Every two or three days, I reach down and steal a sip of water from the sea I’m sailing. It’s not too salty to drink. Truth, it’s quite refreshing. The taste is distinct and mysterious, simultaneously. Either it tastes like brilliance with a twist of lemon…or insanity and old boot. And that’s fine. I’ll take either over whatever else is out there.
…
I’ve lost motivation. Stop, that’s absurdly false. I can’t even follow it with an open beat for fear you’ll get the wrong idea.
So let’s clarify…
My motivation is in danger of facing change.
I came to this town with a single thing in mind. Doog Hows Hollywood…sans Vinny the dipshit, obviously. If you don’t know what that means, stick around. I shouldn’t have to explain, but I will.
It meant packing Champaign, unpacking Los Angeles and taking Hollywood’s keys at the ripe age of 23. Pass off a script, watch it take off. Direct the next with a destination somewhere in the vicinity of worldwide gravitas.
It’s a dangerous thing, managing an ego this excessive.
In three months, I turn 25. That means 1/8 of my life has passed. 25 years stored in a heart and head that selectively release in the middle of the night. And of all the things I could be worried about at this stage of my life and career, the most troubling is that Doog Hows status expires at 26. Hopefully by now, you’ve come to realize I seldom back statements with anything even in the ballpark of resembling anything even in the realm of being up for consideration of qualifying as a concrete statement.
You prefer quaint? What this R Smith says, goes.
Here’s the problem…
I can’t be good. It doesn’t “work” with the way I was made. I need to be smarter, faster, sharper, deeper, quicker and stop fucking sexier than anyone who even dares mate words on white.
And I need it 10 years sooner. That’s now…
Fuck the walls. Fuck the dues. Pick up stamp Doog Hows and cut your own path.
Do I sound worried? You know better.
…
Oh, come on. You honestly missed it? Get better at life…
Doogie Howser.
May 31, 2006
May 24, 2006
Kicking Down Doors, The Prequel...
How do you wrap a last goodbye when you know for sure? It is. Careful what you wish…or enjoy stage fright from on top of the Empire State.
No.
We’ll cut a deal. Don’t ask of me to give reason, you wont be insulted with rhyme. I’m not that blend of poet.
Next to you, our employers, there was nothing we held more dear. Even watching you shatter straws, every day our last…season. One line in, I’ve caved.
No time for rehearsal. I know you can hear me…
Why we came, here it comes, the long story and short. To dust rust for the Heavens, I’ll be obligated to report. About our first world in danger of collapsing into sorrow. We couldn’t bear that day find you, or allow it tomorrow.
So much to say, never enough time…
Goodbye Big City. Goodbye lights, seasons. Goodbye your tragedy, hope, beauty, confusion and chaos. Your escapes. Goodbye your faults and memories. Friends. Home. Hot, cold, the style you parry to let life unfold.
I can leave nothing behind except a wave and blown kiss. But I’ll trade the end of this fable for the hurt of everything we’ll miss.
To a world need mending, a cavalry rode in from above. And four angels rendered helpless, in the end, found love.
Goodbye. Goodbye. Forever goodbye.
No.
We’ll cut a deal. Don’t ask of me to give reason, you wont be insulted with rhyme. I’m not that blend of poet.
Next to you, our employers, there was nothing we held more dear. Even watching you shatter straws, every day our last…season. One line in, I’ve caved.
No time for rehearsal. I know you can hear me…
Why we came, here it comes, the long story and short. To dust rust for the Heavens, I’ll be obligated to report. About our first world in danger of collapsing into sorrow. We couldn’t bear that day find you, or allow it tomorrow.
So much to say, never enough time…
Goodbye Big City. Goodbye lights, seasons. Goodbye your tragedy, hope, beauty, confusion and chaos. Your escapes. Goodbye your faults and memories. Friends. Home. Hot, cold, the style you parry to let life unfold.
I can leave nothing behind except a wave and blown kiss. But I’ll trade the end of this fable for the hurt of everything we’ll miss.
To a world need mending, a cavalry rode in from above. And four angels rendered helpless, in the end, found love.
Goodbye. Goodbye. Forever goodbye.
May 14, 2006
Corner of Hell...
I was at Molly Malone’s on Friday and Saturday this weekend. It’s a great little dive, Irish style. It’s not that I go often. Actually, you can chalk these visits up as 3 and 4 in the past two years. Not much frequency at all.
