The Bitter Buffalo

Since we saw 35 or so bands over two days, it'll take me a bit of time to write up my reviews. Expect them to be posted here by the end of the week. Meantime, here is a little description of the ride from LA to Palm Springs I wrote while waiting for my airplane. Enjoy.

Los Angeles goes on, it seems, for 90 miles as you drive east from LAX, with a Target store located (for your convenience) at a minimum of every 3^rd freeway exit. Traffic moves absurdly slowly, but it does move; rarely do you sit motionless for more than five seconds at any one time. The topography conspires to confound your sense of direction. North, south, east, and west become abstractions. The concrete river on which you ride determines your vector and your speed. No matter where it deposits you, nearly every need can be catered to within a short distance of the freeway exit. Such is the gift of abundance in Southern California.

In our case, the concrete river dumped us at a casino at the edge of the desert, a tall glass skyscraper that rises like a ship’s sail from a sea of outlet malls. Here, at this verdant retail delta which spans from one freeway exit all the way to the next, you can buy a pair of sunglasses at not one, but three sunglasses stores, two of which are affiliated with the great Sunglass Hut International (because one never knows when the urge to buy a $200 pair of Maui Jim’s will strike).

I decided to buy a new watch at the Nike outlet, and Cross bought a floppy hat from a branded store called RipTide that makes him look so mooky I cannot look at him when I speak to him for the first hour he wears it. More than anything else, our little shopping excursion served to restore bloodflow to our posteriors, compressed as they were by ten to twelve hours in airplanes and 4-wheeled kayaks. We returned to the car refreshed, but concerned by the stiff, cold breeze that whipped around my naked calves. I thought briefly about heading to the Gap outlet, or the Kenneth Cole outlet, or even the Ralph Lauren outlet to buy some jeans, but then I decide I want to get to Palm Springs and eat as soon as possible. Clothing optional.

Between Los Angeles and Palm Springs is a surreal natural wind tunnel, surrounded by mountains on two sides, Los Angeles to the east, and the desert to the west. Evidently, wind blows here quite regularly, for someone has erected hundreds (if not thousands) of giant windmills that cover the hillsides and plains for miles, in some directions as far as they eye can see. Many are over a hundred feet tall, all of them (except the odd one here and there that seems to be resting) twirl in a mesmerizing rhythm that nearly makes me drive off the road several times, such is the allure of their loopy motion and the sheer scale of the operation.

From the casino, it takes less than a half hour to get to our lodging for the weekend. We hastily unpack the car and head to dinner, at a Belgian bistro recommended by the friend of Cross’s whose parent’s condominiums have been loaned to us. I have a consommé and frites, Bill has osso bucco. Neither dish is memorable, but the Belgian beers were quite good, refreshingly robust. We returned to the condos full, sated, and sleepy.

Sleep was important that night. Coachella 2005 began the next morning.

Did you know that, even with the huge pretty ad displays in Times Square, there is not a Target to be found in NY?

Also, how was that Ford Passat you rented?