#004 APOLOGY (WITH TEARS)

If you were having spinal surgery in Los Angeles County on the morning of Thursday, February 12th, you may be inclined to continue reading. 

In our time spent apart, dear readers, I regret to inform you that I have found myself cast far, far away from the shore of Project 2026; this indistinct cause to which I have become wholly immersed. In my devotion, I have encountered moments of strange connection, brief flashes in which the hollow traditions of clubbing or online dating or house parties have been elevated to an enlightening, almost liminal state. In other words, All I’ve Ever Wanted. There are certain events I have not even been able to impart to you all, for I have some allegiance to my subjects’ privacy (to an extent), but I trust that you can fill in the blanks of the characters we have met but cannot commit to paper, at least not yet. There’s a part of me that revels in what I can’t write about publicly, because it means that a part of this project has become real and solidified enough that it has begun to leak into my everyday life; that there’s a chance that some of the people and newfound friends we’ve met could actually read these entries and be offended – how wonderful. 

What I didn’t anticipate, or rather what I couldn’t face, was the transience of this whole thing. I don’t mean to say that the party is over and done with, but the phase of it that previously flowed with ease and almost telepathic synchronicity is clearly past us. It’s occurred to me in small ways lately, which have left me slowly disillusioned. For example, an unexpected consequence: I can no longer attend “normal” college parties without feeling incredibly bored and out of place. 

A few weekends ago (I’m losing my precision with every passing day), LMC attended a highly anticipated Mardi Gras function hosted by a bunch of close friends. We practiced our usual pregame rituals, which include sitting in Mathilde’s bedroom and getting way too high and taking photos with her iPhone 5 which is only functional as a camera. This was the most fun any of us had all night, and it’s the last time we have all prepared for an outing together, one of the last moments I can remember being in a room with just them – the simple thing that originally brought me an endless well of inspiration. 

The party itself was entirely like every other party that has ever happened, but for me, a new feeling of grief was washed over the whole ordeal. Approximately five minutes after arriving, a (barely) acquaintance asked me why I was there because they thought I graduated, and I truly never recovered from that blow to my ego. Am I just old now? Why do I only recognize a fraction of the people here? Why do I notice every distance that has appeared between me and the people I was once so close to? Why do I have nothing in common with anyone anymore? 

When people at the party asked what I’ve been up to lately, I realized that my answer was completely incongruent with what was expected of me. Because yeah, it struck me that it might not be normal for my only hobbies to be hanging out with men in their 30’s and going to strangers’ houses and going on three way dates and writing about it. A gross simplification, yes, but the complexities of the situation are usually lost in the drunken back and forth that happens during a party catch-up conversation. So it just comes out in a way that just sounds at once concerning and inconsequential. My only solace is the knowledge that you, dear reader, might have a more nuanced understanding of this, that in these long and winding rambles perhaps some truth has emerged. Is this thing on?

I don’t wish to say much about the ending of that night, but I will say that it was punctuated by tears. 

A few days later, I began a new plot on the trio’s behalf, in an attempt to accept my resignation from college partydom and my acceptance into…Something Else. 

I sparked up a conversation on the app with what appeared to be an eager, jetsetting businessman in his late 30s…he’s since blocked us so, alas, I can’t go back and confirm any of these details, so take my word for it. 

He said he was traveling for work but would be back Saturday and would love to hang out with us. I sent him the same message I send every guy who asks us to hang out: “Wanna take me and my girlfriends to the Chateau Marmont?”

If you know, you know. The Chateau is a cultural touchstone of Los Angeles, a monolith of Hollywood glamour that has hosted everyone from Marilyn Monroe to Britney Spears to F. Scott Fitzgerald to Jim Morrison. People have died there and people have lived there, you can swim topless in the pool and smoke inside the rooms. 

And it’s been a lifelong dream for Lam, Mathilde, and I to stay in a room. So I throw out the request, casually, remembering our tenants: 

This new guy is receptive, saying that he’d love us to come to the hotel he already has booked in Manhattan Beach. I gently redirect him back to the Chateau. He says he’ll call and check the availability. 

Not long after, he says that there’s a suite open and he’d be happy to grab it so we can meet there when he lands that night. 

I pass everything along to the girls in a separate group chat. Mathilde responds saying that she’s on the way to urgent care with what turns out to be the flu. Mardi Gras continues its reign of terror. 

She tells us we can go without her, but I wouldn’t dream of such a thing. When I think about the Chateau, I see all of us there together. 

I tell him the truth, in a way that makes us sound helplessly interconnected – if one of us is out of commission, the others are, too. He’s extremely understanding and offers to reschedule. 

A couple of days go by, we’re all busy, etc. but I remember to get back to him later on in the week. 

