Hot Points.

Yesterday was fun, today was frustrating.



Yesterday I began the day laying on a porch in the sun, looking down on Silverlake while the sun warmed my body. I then headed to the LA Zine Fest, making a quick stop at a swap meet down the street first. I was literally the only white person in the swap meet, which is still a little novel to me. I don't think I ever went anywhere in Portland where there were 1,000+ people and I was the only white person. I paid a dollar to get in and another dollar for a fresh coconut to drink from. The woman gouged a hole in it with the butt end of a plastic fork, inserted a straw and handed it to me. Sadly, there was nothing else I wanted to buy but if you've never walked around a public place drinking from a coconut, your shirt half-open down your chest I suggest you try it. You'll feel pretty good.

The Zine Fest was all I wanted it to be. I sought out cool-looking people and talked to them about all their amazing work. I was actually in a headspace to be friendly which, for some reason, I haven't really been before when dealing with zines. The Portland zine community has always seemed so insular and twee and self-satisfied to me. It's probably my own personal hangups and insecurities but I just never jived much with most of what I saw people were doing. Yesterday, though, I saw a bunch of rad stuff and found three and a half different artists/publishers that I like and admire, talked to them and made contact for whatever it's worth. Tomorrow I'm gonna email them and talk about the future: collaborations? a reprint of my coloring book? so many possibilities!

After that I had band practice with the band Max and Patrick started which left me pretty tired and irritated. It was at Grant's amazing converted warehouse-house and only the second time we've practiced as a five-piece. I'm playing analog synths, which I'm pretty ignorant about, so that's a shaky start. Plus they're Max's synths so I don't know them very well, I only took one to the space and it was the glitchiest, most temperamental of them (though the coolest sounding) and I was playing through an amp I've never used in a room I've never played in. That said, it's fun to play music again and I definitely think people are going to like this band. The songs get stuck in my head wicked easy and we've definitely got a good chemistry.

All that feeling stupid and helpless from the synth playing carried over into today. It was my second time volunteering on a film set out here and I sure ate a lot of humble pie. I was "hired" as an art PA but they were full up so I was put on G&E again. That's cool because I picked up some lighting and electric know-how on the last set and so I'm building on a knowledge base but most of what my job involved was people asking me to get things that I didn't know what they were then fumbling to set them up. At least, among the three G&E volunteers, I was the most enthusiastic, fastest and, unexpectedly, the most knowledgeable. Still, I'd end up getting bored from standing around and/or frustrated with being the person who doesn't know what they're doing and sulk off to look at my phone while tape was rolling.

I think the feeling of being out of my depth and useless is heightened on the first day of shooting. If I'd been on set the other two days and built relationships with people and learned their specific wants and needs and lingo things would have been more copacetic. I think 50% of learning to work crew is just knowing what all the industry terms for objects and phrases mean. There's actually no list I can find on the internet that even has half of them (though many lists full of other film terms I don't know). I started to my own mental list today of some of the terms I need to keep in my head:

• Apple/Apple Box/Full Apple: a box with no apples in it
• Half Apple/Quarter Apple: smaller boxes apples couldn't fit into
• Pancake: unfortunately just a very flat version of these empty boxes
• Inky: a small spotlight
• Barn Door: black doors for lights that open more like a Predator mouth than a barn door. They should be called Predator Mouths.
• Scrim: mesh things that go in front of lights. Past simple tense: scram. Past participle: scrum.
• Flag: a black piece of fabric of which there are a gazillion different varieties and sizes. One of them is called a "floppy" because it's floppy. The black fabric is called something like "divutine" but I can't find that term in any spelling on the internet. Other small flags are called "cutters" or "siders", depending, I think, on size and placement. Mostly people say "Get me a twelve-by" and then you have to get them a flag that's twelve-by-something-you're-supposed-to-know.
• Bounce: a white piece of card that reflects light, softly
• C-Stand: a stand that almost every lighting-related thing goes on. Not, however, shaped like a C.
• Crafty: a name for craft services (the job and the area) that everyone uses but sounds silly to me
• Gator Clamp: a clamp that looks like a gator
• Abby Singer: second-to-last shot of the day. 
• Martini: last shot of the day (because the next shot will be in a martini glass, har har har)
• Stinger: a power cable with an undeservedly cool name
• "Points!": I'm carrying something through here!
• "Hot Points!": I'm carrying something hot through here!
• "Fly these out of here": move this shit somewhere else
• "Kill that": put that shit away
• "Wrap that": put that shit away