Friday night, the incomparable Travis Howard lit the stage and that little place in my heart responsible for briefly falling in love with Memphis. Mind you, I realize 4 Guinness deep and 15 minutes to midnight are hardly qualifiers for an inspired 20-hour drive. Being the Earl of Good Judgment I sometimes can be, I holstered my lead foot and remained in the city of angels as he finished his set. In the spirit of circumcising long stories, kid can play.
Saturday, I made an afternoon pop in to celebrate the thrashing of USC Film School softballers. Several weeks ago, I was acquired off the free agent wire by the UCLA team of similar denomination. Since I took a course in Westwood upon arrival, only partial ringer status can be applied. This former D-1 college baller is now a proud part of the Bad News Bruins.
And this is all relevant, partially…somewhat.
Molly Malone’s sits on the corner of 6th and Fairfax. Let’s just say, for all intensive purposes that 6th Street is the line dividing Heaven from Hell in Los Angeles. It helps me paint an irresponsible picture.
Now that we’re clear, I can quickly sputter…
On the corner of hell, there’s a 99 (where the fuck is the key on my keyboard) Cent Store. When I initially drove past, I had a single digit flashback…the day R. Smith lost his Everything Under a Buck Store virginity. It was in fabled Vernon Hills, Illinois. For all you non-Midwesterners, Vernon Hills is the human equivalent to the magical Land of Oz.
That’s when it happened. I walked through the semi-automatic, selectively operable doors and realized…
This was the dumbest fucking idea I had ever been a part of. I was 9…roughly. Okay, it’s a guesstimate. I expected to find flammable and potential eye-gouging Halloween costumes rejected by the Safe Parenting Association of America. I hoped to swoop in on decadent meat and cheese platters that had fallen victim to Customs code 134 A. I crossed fingers for play at home kits on how to wage discreet yet substantial campaigns in chemical warfare.
Where were they?
Instead, people were shopping. And for regular shit! If a box if Ziploc bags cost 3.99, you could now get a box that was ¼ the size for under a dollar.
Revolutionary, indeed.
Wait! Certainly, a mistake had been made. Surely, an explanation was in order. Where were the specials on heat seeking darts? Or Ebola-infected pet monkeys? Surely, someone could guide me to the section that housed the handheld lasers and ninja stars? What about the cosmic dildos???
They didn’t exist. They never did…and as I would soon discover, they never would. Although the next line you read doesn’t deserve caps…or singularity, I’m going to say it anyway…
Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to THE significant turning point of my life.
…
On Friday, as I drove past this particular corner of hell, laughter nearly crashed my car into a parked Mercedes S 550. On Saturday, a familiar notion crept through my mind…if only I could turn back the hands of time.
Shop Less Than a Buck Store on the corner of hell was flying a banner. So elegant was the black lettering over a yellow background. So intriguing also, were the scattered brown stains that heightened the invitation of the sign’s appearance…
Looking back, it’s difficult to tell if the stains were a stylistic choice. Perhaps a disgruntled vagrant had taken a shit in his hand and projected a contribution. Because I am ingrained with journalistic integrity, it’s absolutely necessary that I examine all angles of logic.
…
Mother’s Day Headquarters. That’s what the sign read. If only I knew in time.
Now, tonight, I can only dream of the day where my mother opens her heart enough to forgive a son who has been ill schooled in displaying gratitude.
May Shop Less Than A Buck boldly make this an annual declaration.
May I one day forgive myself…
Friday night, the incomparable Travis Howard lit the stage and that little place in my heart responsible for briefly falling in love with Memphis. Mind you, I realize 4 Guinness deep and 15 minutes to midnight are hardly qualifiers for an inspired 20-hour drive. Being the Earl of Good Judgment I sometimes can be, I holstered my lead foot and remained in the city of angels as he finished his set. In the spirit of circumcising long stories, kid can play.
Saturday, I made an afternoon pop in to celebrate the thrashing of USC Film School softballers. Several weeks ago, I was acquired off the free agent wire by the UCLA team of similar denomination. Since I took a course in Westwood upon arrival, only partial ringer status can be applied. This former D-1 college baller is now a proud part of the Bad News Bruins.
And this is all relevant, partially…somewhat.
