The Nepal Earthquake

The Nepal Earthquake: Humbled and Helpless (Part 1)

About one year ago I survived the deadly earthquake that struck Nepal. Clocking in at a 7.9, and followed by days of strong aftershocks, the disaster ultimately killed over 7,000 people. Here’s my story of the experience.

The back of Sam's Cafe, where I woke up that morning

I awoke that Saturday morning on a dirty mat in the back room of my favorite local cafe. My fellow volunteer, a pale red headed Brit named Patrick, slept on another dirty mat in the next room. The owner Sam was a friend of mine and he had thrown me a going away party the night before. I’d spent 3 months in rural Bhanjyang volunteering at the the Tashi Choeloing Buddhist monastery, and had befriended many local Nepali's in my time there. In the mornings I’d teach English to little monks, and in the afternoons I’d sit in Sam’s cafe drinking rice beer and smoking cigarettes. That night we reminisced and drank long into the night. The cafe was two minutes from my monastery, but the large gated doors were locked at 8 every night. Fortunately in typical hospitable Nepali fashion Sam let us crash on the two beds he reserved for displaced travelers and drunks.

 A symphony of clucking chickens, screaming goats and barking dogs rang screeched through my hungover ears as I helped clean up the mess, and wait for Patrick to rise. Eventually he did and we nursed our hangovers with tea and french toast (Or “eggy bread” as the Brits call it). Then we headed up to the monastery. We’d planned to leave that morning and head into the heart of Kathmandu to attend the 5th Annual Nepali Tattoo convention. I gathered the few belongs that I hadn't sold or traded, but when it came time to leave I couldn’t find any of my monk friends or students to say goodbye. I learned they were scattered around the monastery and town, so we went back to the cafe and decided to wait until lunchtime for them to return. We sat for hours quietly drinking tea and smoking cigarettes. Around 11:50 we left the cafe, walked back up the hill and passed through the large monastery gates

“Namaste,” I said to the old, uniformed guard, as we passed. By now he was well used to seeing me come and go.

Patrick followed behind and we continued up the hill.

We were standing by the monastery’s large stupa, a square shrine with a row of prayer wheels on each side, when we heard the first rattle. The rattling sound grew louder and I looked up at the stupa expecting to see little monks causing mischief. The rattle grew louder and louder and turned into a low roar. Then the ground began to shake.

“Oh fuck it’s an earthquake!” shouted Patrick.

Almost the exact spot where I was standing when the earthquake struck.

The shaking grew stronger and it became hard to stand. There is nothing you can do when the whole world is throwing you around. We expected the ground to open up and engulf us. I’ve never felt so helpless and humbled in my life. When everything shakes, you are nothing. You are a speck and can only be in the right place or the wrong. But we were lucky. I gained enough composure to look up and check if anything could fall on us. Luckily, there wasn’t. We stayed on the side of the hill in relative safety as the world continued to throw us around. With a good view of the farming valley below, Patrick and I watched helplessly as half a dozen mud brick houses collapsed in huge clouds of red dust.

 The shaking died down and we became very as nauseous as we tried regain our equilibrium. After a few moments of dizziness we recovered enough to run the rest of the way back up the hill to the monastery, which was in complete chaos. Although nothing had collapsed, the monks were in an absolute panic. Westerners take for granted that we understand the gist of the science behind earthquakes, but the monks didn’t have this educational luxury. They were convinced that they were all going to die. A group of about 20 young monks even brought out a portable DVD player so that they could watch one last movie before death.

The Stupa

As we gathered in the monastery courtyard, a huge aftershock, clocking in at a 7.6, rocked us again. It made anyone who hadn’t already shit in their pants to finally do so. All we could do was wait, huddle together, and pray there was enough toilet paper left for us all. The aftershock wasn’t nearly as bad as the initial quake, and we were moderately expecting it, so it came and went pretty fast. After the shaking stopped I ran over to the fancy hotel that was used for yoga retreats, where there luckily was still a wifi connection and made a quick post to reddit about how strong the earthquake felt. Little did I know that this would be my last link to the outside world for the next 3 days...

I spent the next hour with Patrick trying to educate the young monks on the basics of plate tectonics. Patrick and I both knew that the worst of the shaking was probably over, but the monks still expected to die at any moment. It was truly terrifying to see the look of utter helplessness and panic on the faces of the such usually happy and carefree group of kids. I will never forget it.

The Courtyard

 After the panic began to subside, Patrick and I decided that we would still head back to Kathamandu as initially planned. After a weird, uncomfortable goodbye, I gathered my bags and we hopped in a cab headed down the mountain. Thats when the true magnitude of the destruction began to sink in. On the 30 minute journey back to the city, we saw house after house that had fully or partially collapsed. Every brick wall we passed was now lying neatly on the ground, but with the bricks still in order. What was a brick wall yesterday was a brick path today. Unfortunately, however, we still had yet to see the worst of the destruction...

Fear and Loathing and The Living Goddess

Well, for another couple of minutes I’ve kept my head out of my ass and my hands on the keyboard. Spending the morning smoking hash and drinking rice beer in this opium den was a good decision.

Burning Bodies

The day after my arrival I learned that five other volunteers had arrived at the same time, and that they were all staying in Kathmandu for the week to take a “Language and Culture” Course. I decided to join them and get acclimated. During the days we visited ancient Hindu Temples and holy rivers, spun Buddhist prayer wheels, saw monkeys fighting stray dogs, smelt burning bodies from funeral pyres, caught a glimpse of a living Goddess, saw monkeys fighting stray children, got blessed by both Hindu priests and Buddhist monks, and met other travelers from around the world. During the Night, we had other adventures. 

To avoid tarnishing the reputations of those involved in the debauchery, and seeing as I don’t have a damageable reputation anyways, I’ll leave out the names and keep it as brief and hilarious as I can. I made some good friends and we saw and did some fun, bizarre shit. Gorkah and Everest beers were drank, dances danced, Nepali’s befriended, cigarettes extinguished on fingers (drunkenly dubbed Kathmandu tattoos...), and many memorable times were had. Kathmandu has a great nightlife and surprisingly great music. We saw live bands playing tons of western songs and Nepali songs and danced accordingly. The only downside was that most places closed at midnight, except Club OMG. 

One of those first "early" nights, before we understood the sad, weird, late-night glory of Club OMG, five of us stumbled back to our hotel at midnight, riled up and disappointed. We felt we couldn't give up on the night this easily. We were in motherfucking Nepal. The streets, however, were dark, deserted and hopeless. We began drunkenly shedding our clothes and preparing to sleep. Then, suddenly, two of us had a whiskey fueled, third-world inspired burst of motivation. Though beyond my personal recollection, I apparently went on a loud, nonsensical, new-age rant about how,

 "THIS IS OUR ONE, ONLY CHANCE TO EXPERIENCE THIS MOMENT!"