The thing is, making that list I kept thinking of things I saw that I don't know the names of. Oh my goodness. At least I'm learning a lot; probably more than I would if I took a class. And who knows where it'll lead. Trying to keep my chin up and keep saying yes to things even if I feel like a fool doing them. Maybe feeling like a fool is a sign that you're learning.

Forward.

So much to catch up on! Let's start with this song by Skip Spence from an album I discovered in high school but never connected with. Years later Skip makes a lot more sense to me.



Confidence, persistence, bravery, faith, stamina - these are my watchwords right now as I'm looking for work. I had a job interview yesterday for a full-time office job which is promising but what is really stoking my fire right now is the shoot I participated in over the weekend. When I'm working crew on a film set - working freelance in any capacity, really - everything just feels like it clicks into place. I don't want the security of an office if I can sell myself from project to project, working with awesome, talented people to achieve their vision. Then some day achieving one of mine... The biggest stressor I have right now is the uncertainty of how to start getting freelance PA work. I guess I just gotta keep getting out there and keep saying Yes to everything.

Speaking of which, I'm trying to put lots of energy into the different pots I've got on the stove. I sometimes wonder if I busy myself with so many things because I'm afraid of committing to one and getting sucked in and stuck (probably why I'm scared of an office job, too). LA is such a self-centered place because everyone is selling themselves and I think I say that from a place without judgement. We're all so driven and hungry to make some sort of deeply personal dream come true. It's beautiful and inspiring and it's why I moved out here but those dreams take interpersonal connections. And that creates a weird social culture where every human interaction is being weighed and assessed by what one person can get from the other. And that feels yucky.

It also creates a culture of people talking a lot without really having conversations. I chatted on the phone with my mom yesterday and I heard myself spouting the same dialogue I keep finding myself on the receiving end of out here: what am I trying to do professionally and personally; how it's coming; people I've met who can help me with it; people I've met who can't; oh yeah, and how are you? It's gross to just unload on someone; it's selfish to just use them as a sounding board. I guess when you're in your head so much it's like you need a pressure release valve but it's definitely something to be aware of.

I'm really pumped at the idea of making music out here. There's so much potential for it. While out in Santa Monica last week I walked along the rainy pier thinking about the cultural differences between New York and LA. I decided NYC is like a grand, forceful object; a rolling, cultural snowball. LA is a cultural void, constantly devouring itself. NYC has an overabundance of culture and history; it's personality assaults you from every street corner. People like me move out there and do things and those things become a part of NEW YORK CITY.

On the other hand, people like me move to LA and the things they do remain theirs. LA rejects its own culture and history, recycling and paving it over. It's one of the largest metropolitan areas in the world yet the city feels supremely uncomfortable and unsatisfied with itself; a wallflower smiling behind a facelift.

That's not to say the people are unsatisfied with themselves. I think a lot of folks out here pride themselves and being a place where things are happening and on being people who make them happen but their connection to the city itself is minimal. LA and its sprawling emptiness is viewed as a cipher for greater things beyond it. Compare that to how New Yorkers see NYC as the be-all/end-all, the Greatest City in the World.

When I was in Santa Monica I met with a woman my cousin Josh introduced me to who runs a bar out there. In about a month I'm going to play an acoustic show at her spot and I'm pretty psyched about it. Even sooner I'm doing one at Hotel Cafe, which is a singer-songwriter hub I guess. Not sure if I'm going to keep the moniker of The Robinson Age or be Dave Bow of The Robinson Age (implying that you should have heard of my last band). Probably the latter.

