Napping Kittens

When I was 20, I spent a semester in Barcelona.  It was an incredible time of discovery, making friends, and sponging up as much culture as I could.  The city was filled with the melting architecture of Gaudi, the smell of chocolate croissants wafting through the air, and the rumble of La Ramblas street, filled with people dancing to their own beat. I was enchanted with how much living happened outside. There were young hippies playing music and sharing beers in the squares, and flocks of elders playing chess and meeting friends. The moment my feet hit those cobble stone streets, I knew I was in love. Barcelona, the land of surrealist art, Gothic architecture, cured ham, and wine.

For all there was to love however, there was one thing that would eat at me daily. It was the incessant hissing, cat calling, tongue clicking, staring, whistling, and nimble groping that would occur nearly every moment you were out. You couldn’t walk down the street without feeling like you were in the crossfire of a thousand bows aimed right at you. You'd dodge and weave, do everything that you could to avoid the man walking right at you. He’d come hissing at you with his face a few inches from yours, a mist of spit spraying onto your lips. Or maybe he’d play defense and stand directly in front of you not allowing you to walk past, without him taking a few sporty jabs at you first. “Hola Chinita” “Tss Tss Tss”  and grab your ass as he walked past you and then disappeared into the crowd. The catcalling was so thick it was suffocating. I was mentally tormented by it all. I didn’t know what to do, how to defend myself or how to take the higher road and stop to have a come to Jesus conversation with the perpetrators. I wanted to be good, to know that I could have a positive impact. I went so far as to try and rehearse a script (as my Spanish wasn’t so good then) to try and talk to these men and redirect their behaviors.  I wanted them to see me as a person and not some piece of ass or some carnival game that you could pelt with bean bags and win a prize.

Eventually I grew weary. They were too fast. I couldn’t stop them for a conversation. They wanted the cheap thrill of a reaction, or to get a longer look and once they got it, they’d give a self satisfied snicker, beat feet and be gone. I became tired of dodging and weaving; walking in a zig zag like I was escaping a gator in Florida. It was exhausting. I wanted the audacious luxury of walking in a straight line, directly to my destination without needing to get out of some gawking heyena’s way.  So I started punching them. That’s right. I’d punch them. Right in the gut. If they inched my way, didn’t let me pass, pressed their face into mine, hissed at me or spoke vulgarities under their breath, I undercut them in their stomach and kept walking. If they tried to touch my ass as they walked by, I turned around, threw the first guy I saw to the ground, and kept walking.  I didn’t feel good about it really.  I went from wishful goals of emulating Mother Theresa to being Mr. T on a cock crushing crusade. A far cry from my original sentiments of shepherding some wayward souls to a Shangri-La of equality and respect. But violence was just easier. They were my small victories amongst a lifetime of harassment. 

These were the simpler days. The every day. Unfortunately there were worse days.

As a young, independent female, I prided myself on being strong. And I was. I had a gymnast body, an appetite for adventure and a fearless disposition. I wasn’t going to let anyone tell me what I should and shouldn’t do, and I made a point to prove it. If I wanted to go to a club alone, I would. If I wanted to walk down a dark alley alone, I would. If I wanted to ride a motorcycle up a muddy hill in the rain alone, I would. If you hadn’t guessed it, I did a lot of shit alone! It was part of my creed as the independent, lone wolf. Unfortunately this also made me more of a target.

On certain dark nights, I remember being hunted and chased by men, feeling their eyes locked onto me like cold blooded vampires going in for the kill. Their gaze sent freon shivers down my spine. There was something vacant and animal in their eyes; an evil thirst.  I had to run through crowded bars, out back doors, into other crowded bars and beg strangers to hide me. I took every note from my times of watching Animal Planet and looked for safety in large herds (usually at the watering holes) until I finally lost them.

Another particular late night when I was walking home, a man seemed to casually walk behind me like a shadow. I started to pick up my pace and so did he. I crossed the street, and so did he. I crossed the street again, and there he was, both of us now running until he finally grabbed me. All of my knowledge of how to get out of a wrist grip suddenly vanished. I struggled to use leverage, but I couldn’t break free. Then I tried screaming. You know those blood curdling screams that you hear in horror movies? Those high pitched shrieks of utter terror? Well, that wasn’t me. Oh how I wish it was. No no. Mine came out more like a verklempt Mr. Belvedere. You see, I have this super low, weak and raspy voice. I am physically incapable of screaming at that pitch. I earnestly wish I could. Strangely it would make me feel more feminine. Like some priss yelling at a sporting event. But I’m more like the beer guzzling Dad that can barely get worked up enough to say a single “atta boy.” So tried as I might, I was left to very loudly saying “Ayudame! Ayudame!” “Help me! Help me!” on a street filled with apartment complexes, but no one turned on a light.  I fought to shout again “Ayudame! Ayudame!” over and over again, struggling to find that shrill pitch while battling to break free. And still, the street did not wake from its slumber.  Detached from the herd and with no defense mechanisms, by evolution’s standard I should have been dinner that night. But out of some sheer miracle, he finally ran off on his own.  Perhaps he was looking for fast food, and I was proving to be more farm to table. He wanted quick and easy and I was throw yer back out, hard labor. I’m not sure. And though he was gone, he had still left his mark; two perfectly bruised hand prints on both my wrists. Evidence that I could later weave into a story that I wasn’t strong. I was weak. And perhaps I have always, only been a naïve little girl. In that moment, I had never felt so abandoned and helpless. I walked home in the dark silence, looking up at the houses and all I could ask myself was “Where were you?”

