All I Need

About four months ago, I sat at my computer, strategically double clicking a Ticketmaster link for Radiohead tickets. Radiohead is the greatest band of the past twenty years, and everybody knows it. So getting your hands on tickets is no small feat, but it happened. And for the past four months, every time something I cared about was pulled out from under me, my heart left feeling like egg on bibimbap, I reminded myself that there was an event to look forward to: Radiohead at the Hollywood Bowl.

The Hollywood Bowl has a grandeur that is unrivaled by any venue I’ve ever seen. Basically, it’s a colossal oasis of trees planted in Hollywood, with a picnic area for pre-show wine and baguette-brie-turkey sandwiches. The sound was so good that I honestly really did hear lyrics I never even knew existed. Thom Yorke danced around on stage in bright red pants, playing every song I wanted to hear that night. Set list here.

And even the haters, those who claim that Radiohead has become too big, had to admit that the show was just right. But I like for a rock band to be bigger than life, despite the high cost of tickets. Plus, the audience was so appreciative, since we all knew that it's survival of the fittest on who gets to see a Radiohead show. Every seat was filled, nobody talked during the slow songs, and we were all on the same page, trying to wrap our brains around how incredible it is to know that Radiohead lives on the same planet that we do. It was that good.

Too Too Too Fast

Putting Los Angeles on hold, I went to New York last weekend to celebrate the union of two dear old friends, Shaw and Celeste. Their wedding was held in upstate Sleepy Hollow territory, about 30 minutes outside of Albany. I’m talking real country here, and the wedding followed as suit.

The altar was set up in front of a rolling meadow, with cows and llamas waltzing around in the background, underneath a blue sky with cartoon-perfect clouds. The guests sat on hay bails and the party was held in a tent where we danced so hard that the ground quickly turned to mud. I think I only had about two hours of sleep the entire weekend. Now, I’m not ready for that kind of ending yet, but I hope all of my close ones marry soon because weddings serve as the ideal reunion of dear friends.

My Friend Goo

There’s an art collective within walking distance from my house called The Machine Project, and once a year they hold a Fallen Fruits jam-making party. The deal is: you bring your own fruit, brew it all together, jar it, and then trade off with other jam makers. The only question is how experimental you want to get with the flavor. We went with strawberry-mint, winsome on the palette and just untried enough to pass.

When we arrived, there was a long row of tables set up on the sidewalk and the jam-making had already commenced. People were using all kinds of wacked out combinations, like lemon-fig-pepper and nectarine-kumquat-lavender-basil, so we sat down to cook. Making jam from scratch is a pretty sloppy process, but it actually takes no time at all. And there was the chance to mingle with neighbors, get involved in the community and whatnot.

One jam master in particular asked if we grew our own fruit. Typical Californian question. Like it’s not enough to be out there in the middle of the street, with the sun stabbing through you, making your own jam -- you have to grow your own fruit, too. No, I answered defensively, but was quick to tell her that we bought it at the local farmers market the day before.

Since then, I’ve been eating PB&J all week, which never really gets old, I think. And I have to admit, quite frankly, that our jam is the best. The consistency, the simplicity, the taste, no doubt about it.