I want to kill Subway Jared.
Allow me to say that one more time. I want to kill Subway Jared.
He seems nice. A dedicated, strapping young man who lost 325 pounds by eating nothing but Subway subs. Cool for you, Jared.
You’re still gonna die.
Let’s take it back to the roots. Get underneath this twisty little thing called murderous rage…
I want to stuff him in a parachute sack and tie him to the back of my car…take a trip to familiar Baja back roads. After bleeding and tenderizing his body for 32 miles, I would promptly feed him to the nearest pack of coyotes and sexed up wild dogs.
I want to road trip with Jared to Northern Cali, cherishing every one of the 360, “you’re a failure” minutes it would take to reach our destination. Upon arrival, I’d put rocks in his socks, smash him across the back of his head with my Louisville Slugger and toss him into Lake Tahoe.
And this may be getting out of line, but…
I watch Jared’s spasmatically reserved annunciation and get a hard on thinking about hacking his jaw off with a crowbar. Is that wrong? Disturbed? Upon completion of the initial task, I would pound HIS face in with HIS removed jaw. I assure you, no one has ever beaten the hell from someone with their own jaw. A leg, maybe…but come on. And that’s the kind of guy I am. Trailblazer. Pioneer.
Don’t get me wrong. Back in the day, it was an admirable feat. It was like, hey…that fat fuck Jared lost 325 pounds on the Subway diet. Sweet. Good for Jared. Those days are no longer. Go hide in a cave…somewhere in the Appalachians for the rest of your life.
It’s not too much to ask. And yes, I am asking.
I bet he lives in Los Angeles. I bet he has an agent. I bet he actually goes to auditions. I bet if I remove the Illinois plates from my car, I can hit and run that fucker with a passion that only the truly gifted poets could sing.
Look, I’m not here to fill you with the same murderous intent that flows through my veins. It’s just that…if you see him, could you please kill him?
Enough Jared.
…
Want to feel my early morning California on this November 30th?
Why, of course…
1. Interstate Love Song – Stone Temple Pilots
2. Somewhere Over the Rainbow - Israel Kamakawiwo’ole
3. It Beats 4 U - My Morning Jacket
4. Where is My Mind? – Pixies
5. Another Day - Rent (Movie Soundtrack)
6. Perfect Situation - Weezer
7. Forget Her – Jeff Buckley
8. Gideon - My Morning Jacket
9. Knock Yourself Out - Jon Brion
10. Glamorous Indie Rock and Roll - The Killers
November 30, 2005
November 23, 2005
Sweet Home Chicago...
I'm a complete sucker for the holidays...so what choice do I have but to head back to the icy tundra? None.
A little town tucked against Lake Michigan just North of Chicago. Lake Forest, Illinois.
I watched the first 30 minutes of Derailed on...actually it was yesterday. Come to find out, it's the new home of Jennifer Aniston's irrelevant shout out. "Living in Lake Forest...in the kind of house I've always dreamed of having." Is that what my sweet little home has become? Context?
Oh, who am I kidding? I was proud. That's my stomps.
I heard it's 19 degrees in Chicago right now. It'll be the coldest Thanksgiving in recent history. Rumors of flurries...how nice?
I tell this to friends in LA, and they think they're sifting through sarcasm before finishing with a laugh. No, I'm fucking serious. It's beautiful. More than I could ever ask for. Because in the heart, it's all I know...and all I ever want to know.
Travel safe...eat, drink and be merry. Watch holiday movies and sit by a fire. Laugh your way into an ulcer with siblings...give love to parents...pick fights with old friends. Sit on top of the one good hill in town and watch the moon echo itself against black as the waves rumble. Watch your breath.
Trudge your way through the heaps of nostalgic shit you know you'll encounter...and come out sparkling on the other side.
At least that's what I plan to do.
Cheers to yours being just as sweet.
A little town tucked against Lake Michigan just North of Chicago. Lake Forest, Illinois.
I watched the first 30 minutes of Derailed on...actually it was yesterday. Come to find out, it's the new home of Jennifer Aniston's irrelevant shout out. "Living in Lake Forest...in the kind of house I've always dreamed of having." Is that what my sweet little home has become? Context?
Oh, who am I kidding? I was proud. That's my stomps.
I heard it's 19 degrees in Chicago right now. It'll be the coldest Thanksgiving in recent history. Rumors of flurries...how nice?
I tell this to friends in LA, and they think they're sifting through sarcasm before finishing with a laugh. No, I'm fucking serious. It's beautiful. More than I could ever ask for. Because in the heart, it's all I know...and all I ever want to know.
Travel safe...eat, drink and be merry. Watch holiday movies and sit by a fire. Laugh your way into an ulcer with siblings...give love to parents...pick fights with old friends. Sit on top of the one good hill in town and watch the moon echo itself against black as the waves rumble. Watch your breath.