But I was determined. I was determined to not be a victim. To not let fear rule me. To continue living my life with sheer wonder. To live as fully as I could imagine it to be. And some may call that brave and others would call it stubborn, stupid and arrogant. But I carried on, unwilling to be damaged fruit, and bought a ticket to Granada.

Traveling on a student’s budget means a few things.

1.     Eating hole in the wall gyro’s for every meal

2.     Getting loaded on piss beer and bladder wine

3.     Staying in the world’s sketchiest hostels

The sketchy hostel that I holed up in that night, was a big sterile room with 15 cots and a bathroom down the hall. It looked more like a refugee camp in an abandoned hospital than a hostel. But I didn’t care really. I threw my bag down, said hi to the 4 other Swedes in the room, and immediately took off to see the city.

I took the day to check some Moorish Castles and then headed up this hill, to find the deeply hidden flamenco bars, privy to locals only. You’d walk up a dark and steep street, see a small light, walk to some indiscernible door, descend a stair case, and there would be this incredible woman dancing flamenco in a tiny basement. There were families of people crowded around her clapping and cheering her on. I walked in alone, but instantly made friends. It wasn’t hard. Families practically fought over who could show the foreign, Asian girl a good time. I drank and drank and drank as families poured me glass over glass of velvet red wine. We would dance and toast to this wild and succulent life. The night became a blissful blur of  broken Spanish, and tearful laugher. When I finally left, I managed to stumble back down the dark hill, into my room and under the sheets.

 The next morning, I was slowly waking up to my hangover headache, when I started to notice the strangest feeling down south. Something warm and mushy on my privates. Deep in a hangover slumber, my mind was awake, but my body was made of lead. I felt like I was laying on the bottom of the ocean floor, unsure if I was still in a dream. But there it was, this warmth that seemed to engulf me. As I struggled to discern if this was real life or a dream, I started to become more and more aware that I wasn’t imaging it. It was really happening.  I forced my heavy lids to peel open and I looked down to see the top of some mans head. He had short, brown, curly hair and was indeed, eating me out. I was in a thick haze and was utterly confused. Who was this? Did I bring someone home last night? Did we hit it off at the bar and I forgot that he brought me back? My mind was racing trying to recall if I should know this man or not. As I quickly tried to rehash the events of last night, I could not scrape together a single memory of bringing someone back. Perhaps it was one of the Swedes? And I turned my head to the side but noticed the entire room was empty. It was just me and this man. But who was he? So I turned, tapped his shoulder and said, “Excuse me, Can I help you?”

Can I help you? Are you kidding me? I didn’t know what else to say. I was wildly confused. I wasn’t sure if we had met and I should be polite, or…or what? I didn’t know what else to think.

The man paused, looked up and said “Hi" in what sounded like a Hungarian accent.

ME: Hi, can I help you?

MAN: I saw you sleeping and you looked like a kitten

ME: What? A kitten? Ok. Did we meet last night?

MAN: No

ME: Excuse me? Wait, I’m sorry. Who are you?

MAN: I’m staying in this hostel today. I came in and saw you sleeping like a kitty.

ME: Wait, so we haven’t met?

MAN: No

ME: Ok. Well I... I... I need you to leave me alone. 

MAN: Ok. Well can I finish?

ME: Um, not here please. Go to your own bed.

And that was that. It was oddly calm.

He then finished on his side of the room. The acrid stench of wet pennies filled the air, and I ran off to shower, packed and left. 

I know it doesn’t look kindly on me to have not raised a fuss. To not run to some authorities, or kick him in the nuts, or dole some type of retribution for his invasive actions. I'm not proud of it to be honest. I will say though, that there were a lot of factors that contributed to that.  For starters, I was incredibly hung over with hardly enough energy to not hurl in bed. Second, I am strangely calm in crisis situations. I can easily get worked up about the small things, but can’t get worked up to save my life, for the bigger things. It just seemed easier to let it go at the time and not create it to be a bigger thing. But looking back now, I see the biggest culprit to my inaction. My female conditioning to deal and accept it.

All my life I was taught that females were to be subordinate to males. I blame that mostly on my Korean heritage. I was taught that everyone had a social rank, and that we always had to obey those above us. Even if they had refried beans for brains, and spit bologna as word, we had to shut up, and pay our respect. I was taught to squash my thoughts and opinions because it really didn’t matter what I thought. If I wanted to speak up, I was immediately cut down, because I was always the child, or I was female. So by nature, a rock that was older than me and identified as a male, deserved more respect.  I quickly learned to never speak up or contribute in any way. It was my job to shut up and know my place and I needed to accept that if I was to survive. After enough years of quieting your own voice, you forget that you have one. You forget what your real opinions are. You forget that you matter. 

