My Behavior II...

I was at a bar last night and it got me thinking about something because something always does, because I'm extraordinarily in my own head, because I feel self reflection is the key to growth -- or that's what I tell myself because that's what suits me. If you pay attention, you probably know this is something I commonly do - shape the world to suit my needs, to make myself its ultimate benefactor. Yeah, I know...either self righteous or totally insane...but that's the line I aim to toe.

So anyway, anyway, anyway...

I'm at a bar and this girl is hawking me all night, because I'm a specimen or for whatever reasons people hawk other people, fill in your own shit. I write a lot about girl plural and the pursuit of good things that sometimes associate with them because the entire process defines fascination to me. This has all been said before. For the last month or so, in so many words, I've been absolutely out of the game - and I do this often, all the time, actually...because catch this theme as I make it obvious...it also suits me. Why? Well, because at this point in my life, I'm going to dish hurt to everyone and I'm going to dish it quickly. So I certainly tell people to tell people not to chase me. I certainly do that. And in the rare, rare case that I do actually meet a game changer, and they change my game, I know that in the end, I'll lose. They'll cut my legs out. Why? Because I think let them...because ultimately, I think that's exactly what I want. Because I look at myself and I hear what you don't hear and I can say because I know, I am incapable of anything but these absolutes, these extremes. Because it's destructive, unrealistic, temporary. Because it keeps me clean.

Anyway, she does this thing that screams no game lotta confidence where I can't escape, no matter where I go in the bar, no matter how many new conversations or slip aways I conjure. It was remarkable, actually. And by remarkable, I mean fucking annoying but ultimately adorable because in my re-telling, I'm aiming for mildly harsh instead of honest. Because honesty is scary. After a while, she gets the nerve to ask for my number, evidently not keen to the fact that I was blatantly not asking for hers. I gave it away because I admired something in the whole process, and I wanted to give that to her, a trophy for all that hard work. Finally free, I made it over to a couple of my boys. Among them were a couple of strangers also -- the impending key to my roundabout tale of self-reflection...

People who know me know that I'm sweet and composed, that I'm solid...a kind and gentle guy. People who really, really know me know that I'm a confused, disheveled, crude and arrogant dickbag. And I think once you know that, this whole thing that's me...it works. So I'm approaching this group I just mentioned, and my eyes are wide and I blow a monster exhale out of my lips to signify my escape -- because I'm a fucking child -- and I say exactly, "Wow she's really swinging for the fences, huh?" Then I'm introduced to two people I've never met and without hearing their name I say exactly, "That's the first thing you ever heard me say. Wow. I'd stay and apologize and lie about how grateful and appreciative I am of the affection I receive in this world and I'd try to convince you that I'm not some arrogant dickbag but I don't want to compound lies with poison and bullshit. Anyway, I've got to go to the little boys room."

...

I'm losing the ability to vocally communicate to the world. In my mind, before any words vacate my body, I feel like I'm forming prose, all the time forming prose, and I have to speak like a hurricane to keep up, to stay on pace, to not fall behind, to satisfy the judges that live inside here, checking my moment to moment. I'm ranting to myself often, silently or out loud, long ago dismissing the need to have someone there in front of me...to bounce with...and that can't be helping. I lose myself often, sometimes feel like I'm trading one form of communication for another, that to find growth here - words on pages - the world has to deem my speech incoherent. If that's how it's gonna go down then that's how it's gonna go down.

I'm alright with that. I am tightening...

Where The Wild Things Are...

So anyone who has had a childhood or had a child, or grandchild in the last 50 years - everyone - has to be at least a little curious about the release of the forever in the works, "Where The Wild Things Are" movie. If you don't spend your life obsessing and living in and around the Hollywood community, you probably don't know that whispers have been on the downturn for some time now. I can tell you that Spike Jones is a genius and he directed it...and that he wrote the script with Dave Eggers, who is absolutely a genius. The cast is genius and everything about this movie seemed to have everything in line to be a monster - and I guarantee it will be, no matter what the first word is. But, but, but...if you're obsessive like me, you know they've been making this movie FOREVER...and that they've been re-shooting...and spending tons and tons of money...and with all that baggage comes the likely behind door battles...which undoubtedly lead to compromise. So maybe you can feel I've got a little cynical on my tongue, but that doesn't mean I'm not rooting for it. That doesn't mean I'm not a little crazy for it.

It's not just because someone ponied up coin enough for the right to blend what looks to be wondrous footage with one of the 3 greatest songs ever created, Arcade Fire's "Wake Up." It's not just because I'm being bought by that...because that exact thing worries me as much as it gives me hope.

