PLEASE EXPLAIN "INTERACTIVE"

Coachella was about two things for me:

1. Sir Paul McCartney
2. Other Stuff

I've already waxed on about how Macca stole the show, from loving tributes to Linda (on the 11th anniversary of her death) to the fireworks spectacular of "Live And Let Die" to thousands of people singing "Hey Jude" in perfect unison, but in the category of "Other Stuff," we have:

- M.I.A. (well, mostly her dancers and Rye Rye, who was thankfully there to pick up the rap slack left by M.I.A.'s underperformance)
- Hipster craptards who spent the entire day in the VIP area drinking, admiring one another, and waiting for Jared Leto to sulk by, instead of actually checking out bands
- Horn section from Antibalas + Tunde's badass Latin shuffle = another great TVOTR performance
- Peeing in an air conditioned bathroom behind the stage, only to emerge into a delicious photo op with Kanye "Fishsticks" West
- Getting a contact high at the Fleet Foxes show
- 10pm pizza salvation

And:

OVERSEXED HOTEL ROOMS, PART A
When Tanya and I checked in to the Hilton Garden Inn in arid, beige, geriatric Hidden Valley Rancho Mirage, California, we were told that our room was given away due to our checking in a day late (never mind the fact that management okayed the late check-in). We sulked, we pleaded, we finally got a room. Before we left the front desk with our hard-won room keys, Snarky Front Desk Guy slipped us each a small grey bag that said "Welcome." He kind of smirked and half-winked and sent us on our way.

When we arrived in the room, it was a suite...with one bed. There was certainly a pull-out couch, but considering it was upholstered with slippery old-man-polyester circa 1972, we thought it wise to ask for a room with two beds, instead. Snarky Front Desk Guy said that the hotel was booked solid, and shooed me off. I sulked back, buoyed only by the promise of Macca later in the evening...and the "Welcome" bag of free stuff. You know how much I like free stuff.

Tanya peeks in hers - "Eh. Coupons." I look in mine...coupons, shampoo/conditioner samples, ponytail holders, Aleve, Pepcid AC, and...

What? No. What?? Noooo. What???

....Silky Glide K-Y Jelly. For Her Pleasure.

Needless to say, upon checkout, we both left our samples for the housekeeping staff.

OVERSEXED HOTEL ROOMS, PART B
The next day, Tanya and I hopped into Ruby to pick up Cornflake and head over to the festival. While admiring the relative non-tackiness of Cornflake's room, we saw a menu of spa options for Spa Esmerelda. Curious, we opened it...and then saw this offering:

GARDEN OF ROMANCE
Experience this romantic treatment in the spa garden and enjoy the warm desert sun, flowering gardens, and the soothing sound of cascading water. Your therapists will prepare a private bath of herbal elixir to soothe. While soaking, you and your partner will be able to "play in the mud" with an interactive facial mask. Your treatment sanctuary will be adorned with rose petals as you enjoy an aromatic massage.

Two questions immediately arose:

1) How exactly will you and your partner "play in the mud?" Why is "play in the mud" in quotation marks? Is the massage therapist hanging out with you? In the mud? "Playing?" Is "playing" just a euphemism for "sexing?"

2) What exactly is an "interactive facial mask?" While you're "playing," are you using your pointer finger to trace funny things in your partner's facial mask? Is the therapist tickling you while you have the mask on?

I think that my friends who went to the Michael Jackson auction exhibit today were less creeped out than I was after reading that.

I THINK I'M PARANOID

Apparently it only takes a few days back in New York City to set my mind at unease.

Laura and I hustled over to Penn Station Wednesday evening to meet up with Cousin Kevin, so that we could all journey on down to the Dirty Jerz, where copious amounts of delicious Gencarellaville treats and booze were laid out in preparation for our impending arrival. Osso bucco. Jigsaw puzzles. Whiskey. All for us to consume.

We were on a mission. We fought our way through an extraordinarily chaotic and packed terminal and tried to find the ticket line. ANY ticket line. Any line. Any ticket.

Me: Laura, it's kind of busy in here.
Laura: Well, it's the night before Thanksgiving, of course it's busy.
Me: But it seems kind of weird, like something is wrong -
Announcer: Attention all...jumble...due to...mumble...there is only one track...jumble mumble...in and out...mumble...Penn Station...

No. There was not ONE train track in operation on the busiest travel day of the year. LIES. I couldn't have heard that right. There was tender veal an hour away. It couldn't be.

Me: So, hey, Laura - did you hear that? I think it said something about there being only one track going in and out of Penn Station.
Laura: No, couldn't be. Let's get in line and get our tickets. We'll figure it out.