My American conditioning prepped me for situations of sexual abuse. I watched cartoons like “Popeye” where Brutus was throwing Olive Oil over his shoulder and taking her to his cabin in the mountains. And without explicitly saying it, we all knew he was going to rape her in that cabin. And he threatened to do so in every episode, until Popeye came and saved the day. And Olive Oil was completely helpless. She had to sit and wring her fingers until some man saved her. I watched this theme over and over again with Betty Boop being kidnapped for her sexuality. It was both her power and her curse. Betty was going to be molested and most likely raped, until someone saved her. There were damsels being tied up on train tracks and cave women being beaten on the head and dragged into caves. I had become conditioned to believing this was just a part of the female experience. So when it happened in real life, I honestly didn’t know what to do. In the cartoons, some man always came in and saved the day. Where was the theme of self defense? Why didn’t Olive Oil practice Krav Maga? Why wasn’t Betty a total dom and whipped these drooling goobers into shape? Why was the whole world ok with watching these rapey scenes of helpless women for entertainment, but is suddenly surprised when women are saying that maneuvering a sexually predatory landscape is an every day threat? Why must we resort to #metoo for people to finally start believing, that every single female has felt the crushing hand of sexual harassment? Why must I be lead to believe that maybe I am the foolish one, for wanting to live my life freely and without fear. That if I was smart, I would be afraid of this world, and not walk alone at night or always have a man at my side. And why do we have to explain this every day impingement on basic freedoms, on basic thoughts, on basic considerations of how to live, to the male #metoo bandwagon riders?

I have been lucky. I have been lucky that I have only been abducted and shoved into a car once. That I have only been grabbed in the streets once. That I have only had a few strangers push themselves on to me and my body in ways that I did not condone. That I have never been in a situation so violent, I could not recover. I have been lucky. The spectrum of every day abuse that we females endure is vast. And perhaps that is one of our greatest strengths and weaknesses. Is that we endure.  Some of us have been trudging for so long, we lost our voice along the way. It’s hard to keep when the world is constantly trying to tell you where your place is. But we are finding it. And it may be quiet at first, so do your best to listen carefully. Now is the time to listen. Now is the time to believe.

BETTY BOOP "Old Man of the Mountain"
Proof of rapey-ness and people trippin' on some good shit back in the day.

Click here

Now Spread 'Em

"You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you…”

 Are you kidding me? How did this happen? How did I get here?

Well let’s back it up and start from the beginning.

This is a story of chance, serendipity, dumb luck and perhaps a bit of magic.

It’s a hot summer’s day. The kind of day where you can’t seem to do anything but lay in your house cooking, like a turkey in an oven, sitting in a pool of its own grease.

I am angry. Angry that is so damn hot. Angry that the A/C is broken. Angry that I can do nothing but lie there and think about how angry I am. Angry that I caught my first long time boyfriend, lying to me about another girl. Three years out the window, or maybe it was down her throat.

I had to get out of there. Go somewhere green, with flowing rivers and crisp mountain air. Go somewhere, where I could leave this wretched, smog filled town called LA. Go somewhere where I could embark on a solo adventure, and reclaim my independence. I know. I’ll hitchhike north, to where nature and marmots are bountiful! The promised land of Canada.

With no solid plans but to brashly cut my hair off, pack a bag, and get that thumb into shape, a few close friends convince me that none of this is a good idea.  “Why do you need to go alone?” “It doesn’t sound safe.” “Your hair is so beautiful.” “Bring a guy friend” they implore.

To which I actually listen. I decide to keep the hair for a little longer (2months) and go through my list of guy friends that would fit the criteria of being a good travel mate. Someone who looks scary, is street smart, entertaining and doesn’t want to dip his honey stick in my goo pot. After racking my brain a bit, I came to my top three choices. First contender, Rajiv! Rajiv has a history of hitchhiking, body doubles for spider man (i.e. he’s ripped), isn’t as terrifying as he looks, has the energy of a Labrador (which is only exemplified by the fact that he always has bits of grass stuck in his hair), and to top it off, is an ex-truck driver! If this was a reality show, he’d get the whole bouquet of roses and we’d be off, riding into sunset. Unfortunately, he isn’t available and neither is my second choice. Damn. That leaves it to my third choice, Bren, who only fits 1 of the 4 criteria. Entertaining.

Bren is one of those guys who hardly counts as a guy. He’s more like a Muppet. When he walks, he trots, when he laughs, he cackles, when he shouts with glee, he barks like a squirrel.  His every movement is as animated as the Grinch doing a caricature of himself, as the Grinch. Yeah, that just got meta. And he is the only person I have ever met, that actually had ants in his pants once, and I couldn’t tell. It just seemed like business as usual as he danced around, furiously tugging at the back of his shorts.  Bren never does anything simply or conventionally. He exclusively wears clothing that he spends hours tearing holes into, with a large toothy saw. He crafts women’s bras that he cuts and sews into hats because he likes how the bra straps dangle in his eyes, and because well, boobs just make him happy. I would perhaps say, he’s unafraid to boldly be himself, but that’s not quite right. That would infer that there might have been a time where he didn’t know who he was, and he happened to stumble upon it. No, that’s not it. It’s more that he has always been his unique snowflake self, knows who that is in all of its outlier glory and is terrified to be anything less. Bren is fiercely his own person and that’s why I like him.