Trudge your way through the heaps of nostalgic shit you know you'll encounter...and come out sparkling on the other side.
At least that's what I plan to do.
Cheers to yours being just as sweet.
November 17, 2005
Mulholland Drive and the Sweetness That Follows...
LA is congested as fuck.
When I was 16, I used to go out for no reason. I’d drive along the streets, the coastline of my hometown. It’s laughable compared to the coastlines out here, but it was home. Home. That word still holds so much.
I get bottled up in the head and heart…and learned early on that it helped to get out and drive through some black, alone.
Hold that thought, memory intermission…
Remember that kid from the neighborhood? You know, the one NOBODY liked. Since severing him from the group would cause an uprising in the neighborhood contingent of mothers, a revolutionary role was born into late 80’s hoods.
The Guinea Pig. Ours held Coke in his mouth while we dumped Pop Rocks.
You know, to see if his head exploded. What?
There was always a kid with glasses who swore to God it wasn’t a myth. Everyone knows…you swear to God, and it’s case closed. So when Guinea Pig lived, we all pretended he was the coolest. But who really meant it? Sure as fuck wasn’t me.
Kids are cruel…
…
In college, I’d take off and drive the back farm roads of Central Illinois until road ran out. Often, I’d snap out and realize I was 60 miles off campus. It was great.
Then I moved to Los Angeles. The roads here are different. Shocker.
Despite all the shit I talk, this really is a gorgeous city. I don’t know how to explain it. Insert a profoundly resonant description that works for you. Then, I wont have to worry about whether or not you follow.
Fine, I’ll do it. Fucking brats.
Something along the lines of…romantic mysticism. That’s it! LA has got this romantic mysticism that’s difficult to convey, easy to talk shit about and impossible to turn your back on.
Let me tell you about my new route. I drive west on Sunset into Beverly Hills. This is always around midnight on weekdays. Usually once a week. Cars are sparse, thoughts rampant.
I head North on Coldwater Canyon and begin the slow climb. About 10 minutes later, there’s a famous little 2 way known as Mulholland Drive. Yes, it was also a movie. If you drive it, you could understand why it could be anything it ever wanted to be. It’s the top of the world. The peak between the two true valleys of Los Angeles. San Fernando and, well…whatever the one I live in is called. The Bev Hills, West Hollywood, Hollywood side. I should know.
But the lights of the two sides, from this high up...should I say mesmerizing? Hypnotic? Some day…come see.
When I first got here, I panicked. I wondered where I’d get lost. Sure as hell wasn’t gonna be at Blow parties and during blackouts. Ain’t my style. Anytime someone gets worked up when they get drunk or drugged, I feel like their asshole rubs off on me. Honestly.
I’m not in the mood to afford shit like that in this short life.
So…I can’t tell you which route goes down as the best in history. After all, many others will come. They all served different purposes...pulled me through different battles. I’m just glad I’ve got one I can trust…one I can rely on. You have no idea the importance.
…
I took a drive Monday night. It’s my good stuff. My really, really good stuff. It’s been a while since I’ve had it.
The head swing I go through in this process is at times, damaging. I know this. I knew it coming in. I’ll know it going out.
In case this is your first visit, I’ll bring you up to speed. I moved out here to write movies. Without dishing cliché-ridden splurge, it’s what I love…period. So it doesn’t bug me that 97% of this city is currently “working on a screenplay.” Though, that figure may be a bit ballooned. I’m aiming to conquer one of the most daunting industries in the world.
What’s your fucking point?
I’ll be fine. You know those people who show up in commercials telling the youth of America to follow their dreams? That if they work hard and dedicate themselves…anything can and will come true?
Gotcha! What about Nelson…the color-blind, lisp-stuttering Puerto Colombian growing up in Flint, Michigan?
Last time I heard, he wanted to be an astronaut.
Last time I checked, his book report was on Curious George…in the 11th Grade.
For Nelson, it’s not gonna happen. The difference between Nelson and me is that I am one of those people. What can I say? I grew into a stone browed, relentless, restless, fuck everybody in a whisper and woo them with a smile son of a bitch.
Plus, I know I spit shit that’s aching to get out…now.
Let me let you in on a little secret…This was my mindset for the past 6 weeks writing this hope to one day be a movie. It went a little something like this…
Refuse distributing, pussy, worthless, clever-limp, thoughtless, heartless piece of nothing. You put all your eggs into this basket? Where are you going with anything? I need to drink more. What are you doing with your life? 24 and you’re wasting it away. Save Bangled Tigers. Eat Bangled tigers. Engage in battle with Bangled Tigers. You just spent a month on 90 pages that would barely qualify to serve as a beat rag…90 times over. And then sixty more that…you’re a talent hack, cocksucker. Bullshitter. Move to Lebanon. Did she just pull the earring trick on me? Move to Swahili. Fuck her, I’m throwing these out. Open a snack shop outside the San Diego Zoo.
