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.

I suck at blogging.

But I have a couple things to say while I'm here.

A friend of mine gave me some really good, very basic advice on my career. Essentially he told me I was smart enough to succeed at anything I desired, and that I'd have to choose something that would make me happy.

This is my first summer in Los Angeles and man, the living is easy. Pool after work, long leisurely dinners, walks at night in perfect weather, buying bags full of fruit from the grocery store for a few cents, taking the bus to somewhere new+venice beach every weekend. I'm overwhelmed with life changing decisions to make, and I'm struggling to both pay my rent and keep from starving, but god damn if I don't feel like I'm on vacation.

oh yeah, and that bike I was excited about below was stolen. Don't worry, 'Los Angeles, here I come' is still very much in effect but I'll just be on foot.

Also, what's this Twilight nonsense? I bet other vampire fiction writers are taking a long, hard look at their lives, wondering what they could have wrong. I imagine them sitting alone at the bar as the bartender gives the last call, one hand curled limply around an empty glass, the other clutching a ragged copy of "New Moon." Their faces are frozen in a rictus of despair and rage. "Why?" They cast the question into the empty room. Nobody can answer. The question shrivels, disintegrates, and fades into silence.

but seriously, what the fuck is this shit?

I just brought a rusting, grimy Huffy Bay-Watch bike with a big, ridiculous-looking dented basket on the front for 50 bucks from an middle aged pothead on Pico. I think it's blue, but it's hard to tell. Los Angeles here I come.

Every now and then I rediscover how much I love to read, which typically involves reading 10 or so books in the space of a week in an orgiastic attempt to make up for lost time, checking books out, reading them rapidly during class or otherwise shunting aside prior obligations to read, and returning them within hours.

This time I'm obsessed with Isaac Asimov, his fiction and his life. Some interesting details: A full time tenured professor of biochemistry at Columbia, and also one of the most prolific science fiction and science nonfiction writers ever while being the vice president of Mensa. He was also a member of some sherlock holmes societies, wrote mock science articles, and made a pact with his rival science fiction writer that involved the both of them declaring the other the best science fiction writer in the world, as long as they both declared themselves the second best writer. This guy seemed to had a great time being really incredible smart.

I had a great time with I, Robot. Each story is sort of a mental puzzle that is immensely satisfying to figure out, or barring that extremely pleasant to watch unfold. He always surprises me, and I especially didn't expect it when he incorporated Descarte into a story about really awesome robots.