One Canadian was convinced. Too irrational to redress and too motivated to care, we stumbled back out into the night, seeking one last grasp of drunken grandeur. Sadly, we failed. Not barely clothed nor coherent, and after pissing off the balcony onto the street, we stumbled shoeless down to the lobby and demanded that the front desk guy take us to an open bar. Being terrible at Nepali and blackout drunk made communication difficult. We were deranged. He was clearly horrified. According to his lies, there was nowhere to go. Our demands turned to pleas, but were to no avail. After an impressive effort, hope began to fade and exhaustion sank in. Defeated, we said "Fuck the moment," staggered back to the room and succumbed to the darkness.  

At the end of the week the group dispersed, each of us leaving to different projects around the country. Ultimately, I couldn't have asked for a more enjoyable and culturally vibrant experience. My alcohol, weed, and Adderall detox was, however, off to a slow start.  The only drawback was that it shifted my focus away from the real challenge that lie ahead. I nearly forgot that I still had two-and-a-half months teaching in an isolated Buddhist monastery. 

The journey into my mind had only just begun.

Sorrow's and Bullshit

As a result of my incessant bitching and seemingly unappreciative attitude toward life, I feel I must clarify the reasons for my first world anguish. Well, fuck you, because I don’t understand the source of my discontent any better than you. Back home I always have hot water, nice clothes, delicious food, unlimited entertainment, the ability to communicate instantly with friends around the world, heat when its cold, A/C when its hot, hundreds of types of good beer to get drunk from, dank weed to get high from, and with just my phone I can read nearly any fact or idea that any human has ever written or discovered about our world and Universe. And I’m a fucking white American guy. Yet too often I wake up with a heavy, hollow, useless spirit which pervades every fiber of my being. I lie in misery. 

In February, I left. I rode over Poland with a window seat, a numb ass and a full bladder. The path to the toilet blocked for hours by a fat, sleeping American. Our flight continued south through Europe toward war-torn Ukraine, and then, for the final leg, flew into the coveted heavens above Iraq and Syria, right over, yet out of reach of thousands of bloodthirsty, freedom-hating, brown people.

I arrived in Kathmandu on February 9 at midnight and met my ride from the volunteer organization (the Rural Community Development Project, or R.C.D.P), outside of Tribhuvan Airport. We quickly threw my shit into the van and went flying off into the dark, weird streets of the city. The driver, Sujan, with both eyes glued to his phone, wove with maniacal ease in and out of unmarked lanes into oncoming traffic. One hand typed away furiously as the other steered casually and honked without mercy. After a harrowing 15 minute drive we veered into the tiny alley which led to our final destination, a hostel run by R.C.D.P. The next morning I woke to the sound of stray dogs fighting and old women hocking phlegm. So I made it. My journey to Nepal and into the bowels of my mind had officially begun. Time to start clawing up away from all the sorrows and bullshit. But I guess part of the cure is searching for a purpose, which is why I’m here. 

I’ve also had this one thought which helps keep me moderately sane. Bear with me. Human beings are animals, built to survive. On Earth, millions of different animals have lived and died with one shared goal, survival. It took about 200,000 years for our species to figure shit out, but we human beings got really, really good at survival. Suspiciously good. For tens of thousands of years we hunted wooly mammoths, fought saber tooth tigers, and lived in the fuckin dark, but continued to thrive. Every second of human progress has built up to this day and provided us with our ridiculously lavish, modern existence. This is a day and age where I rarely have to think about actual survival. My only problems are that I’m spoiled, whiney and sad. Sometimes, however, I remind myself how ridiculously unlikely it is that I get to exist at all, much less that I get to exist NOW, in this era where knowledge, compassion and creativity are cherished on a scale never seen before on Earth. That shit blows my mind. I’m reminded that no animal in Earth's 4.5 billion year history has ever had as much potential to wake up tomorrow and go watch, listen, travel, read, feel, create, help, sing, play or love as you or I do. 

So yea, I should probably quit my bitching. 

The Buddhist's

An old Monk chanted softly and farted loudly as he walked by my door. A violent gust blew through the hallway. It was the never-ending wind that came with monastery’s hilltop perch. Not the wind from his ass. The devil had squeezed his hellish claw on my intestines since the night before, and night before that. For three days I laid on my rock hard bed, alone, and suffered through the food poisoning. My fucker inner-dialogue began to sing a song of hopelessness and doubt, and the Despair sunk in. 

The last time I wrote a blog I called it “Too White To Fail”, but I never explained what the name really meant. Some people probably assumed it was because I’m an arrogant douche, or a shitty racist, or possibly even an arrogant, shitty racist douche. Those assumptions, however, were only partly true. My last journey was blind search for purpose, born out of misery and driven by optimism. When I left that December 26th, I had no plan to write, nor any expectations for what may lie ahead. Writing on my iPad was just a distraction. That first night on the road, when I named the blog “Too White To Fail”, it was a simple reminder that I felt semi-capable of keeping my shit together. 

 I stayed in L.A. for 6 months, worked relatively hard, explored the city, drank countless two-dollar bottles of wine, smoked frightening amounts of weed, grew cynical, stopped writing, developed a thick spite-based Southern accent, read some books, tried to write again, failed, and ultimately wept like a bitch. Then one day I was walking down Rodeo Drive and had a strange vision that all the rich folks had turned into goats, screaming and clip-clopping around Beverly Hills each in a fit of cunty self-absorbedness. It may have been the drugs, but I wasn't taking any chances. I bought a ticket home. 

Naturally, I got home and got complacent. Within a week, I bought a puppy. A little dachshund I named Josie. Within two more, I got drunk and almost lost her. Since then, not much has happened. I mostly wallowed in self-pity and drank too much. Of course there was a failed relationship here and there, to spice things up, but these just helped stomp on the slivers of my optimism that remained. Things got bad. Again. Too much drinking and too many drugs took their toll. It was time to be born-again from the Misery and reignited by the Optimism, but it took a couple years for that spark to come back. So I went online and found an organization through which you could pay to “volunteer” teaching English at a Nepalese Buddhist monastery. It sounded weird, hard and far away. I was in. 