Bren also likes to party. Having traveled to various countries together, performing as dancing, circus clowns at festivals around the globe, I knew we traveled well together. We had built a history of taking too much acid in the woods and stealing canoes in the velvety dark of night, taking too much acid and putting giant spoons on strangers’ heads while chanting “spooooon head”, taking too much acid and throwing poppers on the ground while pretending to get shot in Mexico, and um, I guess taking too much acid.

I present the idea to him.

ME: Hey dude. Come with me to Canada. We’ll pack a small bag and hitchhike until we get there. I’m not sure how long it’ll take or what we’ll do, but we’ll figure it out along the way and it’ll be fun.

BREN: Why?

ME: What do you mean why? It’ll be fun. For adventure sake, man!

BREN: Ok but what are we going to do once we get there?

He doesn’t seem entirely convinced but he’s willing to listen.

And then I remember that there’s this epic festival that we have been hearing about for years, called Shambhala.  I still remember the first time I heard about Shambhala. A decade prior, I was on an inner tube traveling down a river in Laos with some Canadians I had just met. They explained it as this magical place, where there were parties until the dawn, set amongst mountains and a river with stages comprised of an interlinking network of tree houses that looked like you were in a wookiee village.  To top it off, it was held on private and protected lands, so people would openly vend mushrooms and pot in booths next to grilled cheese and coffee and the cops couldn’t interfere. Screw Disneyworld, this now sounded like the happiest place on earth.

So I explain to Bren, what little I know about the party, in its legendary status. To top it off however, an artist that I’m working with, named Bassnectar is headlining the party, so I know we can get free tickets.

And that’s all that has to be said.

FREE. 

But the addition of this party now creates added complication. Now we need all of our festival gear. Tents, sleeping pads, 20 of his bra hats, our glitter sparkle outfits, puppets, flags, and all the festival essentials. We are so accustomed to going to festivals as headlining artists, we can’t quit now and rough it up like gypsy vagabonds.  Well, now how in the fuck are we going to hitchhike with this megalithic pack? We can’t and we won’t, that’s how.

The plan quickly diverges from this idealistic adventure of youthful whim and tacking the wind, to basic logistics of getting to this party mecca.  To be honest, I am a little disappointed to give up on this summer of wreck less abandon, but I am grateful to now have an adventure mate.  So it is decided. We would meet in Washington, hop into the rental car of my DJ friend, Danny Firewater, cross the border and head up north to this famed Shambhala.

Now there’s one more piece of information that I forgot to mention about Bren.

Bren is a drug dealer.

Drug dealers in the movies are always portrayed to be these violent, sketchy, thug like dudes who you’d never want to meet in a dark alley. But the reality of it is that a lot of drug dealers in our free loving, art world aren’t like that at all. They come in all different shapes, and colors. Some of them are sweet party hippies, some are parents and some of them play the role of a pickle in that grand play called Life. I don’t judge. And Bren is no different. He’s an artist, full of enthusiasm, doesn’t fit within the confines of the normal world, and resorts to selling drugs to support his art habit.

Fully knowing this, I warn him that the Canadian border is by far, the strictest border I have ever crossed in my 30+ border crossing career, and that he needs to bring nothing with him.  I remind him of this fact several times, to which he insists he fully understands and would do nothing of the sort. Great…but seriously bro, just don’t. Like really, no. Don’t even bring a tic-tac. And again, he insisted, he heard it all loud and clear.

So the day arrives where we would be flying into Washington from different parts of the nation and we would meet at the Spokane airport. Things are already off to a rocky start. I arrive to LAX bags in hand, with an enormous line snaking around stanchions 10 levels deep for check in.  It was as if someone left a double wrapping dookie in the toilet and didn’t flush. Annoying and shitty.

As I inch along, I finally get to the desk when the ticket agent tells me, it’s too late. It’s 12min to boarding and I won’t make the plane, let alone my bags. The bags would have to come on a different flight arriving the next day. Well that’s not good. I can’t make the fellas wait for me or my bags. So I implore and beg her to let me on and that I would take my chances with my bags. To which, after some negotiation judo, she finally succumbs and tells me to run. And that’s exactly what I did, ran my ass all the way to the plane. With my time out, I burst through the gateway as they were closing the doors, and slid in like a Kardashian into jeans, just barely.

Now drenched with sweat, I make my way to my seat and start practicing my magic witchery. That’s right. Motherfucking witchery. Mostly mind games, of which I use  visualizations to pour all of my focus into seeing what I want to have happen.

In this instance, I envision myself tying a white string, made of light, binding me to my luggage. I say over and over again how excited I am that my luggage arrived as it should, and felt my body well up with the true physical feeling of complete delight. I do this for hours, until we finally land. And what do you know? It’s all there! Me, my bags, and Bren, just like I imagined it would.

I find Bren in the airport and we proceed to wait for our friend Danny Firewater. Now Bren has never met Danny, so I try and give him a little background about Danny.