He says that the Chateau is all booked up for the rest of the month. Usually, we’d just pass up and move on to the next opportunity – it’s either the Chateau or bust – but something about this guy seemed promising enough for us to keep engaging. 

I remembered another time we were invited to a different hotel by a match from the app (which we declined). It was a similarly located, albeit much less historically significant option, with a comparable price point ($1,000+ per night). What made this hotel unique was its themed rooms, among them a suite with a den covered in cheetah print wallpaper, upholstery, carpeting, etc. I sent the girls a picture and we all started conjuring ideas of the amazing Instagram photos we could take in this room. So I sent him back a link to the suite and asked if we could meet there. He obliged immediately. 

We set a date for a few days later to give Mathilde time to recover. 

The night before, we end up at a party and decide to call him from our burner number to make sure everything’s set. On the phone, he asks why my text bubbles are green and if we can FaceTime, I tell him what I tell everyone who asks that: Ohhhh I don’t have an iPhone right now, to which he responds:

“I can buy you one.”

Hahahahaha yes of course please do!

He asks what time we’ll be free to meet up and go shopping before we hit the hotel room…he says that he has to do a surgery in the morning and then he’ll be free. He then offers to provide his expertise to the sick one if needed. This is the closest any of us will get to free healthcare in this country. 

A song we really want to dance to comes echoing out of the backyard which we stepped out of to talk with him. We tell him we must go, but will see him soon. We run back into the music. 

On Thursday morning he sends us a selfie, and I notice the logo on his pullover sweater. I Google the name. A private-equity funded spinal technology company is what comes back. I’m starting to put together the pieces. 

This is not crypto money we’re dealing with, it’s spinal money. 

He says he can’t wait to see us later as soon as he gets out of surgery. 

So, to the brave soul who was getting operated on that fateful morning, I didn’t forget about you. Here’s what your surgeon was getting up to after closing up the incisions along your spine:

We told him we could meet up post 10pm as we all had prior obligations to attend to, but Mr. Spinal Surgeon was checked in and ready by 7:30pm. From then on it was a steady stream of text messages asking when we’d get there and how excited he was to “play” with us. I do my best to keep things platonic and not promise anything. The contents of my purse are: pepper spray, Narcan, a whistle, and lip gloss. 

He sends over a selfie of him laid up in a bed, shirtless. I notice the background. My heart sinks; it’s not the gorgeous cheetah print room we were promised. It’s just a standard beige suite. This won’t do. 

I put a pause on responding to him, which doesn’t stop him from blowing up my phone. I have to set it to Do Not Disturb while I handle some things. 

By this point, I haven’t heard from Mathilde or Lam in a bit, so I touch base with them. I have my head down at the video art club meeting I’m attending, but not due to boredom – I’m taking care of business. Tabbing between Google Voice and iMessage – the real and the performance – alternating between personas. 

I go home, get ready, and wait for my partners to reconvene and strategize. 

Spine Guy texts me again with an update, a string of photos. He went ahead and upgraded the room:

So it’s not quite the cheetah print room, but if I adjust the vision in my mind, it works. I send over the photos and wait. I look it up on the website to find that it costs $2,000 per night. 

By this point, it’s reaching midnight, and we don’t have a clear plan of how we’re going to get there or when we’re going to leave. Everyone seems caught up in their own affairs, and it rushes me that I’m the only one out of the three of us who has been obsessing over this for days on end and checking my messages in class constantly to coordinate with this complete stranger. I’m taking this way too seriously, I guess, but I can’t help but feel totally pathetic. I sit on my couch with a bottle of wine and send a message to the LMC group chat:

Life has a funny way of enacting karma, or whatever you want to call it. Not to say that I feel as though I deserve to be punished for leading this man on and making him think we’re about to have some wild orgy in a luxury suite, but in my own way I was beginning to understand how he felt. Waiting for these beautiful women to text me back. The anticipation of it all. 

We never make it to the hotel, to nobody’s fault. I fall asleep with all my makeup on, my determination only giving way to exhaustion. 

In a way, I suppose we gave him a reason to take a solo stay-cation away from his hard work toiling away on injured spines. 

I wish I had a crazy story to report back to you all, but this is about all of Project 2026 that I have left to impart as of late.

I’m not sure how to pick up the pieces. Life gets in the way, school is treacherous at best, and my relationship to everyone and everything around me is shifting at a speed I can’t adjust to in real time. I remember the seeds of what drew me into this odd and magical world: sitting in a room with my two friends, talking. It’s something so simple, and yet feels almost impossible at present. 

I’m determined to get back there, as I wade through the complications of daily life, towards that other place we’ve known only in glimpses. 

For now, I hope you stick with me in fulfilling this prophecy we are writing together, as we go along. 

Where do we go from here?

~

Stop by next week to find out if we can get back on the damn horse. 

What’s your favorite hotel in LA?