Round 1...

Was a dead celeb birthday party for Katy Perry in H-Wood...


Where this semi-person got fresh with the Freddie Mercuried birthday girl...

Before he took his shit off and got fresh on the dancefloor. Brother could move...

And I spent the night drinking rum at Siren Studios, not remembering the last time I drank the stuff, and crushed for this girl who was a tasteless and seamless Jean Benet Ramsey. In real life, she claimed to be named after a country in the European Union and would most certainly amount to nothing but trouble if I ever did give chase...

But that's sorta what I do...even though I don't.

Oh, Fitness...

Saturday Night Through The Eye Of An IPhone...

Bitches Be Crazy...

I just got back from a Magnolia dinner and a night with a small fistful of my dearest friends in Los Angeles. One of them came toting a new girl who was in from out of town. Before I met her, he so affectionately dubbed her, "Stop Gap." Once I met her, she affectionately dubbed herself...I don't recall. Point is, she didn't mind either - was well aware of the situation at hand. Cool girl. I'll see her once more and then never again, but cool girl.

See, he just recently got out of a relationship. And by got, I mean...we'll get to that. By relationship, I mean he was in something pretty deep, heart on the line sort of business. For him, it was rare. For me, she was great and great for him. At a point, they hit this crossroads - both being performers, in the business of performing where they were going to be apart for a short period of time. It was going to be a test, no doubt, but they were solid, they were fierce, they were good.

It took a couple weeks before they weren't, and she broke up with him and crushed him and cut him down at the knees. And for him, when I tell you this is rare, believe that this is rare. Then 5 days later, on their 1 year anniversary, she gets married. After 5 days. On their one year anniversary. Married. Poor girl.

And now all I can do is listen, and try to hear and hope he's healing because man, that's vicious. But in the long run, in the grand scheme, I can tell you I'm not worried about my boy. Right now, maybe. Down the line, my worry is on her. Not a doubt in my mind.

I just got back from seeing Maroon 5 play a short set at the Hollywood Palladium. It was this great and sincere but at the same time, totally phoned in welcoming performance for the Breeder's Cup that's happening this weekend at Santa Anita. The drinks were free and when I walked down to the floor, I found myself standing about 3 rows from the stage. There wasn't much of a push.

And I dig Maroon 5. Sometimes, they even creep onto my playlists. Sometimes, I feel Adam Levine - our pens dance with the same bloody ink. So it was a decent LA Thursday and I'm home by midnight...

But I can't help this lingering feeling. From seeing my friend in the shape he's in (good, but still) to this very good band asking the crowd if they were awake...

Both deserve so much better. Sometimes, we all deserve so much better.

It's getting darker here earlier. When I left to go out tonight at 7, the skies were already black. And I don't know what happened to my sunlight. And I don't know how I missed the shift, but it's here.

Entourage...

You know that scene in every fight movie where someone's getting the shit kicked out of them and they're about to lose everything and their life is about to collapse and someone's in their corner, just about to throw in the towel? Well, that's what I feel Entourage has been this season. I see most of the episodes, but days have long passed since they were a necessary DVR/TIVO.

And I have to say, right up until the 26 minute point on tonight's episode (Gotta Look Up To Get Down), Entourage was putzin the fuck around. It's not that I'm saying it's a bad show and I'm not totally knocking it, obviously I'm still watching. But for a stretch, it had it man. And when something falls from such envied creative grace, how can you help but feel the void.

But anyway, anyway...usually when the guy in the movie who's getting his face smashed in is about to give up, something drastic happens. Some kind of epiphany of inspiration. Let me see if I can find...yep, this is remarkable (esp. 6:30-7:15)...


And that's my parallel tonight. Entourage's blindsided hook, from nowhere, this...

Sun setting...

Leavin on a jet plane...

Two roads diverge...

Magic. When it's due, I give. I was about to throw in the towel.

Nevermind. That Poor Nail...

Pushing Daisies...

I've professed my love for this show before. It's a love buoyed in depth. Sometimes, you find something out there that just speaks to you, and though on the surface, we may sometimes wish it were more profound than a TV show, truth is, to me, there is nothing more profound. It just works. And I can't explain it. So many things are simply best left unsaid.