Now I’ve been in Nepal for two months and although I meant to write about my trip from the get-go, I didn’t. So here I sit in the dirty backroom/ opium den of a rural Nepali cafe, drinking my fourth or fifth homemade rice beer, among the goats and chickens, and tapping out what may be  a start the cure to my endless misery. I’ll try to write something again, hopefully soon, before another 2 years passes, about the perspective this third-world country life has given me, but I’m not making any promises.

Ozzy & The Unnatural Hillbilly

Finally, I found the balls to sit down and write. I haven't done anything too bizarre and what energy I've mustered lately was used to work on The Mouse War. I've been working hard peddling pesto and haven't had time for much else. I have, however, been traveling all around this city, from Venice to Beverly Hills to Pasadena to Burbank and experienced some of the funky, unexpected shit this city has to offer.

Fake New York taxis at Warner Bros Studio

One day I literally saw a hobo whip his dirty pink dick out and start pissing into the road and the next I met a guitarist from Nirvana (Pat Smear). Thursday, I was at Fox Studios setting up a market and realized I was parked in a reserved spot for Jake Johnson from the T.V. show New Girl. I'd never heard of him, but he's apparently some famous person, which makes stealing his spot almost worth mentioning.

The kitchen, where I pack and clean the supplies for markets, is in the alley between Beverly and Rodeo Drive, so when I'm not at a market, I'm working in Beverly Hills. The alley is also where the the valet parking is for all the high end shoppers; so when I'm working I regularly spot Rolls Royce, Bugatti's, Maserati's and just about every other absurd, exotic car you could ever think of. And of course I get to see the filthily rich folks who drive them.

Mexican Wrestling, Ellen, & An Old Jew

"There's always something to write about."
"What are you gonna do, then?
I pointed at my bottle and picked it up.
"How are you gonna make it?" he asked.
"Seems like I've heard that question all my life."

Ham On Rye -Charles Bukowski

A strong, non watered down Makers Mark and a potent batch of pineapple express fought valiantly against the motivation I mustered. I finally clicked off of Facebook. There were no more notifications. I needed to write, no excuses. For motivation I bought a wireless keyboard for my iPad, but it is broken. The y is switched with the z and most of the punctuation are switched with umlauts. What the fuck - not even a question mark. I've been torn about what to write for this post, and what to write about for the blog in general. It started on an unexpected high with days of road tripping and nights of incessant bourbon chugging and bluegrass listening. Nate accidentally brought a black whore back to our room for Christ's sake. Compared to that level of unfathomable ridiculousness, what I've been doing in LA has seemed unexciting and too boring to write about. But thats just pessimistic bullshit. Now that I have a little money and some options, I can set myself in the right direction. This blog is a fairly accurate representation of my life's status, and it has been floundering. In search of a direction, and partially inspired by having just read Bukowski's Ham On Rye, I figured I could start calling myself a writer, and well, actually pursue writing. Obviously that means continuing this blog indefinitely, but perhaps I may even try my hand at writing a screenplay. How hard can it be? Curious about it, and having never read one before, I bought and read the screenplay for Lincoln. My suspicions, of course, proved be true, as it seemed about as hard to write as a children's picture book.

I never called myself a writer. Even the decision to keep track of this journey was an afterthought. In December all I knew was that my friends and I drank in unpredictable excess, we were going to Vegas and I had the opportunity to string the inevitable decadence into a blog. Events transpired, absurdity ensued and despite my uncertainty, I managed to piece it all together in a fairly sensical manner. Now I'm in Los fucking Angeles, the practical epicenter of writing culture and opportunity in the United States. Calling myself a writer seems a logical step. An initial worry, though, especially with a cache of potential travel money, was my uncertainty that I could find enough to write about here. Then I remembered something I wrote in a previous post;

"Should this beautiful, momentous wave crash in California, drain painfully into the Pacific and suck my newfound metaphysical Glory into the bowels of the perpetually numb? Fuck That. I'm staying on board, riding this westward blowing whim and continuously billowing the sails of my life with unimaginable hilarity and fortuitous adventure." -The Impasse

So I decided to stop being a negative bitch and find some shit to do, some weird, funny shit. Using Google, I quickly found a list of ways to explore some of the most ridiculous things that L.A. has to offer. It includes a violent women's roller derby, free prophetic readings at the Pasadena International House of Prayer, a Mexican wrestling circus with nudity and midgets (announced by Drew Carey and Fred Armison), a nightclub called the California Institute of Abnormal Arts described as "equal parts bad acid trip and carnival sideshow of atrocity," a massive 90's mashup party, a drive in theater that plays The Goonies, the L. Ron Hubbard Scientology exhibition, an lhilarious Mexican drag show, and so on... Theres even a bar, only 2 miles away, that has fucking turtlez races on Thursday nights.

To spite my inevitable indecisiveness and bad attitude about having no good writing material, I am dedicated from this point on to visiting at least one of these ridiculous places or events per week. This means, beside from working, looking for a car and saving, all of which are basically fucking terrible, Im going to use my time embracing LA's oddities and filling my literary coffers with some great, bizarre material. In search of consistency, I can now just describe the absurd thing I visited and include any of the good nitty gritty life shit thats worth mentioning. For example, I haven't yet mentioned how last Wednesday I worked at a farmers market in Burbank, on a fake street at Warner Bro's Studios; and next week, Ellen, who films her show at the studio, is coming down to the market to do a segment. So in a funny twist, I may get to be on the Ellen show.

I also got my marijuana card. Last week I skated down to Venice Boardwalk and was persuaded by unshaven hippy in bright green scrubs. He assured me the process was simple. After showing me to a decrepit, sandy floored back room, I met a droopy old Jewish doctor, who I had to convince of my ailments. He looked like the deflated teen from the anti drug commercials. It didn't take much convincing. Then I followed green scrubs on his longboard farther down the boardwalk. We stopped at a second place and I went in alone. A thickly accented, large breasted Eastern European woman asked me for forty dollars and handed me a "doctor approved certification". She was seedy, but pleasant enough. I followed a the hippy down the street to yet another building where a friendly old black man sat guard, at the bottom of some stairs. Getting the nod, I walked up. Before I knew it, was basking in the admittedly semi-erotic glory of my first legitimate herbal medicine.

The next post I will have definite certifiable absurdity report.

From the Bowels of Moderate Poverty.

