No use crying over spilled mocha

I’m sitting in a funky little cafe in Santa Monica, the sun is out, my wife is writing letters and sipping her chai tea latte. I spilled half of my mocha, which is sad on so many levels. The people are weird, the food is "all natural" (which means it was harvested by some woman with hairy armpits in some roof-top garden right here in Santa Monica), and the tree-huggers are out in full force. Life is good.

It seems to be quite the weekend to go to funky places in Los Angeles. Last night I went to a bachelor party for CJ, the producer and engineer for my vocals on the RWO CD. It was at a place in downtown LA called the Cabana Club. The food was good, the atmosphere was very upscale and a little snooty, the bar was amazing, but the deserts were below par. J was very much out of place...I'm just not a very hip and trendy guy. It's kind-of fun to go watch people at these places, but I inevitably end up thinking "soooo...you're 30 and THIS is your life? Going to a bar and being pretentious with a bunch of beautiful people?"

Hey, what fun is life if you can't be quick to judge?

There is just this thing in LA where everyone tries to pretend to be someone else. Go figure, a town full of actors trying to be someone else. Who would've guessed?