Molly Malone’s sits on the corner of 6th and Fairfax. Let’s just say, for all intensive purposes that 6th Street is the line dividing Heaven from Hell in Los Angeles. It helps me paint an irresponsible picture.
Now that we’re clear, I can quickly sputter…
On the corner of hell, there’s a 99 (where the fuck is the key on my keyboard) Cent Store. When I initially drove past, I had a single digit flashback…the day R. Smith lost his Everything Under a Buck Store virginity. It was in fabled Vernon Hills, Illinois. For all you non-Midwesterners, Vernon Hills is the human equivalent to the magical Land of Oz.
That’s when it happened. I walked through the semi-automatic, selectively operable doors and realized…
This was the dumbest fucking idea I had ever been a part of. I was 9…roughly. Okay, it’s a guesstimate. I expected to find flammable and potential eye-gouging Halloween costumes rejected by the Safe Parenting Association of America. I hoped to swoop in on decadent meat and cheese platters that had fallen victim to Customs code 134 A. I crossed fingers for play at home kits on how to wage discreet yet substantial campaigns in chemical warfare.
Where were they?
Instead, people were shopping. And for regular shit! If a box if Ziploc bags cost 3.99, you could now get a box that was ¼ the size for under a dollar.
Revolutionary, indeed.
Wait! Certainly, a mistake had been made. Surely, an explanation was in order. Where were the specials on heat seeking darts? Or Ebola-infected pet monkeys? Surely, someone could guide me to the section that housed the handheld lasers and ninja stars? What about the cosmic dildos???
They didn’t exist. They never did…and as I would soon discover, they never would. Although the next line you read doesn’t deserve caps…or singularity, I’m going to say it anyway…
Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to THE significant turning point of my life.
…
On Friday, as I drove past this particular corner of hell, laughter nearly crashed my car into a parked Mercedes S 550. On Saturday, a familiar notion crept through my mind…if only I could turn back the hands of time.
Shop Less Than a Buck Store on the corner of hell was flying a banner. So elegant was the black lettering over a yellow background. So intriguing also, were the scattered brown stains that heightened the invitation of the sign’s appearance…
Looking back, it’s difficult to tell if the stains were a stylistic choice. Perhaps a disgruntled vagrant had taken a shit in his hand and projected a contribution. Because I am ingrained with journalistic integrity, it’s absolutely necessary that I examine all angles of logic.
…
Mother’s Day Headquarters. That’s what the sign read. If only I knew in time.
Now, tonight, I can only dream of the day where my mother opens her heart enough to forgive a son who has been ill schooled in displaying gratitude.
May Shop Less Than A Buck boldly make this an annual declaration.
May I one day forgive myself…
May 02, 2006
Mr. Next Door...
I come home on a Sunday night, a Monday afternoon, Tuesday evening to find that the Sunday paper still sits on my doorstep. This building is divided into 16 apartments. After living here for nearly two years, I know the names of 5 tenants. For those of you scoring at home, that’s a conversion percentage just over 30. Sad, either the state of my being or the state of this world.
I share stairs with an older gentleman. These stairs divide our two apartments…A and B. Estimation leads me to believe he tips the scale at 80 and 60. Years and pounds, respectively. Let’s call him…Felix. Felix has somehow convinced the L.A. Times route runners to hit our shared Holloway nook once a week. Sunday. I fail to see how this could be profitable on any level for the Times. Maybe for Felix, in his piteous state, this is a courtesy they happily extend.
Doubt it? Yeah, you and me both. Roll with it.
Sometimes, he’ll go out of town (slip into a pre-determined, self-medicated coma) and kindly slide a note under my door. “Out of town. Paper is yours if you want it. Enjoy.” It’s a nice gesture, one that involuntarily tucks itself into the back of my mind.
It’s the foolish things I never forget.
Other days, he’ll knock. This is rare. I always know it’s him from the distinctive lack of trauma he exerts upon my wooden door. The last instance, he shamefully asked if I would do him the great favor of getting his mail. When I opened the box, it was stuffed so tight a crowbar was nearly appropriate. He hadn’t walked the fifteen steps of our courtyard for weeks. I came to his door with my arms full and he spilled it. He hadn’t had the strength or faith to make it without collapsing…
I told him I’m always right next door…that I’m always a knock away if he needed anything. Anything. And…I think I was even sincere.
