Recently I had the pleasure of enduring a drunken phone call from an old friend. To say that she is less than pleased with her current circumstances would be an egregious understatement. Not that her present environment is unpleasant, it’s actually one that many women, especially mothers, would envy; she is a properly kept woman living on acres in the Deep South. She is married, has two children and does not work, but she does drink. Oh dear god does she drink. Sadly, I am her go-to whenever she feels the need to discuss nostalgia, which correlates to her consumption of Courvoisier and moonshine. I should know better than to answer the phone, but we all love a good train wreck, don’t we?
Thankfully, her most recent drunk dial was not to rehash the details of abortions of yore. One can only discuss the vague details of driving a friend to several clinics, when they were teenagers, so many times before it grows tiresome. And we have had these discussions many, many times over the years. But her most recent phone call was for a completely different purpose altogether.
There is much notoriety and mythology surrounding the area where we spent our time together. It seems that the desert east of Los Angeles has become somewhat famous, in purely musical terms, which never ceases to amuse me. I fucking hate the desert cities that are Palm Springs to Coachella and beyond. The fact that hipsters pay, out-the-ass, to see bands performing in a field, in fucking Coachella, still makes me laugh out loud. Trust me when I tell you that I am not alone in this point of view. But whatever, everything is fucking ghey now, and I expect nothing less from the 21st century.
You see, she and I attended [redacted] together, and are quite familiar with many of the individuals who have seemingly ascended to the plateau of fame. If you’re from the area, The Plateau is something completely different, but I digress. To me it is nothing more than faces and times that I care to forget. Obviously, to some, it has become a moment in time that they wish to relive. Regrettably, I am often forced to discuss this topic.
In this distressing damsel’s case, it involves a few tales of the ones who got away. You see, she completely fucked her full-ride sponsorship with the successful music producer. A feat the involved no less than fucking an industry drug dealer and being seen in public with the pariah. Even I knew her goose was cooked once this had happened, but to this day, she is unaware of her flagrant transgression. Another bone of contention between us, but I can be too kind with morons. I am working on it, trust me, but it’s hard.
After a few rounds of on the phone with her, I was finally able to discern exactly why she had reached out to me on this particular evening. Getting to the point with sycophants and narcissists is key, it saves energy, but again, I digress. Turns out she had come across yet another trust fund baby, and this one was fascinated with the desert rock or stoner rock scene, but she could not verify her existence within it. Naturally she turned to me for validation because I was her only true connection to any of the parties. Well, the only one without a dick, who still speaks to her.
During our conversation I realized that in our desert years, she had never been more than some girl one of my friends was fucking. And one who accompanied me, usually at the request of said friend, but she had never been more than that. She never made it safely into the friend zone. She always got stuck at cum dumpster, a position that I am woefully unfamiliar with. I eventually asked her if she needed me to vouch for her with this new guy because I was willing to do anything to get off the phone at this point. I even offered to write her a letter of recommendation because she is not in any of the pictures I took at the numerous gigs at The Colony that I attended. As a photo geek in high school, I always had a camera, and it was only ever pointed at friends when there was nothing better to capture. This was never the case at the generator parties, and thusly, I have no pictures of her to use as evidence.
I suggested that she perhaps use the article I wrote back in May to segue to the desert scene, but that would require her to give-a-fuck about someone other than herself. Let’s be honest, that ain’t ever gonna happen with anyone who has ever spent time in SoCal. Especially in the I.E. and other desert cities.
Cray*2 by dixē.flatlin3
Given our overall temperaments, I must admit, that as a member of the human female network, I am shocked that more of us do not kill. That is to say, that more of us do not give into the murderous impulses that we naturally repress. The urge to open up a throat with a razor, rather than smooth the ruffled feathers of yet another ego.
Given to whims of fancy; hormonal; bodies and minds at the mercy of the universe; the source of hysteria; dangerous creatures. I have known more than one man who has lived to tell the tale of his encounter with a knife-wielding member of the fairer sex. Both awoke to find themselves straddled by a pretty, broken doll; both happy to have survived their brushes with batshit-crazy death; both shaken, but not defeated.
I never allowed myself to sympathize, much less empathize with them because in female transgressions of this nature, the batshit-crazy had been thinly veiled in their partners of choice. Sadly, I have learned that this is not as easy for others to spot. Hard to believe, I know, but life is weird that way.