So Felix Died...

I never woke to sirens. There wasn’t an emergency call in the middle of the night. Paramedics never stormed our shared stairs. Instead, he slipped away in the same fashion he lived…tucked in the quiet corners of Cedars-Sinai, buried under the forgetting covers of a forgetting hospital bed. I imagine.

Yes, I’m guilty of stretching slivers of fact into epic dramatic rants. When I spoke of Felix in the past, though, know every word ran authentic. This man was a walking corpse.

So it didn’t surprise me when the apartment manager spoke the news. Truth, I took it in stride…at least to a certain extent.

By now, you better fucking know I’m not heartless…

Stay on Felix.

He was alone. All and completely. He died, and that was it. The manager accepted the responsibility of cremation. And inside his door, mere feet from where I’m sitting, remains proof of a man who borrowed time on this little blue pearl called Earth.

Word on the corner of Holloway/Hancock (me, the manager, his quasi wife) has determined that there will be no family coming to rummage through clutter or to scatter his memories. There will be no friends to issue lasting tributes or to give closure.

He just, died. I’m finding it difficult, wrapping mind around someone leaving without so much as a whisper. So for Felix’ sake, for our sake, we’ll do what I always do…

Slip into the magical land of Truth and Reality Very Optional. For you, I’ll also pretend this place is not my permastomps.

…

I’m at the podium, standing tall above the thousands of joyous eyes here to celebrate the man, the legend…Felix. The cliffs in Malibu overlooking the Pacific seem appropriate for a soul who lived and died through our world’s great natural treasures. This is sentiment I dish to break ice as the sun bends itself around golden clouds.

Felix was a good man. I was fresh in the city of angels with boxes yet unpacked when we first met. I remember my initial impression quite vividly. It went something like…so you’re not a 19-year-old Georgia transplant beauty queen concurrently suffering from a deep sweetness of the heart and a middle of the night no strings attached nymph rage complex?

We got along as well as neighbors do. Every month or so, we would exchange words and smiles. The infrequency fit the mold of our city. We’d often swap meteorological observations or discuss Los Angeles’ glaring lack of a respectable mass transit system. As time went on, his features began to deteriorate…

Though his smile, of the pre-blinding white teeth craze era, never did.

…

If you’ve been following, Felix was a big Sunday LA Times buff. The only problem was that he wouldn’t actually read it until the news had grown stale. It would sit outside his door until Thursday…Friday…Saturday.

I imagine in his times of health and youth, he consumed every word…burdened by the impatience of living in a world constantly spinning. But I imagine he read it on time. On Sunday.

Or maybe he didn’t. Either way, it’s a little sad…life as a newspaper.

…

Happy travels, Felix…


I’m stealing your paper.

Everyone's Darling M.D.

Every two or three days, I reach down and steal a sip of water from the sea I’m sailing. It’s not too salty to drink. Truth, it’s quite refreshing. The taste is distinct and mysterious, simultaneously. Either it tastes like brilliance with a twist of lemon…or insanity and old boot. And that’s fine. I’ll take either over whatever else is out there.

…

I’ve lost motivation. Stop, that’s absurdly false. I can’t even follow it with an open beat for fear you’ll get the wrong idea.

So let’s clarify…

My motivation is in danger of facing change.

I came to this town with a single thing in mind. Doog Hows Hollywood…sans Vinny the dipshit, obviously. If you don’t know what that means, stick around. I shouldn’t have to explain, but I will.

It meant packing Champaign, unpacking Los Angeles and taking Hollywood’s keys at the ripe age of 23. Pass off a script, watch it take off. Direct the next with a destination somewhere in the vicinity of worldwide gravitas.

It’s a dangerous thing, managing an ego this excessive.

In three months, I turn 25. That means 1/8 of my life has passed. 25 years stored in a heart and head that selectively release in the middle of the night. And of all the things I could be worried about at this stage of my life and career, the most troubling is that Doog Hows status expires at 26. Hopefully by now, you’ve come to realize I seldom back statements with anything even in the ballpark of resembling anything even in the realm of being up for consideration of qualifying as a concrete statement.

You prefer quaint? What this R Smith says, goes.

Here’s the problem…

I can’t be good. It doesn’t “work” with the way I was made. I need to be smarter, faster, sharper, deeper, quicker and stop fucking sexier than anyone who even dares mate words on white.

And I need it 10 years sooner. That’s now…

Fuck the walls. Fuck the dues. Pick up stamp Doog Hows and cut your own path.

