The Rat...

Somewhere on a come and gone road, I heard this song that fell into me...and maybe I heard it a couple more times before I forgot about it before I later tried to recall it and failed. I always remembered it was vicious and had this drop in the middle that went something like, when I used to go out I knew everyone I saw...now I go out alone if I go out at all. That was all I remembered and remember being tremendously affected by its 4 minutes. Recently, I've been cruising Pitchfork's top 500 songs of the 2000's and have been grabbing bunches of them I somehow missed. Today, fucking hungover and having not slept, slung out on the couch of this penthouse I'm staying, the song started playing - the song I've been scouring for. Oh, and it bent me over and shot me full and I'm bouncing, fucking bouncing, blowing out the speakers lining the halls and walls of this fortress. Amazing. The Walkmen. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.

28th...

I passed the organizers on the way out and said something like I couldn't have imagined it better. That good. Great night. I am lucky. I am fortunate. I am fucking drunk and have to teach a sold out 9am spin class. I'm a fucking soldier.

I've Got Something Of A Feeling...

It's gonna be one of those nights...

The world aligns. If you don't hear from me again, speak of me well. Birthday.

I Don't Understand...

Why a guy can't have a staggeringly good 5 course dinner cooked for him at a girls house he absolutely likes and has made this known - at least to the extent he is capable - with a playlist of music and menu that has been shaped to his exact taste, before he then beds that girl, before he then tells her he hasn't slept the entire week and that waking up somewhere not at home, where he can't immediately begin to tackle the world in the morning would leave him feeling so obtuse it would rattle his fucking skull...and not get crushed or feel like he's not getting crushed for saying he can't stay the night.

I'm aware. Still, when will things ever be okay?

Le Dodge a Trois...

How I miss you so...

Arctic Monkeys...

New album came out yesterday. These guys are an interesting lot. Love their stuff - very smashmouth and subtly crushing. The lead Mr. Turner is the kind of songman who makes me wish he'd write a book.

They're coming back to the Palladium in a couple of weeks and I'm planning on catching them. Caught them there maybe 2 years ago from the floor - really the only place to catch anyone at the Palladium - great venue by the way...and they had an energy I really respected and only remember seeing outdone by one other show - Arcade Fire, where I felt like they were actually a little upset at me for showing up, for coming to see them, to force them into ripping through 18 or so of their songs before slipping away.

Love this one...

Channeling Keanu...

I saw this again for the first time in a long time last week. Amazingly terrible...and Busey at his finest. Maybe I was inspired.

Today, I woke up at 645 to make the drive 22 or so miles into Malibu on the PCH, because I'd been living in California for close to 5 years and never once gave it a shot.


Got up once and bit it, spent most of the time on my knees but made it work. I was paddling out with my buddy about halfway in, when I told him I had an awful headache...that I had felt like I needed to throw up constantly for the past hour and he said something very casual like, sometimes your body has to get used to the bacteria in the water. When I got out after 3 hours, I almost fainted...like, had to catch my balance from a knee. Not sure from what. Killed it. Next up...Swayze.

70,446...

And every single word that survived survived a fucking war. I don't know what I feel right now. I wrote Durban and he said he didn't know what to say, only that he felt light and that if he felt light, that I should allow myself the same. Today, I did the last 4,000 words. I don't know what I feel right now, only that I'm spinning. The last thing he asked me was if he could tell people what it was going to be called...as if he had to get permission from me - something he claimed I earlier wouldn't allow. I don't remember this, but I suppose it is something I would say. I told him to go tell the world...

We Are The Dusk.

Fanboy...

I find myself continuously returning to Wembley on here or on empty nights or when I feel like a posting slacker...because it's not only brilliantly produced, but to me, it strikes as the finest live performance in the history of the world - and that's me trying not to sound as dramatic as I instinctually should.

The new album is about a month away - and the tour follows. I have these grand plans of working my ass off all of September to make an extra 1500 to blow it flying to Berlin to see a show on October 29th. You can pre-order their coming album on I-Tunes for the release date of September 15th and read the track list, 11 songs, ending with three called Exogenesis: Symphony Part 1, Exogenesis: Symphony Part 2, and Exogenesis: Symphony Part 3. I read grandeur like that and feel so inspired, I want to cry. When I hear them, I probably will. Because I'm like that, and fucking proud.

Wow Clement, Wow Rockwell...

Excerpt #6 - Seville...

8,000 words to go. I finished what I set out to do, wrote this book with John Durban a good bit ago, knowing a deep, deep draft was going to have to take place before reads could happen. I didn't know how long that deep draft would take, but after 6 weeks of bleeding my face across every passage, pulling and piecing and perfecting, it's right there. I'm finding myself lately in a state of reflection, knowing everything me and Durban set out to do and say is about to leave us for good...and I don't yet know how I feel about that. But it is a good feeling. It's a really good feeling. Light. I've been beginning my last bit of research before I go out and try to get this thing published - I need to find the feminine hand of a true artist, fool-hearted like me and D, capable of sentimental and unforgettable charcoal sketches that will ultimately map our tale. I mentioned this to Durban and he said he knew someone exactly who had a studio in Notting Hill and that he was going to talk to her. Two days later, he sent me an e-mail about their meeting, saying she was absolutely perfect for the job before sending me samples. They were incredible. Absolutely perfect. He told her we were already published - or that we had a deal, which was a lie - and she gave him a quote of 85,000 (Fucking Pounds) for 10 sketches...which he then negotiated down to 72,500, before putting her on hold. Fucking Durban. I suppose we're not quite there yet. Anyway, back to Durban. This is the beauty of a home stretch, I don't want it to end...

