It's been an eventful past couple of weeks. Last weekend Amanda and I went to the Sunset Junction Street Fair in the silverlake neighborhood. Live music, corny rides, roided out grandpas holding hands, and the worst infestation of hipsters I have ever seen in my life.

We spent most of our time at the Bates St. Stage to see Nico Vega, The Submarines, Delta Spirit, and a 2 hour set from Conor Oberst and the Mystic Valley band. I'd never heard of Delta Spirit before this. Essentially, they are a group of emo punkers turned rootsy folk rockers/ The lead singer never smiles, except ironically or sarcastically, and regularly quaffs a shot of whiskey between songs, a practice complicated by the presence of the harmonica stand mounted on his neck. They all play multiple instruments, including a tin trashcan lid which one guy enthusiastically and somehow, artistically bashes during the song "trashcan". All of this added up to a truly intriguing show. new favorite band.



Conor Oberst was pretty goddamn amazing. We were both tired as hell during the 2 hour set, but definitely glad we stayed. Definitely the best 15 dollars I've ever spent.

Writing seems like such leisurely work that it’s difficult to take it seriously. I procrastinate more when writing a paper than any other assignment because of that particular quality. I can indulge my short attention span just as I would if you were playing a video game or skipping through my ipod. All art is this way. That’s why it’s so easy to fail at creating art. You can imagine yourself to be working hard – you can spend hours and hours a day trying to create that work of art – but you are still procrastinating. Real creative work happens quickly and takes a kind of discipline that most people don’t have, that I am attempting to develop. It’s why writing teachers tell you, just write. You simply have to do it. It takes a mind that is conditioned and strong to face the problem of creation constantly, persistently, without deviation from the issue at hand. I guess what I’m saying is it takes more focus than you probably realize. You might even call it obsession. I need this obsession.

The reason I'm writing in this so much is that coffee bean's internet enforces this ten minute break every two hours, and I'm opening up a word document and rambling.

Took a picture of The Wiltern next door on each two hour break:

A Strange Juxtaposition

The center of the UCLA nightlife is an all walk intersection in Westwood where a pair of hookah bars, a pair of movie theaters, a Starbucks, and the best boba and cookie places in town are all within a hundred feet of each other.

There are students driving expensive cars unnecessarily fast, the roars of 8 cylinder engines periodically drowning out conversation. There are students clustered around glowing hookahs spending too much money, laughing as plumes of sweet scented smoke issue from their mouths. At least a hundred students line up for cookies and ice cream from Diddy Riese.

A homeless man claims a bench in front of the Mann Bruin theater and the Starbucks. He seems like every bum I’ve ever seen; he’s wearing almost everything he owns, and everything he owns is stained and torn. But he never asks for money and I’ve never smelled alcohol on him. His hands aren’t curled around a cup, rattling the change inside. Instead, they clutch a bible which he waves like a two-handed sword as he shouts maledictions and condemnations of passers by. His eyes bulge madly, offwhite against black skin. His violent gestures stop just short of physical blows. He is angrier than anyone I’ve ever seen.

An acoustic guitar accompanies him on the bench. Occasionally, he seizes it by the neck and strangles a melody from it, singing songs that remind me of the rhythmic chorus of chain gang at work. His voice is deep, and surprisingly rich. It vibrates with a passion that I don’t understand.

Everyone tries to ignore this guy. Just noticing him seems to ruin your night. I made eye contact with him once; it was like an immediate injection of anger and resentment. I haven’t seen him in a while. I wonder what happened to him.

I've been thinking a lot about what it takes to find happiness in life. I think that more than anything, you need courage. It takes courage to recognize that your choices have backed you into a cage, and even more courage to tear down those bars and start all over again. It takes courage to make choices not out of expediency, practicality, or perceived necessity but from an unflinching assessment of your own desires. You can't shy away from difficult choices, because happiness is a difficult thing in and of itself.

Life is difficult right now, and will be for several years. The economy will not recover quickly, and once remade, it will be completely unrecognizable from the economy of the 90's. I know I sound pessimistic, maybe even depressed, but I promise that I'm not. I've started to change my perspective - to see opportunities where adversity and drudgery once loomed.