Do I sound worried? You know better.

…

Oh, come on. You honestly missed it? Get better at life…

Doogie Howser.

Kicking Down Doors, The Prequel...

How do you wrap a last goodbye when you know for sure? It is. Careful what you wish…or enjoy stage fright from on top of the Empire State.

No.

We’ll cut a deal. Don’t ask of me to give reason, you wont be insulted with rhyme. I’m not that blend of poet.

Next to you, our employers, there was nothing we held more dear. Even watching you shatter straws, every day our last…season. One line in, I’ve caved.

No time for rehearsal. I know you can hear me…

Why we came, here it comes, the long story and short. To dust rust for the Heavens, I’ll be obligated to report. About our first world in danger of collapsing into sorrow. We couldn’t bear that day find you, or allow it tomorrow.

So much to say, never enough time…

Goodbye Big City. Goodbye lights, seasons. Goodbye your tragedy, hope, beauty, confusion and chaos. Your escapes. Goodbye your faults and memories. Friends. Home. Hot, cold, the style you parry to let life unfold.

I can leave nothing behind except a wave and blown kiss. But I’ll trade the end of this fable for the hurt of everything we’ll miss.

To a world need mending, a cavalry rode in from above. And four angels rendered helpless, in the end, found love.

Goodbye. Goodbye. Forever goodbye.

Corner of Hell...

I was at Molly Malone’s on Friday and Saturday this weekend. It’s a great little dive, Irish style. It’s not that I go often. Actually, you can chalk these visits up as 3 and 4 in the past two years. Not much frequency at all.

Friday night, the incomparable Travis Howard lit the stage and that little place in my heart responsible for briefly falling in love with Memphis. Mind you, I realize 4 Guinness deep and 15 minutes to midnight are hardly qualifiers for an inspired 20-hour drive. Being the Earl of Good Judgment I sometimes can be, I holstered my lead foot and remained in the city of angels as he finished his set. In the spirit of circumcising long stories, kid can play.

Saturday, I made an afternoon pop in to celebrate the thrashing of USC Film School softballers. Several weeks ago, I was acquired off the free agent wire by the UCLA team of similar denomination. Since I took a course in Westwood upon arrival, only partial ringer status can be applied. This former D-1 college baller is now a proud part of the Bad News Bruins.

And this is all relevant, partially…somewhat.

Molly Malone’s sits on the corner of 6th and Fairfax. Let’s just say, for all intensive purposes that 6th Street is the line dividing Heaven from Hell in Los Angeles. It helps me paint an irresponsible picture.

Now that we’re clear, I can quickly sputter…

On the corner of hell, there’s a 99 (where the fuck is the key on my keyboard) Cent Store. When I initially drove past, I had a single digit flashback…the day R. Smith lost his Everything Under a Buck Store virginity. It was in fabled Vernon Hills, Illinois. For all you non-Midwesterners, Vernon Hills is the human equivalent to the magical Land of Oz.

That’s when it happened. I walked through the semi-automatic, selectively operable doors and realized…

This was the dumbest fucking idea I had ever been a part of. I was 9…roughly. Okay, it’s a guesstimate. I expected to find flammable and potential eye-gouging Halloween costumes rejected by the Safe Parenting Association of America. I hoped to swoop in on decadent meat and cheese platters that had fallen victim to Customs code 134 A. I crossed fingers for play at home kits on how to wage discreet yet substantial campaigns in chemical warfare.

Where were they?

Instead, people were shopping. And for regular shit! If a box if Ziploc bags cost 3.99, you could now get a box that was ¼ the size for under a dollar.

Revolutionary, indeed.

Wait! Certainly, a mistake had been made. Surely, an explanation was in order. Where were the specials on heat seeking darts? Or Ebola-infected pet monkeys? Surely, someone could guide me to the section that housed the handheld lasers and ninja stars? What about the cosmic dildos???

They didn’t exist. They never did…and as I would soon discover, they never would. Although the next line you read doesn’t deserve caps…or singularity, I’m going to say it anyway…

Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to THE significant turning point of my life.

…

On Friday, as I drove past this particular corner of hell, laughter nearly crashed my car into a parked Mercedes S 550. On Saturday, a familiar notion crept through my mind…if only I could turn back the hands of time.