Trying to record a new EP with my super talented friends Max and Miles for a new project with a new name I've got gestating. Slow going cuz of schedule differences. Also officially playing synth in Max's primary project which doesn't have a name yet but has some shows lined up at The Smell and other prestigious LA venues. That's exciting if frustrating because of all the personal dreams I'm waiting on, just bubbling up in the background.

Besides looking for work and making music I've also gotten a creative jolt in my art. Returned to ink and watercolors and feel really good about it. Starting making self-portraits (oh how fucking fitting), which is something I've never felt comfortable doing before. I feel really good about them and maybe I'll have an OK portfolio shop around to galleries in the coming month.

And while we're on pipe dreams, Kevin and I have started a sitcom spec script that we're planning on shooting. Plus the house is hosting a show on Friday for my roommates' band. I've been consuming much less movies/TV than I was in Portland (which feels awesome) and have been reading another Robertson Davies book, What's Bred in the Bone. Whenever I've felt adrift in the past few years his books have always righted me and put things in perspective. They're books about achievers and dreamers presented with warmth, wit and a humble humanity that always makes me feel grounded and makes dreams feel achievable, even if they manifest themselves in ways you never would have expected. Confidence, persistence, bravery, faith, stamina.

Wrong Guy.

On Monday I received a most unexpected call. I'd applied for a runner position with a big recording studio down here with several branches. I had a few friends who'd worked with them so I thought I might have a chance at getting in on the ground level but the woman on the phone was talking like I was an important person. In fact she was seeing if I was able to come in and engineer a session! What? Me? I mean, I have some experience with this stuff but these people had never met me. They'd never even emailed me a response to my runner inquiry! This was all happening so fast!

Woman: Hi David, this is [important studio].
Me: What? Oh, hi!
Woman: I don't know if you'd noticed but we put your profile up on our website.
Me: Um... no, I didn't notice that... [pulling up the website to see what she's talking about]
Woman: There's a session in a couple of weeks, a 17-year-old girl is laying down some pop vocals. She saw your profile and requested you. The pay is $25 an hour. Are you available?
Me: Well... sure, but I've never been in the studio before. Which one is it?
Woman: It'll be in Studio A.
Me: [wondering what I'd thought that question would answer] OK, well I don't know if I'd feel comfortable getting paid for a session if I have no experience with the board. Is there any way I could familiarize myself with the studio before the session?
Woman: Sure, why don't you come in Wednesday morning and I'll show you around?

Clearly this was madness or providence. Or both. I knew I was in over my head but if I could get a passing knowledge of the studio itself - what equipment they have, what plugs into what, etc. - I could probably engineer a pop vocal session. I mean, tracking vocals just requires a good mic, a preamp, a compressor if you want it and some patience. I'd just spend the next couple of weeks re-familiarizing myself with ProTools, get a cheat sheet of some hot keys and walk tall like I knew what I was doing. For all I know this is a Rebecca Black situation - I bet this girl's parents just bought a shmancy session for their pop-star wannabe daughter and no one will even know the difference. And if I screw up... well, I can't be double-unemployed.

So I braved rush hour traffic this morning in what felt like an inaugural sally into the ranks of working Los Angeles. The studio sits near Hollywood and Vine, imposing behind its wrought-iron gate and non-descriptiveness. The buildings around it scream for the attention of passers-by but this place is clearly a Members Only club. I try the door and press the intercom. Though I can't really hear the voice on the other end over the noise of the street it doesn't sound like I'm expected.

After some back and forth they buzz me into a lobby, all modernist furniture and gold records. The woman behind the desk is confused. Why am I here? I was told to come check out the studio, I tell her. I have a session in a couple of weeks. "Yes, I know," she says, "I set up the session."