Danny Firewater very much looks the part of the rockstar DJ. With his couture leather attire and long raven black hair, he looks like he would be the resident DJ in the Matrix Reloaded rave scene. You know the one. With throngs of people writhing around in some post apocalyptic cave orgy. But for as edgy and anarchist that this Danny looks, he does not fit that loose rockstar persona out there. Whereas some of these DJ’s can literally be so hammered for their sets, that they can’t seem to escape the boobie trap that is their neck scarf…or is it a head wrap, or is it an invisibility cloak, no, no it’s a magic carpet! Fuck! Get me out of this thing so I can push the buttons and make music go boom.  Yeah, we’ve seen that more times than I can count. But that guy, that is not our guy Danny. He’s the anti-scarf guy. A closeted straight arrow. He holds his shit together, and rolls it tighter than a Snoop dog blunt. He does his own bookings, his own accounting, is always on time, always has a plan, abhors diverting from the plan and quite honestly, ventures on anal retentive in comparison to our loosely disciplined scene.

So naturally, I am a bit curious to see how he would react to meeting our tattered Muppet friend who is now sporting his latest fashion invention, the half mustache. That’s right. A half mustache/ goatee cut so obtusely that it looks like a caterpillar is feeding off his lip. He’s pretty sure he’s pioneered something never before attempted, which seems to tickle his, “I’m a fucking genius” neurons.

As expected, upon first meeting, Danny gives Bren a good long look. He seems unafraid to show his feelings of perplexity, with whom he has agreed to road trip into Canada. And Bren, well Bren just threw his bags in the back, and started barking like a squirrel, as he’s so inclined to do when he’s excited.

And we are finally off. Canada or bust!

We drive through winding roads, through gorgeous mountains, sharing our life tales to the finely tuned soundtracks of that summer. Life is feeling sweet and idyllic. After a few hours, we make our normal pit stop for gas, groceries and a sandwich for later. A modest club wrapped in cellophane, atop a foam dish.

With an hour to the border, Bren eagerly hops in the back and I keep Danny company in the front.

And we are finally there.

BORDER PATROL OFFICER: Passports. Reason for visit? Length of stay?

Danny being the model citizen that he is, pulls out his work Visa and proudly boasts that he is coming to perform at the famed Shambhala.

And as he says “Shambhala” I instantly wonder if we should have lied. There’s nothing like telling the Border Patrol that you’re going to a rave party, to give them reason to want to fuck with you. And with one look at the rest of us, and our packed car, he simply hands us our passports, and asks that we pull to the side for further inspection.

Annoyed but not freaked, we pull off and wait for their instruction.

They start to go through the normal protocol of checking under the car for bombs, and rummaging through our luggage and coolers.  But then they separate us.

The officer assigned to me asks that I give him my phone and camera. Yes, believe it or not, there was a time when we would have both, a camera and a phone.

I hand them both to the officer and he asks for the password to my phone.

ME: Excuse me? The password?

OFFICER: Yes. The password to your phone.

ME: I don’t think that I have to give that to you.

OFFICER: Well I don’t think that I have to let you into Canada.

Alrighty then. So that’s how we are going to play. Be my guest. And I reluctantly give him the code.

He then proceeds to actively roll through every text thread for several months back, as well as checking out every photo on my phone and camera. To say it felt violating would be an understatement. Listen here guy, those unedited puss shots are not meant for you, but have at ‘em I guess. We aim to please.

More concerning however, is how my friend Bren is doing with his interrogation. Had he been careful with covering the tracks to his day job?

After a good 30min of the Officer playing a judge in the game show “This is Your Life,” I am able to reunite with my fellow contestant Danny. We sit and wait for the last member of our crew to walk through the doors, so we can redeem our prize, a scott free pass into Canada.

But as the moments tick by, the pressure starts to mount as more officers collect around Bren and I watch his head drop as they walk him out of site.

I am imagining the worst now.  Danny looks over to me completely perplexed. He’s sweating out a gritty grin, as he is questioning what we might have gotten ourselves into.  Is now a good time to explain that Bren has an illegal side hustle?

We nervously wait under the sterile, halogen lights in a dark, concrete lot. I begin to meditate on my witchery.  I was once taught that if you imagined a spinning star creating a force field of energy around you, you could create a barrier of safety. A 5-pointed star for physical safety, a 6-pointed star for mental safety and a 7-pointed star for spiritual safety. Call it superstitious but I still resort to these focus techniques when I’m not sure what else to do. In this case, I imagine a 5-pointed star spinning in a circle so fast, it has us all in a halo of protection from whatever may come. Finally the officer arrives.

OFFICER: Do you know Bren?

DANNY: (without a moment’s hesitation) No, I don’t officer. I just met him today.  I never knew him before this.

ME: (saying it so slowly it’s as if I’m in a social ketamine hole) Ummm. Yyyyeeeeesssss….  

OFFICER: Are you traveling with Bren?

God! What’s with the confusing questions! I’m not entirely sure why, but this one always feels like a trick question. I never know how to answer this. If I say yes, does that somehow make me an accomplice to whatever crimes he may be committing?

If I say no, I’m an obvious liar.

Again, the word “YES” slowly seeps out of my mouth as I articulate every letter, whilst searching his face for some signal that I haven’t somehow condemned myself.

OFFICER: Are you carrying any illegal substances?

ME: No officer.

DANNY: Absolutely not! I’m here to perform at this festival and if we don’t leave soon, I am going to miss my set.

