I stayed in all of last week…mostly.
Certainly though, all this weekend, teaching words to dance brilliance around my not so modest foray of a script. I’m deep, deep in it. Lately, I’ve been carrying a heavy walk and talk. Draw what you will from such a statement. I’m opting out of an explanation.
…
Endless bottles of 32 oz. Gatorade stand scattered about the battlefield I call an apartment. 10 FOR 10 at my neighborhood 24-hour Pavilions. It’s flowing like a bountiful Egyptian tributary here at 8736 Holloway. Of course, you don’t have to buy 10. They could just as well place a sticker, “Gatorade for a buck. No need to buy an ass-load.” It can’t be helped. I HAVE to buy 10, as if I’m somehow pulling double reversal…so that I may some day bring the Pavilions regime to its knees.
I bore easily. It’s either that, or I’ve developed a serious case of ADD…even though I don’t believe in AD fucking D. Again, point of reference.
As I paced the grounds of my palace, I found three Gatorade bottles, each 1/3 full. I’ll be frank in stating I’m no mathematician. Truth be told, I think it was 3rd grade when I peaked. When the early stuff was the only thing on my plate, I was given a special book and a special class of one. I remember clearly, sitting with Miss Humm one day after school working out problems. She pulled her glasses from a soft, “should I roll the dice on my tenure and risk becoming a social outcast to breed with this soon to be stallion,” face. I remember it clearly. That was EXACTLY what I was thinking. The fundamental principles of early sexual investment. What?
No advances were made. Instead, she opted for the path of professionalism. Though, there was one remark I remember clearly from that afternoon. “How are you doing this? You’re getting these faster than I am.” I was on my way to becoming the next Bobby Fisher. All I needed was an abusive, alcoholic father…a broken home…and nowhere to turn but the mean streets.
After realizing I had none of above elements working in my favor, I moved on. Not long after, I remember getting REALLY into playground kickball. After that, I developed an obsession for grilled cheese sandwich and chicken noodle soup Wednesdays at the Sheridan School cafeteria.
Fifteen years later, I’m in West Hollywood, putting my pen to the movies...or, at least on my way. Though I can’t pinpoint the factors of grade school responsible for my landing on the West Coast, I’m here now…tangenting wildly as usual. What else matters?
…
Gatorade, fucking taste wizards. When was the moment exactly? The moment they decided to roll out the insanity carpet, creating the force of X-Factor. Without a doubt, hands down, THE most dangerous taste mating since the French roll smeared with wasabi and banana paste exploded on the late-Summer/early-Autumn scene, 2005. Seriously, who could forget?
The X-Factors have revolutionized the Gatorade field, standing above any other unleashed flavor of my lifetime. These lethal blends were strewn about my living quarters. On my desk sat Orange&Tropical Fruit. On my kitchen counter, Fruit Punch&Berry. In the fridge, Lemon Lime&Strawberry. Each bottle had 1/3 of its lifeblood still flowing.
That’s when it happened. I grabbed all three and lined them up on my coffee table. It was at that moment I could sense an approaching date with destiny. Again, let me stress…in each bottle remained equivalent amounts. I could have measured them to the last drop. Certainly, THIS meant something.
I lit a candle and said a prayer for the tenants resting peacefully at the corner of Holloway and Hancock. For I was a mad scientist ready to embark on a forbidden and uncharted journey. 6 flavors, varying temperatures, one small venue. It was in that moment I made a commitment…to progress, to fearlessness, to vision.
I lifted the two X-Factors that flanked the center, held my breath, held it some more…and poured…
Nothing happened. Not a thing.
Or perhaps the actual result was far too extreme to speak of…
Either way, I had myself some Internet sex and got back to work.
February 28, 2006
February 24, 2006
What's Eating Gilbert Grape? The Sequel...
To all my people past and present in Champaign, Illinois. This one's well overdue.
Happy 22nd, Frank. But first, let's look back to your 20th...shall we?
Hit "The Cody Link."