Needless to say, something else prevailed. Something along the lines of a cooler mind. It’s beginning to click. If you read one of my posts from the vicinity of 6 weeks ago, it’s likely that I was preparing myself for this exact thing. This week, it finally hit me. It’s going to be good.
And I know exactly what the fuck I’m doing. And that’s how it works. The struggle, sweethearts. Of course, in reality…I can only really give you my PG-13…else I’m worried you would worry about me. Soft, soft readers.
And it got me thinking…the things that were running through my mind before I started this project. Before I started reading the anvil on my face research. Before I went to New York. Before I started writing.
I got a phone call one day from a little production company. Actually, really big. Not only really big, but they’ve done some amazing stuff. You know what, fuck anonymity. It was Drew Barrymore’s company. And what got me going is that they produced a little flick called Donnie Darko. One thing led to another…to another. Yada, yada, yada…my phone rings, it’s their head of development.
Looking back, I have no idea why she called. I would never, ever call someone like me. But, I can tell you exactly WHY I got that call. The shit that comes out of my mouth…the shit I give these people in letters and on the phone has to spin their heads. And at the end of the day, they might brand me a fool…but they know I throw my stones on the table. That or they put me on the Hollywood blacklist.
I think back…and this line STILL makes me laugh. I told her that when the script was all said and done, actors will fight for these roles…and there will be 6 of them. Mind you, at the time, I was unproduced, unrepresented and uncredited. I told her I didn’t want to take it anywhere else because I only wanted to work with their company. Oh, and I was 23 years old. Wait. I almost forgot the kicker. Since I was still finishing my last script, I was asking her if I could PITCH the idea. As in…she would buy it from me BEFORE I WROTE A FUCKING WORD. I hadn’t even thought of actually starting to write it.
Wait, what was I saying? I take it back. I would most certainly call a fucker like me. If only to check sincerity…and sanity. I was VERY sincere. Maybe even partially sane.
I love myself.
…
But here’s the thing. As crazy as that sounds looking back, I can’t really say that I was a fool. Now, I have a long, long way to go before this script is done…before I send it out. Since that conversation, I’ve learned so much shit…you could fill the Nina, Pinta and half the Santa Maria with it. I know the do’s. I know the don’t…’s
And as green as I was then, what can I say? I have the same feeling that when it’s all said and done, maybe…just maybe…look the fuck out.
Initially, I gave myself till around January 15th to finish. That sounds about right. Though, the last thing I’ll ever do is rush. From here, it’s all downhill. Though, it never really is. I have two months. Two months that will also take me to Chicago to LA to New York to LA to Chicago to LA.
And after January 15th?
Might as well be another foolish adventure…chasing the little things born of closed eyes.
When I was 16, I used to go out for no reason. I’d drive along the streets, the coastline of my hometown. It’s laughable compared to the coastlines out here, but it was home. Home. That word still holds so much.
I get bottled up in the head and heart…and learned early on that it helped to get out and drive through some black, alone.
Hold that thought, memory intermission…
Remember that kid from the neighborhood? You know, the one NOBODY liked. Since severing him from the group would cause an uprising in the neighborhood contingent of mothers, a revolutionary role was born into late 80’s hoods.
The Guinea Pig. Ours held Coke in his mouth while we dumped Pop Rocks.
You know, to see if his head exploded. What?
There was always a kid with glasses who swore to God it wasn’t a myth. Everyone knows…you swear to God, and it’s case closed. So when Guinea Pig lived, we all pretended he was the coolest. But who really meant it? Sure as fuck wasn’t me.
Kids are cruel…
…
In college, I’d take off and drive the back farm roads of Central Illinois until road ran out. Often, I’d snap out and realize I was 60 miles off campus. It was great.
Then I moved to Los Angeles. The roads here are different. Shocker.
Despite all the shit I talk, this really is a gorgeous city. I don’t know how to explain it. Insert a profoundly resonant description that works for you. Then, I wont have to worry about whether or not you follow.
Fine, I’ll do it. Fucking brats.
Something along the lines of…romantic mysticism. That’s it! LA has got this romantic mysticism that’s difficult to convey, easy to talk shit about and impossible to turn your back on.
Let me tell you about my new route. I drive west on Sunset into Beverly Hills. This is always around midnight on weekdays. Usually once a week. Cars are sparse, thoughts rampant.
I head North on Coldwater Canyon and begin the slow climb. About 10 minutes later, there’s a famous little 2 way known as Mulholland Drive. Yes, it was also a movie. If you drive it, you could understand why it could be anything it ever wanted to be. It’s the top of the world. The peak between the two true valleys of Los Angeles. San Fernando and, well…whatever the one I live in is called. The Bev Hills, West Hollywood, Hollywood side. I should know.
