An Open Letter To My Millennial Homies

Hey, peers. Hey, generation. What the Sam Hall is going on here? 

I get it. We've been screwed, sort of, by Wall Street, or The Man, or whatever target is currently squaring off with the arrows of our blame these days. But since we're talking about who's really turning the screw here, let's take a look in a mirror for a second.  Or, fine, flip your iPhone cam around and let's all take a self-portrait.

What do you see? Because I see a bunch of whiny, pansy-ass losers. Oh, I'm SORRY, is that harsh? Right. What I meant to say was, I see a gathering of people who are born the way they're born and entitled to live life as they see fit with absolutely no repercussions or responsibility or - heaven forbid - accountability forever and ever, amen. 

Not that we're really into prayer anymore. I forgot. We're in that "questioning" phase. Which is totally fine, in case you were wondering. Burned out on whatever it is your parents instilled in you as a youngster? Opting out of what feel like staid and unrealistic beliefs that don't reflect the world around you? Faaaantastic. But that doesn't mean you can stop searching for answers to life's basic questions, nor does it give you a free pass to loaf through life's philosophical conundrums. 

Intellectual and spiritual laziness is no healthier for us than physical laziness, and yet while we've basically gotten the hang of a 3x a week workout regime, it appears we've all but abandoned the ongoing struggle to understand what makes us human, why we exist, and what (if anything) we believe in apart from ourselves.

Here's a hint: You aren't enough. Neither am I. You don't get a participation medal in life simply for showing up. This earth we're on? The life we're given? It's a gift, and we're no more meant to squander that gift than we are to eat eighteen pounds of McDonalds every day. 

We are privileged and we are, above all else, utterly, inescapably, cripplingly free. But that freedom is too often taken as an excuse to not care at all. If you're reading this and you're older than legal drinking age, I shouldn't have to explain the concept of can and should to you, and yet here we are. The record is broken. Just because you're able to, doesn't mean you should. And shouldn't isn't some mean, old splint meant to trammel your emotional growth or pursuit of freedom and happiness. 

I'm not even going to sit here and suggest what you should believe or accept, lest I step on your naked nail-less toes with my opinions and somehow imply that you aren't completely entitled to pen the Official Rules for your humanity in that Moleskin you also scrawl song lyrics in. Because heaven forbid we live for something more than ourselves and our wanton, base instincts and proclivities. Whooo-eeey! That is LIFE! 

But guess what?

When this protracted mid-twenties temper tantrum feels more like the rule than the exception, sooner or later you're going to have to grow the hell up. And for the record, this isn't some world-saving missive. But lounging around getting lit or black-out drunk every weekend just because those options are available to you ain't it either, kid. 

There's a fine line between recreational enjoyment and careless hedonism, a line I find myself toeing on occasion lest you manifest any confusion about where this rant is coming from. Hint: It's not coming from a snorting horse cantering in a very high place. (To wit, that is not a drug reference.) My point is that I'm in the trenches every bit as much as you are. The questions, the entitlements, the doubts, the laziness; it's all there. 

But again this begs the question: What are we doing? Where's the fire? Here's a fun exercise: Practice repeating to yourself, "It's not actually any one else's fault." At a certain point, you're going to have to sort through the Whys and the Whuuhhhhs. That thing your parents taught you, that pivotal childhood event, all the myriad and infinitesimal influences which have shaped you into who you are: Unpack them. Sift through it. But at the end of the day, you're going to have to repack the suitcase, close it, and carry it with you. Because it's yours. And you are uniquely responsible for the person you become as you get older. 

In case you haven't been paying attention, peers, we are nearing thirty. Some of us are already there. Others are still skipping through our mid-twenties. But most of us are approaching the third decade of our existence and what do you have to show for it? A tangled mass of confusion and inertia and excuses for why life hasn't given you what you feel you deserve? 

Save it for your therapist. Oh, and on that note, if you don't have one, get one. Then whine all you want, because if you find someone worth their salt, they'll roll their eyes and tell you to quit bellyaching. And they're right. Because in this strung out hissy fit marathon you're currently running, the person who's going to get the most tired of hearing your caterwauling is you. 

At least, that's what my therapist told me last month when I sat on her couch mewling about how unfair life was. 

So buck up. Because this sad-sack I-Just-Don't-Know-What-To-Do-With-Myself schtick isn't working anymore. It's time to grow a thicker skin and approach life with something more than a picket sign and a bank account drowning in student loans. 

Timeline

Most of you have probably already seen Facebook's new "Timeline" directive, on which we're supposed to arrange our various correspondences in a more linear fashion. Bellyache all you want, but I actually dig the new layout. It meshes with how I naturally think about the events of my life anyway. 

