The Wonder Years

Ugh. My writing has suffered a considerable blow: it blows. I just deleted an entire paragraph of complete gibberish. It's as though I have nothing left to say, which seems improbable, yet, I'm unable to refute the fact. Surely I haven't already said everything I want to say. Surely there must be more. You'd think so. But surveying the barren landscape of my mind paints a very different picture. One without any happy little trees. Only smoldering desolation, nothingness, a vast expanse of absence. I look out for even the meekest sign of life, a mouse or a gnat, but I find nothing. Not even the smoke dances. The mountains are meager and unimpressive. The sky, colorless. Where did my creativity wander away to? It's odd. 

I'm hoping I'll find something to revitalize me, maybe at Burning Man. If I can't find it there, I doubt I'll find it anywhere. It is a place of possibility, if nothing else. Too often the tedium of everyday life strips away the magical, the marvelous, and leaves us instead with a gray, stale, shapeless lump of play-doh that doesn't even smell like play-doh anymore. It's important to remember that sameness is an illusion. As you age, it becomes increasingly more difficult to embrace - and to hold onto - wonder. It's claimed by the years. 

Earlier tonight I met a friend I haven't seen in years. We spoke of big ideas, asking questions we both knew there weren't any answers to, ruminating on the nature of fear and love, truth and beliefs. Life is a struggle for peace, which, once attained, we call happiness. Warmth, reflection, empathy - toward ourselves, as well as others - and the confrontation of fears all move us in this direction. They are developmental. These are things we must practice daily - and fail at - to maintain fitness and ensure a sort of spiritual agility. Once we become too sedentary, in our hearts or our minds, once we lose a sense of challenge, replacing it with complacency and idle comfort, we lose our place. We stop growing. We begin to wither and wilt and recede, defeated, desolated. On our faces we wear all the pained misery we'd hoped all our lives we might avoid. But there must be a way out, right? A way to overcome? And there is. 

Try.

La Cerveza Cosa Nostra

I ate a Mexican street burrito for lunch. It was from a reputable dealer, I was told, but my stomach tells a different story. It was a careless mistake. And although sickness never struck me, a general menacing has chased my gut all through the afternoon. So I just attempted to invent a cure; a rather strong cocktail, consisting of tequila, mezcal, several other assorted syrupy liqueurs, a splash of lime and some blueberry syrup. Somehow, my stomach is settled. It's magic. It might have been the bag of sweet potato tortilla chips I ate before and during the drinking. Who knows? It was only after I started feeling the warm buzz of intoxication that I realized I hadn't eaten since the bowel-busting burrito, that the drink contained upwards of three shots of alcohol, and I was naked. In science class I learned the rate of alcohol absorption, on an empty stomach, far exceeds a fed one. Feed your head. That's what I say. So does Jefferson Airplane.

Speaking of white rabbits, Holly recommends I eat only carrots this year while at Burning Man. She insists that I am a bunny incarnate, and that I am at my best when sticking to just vegetables and leafy greens. I can't entirely disagree with her; or that sweet, sweet beta carotene. It's worth noting that my vision has always been superb. I have a knack for spotting people way out in the distance, and for reading the small print of far away shampoo bottles while I shit in people's bathrooms. It's a gift, truly. What else? I'm about to leave my apartment, to head to a bar I know that carries a beer I like. Pliny the Elder. I want one. It has been some time since I've had one. I fear it may not play nicely with the cocktail. You see, Pliny is a very hoppy beer, which is fitting, based on my pre-established rabbit-hood, and hops don't play. Someone told me they're in the weed family.

Ha. Makes it sound like a mob syndicate. John Gotti and Vinny Hoppanini.

The Human Torch

I dreamt last night of a self-immolated man. It was late at night and I was walking home. When I happened upon him, he seemed slightly drunk, determined, perhaps too confident for a man about to light himself on fire. The sidewalk stank of kerosene. Only two other people watched from a distance. He was what appeared to be a street performer. The man's skin glistened in the street light. Then he mumbled something and lit a match. At once his feet were ablaze. He slid calmly forward, over a puddle of fire, yet was somehow he was unharmed. The fire remained contained to his feet, never leaping up his leg or calves. To do such a thing, and with such equanimity, the way he was doing it, disturbed me. He reminded me of a tightrope walker, but walking over burning coals. It was mesmerizing.

But, then, as you might imagine, something went wrong.

