chair to disintegrate into. Time to confront the abyss, I thought. Inside, the pomp and couture was palpable but fading…Red-eyed networkers were perched across an exposed warehouse room decked out as event space, everything bathed in a moonlit hue. Up front appeared a small evangelical church worship stage with DJ. I found Huxley standing in line at a table packed full of donuts under a huge SWEED sign. He was turned down–nominees and VIPs only. But everyone was far too involved with image to risk a smudge of chocolate frosting all over their lips tonight, not when group seles were in order… Meanwhile, these sad clumps of small-talk could be mistaken for any company work party… same combination of personalities: ose in constant pitch mode, the few who wanted to be pitched to, and everyone else in miserable earshot, forcibly globbing on because there’s nothing better to do… Photographing it all, I couldn’t help but sulk in back with Huxley. e party struck me as the pinnacle of weirdos that arise in most locales to pat their own backs. Not to discount the challenging work – and the hard road some have travelled… jail… poverty. It was easy to identify those who deserved the accolades... a select few categories (Advocacy, Glassware Art- ists, Journalists) seemed nobler than, well… all the rest (Financial Services, Content Creator, Vaporizer Hardware Product...). Fuck it. Let them smoke pot, to paraphrase. I don't know these people. But I'm aware they represent a much larger vein of hard working rat-racers out there in the shadows, ever hus- tlin’ to get by. People without such a stomach for theatrics. A few ladies in fur coats were handing out Emjay-branded THC breath spray. But for an event that allowed and even celebrated consumption, there was nothing facilitated of the sort, much to the disappointment of us burned-out carnies. ree canteens, and not one loading product like the dispensaries? Was it hidden in the VIP tent? at was the real tragedy here. I headed out. Another immersive escape room. Oh to be done with the whole thing, this worthless trip – Sonofabitch. I’d forgotten to quench my thirst at the bar inside, so I stopped at the little booth out here in the gravel. “Can I get a water?” Or, shit, is the term Liquid Death now? “No, sorry, they just took it inside,” the bar- tender said. Fuck that. Not going back in.
daze in the back seat, deciphering the spectacle, as sleep beckoned, heavy weights pulled me down…. No, keep going. Finish this wretched journey. “Time to ‘turn it on’!” Huxley murmured. Even with the mushrooms coming down now, straight enough to make sense of surround- ings, I couldn't shake the swollen eyes, sluggish limp… resonating insides. And the acute awareness of hunger. But this was the Queen’s Garden… and aside from the empty patio of tables and massive pizza trailer out front, it was crowded. Multiple structures all alight with radiant eects… the other two already yelling at each other over the roar, “Have we been here before?” “I’ve denitely been here before…” “Was… that an elf?” “No, we talked to that tiny lady today, when you were eating your Nerd-rope candy….” Shit. Maybe not as sober as assumed. en again, by my count, we’d also burned through nearly 13 joints and ve resin carts between the three of us over little more than an early evening. Big top tents were garnished with potted orchids and grassy dividers, hypnotic owers projected onto the ceiling, and translucent pillars of light… yet so little willpower to enjoy it. With proper dosing, an ounce of energy, it would’ve been a hip palooza. But this required more than could be mustered in the waning throes of consciousness. And that seemed a common trait among the attendees here, lack of oxygen. End of the marathon, all of us hitting a wall... some in packs – passing blunts – some against the sidelines, searching the crowd for anyone they might recognize… for a nal chance at fortune, one last dance with royalty before the clock strikes midnight. Zombies, we staggered wayward through the shivering horde, a few in coats, no heat except in tight circles. Going through motions, talking weather, obligatory conversation…. Solicit- ing dining recommendations... Lotus of Siam! Tacos El Gordo! Huxley and Ford, endorsing the Shrüms… abridging the saga of our night. “Full dose?” one acquaintance gasped, going on to tell us about a crew member “out of commis- sion all day,” because he’d stumbled onto the same demented stu... At some point, between the tents and festive “Dana’s Den Bar,” set up in a pole shed, we separated. Were they searching for restrooms? Maybe there'd be a mattress behind the dump- sters for some quick shuteye – no, I'd be out cold… Resin rips on an arid night were getting to me. I needed hydration. Warmth. Perhaps a
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