Please enjoy. I did. I am...

Stud...

Fine Music and Marathoning...

I want the soundtrack of my life set to Beirut's The Gulag Orkestar because right now, that feels about right, because of what I'm sitting in and thinking of and sifting through on my off-day Friday leading into my off-day Saturday leading into my off-day Sunday. That calm and beautiful roll and the carnival fucking moaning. That feels about right.

I think I'm done apologizing to myself for how I spend my weekends, for the directions I'm clearly not subconsciously aligning myself. This weekend, I have 22 miles to run. Next weekend, I have 31. The following weeks go something like 23, 31, 22, 32...and I'm recently coming to terms with the fact that I have to make time in under 3:11 because otherwise, I'll think of myself as a failure and have to live with that, setting mind to something and falling short -- and in my home of one, that's a dangerous game to play, and the thought of falling short makes me nauseous and it makes me sweat...thinking about having to deal with myself in mornings or on Sunday nights...holy shit, Sunday nights. Don't need that.

I tried to go out a couple nights this week. And by that, I mean I did make it out - not like I stopped at the door and turned back to come inside, afraid of the outside world. What I am saying is that I put my hat on, always put my hat on and more often than not, come home with nothing but collection, hardly roused...and I'm worried the people I spend time with think of me as fading, distancing...and I don't mean to be. There is acid, fucking acid in my blood - here, on the trail, in the push I'm always chasing. And I don't know if other people have that acid, but I'm looking and failing and every day, the deeper I get, the more it becomes all and only mine. And I'm done apologizing for that. Not that I ever was, I'm just done. Done.

Because I'm going out to leave bars early to walk home, to raise my headphones and move in the black, to dance steps as I walk, to feel like I'm re-aligning myself after drifting off course. It's Friday morning and I'm trying to figure out exactly what that means...

Julia Roberts...

There's a good looking movie coming out this weekend called Duplicity. It's a Clive Owen/Julia Roberts piece directed by Michael Clayton's Tony Gilroy. I was just reading some reviews and it's certainly now reading like a winner, too. But that's not what struck me. I saw this above picture and that's what did it -- a right hook from Julia Roberts, after all this time, after swooning us all for what...the last 20 years, to actually own the capability to be re-discovered now, at 41, after taking the time to get a family off the ground...

What a woman. What a darling. And she makes me feel like such a child, such a little boy. And I'm always alright with that. And when I'm moved, I speak...proud that when my era of film comes and goes - I'll be able to look back, hang my hat on a woman like that.

GrabBag and GaGa...

Durban just sent me his last post on the third city we shared pages. I wrote the last leg and we brought it in at a little under 10,000 words and I think we both feel pretty good about it. He's living in London for the next month, said in the message that he's spending his time, "laying low and keeping it real." We're moving in a good direction and both seem to be having this problem where we have such an abundance to say and sometimes, I feel like these chapters are a bit sprawling but in the best of ways. I think the most difficult part of writing a book is all you have to store and keep internal. And on top of that, the build is ceaseless. Thousands upon thousands upon thousands of words...and every one selected with care.

Everything else I've written has always been at least something of a smash and grab...and whether it's shit or great, that mattered but never really mattered to me. All that mattered, ever, was the feeling of getting it out and off. Sure, we all want to find fame and fortune in the artistic work we do, but hopefully, that's not why we do it. The reason you'll often find me here is that it's instant gratification. If I didn't have it, this forum, I'd gnaw through my arm.

I told you earlier what this book is all about...me and Durban jerking ourselves and each other off for 200 some pages. That's it, so when he sent me the last stretch, the passage that's about to follow came highlighted. If you ever want to learn something about yourself or if you're the type of person that's into self exploration/worship, find a friend with whom you've shared privileged time and then write a book about that time. You'll have no choice but to dish on each other and yourselves. The following is what he just gave me. I thought of it as something eye opening...still rough draft, mind you. I think he'd be upset if I didn't mention that...such a rook writer, Durban...

"Burn isn't much of a conversationalist. Sometimes, when we're going into social situations, I see this look on his face where I know he's prepping himself to deal with people, as if he has to change his persona to handle the masses he'll never otherwise be able to relate to. Sometimes, he strikes me as having a very schizophrenic personality and I've told him on several occasions it's something he should get checked out. Of course, my advice never moves him. Don't ever get Burn started on industries of psychological therapy and behavioral meds. For an often apathetic and drifting motherfucker, he turns into exactly that, a mother fucker...spitting, rabid and vile. Actually, the contradiction is quite remarkable. You need to know that when he gets uncomfortable, he goes internal...and his mouth shuts like a rusted bear trap, which, in turn, means the weight of being holed up and hiding out in a tin shanty with a ferocious and suspicious and protective mother of two becomes entirely my burden to carry. You need to know that."

