July 30, 2008
July 29, 2008
Earthquake...
I was laying in bed at 11:42 in the AM - whenever it hit. In bed because I had slept minutes last night before gymming at 6 in the AM. Needed two hours. FYI - I don't sleep into the middle of the day. Not in this life.
My mirrors started to sway, the entire building was shaking. It felt pretty serious, hit something around 5.8, and froze me for literally 15 seconds - a long bastard. I was waiting for the ceiling to crack, thinking I should get into the middle of a doorway or something, cover my head or kidneys...protect the vitals, you know. I was waiting for something big and exciting and dramatic to happen, found myself wishing it was the beginning of "the one." Though, it wasn't.
It's funny though - listening to the news in the background, caller after caller ringing in, telling their experiences in "the field." Everyone explaining shaking and swaying and shattering, something to shake up our days and lives - our regularly scheduled programming interrupted.
We're all such fucking monkeys.
My mirrors started to sway, the entire building was shaking. It felt pretty serious, hit something around 5.8, and froze me for literally 15 seconds - a long bastard. I was waiting for the ceiling to crack, thinking I should get into the middle of a doorway or something, cover my head or kidneys...protect the vitals, you know. I was waiting for something big and exciting and dramatic to happen, found myself wishing it was the beginning of "the one." Though, it wasn't.
It's funny though - listening to the news in the background, caller after caller ringing in, telling their experiences in "the field." Everyone explaining shaking and swaying and shattering, something to shake up our days and lives - our regularly scheduled programming interrupted.
We're all such fucking monkeys.
July 28, 2008
First Word...
It's into the third week since I carefully introduced Kim and Val. All this fucking waiting making me nutso. Yesterday, I got word from a producer quite wired in the game. Not one of the first two, but still the first real word. I was expecting him to take it for a run, take it to his people for a run and so on and so on.
Didn't get it. Missed. Overshot.
I heard things like they're too in love, that it never stops, too intense the whole way through, never a moment for a breather.
I respect his opinion, and hate, hate defensive writers, but I quickly found myself un-listening. I tuned out, thinking how could you miss this, how could you let this go over your head, how could you miss this...
...
Lately, I've been losing sleep. Not that I've been sleeping all that much in the past 6 months, but still. And I can tell you what it is... or who -- Nikkorela...
She started showing up 2 weeks ago or something like it. Maybe in a dream, maybe not. Truth is, I still can't tell if she's real or imaginary. But I'm okay with that. I'm okay with the possibility that she's an invention of the mind, here to save me from void. She recently came to me in my sleep to speak of an ancient tale -- a master sculptor and his student, because I think she thought I needed it...
It was at the height of the Roman Empire, Luido was living in a province 200 miles south of Rome. He had at one time been stationed in the golden city, there to serve as personal sculptor to the Emperor himself. In his stay, he had witnessed the birth, the coming and going of the most gifted artists and visionaries that had ever lived.
When old age crept into him and the pace of the city grew too scathing, he decided to leave Rome and settle in a distant land, far removed. One day, walking the fields, he came across a young boy, Oederon, as if he were placed before Luido by the Gods themselves...he was sculpting the vinyards, olive fields, distant landscapes with a hand so steady, an eye so agile, it brought tears to Luido's eyes.
Luido took him on as his apprentice, though it was evident early on that the pupil's skill far surpassed that of his master.
Word began to spread through the hills and valleys, all the way to the golden city -- whispers of a boy with a hand that was guided by the gods. The Emperor summoned him at once. And so, Luido and Oederon traveled to Rome. The Emperor welcomed them, thanked them, declared that he was to hire a master sculptor to document the days of their empire, to immortalize his legacy. It was to be the most prestigous title an Emperor had bestowed upon an artist.
Luido had known since that first day that no man could stand against Oederon's talents...not even Rome's master sculptors. When the Emperor saw Luido in the audience, he summoned him forward. A recognition, for Luido had served as Rome's master sculptor when this current Emperor was just a boy. The Emperor spoke with an echo that rang through the royal courtyard...