Before things can get completely Kafkaesque it becomes clear that this woman had actually scheduled the session with an actual engineer over email but had made the initial phone call to me, not realizing we weren't the same person. You seeee, she thought I was Dave Dominguez, who made his name engineering Papa Roach's Infest and Staind's Break the Cycle. He also engineered Guns n' Roses' Chinese Democracy, Tupac (posthumously, I'm guessing) and, most impressively, Weezer's Pinkerton.

That is not me. I have never engineered Pinkerton and I would've felt stupid standing there but I just smiled and nodded because it all made more sense than what had previously seemed to be happening. Upon realizing her mistake the woman came and gave me a hug, which wasn't exactly what I needed at that moment but a nice gesture, I guess.

"Do you have any runner positions?" I asked. "I, uh... went to school for this stuff and I've worked in a studio before." She promised she'd put my resume at the top of the pile. And I'm calling that progress!

Cosmos.

Like Jules in Pulp Fiction I'm in a contemplative and transitional period today. Last couple of days of unemployment limbo have weighed on me sort of heavy and I needed to shake them off.

Yesterday I did that late in the day. My flu is still hiding in the back of my throat and I feel like all the progress I'd made from running every day has been nullified by these weeks of nothing. I dispelled my blues in a common way: spending money I shouldn't. I went to Amoeba and bought the new Tomahawk album (was all ready to buy in on vinyl but had to settle for a CD, which feels silly nowadays). Listened to it this morning and was underwhelmed. Muddy production and listless songs but... what's done is done.

After my trip to Amoeba I went to Trader Joe's to finally buy some more groceries. I came away with what I thought was a healthy bounty of food that's easy to prepare and was alarmingly cheap. I guess that's why people go there. Frozen Indian food is nowhere near as satisfying as a home-cooked meal but it was a situation I came out on top of. Plus the parking lot tried to charge me $2.50 to park there for a half an hour but fortunately(?) my card wouldn't work at the gate and the robot just lifted the gate for free. I basked in my small victory.

Came home and went with Max and Kathryne to a local show. Max and I discussed our mutual response of standing in the audience thinking how much better a show we could put on. We talked about the "scene" here and how undercooked it feels, like a half-done pie. It was a good moment.

Had a series of long and frightening dreams about the end of the world. I saw the apocalypse and I cleaned up after it. Then I prepared myself for the next phase of existence and wondered if I had everything I needed. Woke up unnerved.

Plans for today fell through but I finally got some recording done. Drove out to Griffith Park, got stoned and hiked up the trail. Think I looked like a strung-out greaseball in my leather jacket and Chucks to all the trail-runners but I didn't care. Took the time to contemplate my next move and dictate plans and affirmations to my phone to email to myself later. The sun set and I looked out at all the shimmering lights - they actually shimmer in the smog and heat and whatever, it's beautiful - and I felt better. Think I need to reevaluate my relationship with failure and my fear of dealing with disappointment. Think I need to be less lazy and driven by my perception of how I'm seen. Think failure is a self-fulfilling prophecy when you don't think of it as a step to eventual success. Think I know what I want and what I need and it's not going to come through a regular job. Divorce the two but get a job (1) that helps make in-roads where I want to go (2). Believe in yourself and stop fighting your stupid dreams.

When you feel like a bum it's good to go somewhere that makes you feel small. All the other bums in the city were smiling back at me and everything felt closer to OK.

I decided to catch a planetarium show since it was closed the last time I came up. Holy smokes that was the best idea I've had in forever. I ended up sitting between a group of teenagers and their cool-mom (Lisa) as I watched the universe unfold in immersive but rudimentary computer graphics. For whatever reason the soundtrack is prerecorded but the narration is done live by a smirking, silver fox who carried a little lamp a la Dean Stockwell in Blue Velvet. In a patient, self-satisfied voice he explained spacetime to the teenagers and I as if talking us down from some hysterical ledge. No, the world didn't end on December 21st, 2012 and it may not end for thousands of years, he said. It's all part of the cosmic cycle of death and rebirth. Spent the whole production with my mouth open in awe and kitschy pleasure. Again, I felt more at peace with my insignificance.