<------------------------------
Happy 22nd, Frank. But first, let's look back to your 20th...shall we?
Hit "The Cody Link."
<------------------------------
February 21, 2006
PB & J Sammiches...
I would like to offer happy trails and good luck wishes to an honorary charter member of Team Smith, Jason Anderson, who is now Padre. No, not a daddy…
Come to think of it, for accuracy, let us stick to provable statements.
Jason Anderson is now a Padre of the San Diego variety.
Can I finally say, again…the New York Yankees are about as destructive and evil to the game of baseball as the aforementioned J-Train was to the cumulative GPA of the University of Illinois Baseball House, fall, 2002.
You’re right, that’s an inside statement. Since it would pain me to segregate darling readers…
If that semester bore a love child, its name would be Saddama Bin Hussein.
Oh, sorry Conroy. That Yankee thing…I didn’t say that.
…
Lately, my dreams have been almost completely dominated by episodes of drunk driving. A reaper in a Chevy, that’s me. I actually STILL have friends who claim they're better at handling the wheel post tipping intoxicants for the better part of an evening. Because the part of my brain responsible for logic isn’t an ice cream dildo, I fail to invest in such claims.
In my dreams, I’m a hit and run specialist. Weeks ago, I would smash other cars at blistering high speeds and drive off relatively unharmed as they shouted obscenities through smashed windows. It was quite unlikely they were anything but relatively QUITE harmed. Such is fucking life. Like I have the time in my dreams to stop and check up on every person whose death I likely deal.
Yesterday, I mowed down 3 Golden Girl look-a-likes as they were crossing the street in what looked to be Edenton, North Carolina. The fourth…you know, the little sparkplug…she leapt out of harm's way at the last second. This morning, I watched patiently as my wiper cycle cleared the Westminster Club’s 2006 “Best in Show” Bull Terrier off my windshield. Seriously. I saw a picture online the night before. It was definitely him.
The latter entered me in a high-speed police chase that was interrupted…at its peak, of course…by the sun as it sliced its way through my blinds.
Either way, I wake up to the relief of not having to deal with a laundry list of criminal charges. Been there, done that. Fuck Folgers. I kick off my sheets and roll.
…
I need to enter myself into a wildly destructive relationship. I need to slip into the dark underbelly of crime that runs through the city of Los Angeles. I need to pick up a painful and harsh addiction.
My days and nights have blended to a mesh. My weeks, my months. I pick up sleep when it’s required. Sometimes at night, sometimes during the day. I kick my own ass at the gym to burn off something that would otherwise build until I began eating my own arms.
Fuck! Here’s the thing about being a writer. It’s this craving, this itch to scratch. This need to say something, anything. Other than that, all I want to do with my life is eat PB&J sammiches. Still, I refrain. After all, this is Los Angeles. I can’t be rolling through tubs of Skippy. Talk about self-destruction.
…
Let’s talk about our relationship for a moment. After all, I think it’s important. I want you to know where we stand.
I’ve been cheating, again. The warning signs were apparent. Infrequent posts, the distancing. The cold in our kisses. Hell, we haven’t “made love” in 22 days. Yes, those quotation marks hold significance.
You deserve nothing less than the truth. How lovely, it’s what I exclusively deal…
Wait, that’s a lie.
I’ve been with someone else. Someone I’ve been talking about for many weeks. Lately, things have heated up…considerably. I hate to be harsh, but sometimes it’s the only recipe for healing. Today, I had the day off. We fucked all day. Truth be told, we haven’t stopped fucking for the past ten days…
On counters and floors, against walls and under water, in public and on sandy beaches. It’s been endless, profound, poetic and brilliant. I left a steamy session to drop this note. When I’m finished, a steamy session awaits…likely going late into the night.
Don’t be stung, or hurt, or bitten. Don’t feel rejected. At the moment, you may find it difficult to realize, but it’s nothing more than a link in the procedural chain.
Back to my darling, my tentative, “Saint Will.” Should be able to push through to finish by the beginning of March. Or middle…or late…but soon.
What else would I be talking about?