Several years ago, on one of my stops in Paris, I befriended a chef named Maurice. For 40 straight nights, I ate in his restaurant and he sent me everything in this world that could possibly be eaten…some of it inedible. That’s where I got my true culinary education, from Chef Mo. For that stretch and then continuing in life, I became his greatest admirer and critic and sounding board. He worked with fierceness and owned this dedication that were both at the time, so unknown to me. We became friends and stayed remotely in touch. When he decided on opening up his own place back home in Seville, a place that would immediately fuck the map of world culinary excellence, I asked if I could study under him. He said yes. I moved to Seville.

I told him right away I wasn’t interested in getting paid and he said something like, are you crazy…I wasn’t going to fucking pay you John. We agreed on the word apprenticeship, because I liked the way it sounded, and I painted him with lines like, your presence and knowledge alone is richness to me. No one is immune to praise, least of all proud Spaniards. I spent my days following him around from morning to night, 6 days a week and sleeping 20 hours on Sundays, writing after I had finished a shift in the kitchen and a few cocktails, powering through exhaustion so heavy, I thought it possible I might die from it. At one point, Mo asked me if I was trying to be like Hemingway. I told him yes…or that I was at one point but not anymore. When we were together, cooking was the only art. I wanted to be an artist to Mo, to stretch and struggle and suffer for something that was new and beautiful to me. It moved him when I spoke of the one thing he truly loved in this manner. Now that my days were nearing their end, I began to cycle out sleep…sometimes awake until 4 in the morning before sleeping for an hour before running for two before meeting Mo at the markets at 7. I learned how to pick fruits and vegetables, to sift and be discriminate in finding the night’s perfect proteins. He taught me to revere our time at the markets, saying something like, what happens here paves the way for what happens there (pointing to his restaurant)…if you fuck up here, you’re fucked back there…even I can’t rescue a dickhead haul do you understand? The market was his church, his survival, his livelihood and he treated every vendor as his deity. I’d watch him move through the bouquets of goods like a dancer, all elegance and intensity, listening to the food because I swear it spoke to him. He was loved by some and loathed by others…respected by all, a knight of the court before us and I was his squire, content just to hold the horse.

Ladies And Gentlemen I Present To You The Hands Of A Girl I Once Loved...

I hadn't seen them in over a year, or spoken to the mouth above them in over a year because things didn't end so pretty for the two of us. There was a point in the relationship - which by world standards was brief, and she was quick to point this out - where I fell for something I originally promised not to fall for. Soon after, we fell out and I spent the next 2-4 months dealing with the sort of things someone deals with when these things happen. It was a fine period in my life, and if one were so inclined, they could literally go back on here, back to last July until November and see the process of my driving a speeding car, seatbelt off and knives pointing out from the steering wheel, straight into a brick wall. I haven't looked back, but someday I will...and I'll thank her in a note, saying something like, thank you...you amazing bitch...thank you.

I sat down and we talked about the things we were chasing, the worlds we were occupying and the people we were fucking. Right away she said something like okay we're going to talk about that and then we're going to talk about how crazy you are. Then she smiled. From that smile on, within moments of my sitting down, everything was light and easy, the way it should be...the way it should have been but never could have been until today. We talked about my faults and hers, taking turns calling out and then defending each other, trading apologies and inabilities we both hoped to one day separately conquer. We sat there for close to 2 hours and she held me that entire time, and I never once worried about the thousand things I had to do or the thousand and one worlds I had to conquer. I was there and could have stayed there forever, honestly...that kind of girl.

When she got up to go to the bathroom, I found myself thinking back to times long ago, back to a brief stretch when we were wild about each other. I remember telling her I thought she was rarity, that she stood me up like no one I had ever experienced, that no matter what happened...even if things got bad between us...we had to fight to keep a friendly fragment of what we had intact...and not just because I thought I might always want to bed this girl. Then I remembered another conversation that went something like, when this ends it's gonna end bad, before we laughed about it and fucking dared each other to break it off...constantly. We were madly wrong and right for each other - a total floating disaster, covered in gasoline, pissing on an open flame.

One year and change later, today, we were walking to our cars on the sidewalk of Highland. She said she was sorry that I got hurt, that she cried too for the same reasons, my getting hurt, and I told her to stop. I didn't know what we were apologizing for...the shit we're made of that made us fall, then fall apart - the shit that allowed us as strangers to spit fire and laughter for two hours at some coffee shop in Hollywood - the shit that's going to carry us with grace through the remains of our lives? Fuck that. I'm sorry it took us a year to speak, sure, but I'm not sorry that I flipped out and picked a raw fight and she's not sorry that she responded by hanging me out...and we both admitted this and then laughed about it. That was us...we're still all that. If we weren't all those things, we never would have known any of this. I'll take that. I think she would too.

Excerpt #5 - Las Vegas...

Mine not Durban's. Spoilers everywhere, but you gotta be on it...