At pizza and kale salad and watched Pulp Fiction for the first time since high school. Ready and waiting for the next phase of the cycle.

New Fever.

I've begun to get cabin fever. This is not, I suppose, unexpected but its typology is more insidious than I would've guessed. My sickness has dissipated enough that I feel well enough to go do things but, in reality, I'm not.

I had a lovely day yesterday stoned at the art museum. Went to the folk art museum, was not impressed when comparing it to the folk art museum in New York (one of the most enjoyable museum experiences I've had). The LA folk museum had an exhibit of crocheted handbags made to look like counterfeit designer bags and some wood sculptures. Did nothing for me, felt dismissive. Took a picture of the following artist's statement because it seemed like stuffy-headed (strangely punctuated) nonsense:

My work is meant to spark an elusive emotion, awaken a memory and explore the spiritual and metaphysical dimension of our lives. I use the vessel-humanities oldest and richest metaphor- as a vehicle. Through subtractive sculpturing, I'm building a visual language to express this emotional sub-context and elicit a contemplative response.

Saw a twisted traffic sign uprooted next to the entrance seemingly spooning with a downed tree branch. Was surrounded by traffic cones and I was unsure if it was an installation or not.

Went across the street to the LACMA to see the permanent display stuff I missed when I saw the Kubrick exhibit. Holy moly. All the Dutch painters from the 17th century blew my brain wide open. It hurt. I was inches away from the paint strokes, just marveling at it all. In particular the work of Jan Davidsz. de Heem I couldn't get over how well rendered Still Life with Oysters and Grapes was. The grapes look like they're going to burst with liquid! The details were just so fucking beautiful I almost had to take a seat. It made me think about the frustrations I've been having with my pen and ink experiments and that what I really need to do in my goal of truly understanding and communicating light and texture through linear shading and crosshatching is to work BIG. If I work at, like, four times the size I'm working now, I think I can really do the details I want to do.

After a while, though, all the religious imagery began to schiz me out and I had to leave, out into the chilly sunset. Still feeling free and floaty I drove to Audrey's house listening to Yes. I guess I'm a big fan of the band Yes now. Not something I would have guessed of myself but it's true. In particular Fragile and the song "We Have Heaven" which led me to singer Jon Anderson's ridiculously proggy Olias of Sunhillow album. It's beautiful, complicated stuff.


Had a nice potluck at Audrey's but lost my voice talking. My throat is the last stronghold of this flu and it still feels rough today. I have a series of people I'm meeting this week, which I scheduled thinking I wouldn't be sick anymore. Not the case! I want to go grab the world by the tail but I think I need to sit tight.

Patience is really the watchword for this month, I guess, and I hate it. I read my tarot and the active card was the reversed Chariot - a warning to hold back my usual Aries methodology of going and doing and trying to ram my head through obstacles towards what I think I want. Instead I need to sit back and let things flow and do what they will even if, in the meantime, it leaves me feeling sick and helpless. It's frustrating waiting to get well, to find a job, to make new friends, to find my artistic way. Irritating.

Recovery.

Woke up today feeling 75% cured of my flu. Like the waters of Lake Minnetonka, a quick dip into Santa Monica purified my body last night. Despite a day of regressive, overpowering sickness I forced myself to get out of bed and go to my cousins' joint birthday party.

My plan was going to get pleasantly stoned and post up in some corner with one or two new friends. This was the a plan for a bar scenario. When I found myself in a line with an hour-plus wait-time surrounded by bros in button-downs and girls in clingy dresses doing that wavy, sailor walk in their high heels I realized that this was a club. A club for yuppies. These kids were young, urban professionals out on the town after a week of going to an office. They went to school to learn how to do practical things. Their life goals and reference frames seemed alien to me.