We get in line. This line goes on and on and on and on and on. I suddenly feel as if I've been deposited in the train station of a third world country, left to fend for myself in the massive herd. No matter - I'll look at the Departures board and see what track we'll be leaving from:

Departures Board: Cancelled. Delayed. Cancelled. Standby. Standby. Standby. Standby. Cancelled.

Hm. I start to get paranoid here. Wondering, worrying what might happen if there really is only one track in and out of Penn Station tonight, if that sweet, tender, juicy veal will be cold when I finally take my teeth to it.

Nonsense. We ask a guy next to us what's going on.

Guy Next To Us In Line: Oh, well, I don't know if this has anything to do with it, but did you hear about Mumbai?
Us: No?
GNTUIL: Oh, well, there were some major terrorist attacks there. And there's some sort of terrorist alert for New York right now.

This is when I whipped out my iPhone (dear, sweet electronic manna) and started reading. Oh dear. Oh jesus. Oh lord. What is the world coming to?? Those poor people in Mumbai. And what's this...credible information about a terrorist attack on New York? Around Thanksgiving? On the rail transport? ON PENN STATION?!?

Sonofabitch. I want to go. Now. I do not care about veal. I do not care about Thanksgiving. I do not want the terrorists to get me.

Oh man. I'm afraid. They've already gotten me.

I keep these thoughts to myself and Laura buys the tickets. We spot Cousin Kevin. I start having a meltdown about how we will never leave Penn Station and we will never make Thanksgiving and we will never eat veal or drink whiskey or make puzzles and I'm thirsty and I'm hungry and WHY AREN'T THE TRAINS LEAVING? DID THE TERRORISTS GET THEM???

Laura: SHUT UP, SHAWNTE

I shut up.

When they finally call the next train for the one track that was both going in and out of Penn Station, there was a massive rush of people. Laura muttered something like, "This is how people get killed," and then right away, all I could think about where those holy pilgrimmages in India where the people got killed in a stampede and if anything, it made me stop thinking about terrorists for a minute.

They finally called our train and we boarded. I sat across from Mac McAlcohol-Breath, who reeked of day-old Popov, with a hint of Coors Light. I didn't care - we were on our way to veal; the terrorists could not stop us.

And then we sat.
And we sat.
And we sat some more.

And then the conductor made vague allusions to some problem on the tracks being the reason for the delay, and once again I thought that the terrorists were going to get me and most of all that my mom would be pissed that I was dumb enough to take public transportation when the terrorists were totally waging jihad against Penn Station. Dumb, dumb, dumb.

Sorry, mom.

I did not tell Laura or Cousin Kevin about any of my paranoid thoughts, because I think I came about 2 tiny little filaments of angel hairs away from Laura slapping the shit out of me on the platform, and I didn't want to encourage that trend.

We sat in silence, Kevin at the front of the car, Laura across the way, and me facing Mac McAlcohol-Breath, who was having a field day taunting the restless grade schoolers across the aisle. We had been sitting there an hour. The children went rogue; their father's head was laid gently in his cupped hands; their teary-eyed mother was searching for valium, and Mac McAlcohol-Breath was threatening to pop their balloon.

Then the train moved!
I cheered.
THE TERRORISTS DIDN'T WIN! I'M GOING TO HAVE VEAL, MOTHERFUCKERS! DELICIOUS, JUICY, TERROR-FREE VEAL!

Train Conductor: Sorry about the delay...as we mentioned, there was a fire in the tunnel, but now we're on our way!

YOU KNOW, TRAIN CONDUCTOR, HAD YOU MENTIONED THAT WE WERE DELAYED BECAUSE OF A FIRE IN THE TUNNEL AND NOT BECAUSE THE TERRORISTS MIGHT BE COMING TO GET US, I MIGHT NOT HAVE MENTALLY COMPOSED MY LAST WILL AND TESTAMENT WHILE WAITING FOR THE TRAIN TO MOVE. THANKS A LOT, JACKASS.

And then I settled in with Sudoku.

WHERE IS THE HIDDEN CAMERA, I ASK?

Dateline: Saturday, September 13 - Monolith Festival @ Red Rocks, CO

Though Monolith was a music festival of epic proportions, the availability of foodstuffs totally blew. My fellow festivalgoers and I decided to wander down to the VIP lounge for some tender vittles (i.e. things that weren't fried and/or grease-choked).

Sadly, it was explained (rather rudely, I might add) to my compatriots that they were no longer serving food, but that perhaps there were some crusty old hot wings left over.

