Mt. Baldy...

This is what it looked like somewhere near the top, from my camera...

It took about an hour, starting around 9 in the AM to take Cahuenga Pass to Barham to Forest Glen to the 134 to the 210...to exit at Baseline to Padua to Mt Baldy Rd. to Mt. Baldy Village. I stopped off at the visitors center, ringing the bell over the door like a lunatic fucking bandit as I entered, as a room of children turned, as a park ranger's speech about coping with rattlesnake bites came to an immediate halt. I said something like trail maps and no less than three children pointed to the main desk. I swiped my guide and got out, not really in the mood to re-live whatever they were living in that moment or ever again.

From there, I parked at San Antonio Falls Road, packed up and started my climb. It was 70 degrees at the main entrance, starting at 5000 feet and across the way, the first thing I saw was a waterfall stampeding between two large masses of snow. It was alright. I spent the next 3-4 hours following the direction of the ski lifts, just hiking up and up. At the top of the lift, I climbed into one of the chairs and sat. There was no noise, no people. There were birds, maybe...and some bees, maybe...and then there was me. I set the chair into a rock and rested my head for a moment before falling into a short sleep. It was alright.

From there, to continue, I had to go a bit off trail, to this section of the mountain called "Devil's Backbone." It felt like the air was starting to thin and I could feel my temples pounding as I moved up and up, just telling myself to keep moving. A couple times, I tried to start an avalanche but the snow was too heavy.

Sometime between 2 and 3, I reached the summit, spent...maybe a little burned on the skin, a touch chapped in the lips. I hung out for a good little while, taking pictures...mostly gratuitously of myself. Once I got over serenity, I consulted my map and instantly decided I didn't want to take the same route back.


There are a couple of things you need to know about me before we proceed. First, I'm not a super strong map reader. I could be if I wanted to be, maybe, but the possibility of my being that will always fall victim to the second thing you need to know about me, that I am the world's #1 authority on behaving like an improvisational dipshit. What does this mean? Well, it means I was supposed to pick up the new trail somewhere to my East. Somewhere. I crossed through a couple mini snow valleys, thinking I would hit the path somewhere, that everything would work out fine because that's usually how things work for me. When I ran out of valleys and hit the edge of a rock cliff, I looked to a grade that seemed passable, and to a clear trail in the valley below. I think I was overcome with an initial abundance of pride, thinking I would be back in no time, that the descent would be a breeze, that someone should give me a Nobel Prize or something of the like so I started down.

I'm going to tell you a major key to descending a mountain, in case you don't already know...you can't really judge a drop by looking down on it.

Also, if you don't know what you're doing, maybe stay on the fucking path. Maybe they're there for a reason.

It took me about an hour to get down the first ridge. If you want me to fractionalize, I will...I was about 1/15th of the way down, just fucked. Have I made this abundantly clear yet? I started talking to the rocks, because they were so fickle. Most rocks were small and most steps caused them and about 30 of their ankle smashing friends to slide. So when I'd find a good one to grip, I'd say things like be strong my friend or take care of me now. Please don't think I'm kidding. There were at least two instances where I lost my footing and saved myself from a tumble with three fingers of an outstretched arm. Sometimes, I'd laugh it or the pain I'd recently suffered off, but most of the way, I was a little more panicked than I wanted to be, wondering what things were going to be like when the sun goes down.

Slowly, the grade began to mellow out...about two hours after I began. And by mellow, I mean if I lost grip and fell, I would fall 20 feet as opposed to 50. In the distance, I kept focusing my eyes on the path ahead...distantly ahead, using it as my only real form of comfort. The moment I believed myself to be making progress, I stepped over a rock that started to hiss. Yeah, no...I'll say that again. The motherfucking rock started to motherfucking hiss. Rattlesnakes. Apparently, this was their stomps, too. I told myself that it was too steep, that the one I crossed was an anomaly - that it must have been cast out from the flatter grounded rattlesnake communities, scorned even. That's what I told myself, maybe a thousand times in the next 10 minutes before settling my fear, self-affirming that if I got bit by a rattlesnake, I would fucking deal with whatever accompanied that and that that would be that...because that's exactly what I was on the mountain to do. The sun was beginning to fall and the temperature was falling and I was over and in the middle of everything I was out to chase.