I have scrappily swum back out of the bowels of moderate poverty. Shit got slightly bad for a brief, terrifying First World moment. I even had to cut out, much to my to chagrin, Second Breakfasts and Elevenses. Apparently not the Lord of the Rings references though. First let me describe in detail some more of my life's circumstances. While hovering just above pennilessness, I got the job at the farmers market stand. Unfortunately, I have only been given work "training" the past three Sunday's and earned less than minimum wage each day. Alas, I was assured that more hours and opportunities would come, so I waited with patience, yet unease. At the moment I don't have to worry about rent, which is quite convenient. I do however, have to worry about scrounging the occasional meal. Though I have enjoyed the ample time to do nothing, only making fifty dollars, one day per week, over a span of three weeks, isn't exactly sustainable. The main and only thing that's kept me alive is a reserve of insurance money we received a few years ago after I totaled my car. My folks held onto this reserve and in times of desperation would trickle some down to me. They know that I needed to save it for a new car and are well aware that I tend to decimate money with stupid and consistent, reckless abandon. As a result, I could pretty much only afford to spend any of it on gas and groceries. If not for the glory and convenience of two dollar Charles Shaw Cabernet, "Two Buck Chuck", I almost would've had a hellish, accidental sobriety forced upon me. I needed something to hold me over while I waited for more work/money and chalked the cheap, delicious wine up to the classy equivalent of a PBR 40 oz.

Then just the other day, something incredible happened, my parents in their non sarcastically, never-ending wisdom, came to the realization that giving me all of the insurance money at once was a good idea. About 3.7k. Elated at the new plan to let me be an adult and such, I immediately rushed to the bank to cash out three thousand in one dollar bills and am writing this post as I sit naked upon the summit of One Dollar Mountain, brazenly chugging Goldschläger, and smoking a joint rolled from a hundred dollar bill. While I revel in this newfound, near infinite wealth, I have not forgotten the hardships and humbling conditions, which I barely survived just days ago. I shudder thinking back on the single day I endured when I couldn't afford to eat out, a wretched hell I could not ever relive. Thus, I intend to use this money was as much sanity and semi-frugality as I can muster. First order of business? Cash in these freshly soiled one dollar bills for a plane ticket to Costa Rica to pick up some real, homegrown coffee and say hi to a few old friends. With whatever's left after my coffee run, I suppose I'll look into the whole car thing. Then, overwhelmed, I'll probably just buy a bike and some peyote and ride out to the desert, bat country. Out there, as I pedal around all alone, unbalanced and seeking guidance, I trust the induced Native American spirits of the desert will impart to me the true destiny of the remaining money. But in my gullible, spiritual despair, I'll have bought the cheapest peyote I could find, called "Red Mans Greed", and the Visions will probably just guide me to a roulette table at the closest Indian casino, those manipulative spirit bastards. Then after losing the entirety of my bank account at said roulette table, I will shamefully pedal back out of the desert toward L.A. in financial and psychological tatters.

Runyan Canyon, in the hills above LA.

Well, that's at least one way this whole money scenario could play out... In reality, I'm just enjoying the staggering convenience of the situation and legitimately considering my now vast array of options. Needless to say, the Holy and Never-Ending Glorioussness of this unexpected acquisition of wealth, and inconveniently attached responsibility, shan't and won't ever get to my head.

One Does Not Simply Walk Into Mordor.

I said two Wednesdays ago that I would put my next post up in a day or two. Well, that was a miserable failure. There's no excuse, other than the fact I'm a psychopath and when I have just that one thing to accomplish it spawns a Mordor-esque psychological barrier that takes weeks of hellish adventure, and the loss of some good friends to overcome. I guess I made it. Many things have occurred, so if you're a fan of moderate brevity, you're in luck. Let's go back two weekends ago to the night after I'd been hiking in Topanga.

I arrived home from Topanga in a good mood and was ready to succumb to another night of watching Netflix in the nude. Then a friend of Nick's called, who I had met the weekend before, and asked if I wanted to drink. I was of course, down. He gave me a lift, spotted me a bottle of wild turkey 101 and we went back to his apartment to drink with his girlfriend. Long story short, I tried taking a prescription painkiller, which when paired with a whole pint of bourbon, resulted in incessant and unchecked ranting arguments till dawn, followed by 13 hours of frighteningly refreshing hibernation sleep. I woke up at 7 the next night, briefly enraged at the people who I thought were being loud as shit before the sun had risen, and realized that it had already come and gone. Disconcerted by this information, I demanded a ride home and tried to cope with the horrific, unsettling disorientation. Well, no more painkillers for me. Early the next morning (Sunday) I had an interview at a Farmers Market stand and then planned to meet my cousin to drive down to a mini-family reunion, somewhere in the desert. I arrived back at my aunts and was worried I'd be up all night, considering my freshly fucked sleep schedule, but I passed back out around midnight and managed to rise again at 7.

I woke up Sunday morning in a daze and drove to a place called the Larchmount Farmers Market, right down the street from Paramount Studios, and met an acquaintance of my aunts to interview for a job. I didn't know much going in, but the short, fast talking, Italian man who I met and interviewed with was hiring for an Italian food company that made fresh pestos and pastas. I ended up helping run the stand all morning and even got to meet one of the guys from Kiss, who apparently is a regular there. Before I left, I was assured a job as a logistical manager, basically to help this company run their 18 farmers market stands and was told I'd be eased into the position. Hurrah, potential progress. I left around noon and drove to meet my flamboyantly gay cousin Mark, who lives right off Sunset Blvd, and who my Dad affectionately refers to as "Peach". My dad had one brother who was about 10 years older than him, and thus I have a bunch of much older cousins out in California who all have careers and such, one of whom is Mark. It was his siblings and their families that we would be spending the afternoon with. I hadn't seen him in a decade, except via Facebook, and met him outside his West Hollywood apartment that afternoon. I'm a big fan of Mark; he is rambunctiously outspoken, intelligent, straightforward and hilarious. We had a few minutes to spare and went into his apartment, where he immediately handed me a rice Krispy treat. It had M&M's and smelled like an Evergreen tree. A Canna-Krispy Treat. He warned me of it's potency and advised I only eat a little bit. I hadn't planned to get baked, especially since I'm naturally awkward enough around semi-random relatives, but said "Fuck it" and ate half. "It's gonna take a while to take affect," said Mark, "In the meantime, here's this," he said, handing me his bong. 'Good Mother of Jah', I thought to myself, as I indulged much more heavily than I knew I should have. So we smoked, watched football for a few minutes and then left to drive an hour south to meet my other cousins. Needless to say I was absolutely fried.