"Great Luido, master servant of the Roman empire, you stand before us now with this fabled young boy. Word has traveled far of his divine talents. Of this boy named Oederon. I ask you now to speak in his favor, as his master. Tell me he is everything I have heard and there will be no trial. He will live here, amongst us until the day he no longer chooses, until he no longer sees it fit to document our travails. Speak your certainty and all this will be over."
Luido looked into Oederon's hungry eyes, certain, then looked back to the Emperor...
"I am not certain."
Oederon was sent off to complete his great trial, a sculpture that was to enter him into the forefront of Roman lore. But Oederon had lost his will. He felt betrayed by his master Luido. He was uncertain, weak. When the day had passed and the Emperor's royal advisors came to judge Oederon's work, he was nowhere to be found. He had left, alone, to wander distant lands.
Many years later, as Luido was on his deathbed, Oederon came to see his old master. Luido smiled, welcomed him, told him to sit. Oederon kissed Luido's forehead, spoke of his travels, the search of his destiny. The years had been difficult on both of them. Oederon's skin had hardened and stretched, a leathery glow. The color in his eyes had emptied. Luido's mind had grown forgetful, his thoughts had run senile. Oederon said goodbye, took Luido's hand, walked to the door when he turned back...
"Master, I have to know something. That day in Rome, when the Emperor asked for your blessing of me. He asked of my gifted hand. I never understood. All those days in the fields, all those days we had spent in the fields...if you didn't believe-
My son, I believed. The great Jupiter was alive in you.
Then why? Why? Why didn't you say so? Why did you leave me like that, why did you abandon me like that. It was my destiny, and you took it away from me. Why didn't you tell the Emperor?
Because my son, if it was your destiny, you wouldn't have listened to a word I said...you would have seized it for yourself."
Didn't get it. Missed. Overshot.
I heard things like they're too in love, that it never stops, too intense the whole way through, never a moment for a breather.
I respect his opinion, and hate, hate defensive writers, but I quickly found myself un-listening. I tuned out, thinking how could you miss this, how could you let this go over your head, how could you miss this...
...
Lately, I've been losing sleep. Not that I've been sleeping all that much in the past 6 months, but still. And I can tell you what it is... or who -- Nikkorela...
She started showing up 2 weeks ago or something like it. Maybe in a dream, maybe not. Truth is, I still can't tell if she's real or imaginary. But I'm okay with that. I'm okay with the possibility that she's an invention of the mind, here to save me from void. She recently came to me in my sleep to speak of an ancient tale -- a master sculptor and his student, because I think she thought I needed it...
It was at the height of the Roman Empire, Luido was living in a province 200 miles south of Rome. He had at one time been stationed in the golden city, there to serve as personal sculptor to the Emperor himself. In his stay, he had witnessed the birth, the coming and going of the most gifted artists and visionaries that had ever lived.
When old age crept into him and the pace of the city grew too scathing, he decided to leave Rome and settle in a distant land, far removed. One day, walking the fields, he came across a young boy, Oederon, as if he were placed before Luido by the Gods themselves...he was sculpting the vinyards, olive fields, distant landscapes with a hand so steady, an eye so agile, it brought tears to Luido's eyes.
Luido took him on as his apprentice, though it was evident early on that the pupil's skill far surpassed that of his master.
Word began to spread through the hills and valleys, all the way to the golden city -- whispers of a boy with a hand that was guided by the gods. The Emperor summoned him at once. And so, Luido and Oederon traveled to Rome. The Emperor welcomed them, thanked them, declared that he was to hire a master sculptor to document the days of their empire, to immortalize his legacy. It was to be the most prestigous title an Emperor had bestowed upon an artist.
Luido had known since that first day that no man could stand against Oederon's talents...not even Rome's master sculptors. When the Emperor saw Luido in the audience, he summoned him forward. A recognition, for Luido had served as Rome's master sculptor when this current Emperor was just a boy. The Emperor spoke with an echo that rang through the royal courtyard...