As he walked over his small lake of fire, his balance shifted too far to the side and he slipped, as though on ice. The flames jumped up his leg and wrestled him to the ground. He fell with such suddenness. A blanket of flames covered him. I rushed toward the man, pulling off my black fleece jacket to try and use it to beat the flames from his body. But it was too late. He was melting. Literally. The lower half off his body had already turned to liquid and was becoming one with the burning concrete. I watched, helplessly, as he sank and drowned in the flames. I was horrified. I'd never seen anything like it.

The Power of One

Dinner with a friend last night. We set the record for the longest dinner ever, I think. I knew it when I turned around and saw the restaurant had emptied out behind us, all the waiters stood staring impatiently, wondering when we'd ever leave. I could have sworn I saw one of them say, "just get the fuck out already." I use the word saw because he was out of earshot. I had to rely on lip-reading, a skill I learned from my time with Hellen Keller. The food was great and the drinks were even better. One drink, named after a person I didn't know and garnished with a leaf of cilantro over a giant block of ice, contained mezcal and lime flavored tequila, blackberry and something else I can't remember. It was lovely. My morning headache told me loudly I'd had too many. There isn't a good reason to have more than two drinks. After two drinks, the costs go up. You begin to barter tomorrow's time, today. We talked of humanitarian conquests, the value of helping others, maintaining vulnerability and openness in the face of insurmountable suffering. She's to spend three weeks helping refugees, in Greece.

"I don't know, I guess I'm afraid; of failure, of not making a difference," she said.

I asked her what she meant, how she could feel that way. To me, just to go somewhere with the express intention to help others, IS making a difference. Most people just sit on their asses, eating Doritos and drinking, thinking only of themselves, unwilling to lift a finger to help anyone - asking instead, "what does anyone ever do for me?"

"Even if you go and only really help one person, that's still one person's life that's been made better by your efforts. No matter what, you're making a difference," I said.

"But what if it's not enough?"

"It won't be, but that's the whole reason to go. At the end of the day you can only hope to do good and inspire others to do the same. And then, with enough people rallying behind a cause, you can effect true change."

I came up with a drunken hypothetical, of a collapsing wall that couldn't possibly be held up by one person, but that could probably be held up by a dozen. Once one person rushes to the wall, even though they know they can't possibly hold it up on their own, they rally others to action. Soon, with a dozen people rushing to push against it, it doesn't fall. The most important action is taken by the one who will try when there is no hope of success.

This morning I had to pick up James' car from the mechanic. When I arrived, no one was there and the phone was ringing off the hook. It was odd because the garage door was open. Finally a hobbled old man emerged from the back. He walked by me as though I were a ghost. I stood wondering whether I'd died. Maybe I WAS a ghost. To test my hypothesis, I pulled down my pants and, kneeling, began thrusting my flaccid sparkplug into a rusty muffler. I very badly wanted some WD-40. Just then an Asian mechanic walked in and stared directly at me for several long seconds. First I paused, thinking it discourteous to continue pumping away, but then I realized it was equally discourteous for him to stand there and ogle me, so I resumed.

"Can I help you," he asked angrily.

"Yeah, I'm here to pick up my car," I said as slapped the rear bumper.

"Is that your car?"

"This car? No, this isn't my car."

"Then can you stop?"

I did.

"What's the make of the car?" he asked.

"A 2004 Nissan Pathfinder."

He brought the car around and handed me the keys.

"You can't pay right now; the system is down."

"So do I need to wait?" I asked, moving back toward the car I'd initially introduced myself to. "You wouldn't happen to have any WD-40 lying around, would you?"

"No, no, you can go. We'll call you."

Very well. I left. The car seems to be repaired, but I won't know for sure until I take it on the highway. What should have been a perfunctory parking job turned into a 45-minute ordeal. Parking in San Francisco will test your patience and foment anger in a way that very few things can. I found myself enraged, screaming at the top of my lungs and pounding on the steering wheel, leering out of the window and threatening to beat an old lady to death because she caused me to lose a spot. When she challenged me I got out of the car and hurled a pile of fresh dog shit at her white hair with my bare hands. Her face looked like the worn, leathery mud flap of a truck. Some valiant white knight came galloping by on a red Vespa and tried to come to her aide, but I got back in the car and rode right over his god damned scooter. I lobbed a ball-bearing at his helmet as I sped off, and I heard it bounce forcefully from his head into a car window, shattering it.

The whirring, car-alarm chaos left in my wake was discordant music to my ears.