My sick delirium coupled with the weed made everything fascinating and funny. I talked with a girl about why she has no interest in veganism (she likes meat. The End.); I listened to a guy semi-derisively namedrop Bruno Mars to a bunch of ladies; a guy with a perfectly manicured beard came up to his friends in line and pulled out beer bottles from his pockets and said, "Now this is how you wait in line, boys" as people gazed in awe of his ingenuity; I heard a guy get out of a cab saying, "My quote in the New York Tines was, 'One thing people don't understand is playing a college sport is a full-time job.'" I thought about how my life choices had decisively set me on a completely different path in a completely different sphere from these people and I was happy to spend some time soaking in their culture.

After a half an hour of waiting one of my cousins came out and led a group to a different bar where I got to give him my cousinly love and, I fear, my sickness. He bought me a Shirley Temple before I could think straight to buy him a drink and I peaced out home in a cottony fog through which I played the first side of Quicksilver Messenger Service's Happy Trails, one of my favorite pieces of recorded music of all time.



This morning I woke up feeling a million times better. Lucid and decongested. Max made huevos rancheros and the house listened to Enya. I'm having some thoughts about art and music that need calming. I think it's contingent on meeting the right people here who are on the same wavelength I am. But I'm resolved to take a day out and about before the week starts, just as I'm resolved to keep my career insecurities out of this blog. So I'm off the folk art museum (it's free today!) and then to Audrey's for a Southern potluck, feeling happy to be recovered and taking this new LA life one day at a time.

Dreamday.

It's hard to want to write a blog entry when you have a belly full of delicious minestrone soup. My stomach has shrunk over the last few days and all it took was a bowl of the stuff from a pub in Los Feliz (pronounced by everyone as Los Fee-lays for some reason I dunno) and I was asleep on my feet. Although really I've been asleep on my feet all day as, in my sickness, the vocabulary of the world has begun to slur into a dreamlike babble. And really the soup wasn't served in a bowl but in a tiny, black cauldron because Los Feliz is trendy/silly like that.

My dreamday began when I pulled myself out of bed to go see Zero Dark Thirty with my delightful new friend Andrea. Andrea is my first real, brand new friend here in LA and I'm excited and happy to have her. After the movie we talked about my favorite talkin' subject, religion, as I ate from my cauldron.

I thought out loud about the idea I've been thinking about since seeing the Kubrick exhibit at LACMA and (bringing it up for the second day in a row) the monolith, the symbol in 2001: A Space Odyssey for the Divine Unknowable. I talked about how I don't think there can be such a thing as a pragmatic religion. The practical aspects of every religion (or cult, for that matter) are usually universally accepted but a religion isn't a religion without some aspect that is is completely bonkers. In other words religion must require faith. And that I think from the outside we try and pigeonhole these crazy aspects - virgin births, past lives, etc. - in either literalism or metaphor but neither does justice to what I'm again going to call the Divine Unknowable.

When watching 2001 no one ever explains what the monolith is/represents/means, but we as a viewer understand it in a space beyond the left or right sides of our brains. There's some great, cosmic truth that religious imagery and miraculous stories (and, I would argue, folk and fairytales) give us peepholes to and it's a truth that makes sense in a base, biological way beyond our intellect.

Or perhaps these things have a character that invites projection and rather than tapping into something divine we instead invest them with their meaning from this same subconscious place. And then, trying to make sense of our emotions that such an act stirs within us, we end up worshiping what is tantamount to a blank projector screen. And if that's the case is it any less mysterious and beautiful and... divine?

So that's what I batted around over a late lunch while we also talked about visiting ghost towns and a potential documentary on an aging Marilyn Monroe-impersonating drag queen Andrea might decide to helm.

It was a good way to end a day of running out of the movie theater every hour to feed the meter and stop myself from getting another ticket (there was one on the windshield today because while I was sick in bed I forgot to move it out of the street cleaning zone on Wednesday). All this running back and forth trifurcated Zero Dark Thirty but it didn't matter because 1. that movie was fucking amazing anyway and 2. I actually did end up fending off the meter maid who strutted away after disdainfully calling me "sir" in that way I hate and 3. my dreamday has been so borderline surreal that Zero Dark Thirty was almost just a collection of pictures and sounds anyways. Thankfully it's an intense enough film that I could follow it but now that I'm back home and the blood is rushing to my tummy I know I only have so much consciousness left in the day.