"Great Luido, master servant of the Roman empire, you stand before us now with this fabled young boy. Word has traveled far of his divine talents. Of this boy named Oederon. I ask you now to speak in his favor, as his master. Tell me he is everything I have heard and there will be no trial. He will live here, amongst us until the day he no longer chooses, until he no longer sees it fit to document our travails. Speak your certainty and all this will be over."
Luido looked into Oederon's hungry eyes, certain, then looked back to the Emperor...
"I am not certain."
Oederon was sent off to complete his great trial, a sculpture that was to enter him into the forefront of Roman lore. But Oederon had lost his will. He felt betrayed by his master Luido. He was uncertain, weak. When the day had passed and the Emperor's royal advisors came to judge Oederon's work, he was nowhere to be found. He had left, alone, to wander distant lands.
Many years later, as Luido was on his deathbed, Oederon came to see his old master. Luido smiled, welcomed him, told him to sit. Oederon kissed Luido's forehead, spoke of his travels, the search of his destiny. The years had been difficult on both of them. Oederon's skin had hardened and stretched, a leathery glow. The color in his eyes had emptied. Luido's mind had grown forgetful, his thoughts had run senile. Oederon said goodbye, took Luido's hand, walked to the door when he turned back...
"Master, I have to know something. That day in Rome, when the Emperor asked for your blessing of me. He asked of my gifted hand. I never understood. All those days in the fields, all those days we had spent in the fields...if you didn't believe-
My son, I believed. The great Jupiter was alive in you.
Then why? Why? Why didn't you say so? Why did you leave me like that, why did you abandon me like that. It was my destiny, and you took it away from me. Why didn't you tell the Emperor?
Because my son, if it was your destiny, you wouldn't have listened to a word I said...you would have seized it for yourself."
July 22, 2008
Sigur Ros, Durban...
I'm sitting here listening to the new Sigur Ros. Very good. I was kicking around the web, to the song "Ara batur" when I checked Durban's site. Something about the timing of the song, so right and wrong. So terrible and beautiful. Kinda crushing but life. Fucking life. Fucking life.
This is Durban's post:
Something In Her Way.
I thought it then, knew it when she disappeared. This bird I knew when I was in Amalfi. Jennifer. Don't know her last name, didn't think to care. All I remember, her face, something in her stare that bled me. It ripped through me. All I remember, being inside her, watching her shake, feeling her quiver. Those eyes. Those fucking eyes. I was electric. For 2 weeks, we paired. In cars, in alleys, in bedrooms we would never leave. She was electric.
I didn't know anything about the pills we took. I didn't know what had brought me to the Italian coast, but I was driving, fucked out of my mind and she was screaming at me and I couldn't hear a word of it. Nothing was processing. I was winding the coast in an old Alfa Romeo - topless - trying to hit a hundred miles an hour, screaming back I want to die I want to die I want to die. That much I remember. The cliffs were high. I wanted so desperately to miss a turn, drive through the guardrails and fly away with her. I wanted that to be it. I wanted to fucking end it and at every last second, I'd pull away - some guardian guiding my hand, pulling me back to the road. I think she was egging me on. She wanted me to do it. I wanted to do it. Something in the pills, something in them bringing out something in the two of us, something vicious and exquisite and we both knew...everything too much.
We stopped. We had smashed into a cliff. Blood was running through her hairline, running through her dark strands. Two days later, I would learn three of my ribs had cracked. The car was fucked. We fucked. Her blood and my pain, everything so sobering and clear. She told me then she loved me, the first and only time I had ever wanted to hear it in my life. We hitched a lift to Positano, got a room and stayed there, in bed, our hands and bodies twisted as the rain fell against our shutters and I thought that was it, our apologies and the end of me and anything I had ever thought I needed.