Halfway down, once I had left the sporadic, large rocks behind, I started to ski. The rocks had settled into bunches that would cave and slide as I stepped and for maybe 10 feet at a time, with superb agility and grace (I obviously possess both), they could serve as transport. This is where I started to make up ground, turning single steps into tens of steps. Just as I was getting into a rythym, I heard rocks falling to my left, and in bunches. I looked over and saw a deer. But it wasn't a deer, it was a form of ram - it had horns on its head. I looked below me and saw 5 more. Then, to my right, there was another. Somehow, I had gotten in between a pack or family...and they were either studying or circling. I had heard stories of animals like this charging people like me and spent enough time in the African bush to know how the wild world works...I was way off path and if they thought I was threatening their young, I was going to be met with bad intentions on the side of that sliding hill. A new form of fear started to run through me. They weren't moving, just watching. I began picking up rocks and throwing them in their nearby - maybe as a demonstration of my might in hopes it might back them down. At this point, I'm not sure I was thinking things through. They didn't move. I calmed myself, decided that if I had to fight a fucking pack of rams on the side of that mountain on a Wednesday, then that's what I was going to have to do...because that's exactly what I was on the mountain to do. I back-tracked across, trying my best to demonstrate that I was suddenly and now backing down and by the time I had started my descent again, they were packed and moving off, watching me...actually, probably judging me. Fuckers.

I got back to the slide and the mountain was somewhat easing and I could see the path...or a path, but it was still so far away. And I don't know if it was the residue of adrenaline still in my guts or paranoia, but my mind moved to the sight I must have been, fireworks shooting off over my head as I rode an avalanche of rock down the face of that mountain. I began to think about the family of rams, and the ways of the world...and that if any hunting predator was after them, it certainly called an audible the moment it saw me. I searched the ground and picked up the two sharpest rocks I could find, decided I would walk with them, and that if I had to fight a fucking lion or something of the like up on that mountain...if I had to try and stab out its eyes before it ripped off my face, then that's what I was going to have to do...because -- yeah, we all get it.

Finally, the grounds began to flatten out. Finally, I stumbled onto something that resembled a beaten path, followed that for about a mile. Across a nearby stream, there was a green hut and outhouse. It was called something like camp Mt. San Antonio. On the other side of the hut, a true path began to take shape. It was somewhere around 630 and I started to jog, so happy to be somewhere someone else had maybe recently been, I couldn't contain myself. After about another mile, I saw a large and darting animal out of the corner of my eye and thought it was a wolf until I heard the ringing tags on its collar. It was a dog, and it ran up and I actually gave it a hug. Behind it, a man was trudging up the path, sweating and out of breath. There was so much love in my greeting, it knocked him off his feet. We had a quick conversation and I told him about the rams. He was either impressed or humoring, I don't know which. It didn't matter. I had found my way.

When the trees cleared and I got clear view of where I'd been, this is what I saw, the exact path that didn't seem that steep from the top...

I paused because I usually do when life calls for it, realized not for the first time in my life, that one day I am going to pay for the decisions I make. Just not today. I got back to my car and actually applauded, not caring if anyone was around to see or ask why I was clapping, or why my eyes looked like they were housing delirium. I drove into Mt. Baldy Village and stopped at the one restaurant in town. They were serving a special of "spaghetti" for 8.95. I took that without question and a beer. "Love Hurts" was playing on the stereo or jukebox and the locals were singing along and all I could do was try -- fucking try to take it all in, to let everything in a day stick to and become me.


...

I got back on the 210 around 8 and the roads were clear. I flew home, music so loud it numbed my speakers. I was dirty and hurt everywhere and the only thing that remained in my day was sleep. It felt like something...

Like I had taken a life shower. Maybe I had. It felt like I had borrowed time from another world. I absolutely did.

I Want To Go There...

