And no one seems to know just where the party is
But that’s okay cuz we’re all sorted out for E’s and Wizz

1 to 2 to 3 to 4 to 5 to 6 to 2 to 1.

Sunday
G: Wait, what did we just do?
M: I have no idea.

Saturday
*24 Hours Earlier*

G and M perused the room and did a final mental checklist to make sure nothing was left behind. Sleeping bags, pillows, ice chest, light-up bunny ears, juice drinks, and tickets, all in tow. It’s 3pm in Brea and they are about to set out on what has, up until now, been perceived as a somewhat normal event.

39.6 miles later (after getting lost avoiding accident-caused traffic) G and M arrive in LA and head in to meet B and A. They grab a quick bite to eat and pack up the truck: tent, changes of clothes, fruit, granola bars, LED lights, ID’s, and lots of cash. At 6pm it’s time to head out.

A quick stop at 7-11 to get the last of the necessities: party ice.


The girls waited patiently while B and G assured chilled drinks for the group.


31.5 miles later, G, M, B, and A are getting close. The info line wasn’t exactly clear as to where they were supposed to go. The tickets cryptically stated it was at “Secret Street” in LA. “Secret Street” was known to the in-crowd as Raver Ranch. Miles after all cell reception was lost, a left-hand turn onto an unmarked dirt road and a one-mile drive (on a road long ago abandoned by any beautification efforts) was all they had in the way of directions. Getting excited, they were peering ahead with confusion as a closed and locked gate blocked their way. Raver Ranch was not open.

On the confused ride back down the ragged road, they saw M2 sitting in the middle of the road in his beast of a car. Stories were exchanged, confusion was shared, and u-turns were made. A large and somewhat scary man pulled up on his golf cart and told them they were on private land. After they found out he was a security guard for Raver Ranch, he informed them that the event was moved to San Diego. Not exactly close to Sylmar.

G, M, B, A, and M2 drove miles back to civilization in order to get cell-reception in order to call the info-line. Hopes were dashed, tickets were being handed out at another location.

Confusing directions make it seem like they will never find the place. A possibly wittily chosen route had them turning on E Street.

81.1 miles later, they arrived at Rancho Eduardo’s cantina. Salsa, tengo, and merenge poured out of the mostly empty building. The crowd was not inside, it was snaking around the building. The crowd was not Spanish musica and cervesa lovers, it was 14 year old children to 30-something adults in bright colors, with stuffed animals, handing out candy, and waiting impatiently.

Mushrooms were offered and concealed drug-deals made while hundreds of kids slowly inched forward. Cops roamed around yelling that everyone needed to stay in a single-file line. About an hour later, G, M, B, A, and M2 finally made it to the front. A lone girl sits in a booth looking pissed off at the world and handing out directions. Wristbands were received and directions to the event were given. One set of directions per car.

44.5 miles later, they exit the freeway and start driving down a very long, very dark road into the middle of desert and farmland. Had the group had a topo of where they were going, they would have seen this:



It is 12am and a rush of anxiety fills them. A left here, a right here, another left or two and they turn on a dirt road heading into a very dark night. A lone man emerges out of the dust while waving a flashlight. He asks for their directions as proof of who they were and says, “Hurry, follow that car.”

Red taillights peek out of the billowing dust a couple hundred yards ahead as G steps on the gas and starts driving into nothingness. Miles pass as they converse about where they are. Best guess: a dried out lakebed. Dust flies and the night is smotheringly black. There is no depth perception to be had and the taillights ahead are harder and harder to follow. Miles pass and it feels more and more like an alien landscape. Finally, feint blue lights pulse somewhere up ahead. They accidentally pull up to a group of trailers, thinking it is the event.

M: Hey, is this the rave?
X: Um, no, this is a music video shoot.
M: Oh.

G, M, B, A, and M2 finally pull up to tons of parked cars in the middle of a dried out lakebed and they smile since they finally found it. They jump out of the truck and get ready as people wonder through the parked cars with flashlights.

X: *in the distance* X, K, mushrooms! X, K, mushrooms!
G: Are they yelling out drugs they are selling?
B: Um, yeah, I think so.

Three pods of DJ equipment pump out happy hardcore, trance, and house respectively while people dance, lie on the ground, make out, stare at the lights, and wonder off into the desert to find some privacy. The group dances in the middle of the desert surrounded by uniformed insanity. Fire poi, light shows, and menthol-filled painter’s masks all around, there is nothing else in the world but this. People hold up white t-shirts with giant sharpied X’s on them while people ask for some light from those around them so the drug exchange can take place easier.

Then off in the distance flashing blue, red, and white lights fade in and out through the dust. But these aren’t some lost ravers, they are cop lights. Frantic 13-year-olds, wide-eyed with fear, scramble to their cars. The lights and music die as suddenly as they began. Cops roll through the crowd as people scream “F’n COPS!” and “DON’T LEAVE, STRENGTH IN NUMBERS!”

A mere 2 hours after G, M, B, A, M2, and a host of other friends arrived, it is over. Quick plans are made and they all hop in their cars and head off into the impossibly dark desert night. It’s B’s birthday and they aren’t ready to give up yet.

94.5 miles later, they arrive at Avalon for the next best thing, After Hours. It is 4am and this party, a legal one, goes till 9am. The bar shelves are stocked with water and Red Bull, the only legal drinks left. Cowboy hats are lost, light shows are given, and the party goes on. G plays bongos in the open-air top floor while people who were at the desert rave show up. Looks like this is the last refuge of the restless and broken-hearted.

G and B are at the bar, getting a water, when a random patron orders a beer. Confusion passes between G and B until they realize that it’s legal alcohol hours again, it’s after 6am.

Exhaustion flows through the group as they decide to head out. A short walk to the car reveals a thick coat of dust covering the truck. People are driving to work and the city is waking up.


8.2 miles later and G, M, B, A, and M2 are at B and A’s place. M2 pets the cats, grabs a juice, and takes off. A few sleepless hours pass and G and M decide to head back home. It’s time to call it, well, not a night, it’s time to call it quits.

39.6 miles later G and M are almost home.

G: Wait, what did we just do?
M: I have no idea.

So 339 miles and 24 hours later, G and M find themselves at their starting point. They have come full circle on what is surely the most strange and possibly most memorable outing they have ever taken.

P.S.