But the lights of the two sides, from this high up...should I say mesmerizing? Hypnotic? Some day…come see.
When I first got here, I panicked. I wondered where I’d get lost. Sure as hell wasn’t gonna be at Blow parties and during blackouts. Ain’t my style. Anytime someone gets worked up when they get drunk or drugged, I feel like their asshole rubs off on me. Honestly.
I’m not in the mood to afford shit like that in this short life.
So…I can’t tell you which route goes down as the best in history. After all, many others will come. They all served different purposes...pulled me through different battles. I’m just glad I’ve got one I can trust…one I can rely on. You have no idea the importance.
…
I took a drive Monday night. It’s my good stuff. My really, really good stuff. It’s been a while since I’ve had it.
The head swing I go through in this process is at times, damaging. I know this. I knew it coming in. I’ll know it going out.
In case this is your first visit, I’ll bring you up to speed. I moved out here to write movies. Without dishing cliché-ridden splurge, it’s what I love…period. So it doesn’t bug me that 97% of this city is currently “working on a screenplay.” Though, that figure may be a bit ballooned. I’m aiming to conquer one of the most daunting industries in the world.
What’s your fucking point?
I’ll be fine. You know those people who show up in commercials telling the youth of America to follow their dreams? That if they work hard and dedicate themselves…anything can and will come true?
Gotcha! What about Nelson…the color-blind, lisp-stuttering Puerto Colombian growing up in Flint, Michigan?
Last time I heard, he wanted to be an astronaut.
Last time I checked, his book report was on Curious George…in the 11th Grade.
For Nelson, it’s not gonna happen. The difference between Nelson and me is that I am one of those people. What can I say? I grew into a stone browed, relentless, restless, fuck everybody in a whisper and woo them with a smile son of a bitch.
Plus, I know I spit shit that’s aching to get out…now.
Let me let you in on a little secret…This was my mindset for the past 6 weeks writing this hope to one day be a movie. It went a little something like this…
Refuse distributing, pussy, worthless, clever-limp, thoughtless, heartless piece of nothing. You put all your eggs into this basket? Where are you going with anything? I need to drink more. What are you doing with your life? 24 and you’re wasting it away. Save Bangled Tigers. Eat Bangled tigers. Engage in battle with Bangled Tigers. You just spent a month on 90 pages that would barely qualify to serve as a beat rag…90 times over. And then sixty more that…you’re a talent hack, cocksucker. Bullshitter. Move to Lebanon. Did she just pull the earring trick on me? Move to Swahili. Fuck her, I’m throwing these out. Open a snack shop outside the San Diego Zoo.
Needless to say, something else prevailed. Something along the lines of a cooler mind. It’s beginning to click. If you read one of my posts from the vicinity of 6 weeks ago, it’s likely that I was preparing myself for this exact thing. This week, it finally hit me. It’s going to be good.
And I know exactly what the fuck I’m doing. And that’s how it works. The struggle, sweethearts. Of course, in reality…I can only really give you my PG-13…else I’m worried you would worry about me. Soft, soft readers.
And it got me thinking…the things that were running through my mind before I started this project. Before I started reading the anvil on my face research. Before I went to New York. Before I started writing.
I got a phone call one day from a little production company. Actually, really big. Not only really big, but they’ve done some amazing stuff. You know what, fuck anonymity. It was Drew Barrymore’s company. And what got me going is that they produced a little flick called Donnie Darko. One thing led to another…to another. Yada, yada, yada…my phone rings, it’s their head of development.
Looking back, I have no idea why she called. I would never, ever call someone like me. But, I can tell you exactly WHY I got that call. The shit that comes out of my mouth…the shit I give these people in letters and on the phone has to spin their heads. And at the end of the day, they might brand me a fool…but they know I throw my stones on the table. That or they put me on the Hollywood blacklist.
I think back…and this line STILL makes me laugh. I told her that when the script was all said and done, actors will fight for these roles…and there will be 6 of them. Mind you, at the time, I was unproduced, unrepresented and uncredited. I told her I didn’t want to take it anywhere else because I only wanted to work with their company. Oh, and I was 23 years old. Wait. I almost forgot the kicker. Since I was still finishing my last script, I was asking her if I could PITCH the idea. As in…she would buy it from me BEFORE I WROTE A FUCKING WORD. I hadn’t even thought of actually starting to write it.
Wait, what was I saying? I take it back. I would most certainly call a fucker like me. If only to check sincerity…and sanity. I was VERY sincere. Maybe even partially sane.
I love myself.