I do this thing often where I grow restless with the world I'm living in and start to dream of wild and faraway places where I can seek and find expansion...because in my mind, these things can only happen in faraway places and exotic locales. Crazy, perception. Last week, I was talking to a friend who said he took a drive last week to this place called Mt. Baldy. He said something like, you know, the top of that mountain range where you can usually see snow if you look East from LA. He told me it wasn't that far and that it took 8 hours to hike and I told him to send me directions.

Last night, I was lying in bed, battling this flash fever and scary, painful glands...but was healthy everywhere else and felt fine. So naturally, I started to think of how long I have left before the poison spreads through me and whether I'll be healthy enough to bounce back and climb Mt. Baldy on an LA wednesday. I managed to test my strength with a run this morning...passed. I took a serious fucking yoga class before teaching...passed. The delirium seems to have faded. And I have a feeling I'll be strong, at least for tomorrow and that's all I can care about.

I need to be cleared right now, that's all I can think of...so that's where I'm going, there.

Sunday Funday...

I woke up this morning and turned my phone on, initially trying to wrap my mind around the fact that I flaked on a party I was going to go to last night...and flaked it hard. I sent some texts this morning out, out of apology, and understand why but can't tell it to anyone else, that I'm simply finding a hard time bringing myself to do anything these days unless it's done in the chase of profundity. That means creation...or expansion...or love and that's about it.

I ran off to teach a 9 AM class this morning before heading to the Melrose Place farmer's market. There, I bought a 3 park of strawberries, content enough...just happy to be enjoying my sunday neighborhood farmer's market before I tasted two stands down, the most incredible strawberries I had ever tasted in my life. They were large, they were dark, they were ripe, they were perfect. And you know what, I wouldn't let myself buy them...I think out of spite - yes, for myself - and because what person buys 6 fucking crates of strawberries in a single day. I thought for a moment, that the initially premature transaction might ruin that quarter hour of my life, but quickly realized I was being a dickhead before making my way home, living in the glory of what was a perfect Los Angeles sunday.

...

Next week, on Friday I believe, I'm moving apartments. See, I've been paying 1450 per month in rent for the last two years. Lately, after the change in jobs and severe reduction of working hours on the jobs I job, I came to the conclusion that I didn't want to afford that much anymore. Also, the economy is bad -- you heard it here first. I wrote a letter to the property management telling them these things and that at best, I could do 1250, but that that would be pushing it. I didn't hear back. So...I went to my landlady, who is a sweet crazy person and told her the same deal. She came back at me with something like "I'll get back to you." Then she did. Then I went in to talk to her and she told me I couldn't keep the apartment I was living in, but that they would move me to one of two rooms in the building for 1250 and that first month's rent would be on the house. Hard bargainer...

The apartment I'm moving into is on the third floor, and it's exactly like the one I'm in except she told me it usually rents for more than mine. There's a ramp to a bedroom skylight I'm going to try and loft, plant a garden out on the roof - which I plan to now claim as my own. And as we're looking at it and moving through the space, she flips this switch, totally multi-perso on me where she's trying to sell it...this consummate lunatic saleswoman, telling me about the neighborhood and the views and how quiet the building is and our glorious rooftop pool and the "retro" mini-stove(fucking really?). I wanted to stop her, to tell her to shut the fuck up and probably should have...that I'd appreciate more if she just stayed real with me...but then I calmed down, remembered this was what she does and I thought not to take her moment away from her. Then I took the apartment.

...

I'm walking around on friday and there's something seriously, emotionally wrong with me. I felt like someone died, or that I was dying. I couldn't really speak above a whisper, and trying to awaken myself from the shit I was in would only make me sound awkward and inspire others to ask me who died. The entire day, I was apologizing for my behavior, stating over and over something like if I sat down and tried to figure it out, I'm sure I could, but that I didn't feel like it, that I didn't really want to try and explain anything.