Alright alright Danny. Pipe down. Somehow I don’t think these guys care if you’re some big fancy DJ and that you might miss your important performance.

OFFICER: Is your friend carrying any illegal substances?

ME: Not that I know of sir.

OFFICER: Do you sell drugs?

ME: No sir

DANNY: No sir. I’m a DJ.

….yeah Danny. We got it and it’s probably not helping your case.

OFFICER: Do you know if Bren sells drugs?

ME: Umm, not that I know of.

OFFICER: Well we have reason to believe that he does.

You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law…

And then the world starts to fade. My heart drops like it’s committed suicide by tying itself to a boulder and tossing itself in the ocean. I can’t believe this is happening. It is so surreal. Am I being arrested right now? Are we being convicted as drug mules? What is happening? What the fuck did they catch Bren with?

We then begin to walk away from the unfriendly lot, to an even more unfriendly place, the interrogation room. They begin to explain to us they will need to detain us at the border until their drug dog can come sniff out the car. They go on and on, bragging about how this super star dog can sniff out a gram of cocaine in a semi truck full of sawdust. A semi of sawdust? In what scenario would this exist? Fuckin’ Canadians.

Well ok, let’s get this dog out here then, and get it going. I don’t think any of us were stupid enough to bring anything, and I’m ready to get out of that terrible place. But it wasn’t that easy. Somehow, in all of Canada there are only 3 drug dogs for the entire border. We would have to wait for this rockstar dog to get chauffeured to us from a location 4-5 hours away. Are you kidding me? And to top it off, we still weren’t clear as to what happened that would get us into this situation. But it seemed like we had a long night ahead of us.

As they escort us back to their offices, Danny impresses upon the officers that he is completely innocent and has no connection to Bren whatsoever.  Hearing the panic in his voice, I can’t help but to feel terribly guilty for unintentionally roping Danny into this mess in the first place. He had agreed to drive Bren on accord of our friendship, and now he’s not only worried about missing his show, but he may be incriminated for something he was oblivious to. How horrifying. I am feeling pretty low as we saunter back to the offices.

Right before we get there however, I kindly ask one of the officers if it might be ok to go back to the car to grab my sweater as it seemed like we had a long night ahead of us. He agrees to escort me back, and so I grab my jacket. Out of the corner of my eye however, I see my sandwich, figure I’d probably get hungry, grab it and make my way to the office. Then it hits me, that Bren would probably want his sandwich too. I debate for a second if I should return and grab it, but then quickly charge back and pull his sandwich from the back seat.

We get back to their offices and I see Bren sitting in a chair, with his head in his trembling hands. I’m not sure what is happening, but I know it’s serious when he looks up and his face is ghost white, with a look on his face that he might throw up at any moment.

ME: Bren? You ok?

Bren, so flustered he is hardly able to formulate words, stutters that he’s ok.

ME: I thought you might be hungry so I brought you, your sandwich.

His eyes widen, as he looks at me, says thank you, and then holds his sandwich in his hands for a while, with his head slumped down, staring at it in a complete daze.

I coolly unwrap my sandwich and tear into a mustard packet, trying to normalize the energy in the room somehow, with my casual attitude. We sit there, with the sound of me chewing on my sandwich, careful not to speak as we notice a few cameras staring back at us in the waiting room.

Bren finally begins to unwrap his sandwich carefully, pulls off the top layer of bread, spreads mustard across it, and chews into it almost violently. We discard the cellophane wrapping and foam dishes they sat upon, and wait for the officers to come back to entertain us.

Finally they return and pull the boys into a room. I am dying of curiosity as they seem to be in this room for what feels like an eternity.

When they finally come out, there is this energy. A buzz about them like they just went for a swim in a freezing cold ocean.

ME: What happened in there? Are you ok?

DANNY: They cavity searched us!

ME: Wait what? How?

DANNY: They brought us into the room, asked us a few questions, put on some gloves and then told us to drop our pants.

ME: No you’re kidding me!

DANNY: Yes. Then they told us to bend over and hold our ass cheeks open as they whipped their flashlights out.

ME: Oh my god. And so you did? Both of you in the same room at the same time?

DANNY: Yes, we had to. I have never done that in my life. They did a quick check looked up our rectums to make sure we weren’t packing anything.

ME: Oh my god, is that going to happen to me?

DANNY: Probably

Now this entire time, Bren is fairly quiet. Seemingly traumatized still from the whole experience.

And we sit there for a few hours more as we wait for my turn to be questioned. I hadn’t seen a female officer the entire time I was there so I was quite curious who would be the one asking me to drop my pants and spread my cheeks.  There was one officer who I must say, was pretty handsome, but I’m not sure that I wore my cute underwear that day, and this isn’t exactly how I wanted our first to date to go. Who am I kidding? I’ve been on worse first dates. After some thought however, I convince myself that I am actually excited for this experience. I’ve never been in this situation before, and I have this feeling of, why not flip the script and get psyched?

Finally it is my turn to enter the room.

There is one table and 3 male officers in the room. The older officer is sitting in a chair, and the 2 others standing by the table. I’m fairly pleased that the cute one is in there. Oh please let it be him with the gloves.

