A small, good thing was last week when I was sitting near the top of the bowl of The Greek, surrounded by the hills and the night and some very good pals, and the Dodgers had just won their way into the World Series, and the theater was playing I Love LA over the sound system.

The band on stage that night was made up of girls who grew up here; later, they talked about what it meant to them come back to their hometown to play a venue they'd loved since they were kids. They played a song of theirs that I used to listen to when I was unemployed and uncertain, when I was first trying to write the book that would end up being SONG. I would write in the mornings and then, in the afternoons, walk from my parents' house to my yoga studio with them in my headphones. Never look back and never give up / and if it gets rough, it's time to get rough, I told myself. I remember it so specifically: the way I could feel them behind me, pushing me like I was a kid on the swings. The way that sentiment buoyed me. I can feel the heat but I'm not burning.

At the time I did not feel like I was actually tough. I felt like a snail in a shell, a hatchling in an egg. I acted like I knew what I was doing, and refused to look down. Still, the armor I had gathered around myself seemed so transparently fragile.

Now I look back at that girl with her head set and her eyes wild, and I see her. I see her clearly, I think, or as clearly as you can ever see a version of yourself. I want to say thank you for getting me here. She was tough enough to do that, at least: to imagine a future so fiercely that she created it for herself, a bridge across a canyon appearing under her determined feet.

But also I want to tell her that toughness is not necessarily a virtue. Past a point, it thickens into a callus: it protects and it dulls. I'm grateful that she got me here; I'm grateful that I don't have to be her anymore, too. She ran a lot and very fast. Her legs got tired and she pretended not to mind. It got me where I needed to go but god, it was an exhausting way to live. 

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Sometimes you're interviewing someone and you're like, "god, this is a whole other piece's worth of material," and then if you're lucky your editor will actually let you write a whole other piece, which is what happened with my second one for the LA Times, about the chef instructor at LA Kitchen, Charlie Negrete, and his path out of addiction and fine dining, and into the teaching kitchen. (If I'd been on top of my shit I would have sent this last week and told you to look for it in print on Saturday, but, guess what: I am not that on top of my shit. But it was in print! Cool, right?)

I also wrote another installment of my Medium essay series, Personal Geography. This one is called The Ocean is California Eternal, and it's illustrated with some of my photos, which I think is very cool. 

Also I may or may not write about this more thoroughly at some point but for now: a few days after I saw Haim I saw Hanson, and it was an enormous good thing. I love those dreamboat goons so much, and I have for so long. If you're wondering why, their Tiny Desk concert is extremely charming and showcases two of my favorite of their post-MMMBop songs. It also does not showcase MMMBop, which feels like a gift to me specifically, as I have never, ever liked that song.