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The Coachella Chronicles OR The time I took a vitamin B12 shot in the ass from a male nurse on mushrooms

7 May

If you’re anything like me, and missed out on the part of high school in which you were supposed to be dabbling in hallucinogens while helplessly making out with a kid with purple hair at the Grateful Dead concert because you were too busy being an enormous band dork, then you probably really like going to music festivals as an adult. I know this because I, a former enormous band dork, had probably an illegal amount of fun at Coachella a few weeks ago. (It actually WAS an illegal amount of fun, but never you mind about that, interwebs!)

I had been pretty unbelievably excited about attending for many months, and when it was finally time to go, I packed all my bathing suits and pink shorts and $5 teal zebra-print sunglasses into a suitcase and flew off to Los Angeles, wristband clutched desperately in my sweaty fingers. I was going to get a tan! I was going to dance! I was going to hang out with my friends and listen to Radiohead and drink beers and pick up lightsticks off the ground and watch M83 and.. and… and…

I was going to get the worst sore throat I’ve had since I made out with a dorm kid in college and caught strep.


After arriving late the night before the festival began and riding all the way to Indio sandwiched between two members of a giggly couple high on pot lollipops and sundry other prescription pills that I shall call Thurston and The Neon Indian (The Neon Indian doth not like clothes that do not glow in the dark), I arrived at the apartment I planned to share with The Pharmacist, Party Monster, Gay Meow Meow and the Naughty Nurse. Three of these last few you might recognize as my former roommates (The Party Monster had a hand in that time I ate a bull penis… ). I rarely see the Naughty Nurse as he is busy being a fabulous gay nurse in LA and only comes to New York City once or twice a year.

After our first day of wandering around the festival, which really is a magical fairyland of adult attractions (“Look at that man swinging upside down by his leg in the drum and bass tent!  Let’s go, let’s go. I can hear Calvin Harris! GOOD LORD IS THAT A GIANT GLOWING SHARK ON TOP OF A REMOTE CONTROL CAR??!), my throat swelled up to epic proportions, leaving me whispering to my friends like zombie plague patient zero.

I muddled through the rest of the day’s concerts (vowing to henceforth take every painkiller I could get my little hands on), and finally ended up lying back in the front seat groaning and trying not to swallow while we waited for Thurston and the Neon Indian to find their way back to the car (Unsurprisingly, they spent a lot of time… er… lost).

“How are you feeling, girl?” asks the Naughty Nurse.

“Throat hurts… Ok though,” I stage whisper, then groan.

“I have the perfect thing. You are so lucky. I only brought one and I’m gonna give it to you. You’re gonna be 100 percent tomorrow.”

“What. What is it?” I ask, knowing full well that the Naughty Nurse is actually a nurse who carries a medical kit with him.

“Vitamin B12 shots! All the celebrities do them. I only have one, but it’ll make you feel totally healthy by morning.”

“I don’t know about a shot right now… we’re all pretty fucke…”

“Trust me,” says the Naughty Nurse. And The Party Monster snickers.

(In our defense, we did all manage to keep our flip-flops on)


Back at the apartment, the Naughty Nurse calls me downstairs.

“Lie down on the floor and pull your pants down, and don’t look at this,” he says, pulling out the biggest needle I have ever seen.

“Ha. Like that’s the first time I’ve heard THAT!” I say.

He flicks the needle a couple of times and swipes an alcohol swab across my ass.

“Ok, one…. twooo….”

“Jesus Christ, don’t count, what’s wrong with you? Just do it before I freak out.”

I feel a pop as the needle jabs through my skin and at least several layers of ass muscle. Despite the many MANY beers I have consumed to make my throat feel better, it hurts like the bejesus.


He pulls the needle out. “All done! Wait. Whoa, this needle is big.”  The Naughty Nurse starts laughing. “This is an 18-gauge needle, hahahahaha. Fuck I am so high right now.”

“I. What?! I hate you!” I wad up a bunch of tissue paper and press it against my ass, which is continuing to bleed. Finally I wad up a bunch of toilet paper in the waistband of my shorts and walk upstairs, wincing.

“Did he stick a giant needle in your ass?” asks the Party Monster, sighing in front of the fridge.

I pout. “Yes, and now my throat and my butt hurt.”

“Yeah,” he says, looking wistfully out the window as he pours himself a glass of gatorade. “He’s done that to me like 5 times.”


“Girl,” says the Party Monster. “Not letting N.N. shoot you in the ass with a giant needle is something you got to learn on your own.”

But then the next day I did feel better. And we were all friends again in time for Radiohead.

Coachella. Teachin people bout life the hard way since 2012.