I'm moving. That's all. On friday, I'm going to take all of my shit from apartment 121 and move it to an apartment somewhere in the 3's. And if you asked me, honestly, I could give a shit. It makes little real difference to me. Okay...truth, I'm excited to move upstairs, something new and exciting...even if it's in the same building. But you know what, there's something inside of me that doesn't see things that way, some kind of powerful, powerful minority...and it's been putting poison into my body ever since I dropped off that deposit. It's trying to tell me that we had some memorable times, here, in 121, that we've had good friends in this apartment, good fucks in this apartment, a good life in this apartment. It's telling me that we've had hearts lifted here, and torn here...that maybe we've dropped a lot of fucking tears and sounded a symphony of laughs and that things have been good...and that giving up 121 may put everything, the entirety of my life in jeopardy.

I am not this part of me, but it does live inside of me. When it speaks, it speaks with resonance. Still, I'm moving. Obviously.

But I'm not really cleaning up. And lightbulbs are going out all over, and I'm not changing them. I'm not going to paint over the walls, the dark and soothing slashes of red and blue. I'm just going to move on, because this doesn't mean anything...because none of this means anything. And here I am, stuck living with it, stuck living in the paranoia of having to unearth myself from a life that's swirling all around me. Poor fucking me. Poor fucking me, if only I could get over it...the it that wont let up until I move all of my stuff out and get settled somewhere new, until I can show it - whatever the fuck it is - that we have a home, that we have somewhere where we can be safe to live, to be untouched, to rule out eternity if we chose to. And I don't know how to explain it in any way other than that. I'd rather not.

Who Knows Ben Best or Jody Hill or Danny McBride or Chris Henchy or Adam McKay or Will Ferrell...

I'm hustling this script around town...episode 1 of season 2 of Eastbound And Down. Hammered it out over the weekend and it's legit, mostly because it's not that hard to ride on the coat-tails of success and or originality and or filthy, filthy writing. Or maybe it is, I don't know. Actually, that's what I banking on, exactly that it is...and that someone super involved is willing to listen to a 27 year old egomaniacal writer who thinks he can slaughter their shit.

Wow...

Coachella '09...

I was having a real hard time sleeping last night, laying my head down around the same time The Killers were coming on just a couple hours down the road. I don't know why I've never been and I didn't go last night, maybe something about the thousands upon thousands upon thousands of the human public all in one place at one time - and for long hours - and long, hot days - sadly, most of the time, there's something too elitist or non-functional in me that wont allow me to partake. But it still hurt. This year's lineup definitely did some damage - not like in years past, where I had no excuse to have not been in attendance. Maybe next year -- I think my stars are all going to align again and things will work out, but that's just preliminary speculation.

Instead, I stayed in yesterday, worked from sunrise until 10 PM. I don't think I left my apartment, finished the day 22 pages into my own Eastbound and Down. I'm hoping to finish it and polish it tonight, send it off in the morning or afternoon before work but I'm battling this mild bout of heat stroke right now because it was 95 and blazing outside today and I ran 20 miles in the sun after teaching spin and I don't feel so hot but there's no time for dilly dally, not when you aim to conquer.

Anyway, all this helps...and water...and my bed...the feeling of my stretching heart.

Off Day Wednesday...

It's becoming something of a personal holiday around here, hump day. This morning, I got up at 5 to work out before teaching before running before dropping 2000 words into the book before sleeping for a bit before finally starting in on the line, "Who is John Galt." I just put Atlas down, just to break ground for the first time ever, and now it's somewhere in the 3's and and I just ate a banana and looked outside and it feels like the day it just beginning.

Me and Durban just crossed 50,000 words. The plan was to have the first pass done by the time I run the marathon, May 25th, and I think we should make that mark with time to spare. Right now, it feels like once everything is said and done, the book will come in around 70,000 words. I think that should be right around 200 pages and that sounds about right...light, sprawling but concise.

I haven't spoken much to my representation lately. E-mails have been circling around town, and from agency heavyweights weighing in on the lowly state of the industry -- exactly why the true literary world held such an appeal to me. Things aren't good, obviously, but I'm very not daunted by any of it right now. Recently, this idea has been floating around my mind quite a bit...that within the next 6 months, an opportunity will present itself for me to go all in on something, something that fits...something I've been building towards every day since I moved to town. I don't know what started it - it's not exactly like I have this uber-confidence in the book we're writing, or that I think of it as a rescue. I think when we're done, it's going to be a magnificent and ultimately self-fulfilling piece of work...but I know dick about publishing and getting a true lit agent. I guess at the end of the day, all you have is what you put on paper - and maybe the simplicity of that is exactly what's giving me faith. But it's not just that...