…
But here’s the thing. As crazy as that sounds looking back, I can’t really say that I was a fool. Now, I have a long, long way to go before this script is done…before I send it out. Since that conversation, I’ve learned so much shit…you could fill the Nina, Pinta and half the Santa Maria with it. I know the do’s. I know the don’t…’s
And as green as I was then, what can I say? I have the same feeling that when it’s all said and done, maybe…just maybe…look the fuck out.
Initially, I gave myself till around January 15th to finish. That sounds about right. Though, the last thing I’ll ever do is rush. From here, it’s all downhill. Though, it never really is. I have two months. Two months that will also take me to Chicago to LA to New York to LA to Chicago to LA.
And after January 15th?
Might as well be another foolish adventure…chasing the little things born of closed eyes.
November 14, 2005
Still in Need of KY...
My apartment is under construction…
They’re pulling down the walls, re plastering the stairs, stripping and re-painting. Even when I worked, I still worked at home during the day, so the half dozen or so trabajadores and I have become quite close. They’re usually my alarm in the morning and during the day. Our relationships consist of my running through the courtyard, hands over my head, trying to shield myself from falling debris. They laugh. Of course, in Spanish, they laugh Ja, Ja, Ja, Ja. Everyone knows this.
But it’s still a pretty big mess. When they leave, they do their best to clean up, but there’s always something waiting behind. Like, for instance…rusted nails…all over the place.
And it got me wondering…why I do the things I do. Because there’s no fun in stepping on a rusted nail…or staple…or piece of plaster…or glass…or aluminum barbed wiring. No fun at all. And yet, when I do my laundry…or run to get the mail, I certainly pause to look back at my pile of shoes at the front door. Pumas, Nikes, Diesels, New Balance, Rainbows, Jonnie V’s, Kenny C’s. There’s usually a pair of socks nearby and a set of slippers that date back at least 4 December twenty-fives. So, let’s just say I have my options. Nevertheless, I walk outside my front door, daily…in bare feet. I wish I could tell you I step soft…that I watch carefully where I am going. But then, well…then I’d just be lying. And Santa ain’t making stops at little boys’ houses that tell lies this close to Christmas.
Yes, I still believe in Santa Claus. I’m 24.
I’m not a poorly educated man. I am well aware the dangers of Tetanus. I’ve heard fables of the drooling romanticism in a good case of Lockjaw. I know of the swirling atrocities to my well being that wait outside my courtyard. They see bare feet and get aroused in a way that only rusted nails can. If you’re a rusted nail, there is no greater reward in life than giving someone Tetanus. Everyone knows this as well.
Last night was something. Really, really something. I’m beginning to worry, slightly…about the social choices I tend to make. Last night, I opted to stay in, pen some magic. That’s always the aim going into a session, but it doesn’t always happen. Actually, it rarely happens. But it fucking happened last night. The kind of night where if I trusted you and told you everything, I would blush. I would feel vulnerable.
But anyway…back to my worries.
This town has a wild nightlife, and I had somewhat grown to miss it after spending my last 5 months at The Argyle. The last crazy night I spent out, my friend was “dating Lindsay Lohan.” To anyone who reads tabloid magazines, understand that I put heavy quotes around that for a reason. If you’re ever in a major city, struggling to get into a club…struggling to get a drink…struggling to get a table, try dropping that line. I’m dating Lindsay Lohan. Of course, it helps to have photos and headlines to back you up.
In La La land, drop a line like that and you get magically whisked away. But that’s what makes Los Angeles what it is. And let’s make one thing very clear…that’s not something you stake your pride on. It is what it is.
But I stayed in, opting not to re-live round two of such an adventure. That’s another thing about LA. You get over things real quick. At least this Thundercat seems to.
Motherfuck! I’m not feelin' it.
The problem is…I’m completely content. I’m not pissed off, not wound up, not want to serve roundhouse dick kicks to the unsuspecting public. Do I use that a lot…dick kicks? It just rolls off the tongue.
Hold on I have to run out. Cocktails…
Alright. Three hours later and 10 Jacks deeper, I’m feeling a little bit different. And don’t expect me to rant now. I don’t do that. I’m inspired enough without needing assistance from an outside source.
But I set out to write to something tonight…and have somewhat lost my way. Well, not really. It’s just that I wasn’t planning on a bar hopping-cocktail Sunday.
But do you ever get the feeling…at some point when life feels as if it has hit this stalemate…that something is going to happen. And it’s either going to be great or terrible. I’ve got that right now…and I’ve gotten that before. And what scares me is that it always comes true.
I’m not trying to spice up a post…that’s just what I’m feeling.
When one happens, don’t say I didn’t tell you so…
They’re pulling down the walls, re plastering the stairs, stripping and re-painting. Even when I worked, I still worked at home during the day, so the half dozen or so trabajadores and I have become quite close. They’re usually my alarm in the morning and during the day. Our relationships consist of my running through the courtyard, hands over my head, trying to shield myself from falling debris. They laugh. Of course, in Spanish, they laugh Ja, Ja, Ja, Ja. Everyone knows this.
