I was thinking this morning while I was in the shower, the blog is dead. Lifeless. Void of spirit. I then started thinking about why the blog is dead. Who am I writing for? Who reads this? What's my motivation? Is this embarrassing? One thing is for sure, I've been doing some serious censorship for the last 6-9 months. At some point I realized that if you google my name it's not too difficult to land on this site. Do you know how many bizarro stories I'm dying to tell but I can't because they involve ...other people. What if they find this site and read about themselves? Really, the thought of it is paralyzing. All that thinking took place in the shower.

Hours later, I'm reading the NY Times and this teeny, tiny, inconsequential, flippant excerpt from an article about the Chateau Marmont catapulted me to 1997, and all of a sudden all I wanted was to be in CA and 25 again. All of sudden, everything felt so vivid. The air. The light. The smells and sounds. Youth, uncensored.

At 11 p.m., all the lobby couches were occupied by the young, stylish or both, who barely blinked when a girl in a sequined mini-dress tripped on her stilettos and tumbled down the stairs. In the ancient elevator two disheveled middle-aged men, reeking of pot, giggled uncontrollably. By the time I rolled into bed at midnight, the hum of Sunset Strip traffic had been drowned out by the noise coming from a party by the pool. Fortunately, the walls are stone, thick and impenetrable.