Shop Less Than a Buck Store on the corner of hell was flying a banner. So elegant was the black lettering over a yellow background. So intriguing also, were the scattered brown stains that heightened the invitation of the sign’s appearance…

Looking back, it’s difficult to tell if the stains were a stylistic choice. Perhaps a disgruntled vagrant had taken a shit in his hand and projected a contribution. Because I am ingrained with journalistic integrity, it’s absolutely necessary that I examine all angles of logic.

…

Mother’s Day Headquarters. That’s what the sign read. If only I knew in time.

Now, tonight, I can only dream of the day where my mother opens her heart enough to forgive a son who has been ill schooled in displaying gratitude.

May Shop Less Than A Buck boldly make this an annual declaration.

May I one day forgive myself…

Mr. Next Door...

I come home on a Sunday night, a Monday afternoon, Tuesday evening to find that the Sunday paper still sits on my doorstep. This building is divided into 16 apartments. After living here for nearly two years, I know the names of 5 tenants. For those of you scoring at home, that’s a conversion percentage just over 30. Sad, either the state of my being or the state of this world.

I share stairs with an older gentleman. These stairs divide our two apartments…A and B. Estimation leads me to believe he tips the scale at 80 and 60. Years and pounds, respectively. Let’s call him…Felix. Felix has somehow convinced the L.A. Times route runners to hit our shared Holloway nook once a week. Sunday. I fail to see how this could be profitable on any level for the Times. Maybe for Felix, in his piteous state, this is a courtesy they happily extend.

Doubt it? Yeah, you and me both. Roll with it.

Sometimes, he’ll go out of town (slip into a pre-determined, self-medicated coma) and kindly slide a note under my door. “Out of town. Paper is yours if you want it. Enjoy.” It’s a nice gesture, one that involuntarily tucks itself into the back of my mind.

It’s the foolish things I never forget.

Other days, he’ll knock. This is rare. I always know it’s him from the distinctive lack of trauma he exerts upon my wooden door. The last instance, he shamefully asked if I would do him the great favor of getting his mail. When I opened the box, it was stuffed so tight a crowbar was nearly appropriate. He hadn’t walked the fifteen steps of our courtyard for weeks. I came to his door with my arms full and he spilled it. He hadn’t had the strength or faith to make it without collapsing…

I told him I’m always right next door…that I’m always a knock away if he needed anything. Anything. And…I think I was even sincere.

The next week, I found him sitting on the ground, halfway between his door and mailbox. He was spent. In a mess of sucking air and spitting words, he managed to share the uplifting news that he had fired his doctor and was feeling much better. Of course, any up-lift I had experienced instantly deflated when the visuals came rushing in. Looking down on him in that moment, I realized this was a man I could literally lift above my head and snap in two. It’s not possible for me to imagine a walking man in worse shape than this one.

Felix has been ill. Quite. When I first moved in, he carted an oxygen tank everywhere he went. Its old wheels would scream pitches to rupture eardrums as they hit revolution danger zones. I’m sure it bothered some of the tenants. Not this one. It afforded me prep time, albeit brief, for our impending conversations.

When you speak to a man that can barley take in enough sustainable oxygen to survive, KNOW immediately that you are destined to Shepard that and every conversation the two of you will ever have. I’m good with words, but speak to a dying man greater than 50 years your elder and also KNOW, take every drop of help you can get.

…

It’s Monday, eight minutes before midnight and that paper is still sitting outside his door. This tune is hardly fresh. Actually, it plays quite often around these parts. I sit here in my darkened apartment and let the melody fill my mind.

I think about the frailty of his life, the invincibility of mine and determine that reality falls somewhere between.

I look at the white wall separating my world from his and I wonder. What will the song sound like when I remember, long after Felix is gone, that his Sunday paper is actually being read on a Sunday?

I bet I’ll laugh. No, I’m sure of it.

Because I Can (part 3)...

And if this is silently the best time of my life…sweet. It’s a beautiful thing, not having the capability to refrain from Tommy Topping this ride from one stretch of years to the next. It means that when this kid hits 94, I will be the most accomplished being on the face of this planet…a galaxical ambassador to systems of worlds we have yet to discover. Yes, it’s a good thing we’re tight now. I’ll come in handy down the road.

Too filled with internal banter…waiting to be. I would have dropped quotes if it didn’t make my sentences look sloppy and ill. The point from which I lay sarcasm should be obvious. Should. Be. Obvious. Then again…what a waste of time, the circles I spin you. No, you love it.

I’m leaving to find a bar…sometime in the relatively near future. Though, my specifics lend difficulty to what would otherwise be a simple journey. A small town where bottled Budweiser is all that’s served and the boys fight nightly, hourly, quarter hourly…

My ladies would be lined up at the bar…

A place where painted jeans opt for deferral to cowboy boots below the knee.

