Saturday, April 17, 2010
The sons are at Coachella, a haven for music, halter tops, flip flops, burnt shoulders and noses and please-don't-tell-me-what-else. When it comes to this grand desert festival, attended annually by one, if not both, of the boys, I would prefer not to know more than necessary. Did you arrive in one piece? Check. Are you still in one piece? Check. Are you having fun? Check. Spare me the details, I'm begging you.
In preparation for the bacchanal, the eldest flew down from Santa Cruz Thursday night, and got a ride home from the airport courtesy of a "home girl." We were grateful to said home girl, for we couldn't make it to the airport in time. We were otherwise engaged, our butts planted in a Reseda auditorium, for another annual ritual: the Senior Talent Show. Our favorite kickass drummer opened and closed a rather lengthy evening where talent took a backseat to enthusiasm, eardrum-busting and vociferous shout-outs before, during and after every performance. Many technical difficulties ensued. There were microphone issues and lighting issues and the afore-mentioned "talent" issues. We smiled and clapped throughout. Afterwards, hubby and son disassembled the drumset and tranferred it piece by piece from auditorium to auto, while I napped in the front seat.
Friday morning, off went the offspring, four years apart but close in spirit, with but one thought uppermost in their nimble minds: Where's the closest In n Out on the way to Coachella? No trip anywhere, north, south, east or west, is complete without a stop at In n Out. When the eldest was in Denmark, he spent the whole time looking for In n Out. He'd still be there, looking, but he had to come home and graduate.
Reports since their arrival have been spotty at best. We know they found In n Out, checked into the hotel and waited over an hour to get through the entrance to Coachella. That's all we know, and that's fine by me. Denial isn't my normal go-to position. Genetics makes it near-impossible for me to come in for a landing, ash or no ash. Come Coachella, I book a ticket to Denial and stay there, till my boys get home in one piece.
Posted by Carol Starr Schneider at 9:07 AM