I was having meetings with Team Burn before me and Durban started writing, and we were fighting so hard, trying to come up with an idea and it was sucking the life from me - and it was sinking me into this mess, making me this mess where all I wanted to do was push everything away - because I wasn't inspired...as desperate a feeling as feeling exists in this world. Once the book struck, I dropped a note that I was going off the map for a little bit and that was that.

Sometime in the last week, the flood came. I think it was around the point where the book felt anchored, when the concrete hardened, that something opened inside of me. I took on another project, one that's all guts and hunch and if I talked to my reps, they'd say it's a complete waste of time, but sometimes, you gotta trust guts and hunch, write where the writing feels inspired, where the heroes names sound something exactly like Kenny Powers...

In the mornings, I usually knock out 1000 words and move to Eastbound and Down later at night, writing action lines like, "There's a mocha hooker unconscious at best in the corner of the room, tributaries of saliva and cocaine cascade her tits." I think I can hammer it out in a matter of days, something in the form of extra credit, to flex a muscle different from the one I'm using during the book's sprawling madness. Then, I got a great idea for a feature spec...great idea. Then, people I know started talking about monster shows and staffing and I feel like something is starting to circle and I can't explain it, all I can do is work through it, let this growth take hold of me, aim as high as aim goes or so I say.

...

But let's not make this all and only about work. What's worse than a writer who can't stop talking about writing...

There's also this girl. Sometimes, after I drop a period post-statements like that, I try and think of all the people who might be reading this, wanting me to be their, "so there's this guy." I'm awfully kind, tremendous arrogance aside, have been accused of being overly flirtatious before - disputing to my grave the difference between flirting and intention of fucking - but chances are if any of us are posturing our chances with someone in this world, that's all we're doing...posturing. I've found myself to be extremely forward when it comes to wanting someone.

That being said, I recently had this true crush dropped into my lap...and I fucking felt it, and you can't invent feelings like the true forms give. I'm very careful, though, and don't get carried away - also believe in composure above all things - and that the heart has the power to carry you away because that's what it does. But still, I want to talk about this girl...because that's what we do here, label posts "girl" and go off. Let me say this first, and say something above all things...you have to know about the context of this story, and that this girl has a stare that's pretty fucking rare. It's the kind of stare I'd equate to Siren Song (don't I use that often?), because when you're its benefactor, you have no choice but to fall in love. In the past, when I would get it from her, it'd last for about a half-hour and I'd laugh it off as a wonderful ride. That was the kind of pull she had on me, maybe because I deal in high caliber to begin with, maybe because I've faith enough to know I'm eventually going to grow into something in need of someone world-conquering. But that's for another day. Let me fill out your context by saying this...I live in Hollywood, in the midst of everything that means. Girls I speak of who have "rare" stares have likely already spread that stare to distant corners of the world - and I know there are men in corners of the world who have never recovered from this one's. That's dramatic. That's your context.

So I've been around the block, know the language. As far as I can remember, I've had this talent where I can pick a girl I've wanted to get with and make it happen. I've never found sport in it - and feel the need to qualify this, and that the talent I speak of is certainly used sparingly, but nonetheless, I GET THE GAME, do quite well in the game when I choose to play.

This thing has been happening lately between her and I...it's been extending my crushes. I consider myself a very strong person, but I also know I've got this quality that's very timid...will always initially come off as shy and quiet - and maybe that pegs me straight, who am I to be objective? But this thing that's been happening is very hard for me - the stare. Fuck, it's hard for everyone, and there's this unspoken dialogue that's happening that's starting to light me on fire. She holds...and holds, maybe because that's her talent. Maybe that's what works for her, gives her what she wants. I saw her twice very recently and it was the second pass that got me, as brief as passes come...a goodnight before she got on the escalator and then she held my eyes, forcing me to hold hers, and those stairs took her down and away until I couldn't take it...until I was the first to break glance. It was maddening - looks like that gift temporary insanity. I felt it. I'm just now coming down off it, just now cleaning myself of it - because no one holds like that. Sensational. I was out with a friend and confidant the other night and told her very generally (having nothing to do with this temp crush) that I was in no shape to take on anything that even bears resemblance to a figment of a relationship...that I simply can't. I told her I wasn't interested in anything like that, that I'm too busy, too self-involved and she told me if it came, I'd take it on, claiming she knew me.

