Bloody.

The entryway of my apartment building has a glass security door and apparently one of the guys who lives in my complex is a photographer and he is taking Halloween pictures right now and that means that a college girl in a white dress - covered in “blood” -  is pressing herself zombie-style against that security door.  

I’m sure the pictures will be interesting, but it made it awkward for me to go check my mail.

I do love though being around all of that. LA has an artist commune called The Brewery (it is an old PBR brewery) and I have been there and as much as I was bothered by the sad quality of most of the “art” that I saw there, I still enjoy knowing that such a community exists.

This is a big part of why I am considering getting the hell out of LA in the next year or so. There is unequivocally culture in LA, but it is hard to find, hard to get to, and hard to be accepted into.

Perhaps it is like that everywhere, but I have to hope not. If a guy can shoot a horror show in my vestibule, does that mean that I’m living in the right place? Or that all that guy needed was a blood-covered model and a vestibule? Which he can find just about anywhere?

That may be the constant cosmic question of LA. Do I need to be here? or Do I only think I need to be here?

I have no answer for that.

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Squaresville.

So do you want to hear something sad?

I have not received a single mass-email, MySpace bulletin, or Facebook update concerning the fact that today is 4/20.

It seems like that should be a good thing, right?

Well it is not. It means that I have turned the corner and I am now a stupid adult person. Gone are the totally high, wantabe indie musicians who used to hang out in my living room that didn’t have any furniture. Gone are the so-serious emo girls who used to come over and drink my wine. Gone are the days of watching the sun come up while eating the last of the maraschino cherries straight out of the jar, drinking Early Times straight out of the bottle, and using zig-zags to roll new cigarettes using just the butts in the ash tray.

Good bye sweet youth!

Good bye cops at the door and friends who need to stash mysterious lock-boxes in my air conditioning vents!

Oh we had some good times.

Anyway, I guess that it means you are all grown up when you don’t even have any annoying pot friends anymore.

Now, the pot was never my thing (I’m a drinker) but it is part of the culture. Oh! Goodbye angsty youth culture!

I’m going to go listen to RENT and put on La Boheme and cry into my beer.

The worst part?

I found out that today is 4/20 when NPR told me.

Oh, the awful shame.
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