ME: So let’s cut to the chase. How far do I have to strip exactly?

OLDER OFFICER: No, we are not going to search you.

ME: Ok (with slight disappointment)

OLDER OFFICER: We would however like to know if you are smuggling drugs.

ME: No I am not

OLDER OFFICER: Then what’s this?!

He then pulls out this glass mason jar full of green super food powder. Even back then, I was a bit health conscious, and to travel around with a jar of vitamineral powder was not a common thing. Trying hard to choke down a chuckle, I explain to him that it was a dietary supplement.

OLDER OFFICER: Oh yeah? Is that right? Well we tested the lid of the jar and it came back positive for traces of methamphetamines!

Now I am completely perplexed.

ME: Sir I haven’t done meth in 6 years and someone smuggling trace amounts of meth into my vitamin supplements does not seem like a sound business plan for them. But hey, score for me.

Now does not seem like the time for jokes, as he’s red in the face, accusing me of smuggling acid in my essential oil droppers, and my mushroom reishi powder as ground up psychedelic mushrooms. Ummm, all of that sounds like a great idea, but I guarantee you, I’m just a holistic hippy in hiding.

ME: Well test it dude. Test all of it, I guarantee you that these are not illegal substances. 

But he keeps bearing down on me, that they have been tested, and that they came back with traces of drugs all over my things.  Now, I’m not entirely sure what game he thought he was playing by his incessant conviction, but if it was the intimidation game, he wasn’t going to get me, because if by chance there was crushed crystal in those jars it would be quartz. That’s right. Why? Because hippies. Some of them honestly believe in the nutritional benefits of consuming quartz crystal because they conduct light, and supplement our light being…or something like that.

After our truly special time in the interrogation room, with absolutely no physical action, I felt like it was a first date I could tell Dad about.  I got released back into the waiting room, only slightly let down.

Now for the big question of the hour. Where in the fuck is this Lassie?

After a good 5 hours of our asses sitting in these hard plastic chairs, this power pup finally arrives. We watch him through the slatted blinds of the windows, wondering what gospel this dog would preach. And finally we hear the footsteps of heavy boots, pounding the concrete outside our door.

This is it. Our fate has arrived.

BORDER PATROL OFFICER: All right, you guys are free to go. Get out of here.

That’s it? That’s it?! I’m not sure what I was expecting really. Some kind of apology, a handshake and some beers maybe? We’ve been through so much. You saw our men’s taints, I almost showed you my tits, and now you’re going to drop us without so much as a handshake?

But the boys are like the road runner in a Wiley Coyote cartoon. With a plume of smoke at their heels, they are out. Off and running to the car, they hurl their bodies into the car and we screech out of there as quickly as we can.

Holy fuck we are good! We have our lives! We haven’t been arrested! Thank the lawd and praise baby Jesus!

We howled and high fived as we let the night wind rush in through the windows, reminding us of a freedom we might have lost.  And as the excitement started to dip and everyone’s nerves started to calm, we had to ask, what happened to Bren?

He then went to explain the following.

After we were split, Bren got pulled off to the side by one of the Border Patrol Officers. The BPO had done the same, as the others had done to us. Asked to see his phone and his camera, demand to get his access code, proceed to then read his texts for the past year, and visit every photo in both devices.  Thankfully, Bren did in fact cover his tracks when it came to any incriminating texts. What he did not do however, was delete the pictures of him carrying several gallon bags of mushrooms. He had all types of photos on his camera. Photos of him holding these bags up with this Cheshire grin, photos of them piled in his hands, photos of him pretending to smoke them like a cigar. He was clearly proud of his operation. And for the life of me, I can’t understand why Bren would want so many photos of him with his drug babies. But he later disclosed, that he had dreams of making a photo album of it at a future date. All I can equate this to, is the behavior of serial killers, when they document their kills. Everyone knows it’s stupid, but they can’t seem to step outside of their ego, and squash the idea. The photo album is a commemorative object for all of their handy work. You’ve seen Dexter; you’ve seen the slides. Same same but different is all I can assume.

That being said, he completely forgot about these incriminating photos until one of them stops, shows him the photo series, and asks, “What’s this?” I can only imagine the dread of that moment. Like a donkey kicking you in your chest.

Bren stammered in his words a bit, kept asking what he was talking about and finally blurted out, “They’re props. I was filming a movie as a drug dealer, and took all these pictures with these props. They aren’t real.”

Now, I actually feel like this is a fairly clever answer, given the situation, but I’m sure Bren played this scenario in his head a million times and had this answer tucked away in the vault of his brain somewhere. And as clever as it could have seemed, it was clearly not good enough. To begin with, remember that he was rocking a half mustache at the time. I’m not entirely sure who in this world is capable of taking him seriously, looking like that. And movie props? I’m guessing that’s what serial killers say about that pic of Grammy’s femur in the freezer.

Clearly unconvinced themselves, that’s when they took him, uploaded all of his photos for their files, and put him on Canada’s black list.

And that’s where Bren’s story stopped and met with ours.  The Border Patrol couldn’t find any merchandise in the car, so they had to let us go. After all, simply having pictures of drugs is not illegal.  