...

I've been all over YouTube today stalking Lady Gaga. This was what I came across, exactly what I was looking for -- footage from last night's LA show because YouTube today is sensational like that...

She played at the Wiltern and I never thought much about making the trip since it's not exactly my style. Don't get me wrong, I think her music is phenominal -- some of the best hooks and drops I've ever heard...and I've been playing her songs in my classes and in my headphones for a long while now. She works and then some, but I always...and ignorantly thought of her as a manufactured pop princess and never really wanted to get real deep with her because nothing about that ever moves me. I always knew she was young...22, and owned vicious and beautiful self confidence and I dug on that because I always dig on that. Then, I started reading...and everything about her read like the life of a musical prodigy -- and she was hanging her influences on Bowie and Mercury and I was watching clips from last night's show like the one above...and then I watched what's now about to follow for you and I realized I'm forever sold. Remember here what we do with genius? Yeah...

Let's Stay On Music...

Because I'm starting to feel that pull. I think it has something to do with daylight savings and the light staying around longer than usual - and the world waking up again - and this this idea of elevated happiness for 7 months until time comes calling for the world to tuck itself away...and I always follow suit, maybe because I'm a creature of habit, maybe because I've yet to fully figure myself out.

Anyway, all of this leads us back into Muse...who released Black Holes And Revelations a few years ago. You can certainly dig through my posts and find me writing up all their glory over and repeatedly on here...

Countless mentions on shows or nights spent chasing them on YouTube, or proclaiming to any willing ears, the title Rock God upon Matt Bellamy - because when it comes to them, maybe more than anything else in this artistic world, I am a fanboy and have no problem saying that. And when I watch the videos of Wembley in '07, I feel like I'd give a year of my life to have been there. That's where I'm at.

So tonight, I was fishing around a little bit, because it's time. It's time to give me something new to root for in life. Time for a new album. I respect the fact that they take exactly that...time, usually a couple years between releases and usually tour like monsters before, during and after dropping an album...but like I said, again, for the 5th and 6th time, it's time.

So this was nice...

"I'd say we're about halfway there. We're creating a lot of material now and a lot of it's going off in all sorts of directions... Over the next couple of months I think we're gonna have to start narrowing it down and start saying, 'Right, what are we going to do here?' Because at the moment we're just enjoying totally exploring everything that we've got to offer really, but I think it's going very well... We've got to finish the album first, but I'd hope that we're on for a tour later in the year sometime... Probably autumn time or something like that I should think we'll be back on the road."

It'll be October. Good date to chase music around the world...somewhere that trades winter for summer. Yeah.

Because We Speak Of These Things Here...

This is what it looked like from the outside of Walt Disney Concert Hall. I wont use words. That diamond is the moon, as if the camera couldn't handle its grandeur next to the silver and alien building.

This is what it looked like watching M83 on the inside, playing with the LA Philharmonic. I went on a man date, taking one of my dearest because he's solid and then some and because I've recently decided to get off romance. So that's where I was at, out on a Saturday night, drifting downtown and fully sober because of the things I knew I was going to put my body through today...Sunday. They executed the evening as something of a tag team. Anthony Gonzalez came out and did three songs all by himself, just computers and synthesizers and foot pedals and the sound inside of this place is like nothing I had ever heard...just echoing, like you can feel the music swimming into your ears and running laps around your brain. No drugs...honestly. When he got going and he was moving and just playing with his little machines, it was hypnotic and beautiful and transcendent and all the other words I'm leaving out because I'm already being redundant.

"Dream Pop" is the best genre I've ever heard to describe what they're doing. It really is remarkable.

After Gonzalez exited, part of the Philharmonic came on to play some compilation that Gonzalez and the conductor had chosen. And it was chill and it was quiet and it was dainty and beautiful and you can tell where I'm going with this or maybe you can't...

After the intermission, the orchestra came back on and played an 11 minute concierto -- I have no idea if that's the right word, am obviously too lazy to M-W or wiki it...and again, it was all the things I had previously mentioned. Finally, they came together, and the rest of the band came out to play divine "Moonchild" and then the band left, then they returned...and they kept going for a few songs and all I could think, all I was waiting for was for someone to blow the fucking roof off Disney. Because they were absolutely capable -- all the pieces were in place. Fuck, I heard it for the first three songs of the night. I wanted it so bad I was ready to scream it...and I immediately realized the mistake, looking around the stage, counting the 80 members of the Philharmonic plucking their strings and blowing their horns and I looked to the band of three and their technology and all their machines and call me new fashioned, but M83's incredibility is that so few can sound like such an army...and when you actually bring in an army to support them, it's defeating and hold-backing.