On last night's ep ("Bad Habits"), there was a scene right at the end. And it came out of nowhere. And it cut me in half, and it poured me out. And giving a transcription of it or posting it here would give the nail we're hitting too much head. After all, I'm a twisted and bent kind a guy. But on the other hand, no mention of it would simply be an injustice...an injustice indeed.

This isn't THE scene (39:00 on the online episode if you're in the mood for a dig), but excellent on another level...



And, of course...Kristin Chenowith is my mind-wife.

Amy Adams...

I mean seriously...when an actress chokes me up in a trailer. In a trailer. Seriously?

Skills...

We Certainly Don't Sleep On Sunday Nights, That's For Sure...

But hardly something new. Actually, It's been like this for some time, some kind of energizing thing surging. And, I get up at 5 on Mondays to teach, so the coming alarm does little to settle mind.

Last Sunday, we talked about the idea of One Sunday, of all that can change from Sunday to Sunday, of all that can come in a single week of this life. Maybe it suits me to step aside every once in a while, find something along the lines of a bigger picture...so the minutes don't just bleed into the hours into the days into the weeks, months, years...so I can see that things are moving, that the branches are sprouting leaves -- perhaps barbed, that could take blood if you let them - but on the other side, a side so soft and welcome, you could rest your head for sleep. At my very best, I find myself to be that sensational yin/yang that can only be seen with a stop, a breath...

Last Sunday, I think it's safe to say I was in a world of shit -- world of shit. Today, tonight...the footing is strong. My legs and mind are rocks, ready to drive and honor and conquer. One Sunday -- all that can come...all that can return.

And wouldn't you know or so soon I must've forgotten -- with strength comes humor, lightness of being. And let me be the first to say welcome fucking back.

...

So I was walking home from Melrose a couple days ago. I had passed Crescent Heights and was eyeing my Kings Road ahead when this Gypsy leapt from the entrance of a store I had never seen - as if it had sprung up overnight. I told her I didn't know there were gypsies in Los Angeles. She seemed offended and of course I felt bad for offending her. Because of this, I accepted her invitation to come inside and browse the store - which she claimed to be hers. For moments, the thought flashed in my mind - telepathy perhaps - my laying in a bathtub full of ice, my partially vital organs lifted and cut from my pale body. But I wasn't telepathic, only paranoid...so naturally, calm found me.

She closed the blinds, the door as I entered, as if to exactly control the light, to control my perception of everything inside that store. While she was doing it, I must admit, I was mesmerized. Astounded. It's only in hindsight that we can begin to find manipulation in the most mundane of actions. After all, she was a saleswoman - and a fucking gypsy. I should have known.

Inside, the store really was incredible. She had a magnificent collection of antique stained glass, hand carved gargoyles, potions, old baseball cards, pinball machines -- even a fucking replica of the game that turned a boy into Tom Hanks in Big. Honestly this place was amazing. And not just amazing, but LA amazing - the kind that'll cut through the most cynical asshole you'll find. It cut right through me -- not that I'm a cynical asshole.

And the Gypsy just sat back and watched me, watched as I wandered. Every now and again I would look up, thinking I might need permission to touch certain objects in the store - objects I thought to be precious beyond comprehension. And they may very well have been. She would simply nod and smile, willing me to do anything my heart desired, almost pleading with her eyes...go on, go on. Enjoy.

I had lost an hour in my wanderings, transported, missing appointments...when I pulled a curtain and moved into a back room. At this, the Gypsy leapt to her feet, either eager to stop or to explain...

There was a young and beautiful girl sitting over a smoldering cauldron. The Gypsy proudly introduced me to her daughter, Jolee, and spoke of her uncanny ability -- that of potion making. Potion making I said. The Gypsy answered potion making as if the response alone was fully sufficient. And Jolee smiled and it made me smile back, just putting eyes on this young girl. Her youth. Her innocence.

I remained that day until they closed and thanked them for their hospitality, welcomed them to the neighborhood and told them I would return the next day - that I would be making purchases! Many purchases! They both nodded, and Jolee promised that upon my return, she would have something special for me, something beyond comprehension. Incredible, she said. I was dazzled. I set off for home, barely able to contain myself. I mean, think about the possibilities -- a store like this? And not just in my town but in my neighborhood? Amazing. Fucking amazing. Fucking amazing!