When I woke, she was gone. No note. All I had left was the dried blood on her pillow. Fuck her. Fuck her, all I could think - I would kill her if I ever found her again. Those words, those fucking words how dare she let slip. I would kill her. I'd take her back to Amalfi and show her my might, that it could be done, that I could put an end to everything - and be content, being with her...I'd tell her it was all for her - kiss her as we fell until the end found us. I thought of the things I'd say, the things I'd do to touch her again, to have her there again knowing I'd never let go. To tell her I'm never going to let go.
But I never saw her again. I knew I never would.
-- From my friend Romero, a friend of travels...that I received today --
"Durban. I love you man. Know that before everything. I'm sorry. Jenny's dead, found her this morning. It was her. Her. Nothing we could do. Nothing she left. I'm sorry. We all miss you. Come back soon. I'm so sorry."
...
I shot back through my pictures, my records of travel, certain I had something of the two of them. I remembered her. How could I forget. All I found was this, from Pompeii, likely just before Amalfi, fitting...
This is Durban's post:
Something In Her Way.
I thought it then, knew it when she disappeared. This bird I knew when I was in Amalfi. Jennifer. Don't know her last name, didn't think to care. All I remember, her face, something in her stare that bled me. It ripped through me. All I remember, being inside her, watching her shake, feeling her quiver. Those eyes. Those fucking eyes. I was electric. For 2 weeks, we paired. In cars, in alleys, in bedrooms we would never leave. She was electric.
I didn't know anything about the pills we took. I didn't know what had brought me to the Italian coast, but I was driving, fucked out of my mind and she was screaming at me and I couldn't hear a word of it. Nothing was processing. I was winding the coast in an old Alfa Romeo - topless - trying to hit a hundred miles an hour, screaming back I want to die I want to die I want to die. That much I remember. The cliffs were high. I wanted so desperately to miss a turn, drive through the guardrails and fly away with her. I wanted that to be it. I wanted to fucking end it and at every last second, I'd pull away - some guardian guiding my hand, pulling me back to the road. I think she was egging me on. She wanted me to do it. I wanted to do it. Something in the pills, something in them bringing out something in the two of us, something vicious and exquisite and we both knew...everything too much.
We stopped. We had smashed into a cliff. Blood was running through her hairline, running through her dark strands. Two days later, I would learn three of my ribs had cracked. The car was fucked. We fucked. Her blood and my pain, everything so sobering and clear. She told me then she loved me, the first and only time I had ever wanted to hear it in my life. We hitched a lift to Positano, got a room and stayed there, in bed, our hands and bodies twisted as the rain fell against our shutters and I thought that was it, our apologies and the end of me and anything I had ever thought I needed.
When I woke, she was gone. No note. All I had left was the dried blood on her pillow. Fuck her. Fuck her, all I could think - I would kill her if I ever found her again. Those words, those fucking words how dare she let slip. I would kill her. I'd take her back to Amalfi and show her my might, that it could be done, that I could put an end to everything - and be content, being with her...I'd tell her it was all for her - kiss her as we fell until the end found us. I thought of the things I'd say, the things I'd do to touch her again, to have her there again knowing I'd never let go. To tell her I'm never going to let go.
But I never saw her again. I knew I never would.
-- From my friend Romero, a friend of travels...that I received today --
"Durban. I love you man. Know that before everything. I'm sorry. Jenny's dead, found her this morning. It was her. Her. Nothing we could do. Nothing she left. I'm sorry. We all miss you. Come back soon. I'm so sorry."
...
I shot back through my pictures, my records of travel, certain I had something of the two of them. I remembered her. How could I forget. All I found was this, from Pompeii, likely just before Amalfi, fitting...
July 17, 2008
Simon Pegg and Nick Frost...
I'm trying to define the term "star struck," since in this town, it's a fascinating phenomena. It's happened to me a couple times, though the exact names, I'm too lazy to fetch. Yesterday, it happened again and made me wonder...