Who Knows Where?

I wanted to write today, and I had a ton of time, at least ostensibly, to do so. But I didn't. I spoke to my mom for a bit, and then my sister, took James' car to the shop only to have them tell me to come back on Monday, grabbed some food, picked up my laundry from the cleaners, showered, did some last minute Burning Man shopping, listened to music, and probably jerked off. Yep, I did. Where does the time go? Ask Nina Simone. Most of it is spent waiting, walking, driving, moving irreversibly from point A to point B while trying to tie up the loose ends before the day is done. Then, before you know it, you're 55 years old and you ask yourself again where all the time has gone.

I don't know where the time goes.

One day, I will.

La Brea Beach House

Another Monday morning car parking party. I can't really complain about waking up early to move the car though, since we made it back from Santa Barbara alive and in good health. We'd driven down in James' car, which we affectionately dubbed The Deathmobile, and there were more than a few moments I'd seen my life flash before my eyes. There's a neat trick the car does, when you drive at the speed limit, at about 65 miles an hour, where it wobbles worryingly, as though it were drunk and about to fall over. It gives everyone in the vehicle the uneasy feeling that the car might irreversibly lose control and turn itself sideways. We all imagined cartoonish, calamitously grizzly death scenes involving all four tires shooting off in unison, rolling in all directions toward a wheeling catastrophe; the windshield wipers swinging madly and gushing fluid, and the car stereo shooting sparks before bursting into flames; the seatbelts spontaneously melting and fusing hopelessly into the locking mechanisms, trapping us all in a car fire; barrel rolling across the highway, the car breaking apart piece by piece, lane by lane, leaving me attached like Wile E. Coyote to only the steering wheel and engine block.

To nearby drivers, it likely appeared I was driving drunk. While that wasn't entirely the case, I did have a backpack full of illicit substances which I didn't wish to be discovered by the long, prying arm of the law. You know what they do to people who just want to have a good time! The drive should have been 5 hours long, but due to our reduced speed, traffic, and a stop at a strange Mexican gas station showcasing a very uninviting dining area and a seemingly abandoned massage parlor, the drive took 10 hours. And I know what you're wondering: did they all get massages, is that what took so long? The answer is yes. Maria was a wonderful masseuse, and she had the mustache to prove it.

By the time we arrived at the beach house we were beleaguered. At least I was, from driving all day. My fellow caravaners were all itching to escape the dusty confines of the car and kiss the unmoving earth before cracking a few hard-earned beers to give thanks to our safe - albeit slow - arrival. We opened the door to the house and found it to be less of a house and more of a mansion. Gone was the image I had a of quaint, quiet, cluttered little house on the beach, and in its place was poised the goliath that stood before me. It even had that new-house-smell, of luxury, fine linens, golf shorts, expensive cutlery and high-ply toilet paper. We'd arrived smack dab in the lap of leisure. There were so many rooms I couldn't count them all. We were to sleep in a different room every night, so that by the end of our trip we would have exhausted all the wings of the house; east, west, north, south, southeast, southwest, northwest, northeast, southnorth and westeast. In the living room was a beautiful blown-glass lamp, made by hand, with a lampshade that was gold-plated on the inside; we would have the golden hour, every hour! The television was huge, and it required seven remotes and a degree in electronic engineering just to watch a movie. The master bedroom featured a California king bed and a bathroom the size of my apartment. In the center of the bathroom was a bathtub big enough for an elephant to ladle itself in sprays of steamy, warm waterfalls. In fact, I think the tub was single-handedly responsible for the California water crisis. I wondered if the tub was sometimes used as a docking hub for the Navy's battleships. Each of the other rooms had its own private bathroom, and within each of the private bathrooms was another private bathroom. The kitchen was stocked with all of the necessary cookware and counter-space, dual dishwashers and top-notch appliances. Then there was the outside. An enormous back patio and grill, a thatched wooden shade structure with affixed heat lamps that worked on timers, a few plush lounge chairs for star gazing at the beach, and a bunch of orange trees all bearing fruit. The four of us marveled at the splendor as we melted into the couch. There were several, crisp, satisfying pops as the beer cans opened, and we drank to our imagined wealth. B and K arrived shortly after and joined us in our thirsty celebration.