That night was like falling asleep on Christmas Eve as a child. I couldn't. There was something so magical about this shop - I was in awe of it. Couldn't wait, couldn't wait, couldn't wait to return...

They didn't open until 5:15, she said, and said that they closed before 6, so I cleared my schedule and made sure I was there at exactly 5:15. Jolee was there to peek her head through the glass door. She unhinged the first lock, the second, the third. Three locks? Believe me, at this point, it only fed my excitement, which was already at near fatal levels. Jolee told me that her mother was feeling ill, that I couldn't come inside, but that she had made a promise and that if there was one thing in the world she believed, it was that promises were to always be kept. She told me to reach out my hand and close my eyes. I did. When I felt something fall into my grasp, she whispered, "open them." I looked into my palm, saw this tiny little vial - like a department store perfume sampler. I looked to Jolee but she was already speaking...

"It's my newest potion. My greatest work yet. Mommy doesn't like it, but Mommy doesn't know. Mommy is sick."
"What's it called?"
"Drahma."
"Drahma? You mean drama?"
"No! No!! No!!!"
"Okay. I'm sorry. What's it do? How do I use it?"
"What's your name again?"
"Burn. You can call me Burn. People do"
"You're not very smart, are you, Burn?"
"I...don't know. Wait, are you serious? Can you just tell me how it works?"

Then, in what seemed to occur in the same instant, Jolee rolled her eyes, stormed inside, slammed the door, closed the blinds and cut the lights. And I was left standing outside, vial in my hand...

"Wait. Are you serious?"

Nothing. I walked home. I was put off, maybe quite a bit less than I should have been. Truth was, fascination still had Me.i was distracted by this Drahma in my hand, the Drahma this girl had created. It was my fascination, utterly and totally.

I got home and set the vial on my glass table, unsure what my first move would be. I paced and pondered, tried to let my mind explore the entire realm of possibility that was now settling in this vial that stood before me.

Slowly, I approached, decided I would put it through a series of sensory tests. I unscrewed the cap, slowly lifted the vial to my nose, letting its vapors flood over and into me. Immediately, I gagged and choked, dry heaving after a smell that could only, only be described as shit vomit orgy on steroids. It was awful. Just awful, easily the worst thing I had ever smelled in my life. Immediately, I put the cap back on, sat, settled, pondered again...

I tried tasting it...quickly vomited.
I tried rubbing it on my skin...broke out in hives.
I tried snorting it...blacked out.
I tried free-basing it...didn't have the right lighter.
I tried giving it to my neighbor...she tried to kick me in the dick.

I went to bed that night thinking nothing but what the fucks. None of this made any sense. Why the hell was Jolee making this Drahma? And why was she giving it to me? What the hell good could this manufactured Drahma do for anyone? I had to know.

So I returned the next day, 5:15 to be precise. I brought what was left of the Drahma and began knocking on the door. At first, I was delicate, but soon, I needed answers. I wanted to give the Drahma back, more than anything. When I realized this, my knocks grew loud and commanding. That's when she came, the Gypsy woman. She opened the door and peeked her head outside, asked me what I was doing knocking so loud. I reminded her who I was, that I had just been in a couple days prior, that I had a magnificent time, a magical time. I told her that I returned yesterday to see her, but that Jolee wouldn't let me inside. I showed her the vial of Drahma when her eyes flashed...

"Drahma? My word. She promised."
"What? What's my word? What's wrong?"
"The last town -- we ran -- we had to run -- she, Jolee, her gifts -- the curse..."
"I don't understand. Please, just tell me what you're talking about? Why is Jolee making Drahma?"
"No one knows. No one. Only Jolee. You can't come back here. Please. Just leave us alone."

The Gypsy woman closed the door in my face, locked every bolt in that door. I slowly backed away, turned, mind-spinning, trying to let it go, this chance encounter with a gypsy woman and her mysterious daughter on Melrose. When I turned the corner onto Kings Road, a screeching voice brought me to a halt, stopped me in my tracks...

"Burn, Burn! Wait!!!"