But it’s still a pretty big mess. When they leave, they do their best to clean up, but there’s always something waiting behind. Like, for instance…rusted nails…all over the place.
And it got me wondering…why I do the things I do. Because there’s no fun in stepping on a rusted nail…or staple…or piece of plaster…or glass…or aluminum barbed wiring. No fun at all. And yet, when I do my laundry…or run to get the mail, I certainly pause to look back at my pile of shoes at the front door. Pumas, Nikes, Diesels, New Balance, Rainbows, Jonnie V’s, Kenny C’s. There’s usually a pair of socks nearby and a set of slippers that date back at least 4 December twenty-fives. So, let’s just say I have my options. Nevertheless, I walk outside my front door, daily…in bare feet. I wish I could tell you I step soft…that I watch carefully where I am going. But then, well…then I’d just be lying. And Santa ain’t making stops at little boys’ houses that tell lies this close to Christmas.
Yes, I still believe in Santa Claus. I’m 24.
I’m not a poorly educated man. I am well aware the dangers of Tetanus. I’ve heard fables of the drooling romanticism in a good case of Lockjaw. I know of the swirling atrocities to my well being that wait outside my courtyard. They see bare feet and get aroused in a way that only rusted nails can. If you’re a rusted nail, there is no greater reward in life than giving someone Tetanus. Everyone knows this as well.
Last night was something. Really, really something. I’m beginning to worry, slightly…about the social choices I tend to make. Last night, I opted to stay in, pen some magic. That’s always the aim going into a session, but it doesn’t always happen. Actually, it rarely happens. But it fucking happened last night. The kind of night where if I trusted you and told you everything, I would blush. I would feel vulnerable.
But anyway…back to my worries.
This town has a wild nightlife, and I had somewhat grown to miss it after spending my last 5 months at The Argyle. The last crazy night I spent out, my friend was “dating Lindsay Lohan.” To anyone who reads tabloid magazines, understand that I put heavy quotes around that for a reason. If you’re ever in a major city, struggling to get into a club…struggling to get a drink…struggling to get a table, try dropping that line. I’m dating Lindsay Lohan. Of course, it helps to have photos and headlines to back you up.
In La La land, drop a line like that and you get magically whisked away. But that’s what makes Los Angeles what it is. And let’s make one thing very clear…that’s not something you stake your pride on. It is what it is.
But I stayed in, opting not to re-live round two of such an adventure. That’s another thing about LA. You get over things real quick. At least this Thundercat seems to.
Motherfuck! I’m not feelin' it.
The problem is…I’m completely content. I’m not pissed off, not wound up, not want to serve roundhouse dick kicks to the unsuspecting public. Do I use that a lot…dick kicks? It just rolls off the tongue.
Hold on I have to run out. Cocktails…
Alright. Three hours later and 10 Jacks deeper, I’m feeling a little bit different. And don’t expect me to rant now. I don’t do that. I’m inspired enough without needing assistance from an outside source.
But I set out to write to something tonight…and have somewhat lost my way. Well, not really. It’s just that I wasn’t planning on a bar hopping-cocktail Sunday.
But do you ever get the feeling…at some point when life feels as if it has hit this stalemate…that something is going to happen. And it’s either going to be great or terrible. I’ve got that right now…and I’ve gotten that before. And what scares me is that it always comes true.
I’m not trying to spice up a post…that’s just what I’m feeling.
When one happens, don’t say I didn’t tell you so…
November 09, 2005
L.A. Rain and Anonomous Members of the Heavenly Host...
I don’t remember ever writing one of these while there was still daylight, so we’ll just have to wait and see how it goes.
Sorry I’ve neglected you…my readership of eight and a half. I’ve been away for a while. Been through a lot. Like a slave finally crossing into Yankee soil after an endless stretch on the Underground Railroad. Free at last, free at last…oh God almighty…free at last.
If you think that’s a terribly insensitive analogy…what a waste of energy.
It’s raining in LA. I just came back from spin class. Our teacher said she could feel the heaviness in the room. The depression. Live in So-Cal long enough, and you get used to such banter. Everything turns into a meditation.
Heaviness? Is that even a word? I know it is, but it certainly shouldn’t be. Especially because the words uttered from her mouth…the negative connotation that blew in with the rain was anything but. I wake up and hear the pattering on my air conditioner and smile. I feel the drops break against my face and soak them up. I sit here, speaking to you…surrounded by this bleak day and own nothing but my own content.
It’s a combination of a number of things. Floating things. The prospect of success…love…life unbound. The need to be overthrown by all. Only freedom liberates such feeling. So what’s next? I don’t know. Any number of good or terrible things.