In the morning we rose, after having successfully resisted the fiendish compulsion to consume copious quantities of psychedelic mushrooms well into the witching hour. Chef Terry, and his sous chef, K, cooked up a wicked breakfast of French toast, poached eggs, baked bacon, avocado, and pineapple mimosas. We sat outside, amongst the humming birds and the bees, and feasted like kings and queens.

"You've really outdone yourselves this time," I said.

"Yeah, incredible job guys, really," B added as gooey egg spilled out over a piece of syrup-covered French toast.

"Yeah, man, you guys should definitely open a restaurant," Chuck added.

"Yeah! What'll you call it?" Holly asked.

"You guys should call it KT's," Chuck said.

"Yeah," Holly said excitedly.

"No no," Terry said, "they'll think the place is called Katie's."

"TK's" I said, "the food's a technical knockout!"

A chuckle, a roll of the eyes, a groan. The wind was soft and lilting. Bougainvilleas climbed in swirls over the trellis, and the purple flowers fluttered gently above us. Forks clinked against ceramic plates. In the distance hummingbirds hummed as they took quick drinks from helpless honeysuckles.

"No no," Terry started again, "I could never do it, I wouldn't."

"Why not?" Chuck asked.

"I don't need that stress; it would take all the fun out of it," Terry told him.

"Yeah, I guess I could see that," Chuck said.

"So," K said, after a brief lull in conversation, "beach and drugs?"

"That sounds lovely," Terry replied. "Shall we clean up first?"

"Yeah," we decided.

Then, much packing happened. We packed the dishwashers and then packed our mouths full of mushrooms. After applying liberal amounts of sunscreen, we packed a cooler full of cold beers.

"Pack a pair of shoes you don't care about," Holly said, "it's a tar beach."

I wore a pair of shoes I'd ruined once in Mexico, and then again at a muddy hot springs in the dark. The trail to the beach meandered, snaking back behind the house from the entryway at the end of the cul de sac. At first the path was paved, full of gravel, and it crunched loudly underfoot. Tall stalks of golden straw flanked us on both sides, shimmering and swaying dreamily. Amongst the straw there were interspersed little black stalks with small cornlike bulbs at the tall end. They looked charred from the sun. The contrast of black and gold intensified as my eye moved toward the horizon, multiplying the stalks incalculably. Small sounds stirred in the tall blonde grass. Occasionally a small barn swallow would dart out from the thick of it and swoop overhead like a slung arrow. Any moment I half expected a prowling lion to pounce. The girls walked ahead while we lugged the bag in the back. After a few minutes the path had become cracked dirt. It was patterned, almost scaly, pale, resembling shed snake skin. Soon the path came to a bend and a steep slope led the way down to the beach. I was unfortunate enough to have just taken hold of the heavy bag of ice and beer and water. Carefully I carried it down, trying not to misplace my footing. Soon we were at the beach.

The sky was partly hazy, perhaps due to the nearby wildfires, and the sun shined overhead. The beach itself had a wet looking quality to it. The sand seemed slightly darker than usual and, out in front of us, in the middle of the ocean, was an oil rig. I'd never seen one in person before. It sat perched on top of the water like a giant mechanical mosquito, gluttonously drinking the black blood from the earth. As the waves crashed against the shore they seemed darker, too. We walked left along the sand to where there was less seaweed and we dropped our towels. Terry hung a portable speaker from a brach jutting out of the high rock wall behind us and the music perfumed the air. It was nice. We each opened a Corona. That was nice, too. Suddenly I noticed my body felt nice. Very nice. In fact, everything was nice; the place on the horizon where the water met the sky, the scalloped clouds perched over the carved jetty to the west of us and the little people that seemed to be jet-skiing there, the thin, flapless line of birds gliding over the ocean, the hot sand on my feet, the sweat melting from my pores.

"Here we are, aye big dawg?" Terry said proudly, sipping a drink. "What'ya reckon is all the way down there," he asked pointing toward the place with the jet-skiers.

"I think it's people jet skiing," I said.

"Probably. That's UC Santa Barbara down there," Holly told us.

We all stared for a while at the probable people in the distance. For all we knew they might have only been waves cresting.

"Want to go in the water," Holly asked me.

"Sure, but in a minute. Maybe when I'm done with this beer."

Soon Terry's shirt was off and he was into the water. He went far out, until I was unsure if it was Terry's head I was looking at or a sea lion's. We watched, mesmerized, wondering if the water was cold, if he'd emerge covered in tar, looking like the creature from the black lagoon. He came out of the water glistening, evoking a young Sean Connery.

