On my 24th birthday my roommate organized a picnic with a big group of friends. It was somewhere in the Hollywood hills near Laurel Canyon. Or maybe it was off a trail somewhere near Patrick’s Roadhouse up PCH. I forget. But I do remember the many bottles of cheap Chianti from Trader Joes and someone’s bright idea to gather wildflowers from the pretty meadow. Gathering turned into drunken frolicking with attempts at weaving daisy chains and making leaf pile angels. The Smiths/Cure/Depeche Mode mix tape on the boom box was turned off in favor of a group rendition of Age of Aquarius, complete with choreography. We were modern day wood nymphs! We were at one with nature! We were … good lord … covered in welts.
If only there had been signs.
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