The next week, I found him sitting on the ground, halfway between his door and mailbox. He was spent. In a mess of sucking air and spitting words, he managed to share the uplifting news that he had fired his doctor and was feeling much better. Of course, any up-lift I had experienced instantly deflated when the visuals came rushing in. Looking down on him in that moment, I realized this was a man I could literally lift above my head and snap in two. It’s not possible for me to imagine a walking man in worse shape than this one.
Felix has been ill. Quite. When I first moved in, he carted an oxygen tank everywhere he went. Its old wheels would scream pitches to rupture eardrums as they hit revolution danger zones. I’m sure it bothered some of the tenants. Not this one. It afforded me prep time, albeit brief, for our impending conversations.
When you speak to a man that can barley take in enough sustainable oxygen to survive, KNOW immediately that you are destined to Shepard that and every conversation the two of you will ever have. I’m good with words, but speak to a dying man greater than 50 years your elder and also KNOW, take every drop of help you can get.
…
It’s Monday, eight minutes before midnight and that paper is still sitting outside his door. This tune is hardly fresh. Actually, it plays quite often around these parts. I sit here in my darkened apartment and let the melody fill my mind.
I think about the frailty of his life, the invincibility of mine and determine that reality falls somewhere between.
I look at the white wall separating my world from his and I wonder. What will the song sound like when I remember, long after Felix is gone, that his Sunday paper is actually being read on a Sunday?
I bet I’ll laugh. No, I’m sure of it.
I share stairs with an older gentleman. These stairs divide our two apartments…A and B. Estimation leads me to believe he tips the scale at 80 and 60. Years and pounds, respectively. Let’s call him…Felix. Felix has somehow convinced the L.A. Times route runners to hit our shared Holloway nook once a week. Sunday. I fail to see how this could be profitable on any level for the Times. Maybe for Felix, in his piteous state, this is a courtesy they happily extend.
Doubt it? Yeah, you and me both. Roll with it.
Sometimes, he’ll go out of town (slip into a pre-determined, self-medicated coma) and kindly slide a note under my door. “Out of town. Paper is yours if you want it. Enjoy.” It’s a nice gesture, one that involuntarily tucks itself into the back of my mind.
It’s the foolish things I never forget.
Other days, he’ll knock. This is rare. I always know it’s him from the distinctive lack of trauma he exerts upon my wooden door. The last instance, he shamefully asked if I would do him the great favor of getting his mail. When I opened the box, it was stuffed so tight a crowbar was nearly appropriate. He hadn’t walked the fifteen steps of our courtyard for weeks. I came to his door with my arms full and he spilled it. He hadn’t had the strength or faith to make it without collapsing…
I told him I’m always right next door…that I’m always a knock away if he needed anything. Anything. And…I think I was even sincere.
The next week, I found him sitting on the ground, halfway between his door and mailbox. He was spent. In a mess of sucking air and spitting words, he managed to share the uplifting news that he had fired his doctor and was feeling much better. Of course, any up-lift I had experienced instantly deflated when the visuals came rushing in. Looking down on him in that moment, I realized this was a man I could literally lift above my head and snap in two. It’s not possible for me to imagine a walking man in worse shape than this one.
Felix has been ill. Quite. When I first moved in, he carted an oxygen tank everywhere he went. Its old wheels would scream pitches to rupture eardrums as they hit revolution danger zones. I’m sure it bothered some of the tenants. Not this one. It afforded me prep time, albeit brief, for our impending conversations.
When you speak to a man that can barley take in enough sustainable oxygen to survive, KNOW immediately that you are destined to Shepard that and every conversation the two of you will ever have. I’m good with words, but speak to a dying man greater than 50 years your elder and also KNOW, take every drop of help you can get.
…
It’s Monday, eight minutes before midnight and that paper is still sitting outside his door. This tune is hardly fresh. Actually, it plays quite often around these parts. I sit here in my darkened apartment and let the melody fill my mind.
I think about the frailty of his life, the invincibility of mine and determine that reality falls somewhere between.
I look at the white wall separating my world from his and I wonder. What will the song sound like when I remember, long after Felix is gone, that his Sunday paper is actually being read on a Sunday?
I bet I’ll laugh. No, I’m sure of it.
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