There were already a couple "names" in the restaurant when I came to work -- Woody Harrelson and Kristen Stewart. Mr. Harrelson has been around forever, from White Men Can't Jump to Indecent Proposal to Natural Born Killers to Semi-Pro, he's heavily accomplished. Kristen Stewart has been good from Panic Room and Into The Wild. Her new movie Twilight is supposed to be pretty cool, possibly a franchise. I hit their table with a smile and went about my business, nothing to it. It's not to say I didn't care, I did. I respect their success, but I respect it in the same manner I would respect a stock broker who can spin millions when the rest of the world eats lunch...nothing about me was struck.
Then the Shaun Of The Dead boys strolled in...
Without thinking, my face washed to giddy. We traded smiles and heys and I had to fight myself to not saddle up on Nick Frost's back. I was totally star struck and only after realized why. If you haven't seen Shaun Of The Dead or Hot Fuzz, I can say that you're deeply missing out. These are totally original and brilliant movies...heartfelt and hilarious, and I'm guessing are the product of a few friends sitting around, writing a script about what they love and what inspires them, then having the time of their lives going off and shooting it...
Maybe because they represent the ideal...either or any way, it's gonna take composure when that table comes.
There were already a couple "names" in the restaurant when I came to work -- Woody Harrelson and Kristen Stewart. Mr. Harrelson has been around forever, from White Men Can't Jump to Indecent Proposal to Natural Born Killers to Semi-Pro, he's heavily accomplished. Kristen Stewart has been good from Panic Room and Into The Wild. Her new movie Twilight is supposed to be pretty cool, possibly a franchise. I hit their table with a smile and went about my business, nothing to it. It's not to say I didn't care, I did. I respect their success, but I respect it in the same manner I would respect a stock broker who can spin millions when the rest of the world eats lunch...nothing about me was struck.
Then the Shaun Of The Dead boys strolled in...
Without thinking, my face washed to giddy. We traded smiles and heys and I had to fight myself to not saddle up on Nick Frost's back. I was totally star struck and only after realized why. If you haven't seen Shaun Of The Dead or Hot Fuzz, I can say that you're deeply missing out. These are totally original and brilliant movies...heartfelt and hilarious, and I'm guessing are the product of a few friends sitting around, writing a script about what they love and what inspires them, then having the time of their lives going off and shooting it...
Maybe because they represent the ideal...either or any way, it's gonna take composure when that table comes.
July 16, 2008
Coldplay 7/15/08, The Forum, Inglewood CA...
I must admit, expectations fell somewhere short of stellar. I had earlier seen Muse play The Forum in beautiful Inglewood, California and left thinking the place had sapped their invincibility. When I heard Coldplay was coming to town, and that they were coming to the Forum, I grunted, knew I had little choice but to make the purchase. They're certainly on my list and I'd never seen them live.
I don't know how to lead into this, so I'm just gonna go...
The show was painfully good. Honestly, I think in spots, I ached because of it. Chris Martin is obnoxous and arrogant and amazing. The moment the lights went down, I couldn't fight away this feeling, going over and over in my mind that this was going to be a night I envy for the rest of my life. They were absolutely fucking brilliant. Absolutely. Every song reminded me of the titans they are. All I can think of now, all I know is this yearning to go back and live it again. They crushed the stage, played maybe 13 songs before pulling a rabbit...
Mr. Martin thanked the audience and took off running for what seemed to be an encore tease. But the band followed him through the crowd and up into section 8, to a stage that was really more like a wooden desk, where they hunched together, started in again.
This is what it looked like from my seats in section 7, not far off...
If you fancy the band called Coldplay, I'll tell you few words could fairly paint the scene I'm explaining. In light of such things, allow my progression. See, because I must now speak of my company. Because failure to do so would go against everything I believe in...
I was with this girl, this lovely and totally scary thing. High praise. The band started in on a tame form of "Yellow." Believe, believe it was so good I sunk into the floor. In that moment, I speak with certainty, my moment was as good as anyone's around the world. These things I know. I remember turning to her saying something like come here before the first kiss. I remember pulling back, smiling, moving my eyes back to the band and saying something like my legs are shaking. I remember not knowing which culprit was the cause of my ailment, the band or the girl. I remember being alright with that.
