SATURDAY saw an old friend’s band perform at the smell (great job) and got a good dose of wholesome musical community feeling. people handing out instruments, starting conga lines (or “cinnamon rolls,” as i learned at this particular show), blurring the line between performer and audience. the impulse behind this movement is so positive, so blindingly earnest, that i can’t hate on it, though i’m not entirely comfortable with my involvement at a show being so enthusiastically solicited. this bleeds into so much else--bike-rides, visual art, crafts, dinner parties, websites. whole personalities built on the concept of community. i'm not articulate about this yet, but i've been thinking about it for days.

SUNDAY what did i do on sunday? suffered through menstrual cramps, drank coffee, read a great article in the new yorker about overtaxed americans dipping into adderall to stay on top. “the experience that neuroenhancement offers is not, for the most part, about opening the doors of perception, or about breaking the bonds of the self, of about experiencing a surge of genius. it’s about squeezing out an extra few hours to finish those sales figures when you’d really rather collapse into bed; getting a B instead of a B-minus on the final exam in a lecture class where you spent half your time texting; cramming for the G.R.E.s at night, because the information-industry job you got after college turned out to be deadening. neuroenhancers don’t offer freedom. rather, they facilitate a pinched, unromantic, grindingly efficient form of productivity.” bleak?

dinner with kira at malo. drinks with kira at cha cha. so much good talk that i can’t remember it all, except a lasting feeling of joy of having my best friend here in the city with us.

MONDAY second week of volunteering at the museum. tedious work, though tedious in a way that satisfies me. i work for a very nice lady. i am privy to a world of paper--so much paper!--and form letters, 'yes-you-were-accepted' letters, 'no-you-weren't-accepted' letters, spreadsheets keeping track of the letters, envelopes tossed in the trash. i park in the walt disney concert hall parking lot, which seems to be curiously overstaffed. grown men stand on empty floors, directing single cars to go down a level, and down a level more, until you are finally allowed to park on level six. that’s that guy’s whole job--waving me down to level six. tumbleweeds might pass through in there, it’s so quiet.

night ended with comedy and drinks.