Come to think of it, for accuracy, let us stick to provable statements.
Jason Anderson is now a Padre of the San Diego variety.
Can I finally say, again…the New York Yankees are about as destructive and evil to the game of baseball as the aforementioned J-Train was to the cumulative GPA of the University of Illinois Baseball House, fall, 2002.
You’re right, that’s an inside statement. Since it would pain me to segregate darling readers…
If that semester bore a love child, its name would be Saddama Bin Hussein.
Oh, sorry Conroy. That Yankee thing…I didn’t say that.
…
Lately, my dreams have been almost completely dominated by episodes of drunk driving. A reaper in a Chevy, that’s me. I actually STILL have friends who claim they're better at handling the wheel post tipping intoxicants for the better part of an evening. Because the part of my brain responsible for logic isn’t an ice cream dildo, I fail to invest in such claims.
In my dreams, I’m a hit and run specialist. Weeks ago, I would smash other cars at blistering high speeds and drive off relatively unharmed as they shouted obscenities through smashed windows. It was quite unlikely they were anything but relatively QUITE harmed. Such is fucking life. Like I have the time in my dreams to stop and check up on every person whose death I likely deal.
Yesterday, I mowed down 3 Golden Girl look-a-likes as they were crossing the street in what looked to be Edenton, North Carolina. The fourth…you know, the little sparkplug…she leapt out of harm's way at the last second. This morning, I watched patiently as my wiper cycle cleared the Westminster Club’s 2006 “Best in Show” Bull Terrier off my windshield. Seriously. I saw a picture online the night before. It was definitely him.
The latter entered me in a high-speed police chase that was interrupted…at its peak, of course…by the sun as it sliced its way through my blinds.
Either way, I wake up to the relief of not having to deal with a laundry list of criminal charges. Been there, done that. Fuck Folgers. I kick off my sheets and roll.
…
I need to enter myself into a wildly destructive relationship. I need to slip into the dark underbelly of crime that runs through the city of Los Angeles. I need to pick up a painful and harsh addiction.
My days and nights have blended to a mesh. My weeks, my months. I pick up sleep when it’s required. Sometimes at night, sometimes during the day. I kick my own ass at the gym to burn off something that would otherwise build until I began eating my own arms.
Fuck! Here’s the thing about being a writer. It’s this craving, this itch to scratch. This need to say something, anything. Other than that, all I want to do with my life is eat PB&J sammiches. Still, I refrain. After all, this is Los Angeles. I can’t be rolling through tubs of Skippy. Talk about self-destruction.
…
Let’s talk about our relationship for a moment. After all, I think it’s important. I want you to know where we stand.
I’ve been cheating, again. The warning signs were apparent. Infrequent posts, the distancing. The cold in our kisses. Hell, we haven’t “made love” in 22 days. Yes, those quotation marks hold significance.
You deserve nothing less than the truth. How lovely, it’s what I exclusively deal…
Wait, that’s a lie.
I’ve been with someone else. Someone I’ve been talking about for many weeks. Lately, things have heated up…considerably. I hate to be harsh, but sometimes it’s the only recipe for healing. Today, I had the day off. We fucked all day. Truth be told, we haven’t stopped fucking for the past ten days…
On counters and floors, against walls and under water, in public and on sandy beaches. It’s been endless, profound, poetic and brilliant. I left a steamy session to drop this note. When I’m finished, a steamy session awaits…likely going late into the night.
Don’t be stung, or hurt, or bitten. Don’t feel rejected. At the moment, you may find it difficult to realize, but it’s nothing more than a link in the procedural chain.
Back to my darling, my tentative, “Saint Will.” Should be able to push through to finish by the beginning of March. Or middle…or late…but soon.
What else would I be talking about?
February 14, 2006
A Promise for the Sake of Sweet Valentine's...
I wake in the morning and eat powder for breakfast. Chocolate or vanilla. Blend with milk and serve in a makeshift plastic cup.
For some reason, in my head, I believe that doing so will fill the holes of my body in places I can’t see. That it will, in some magical way…fix me.