It was Jolee. She was running after me, frantic -- something in her hand. When she reached me, I kneeled.

"Burn. I have it! I have more for you. And it's better, stronger."
"What, Jolee, Drahma?"
"Of course, Burn. Isn't that what you came for? Isn't that what you want?"
"...I...I don't know what I came for Jolee, but...I don't want your Drahma."
"Just take it Burn. Take my Drahma. I've been working so hard on it."
"But I took it yesterday. And it's awful, everything about it. I don't know why you're making it-"
"No, no Burn. This is different. This is better. You must take it."
"I don't think I want it, Jolee. Can't you give it to someone else?"
"No. I chose you. I've made all this Drahma just for you! Just add water, Burn. Water."

And with that, she placed it in my hand, kissed my cheek and ran back inside. I put the Drahma in my pocket and walked home, distrusting of this beautiful and sweet little girl. I was ashamed -- ashamed until I got home. A fool for curiosity, I placed the vial beneath my dripping faucet and let the water hit. That instant, a plume of vapor burst from the tiny vial and shot into my eyes. I went blind. My cheeks went numb. My ears failed -- I couldn't hear a thing. All I could feel - a stream of tears pouring off the tip of my chin, as if whatever dam holds crying had broke. It was the single oddest and most frightening experience I had ever been through. I felt my way through the apartment and crawled into bed, remained there until I fell asleep. In the morning, when I woke, everything had gone back to normal. Everything but that fucking smell. And of course it was worse than ever, but at that point, once I could see again, everything was an afterthought.

I took a shower and got dressed, collected what was left of Jolee's Drahma and set out, on foot, to the Gypsy's store on Melrose. When I got there, the windows were boarded...

The building had been condemned or something of the sort. But I knew they were there. I knew they were inside, squatting, figuring their next move. My mind started racing...back to the day I first walked into the store. The magnificence, the fucking magnificence of this place. It made me smile, thinking back...trying my best to see past the cruel and cold barriers that were now stretching across what was once such a welcoming storefront.

I pulled a letter from my jacket pocket, a letter I had prepared before I had left my apartment. I unfolded it and began to read...

"I'm sorry we came to here. I'm so sorry. I don't know what happened. I walked past this shop that first day and I was a fool. And I thought of you guys and me being this great partnership. I thought we would be such great friends. I mean, you had the coolest shit. I totally dug your shit. I know that this was your shop and that I was just a guest in that shop, and that I would always have to deal with whatever you dealt me..."

But then I stopped, suddenly uninspired by the words I had so recently written - words from the heart, soft - because I believed they were words they weren't capable of understanding -- that there was a tenderness in them they couldn't spot - that given a chance, they would walk all over my vulnerability and mistake it for acquired strength. And I didn't want to give that to them. I couldn't. So I ripped up the letter and looked through the only sliver of exposed window that remained. And I swore I saw eyes...

"I know you're in there. You're fucking gypsies, you obviously know the ins and outs of LA's squatting laws - though, I doubt that qualifies in a commercial zone. I don't really know who you are or what you're doing. I really only knew you for one fine day and I guess I'm here now to speak my peace, because...I guess because I care, because I can see through the boards on the front of your building and windows and...gutters? And there's beauty in there, there is. But you have got to stop making Drahma. Can't you see, what it's doing? Can't you see what it'll do? Sure, it's exciting to create and you think creation is a gift worth giving, but when you give it out, all it causes is pain in other people. And you're trading excitement for pain and it isn't right and it isn't fair. Not for you, not for them. You have to see this. I came here to make peace. And...I know that you're in there...I can see cauldron smoke coming out the hole in the roof - which really isn't safe and probably means you're doing exactly what I wish you weren't. But I guess that's neither here nor there anymore, for me. I'm standing here now -- to make this right or to say goodbye or to...and you're just going to leave me here, standing -- while all these assholes walk by, wondering why I'm talking to a building on the corner of Melrose and Kings...and you're going to do me like that? Really? Really? Shame..."

...

I was out at a bar on Friday night. Could have been Wednesday. These two girls came up to me -- happens often because I don't often chase and women sense these things, usually get very forward because I'm forward and they think I'm gaming them when that's really just me and they try to game back but really just end up fighting and failing to keep pace. Disinterest feeds power, and that's why I'm powerful - because unless you find me in rare pursuit, that's exactly and all I am.