We arrived and I went through "The Extremely Stereotypical Series of Greetings With Moderately Unfamiliar Relatives Process". During which, I experienced the inevitable stoners conundrum; I knew that I'd be fine by simply embracing the buzz, but quickly became paranoid they knew I was high, which invariably made me overcompensate in my attempts at normalcy and ultimately turned me into a stuttering, nonsensical Helen Keller noise machine. Regardless, I managed to reasonably converse with the group of relatives throughout the afternoon and into the evening, putting all of my efforts into not completely losing my shit. I'm sure I seemed normal enough, but can't attest to how sane I actually appeared because my memory is tainted by the irrational logic of a high person. In my mind, everything I did and said seemed perfectly rational and reasonable. Although in hindsight, inhaling chips and salsa with every other breath of air I took, may have been a dead giveaway. Also, I ate the other half of the rice crispy treat midway through the visit, which prolonged my battle to continue conveying some moderate sanity. It ended up being a good time though, as we mostly watched football and ate a delicious spaghetti dinner. I just tried to keep my attention from drifting and my comments as minimally psychotic as possible. Around 8 that night Mark and I headed back LA, just as my thc buzz was finally beginning to fade.

That was two weeks ago and to be perfectly honest, nothing of particular interest has happened since then. Content with my improved employment situation, and generally feeling like less of a piece of shit, I procrastinated away a lot of my weekdays on Reddit and Netflix. After putting up my last post, like I said, I fought an uphill battle against my motivation, for no sensible reason, and have started, stopped, written, and rewritten this damn post about 25 times. Last weekend I worked again for my "training" day, but it only took about 5 minutes to learn the complex inner workings of a stand at a Farmers Market, and I quickly settled into the grind. I made jack shit in terms of money, but did get to leave with an armload of the leftover pasta and pesto, and a bunch of leftover baked goods from stand next us. The owner of the bakery stand was large, gay British man who told me he "could listen to my Southern accent all day long", kept giving me more bread and cakes, and offered me a temporary job. I would almost have been offended at the blatant objectification if it hadn't been so unexpected, absurd and side splittingly hilarious. Definitely worth my overall semi-discomfort from the interaction.

The past week I discovered my cousins longboard and spent the days riding down to the beach, exploring Venice and Santa Monica. Despite being generally alone, skating down to Venice Boardwalk and people watching as I rolled amidst the hordes of trinket peddlers, musclemen, junkies and tourists, will certainly be a fond and surreal memory. In the weeks ahead, as I continue to search for a car, fun, apartment and additional job, this cash flow ought to provide some new opportunities for excitement. With my and your slight entertainment as my semi high priority, I will indulge each opportunity with as much bourbon fueled decadence as I can mentally and physically muster.

Thizzin, Eagle's Rock, and Badasses of the Future

"I have accepted fear as part of life, specifically the fear of change... I have gone ahead despite the pounding in the heart that says Turn Back..."

(For continuities sake, I included the last paragraph from the last post)

Rolling, I walked into the apartment as the unfamiliar effects began to take hold. My shoes felt foreign and uncomfortable, so I yanked them off. Unexpectedly, the bottoms of my feet felt incredible on the cold tiles. Icy jolts of pleasure shot from my heels up through my body until a violent shiver erupted from my shoulders. I stood curling my toes, over and over. Then I felt the heat. Directly across from the door was a small vent, emitting a stream of glorious, never-ending warmth. Entranced, I bounded over and slid down the wall onto the carpet, my back pressed against the erupting vent. I yelled for Bentley, a rambunctious little pup, who trotted over and jumped on my lap. He was soft, really soft. Heat permeated every inch of my back and oozed orgasmically throughout the rest of my body. It was a thermodynamic massage from God, and only the beginning...

As the four of us embraced a newfound love chemically coursing through our veins, Alicia, a friend's girlfriend, asked if I wanted a massage, which was bafflingly sensical at the time. Like butter in a microwave, my back melted away. After a few minutes, I turned entirely into a puddle, and we switched. The touch of my hands on her skin was electric, mesmerizing. For some reason, the fact that I could help make someone else so briefly happy filled me with near indescribable joy. We were all in ecstasy. Weird, warm love for these near strangers seeped uncontrollably from every pore in my body and I felt I couldn't express this fact enough. "Fucking California," I kept repeating, "God damn I love this place", as I chewed my gum with a fury. Then someone put on the Thizzle Dance. The mediocre beat had turned utterly hypnotic. Dancing along to it felt like the most natural thing I'd done in my life. After it ended I sat back down, curled my toes on the carpet and continued petting Bentley with a strange, infinite enthusiasm.

After a few hours, the bright new world faded away. We returned to a place of dim noises and dull lights. All of my innate loathing, which had dissipated with that vent's glorious heat, came rumbling back to life. "Fuck these people" I thought to myself. Ahh yes, normalcy had returned. I won't say outright what we took, which you ought to be able to surmise from what I've written, but I can say that there's no way to adequately write how great of a thing it was without also being conflicted about how much of a love gushing douchebag you sound like. It was what it was.

That was last weekend, and now its Wednesday the 23rd. I left Orange County last Monday, my new perspective in tow and headed back to my Aunt's house in Venice. I was motivated, intending to spend last week making some crucial Life progress. But ultimately I let the days wither away. After my last post, I wrote nothing and spent my time rocking back and forth, sucking my thumb, and fretting over a mild case of existential anxiety. It's almost funny how absurd laziness is, and how acting like a piece of garbage just builds on itself. Why and how the fuck did I spend so much time watching the same seasons of Arrested Development I'd already seen 10 times before? Or simply nonstop flipping through the Netflix menus, which provided me with a bizarre and inexplicable sense of comfort?

After a few days this irrational, anxiety induced inaction and after I finished another bout of quiet, masturbatory weeping, I wiped away my tears and got the fuck out of bed. It was Thursday evening and I texted Heather, the pale blue eyed friend of Esme's, asking advice on potential good hikes in the area. She invited me to go with her and a friend hers, Sahara, for a hike behind her house in Topanga the next day. So I woke Friday morning, climbed in Esme's conveniently unused Honda Civic, and headed North up "the 10" towards the Pacific Coast Highway and Topanga Canyon. I arrived as they were finishing breakfast and chatted with Heather's awesomely Australian mom, while they got ready. Traversing up a narrow trail behind Heather's house, we made our way up the canyon to a point called Eagles Rock and had ridiculous views of the desert mountains, canyons, Pacific Ocean and of Catalina Island, just visible off the coast. The simple, few hours of hiking proved invaluable to my mental state and I drove back to LA refreshed and ready again to begin the existence of a productive human being.

