On Wednesday, my friend Maggie invited me to come check out the music of Rachael Cantu at a bar right by my house. She had seen Rachael person alongside Allison Weiss (whom I’ve since become majorly into the music of) a few months back. She let me know that Cantu plays kinda chill, folky music and thought I would love it.

She was right! The music was fabulous. The songs are lyrically-driven and highly emotional. Best of all, her voice is incredibly powerful at times and delicate at others. Majorly versatile vocal range. We chatted briefly after the show, and she’s an incredibly friendly gal! Looking forward to checking out more of her shows this summer.

I took some pictures of the show, and processed them using VSCO which, in case you aren’t aware, is incredibly detailed duplication of actual vintage film. These folks are geniuses of plugins/presets for Lightroom. Check them out if you’re into photography.

During Pride week in Los Angeles, I took a bunch of photos. You can check out all of them on my Flickr! Beautiful folks, interesting folks and lots of fun and happiness! Hooray for acceptance…and drinks!

Also, if you haven’t gotten any sweet pride or ally gear over at Revel & Riot, check it out.


I really hate Sundays. I know that most people do as well, but I think my hate extends beyond the average person’s. For instance, the song Manic Monday has always made me completely crazy, because it says that Sunday is a “Funday.” That’s just ridiculous. I still sometimes think about that lyric and have concluded its existence is based on one of two things: Maybe in the 80’s, before the music industry went quite as batshit as it is now, they used to give musicians breaks. Maybe their breaks were often on Sundays because 30 years ago things were more conservative and this lead managers to accidentally observe the Sabbath and respect the sanity of their talent. The other option is that The Bangles (or whichever producer wrote the song) just wanted an easy rhyme. Maybe both. I’m going to go with both.

Then there’s Easy. I did a little research about this song and by research I mean Wikipedia. Apparently the song was written about a breakup and instead of feeling shitty about breaking up with someone, Lionel Richie says that he’s “easy like Sunday morning.” Basically, dude is feeling pretty alright and the only thing he can think to compare it to is Sunday morning. That’s just a horrific lie on his part and it gives us some insight: Sunday morning isn’t really easy at all. It’s like having the worst breakup ever where you later sit all wet from sweat and tears on your yellow-tiled bathroom floor wearing only a towel before taking a shower and write sad, lonely lyrics which you then change last minute to appease old-timey radio listeners.

This song has been covered by so many people that they’re not even worth getting into…wait…I take that back: a Canadian Idol Finalist and an American Idol winner. Basically, really important people. I could go on for ages about why I hate this song regardless of the fact that I’m supposed to love it in order to be a normal person, like the type of person who loves The Beatles and comedy flicks. I mean seriously…who doesn’t love…

It’s Sunday, folks. The worst day of the week. The day I wake up in a cold sweat thinking I missed my alarm clock for Monday morning. The day I wake up with a fucking smile on my face thinking it’s Saturday and I can get a hangover to no consequence. The day I keep things real chill - something I have a horribly hard time doing.

Today I went up Runyon on the easy side and down the steep side, without stopping, at my fastest speed ever. I took some photos. I also got the highest rating on my Nike+ FuelBand ever. That’s pretty cool. I’m, how do you say, proud of myself.

I got a new book from Maggie that I think I’ll go start now. Hey, I’m doing the best I can.






Creative Mornings + DKNG

I got up early this morning, which is pretty incredible given that I work from home on Fridays, to attend the Creative Mornings chat featuring DKNG. The chat was incredible and their experience seemed really similar to my client experiences. If you aren’t aware of them, you should check them out. These dudes are crazy good.

I also picked up these incredible screenprints of one of my favorite shows:



In Which I Ruin Everything

Yesterday Conan had Ben Kweller on to perform. He’s cool and everything, but I don’t really listen to his music. I was backstage shadowing one of the girls I work with learning the intricate dance that is STAY THE FUCK OUT OF EVERYONE’S WAY waiting for the moment when I’ll begin taking some “behind the scenes” celebrity bits.