It means that when someone tries to pick me up so that I pick them up when I'm out and minding my own shit, they had better at least be an LA 8. Superficiality is fair game on a pick up, no doubt about it. Anything below 8 gets 28 seconds before I scoot off with poor excuse.

So anyway, these girls were alright. The talker was a 7+1 for charisma. Her friend was a low level 8. They were fine...

Now, these conversations all tend to lead to one of the girls asking what kind of guy I am - usually the one who wants me to take her home and show her what's what. On this night, that's what the 8 was after. I could tell she had probably just been through a breakup, something that did her vicious and when I walked in, she thought me to be her cure -- a fresh and sweet faced Adonis (don't be put off, I self-deem this often). She thought I would do her no wrong on this night - and she'd wake up in the morning and feel safe and comfortable and exercised and she'd start to think of the next step - what it might be with this new boy...

And of course I know this - all of this or at least something in the realm of it to be true. And when I weigh things out and decide I don't want a mess, I start in with something that sounds like. "Look, I'm not that good. I would be tonight. Great. Probably the best you've had - but after that..."

And of course she smiles, thinks this is my pick up, only wants it more but by that point, I've had enough...

"No. Look, I have a coldness in me. And I can tell. I look at you and you're something. And I'm sure if we left here and went wherever we went, we'd do some things and certainly have a story to tell. But I know when I see it - my type - and you don't look like you inspire fiction."

Of course, she didn't understand this, maybe thought I was crazy and maybe that was the point. And so she returned to her girlfriend and likely told her I was a fag, because she was mistakenly hurt, because what guy wouldn't take her home.

And I returned to the company I made appointment to meet, and we had another drink or two, and I said my goodbyes. On the way out, I saw her posted up by the door, warmed again by the drinks she must have had - eyes with hopes that my drinks had done the same. I passed her with a smile, soft, all-heart...

"I'm sorry, you couldn't handle me. Don't feel bad, I can barely handle myself."

Oh, So Classic...

Honestly, I Have to Wonder What They Think of Me...

I just sent an e-mail to Team Winburn (my management), because I've been working all morning. Went something and only like...

"Got it. Fucking got it. Fucking got it. We battle soon..."

And I can't stop howling and pacing and moving. And I have so much fight in me, I have to get out. I have to find Sunset Plaza Drive and charge up her until I either faint or turn faint of heart.

So much. Found me again or I found it. Either way, how could I care.

This is the moment.

Nick and Norah...

Last night, I caught something close to the midnight show. And let me start by saying a few things. Like that I love Michael Cera, and that Kat Dennings was refreshing. And that this movie also uses pop-in cameos by cast members of SNL that I DVR and watch every week because I'm a huge, steaming fan of the show. Andy Samberg and Seth Meyers. And that it has all this great music throughout and it's like all these components are there to make this sweet little movie about two kids chasing music and falling in love in New York. And then...it just fucking sucks. It's like someone forgot they were making a movie - like the movie was just a vehicle for the music - and I don't, DO NOT walk out of movies. This one brought me closer than any I ever remember.

If you've seen it and want to battle me on this one, don't. The gum? Seriously? How did that shit make it out of a first draft? Despicable, like blowing a cannonball through the hull of an already sinking ship.

I absolutely wanted to love Nick and Norah. Going in, I thought it would be exactly my style - before I found out it wasn't. But the kicker came towards the end, when Michael Cera was driving his Yugo, alone, through the streets of New York - and Modest Mouse came on...Little Motel. And I thought to myself...you didn't earn that -- didn't even come close. I'm taking it back. I'm taking them all back.

Found It...

And if you looked closely, you could have seen me thrashing in that green river, flailing arms and legs in water way deeper than you would have ever guessed.

The seams split today. It's been too much, too much weight and I've been pacing through it all, talking my way through it and fighting the good fight. Today, I found bottom and everything above me was endless and impossible. Everything...

