miles to Indio.
We passed by my high school, just able to see the top of a new building from the recess of I10. Towns that used to be nothing more than a trailer and a gas station have become vapid stretches of strip malls and car worship. Outside of San Bernardino and Palm Springs the only way you can tell what city you’re in is by the new street signs proudly proclaiming the city name just below the street name. The older towns haven’t bothered replacing the large, green signs so endemic to Southern California just a decade ago.
Driving along what I can only guess was once Route 66, I see melted Eisenhower dreams strewn across once barren landscape waiting for the second coming. Just outside of Beatty, Nevada lay the remnants of a once prosperous mining community founded on the dreams of some rock named Rhyolite. Here, just outside Los Angeles lays the embryo of a William Gibson-style Sprawl ready to eat everything in its path. I wonder how similar the two will look in a hundred years; rusted out carcasses of food tins and camping stoves; crude graffiti painted over fragmented memories of something that once mattered.
We stop for some beer before we hit Indio. Buying alcohol after midnight in such locations is difficult at best and I wanted to be certain I'd have some in the hotel later. Dodging the oversized tanks preferred by the locals, we make it into a market. Someone passes us as we walk from the car, noting, "You must be either coming to or leaving from Coachella." Right; four people in their early 30s wearing too much makeup and chips on our shoulders. No way could we be locals. I grab some Guinness, bourbon, and something sweeter for the lone biological female in our group.

My companions are worried that the parking is going to be difficult. From my experience the year before it wasn't that bad, but others had complained. We almost miss the turn off the main drag to the polo field; we'd forgotten to print out the directions. I have some vague memory of the street name and we luck in the right direction. Even if I don't drive, I've been in cars enough the past decade to have some idea about traffic and directions. I try to pay attention sometimes.

The event is just as I remember from last year; the toilets and tents are in the same places. The weather is nicer, this time around.

Monday, May 02, 2005

Insert bad joke here.