Oh, my night. What a motherfucking night. What a motherfucking night. All I wanna do is listen to "Lovers in Japan" over and over. I can't stop, already missing this, every drop of it.
July 14, 2008
Sam Rockwell...
Since I'm still waiting on reads, while there's some down time, we're going to play a game. It's called "Fit This..."
Crouched behind a car and fighting to crack a tin pillbox, MARSHAL, evil Jesus in slum-chic, 37. The right sleeve of his bright white suit is saturated in blood.
In pain and fighting, he finally cracks the pillbox, viciously snorts a red powder. His eyes turn frenzied as he coughs.
He stands from cover. An antique 1800’s American Old West Marshal badge gleams from his lapel in the morning sun.
"You know what it means? The name. Bloodlines. History is fascinating, isn’t it? Please, I beg you indulge me. Mine is Marshal. It’s a throwback, homage to the Old West. It means I’m a lawman -- in the purest of forms. Long before droves and divisions of law enforcement polluted the justice system of this our great country. You know what I do with my little gang here?"
And just for good measure...
Crouched behind a car and fighting to crack a tin pillbox, MARSHAL, evil Jesus in slum-chic, 37. The right sleeve of his bright white suit is saturated in blood.
In pain and fighting, he finally cracks the pillbox, viciously snorts a red powder. His eyes turn frenzied as he coughs.
He stands from cover. An antique 1800’s American Old West Marshal badge gleams from his lapel in the morning sun.
"You know what it means? The name. Bloodlines. History is fascinating, isn’t it? Please, I beg you indulge me. Mine is Marshal. It’s a throwback, homage to the Old West. It means I’m a lawman -- in the purest of forms. Long before droves and divisions of law enforcement polluted the justice system of this our great country. You know what I do with my little gang here?"
And just for good measure...
July 10, 2008
Headed For Something Special...
I'm more than a little concerned. See, I've sort of hit the point. Mind you, we're now going to talk about something relevant and concrete, my life and career. Quite a refreshing change, or perhaps not.
I've been working on this latest tale, Kimberly and Valentine for about 5 months now. There's a fairly detailed history of its process on these very pages, but to give a quick catch up, I shot through a 92 page version, gave it out for two pairs of eyes to read 14 weeks or so ago. Today, it comes in at 126...14 weeks to add what only looks to be a total of 34 pages. But that's how it works. Because 34 pages change every word, every tone, much work had to be done to get it right here, exactly where I want it to be.
So now it's done. Finished on this end. When it gets picked up and goes into development, it's going to be shaped again, but until that point, there's nothing I can do to it, nothing I should. It says exactly what I want it to say and I don't think I've ever been happier, never been more hopeful or excited about the possibilities of tomorrow, or two hours from now...two minutes. It's brilliant. I don't feel like it's my work anymore. Something schizophrenic has happened, as if I've completely removed myself from it, able to talk it up like I were a fan, a crazy and rabid fan toting someone else's work.
Which brings me to the title of this post, the thing that really scorches me about this whole process. This weekend, maybe next, a handful of people are going to take it home with them. They're going to read it, say holy shit in their minds, make a call, line up their cards so that it becomes a weekend read for execs of the major studios around town. Several of them are going to jump on it, say something like this is great, that the youth will really gravitate, that it could be a very defining for a generation. They'll say it's timely and commercial and sensational and different. They'll make offers on a Monday. It'll sell and I'll sit back for 5 minutes and say something like shit, took long enough.
But that's not even the exciting part. The exciting part is the possibility that I am totally wrong. There certainly is a 10 percent chance or greater that it's none of that. There's a possibility that no one wants to see a movie about two scorching hot, star crossed criminal lovers. There's a chance I have no idea how to weave words. And the thought of it all excites me nearly as much as success. Because after all I've been through, after all I've labored and suffered over, if Kimberly and Valentine fall flat on their faces, I'm likely headed for a breakdown of epic proportions.