But for you, I’m dry. And no abbreviation for the state of Kentucky is going to change that. Dry because I’m spending my currency elsewhere. That little project I talked shit about for so long. The one I claimed would launch me out of anonymity. Let’s break down my post Tower Bar life schedule…Monday thru Friday…on average…per 24 hours.
7 hours – Bizarre Dreams
2 hours – Internet tangents
1.5 hours – Shaping my girlish figure at the neighborhood Equinox
2 hours – Grove or Netflix
1.5 hours – 3 semi square, shower, ducking phone calls, masturbation, the occasional returned call
10 hours – Me and my computer. Me and my thoughts. Me and the same music playing over and over in the background. Snapping out of a trance every 54 minutes or after a scene, wondering who the hell I am…where the hell I was.
Where does that leave you, me…us? I’m just really focused on my career right now, and I don’t think it would be fair to try this. You don’t deserve anything less than an honest shot. I mean, come on…look at you. You’re amazing. In every way a guy could ever hope. And I hate to use this because it’s such a cliché…but it’s not you…it’s me. There are just parts of me that…haven’t healed. Parts of me that may never heal…and that’s not fair. So for now…I think it would be best if we just…you know.
Sucker.
I’m not breaking up. Isn’t it funny though…how we all use the same lines. Like there’s some instinctual rule governing the exact procedure in hurting someone. I guess funny depends on which side you’re on.
I’ve just got to get back into the swing of you and me. It’s been too long. Hopefully, you’ve noticed.
I’ll leave you with something…not because it’s exemplary…but because where else do you start but page 1???
**********
INT. NEW YORK PUBLIC LIBRARY
An old and LONELY MAN, 64, sits at an empty booth, finishing Moby Dick. He’s wearing an old white suit over a yellow shirt. There’s a faint coffee stain on his lapel. It’s possible he’s senile.
He closes the book and walks out.
EXT. NEW YORK CITY - BROADWAY & 34TH - DAY
Late Summer, the Lonely Man walks down Broadway.
Blaring engines roar. A wave of police cars speed North. Just as they pass, a wave of ambulances head South. The Lonely Man stops in the middle, watching as they both cut waves through the traffic.
EXT. WEST 4TH STREET COURTS - DAY
An intense pick up basketball game. A large crowd is gathered. The Lonely Man stands to watch, his face pressed against the chain link fence.
Top of the key, the star of the court surveys the lane. An amazing talent, talking it up as fast as his first step. Your mom, your wife, my kids.
He beats his man with a blinding step. Just as he goes into the air, the defender catches up, slamming him to the ground with a hard, cheap foul.
The teams, the stands...all erupt into a terrible brawl at half-court. The Lonely Man departs.
EXT. WASHINGTON SQUARE PARK - DAY
The Lonely Man paces through the park, slowing beside an outlandish PREACHER who stumbles gallantly through a speech.
Few listen. Most pass through without notice.
PREACHER
Steer clear the darkness of temptation. For I have seen the dawning of a poison horizon. We are strong and must now and forever remain unwavering against the destruction of eev-ill.
The Lonely Man continues on.
EXT. NEW YORK CITY - FINANCIAL DISTRICT - DAY
The Lonely Man walks past the stock exchange.
He comes to a watching stop at a newspaper vendor, where a WOMAN with a Stroller waits in line. A twenty dollar bill falls from her purse and to the ground. A MAN waiting behind her tactfully slides his shoe over the bill. When she leaves, he picks up the bill and puts it into his pocket.
The Lonely Man looks on with a heartbreaking disappointment before his glare fixes to the cover of the New York Post: Is Our City Lost?
We draw close on his face as he’s carried into a trance.
FLASHBACK - SATURATED GRAY - SERIES OF RANDOM SCENES
Conveinance store robbery and gunfire...
A crooked landlord burning down a low income highrise...
Crowds of people. No one speaks. No one Smiles. No one stops to help. This is New York City. This is our world. This is Now...
**********
It needs a bit of smoothing, which will come in time. And speaking of been done before…eventually, that Preacher has got to go. It’s tough to be sexy the second time through. I want to put the open up now to show you what it will look like in 50 days…when it’s finished.
And it’s not quite as sincere as I let on.
Guess the Lonely Man and win a prize…really. I’ll think of something.
Sorry I’ve neglected you…my readership of eight and a half. I’ve been away for a while. Been through a lot. Like a slave finally crossing into Yankee soil after an endless stretch on the Underground Railroad. Free at last, free at last…oh God almighty…free at last.
If you think that’s a terribly insensitive analogy…what a waste of energy.
It’s raining in LA. I just came back from spin class. Our teacher said she could feel the heaviness in the room. The depression. Live in So-Cal long enough, and you get used to such banter. Everything turns into a meditation.