After some time and deliberation, the rest of my pack procured some shitty burritos and I settled down for a dinner of potato chips and empty dreams. Then Giselle noticed the chef behind the salad bar...

Giselle: Just go ask him for a salad - you know all the food is still out. And he's looking right at you.

I threw him a quick, hungry glance. He certainly was looking straight at me, almost straight through to my empty chamber of an acid-churning stomach.

Me: I don't know...[Giselle interjects with repeated encouragement]...Oh, OK."

I wander over and upon closer inspection, the "chef" looks like a younger, rangier Christopher Lloyd, perhaps just sprung from jail or the halfway house across the street from MaryEllen's apartment. I cleared my throat, and set my chin on the counter, trying to look as pitiful and starving as possible...

Me: Hi. Um, I know you're closed - but, um, I'm allergic to wheat and I can't find anything to eat upstairs that's not fried or breaded...um...uh...I really just wanted a salad...

Chef Jail Break Lloyd: [Leaning in, conspiratorially] Say, what if someone was to go back and tell the chef that there was a lady out here with low blood sugar, who needed to eat...what would that lady want?

Me: [Ah - I see - he doesn't want everyone else to know that I'm getting an after-hours food gift!] Oh, just a salad is fine - whatever's easiest.

CJBL: Ok. Go back and sit down. Look for me.

Then he retreated into the kitchen. I sat down with a smile and informed the group - and then he came back out and I walked back up.

CJBL: [Leaning sideways, speaking in a whisper, eyes glancing at me, sidelong] Chef says three-fifty.

Me: [Totally grateful] Ok!

CJBL: That's three DOLLARS and fifty cents.

Me: [Still totally grateful] Hey - no problem - let me just got back and get my wall-

CJBL: Yeah, but if it were ME, I wouldn't make you pay nothin' for the salad. Ok? You understand?

Ok, that was a little weird, but whatever. I went back and got a fiver, since none of us had exact change. That way, I could tip Chef Jail Break Lloyd and feel good about the deal I just scored on a salad. I love salad! Well, unless it's a free salad that a man in a squad car is trying to give to me, for no apparent reason.

But that was Brooklyn and this is now. I walked back up with my five tucked in my palm and slid it across the counter.

CJBL: [Noticeably angry] What is this?? I told you THREE-FIFTY. THAT'S ALL I WANT. THREE-FIFTY!!!

Is this guy for real?

CJBL: Whatever. Listen - what do you want on the salad?

I tell him. He asks what kind of salad dressing I want; I say Italian.

CJBL: What KIND of Italian?? Jesus, there are like three kinds of Italian dressing here. [Looks wildly at the dressings below the counter]

Me: Um, a light Italian is fine.

CJBL: What about balsamic? Or how about honey mustard? Jesus, there are SO MANY SALAD DRESSINGS HERE.

Me: [Not wanting to instigate his looming madness] Sure - honey mustard's great.

CJBL: [Clearly not believing my desire for honey mustard] Are you sure? There are so many fucking salad dressings here. Ok, fine. Do you want me to...[he pauses]...toss your salad?

Really? Really, Chef Jail Break Lloyd? Did you have to go there?

Me: Yes, please.

He snickered.

After integrating my dressing with my lettuce and all the other shit he threw in there, he did that sideways look again and whispered:

"See that basket over there? There are TOOLS in that basket. GET A TOOL."

I looked to my left. There was a small basket. Of forks.

I grabbed a fork.

It only seemed right to tuck it inside my brochure, hidden from prying eyes, since this was clearly a crazy-person crusade to give me this salad without anyone else knowing what was going on.

CJBL: [With the conspiratorial voice again] Now listen carefully. LISTEN. I'm going to give you this salad. I want you to take it back to your seat and eat all of it. ALL OF IT. Ok? Now, if anyone asks you where the fuck you got this fucking salad, you tell them to fuck off, OK? TELL THEM TO FUCK OFF."

I nodded, suddenly really glad that there was a giant counter separating me from Chef Boyardbatshit.

CJBL: Now, take this to your seat. When you get back, make sure no one is looking, especially those fucking waitresses, and slide it over the counter REALLY QUICKLY. I MEAN IT. SLIIIIIIIIDE IT OVER QUICKLY. And then walk away."

He nodded at me once and disappeared into the kitchen. I took my salad and sat down.

I have to say, for a salad made by a raving madman, it was pretty damn tasty.

CURB YOUR PEE

Dateline: A Rest Stop Somewhere in Alabama/Mississippi, August 29, 2008

I was driving cross-country with MaryEllen and her handsomely awesome border collie, Max, when we decided it was time to relieve the bladders. We parked at this lovely little rest stop somewhere in the Southland, MaryEllen went to walk Max, and I went inside to pee.

