The Ironman...

I don't know what I'm feeling right now - tired, broken-hearted, defeated, victorious. It's a mix of a lot of things. I came to the island with a finish time of 10 hours burned into my head, with the grand goal of making it to Kona on my first try. Last year, same race, my age group, 10:30 would have done it. I was on the second lap of my bike, on pace for a 5:15 split, not willing myself that I was okay and strong and steady, but actually okay and strong and steady. I could see my transition into the run ahead, sure I could hold a 3:30 and get invited to Hawaii for the race of all races.

There was a noise coming from my bike, the chain grinding against the frame. I looked down to see that my cranks were somehow coming loose, knowing it was a progressive thing, wondering if I could make it through the last lap without something falling off. 5 miles into the 3rd lap, because of the friction, my chain began to slip to the smaller wheel. I hopped off twice to fix it but the same thing kept happening. It was only another 5 miles before I found a service station, got things tight and back to business. All things considered, I still managed a strong third lap, though I did lose 17 minutes off my pace. Still, I don't think it broke me in any way. I knew the 3:30 marathon could still bring me in around 10:20.

First four miles of the run, I felt good, like I was shot out and on my feet and moving around a 730. By six, I felt as sick as I've ever felt, threw up, felt better, got back into an 8 minute pace, determined to hold steady the rest of the way. Slowly, it started to slip. But something else began to occur to me. The run was broken up into 3 eight mile loops, so I could see everyone running ahead of me - there were a few. Hundred. I thought about it only briefly at the time because brutal pain is an attention seeker, and just kept moving my feet until mile 21, when I knew that if I was going to come in under 11 hours, I would have to chop 2 minutes off my per mile pace and make no stops. Like a ship desperately fleeing attackers in the movies on an open sea, I threw overboard all the flasks and pills and shit I had left in my pockets and tossed my bottle to the side of the road. I took a deep breath. The Killers' "Human" started playing on someone's loud speaker. I laughed. Then, I suffered like I've never suffered in my life before I came in at 10:59:20. That was beautiful.

Later last night, I read the qualifying times for men 25-29 was 9 hours flat. 90 minutes faster than last year, same course. I still don't know how to explain that. It made me feel humbled, and naive, in absolute awe for the strength that was out on the course. And sitting here right now, body in pieces, I feel thunderstruck. At times, hours earlier, I could see myself placing in my division...and in reality, I was getting obliterated, fucking destroyed. That's really something to deal with - I'll never forget it. Today, I've been asking myself how I'm not buried by all of this...or how I can possibly be thinking of all the new ideas I have for training, to shave me down, to toughen me up, to quicken my step. It's all I can think about. And I'm not trying to put a bow on this post. I'm not amateur. I am incredibly happy and proud of what happened yesterday but also somewhat humiliated, and devastated, and that's what I'm locking onto - because I have somehow trained my body to lock onto and love and obsess in the things that make me stronger in this world, that keep me in a constant state of evolution...even if the result of those things appear to destroy me. Right now my body is saying rest up, enjoy December, have some cocktails and let those endless other dreams flourish.

Then...come January, come hungry.

Ironman Cozumel - 0 Days To Race...

Ironman Cozumel - 1 Day To Race...

Time to start getting quiet.

Ironman Cozumel - 2 Days To Race...

It wasn't too long ago that I was talking on here about my competition, about how when I line up on Sunday, there are going to be about a dozen guys who have a shot, really have a shot in 25-29 of getting to Kona. Yesterday, I was talking about the camaraderie between athletes, and felt so much of it today...but then something else happened. I was walking to the convention center to register when I crossed paths with these two guys, two Americans walking ahead of me. Pretty soon we were lost together and talking up life, the journey here and everything in between. They were both named Brian, from Los Angeles but the beach town Hermosa. They were friendly as hell, and if I see them Sunday after the race, we'll probably get drinks together and talk about the day's pretty bleed. Sunday. After the race. Today, the more we walked together, and talked, the more apparent it became - they're here to do exactly what I'm here to do. And no one said it. We didn't talk about times, or ages, or ambitions. We didn't have to. I could feel it in them. They could feel it in me. At some point, the build became too much and we parted ways on my desires to fix the screws in my seatpost. I saluted them, fearful, wondering like hell what they're made of. They saluted me, probably fearful of my calves, wondering like hell what I'm made of. We shall see.

Ironman Cozumel - 3 Days To Race...

Today and last night, it was my job to get here. Everything but my camera made it in 1 piece so I'm switching video to iPhone for a couple days. I walked the streets, tried to get some sun. Tonight, it's my job to get ten hours of sleep since I'm on the three I got last night from LA to Houston. Right now I'm watching Jurassic Park in Spanish. The raptor is about to eat Newman and I need to go out and eat carbs, lots of carbs.