Say, what life events? you might be wondering. So glad you asked. I went ahead and took the liberty of adding a few important events to my pre-Facebook timeline (i.e. during the dark ages before 2005 when I joined the Good Book), in case any one of my fifteen friends wanted an exhaustive biography. 

In chronological order, here are a few of them: 

Sky

People will tell you there aren't distinct seasons in Los Angeles, a claim whose vague intentions usually lurk somewhere behind conviviality, in the shadows of bitterness. In that moment, the stately columns of incredible weather, sunshine, and good vibes--the columns on which we Californians generally prop the whole parthenon of our already quake-prone existence--begin to crumble. And in that moment, try though we might to scrape together a few filaments of evidence to serve as the opposing viewpoint, we merely shrug in defeat. Because the truth is that our mudslides and our wildfires and our Santa Anas do more to herald the changing season than a few bluish crocuses gnawing through an early thaw ever could. 

It's a shoddy defense, after all--the same defense which also conjures the existence of an "earthquake season" out of the ether or claims that 72 degrees in December somehow feels different than 72 degrees in May. Sure, maybe we're defenseless. We don't have foamy cherry blossom clouds storming petals through most of March like the Northwest does. We don't live in the austere cave of leafless trees and grey skies for the first two months of the year like the East Coast. We aren't smothered under a quilt of snow like the Midwest is, even as April rolls into May. Our trees don't erupt in beatific oranges and reds and russets and goldens in late September. So no, our seasons certainly aren't like normal seasons. 

But that doesn't mean they aren't there, vibrating faithfully just beneath the surface of all the commerce, of the urban sprawl, of the asphalt and palm trees and yawning sunshine. 

.....

There's a hill overlooking the Pacific Ocean near my house, a hill utterly lacking in description most of the year. Eleven months out of twelve, it's merely a tangled brown shoulder of land. But for two or three weeks in March, if we've had a few good rains, the entire hillside transforms into a verdant kaleidoscope of greenery. Rivulets of grass flow toward the sea, wildflowers twinkle into existence, and the whole thing slowly blinks awake, as if for the first time ever. 

Yes, the weather we get here belongs in the clutches of consistency. It's true that the sun warms the skin of countless arms wagging from car windows in January and that rain passes through with the frenetic brevity of a mosquito's lifespan. But for a few short weeks, we're privy to a city alive with springtime, from the neon jacarandas with their silken plumes to air that's drowsy with the scent of jasmine. 

.....

Recently I told a friend that Spring is coming, and I meant it, too--the acrid pall of skunks and the dank perspiration from the nearby ocean are slowly receding. In their place, flowers are starting to bloom, their loveliness unfurling with a shyness found only in places where concrete deadens the proclivities of nature. 

Sometimes the signs aren't abundantly clear. 

Sometimes one has to pay closer attention. 

But make no mistake: Spring is almost here. 

These are stills I pulled from some video I shot back in 2010, during just such a springtime, on just such a hillside. 

Chats with Byron: Boho Edition

iWeekend

I spent the weekend with my mom and aunt Debbie, who came down to LA for a visit. I wouldn't be me if I didn't squire them around the city and have every plan nailed down, so no surprises there. I also wouldn't be me if I didn't document every last second of the experience, but I didn't have my camera on hand, so I entrusted the task to the mighty iPhone. 

While I could treat the images I captured there in the same way that I do my professional work, it's fairly apparent that camera phone pictures have taken on their own cultural language. I feel more freedom to allow the photos to express themselves within the framework of that language, loathsome though it may be most of the time. I'm ardently antagonistic when it comes to applying filters and other fancy faux-vintage facsimiles onto my work, but when it comes to iPhone pictures, the rules I hold myself to are more lax. 

There will come a time when any photo bearing the trampstamp of a faux-vintage patina will be blighted as the temporary ephemera of the Aughts, and when that time comes, you can be sure I'll tear myself away from hating whatever fad is currently in use to rejoice that we're no longer doing that anymore. But cell phone pictures feel more impressionistic to me, a fleeting moment in time captured and presented as just that: Fleeting. Temporary. A fad, a gradation within the cultural cloud. They aren't meant to stand the test of time as much as they bear testament to time's ever-onward trudge. 

I'm okay with that. 

Fauxchella 2012 Promo

From the lens of Loose Luggage, a teaser trailer for this year's Fauxchella:

That's Not My Name

I have a Czech friend, we'll call him Erik,* who likes to tease me. Sometimes when you poke too hard, though, you awaken a beast. The following is an email exchange I had with him today after he sent me a few links to some necklaces on Etsy (one of which will presumably become a gift for his lovely ladyfriend).

*That's his real name

It goes without saying that he's pretty racist against Germans. But that's his problem.

Rick Owens Lillies

Seriously enamored.

At Oak NYC