Lately, it’s been working.
…
All is quiet on the western front. Troubling, indeed. Everything seems to be falling into place. I have no twitch, no ache, no bell. More than once this week, it has crossed my mind, the possibility that I dabble in self-destruction. That I need to find a way to fuck everything up and turn my lovely endeavors on their head before I can patch them up and build them higher.
I’ll let you know how that goes.
…
Fucking satisfaction, everywhere I am lately turning…to an extent. Look what it’s doing to me, to us. Worry not, I’ll soon swallow a bomb, blow myself into a thousand pieces and have lots of wonderful things to speak.
Tonight, I was planning on being relevant, for once. All for the sake of Valentine’s. I was just on the roof with Cupid. Yes, THE Cupid. We had a heart to heart about the state of things. It was more than a little depressing.
First of all, let me tell you a bit about my friend Q-12. Since it’s a family of 32, they’re numbered Q-1 through Q-32. Each is responsible for inspiring love in different regions of the world. Q-12 is exclusively responsible for Los Angeles. On the surface, I know…it does seem overly generous to designate one Cupid for a single city. Trust me when I say…we need it.
The Q’s, as they prefer, are a strange breed. As we survive and grow through nourishment in the form of food, water and safe shelter, their sole source is the satisfaction of turning strangers into lovers. He went on to speak endlessly with great conviction, the profound ideal of turning any corner of any street and finding someone you can’t live without.
I couldn’t help but agree.
On the surface, Q-12 is a nasty, nasty little man. Literally. He stands a rough four feet…and that’s generous. The threads he totes consist of an oversized and stained wife beater that flows over his “Caboose to Big-Boy City” Huggies. He chain-smokes and shoots bourbon…constantly.
In his ramblings, he told me how he was born an Adonis. Tall, charming, beautiful. Over the course of time, he had been reduced by a city so ugly in its pursuit of love, he was slowly transformed. He told me this as he unwrapped and wolfed down a Carl’s Jr. Jalapeño Burger that I’m certain he shoplifted.
I bought him a cup of coffee and began to send him on his way. Before he left, he asked me to make a promise.
Since he was beyond drunk, allow me to transcribe. For my words are sweeter than his…
Be not alone on this day…allow me the good fortune to collect the pieces of a once proud, now tattered being. Find a sweet girl…treat her sweet, for me…for my day.
I agreed.
Then, I got down on a knee and we embraced. It was a moment I’ll never forget. After all, I was holding a legend in my arms. But it wasn’t just that. There was an unforgettable aroma seeping from his pores. I gagged, many times. He pulled back, leaving greasy impressions on my jeans and jacket.
And he took off into flight…
I watched as he zigged and zagged through the air without an ounce of grace. It made me sad to think I live in such a place. A place that could transform a man into that. How tragic, I’ve fallen in love with a city full of souls afraid to fall in love. A city so wrapped in its own pursuits that we treat THAT sort of happiness as if it were a poison.
How sad that after the expiration of my promise, I’m certain I’ll get over it. After all, my city is yet conquered.
For some reason, in my head, I believe that doing so will fill the holes of my body in places I can’t see. That it will, in some magical way…fix me.
Lately, it’s been working.
…
All is quiet on the western front. Troubling, indeed. Everything seems to be falling into place. I have no twitch, no ache, no bell. More than once this week, it has crossed my mind, the possibility that I dabble in self-destruction. That I need to find a way to fuck everything up and turn my lovely endeavors on their head before I can patch them up and build them higher.
I’ll let you know how that goes.
…
Fucking satisfaction, everywhere I am lately turning…to an extent. Look what it’s doing to me, to us. Worry not, I’ll soon swallow a bomb, blow myself into a thousand pieces and have lots of wonderful things to speak.
Tonight, I was planning on being relevant, for once. All for the sake of Valentine’s. I was just on the roof with Cupid. Yes, THE Cupid. We had a heart to heart about the state of things. It was more than a little depressing.