This Is Going To Be Very Good...

I'm sitting in LAX, biting internet off something or someone, listening to the Daft Punk soundtrack from the film. Art inspires art, that's all I can think of as I'm listening to this murderously bizarre and charging album. It's exceptional. It's inspiring. Haunting. And something like this...I don't believe it could occur without a source to be reckoned with, and that makes me happy, and anticipatory...and I like that.

Jet Plane Comin'...

Ready to enter that time warp. So recently back home. So soon on the road again.

At Least My Apartment Is Clean...

There's an SNL marathon and that feels right. Anne Hathaway is on tonight. Saw her last night in Love And Other Drugs. Her body is very good naked and moaning. Good actress. Big eyes. I'm a mess because it's cold and raining and the world is hanging and the race I'm leaving for on Tuesday is a far, far distance away. I won't be better, not really until after it's over and I'm back here, another night thinking about how comforting Saturday Night Live is - how often I write about it, where exactly that all came from and why. Last night I went out thinking someone was going to find their way to my bed, and so I cleaned this place. I thought I was going to find someone to move gently through or not, to exact my poetry upon...or realize my mistake before falling far, far short. The lines in the cleaned carpet have dispersed, but I know they were there, and not too long ago, and for what reason. At some point, I was drifting through a bar, not because I'm telling myself okay time to drift, but because it's all I know how to do, because I'm never a calculated lost, only lost. At some point I was talking to a guy, a good friend actually, who spent the majority of the conversation telling me how terrible it was that people his whole life were trying to dictate his sexuality - before he tried to tell me I could never know mine unless I left myself open - to things - to him - to the possibility of him, essentially - before he became static, despised blind deaf selfish and incredible - before the depressing downgrade began to kick in and I was drifting again, constantly drifting. At some point I was talking to a girl about music, a pretty girl and finely equipped and lovable who was asking me if she could come back to my bed and see my clean carpets and dishes and bathroom, asking me if I would want to have my way with her before I was acting thick, like it went over my head or that I didn't hear it quite right before minutes later she offered herself again, along with her pretty friend, as a pair, seriously, as if to up the ante, before I talked about a friend I had to catch up with across the room before leaving, and that I would be back, always back. Steps away I could feel their rejection, their soon to begin accusations of my homosexuality, as often happens because I don't put my dick in things for the sake of, to battle themselves down, their confusion and potential hurt because I ridiculously give everyone credit of the sensitivity I suffer while dealing with the weight of my lately hopeless pursuits, the potential that they may for a long time be hopeless pursuits, which at this point isn't as heavy as it is expected.

Conspiring...

December 31, 2010...

Like them...

Meaning...

It's as good as done.

Emma Watson...

Doing to millions what NatPort did to me.

The Beatles...

There are times to hold steady and brick-headed in this world and then there are times to let go. I don't know exactly what The Beatles longstanding fight with iTunes was all about, though I suspect if I started throwing around bloated words like pride, bastardization and expectation, someone would say something like say no more you got it right there.

I have never been a MONSTER Beatles fan - and yes, I'm using caps to explain. Once. There have always been about 20 songs lurking around my iTunes that I had swiped over the years, nowhere near the amount I should have had. My Old Man once told me you were either Beatles or Stones. He was Stones, so I became Stones. I always loved The Beatles, but they were more in my periphery. To so many people, they were and still are the be-all-end-all, and I can absolutely accept that.

Anyway, the reason I sat down and started writing this is because I've already plucked a few songs since they became available on iTunes yesterday, fucking remarkable songs, songs I feel like I should have always had on my journey or behind my pen...all of this time. I'm starting to see Beatles songs creep up and move across the iTunes top 200, handfuls and handfuls of them. I'm looking at some of the songs they're standing next to and for some reason, this morning, I'm breathing easier. Without getting too caught up in my perception of youth's narrow vision and emotion/how 75% of the songs we're buying and playing and #1'ing are disposable shit at best, made because people need to get drunk and get high and get fucking, yo, The Beatles are giving me breath.

Say no more.

Chris McCormack...

I feel full, bursting even. I’m ready to give. Last night, I drove down to Redondo to listen to Chris McCormack recount what it’s like to be the champ he is - maybe the greatest triathlete ever, fresh off his second (remarkable) Kona win. There was a moment I was scanning the crowd, thinking about what people there were going to take for themselves, away from him and the night. I started thinking about what I was going to take away…

Macca is a true champ, made and then built and built. Off the course, he’s nothing but love, nothing but giving, nothing but heart. On it, when that gun fires, if you’re out there to take what he believes is rightfully his, he becomes something else…the kind of guy who would rip out your throat and then drag you to your children, make you watch as he force-fed it to them. Anything to win — because it’s what he sacrifices for, because it’s what he wakes up day after day to suffer and bleed for, because he knows that giving anything less than everything would be disrespectful to himself and the gift of a life. Because he is a true champ.