"How's the water," Holly asked.

"Oh, the water's lovely; warm," he said.

"We should go," Holly said, looking at me.

"Soon," I said, readying myself for water that was certainly much colder than I thought.

"Keep an eye out for the rocks," Terry said, "there's sharp, secret ones in there. I'd go down the beach, where I just came from."

Before I could make a decision, K lured Holly away with the prospect of yoga and saved me, at least temporarily, from my watery fate. I wondered how it would feel to become an ice cube. Could I? Would a frozen corpse float? Was there a market for human whiskey stones?

"Look at that," Chuck said pointing toward the girls, "it looks trippy."

Down on the beach Holly and K were beautiful and young and happy and radiant. They were doing yoga together. Because they were far away, and because they were doing different poses at different times, all you could see was a tangle of arms and legs that made them appear to have one form. Shiva, I thought. We watched as they moved between poses, creating new shapes and illusions. A flurried, slow motion mirage. An oasis of playful femininity. The sun was hotter now and my stomach was starting to feel off; the beer and mushrooms were having a noisy quarrel.

"I'm gonna head over to the water with her," I said looking at Terry and Chuck.

I didn't wait for a reply.

I met Holly down by the water and she kissed me sweetly. We walked arm in arm toward a large grey rock with strange, symmetrical grooves cut into it. I intended to leave my hat resting on top of it because I didn't want to lose it in the water. But as we approached, a swarm of flies rushed out at us. It was biblical. I'd never seen so many flies in my entire life. Where did they all come from? I felt like I was in a cartoon. A wall of at least 500,000 flies hurling themselves at us, swatting us away in the shape of a giant hand. We did the only thing we could: we ran away screaming expletives and waving our arms. They followed us. Flies leapt onto our heads and feet and legs, covering us at either end, hoping to meet in the middle.

"The water," I yelled, "run for the water."

We dashed like a pair of albino Kenyan sprinters toward the sea. I could taste Olympic gold. Or maybe it was the flies. And with a splash, we were in the water; fly free. Surprisingly, the water wasn't too cold. Under the surface I felt caught in mesh netting, as though there were knots of hair around my feet. It was seaweed and it felt pretty fucking repulsive. But by the time we'd gotten out, after sitting on our knees in the dirty, inky water, watching giant, eel-sized strands of seaweed materialize menacingly in the murkiness around us, the mesh felt tickly and good. We left the water, but not before a black wave hit me with a squid-ink cum-shot in the mouth. I never liked tentacle porn, and I especially didn't like it now. There was a moment, before we'd gotten out of the water, when I looked down and saw psychedelic spirals on the surface of the water, radiating outward around us.

"Look," I said, "can you see them?"

"See what?"

"That pattern on the water, it's like oil."

"No. Where?"

"There," I said, pointing.

"Uh? Wait. Yeah. No. Maybe?"

It didn't matter. They were there. And it was pretty. But soon we were out of the water and walking on the sand back toward the towels and the music. B and K were there already, dancing. I tried for what felt like days to open K a cold Corona with a lighter. Eventually I did it, after mangling the cap and the lighter beyond what was immediately recognizable as either a cap or a lighter. We realized Terry had disappeared hours ago on what could have only been a spirit journey.

"Terry still isn't back," I said.

"Yeah, he's been gone a while," B added.

"He's gonna come back a changed man," Chuck said, "with all the secrets of the world."

We sat in momentary silence, watching for the wonder hidden in a rolling wave. It seemed a miracle that waves could even roll, how surface tension could cause water briefly to retain the shape of a step on a staircase.

"An aqueous escalator," I think I said. "The waves just come down from nowhere, sink, and come back again."

The music suddenly stopped. I could feel the ambient energy change like whiplash as our little bubble burst. It was silent, save for the waves, and if there's one thing I know about mushrooms, it's that silence can get scary. Even under normal circumstances people have difficulty sitting alone with their thoughts, so imagine what it must be like to keep it together after ingesting a substance known to encourage intense introspection. Things have a greater likelihood of getting strange, for sure; it's why you take them. Luckily, I never felt terribly alarmed, and instead I saw it the way a driver might see a dangerous and fast approaching pothole - we'd just need to use caution and drive around it.

"Ugh," I said, "isn't the sun amazing?"

"What?" Holly asked, laughing.