First of all, let me tell you a bit about my friend Q-12. Since it’s a family of 32, they’re numbered Q-1 through Q-32. Each is responsible for inspiring love in different regions of the world. Q-12 is exclusively responsible for Los Angeles. On the surface, I know…it does seem overly generous to designate one Cupid for a single city. Trust me when I say…we need it.
The Q’s, as they prefer, are a strange breed. As we survive and grow through nourishment in the form of food, water and safe shelter, their sole source is the satisfaction of turning strangers into lovers. He went on to speak endlessly with great conviction, the profound ideal of turning any corner of any street and finding someone you can’t live without.
I couldn’t help but agree.
On the surface, Q-12 is a nasty, nasty little man. Literally. He stands a rough four feet…and that’s generous. The threads he totes consist of an oversized and stained wife beater that flows over his “Caboose to Big-Boy City” Huggies. He chain-smokes and shoots bourbon…constantly.
In his ramblings, he told me how he was born an Adonis. Tall, charming, beautiful. Over the course of time, he had been reduced by a city so ugly in its pursuit of love, he was slowly transformed. He told me this as he unwrapped and wolfed down a Carl’s Jr. Jalapeño Burger that I’m certain he shoplifted.
I bought him a cup of coffee and began to send him on his way. Before he left, he asked me to make a promise.
Since he was beyond drunk, allow me to transcribe. For my words are sweeter than his…
Be not alone on this day…allow me the good fortune to collect the pieces of a once proud, now tattered being. Find a sweet girl…treat her sweet, for me…for my day.
I agreed.
Then, I got down on a knee and we embraced. It was a moment I’ll never forget. After all, I was holding a legend in my arms. But it wasn’t just that. There was an unforgettable aroma seeping from his pores. I gagged, many times. He pulled back, leaving greasy impressions on my jeans and jacket.
And he took off into flight…
I watched as he zigged and zagged through the air without an ounce of grace. It made me sad to think I live in such a place. A place that could transform a man into that. How tragic, I’ve fallen in love with a city full of souls afraid to fall in love. A city so wrapped in its own pursuits that we treat THAT sort of happiness as if it were a poison.
How sad that after the expiration of my promise, I’m certain I’ll get over it. After all, my city is yet conquered.
February 07, 2006
Master of Self Rescue...
It was 8:30 in the morning when my face met the bathroom mirror on Saturday. I had grown darling freckles under and around my eyes. My first thought was to send them back…as if I need any more help in the department of woo.
And it came back to me…Roosevelt Hotel…black tie party.
I started with beer, switched to red, champagne toast, back to red to champagne. When I went out for a breather, I talked the bartender into pouring me a Jack and diet. But there’s just something about getting done up…a craving to sip and swirl crimson. Back to red we went.
Off to Tropicana…
I remember the 4 bottles of Grey Goose and 2 bottles of Dom hitting the table.
After that, any tales I tell will likely be a moist blend of faction, so I’ll refrain. I soon realized the methods by which I grew charming ocular freckles must have been anything but…charming.
Don’t ask me how I woke up any time before noon that morning. The point, my dears, is that I did. The point, my dears, is that I always do and always will…even without an alarm. How?
Because I’m a bright and shining fucking star.
…
On Saturday, I saw the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen in my life. Fuck it, I’ll speak for you as well. Don’t bother to Tommy Top My Story. You’ll fall on your face.
We have this girl…this darling beyond darlings, Krisi. Southern Belle to the bone. Deep, beautiful Arkansas accent. The moment I met her, I heard screams of victim hearts…simultaneously crying over the past injustices she had caused. Like a new millennium Trail of Tears following the footsteps of her life.
We were on the field before walkthrough…all dragging our feet, participants in the greatest mass hangover I have ever lent affiliation. She dropped her glasses, passed off her Marlboro and flipped her feet over her head with a casual grace that nearly pulled a proposal from depths of me believed to be sealed in an impenetrable time capsule until the rough age of 32. Her hand never touched the ground. When she stuck the landing, which was immaculate, she reached for her cigarette and took a drag before falling back to the ground. I don’t think it’s possible I’ll ever forget that…
Or the after party chat I had with the guy who LOST the ultimate fighting championship the night before. Though, I’m not sure if it was the conversation or the demolished face he was sporting.