When I entered the bathroom, all stalls were occupied, except for the handicapped stall, from which emerged an old ass lady hunched over a cane. She motioned for me to use the toilet, rasping out, "Go on, no one's gonna be upset."

Now, I've seen that episode of Curb Your Enthusiasm. I do NOT want to be that person who goes into the handicapped stall for the extra luggage room or the supreme grip support of those nice bars and then emerges to see a very angry person in a wheelchair glowering down at me. It is not my bathroom to use, so I don't use it.

I kind of shook my head at the old lady, who then egged me on even further, "Come on, GO ON." So I did, knowing that 45-55 seconds later, the whole thing would be behind me - no harm, no foul.

I stepped inside, sat down, and went to work getting rid of three coffees, one orange Vitamin Water, and some Coke Zero. (Hey, a woman's gotta stay alert on the road you know?)

I heard some movement in the bathroom, but didn't think much of it. I wiped, pulled the drawers up, and unlatched the door.

To my infinite terror, standing in front of me was:

- Not 1, but 2 old ass ladies
- 1 young person with Cerebral Palsy
- 1 young person with Down's Syndrome
- Not 1, but 2 people in wheelchairs
and their various handlers.

Sweet baby Jesus, was this a guilt-induced mirage? Could there really be SIX FREAKIN' PEOPLE WAITING TO USE THE HANDICAPPED BATHROOM??????

For a moment, I considered limping away, but my asshole sensor ruled that out.

Therefore, I muttered, "Sorry," and ran past all six and their handlers, and out the door, into MaryEllen and Max, both of whom looked at me quizzically.

"My worst nightmare just happened," I explained.
MaryEllen went in to confirm.
Then she laughed at me for the rest of the day.

Later on, when we arrived in a ghost town, pre-Gustav New Orleans, we checked into our fancy schmancy hotel and took the elevator up to our room. Before I got close enough, MaryEllen doubled over with laughter:

"No fucking way!" she laughed, pointing to a brass plaque on the wall next to our door.

I stepped closer.

It read: "Room For Handicapped"

Yes. It did.
Yes, in that nearly entirely empty giant fancy pants hotel, the room they gave us was the handicapped accessible room.

You may have already guessed this, but we went out and drank after that.

Cruisin'

Rejoice, women of the world, for I have found the best place to meet men:

Venice Blvd. between Robertson and National, I swear.

It is in this glorious stretch of semi-abandoned wonderland that I have been flagged down not once, but twice by nubile young male motorists.

Today it began with a technique I refer to as The Parallel Drive...the car on your side (most usually the passenger side, which makes this maneuver all the more special), suddenly slows down and starts driving as if magnetically attached to your vehicular forcefield.

After this slick move came the come-hither hand motions; I glanced once, to be sure I wasn't hallucinating a hawk or something fluttering outside my passenger window (it had been a long day), and then again, locking eyes with a dude sporting a serious fade and driving the auto world chick magnet, an Aztek.

This is where it gets tricky, my friends. I was about to dive into a road rage-reducing book on CD, when I realized that I actually had to roll my window down and find out why Kid n Play was wildly gesturing in my direction -

You see, the last time a gentleman flagged me down on that particular stretch of Venice Blvd, it was to tell me that my right front hubcap had flown off somewhere near Overland and bounced off some guy's rims before boucing off some other guy's bumper.

Concerned Motorist: M'am, you should probably go back and get that.
Unconcerned Motorist: (Crawling in rush hour traffic) Yeah, sure. Thanks. (Sacrificing wayward hubcap to the gods of the roadway in order to avoid slowing my drivetime commute)

So I couldn't risk not knowing whether or not my car was once again producing projectiles.

Vaguely Concerned Motorist: (Keenly aware that it is impossible to keep one eye in front and one looking at homeboy) Yes?
Aztek Warrior: I'm sorry to bother you, m'am. (Always with the "m'am") You are just so beautiful.
VCM: Wha...? (Stopping at red light)
Aztek Warrior: (Joining me at red light) I mean, if you don't mind, I'd like to ask you a question...
VCM: (Driving rapidly through green light)
Aztek Warrior: ( Engaging in The Parallel Drive) You're just so beautiful - can I take you out for a fine lunch or dinner sometime? Or maybe invite you to one of my concerts?"
VCM: (Putting book on CD into player, rolling up window)
Aztek Warrior: Wait...wait....girl, you'd get to come backstage, I promise...

The left lane. Hot new pickup spot. Just make sure you have automatic windows, or else you're screwed.