Levitation 2026
The assignment was clean enough on paper: Brandon and I were tag-teaming an article and interview featuring The Well, a heavy, doom-drenched power trio spawned directly out of the sun-baked asphalt of Austin. When the cosmic carnival known as the Levitation Festival rolled into town, I figured what the hell—it was time to test the waters, press my luck, and hit up Ian to see if he could pull a high-level photo pass out of his sleeve. He delivered like a seasoned operative. But the moment I crossed the perimeter of the venue, the local bureaucracy reared its ugly head and handed me the completely wrong wristband—a useless strip of paper that threatened to sink the entire operation before it even started. Enter a angel of mercy from MAS Media—her name lost to the general haze of the era, though she had famously saved my skin at a brutal, sweat-soaked Dwarves show just a few months prior—who deftly cut through the red tape and sorted me out. Armed with the proper clearance, I plunged straight into the shadowy, dimly lit caverns of the green room, stumbling through the ambient gloom and asking virtually every long-haired creature in sight if they happened to be Ian, given that our paths had never actually crossed in the physical flesh. After a gauntlet of bewildered “no’s,” I finally cornered the right man. We gathered the inner circle, sat down in the quiet, nervous energy of backstage, and banged out a short, sharp interview before the madness outside fully boiled over.
Stepping out of the VIP enclosure, the universe immediately escalated into a surrealist hallucination: I bumped directly into a brand-new friend I had crossed paths with only days prior, standing side-by-side with actress Jennifer Lawrence. Without missing a beat, we plunged into a reckless barrage of whiskey shots and cold beers, drowning the afternoon heat until I ran headlong into a pack of metalhead refugees down from San Francisco. They were passing around an innocent-looking plastic water bottle and offered me a pull. I seized the vessel and took a massive, reckless glug, only for both of them to erupt into a chorus of horror: “WOW, CHILL DUDE! THAT’S ACID!”
Before my brain could even process the sudden, overwhelming chemical wave rising up from the pit of my stomach, my buddy Janice materialized out of the crowd bearing a bag of high-grade devil’s dandruff. She offered up a generous sniff, which acted like a blast of pure aviation fuel poured directly onto an already raging LSD wildfire. The trip detonated. The sensory perimeter vanished entirely. Me and a court of magnificent ladies drank like ancient kings and laughed like absolute maniacs into the night, riding the sonic shockwaves until the final band slammed their guitars into the stage floor. We scattered into the Austin dark, migrating down to South Austin to keep the booze flowing and push the evening past any reasonable limit of sanity.
Then came the inevitable crash. In the foggy, chemical-wreckage at the absolute end of the line, my faculties thoroughly scrambled by a lethal cocktail of psychedelics, booze, and stimulants, I completely misread the room and attempted to kiss my newly made friend. She shut it down instantly—not interested, not even slightly. It was a classic, ugly moment of boundary-crossing fueled by total intoxication, leaving a dark smudge on an otherwise legendary descent into festival insanity.
PUBLIC SERVICE ANNOUNCEMENT & PERSONAL DISCLOSURE
I want to take full, unreserved accountability for my actions at the end of that night. Getting aggressively spun out on a reckless combination of alcohol, LSD, and cocaine is an explanation for terrible judgment, but it is never an excuse. Misreading the situation and attempting to kiss my new friend without consent was completely out of line, disrespectful, and entirely my own fault. I sincerely apologize for putting her in an uncomfortable position, violating her personal boundaries, and acting like an idiot when I should have known better. I take total responsibility for my wrongdoings, and I am deeply sorry for my behavior.
Chainsaw Magazine 