Where flannel shirts tie into little knots below the bottom rib.

Where hair pulls up, nothing short of disaster.

Their home lives would be sheltered, their freedom stunted, their raging souls imprisoned. Their thirst could only be quenched by pulling me out onto that floor. To tame, breath by breath, their unbridled need to fly feet...to dance.

The town would be ruled by an iron fist Reverend with a misplaced heart. I’d fall for a girl named Rusty and never need to ask for her name a second time. Ever.

I’m leaving tonight. Starting in New Mexico and working my way to Tennessee.

...

So irrelevant that my spin teach practically rolled the ENTIRE Footloose soundtrack in class tonight. So irrelevant.

Smith out.

Because I Can (part 2)...

Chronology is over rated. Picking up where you left off, over rated.

Do you ever hear a word and repeat it back to yourself? Strange, how letters make words. Words make something else. Ideas, feelings. Nepal. It’s a strange word, Nepal. Sounds strange, feels strange when you say it out loud. Nepal. An attack on the senses so confounding, I beg we speak with closed eyes for fear of exertion, cardiac style.

Be never fooled. Five little letters cast a mighty shadow. A grey cloud waiting to be melted away. It’s a word that claims siblings of equal fascination in the eyes of a distant dreamer. Brothers and sisters eager to tell their endless and remarkable tales, all within arms reach.

Close enough to tell secrets, trade smiles, blow kisses. Good stuff.

So incomplete do the mad children feel after 24 years…the weight of hands yet shook, every day become increasingly unbearable. The pull, every day forever on, life is only just beginning.

…

No one tells the birds when it’s time to fly, they know.

Because I Can (part 1)...

It scares me to think about it, symbolically or otherwise…the human heart. It scares me that it has the power to evolve. It has the power to change, to adapt to meet the needs of its ever-changing carrier. You, me, everyone.

Theory of evolution…

…

Where exactly is the point we change? Where we stop believing in “once upon a time” and commit to a world of brick and stone? I’m worried, concerned about the collective condition of the human heart. Symbolically AND otherwise.

I know there was a time. It wasn’t so far off where my heart was a big, bloody, beating mess. I wonder where it has gone. Is it still around or has it grown accustomed to these spurts? Has boredom conquered my pulsing red friend?

No. Come now. You think I would ever let that happen? It’s something else. Something that even my words alone cannot subside.

When I speak of my heart, now…I make no reference from which you can find familiarity. How can one understand the unknown of another? This is not a story of love, lust. Neither makes this life sweet. At least not today.

Tomorrow, well, different story.

I Ooze Sex...

Yeah, no…that’s worth repeating…

I Ooze Sex.

…

I was working this party Friday night. A little place tucked outside the slums of Chinatown. Way back in the day, it used to be the city’s first car showroom. Now, it’s arguably one of the coolest living spaces in Los Angeles. Then again, Chinatown slum outskirts + coolest living space in Los Angles = debate.

Actually, you can check out the site. Nice visuals…www.marvimon.com

It’s known as Los Angeles’ “secret restaurant.” The owners invite chefs from the great restaurants of LA to cook for 50-125 people. Last time it was A.O.C, Providence, and Grace. This time…well, it was a Friday night instead of a Sunday. The lineup was distantly stellar.

Everyone tries to be someone in this city…which was the unfolding scenario on this fateful night. Not everyone can pull it off. It does, however, always help when you’re surrounded by a company of the like, where survival rests on your sleight of hand talents. It’s not like all of these people were stretching THAT far…but sure as hell, some were. When you’re pouring wine, you let slide the urge to throw, “Excuse me, who the fuck do you think you are? I’m endlessly curious,” for the sake of a smooth evening and a pocket of cash.

…

Halfway through, a trio sitting on a far couch asked for my contact info. They were cool, and not for the direction this post is headed. Judgment immunity cannot be purchased, even through showers of praise. Since the trio will emerge from this post scathe free, certainly, they must have checked out. Why did they ask for my stats? Allow me to re-direct you to the title of this piece…

Welcome back. I gave it, we talked, we met...I got a call time for Monday, six hours ago…

Where I found myself driving South on San Vicente, trying to gauge whether or not the forthcoming photo shoot would hold aspects of sketch.