I'm still supposed to go to a party tomorrow - and want to go to a party tomorrow - but that's going to mean a drive out to Santa Monica and an evening spent awake when I should be lying down with a fruit juice IV or something. Worst comes to worst I'll just make a nest on the beach and pass out there. Because they have a beach in Santa Monica and such a thing is possible.

Speaking of things that make a sort of dream sense, the other highlight of my day was watching this video of Slim Gaillard. Talk about touching the divine... Everything about Slim's performances are dreamlike to me, including the seemingly nonsensical moments the audience chooses to laugh. I aspire to this.

Sick.

I got the flu on Tuesday and it's completely laid me out. The last two days have been literally spent in bed. It's actually a silver lining on the unemployment cloud that's been hanging over me because if I did have a new job this would sure complicate things. In the same way I've been trying to treat my unemployment like a vacation in my lucid moments I've been enjoying the fact that I actually couldn't do anything but lay in bed with my face stuck in a book or a computer screen. Besides finally making headway in La Moustache I watched the first season of Dallas and two films: Cloverfield (which was better than I expected) and Wake in Fright (which was pretty excellent). It's a pretty decadent way to spend two days but then I was thinking back to the people who would come into the video store and rent four movies a night. What sad, lonely lives those must be. As much as I wanna be a slug it can take something like a 102 degree fever for me to let myself enjoy the experience.

My fever broke yesterday after hours of wiggling around, too hot to stop sweating, too cold to remove any layers. Today I actually got up, put my clothes and sheets in the laundry, made a million mile trek to the post office and got some groceries to make some spicy Indian food, which I suspect will make me feel better. At least I'll maybe sweat out more of the sickness. My roommate Tara (who gave me this fucking flu in the first place) said my complexion looks good from how open my sweaty pores have been, so why stop a good thing?

Plus, on Tuesday, as I felt the sickness descending on me, I walked down the block to the Super A to get some food for the next few days that I wouldn't have to actually prepare. This was good thinking on a practical level but trouble in that the healthiest food I could find were Lean Pockets (a mistake), Campbell's Soup (surprisingly, a bigger, saltier mistake) and a rectangular, microwave pizza (which I burnt really bad then ate like an animal, pulling chunks of cooling, blackened crust off something that looked like the 2001 monolith). I don't remember if you feed a cold and starve a fever but my body hasn't wanted food at all.

This morning Jesse made Tara and I smoothies and I appreciated how nice the people living in this house are. It sat heavy in my stomach on my million mile post office trek but I know my body was glad to have it. As I was walking I made a mental list of things my neighborhood has a lot of:

• Tiny, yappy dogs in small enclosures
• Pay phones
• Discarded televisions
• Abuelitas with interesting faces
• Restored classic cars

 Now that I can sit up without feeling like I'm going to die I'm going to begin being productive again and finish inking the artwork for the Gamma Knife album. There's lots of things to look forward to this weekend so I hope I don't relapse. I'm going to see Zero Dark Thirty with my new friend Andrea tomorrow; it's Josh and Sarah's birthday on Saturday (though I probably shouldn't drink), plus Tara's working as a photo assistant on some art project and I'm gonna see if I can tag along and maybe meet some people; then Sunday Audrey's throwing a Southern potluck.

Beginning.

I'd like to say that people keep asking me to start a blog about my new life in LA but it's not true. There's something to exhibitionistic about blogs that I feel like I need some validation from people clamoring for my thoughts and experiences before I take the step of putting them out there. 'Cause honestly I'm not sure if people care that much. I'd really only be navel-gazing for my own amusement. But maybe it's OK to navel-gaze once in a while.

The other thing that scares me is that I have so much trouble finishing things I start and then I feel like a failure. I'm choosing to take consolation in the idea that there's really no good place to end a blog so if and when I get tired of writing here there'll be no reason to beat myself up.