"Yeah, it's just up there, shining down on us, and it makes everything amazing and warm. Without it, when it's cloudy and grey for days, we get sad, cold. And when it sets, in the dark, we become uneasy; we can't see without it. We hate its absence so much that we invented candles and electric lights so we could trick ourselves into thinking it's there, even when it's not. It gave rise to life on this planet, and in that way it's godlike. I love you, sun!"

A few giggling agreements encouraged me to keep talking.

"And all it is is a star burning in space; it doesn't care about you. It doesn't know you. Yeah, you know what, it's a good reminder: it's not all about you. It's easy to feel otherwise, especially easy to feel that way on psychedelics, but really, it's not about you - it's about the sun!"

"Yeah, it's ego dissolving," B said.

"Yeah, it's just up there, chillin, giving warmth indiscriminately; free love," Holly said laughing.

"The sun is such a hippie," K may have said.

"Look," I said, "I see him, it's Terry, he's back!"

"Where," B said, "that couple in the distance?"

"Yeah, Terry cloned himself. No, behind them, the next person on the beach."

"I don't see anyone behind them," he said.

"He's there. It's him, I can feel it."

"I believe him. He has like a super power for picking people out in crowds," Holly said.

I could tell B and K weren't convinced, but in the distance, almost too far to make out, I saw Terry walking back to us. I was sure of it. I described his shorts with the orange stripe, but no one believed I could see the colors that far away. I told them I was on mushrooms, that my senses were even more alive, but they dismissed me. It didn't matter, my efforts at distraction had prevailed. When you trip, you must take special care to remember that you have all chosen to return to babyhood: like a child, if you don't keep your mind occupied, it begins to wander. When the mind begins to wander, anxiety can set in, and inner turmoil can take hold. But now we were all fixated on that slowly growing figure in the distance. Every second I became more confident it was Terry. I could feel it in my feet. And soon, he was close enough that it was undeniable: he was back.

"Terry," I said, "glad you made it! I thought we lost you."

"Oh, no," he said, "I'd just gone for a walk. It's lovely down there."

"Have any wisdom for us?" Chuck asked.

"Only, that I was over there," Terry replied.

"Deep," B said, "you know, you look different, you've got a Mad Hatter or Cheshire Cat vibe going on."

"I do," Terry said emphatically.

"I think I'm done here," I said, "getting out of the sun sounds nice."

Everyone agreed and so we hiked back to our secluded beach mansion. As we climbed up the steep sandy edge I'd struggled down with the bag earlier, I felt like we were rappelling up the side of a building. It was impossible to tell whether we were walking straight up or not.

"You know Whoopi Goldberg was a hyena?"
I asked.

"What," B and Chuck said, "you must really be feeling those mushrooms."

"She was; in The Lion King."

"I don't remember that."

Damnit. How high WAS I? Did I just completely manufacture a memory from my childhood? How could mushrooms give me such a strong sense of conviction? No way, THEY were wrong, not me. Yeah, sure, blame them; that's your problem, you can never admit when you're wrong. But I don't feel wrong. I think I'm right. You would. Let it go. Look it up later. Be here now. Just then I looked up and noticed how exquisitely beautiful the landscape was. Huge hazy mountains towered over the horizon. Green trees and golden hills sprawled all around us. Small clusters of Spanish houses with red, sunburnt roofs sat nestled in between. It felt like we'd traveled out of time and place, perhaps back 100 years, to Spain. Or that we were a group of nameless passerby's, trespassing in a priceless painting.

We arrived back at the house and the mushroom-madness, the fungus-frenzy, the old psilocybin-psychosis started.

"Okay, don't go anywhere. It'll ruin the carpets. Take your shoes off and wash it off your feet," someone said.

What? Wash what off my feet? I took off my shoes and looked at the bottom of my foot. Blotches of oily tar appeared. When did that happen? I was mystified. I stared down, looking deep into my pale, inky sole, wondering what these strange Rorschach blots were trying to tell me. Was the tar harmful? Had it already passed into my bloodstream? It was sticky and stuck on my skin. How would it come off? The thought crossed my mind that I should probably feel alarmed, but I felt calm. I peeked into an adjoining room and saw Holly and friends frantically scrubbing their feet. Their efforts were in vain though because the tar wouldn't budge. Thinking on my tarry feet, I tiptoed toward the kitchen. Something told me that the only thing that beats tar is more oil. I rummaged through the cabinets and soon found what I was looking for. Arriving back at the foot-washing room, I presented my findings.

"Crisco?" K asked, surprised.