Weight of work I can no longer stand, of new work that gives me a pedestal and microphone and asks me to lead and please and sit under a spotlight when all I want to do is hide, weight of a girl I care about and foolishly got messy with, weight of a script and its need of a fix and the calls and the waiting and the expectations -- enough to snap backs. If I've been evading or escaping up until this point, today it overpowered and powered through and when it came, all I could do was stop, find a spot on my thankfully recently vaccummed carpets and let it happen...

Drawing on limited but sufficient experience, I've found it's best to let these things happen from the ground looking up, eyes on a white, calming ceiling. My ceiling also has bumps, ridges -- kind of giving it this soothing illusion of comfort and warmth. Very nice. It's best to keep the body unrestricted - so make sure to steer clear of furniture and obstruction. If you're a thrasher and/or a twister and/or a writher, always, always remember to protect your knees, shins and elbows at all times. Also, everything should be done in the nude or somewhere in the vicinity of - so important if you want to shape the experience into a motif, say, like...rebirth. Sometimes a ceiling fan can help -- simply pick a blade and follow the revolutions. That's what I did today. In other instances, music can be a good choice, a strong choice for the collection phase of what could only be described as a breakdown.

And that's where I was today, right around 11 in the AM. Pretty amazing shit.

Last night, I picked up and hour of sleep before heading off to teach a spin class before re-breaking ground on K&V. And all the work today was inventory, checking in, standing still, not moving not moving not moving, and intentions and motivations. And every bit of it is breaking and re-setting bones and it hurts and it cripples...

But I'm keeping my promise, just like the raw fucking tattoo on my wrist asks of me. Sure as hell kept it today. Sure as hell. Bloody fucking suffering.

But I made it through. Because I push. And in my experience, that's also how these things work, like shedding skin or going through an acid bath. An out with the old kind of thing, and usually there's a pot of gold on the other end. I'm not there yet, not quite -- but I certainly am at the moment listening to and fucking rocking Pat Benetar on these headphones. No doubt about it.

...

So you know that scene in Magnolia where the frogs stop falling from the sky and all of the terrible and heavy shit that's been happening kind of comes to a stop? And then the sun comes out? Wait, let me see if I can find it...okay, it's not anywhere, fuck it. That's what the back end of this is like if you go through it right...right being that you let go of your composure, you let it slip away knowing that maybe, just maybe...it might come back.

So I went back out into the world with a bag of fuck-itz in my pocket. I powered through K&V's shit, ready now to feel progress again. I went across town and picked up a new job, probably and maybe easily the most coveted in town for someone in my business. After that, I drove across town to the old job, marched my 30 star cards (received over a period of time for guest love) and I said I'll take my 300 dollars and oh, by the way, here's my 2 weeks notice, in my hyper-spastic handwriting with a P.S - "I'll miss this place -- apologies this is written by hand, someday I might grow up."

...

I crossed my manager on the way out - and let me make something clear...the place was the poison, not the people...so there will be sting in walking away, not lingering, but still...

So I pulled him aside to tell him I was gonna be shorting him, that I was leaving, that I needed a shake up, that it would be more money and less hours, that it was kind of a no brainer. He got it. And it was smiles and handshakes and threatening punches to the face and abdomen when he kind of shifted things with this forewarning of sincerity before stopping, asking...why are you so tortured?

All I could do was stutter. And I think I smiled, and laughed through it, dodging the question because I didn't even know how to begin to answer it, or if I even understood...

But I was driving home around 6, and letting the day soak through as the sun was drifting down and the question kept echoing in my head. And I just let it echo, didn't bother to cut it off with an answer or even a response, and for the next 20 minutes it was my constant and occupying thought. I didn't care, and the possibility of its truth wasn't unsettling, but comforting - like laying on my carpet, staring into the ceiling - a nice and pretty bow on top of this ripping and awe bleeding Monday.

One Sunday...

I was thinking about this sometime last night. Sometime as I was either on Mullholland or picking up Grand Lux or watching the second song The Killers played on SNL over and over and over - burning a hole in my DVR.

Something about the speed of the world, and the fact that I feel like I'm living for weeks or months at a time in a matter of days. It made me want to brand it on my arm or heart or cheek, this idea - One Sunday.