Heaviness? Is that even a word? I know it is, but it certainly shouldn’t be. Especially because the words uttered from her mouth…the negative connotation that blew in with the rain was anything but. I wake up and hear the pattering on my air conditioner and smile. I feel the drops break against my face and soak them up. I sit here, speaking to you…surrounded by this bleak day and own nothing but my own content.
It’s a combination of a number of things. Floating things. The prospect of success…love…life unbound. The need to be overthrown by all. Only freedom liberates such feeling. So what’s next? I don’t know. Any number of good or terrible things.
But for you, I’m dry. And no abbreviation for the state of Kentucky is going to change that. Dry because I’m spending my currency elsewhere. That little project I talked shit about for so long. The one I claimed would launch me out of anonymity. Let’s break down my post Tower Bar life schedule…Monday thru Friday…on average…per 24 hours.
7 hours – Bizarre Dreams
2 hours – Internet tangents
1.5 hours – Shaping my girlish figure at the neighborhood Equinox
2 hours – Grove or Netflix
1.5 hours – 3 semi square, shower, ducking phone calls, masturbation, the occasional returned call
10 hours – Me and my computer. Me and my thoughts. Me and the same music playing over and over in the background. Snapping out of a trance every 54 minutes or after a scene, wondering who the hell I am…where the hell I was.
Where does that leave you, me…us? I’m just really focused on my career right now, and I don’t think it would be fair to try this. You don’t deserve anything less than an honest shot. I mean, come on…look at you. You’re amazing. In every way a guy could ever hope. And I hate to use this because it’s such a cliché…but it’s not you…it’s me. There are just parts of me that…haven’t healed. Parts of me that may never heal…and that’s not fair. So for now…I think it would be best if we just…you know.
Sucker.
I’m not breaking up. Isn’t it funny though…how we all use the same lines. Like there’s some instinctual rule governing the exact procedure in hurting someone. I guess funny depends on which side you’re on.
I’ve just got to get back into the swing of you and me. It’s been too long. Hopefully, you’ve noticed.
I’ll leave you with something…not because it’s exemplary…but because where else do you start but page 1???
**********
INT. NEW YORK PUBLIC LIBRARY
An old and LONELY MAN, 64, sits at an empty booth, finishing Moby Dick. He’s wearing an old white suit over a yellow shirt. There’s a faint coffee stain on his lapel. It’s possible he’s senile.
He closes the book and walks out.
EXT. NEW YORK CITY - BROADWAY & 34TH - DAY
Late Summer, the Lonely Man walks down Broadway.
Blaring engines roar. A wave of police cars speed North. Just as they pass, a wave of ambulances head South. The Lonely Man stops in the middle, watching as they both cut waves through the traffic.
EXT. WEST 4TH STREET COURTS - DAY
An intense pick up basketball game. A large crowd is gathered. The Lonely Man stands to watch, his face pressed against the chain link fence.
Top of the key, the star of the court surveys the lane. An amazing talent, talking it up as fast as his first step. Your mom, your wife, my kids.
He beats his man with a blinding step. Just as he goes into the air, the defender catches up, slamming him to the ground with a hard, cheap foul.
The teams, the stands...all erupt into a terrible brawl at half-court. The Lonely Man departs.
EXT. WASHINGTON SQUARE PARK - DAY
The Lonely Man paces through the park, slowing beside an outlandish PREACHER who stumbles gallantly through a speech.
Few listen. Most pass through without notice.
PREACHER
Steer clear the darkness of temptation. For I have seen the dawning of a poison horizon. We are strong and must now and forever remain unwavering against the destruction of eev-ill.
The Lonely Man continues on.
EXT. NEW YORK CITY - FINANCIAL DISTRICT - DAY
The Lonely Man walks past the stock exchange.
He comes to a watching stop at a newspaper vendor, where a WOMAN with a Stroller waits in line. A twenty dollar bill falls from her purse and to the ground. A MAN waiting behind her tactfully slides his shoe over the bill. When she leaves, he picks up the bill and puts it into his pocket.
The Lonely Man looks on with a heartbreaking disappointment before his glare fixes to the cover of the New York Post: Is Our City Lost?
We draw close on his face as he’s carried into a trance.
FLASHBACK - SATURATED GRAY - SERIES OF RANDOM SCENES
Conveinance store robbery and gunfire...
A crooked landlord burning down a low income highrise...
Crowds of people. No one speaks. No one Smiles. No one stops to help. This is New York City. This is our world. This is Now...
**********
It needs a bit of smoothing, which will come in time. And speaking of been done before…eventually, that Preacher has got to go. It’s tough to be sexy the second time through. I want to put the open up now to show you what it will look like in 50 days…when it’s finished.
And it’s not quite as sincere as I let on.
Guess the Lonely Man and win a prize…really. I’ll think of something.
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