Now wait -- It was very good. I don't want to give the wrong impression because only a fool could find absence of beauty in the things I saw last night. I mean, honestly...a musical experience...

But it could have been so much better. In that tiny concert hall, with the sounds that were bouncing off those walls...and with the magic in those machines at Gonzalez' fingertips...I think it could have been the best I've ever seen. That was the potential that's stuck in my mind, and it's just dangling there, here, right fucking here. What does that mean? Well...

It was like a really good dry hand job. I'll take it and tell you it was really good...but in the future, we aim for progression.

Where does that leave me? I'll tell you exactly...

It's Sunday night and I can't move my body and I just finished the most genius dinner I've eaten in a long time -- PBJ burritos side egg whites and I'm thirsty and restless obviously because it's Sunday and all I can think...what drugs can I sell, how can I prostitute this rockin' body, how can I pander my literature into enough cash to pay for a puddle jump to Sydney to see them play the V on March 28th with The Killers? That's it...and it's gonna consume me because that's what happens, to me, in my life.

JJ Abrams...

I feel like this is going to be a big year for the movies, start to finish. 2008 had some bright spots and then found itself fluttering a bit. I've had my eye on this one for a while, because everything Mr. Abrams does turns to solid gold. And because ever since seeing Chris Pine in Smokin' Aces, I've been itching to see someone throw something really, really heavy on his back. Well, here we go, and I'm definitely not a Star Trek guy per se...but I've already watched this like 10 times.

Love Is Carnage...

I just hit send to Durban on a 6,000 word chapter called "Athens/Santorini, Greece -- November 2007." The next one we're on is going to be a tag-team, I believe, but it's going to take him a while to wake up from whatever coma he's in and actually read it so let us digress into some overdue prose.

I've been not sleeping very much lately - this usually happens on the weekends, surrounding my no sleep Sundays and early morning Monday class and my waking up before the classes I teach on Saturdays and Sundays to run for hours at a time. I've been in the middle of some serious training and the intervals are only going to increase from here on...so we must be careful. On top of that, I've had to pick up rogue working shifts because people are booking shows/going on vacation. My time of late has been shortening. So...to keep up with the pen, I've been getting up in the 5's or 6's to get my work done so as to not drive myself sinister - which I absolutely do if this, the grand plan - is ever ignored or side stepped. This is all going somewhere...

So this morning, I woke up to find this sweet (I see sweetness in odd things) and direct letter in my in-box that's peppered with words like rude and curt and douchebag. The douchebag thing was more of a warning and not an accusation. We all know I'm not a douchebag -- she does too. There were also quite a few f-bombs...not angry ones, just...expressive. And I think I got the letter because of everything I just mentioned, and my likely resulting behavior due to the laundry list of excuses as to why my life is supposedly in disarray...and it is, it absolutely is, and it will always be in absolute disarray because that's what I need in my life and only people in disarray can understand that.

But here's the catch about my life: it's also perfect, and it's mine, and it's composed like a beautiful fucking symphony and every day, the notes sound sweeter and it's building and I'm very protective of anyone walking in on that because when we hit that crescendo...

If you follow me and read me and retain any of these words, you know that I was at least sometime in the last year touched up pretty badly by a girl. You know that before her, I have been touched up pretty badly in the past. You know that I own the sensitivity to handle reverse situations with grace and chivalry and you know of me as being an exemplary enough character that I remember my own broken hearts and that I would at least try my damnedest to never let my actions deal any ill-feelings or broken hearts. I hope you know that -- that I would never apologize for my supposed indiscretions -- but that I would at least always try to do right.

But love is carnage. Absolute fucking carnage. And no matter how clean we try to make it, no matter how great the intentions or how remarkable both involved parties are capable of being, someone always gets touched up. It's the price we should all be willing to pay. Because to me, there is nothing as awe inspiring in this world as being in love. The thought of it literally inspires my every turn. And the higher you rise and the better it gets, the greater the crater...and someone always winds up in the crater, always. The truth, there have been a short few that have left me there...some deep, others glancing. The truth, I've left many, many more - and don't you dare think that's me holding a trophy, that's the last thing I would ever do. It's a definition, a self-realization. Because every time I wake up with one of these letters, I'm reminded of my sweet incapability. I'm reminded of my true romance...

Me, my chase, the clock, these keys, this instrument...

Which Of Course Got Me Then Thinking...

About the most recent song that did it to me...