Despite my shitty timing and lack of consistent blog writing, I'm going to write about the rest of the weekend in a separate post, which will be up tomorrow evening or Friday morning. It was fucking absurd and will be worth the excessive detail I plan on describing it in. I am quite aware this post should have been up days ago, but like I said before, I still battle with these unwanted doses of the Fear. At this age we're all at a point where the long term oriented and fucking irritating Pressure, will simply overpower and shit upon anything you have any passion for. There has been an obvious, illuminated path laid out for most of us, which was the unquestionable, never ending and hellish schooling we endure from the ages of 5 till 20 something... But what now? For the first time in our lives no one knows what the hell is going to happen, and it's a massive bitch of an inobvious hassle to figure it out. One mustn't forget though, me especially, that the struggle, the lack of money, the loneliness, the distance from home, and the Great Unknown are the things that make this whole fucking experience worth it. Fighting through the hard parts of each of our respective endeavors, however neverendingly shitty or horrifying they may appear, are what turn us into the Badasses of the Future. One of the best and most comforting quotes I constantly remind myself of, and believe to be true - "You are exactly where you're supposed to be".

The Impasse

"Life has become immeasurably better since I have been forced to stop taking it seriously." 

 - Hunter Thompson 

On this trip, the bar for absurdity was set high from the get go, but the events that transpired over the last three weeks have exceeded Murphy and my's most maniacal expectations. Considering the endeavor's whimsical nature, the unexpected was welcome, beckoned even. Lured as prey and graciously devoured. But where does it take me now? Do the gods expect a fall from grace? Should this beautiful, momentous wave crash in California, drain painfully into the Pacific and suck my newfound metaphysical Glory into the bowels of the perpetually numb? Fuck That. I'm staying on board, riding this westward blowing whim and continuously billowing the sails of my life with unimaginable hilarity and fortuitous adventure. Pushing through these bizarre trials and tribulations has reoriented my Goal from a mere change in circumstance into a complete evolution of Expectation. So the story takes a twist. Will it unfold as a unique tale of invaluable experience and personal growth, or a painful and inevitable demise sparked by my unrealistic stupidity? All I know is I've read Into The Wild and plan to avoid Alaska at all costs.

And so here I am, in the City of Angels and at an impasse. Searching for a job, a home, but ever cognizant of falling too far into the mundane. Excited and mentally prepared to face this unfamiliar West, yet aware of the forming those mechanized habits that tend to draw me, and everyone, everywhere, into an understood life of comfortable expectation. On this note, and since I so far managed to avoid having to dole out too many 75¢ Men's room hand jobs, or having to sleep under the stars with the syringe toting bums of Venice, I'm going to take being mature and realistic about life with about as much apathy as I can muster. In doing so, I plan to take advantage of all and any opportunities which allow me to alter my perception of either the world around me, or the one inside my head. What's the worst that could happen?

Last week, we found some mushrooms. Not in the wild, but from a friend. And these weren't typical mushrooms, they were those deliciously poisonous ones. The kind that in moderation made a glorious ball of warm happiness emanate from your stomach and trickle elation like sands from an hourglass into your skull. And in excess, they took you on a colorful, crazy journey into the awesome, Unknown depths of your mind. We planned to take them and go for a hike that afternoon behind Jack Black's house, where a friend was apparently the production assistant for a porno and had found some good trails (I wish I could make this shit up). It was the perfect recipe to brew up some Weird. But the friend fell through, and we opted to enjoy our treats on the Venice Boardwalk. I ate mine with a bagel crusted pizza, a mind blowing experience in itself and we walked to the boardwalk. Sauntering up towards the famous glowing pier, we waded through a crowd of freaks, tourists, bums, punks, artists, cons, skaters and Venice loons. The feeling was subtle but added a nice bizarre element to the already surreal conglomeration eccentric folk. Californian mountains down the coast were just visible through the L.A. haze and were epically silhouetted, as the sun dipped toward the Pacific.

We diverted onto the beach and sat in a lifeguard stand as sun continued to fall. The dusk induced array of colors and patterns were heightened as we sat without a word, watching the waves roll and crash, unspoken giddiness flowing throughout our bodies. It disappeared all too quickly, our senses began to dull, and we continued on to the pier. Enjoying ourselves but well in control, we climbed barefoot onto a mist breathing, 15 foot tall, concrete dragon head and relaxed, basking in the slivers of strangeness that remained. I watched a fidgety, black homeless man, garbed in a filthy, hole ridden suit, speaking in tongues and hilariously fucking with the most naive tourists. He'd lure them in with quiet rambling and a pathetic stature, seemingly asking for change, only to erupt into a screaming, nonsensical rant of gibberish as soon as they approached. It happened the same each time, they'd grab their children and run, and he'd do it over and over. For some time I watched him, as I sat upon the dragons head, and immensely enjoyed his display of incessant, side splitting lunacy. Especially at the expense of the fanny pack brigade. After an hour, we climbed off of the dragon and walked to a famous LA diner, where apparently the "pregnancy reveal" scene from Knocked Up was filmed. It was a good day.

Then the weekend came around. I woke up Saturday morning, showered and remembering I knew no one and had nothing to do, prepared for a few days of the soul crushing job search. Just as this depressing thought took hold, Nick called. He was on his way to L.A. to pick me up. Change of plans, I was going to Orange County. Unbeknownst to me, another weekend of depravity lie in wait.

Rolling, I walked into the apartment as the unfamiliar effects began to take hold. My shoes felt foreign and uncomfortable, so I yanked them off. Unexpectedly, the bottoms of my feet felt incredible on the cold tiles. Icy jolts of pleasure shot from my heels up through my body until a violent shiver erupted from my shoulders. I stood curling my toes, over and over. Then I felt the heat. Directly across from the door was a small vent, emitting a stream of glorious, never-ending warmth. Entranced, I bounded over and slid down the wall onto the carpet, my back pressed against the erupting vent. I yelled for Bentley, who trotted over and jumped on my lap. He was soft, really soft. Heat permeated every inch of my back and oozed orgasmically throughout the rest of my body. It was a thermodynamic massage from God, and only the beginning.

To Be Continued...

Running Springs, Night Sledding and Othello Deathmatches

For the first time this trip, I feel the Void. I dropped off Esmé at the airport today, headed back to her art school in Chicago, and officially have lost my guide and only friend in L.A.. Obviously I expected this and knew it would come, but after living it up in LA for the last week, I've had more of a Wild Turkey, weed smoking, vacation oriented mentality than a job searching, soul sucking, adult oriented and semi realistic one. I drove back with a pit in my stomach and realized that shit just got real. Other than the $61 to my name, a garbage bag full of dirty clothes, a temporary place to stay with my aunt, and my shattered iPad, this little blog is all I've got left. But the last week has been fucking great and in my short term nostalgia I will describe it in detail, before embracing hellish reality and probable suicide.