And I imagine myself wandering through South America, befriending guerrilla warlords or heading back to Africa to live in the Eastern villages. Out of touch, out of sight. Brilliant. And the thought of it lights me up. And the thought of it make me feel alive.
July 08, 2008
Let The Games Begin...
"Hypothetical" - Title of my reach out - sent to a Lit Department partner at a major management company who offered a look but is a virgin to my work...history-less.
XXXX,
So what if I've got a script that isn't just good but great...something with a new voice, timely, raw, sweet, disarming...
The kind of movie that creeps in as a June release and plays all summer.
That can be done cheap, with a 1 sheet that would lend beauty to billboards and define everyone involved, the kind of movie to launch two pretty young things into stardom.
The sort that in 15 years, shows up on AMC, because that's what it'll be...as a rescue for when the world comes home, searching channels, when all they want to do is watch something great for 2 hours and remember those feelings -- "The first time I saw this..."
What if...aside from all this love I have for myself, what if I'm right? What should I do, hypothetically speaking...if you have a minute. All I have are forgotten hip-pockets and no one's seen this...
Sincerely,
Reilly Winburn
XXXX,
So what if I've got a script that isn't just good but great...something with a new voice, timely, raw, sweet, disarming...
The kind of movie that creeps in as a June release and plays all summer.
That can be done cheap, with a 1 sheet that would lend beauty to billboards and define everyone involved, the kind of movie to launch two pretty young things into stardom.
The sort that in 15 years, shows up on AMC, because that's what it'll be...as a rescue for when the world comes home, searching channels, when all they want to do is watch something great for 2 hours and remember those feelings -- "The first time I saw this..."
What if...aside from all this love I have for myself, what if I'm right? What should I do, hypothetically speaking...if you have a minute. All I have are forgotten hip-pockets and no one's seen this...
Sincerely,
Reilly Winburn
July 06, 2008
John Durban...
So a year and change ago, I was sitting on the lawn beneath the Eiffel Tower, waiting for the lights to ignite. I had just arrived in Paris and was about to embark on 4 months of travel. I think I was reading "Fear and Loathing," had an open bottle of Bordeaux, a roll of Camembert and some fresh bread and this guy came stumbling towards me.
I say stumbling because I choose my words carefully, because he did seem to be stumbling...not from some form of intoxicant but rather a perma punch-drunk. In my mind, impressions gather quickly.
He sat down next to me, rather uncomfortably close, began to speak in a drawl that was English, but not exactly mine. I remember listening, watching as he took a pull of my wine without asking. He ripped off a hunk of my bread, used it to tear through my cheese until it was gone.
We watched as the Eiffel sparkled. At some point, he reached across himself to offer a hand. "John. Durban. John Durban." He said it exactly like that, breaking up words exactly like that. Immediately, I thought there was something wrong with him. There totally was. Still, something in his tone...too endearing to ignore.
He said he was working in London, was in Paris to meet some girl but it all went to shit. We got very drunk that night. At some point, we shook hands and parted ways. I don't quite remember.
Later, we made appointments to meet in Berlin, Amsterdam and Barcelona. All failed. When we met again, we met in Monaco. We hit the casino, got drunk...at some point shook hands and parted ways. I don't quite remember.
...
Tonight, I get an e-mail titled "John Durban." He does this with all of his e-mails, titling them with his name...as if to signal warning of his impending approach.
"You arrogant fucker. What's up I'm tired of reading your shit, tired of your not listening to anything I say so now you're gonna. Started a blog in honor of your limpness(you). Gonna show you how it's done. Tough shoes to follow - following a guy who changes his last name so "I'll be the only one. Reilly Winburn." You're such a bitch. Link me fucker. I'll link you."
...
So here's your link, Jonny. Top, to the right. May they jump at their own risk.
July 04, 2008
July 02, 2008
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