…
I loved my time on this project, the people, the problems, the successes, the failures. Now that I’m here, three weeks later, I love that it’s over.
Because it was the second week when I hit a slide. There was a point I didn’t realize, but remembered…
Somewhere, somewhen…this voice graffitied my insides with a string of delicate words. The sort you pass on the subway in awe, hoping the NYCDOT turns a cheek and permits eternal life.
This voice left something that clung…something that builds on itself as I continue to grow older…as my progressively foolish path continues to grow. And it’s no whisper. If I remember correctly, it’s always been in the equivalent form of a bastard asshole screaming into my ear.
The message was Latin…so I never know what gets lost in translation, but the important parts always remain intact…
You have been given a gift that defines remarkable…a gift that is limitless. You have been given a currency, however, that is limited. Spend generously, yet carefully. Spend like a time bomb, yet with a steady mind. Spend as if pain and loss failed survival. Spend forever and never stop…else all you’ll become is a give in.
And it came back to me…Roosevelt Hotel…black tie party.
I started with beer, switched to red, champagne toast, back to red to champagne. When I went out for a breather, I talked the bartender into pouring me a Jack and diet. But there’s just something about getting done up…a craving to sip and swirl crimson. Back to red we went.
Off to Tropicana…
I remember the 4 bottles of Grey Goose and 2 bottles of Dom hitting the table.
After that, any tales I tell will likely be a moist blend of faction, so I’ll refrain. I soon realized the methods by which I grew charming ocular freckles must have been anything but…charming.
Don’t ask me how I woke up any time before noon that morning. The point, my dears, is that I did. The point, my dears, is that I always do and always will…even without an alarm. How?
Because I’m a bright and shining fucking star.
…
On Saturday, I saw the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen in my life. Fuck it, I’ll speak for you as well. Don’t bother to Tommy Top My Story. You’ll fall on your face.
We have this girl…this darling beyond darlings, Krisi. Southern Belle to the bone. Deep, beautiful Arkansas accent. The moment I met her, I heard screams of victim hearts…simultaneously crying over the past injustices she had caused. Like a new millennium Trail of Tears following the footsteps of her life.
We were on the field before walkthrough…all dragging our feet, participants in the greatest mass hangover I have ever lent affiliation. She dropped her glasses, passed off her Marlboro and flipped her feet over her head with a casual grace that nearly pulled a proposal from depths of me believed to be sealed in an impenetrable time capsule until the rough age of 32. Her hand never touched the ground. When she stuck the landing, which was immaculate, she reached for her cigarette and took a drag before falling back to the ground. I don’t think it’s possible I’ll ever forget that…
Or the after party chat I had with the guy who LOST the ultimate fighting championship the night before. Though, I’m not sure if it was the conversation or the demolished face he was sporting.
…
I loved my time on this project, the people, the problems, the successes, the failures. Now that I’m here, three weeks later, I love that it’s over.
Because it was the second week when I hit a slide. There was a point I didn’t realize, but remembered…
Somewhere, somewhen…this voice graffitied my insides with a string of delicate words. The sort you pass on the subway in awe, hoping the NYCDOT turns a cheek and permits eternal life.
This voice left something that clung…something that builds on itself as I continue to grow older…as my progressively foolish path continues to grow. And it’s no whisper. If I remember correctly, it’s always been in the equivalent form of a bastard asshole screaming into my ear.
The message was Latin…so I never know what gets lost in translation, but the important parts always remain intact…
You have been given a gift that defines remarkable…a gift that is limitless. You have been given a currency, however, that is limited. Spend generously, yet carefully. Spend like a time bomb, yet with a steady mind. Spend as if pain and loss failed survival. Spend forever and never stop…else all you’ll become is a give in.
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