I am an addict. There, I admitted it.  First step, check.

The problem is that my addiction belongs to a very elite club: the dangerously casual variety (or casually dangerous depending on your perspective).  Other noteworthy members include: college potheads, semi-compulsive dieters, and Forever 21 shoppers (of which I am also a member).

I always knew I liked guys with rhythm, but when I tried to quit one cold turkey I realized it was more than just casual enjoyment. The last musician I dated—a fledgling rock star—nearly killed me.

ACQUIRING THE DRUG

It began where all bad things do…at a cougar-friendly bar in the valley. The patio was creating its own marine layer:  warm air from the fire pit was mixing with the cool California summer. Courtney and I were sitting on overstuffed sofas engaged in a gripping game of “guess that woman’s age from the back” when a cherry landed in Courtney’s lap…literally.

Two boys–one with reddish hair, the other with a rather round stomach–rushed over to deliver their most heartfelt apologies; they had been playing a game of toss and mouth-catch with drink garnishes and had missed. We felt an immediate bond with them because the group of us encompassed (almost) the entire under-thirty crowd at the bar. They had barely spit out the necessary syllables when a third male appeared: olive skin, cutting eyes, dark hair angled into a choppy fohawk.

“You recognize this mo’fo’?” Mike, the one who threw the cherry, asked us.

“No,” Courtney asked. “Should we?”

“Dude. Stop it,” the New Addition said.

“John’s in a band,” Tom, the round one, confessed bashfully.

“Seriously, man. Shut up.”

“Any songs on the radio?” I asked.

“Dude’s got more rock than a West-side crack house,” Mike said.

It is impossible to know where the truth ends and the bar lies begin.  However, the single music note tattoo behind John’s left ear seemed like enough evidence to accept the former, and to take him up on an invitation to attend a private concert after last call.

Tom volunteered his pad. His apartment was half-unpacked. Besides a queen mattress that took up most of the living room floor, one barstool and a guitar were the sum total of the room’s furniture. The kitchen contained an odd assortment of liquor, household cleaners, and wine glasses. No toilet paper in the bathroom; no hangers in the closet.

Mike poured several glasses of wine while Tom tottered around the room knocking over the contents of several boxes in search of a bong.  “Hey, dude,” he yelled, pointing to an overturned picture frame. “I was looking for this.” He turned it around to reveal a Gold Record.

GETTING HIGH

Meanwhile John picked up the guitar by its neck, positioned himself on the stool without looking back, and pressed the wooden body against his thigh. His fingers slipped along the strings with total familiarity. “Requests?”

I thought a moment and then countered: “What can you play?”

His fingers answered first, then his voice. I could feel a chemical reaction immediately: rushing, beating, falling. Six chords in, I surrendered to it. I was shooting up with a borrowed needle in the middle of the desert, but I didn’t care. For the next four hours I sat in shadowy darkness cracked out on velvet breath and breathless vibrations.

By the time the sun began to press its tongue against the window, I was lying next to him on the mattress. He was strumming John Mayer’s Your Body is a Wonderland, his crossed leg resting over my shoulder.  The group had dispersed in various stages of detox and disarray. Courtney lay asleep, exhausted from having to keep Mike and his uncontrollable foot fetish at bay. Tom was curled next to the bong he found wrapped in newspaper behind the mattress, the smell of weed still noticeable on his clothes.

“So what are you doing tomorrow night…tonight I guess?”

“I don’t know.”

“Coming to Venice. There’s a party.”

My mind was a jumble of melodies and emotions. At six, the boys sleepily escorted us down the elevator. John’s fingers grew lost in my hair, running along the base of my skull as we fell to street level. “So tonight?”

Outside the elevator door, flecks of morning sun washed over us as we kissed good night.

WITHDRAWAL

Two weeks, four days. It was beautiful, perfect…and done. The reasons it ended were more substantial than the reasons it began, but reason did not offer me any comfort.

I wanted him to the point my stomach hurt and my muscles ached. I wanted him more than I had ever wanted anything.  I could not fathom living without him—which was ridiculous considering I didn’t even know his last name. All I knew was his voice, the way he controlled wooden bodies and pressed strings.  And that seemed enough.

I wanted to return to the raw mix of motion and emotion that had been our fortnight un-love affair; my plan was desperate, I’ll admit. I would casually stumble into his concert and the mere sight of me with someone else would make him want me back. The only flaw: I didn’t know his band either.

HITTING ROCK BOTTOM

The only piece of real information I had, besides his name, was his cell number. I decided to narrow down his location by area code: Venice. I started Googling every combination I could think of: John musician Venice, John guitarist Venice, John West Los Angeles rock band. No success—for me, or the sea of Johns-in-rock-bands I had come across who had yet to make it. Then as a last resort, I decided to Google his whole phone number.

Fast forward three minutes and ten dollars: last name, check—thanks to a web site specializing in reverse searching of phone numbers. I was smug and horrified; I was a stalking genius.

However, I still couldn’t find his band. I set the paper next to the computer and got in my car. I was driving along Pacific Coast Highway, on my way to meet some friends, when I got a call from my mother wondering if she could toss out the paper next the computer. No I quickly said and explained why. She said okay and hung up. I was passing Barbara Streisand’s old beach house when she called me back. She had found a YouTube video I should see.

SOBRIETY

When I returned home I rushed to the computer. I clicked the play button and hoped for the worst.  It was him, playing drums on Travis Barker’s drum kit. Kill me now. He really was famous. Just to twist the knife a little deeper, I clicked on the link below to allow myself one last moment of self-pity.

No, wait a minute, take that back, not famous. Yes, it was the real kit, but he was not a real member of the band (it had been a photo op). The link below had taken me to a small website revealing his actual group (and the fact that they had just lost their last battle of the bands competition in LA). Victory! He was a loser! I closed the window and opened another. This is what I wrote.

Advertisement