But as his story ends, I look at him and know that something still isn’t right. He is still shaking and he can’t stop shaking his head in the back seat. I decide not press it, as our anal retentive friend Danny here, just had his anus retention tested and I would like for him to believe whatever fairy tale he’s just been lead through. He is amazingly cool and collected throughout the process and I wanted to keep him in his good fortune dream.

And then, it finally happened. We pulled off the freeway, onto a private dirt road and we made it. From shambles to Shambhala we were there.

As we get out of the car though, I pull Bren aside.

ME: Dude, what’s going on? Something isn’t right. Are you ok? What really happened?

BREN: You don’t know how close we came.

ME: How close we came to what?

BREN: I can’t believe that happened. I just can’t believe we got out of that.

ME: Can you please explain what you’re talking about?

And then he dropped his voice really low and whispered.

BREN: You saved me with that sandwich.

ME: What the fuck are you talking about?

BREN: I’m so sorry. I didn’t listen. I really wanted to party up here so I brought some stuff with me.

ME: You did not! I fucking told you dude!

BREN: I know, I know! I’m so sorry.  But I didn’t think it would be a big deal.

ME: Well what did you bring?

BREN: I brought some Molly and Acid. Just enough for us but not to sell.

ME: Ok so what happened?

BREN: Well, after we stopped at the gas station and we got back in the car, I was trying to figure out where to put these drugs. And then I realized I would just take the sticker off the back of the sandwich, slip the drugs in it, rewrap it and carefully put the sticker back like it was never touched.

ME: You are fucking kidding me.

And then it dawns on me. Oh my god. I was the one who brought him the sandwich! Had I not gone back for my coat, seen my sandwich, and listened to that little voice to go back, and get his sandwich too, it would have just been sitting there for the dog to get!

ME: Oh my god! And then what did you do with it all when I came back and brought it to you? You didn’t eat it did you?

BREN: No. Well first off. I couldn’t fucking believe that you brought it to me. I was so stunned, I couldn’t do anything but look at you for a second, like you were some angel. And then I tried to casually look around to see where the cameras were. I opened up the bread, slipped the bags in my hand, and then stuffed them into a heating vent behind my chair.

ME: You what?!

BREN: Yeah, I couldn’t believe it. I couldn’t believe my luck with you bringing it to me, and the camera being in the perfect place, where I used the bread to shield it’s view from my “spreading mustard on it” and slipping the bags into my palms. And the fact that my chair was right at that heating vent!

Holy crap.

I can’t believe it either. I can’t believe how much was happening in that room, as I was casually masticating on a crappy club. How much he was Macgyver-ing back there. And the luck! Was it the witchery of envisioning our safety that lead me to that succession of events and told me to grab his club? Whatever the case, crappy sandwiches in foam dishes will now always have a soft spot in my heart.

After hearing that, we laughed and we hugged, astounded with our luck.

With the worst behind us now, we were ready to do this!

BOX OFFICE: ID’s please

ME: Here you go.

BOX OFFICE: Umm. You aren’t on our list.

ME: Are you sure? We should be on Bassnectar’s list. I work with him.

BOX OFFICE: Yeah no, I don’t see you here.

ME: Can you please check again? I’m sure we’re there.

BOX OFFICE: Yeah no. I don’t see you on any of our lists actually.

You. Are. Fucking. Kidding. Me.  It’s starting to really feel like someone up there doesn’t want us to come to this party. First, nearly missing my plane with no guarantee of luggage, then the border fiasco, now this. But superstition or not, this witch magic seems to be pulling me through. So let’s just give it another go. And so I begin imagining this lady in the box office with a 6-pointed star crown over her head, that she will somehow come to her senses, and say, “Hey, you aren’t on any of our lists, this party has been sold out for months, but ahh fuck it. Here you go. You kids have fun.” Now, in my career of events, this has NEVER happened to me at a popular festival. If you’re not on the list, you’re just out of luck. Period. But I feel like I have it in me to hold space for a miracle. So I keep at it. Envisioning her with this spinning crown.

And as her fingers clack away furiously on her keyboard, several minutes pass and I’m feeling really silly about this entire epoch of trying to get to this party in the first place.

Finally her fingers stop. She looks at us and says, “Hey, you aren’t on any of our lists, this party has been sold out for months. But hey, happy Shambs.” And just like that. Poof! Our wristbands were in hand!

Witch magic was now 3 for 3!

And when we finally passed through bottle check, it felt like we were entering the gates of heaven. We did it.  We crept in late that night, set up our tents, and had one of the best weekends of our lives. Though the tales of mushroom vendors proved untrue, the place, the people and the music was pure magic.

We learned what it took to follow the flow, to save space for miracles, to believe in magic, and what can be possible when you fully dedicate to those things. And with Danny, like, "Hey kids, that was fun, but you’re on your own back" we even got that hitchhiking adventure I wanted!  I wore a short dress, walked through the same border, stuck our thumbs out, and hitched a ride back to the airport with exactly enough time to make our flight.

Sometimes, when it feels like you’re doing nothing but swimming upstream, just have the courage to believe in the possibility of magic. You never know what miracles are unfolding, or what dumb luck is right around the corner.

Oh, and I sincerely hope that those Border Patrol Officers got some hot box magic when they turned on their heating vents that winter.