I am ready to race. I am full. I stole so much. Macca, you’re my hero. I’ll be chasing you forever, mate.

Dude...

In bed, lights out. New maniac headphones wrapping my head. I can remember a couple albums that have gotten treatment like this before. Wishing I could let it drag fresh forever.

Guess The Rip-Off...

There's a movie out today called Skyline, a supposed VFX "masterpiece" starring people I'm not even going to mention because their names might soil this holy ground. Actually, I don't even know the names. There was and still is a lot of shit being tossed around town because the guys who did work on the movie trailered below ran off once wrapped - or while they were working - and shot this movie Skyline in their apartment complex. The one out today looks B-Team at best, and I guarantee, no, GUARANTEE it is absolutely going to suck. It steams me because I don't respect artistic hacks, believe smoke on disputes like these usually lead to fire, and because the below trailer...well, it's blowing my fucking mind.

What Do We Call These Again?

Listening to The Night Last Night over and over. Rolling. Told someone today I was starting to feel crazy again - not for sake of credit or to give explanation but to mark myself, for myself, a little for them. I'll call it a seed. Separate - I was out to lunch with one of my down home girls this afternoon. She's going through some shit so I'm going through some shit because she's my down home girl. I'm telling myself I'm helping her, always telling myself I'm helping even though I believe myself to be the disconnect, that people listen to me and humor me and my thoughts on their lives and their troubles and either walk away from the conversation saying something like, fuck well at least I'm not that OR well at least he thinks he's helping. At some point, her shit actually did become my shit because the world is fucking small and because my long ago but wrecking-ball-ex happens to be inescapable, not that I'm trying to...escape...anything...anymore. 10 minutes after mentioning her name, far onto something else, I felt wrong, or off, brought it back, deemed it her, thought of certain people holding certain powers over me because of their movements across the world and my hard cock. I decide I have a problem letting go of people that I loved - decided a long, long time ago. Crossing over means I can never cross back. Or retract. No matter how vile or regrettable things get. I decide the only way to not feel thrown when speaking her name is to fuck her again, just once and well. I debate on how to make this happen while thinking back, sitting in front of down home, also a former lover, to a day I told her I loved her then left her, flew to New York, fucked another former like the one now who haunts me to protect myself from down home before she became down home from hurting me like New York had once done but over and over and over. Right now, I'm thinking about how either of them forgave me for that. Did they? Did I just push? I'm thinking of New York. Stuck with that all these years like I was with her? No. Not like me. She'll make excuses. For me, holding me up, better than me. I'll never forget those words from Munich -- I could hear you, on the phone when you went into the other fucking room, talking to her...I shipped your things away because I couldn't have them near me or in my apartment anymore. I feel sick. Sick. -- My absolution came with a hard price. Fucking vicious. I was a monster. That wasn't so long ago. What am I now? Sitting here writing about this girl I have to fuck for peace, thinking about whether or not she reads here anymore, how blown my cover would be if she did, and if she didn't, how destructive it would be after the fact, how plotted, how monstrous still.

Why I l Love This Town...

There are certain words I'm very careful with, as I try to not be a whore to that which either sounds profound or sounds like it's attempting profound. How confusing and coded - sort of my style - like burying the lead...also mine.

Tonight, Brandon Flowers is in town, playing his solo tour at the Wiltern. The word I've been holding back is hero. Brandon Flowers is one of my heroes. For that to happen, someone's behavior has to speak to me on a very special level. He's been speaking to me since he began speaking, so much that in my first novel, the two mains meet and befriend the actual Brandon Flowers on a romp to Sin City. Someday he'll read it and we'll have a drink and I'll say all this to him and he'll be like yeah I get you. Then he'll say it again and it'll be left at that - that two people from different worlds and breaths and beats can push art through wholly different venues and still share the same echo. I'm just saying. He came through the Troubador when I was in the Philippines and that left a mark on me, missing that.