Last Saturday Heather and Esmé made plans for us and two other friends to go to Heather's cabin in Running Springs for a few days. They dropped me off at Ava's the night before, as I was in the midst of a belligerent rant about having been slighted by some selfish Californian fuck who refused me a singe hit of his joint, which in my opinion warranted all, if not further unchecked infuriation. So the next morning I waited for them to pick me up before we headed to the mountains, where we planned to meet their friends Sunny and Andrew. They arrived, we hopped in Heathers Chevy Caprice, and despite having just parked, found that it wouldn't start. We called AAA and they pulled up approximately 10 seconds later. After determining that it wasn't the battery, they called us a tow truck and said it would be about 30 minutes. After waiting 50 minutes I called AAA back and asked what the deal was. The lady proceeded to bitch me out, saying the tow truck had been waiting by our car for 30 minutes and calling us non-stop. "We'll that's just Wrong" I replied. "We've literally been sitting on the car this entire time, you think we want to be waiting here and I'd lie just to spite you?" She huffed and puffed and I was a dick because she deserved it and she said, with enraging smugness, that another truck would come in an hour. Eventually the truck came, towed us one fucking mile to Pep Boys, we had the starter replaced and were on our way.

I was exhausted, passed out in the back, woke up at dusk to a snow covered mountainside and started to write my last post. We finally reached her cabin around 7 that night. It sat on a steep, snow covered slope, and Heather and I spent a good hour shoveling out their driveway before finally getting to sit and enjoy its idyllic glory. When we came inside, Esme had a roaring fire going and we relished in its warmth. A short time later their friends Andrew and Sunny arrived, whom I'd met the night before. Sunny was a long, blonde haired, stereotypical Californian and Andrew was a short brown haired half-Brazilian. Both were smart, likable and talented guitarists, which made for lively conversation and fun drunken singing throughout the weekend.

I could describe the next two days in explicit detail, but it wouldn't be worth it. We basically just laid around the fireplace, ate, drank, went sledding and smoked. Some highlights were a conversation about how Californians hilariously refer to all numbered roads as "the 101" or "the 405", something they didn't realize no one else does (it sounds EXACTLY like this...The Californian's), the Inglourious Bastards drinking game, dodging trees while perilously sledding through a foggy, night blizzard, homemade pizza and highly contentious games of Othello which made Esmé and I both enraged and briefly despise each other.

Actually the awesomeness of the weekend can be summed up by one event. We were standing on the deck, smoking spliffs, when the next door neighbor, an older man, came stumbling through the snow over to our deck, clearly shitfaced at 10 AM, and handed me a freshly rolled joint. He said it was from his homegrown supply, we thanked him profusely and as he stumbled away, I yelled after him "I Fucking Love California!".

Ill do one more post about the week which I'll try to get up tomorrow, so I can describe some other absurd events of the week in their absolute fullest and most hilarious detail. If its not up in a few days its because I'm probably living with the bums on Venice Boardwalk and either don't have Internet or have been shanked with an AIDs ridden needle.

Los Angeles: Saki, Merengue and Australians in the Woods

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.

Las Vegas Part One; Somewhere Around Barstow, On The Edge Of The Desert

Part One

Utter and complete depravity. As I sit pecking away on my still functional shattered iPad, watered down glass of bourbon in hand, I can still hardly fathom how it played out the way it did. We left Boulder yesterday, cutting through the heart of the Rockies, speeding through desolate Utah canyon lands, and leveling out in Nevada for the final dash to Sin City. Upon cresting a large hill, we drank in the bright, sprawling decadence of Las Vegas for the very first time. At the hill's bottom, we came face to face with the snarling neon beast that would certainly spell our collective dooms. Our room was at the Hard Rock, off the Strip, a home base for absurdity, and already reeked of fear and loathing.

That night after an overpriced dinner and beers, we began to drink. High shelf vodka for Nate, Juniors Midnight Moonshine for Ben and Wild Turkey for myself. We blasted music until midnight, when we left and got tricked into paying 20 bucks for the hotels garbage nightclub that was "full of girls". After Ben and I made dancing fools of ourselves a while, he again disappeared. Around 1 Nate and I meandered back up to the room to regroup and refuel. We had lazily slunk onto the beds and were on the brink of passing out when Ben came bursting into the room. "Whoooo Eeeeeee, I HIT IT BIG! Just made a cool $300 playing roulette, were going to the strip club, I'm buying!" Ben said, in a frenzy of enthusiasm. I've never been to nor cared about strip clubs. I find them exceedingly filthy and unappealing, but I wasn't going to turn down the opportunity in Las Vegas. The hotel provided a free ride in an Escalade and we made our way to Larry Flynt's Hustler's Club. The massive glowing pink building was a poorly glorified brothel and a greasy line of perverts snaked out the door. We got in line.

Inside we found our way to the stage and met up with Ben's college buddy, who was in town for a bachelor party. I sat down, wary of the unseen filth and scores of STD's that I assumed had by now permeated every inch of my body. The dancers were expectedly a mix of sad eyed, beaten down truck stop whores and those once hot girls from high school who had mysteriously disappeared after graduation when they realized the Glory days were now over. I embraced the debauchery, throwing Ben's money around and have never felt such exhilarating power with a one dollar bill in my life. It pains me to say so but it was surprisingly enjoyable. One stripper even took a keen interest in Nate, talking intimately with him even after he declined lap dance, i.e. gauging how much money she could milk out of him, literally and figuratively.

As my interest began to wane, I turned to see Ben talking to a fairly attractive, dark skinned young stripper and pointing my direction. She walked over, said he'd bought me a dance and led me over to a white couch that I do not think started out that color. She did her thing as another older stripper joined and asked if I'd pay her too. I told her I had no money. She assured me it was fine and that Ben would pay, as she made my face the meat of a gross, fake black tit sandwich. About a minute later, they stopped and after Ben informed the older one that he was out of money, she hilariously began yelling at me about getting paid. The interaction went something like this;

"Are you serious? I didn't even want the dance or your dirty tits in my face"
"You got the dance and I'm not leaving till I get paid"
Fine, I'll just leave then, I thought.
"Alright relax just let me look for my other friend"
I scanned the room for Nate and he spotted him talking with the same stripper from earlier. I told her to follow me.
"It's hard to explain but I need another 20 and its not my fault," I said, walking up to him.
"Hahaha alright" he responded, pulling out his wallet and handing me the twenty. I begrudgingly gave it to her and she walked away jubilant that her scam had again worked, probably for the 10 billionth time.