"Yes, Hayzoos Crisco, your lord and savior. Only he could wash the sins from your feet."

Out of desperation, we started scrubbing with verve. It seemed to work well enough, dissolving the tar and loosening its hold on our skin. The only sound I could hear was the sound of paper towels scratching on feet. It sounded like we were each trying to make our own small friction fire. I started laughing and asked everyone to pause for a second and take a step back.

"Look at us. We're all huddled in here, our legs bent or stuck up into the sink, scrubbing our feet with a bottle of Crisco!"

Hysteria took us until it bordered on madness. How long would we have to scrub to rid ourselves of this gunky mess? Why hadn't anyone told me the beach was built on top of La Brea tar pit? And where were Terry and Chuck? Had they suffered the same fate as the dinosaurs? Were they turned into fossil fuel? Oh well, it was too late for them; I'd mourn later. Now was the time for a shower. And not just an ordinary shower. It was a damn near religious experience. The water washed over me in euphoric waves and I was born again. With a bar of soap I washed off all the greasy sunblock and sand and sweat and grime. I couldn't help but moan and then chuckle at the absurdity of it all. I opened my eyes and Holly was there on the other side of the glass. When I spoke to her my voice boomed and took up all the space in the bathroom. I tried to communicate how pleasurable the experience was, how I thought I might never leave the shower. Why should I have to? I could become an amphibian. The slipperiness of the water drew my hands over my head, my face, my chest and arms, just to feel the sensation of it over my body. Then I wanted to get out. I wanted to be nearer to her. I turned off the water and stepped out. We kissed and laughed and giggled madly as she helped me dry off. She was adorable and sweet and perfect and I just wanted to hold her there and not say a word. She broke the silence by mispronouncing the word mushrooms as mershrooms and we broke into a fit of ecstatic laughter. I loved her. We kissed and held each other for a moment before I put on my pair of purple paisley shorts and we returned to the others.

For the next several hours I remained trapped in the black-hole gravity of the couch. At one point I unwittingly smeared an entire tube of aloe vera over my face, forcing me to rub it in for a long, long while. Terry played an incredible album called Foxbase Alpha that I couldn't break free from, even after I could stand again. The music seemed made for the moment. It was soft and upbeat and heady, introverted and extroverted at the same time. From the couch I looked out through a pair of open doors that lead to a small courtyard with a fountain in the middle. The fountain had cobwebs on it that glistened in the sunlight. A beautiful breeze blew over my hot skin and it made the brick wall breathe like a blanket on a line. I watched in awe as the geometry of the corners of the room changed shape. My body felt amazing and I couldn't stop moving my muscles. I couldn't stop yawning either. While I lie on the couch I could have sworn I'd become a sloth. Towards the end of the album I managed to make it off the couch, but I didn't get far before the floor seemed a welcome destination. I lie down and stretched out for a while. Things went on like this a while longer until I went outside where Holly, B and K were all painting. Watercolors. Of psychedelic octopi. Fitting.

Holly and I watched two humming birds dance in the air between us as we picked a fresh orange from a tree in her backyard. It was delicious and juicy. I could feel the nutrients bombarding me. We all made our way inside and we spent the next hour trying to watch Almost Famous on her TV. Lucky for me the shrooms had worn off, or else the stress of it all would have been absolutely intolerable. Just as we were about to give up, I had an epiphany. I used the receiver remote, instead of the universal remote, to set the audio channels to match the two-speaker stereo output. Voila! At some point Chuck, Terry and I went to purchase some groceries for dinner. Terry outdid himself once more and cooked up a pasta dish in a cream sauce with leftover bacon and fresh scallops. After we ate we were all tired from the hike, the sun and the shrooms, so after a painfully long board game, we slept.

The next morning Chuck, Terry and I drove to brunch while the others went back to the beach. I swore I would never again endure the tar, and Chuck's legs and ankles were sunburned, so we didn't mind missing it. We cleaned up and set out for home mid afternoon. We stopped off at a gas station and refueled. Overhead the clouds were the color of peaches and cream and at their tips were highlights of soft green. The sun ducked below a silhouetted mountain range to the west and the sky reddened noticeably. The clouds had stretched out thinly and expanded by this time, so that they looked like one giant mass. An enormous moth-wing, stained by an overturned glass of rosé. Holly read a book aloud to me while Terry and Chuck watched a movie in the backseat. The car wobbled all the way home, but no one seemed to mind.