Kweller was turning in circles, leaping around and raging away on an unplugged SG practicing/being ultra cool and when he saw us he was like “Hey ladies,” or something like that. I thought it was pretty cool, saw the performance, was satisfied.

Later on, my friend Maggie texted me and was like “Ben Kweller is at the El Rey, wanna go?” This theatre is approximately a block and a half from my house, but since I’d just been delighted with the “Hey ladies,” or whatever, comment, I wasn’t really feeling it. I CONSIDERED it, but I wasn’t really feeling it.

Here’s where shit gets messed up: Maggie is obsessed with the band Tegan and Sara. They’re always hopping around LA recording their new CD and also being ultra cool band hipsters. We end up at the same spots a lot but never at the same times. Maggie really wants to meet them. No, her DREAM is to meet them. She hasn’t yet.

t & s

I wake up this morning to the following text, which I can’t screenshot since I left my phone at home for the millionth time this week: “Ffffuuuuuccccckkkkkkk.”

Apparently Tegan and Sara had been a block and a half away from my house at the El Rey hanging out watching the show that I turned down thus causing Maggie to hang out with her cat and dog while watching Supernatural. That’s a really jacked sequence of events.

Apologies, Maggie. I’ll get you next time.


It’s been about a month since I moved to Los Angeles, and it’s absolutely no secret that I like it here much better than San Francisco. According to everyone I spoke to about moving: San Francisco is the greatest city in the world and Los Angeles is a trash can filled with half eaten sardine sandwiches. I find the opposite to be true. Well, not really opposite, but like I said, I much prefer LA.

After thinking about it for a while, I came to the realization that San Francisco is exactly the same as North Side High School in Fort Wayne, Indiana, which I attended for 4 years. Seriously, it is.

There was the cool kids lunch table where all of the football players got double lunch and two or three cartons of milk instead of the normal single serving to assert their masculinity by way of massive food consumption. Conversations revolved around drinking and sports while the girls reapplied Lip Smackers with tiny compact face powder mirrors. San Francisco’s cool kids lunch table is the Marina and Cow Hollow area.

There was the stone stairway out back between the school and the gym where the post-goth, pre-emo, pre-pre-hipster guys smoked and showed off their various studded accessories to girls who were definitely talked out of their virginity by the end of Freshman year and later learned to express themselves by way of really meaningful tattoos. This ones easy, San Francisco, it’s The Mission.

There was the gathering of kids along the North hallway wing who were either too shy to be funny, too ugly to be popular or too smart to give a shit about North Side’s social hierarchy. San Francisco is in short supply of these types, because most of them have moved down to Silicon Valley to start or work for the companies we all talk about when we talk about Silicon Valley with stars in our eyes, which is A LOT in California.

There was the basement circle around the cafeteria where the bad kids, the rejects, the kid who stole a wall phone from his neighbor hung out. These were the kids that everyone knew got in knife fights and FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, SMOKED WEED. If you were a cute girl, they hollered at you. If you were a tough guy they threatened you. San Francisco calls this basement circle The Tenderloin.

The kids who were going to be in the top 10 didn’t hang out anywhere in particular, except maybe class. They were diligent with their schoolwork so they could get into nursing, sports medicine, and if they happened to have been born male - become a doctor like their dad. Most of these kids did make it to the top of the class but really fizzled after that. Tons of hype, not much follow-through. Fisherman’s Wharf/Embarcadero.

Finally, there were the kids who weren’t white. The parallel here takes absolutely no imagination at all. Margins of the social hierarchy - margins of the so-called “melting pot” (which can’t be encompassed in enough quotations to express my sarcasm) that is San Francisco. Sure, there’s lots of different types people there, but they really don’t like to mix it up - unless it’s for a startup business deal, quick act of roadside prostitution or drug buy.

In the short time I’ve been in LA I’ve seen some of the craziest shit in the world happening right alongside mom’s with babies and kids with clipboards trying to save the world. I’m not even beginning to say that LA is perfect or anything near, but I AM saying that San Francisco isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. And it’s DEFINITELY not the utopian hipster paradise it considers itself.