Here I am, I made it. Good god, a lot has happened. I'm writing now from the back seat of a busted up 95 Chevy Caprice, driven by a white knuckled, radiant, pale blue eyed artist, with fire in her eyes and her foot hard on the gas, winding up a mountainside. My tall, blonde cousin, Esme (ez-may), rides shotgun. She has been my guide to Los Angeles and greatest West Coast asset. Since a few days have passed since Las Vegas, and my fragile, hobo-esque life situation doesn't allow for easy Internet access, nor charge opportunities, nor much time to write, I'll try to sum everything up as briefly and hilariously as possible.
Ben and I quietly crossed into California in the dark. The first order of business was a stop at In-N-Out Burger. I made love to a Double-Double. We headed for the weird hills of Orange County, where a good friend of mine lived, Nick. What was supposed to be a four hour journey turned into six. We arrived weary and beaten. Nick, a California kid and MMA fighter, greeted us with enthusiasm and we went out for beers. Returning late that evening, Ben went to sleep, and Nick and I talked into the night about old adventures and new plans, Spartacus blared loudly in the background.
In the morning, and in his usual offbeat and wrenchy fashion, Ben was nowhere to be found. I knew he planned to leave early but expected a wake up so I could unpack my life from his car. Of course he had unloaded everything except my iPhone cord. And yes, having a bullshit, randomly sized, iPhone 5 cord is every bit as irritating as it sounds, especially when even starving, penniless African children have spares of the old iPhone cord. I had $11 left in cash, still no debit card and my only cord was doing somewhere around 70 mph on a beeline back into the desert, headed for Palm Springs. Enraged, I wrote him via Facebook to verify it was gone. He found it still plugged in to his dash, realized the severity of his mistake and officially had fucked me. He said he'd ship it, but I planned to head to an unknown place in LA that day and told him not to bother, since I'd have to find a replacement before then anyways. I called my cousin Esmé from Nicks phone, arranged for my parents to wire her some money and got the address of where she'd arranged for me to stay. Nick drove us north up "the 5" toward Venice beach, where I apparently would be staying, and dropped me off sometime late that afternoon.
I met Esme and her friend Ava, with whom I was staying, and begged them drive me to buy a cord. We made moves, Esmé took out $160 of the $300 my parents wired for me, I bought a cord, checked in with my folks and we prepared for her friends birthday that night. With my "fuck it" mindset I put on my gold jacket and argyle sweater for the occasion. No better way to meet strangers than with a pre-guarantee that you'll be the most bizarre person there. I poured a whiskey on the rocks, smoked some dope, and waited for Esmé to return with her friend Heather. They arrived primped and prim, and I struggled to make a non- awkward introduction in a haze of weed and whiskey. We piled into Heather's Chevy Caprice and hopped onto "the 101" towards Hollywood, where we were already late for sushi dinner at a Japanese place called Kabuki. I met Jessica, the birthday girl, ate sushi, drank saki, and we left soon thereafter for the bars to begin yet another night of debauchery.
Arriving at an upscale, deserted place called Broadway Bar, I immediately bought Jessica and I a shot and inquired with the bartender as to where a more exciting bar might be. It being a Thursday he guessed a place called Los Cita's might be fun and I, despite having just met everyone there, insisted with drunken excitement that we leave immediately. For some reason they trusted my methods and we left. Of course we got to the other bar and it was also dead. I was infuriated and ordered more drinks for Jessica and I. At this point the brown out began to take hold. I was still conscious but with that absurd, potentially and probably humiliating, complete disregard of self consciousness. As I continued to fiendishly order shots for myself, the girls and any stranger in sight, my self control drifted to that rock bottom level of sad hilarity that I'd recently become a little too casual in reaching. With no regard to the type of music playing, I grabbed Heathers hand and semi-impressively threw down some merengue dance skills, my last composed move of the night.
I woke up on an unfamiliar leather couch with what felt like a mouthful of tequila soaked cotton balls, a jackhammer in my skull and couldn't see a thing through my dried out contacts. My phone was missing, and I only had $20 left in my wallet. It was almost hilarious. Stumbling around in my gold blazer and argyle sweater, all while blinking furiously, I must've looked like a freshly lobotomized gypsy troublemaker. I found a door, walked into a sunlit kitchen, which I had by now ascertained was in a glass roofed house in the woods on a mountainside, and came upon a charming old Australian woman cooking breakfast. Still buzzed, I introduced myself and ended up having a lively conversation with her, who I learned was Heather's mother, and talked about her awesome house and of my adventures. Our conversation awoke Esmé and Heather, who came down and joined us for breakfast. They informed me I was a ridiculous fool, as usual, and had ranted for the entire car ride to a party in the mountainous Topanga, north of L.A., before passing out and turning into an unresponsive corpse. Fortunately I found my phone in Heather's car and chalked the night up to a complete success, minus having spent nearly half my money in one fell swoop of tequila induced idiocy.
I spent the morning recovering and Esmé made plans with Heather for us to go to her cabin in a town called Running Springs, which up in the mountains that overlook the San Bernadino valley. We are headed there now with plans to drink, smoke, relax the weekend away and hopefully dabble in some depravity.