*pictures, despite being really awesome, have been omitted to protect the guilty*


Some Queer Beer

10 Jun

A strange thing happened today in my office. Many days, when people start to totter off around 6:00pm, one or two of us will crack open a beer or a bottle of wine sent to us by some publicity department and we’ll all have mini happy hour at our desks.

Recently, I learned that one of the designers for our sister magazine makes homemade beer. He brought some into the office for us to try and it was delicious. Today, I happened to walk by his desk  at the precise moment of beer crackery, and was offered a taste of his “cupcake” brew, a stout flavored with chocolate and coffee and named after his girlfriend, whose picture was on the label.

“It’s a little caffeinated,” he said as I poured myself about two ounces worth, and I thought, “Good! I’ll have a little buzz to get me home on my bike in this rainstorm.”

Several of the other editors also had some of this cupcake beer, and we’re sitting at our desks performing various bits of editory, when suddenly I start to get extremely excited about things. My EMAIL for instance! was very cool and awesome and NEW! Hooray a new Message!  And then I got a good email from Wired! And that was nice! (!!) and then there were magazine pages to look at and HEY A NEW OUTSIDE MAGAZINE WANT A FRESCA? DID THE BOSS LEAVE? WHERE’S MIKE IGOTANEWTWITTERFOLLOWERYAYYYY! and then I started to feel weird.

“I feel weird,” I said, and started looking around at the things on my desk. An unfortunate number of them were looking at me.

"We feel weird too," they said. "Come PLAY with us!"

“I don’t want to play with you. I feel weird. Hey NumbaOnePunna, do you feel weird?”

“I think I am…. high?  I feel high,” said NumbaOnePunna.

I began to think, for the first time, that it hadn't been a great idea to put googlie eyes on my desk plant.

“Hey,” says Numba. “How much caffeine is in this stuff?”

“About as much as a cup of coffee?” says the beermaker.

(I think he is mistaken, for the record).

Anyway, I made it home on my bike, and then I maybe had a heart attack. Or a panic attack? Or an… attack of the killer tomatoes? And then I washed my dishes, which was FUNANDEXCITING and now I’m going to watch my coworker play bass! and fight! with! his! steel! guitar! player!

It’s raining!!

The quick brown fox jumped over the lazy blog.

4 Jan

Neither my kitten nor my wing.

Did I say I was going to do one thing that scared me every day? No, I don’t think I said that. Clearly you misheard me, because quite obviously I have done no such thing.

Lazy or no, shit’s been terrifying out there for the last few weeks. First of all, I flew to Texas for the holidays, which is a scary enough prospect without also visiting a post-Christmas sale at a warehouse superstore with the unlikely name of “Hobby Lobby” so that my mom could add to her collection of Christmas trees (She has 22). What’s worse, this “Hobby Lobby” is neither a lobby, nor a place that sells coins, stamps or porn, the three things I consider most often collected. Neither does it contain model trains. This place, which I shall now call the Diversion Vestibule, sells pillows and silk flowers and is essentially a Bed, Bath and Beyond crammed into a Home Depot. As such, it exists in a nebulous no-man’s land of both hobby and lobby-dom, which upsets me in a Kafkaesque sort of way. They do have nice ball-shaped candles though, if you’re into that kind of thing.

Also, last week I realized that if you kind of squeeze a kitten’s upper arm, it feels remarkably like the big part of a chicken wing. This is disconcerting to me because, how am I supposed to sit down and enjoy a plate of gooey, spicy chicken wings if they make me think of eating kittens? How, I ask you?  Probably the ideal solution to this is to stop squeezing kittens’ arms and never think of it again, but anyone who’s ever owned a kitten can tell you that there is nary a heaven like squeezing kitten arms. I think I’m going to have to give up the chicken wings instead.  

Finally, there was New Years Eve, when the following exchange occurred:

[translated from the original drunk]

Guy I will call Patrick Bateman: “Think I can do a bump in here?”

One Bad Yam Pajama: “On the L train platform surrounded by several hundred people? That sounds reasonable.”

Bateman: “Maybe you guys should hide me.”

Friend who is rolling her face off: “I am rolling my face off right now.”

Friend who is no longer rolling her face off: “Yeah, man, you said.”

Bateman: [Looks strangely at the face offs] “So, all you guys turn around or something.”

[Everyone turns around]

Bateman:  “So, this is pretty obvious now, with everybody in a semicircle looking the other way. Some of you turn back around.”

[Everyone turns back around]

Face Off: “I am rolling my face off right now!”

Bateman: “This is… not working.”

To recap: The L train is no place for drugs, just say no to chicken wings… and start collecting them ball candles before the Pastime Anteroom comes up with something worse.