This weekend, it's starting to warm up...and I feel like there's a stride approaching that's going to fall right into my steps. And everything I want or need or think I don't need but do...they're all going to fall into place in the next 6 months. I say that without hope or ego, honestly...and because of that, it's as good as truth.

When Did Chester Cheetah Turn Into Such A Crazy Motherfucker??

Blog Sex...

I've been asked to contribute to another blog on a regular basis, mostly on fitness and training. I've tried to convince them that my posts on the women of my world are far more interesting, but they're just not having it yet. Maybe if I started giving up names...no one seems to appreciate the beauty of semi-ambiguity. So, if you come here in the future and find posts that grab bits of relevance and actually hang onto them, know that it's because my words are likely sexing up space somewhere else on the Interweb, and I that have then re-posted them here...home.

Because I don't want you to miss anything.

...



Push, Sweet Push

A change of season is upon us and with it comes new opportunities to get active. If you're a runner suffering through months of frigid temps and cabin fever, or if the monotony of logging miles on your neighborhood treadmill has grown unbearable, or if you're simply looking for something new and life-changing to participate in, the time has come to go running.

Running is beautiful in its simplicity. We set the body in motion and keep it in motion. Okay, so how do we do this? Well, we lift and drop one foot in front of the next. We also breathe. Eventually, we vary speed and distance. That's it. Like I said, it really is quite simple. Still, talk to most people and they'll avoid a run like it's the plague. Running is difficult on the mind and body and naturally, we tend to avoid the difficult, ignoring the simple notion that our greatest gains are found in the exact places we choose not to go. It's the one cardiovascular exercise that I have never heard associated with the body "peaking out." If you get into the habit of running a few days a week for a few months, you will lose weight, and you will feel stronger, and you will be a happier person. Someday, perhaps I'll put some depth into my physical and psychological claims, but tonight, let's remain on the task of breaking ground.

There is one constant that holds firm in every aspect of my training - from running a 5k to teaching a spin class to lifting weights to doing power yoga to training for the 26.2 miles of a marathon. In my mind, I've come to label it as The Push. In terms of running, it means a variety of things. It means that when you wake up in the morning and don't feel like going for a jog, The Push gets you out of bed, puts you on the road. It means that when you're out on the road and you've committed to running 5 miles, you don't pull up at 3 because 3 is "good enough". It means that if you're comfortable running a 9 minute mile, The Push lowers your pace to an 8:45, or an 8:30, or a 7:30 because it's possible, because when you commit to letting it kick in, the option of selling short simply fades away.

And if none of the above is clicking for you, if it's too much rhetoric, then just be superficial. Look better, be reminded what spring looks like, meet hot people doing it. Whatever it takes. Get out and go. After all, summer is coming.

Growing Up...

I was fresh in Los Angeles when I developed a semi-huge crush on this semi-huge starlet I knew from Equinox. At the time, we had been making small talk for a couple weeks - something reasonable people might refer to as rapport. Also, we shared a trainer who went out of his way to tell me she was single and that I should do something about it. I was young, owned my still invincible ego and had yet to understand that only creeps (guys or dolls) try to make pick-ups at the gym.

One day, I stopped her. I had scratched my info on an Equinox comment card (yeah, I know), handed it off and told her to give me a call sometime, that I'd love to talk. Of course, it didn't come out exactly that tight and/or succinct. I stumbled a bit, maybe a bunch. She spoke of a boyfriend and of their monogamy and I played the whole situation as if we were dishing words on weather. Her practice of letting down potential suitors was sharp, and she operated her practice with grace to spare. Sometime in the next week, after I had spent a week in my head, I deemed the original encounter to be an uncomfortable disaster. The next time we passed, we made quick eyes and she gifted me a floating smile. Instead of reciprocating, my eyes shot off her course, as if a person could even be capable of missing an offering so kind. Because of my move, we passed that day without exchange, would continue to pass without exchange...