Because I was sitting with so much, and with the world to pull through this week, and then the week after that, and after that - and I started thinking to myself that the world changes, rises and falls from Sunday to Sunday. And between every Sunday, there's a lifetime. And I have no control, nothing to do but live and push, avoid naps and apathy and allow myself to feel it all because I already know I fucking do.

I just wish I knew the name of the song. Just wish it could play in this hat I call headphones.

DDL...

Los Angeles Equestrian Center...

Where this special horse named Illinois...

Tossed this very experienced and stellar rider girl/apparent gang enthusiast/helmet enthusiast/hydration enthusiast and fucked up her chin, on her birthday...

And I got to feed it carrots in Burbank...

And it's beautiful, and it felt far and smelled like shit - beautiful shit. Only the right type of person can get that. And it reminded me of the country in South Africa, maybe because I'm reaching but maybe because it really did. Like a child with his cone of ice cream on this Friday morning...

You Know, Like That Green Day Song...

There's been a lot of movement lately, in life...on many fronts. And at some point, when August was fading, I remember bracing, readying myself that September was going to be rough...but that once I made it through to the other side, all that would await: bright lights and a new and majestic life. And a few days ago, the above song crept into my playlist and it started banging my head and it kind of made me smile - thinking back to what I was thinking, labeling a month as this villain, training myself to think of it as a battle. Funny, behavior in hindsight.

I've been working hard on a script that is going to change my life. I completely believe that. And last week, I finished it, and I had in my hands a story about two kids in love, and it's raw and it moves and it crushes. I believe all that. And on Tuesday night, I had a meeting with Team Burn to talk about the direction we were going to take it in. We talked about the process of sending out a spec - that you get it in the best possible shape it can be in, you get everyone on board in the company (in my case, a management company), and usually on a Tuesday, you circle the wagons and send it out to everyone around town. And then you wait. And the thought of it put a fire in me. And we started talking about the small things we had to do to get it there -- the character work that we needed to do before it would be ready. Then we started talking about other things - scripts, ideas, writers who had recently caught fire and the scripts they wrote, the scripts they broke with -- everything that had been moving lately around town.

Then we started talking about our expectations of ourselves and of each other. We talked about our expectations of the scripts we want to take out to town - our names big and bold on the front. And we came to a couple conclusions about our kids, Kim and Val. We knew that the story was good, and that it works and works well...it does. And we knew the writing was there. But this moment hit and we couldn't avoid it...there's room. It can be better. It can be bigger. It can be bolder. It can blow the fucking doors off this town. And the only thing standing in the way of it being better is the work, is the grind and the shit and the piss. And running from all that is coward. And running from all that isn't how I'm wired. Lucky and/or fucky for me - it seems Team Burn's gonna hold me to it.

He left and left notes and I chewed through it all. And all day yesterday, all day, I felt like I was going to throw up...all day. It was amazing, all these feelings and ideas burning and tumbling through one another. Like everything was coming to life and dying all at the same time. Because I realized that October is going to be just like September. And November is going to be just like October. And down the line when this sells and my life does change, 2009 is going to be just like 2008 and nothing is going to change. And I'm okay with that. Because looking back, September was pretty fucking raw...but pretty fucking sensational. I've never made strides like this, ever. I've never grown like this, ever. And I can be happy pretending to be miserable for the rest of my life. So anyway...

I'm sitting at home yesterday, honestly fucked out of my mind and I get this phone call. It was from a production company that works in the 10-20 million range. And they roll out with Warner Bros. and Universal and Fox. And this girl says that she read Kim and Val and that she loved them and that it was the kind of film they might be interested in -- maybe with a little less violence and a little development - and she said her boss already had it and was going to read it on her flight to London or sometime after she got there. And I said that was great and amazing and that I was flattered and through the roof -- but that it is still evolving and that me and Team Burn were going to take it under the knife again - that it will be ready soon, and to be patient. And she was cool with that, said that when I was ready, they'll be ready for it. Hard move...but the right move.

I just can't cut the corner on this one. I just can't do it - unable to allow self. And I made a promise with Team Burn that we will never settle for anything less than the best we can possibly be. And he made a promise back. We're going big, eyes set on the biggest of big boys...in the biggest of big boy towns.

And so away we go...once again and forever 'til we find that screen.