Around 5 in the morning Ben and I had had enough. We were exhausted, couldn't find Nate and left. We got back to the hotel and were half asleep when we heard Nate talking loudly in the hall. He opened the door and walked in with a strange girl, who I thought must've been the stripper from earlier.

"Looks like we're spooning tonight Benny boy," I said, as I got up to give them the bed.

"No that's ok, we can just use the bathroom" she responded in an oddly casual tone, as if it was business as usual.

"Well I can't watch and listen if you're in there," I joked. No one laughed but me and they closed the door.

30 seconds later they both walked out and Nate was apologizing. She left and he turned to us laughing hysterically.

"Dude, that girl was a fucking prostitute, HAHAHA!"

We all burst out laughing as Nate told the story.

"I'm walking through the lobby and about to get on the elevator when this girl strikes up a conversation. She seemed really into me and asked if had a room. In my drunken stupor and with 'first time in Vegas naiveté', I didn't think twice about it said yes, and she rode up with me. So we walk in the bathroom, and she suddenly starts rambling on about her 'donation.' Then in a moment of sudden, fortunate clarity I realized what she meant and what her job must've been. I apologized, told her 'no thanks' and said she should go."

We laughed hysterically before passing out, just as the first rays of the red Vegas sun peaked over the distant desert mountains.

Tonight, New Years. Good God.

Absinthe House, Mountain Skating and Bluegrass

"Not all who yonder are lost"
-Yonder Mountain String Band

We fled Kansas. Barreling down 70 West, there was nothing to see for 8 hrs straight, but we were motivated and flew. I texted my brother's friend Charlie, who lives in Boulder, telling him we were coming asked if he had any recommendations as to where we should stay. He replied with what may be the best answer I've ever gotten. It read something like, "You guys can stay at my house. Once you get here I'll have dinner waiting, a handle we can drink, I'll pick up some bud and my brother will dd us to a pre-game and take us downtown so we can get fucked up." None of us expected such incredible hospitality and we were elated. Despite arriving at night and missing the epic Rockies reveal, our escape from Kansas was of utmost priority and made getting to Boulder that much more glorious. Not only did his family live on a badass, rustic old horse farm right outside of town, but as we pulled in, his mom was just then pulling a massive, sizzling plate of pork chops off the grill. After getting settled in and taking a tour of the property, we devoured the deliciously unexpected home cooked meal and prepared to hit the town. Charlie planned for us to pre-game with his local friends, so we headed to their place, picking up a case of PBR and extra liter of Wild Turkey 101 on the way, naturally. We jumped into the pregame as soon as we got there, taking full advantage of Colorado's great new legislation, and crushing all our bourbon and beer within minutes. The rest of the night was incredibly fun, but for brevity's sake I won't go into explicit detail. Aside from Charlie's blackout friend, Brandon who collapsed onto a coffee table while screaming of Charlie's fetish for pig pussy, it was more or less a typical night of bar hopping and dancing. I did get to meet and dance with Charlie's gorgeous blond friend, Lauren, which was a definite highlight. We had all hit that perfect drunk, except Ben, who at one point took a shot of vodka, somehow wandered into the bar's kitchen, vomited in a trash can, was politely asked to leave and then hilariously tried to take the trash with him on his way out.

I woke up in the morning disoriented and with that horrible mix of bourbon aftertaste and extreme cottonmouth. Aside from my wallet, all of my pockets were empty. No phone. Fuck. I at least had my wallet, though. Then I checked for my debit card. Gone. I realized in a moment of utter horror that I might be completely fucked. Trying to relax, I remembered they both may have been in my jacket, which I then realized was also nowhere to be found. Son of a bitch. Thousands of miles from home with neither any money nor a phone is not ideal. I said fuck it, my new mantra, and assured myself the jacket had to be somewhere and would turn up. Deciding to be happier about having met a beautiful girl than distraught about losing my stuff was pretty much all I could do to not short circuit. Charlie made us breakfast as we reminisced about the night and nursed our mutual pounding headaches. With all day to kill, we decided to rape our hangovers with a long hike. All the bars were still closed and I couldn't yet look for my jacket, so we drove up to the base of the Rockies and began to hike, with Charlie as our guide. Being a local, he knew the area and we blazed our own path up the snowy mountainside. We hiked and climbed all afternoon, precariously scrambling up icy boulders, and not turning back till we were all ravenously hungry. On the way down we invented a new sport called Mountain Skating. The objective was to run down the icy winding trail as quickly as possible, slide on straightaways, swing around skinny trees to help make pinpoint turns, and not die. Everyone loved it except Nate, who was bitterly rueing his decision to wear Sperry's and spent half the time on his ass.

We lounged the rest of the afternoon, prepared to search for the remains of my life, and got ready for the bluegrass show that was really the main reason we came to Boulder. Let the search begin. The last place we were the night before was a bar called Absinthe House and I recalled having danced most frantically there, so it was the first place I went to look. The manager exuded that typical Boulder pleasantness and was pretty understanding, telling me he'd been there himself a few times. But after rifling through a massive box of jackets, I had no luck. Not until checking every other bar we'd been to, did I officially lose hope. A watermelon sized lump formed in my throat as we called off the search and headed for the show. My last ditch effort was to ask Charlie to text Lauren and ask if she remembered anything, but since I'd just checked all the bars, I could only be pessimistic. Nate spotted me some pity cash and I sat gloomily inside the concert venue, nursing a beer and thinking over the big cluster fuck these losses would add to my already precarious life situation.

Then Charlie responded. Lauren remembered me leaving the jacket on a bannister at Absinthe House. With a glimmer of hope, I chugged my beer and sprinted out. After running the 5 or 6 blocks back and briefly getting lost, I arrived red faced and panting. As soon as I walked in the manager says "You were just here right? I think I found your jacket, it has a phone in it. Thank god you came back." Waves of relief washed over me as he explained he'd found it just a few minutes after I'd left. He led me to the back room and there it was. I immediately searched the pockets and found my phone but no card. Fuck it. My iPhone 5 would've been much harder to replace than my debit card. I couldn't have been more ecstatic. I profusely thanked the manager and he gave me a free vodka shot. The night was turning around. I sprinted again back to the venue, knowing the show would soon start, and bought myself another shot and beer. My nerves were fried and I had to revel in my victory. I found Nate and Ben and we celebrated some more. The elation from having found my phone, especially after being in such a hellish pit of despair, would fuel the rest of the night. The theater filled up, people lit up and we danced, whooped, hollered and foot stomped into the night.

Today we left at dawn with a 12 hour drive ahead of us. Minus one debit card, Next stop, Vegas.