About a year later, when I was standing in line at Whole Foods, I saw her on the cover of a bridal magazine. She was set to marry the boyfriend. A year after that, I ran into her at my Gelson's. It was late at night and we were shopping for the same thing, both of us knowing exactly who the other person was, exactly where the other person was. At this point, we had been strangers for some time, had passed several times around town, each time having to deal with ignoring each other and the exponentially growing awkwardness that I had created -- all because of my look-off.

I can laugh about all of this because it's in my past, because that's what I do to measure or come to terms with my growth or the illusion of my growth. Sometime in the last year or so, she must've moved into the neighborhood because she's always around, always where I happen to be. Recently, her face has been on billboards all over town, that floating smile hyping a movie she was helping to open. Over the weekend, that billboarded movie had the biggest April opening ever.

There's a great word called omnipresence. I've always had a lot of respect for it, for its sound and formation. It means something is everywhere at all times. Lately the beautiful reminder of my distant and childish behavior has been exactly that, omnipresent. There's another word called inescapable. It's much less respected, I think, because everyone knows exactly what it means. In this context, they're equally powerful. Sometimes, I opt to believe that my long ago indiscretions are exactly that, long ago, as if time and distance offer automatic voids on any person or subject of my choosing. Anyone who's honest with themselves knows that's not honest. I began to think that maybe I hadn't come as far from my past as I opted to believe. Sometimes, certain holes, insignificant as they may be, feel too deep to dig out of.

Yesterday, I saw her at Gelson's. I was walking out and she was walking in. I said hello. She smiled, said it back. You know what it takes to erase 4 years of awkward passes? That. Imagine.

Le Dodge A Trois...

On Sundays, I play dodgeball...and this is my team. I know that confession sounds like I'm trying to get over an addiction, but truth, if I had a calendar and was in the business of circling it, I would have circled my last 8 Sundays. That's when Le Dodge A Trois laces up against Los Angeles' finest and fiercest dodgeballers. The first time I went out to play, I thought I was in for a lazy Sunday afternoon romp and found myself in the middle of one of the most competitive and satisfying shit storms I've been in since my days of toeing pitching rubber. Honest. And I get to throw things at people and no one can get hurt - even from a face shot. Amazing. Today was the league final four and unfortunately, we got bounced one game before making it to the finals. Usually, after the game, everyone heads to a bar down the street (our league sponsor), but today, I was too beat. This morning, I woke up at 6 to run a UCLA 5k (5th, 18:40, if you're counting) before I ran off to teach a spin class. So those were two reasons I didn't go to the bar, not counting that I can't eat much pizza or drink beer because I have to get faster. I want to drop weight and chase perfection and this is the process. On Sundays, we make a play, always, to shoot for exhaustion so that we can actually sleep. Tonight, we think we're close.

I'm watching Jurassic Park 3 and I don't think I ever saw it, how awful it is just watching the images go by to the soundtrack in my headphones - trying to check out last night's SNL band, Phoenix, trying to get a full read on them...

Who shot this fucking movie?

I'm waiting for the videos to upload to Vimeo on today's game because one of my sweethearts, Mary, was there to blog about it. I'm waiting to embed them because I think you should see. And I'm reading a book called All My Friends Are Going To Be Strangers because one of my friends told me I must read it because I told him I was writing a book. So far, he's nailed it - perfect prescription for an aspiring and insecure literary titan. Tomorrow, I have to get out another thousand or so words before I have to run because 3.1 miles today, although briskly paced, don't quite equal the 20 miles I was supposed to trot. I wonder if my shoes are broken in yet. I wonder if I'm done with blisters. I wonder how my Monday is going to turn out. It's 9:48 and I feel like that should be early, and I'm wondering where I should be right now.