But that's not all. I am also an avid runner who is now becoming an avid triathlete. One of the first glimpses I had into the sport, years ago, was through a man by the name of Chris McCormack - Macca. I remember watching the Kona Ironman on TV - usually broadcast in December - and watching his packaged profile, hearing his competitors speaking of him as this brutally tough, arrogant little Australian spitfire. I liked that immediately. I remember watching him win Kona some years ago, knowing I would never forget it. I remember checking up on him from time to time, understanding he was probably the best to ever compete in the sport. In October, when this year's version of the Kona Ironman happened, Macca struck again, somehow seemingly out of nowhere to win one of the most amazing races I had ever seen. Watch it in December, even if you have no idea what I'm talking about. Chris McCormack is my hero. Sometimes, I see him running in the neighborhood. Next time I do, I'm parking and chasing. On Monday, 5 days after Mr. Flowers, I'm going to see Macca speak in Redondo about his win in Kona. I'm going to see how he does business - how he speaks, moves, answers what will certainly be at least a dozen of the most non-sensical and lunatic questions a man could be asked. Los Angeles, I love you.

Gentlemen, keep it up.

No Better Sunday Double...

TNT is rolling them back to back -- something comforting about letting them play out on TV, something non-committal that works on me. Coming from Japan, everything Tokyo/Okinawa felt like there was a soft hand reaching inside of me and pulling and pulling, come back come back. It's not like these films flew under any radar. I've probably written about them countless times on here over the years - in some arenas the films are the finest to ever occur. I thought it the moment they hit, I still think it now. People who don't love Tarantino probably don't love them...but I still have to imagine or hope that they respect the force behind it all.

Today, I'm thinking something else, thinking about how Uma Thurman will be looked back upon. She's certainly Tarantino's girl, there's little doubt about that...but as time passes, new generations arrive and the two entities separate, I hope people remember her alone, as the savage queen who killed, killed, killed this role and made my Sunday this Sunday...on many Sundays to come.

This One Hurts...

I was at a joint last night on Sunset, having dinner with a buddy of mine before seeing RDJ and Galafanakis in Due Date. Same joint, remarkable joint, at this point in time, even on a world scale, I'm not sure another rivals it. Dinner was great, and the movie made me laugh. At some point, it was around 11 and I was chasing some dame and floating around, trying to find my way out but also back upstairs at the top bar, completely content with my evening before Elton John and the droves that go along with someone like him began to trickle in and speak of a night that made me regret not keeping my ear to the places I needed to keep my ear to...to find out he was playing a somewhat hushed show at the Hollywood Palladium. It still sort of hurts...a lot.

I see Elton John the way I see Brandon Flowers in the sense that they both move me something incredible - and they're boys, brothers in arms...and I love that. But I'm sitting here trying to soften the blow, and listening to the roaring, singing crowd behind him in the video...and something about that makes everything better, knowing that Elton John wasn't exactly mine like he was for the generation ahead of me. I never would have forgotten the show, but maybe something about it would have felt borrowed...at least that's what I'm telling myself.

When Mr. Killer comes to the Wiltern next week, I'll just have to count on The One I Missed flying back between Louisiana and Oklahoma to duel heart and genius. Either way, I'll just have to survive. Or drive to Ontario, CA tomorrow. What the hell is Ontario, California?

I Have No Problem Obsessing...

Better keep this rolling…

While I still have enough cushion in my bank account to take a 600 dollar hit — yes, a 600 dollar hit — and sign up for next May’s St. George version of the Ironman.

This one works for me on multiple levels. First, I can get in a car and drive from Los Angeles to Utah. It’s self-sufficient. And have you ever driven through Utah? My, oh my. Also, the race has been given the distinction of being the toughest Ironman in the world (judged by an average finisher’s time of over 13 hours). Maybe most important - I don’t want this to stop at Cozumel - meaning I don’t want to treat Cozumel as my be all, end all. St. George is my insurance policy for Cozumel for Kona…just as every race until I make the qualifying time for Kona will likely also have an insurance policy because I want this bad and love the sport worse. That’s where I’m standing.

Today, a small weight has been released. Tomorrow, when I line up for another day of training, I’m going to see that true line, my first, waiting for me south of the border. I’ll feel for moments what electricity Cozumel has to give, and bottle it. I’ll work on my breath. I’ll wait for that gun to go before it goes, sending me off with every intention of taking with compassion and grace, everything I want from the world.

That’s where I’m standing.

Ready Or Not, Here They Come...

Fall is about adoration for me. I could go on and explain, but things are getting different these days, choosing to bottle and save, build myself into a secretive madness, trusting no one to guide my ship or even put their fucking hand on my wheel, not for one fucking second. That's what the game is doing to me and I love it. No, I adore it. But I didn't start this one out to be about me...

I adore the fall for its movies, their brains...their cool and ambition, and this one I'll tout about as highly as any. Colin Farrell moved to the top of my list after In Bruges. Keira Knightly after the first second I saw her on screen in anything. David Thewlis, Ray Winstone. One of the greatest television shows to ever come around, Pushing Daisies' heroine Anna Friel - and in her accent! I love Brits...I love their dames...one day I'll marry one.

Looking forward...