To my pleasant relief, it didn’t. Actually, I was the sketchiest dime in the shoot…certainly, no foreign territory would be tread. I came in scrappy style and rolled out of hair and make up into 50’s Hollywood. Right town, wrong decade. I shot with a dame made to look old school Lois Lane in front of a projection backdrop of Hitchcock’s, “Birds.” I clenched my jaw, wrapped Lois tight and tried valiantly to fuck that camera.

…

…

…

I worry…that I listen to songs, read words, feel ideas where my mind implies that it owns understanding. But in reality, reality is something I’ve yet to understand.

It hurts, this ache. To own feet screaming a need to walk foreign lands. Like a craving that has never been met, never satisfied. And this heart…this heart that keeps asking the same question over and over…

Soon enough I’ll figure the response, where silence follows…

At least for a little while.

Still...

There was certainly a point from which it began, going out vicious Thursday night. But that doesn’t paint it, not in the appropriate shade…Vicious.

The turnaround was blistering. Down at 3, up by 6. First thing at work Friday morning, I sat down at the bar with my bowl of Raisin Bran and stared, starry eyed at the bottle of Patron that was aching to tango all over my face, again. It would be healing, comforting, mind numbing…

No. This would be a battle fought straight…

Hitting a fastball without Winstrol. Bedding a beauty without Viagra. Ashlee Simpson without a guide track. I would do this with dignity, with a dizzying grace.

That morning I dropped plates with distant eyes…knuckle scabs from boxing sans gloves…gangrenous slashes from jumping construction lot fences…parfum de Corona, Silver, and Walker Blue…and wondered why I wasn’t sent home.

I don’t do this often. Truth be told, I am one of the more responsible and count-on gentlemen west of the Mississippi…but sometimes, simply put, shit flies when cows cough.

I got off around 3 in the afternoon and slept on my face for three hours. I don’t know what it is about day/recovery sleeping, but those three hours…my, oh my.

…

I met her on a stairwell. It stretched high and wide…reaching…pulling in every direction. I remember seeing her and smiling, noting nothing initially spellbinding in her distant appearance…

Until I fell, curb-kicked into hypnotic eyes. And let us dance with clarity for a moment…

There’s a difference, tabbing eyes hypnotic to win over a wavering soul for a midnight two-step, and this…eyes that lend shudder and sigh. The sort that cynics believe only exist in a dream.

These fucking eyes…

Anything more than an empty space between us hurt with a physical pain so great, I woke and checked for bruises, convinced I’d be the first to bring back reality from a dream.

I don’t remember kissing her, just that I couldn’t stop. I remember paralysis. I remember wondering how she could have known, the hang of my ear. That light bite and something too shooting and sense electric to put into words.

In my dreams, perfection lasts brief. She would pull back and walk away, standing no more than 10 feet. She’d wait with her eyes and smile, knowing I’d do anything to get close...if only for a second. It didn’t take me 24 years to know I was a fool…this epiphany came in days long gone.

I could have kissed her for the entire three hours. It would have likely picked up a little steam, but not for a while. I would have gone slow…if only the plot kept thin.

As she pulled back and stood off, a man approached. The feeling hit quick, we were about to battle. He shot me between the ribs…likely a symbolic roadmap that when translated in my after life, will contain the secrets to our existence. I’ve learned, by the age of 24, to manipulate my sleeping conscience with rare inferiority. And because of it, in my dreams, few stand a chance.

We wrestled for a moment before I choked him and threw him over the ledge. 50 flights up, I was back on her lips by the time he crossed 37.

It lasted for a couple minutes until she pulled back and walked away, tempting me to follow. We walked the hall until it gave way. Open air…another ledge. She stepped back and waited while two men approached. They fired multiple shots, all running straight through my upper torso but missing my heart. This, I remember checking. I threw them over the ledge and met her lips, again and again. I never stopped to ask why. Fool, remember?

And that’s how it went. I didn’t care that the intervals became shorter and shorter. I didn’t wonder why the challenges increased. It didn’t bug me that I rode to the statistical zenith amongst competing mass murderers. I needed her lips. I would do anything to get them.

…

I woke, walked to the bathroom and met my reflection. Heavy, so heavy. There was a line running between my eyes, down my nose and splitting my chin. When I told you I fell asleep flat on my face, I meant it. It’s called ill lack of rest.

There are only two ways to wake from a dream. You either want to go back or stay away forever…depending on the flavor shit you get mixed up in.

I knew the feeling as I looked in the mirror. There was no relief…knowing I was no murderer…knowing the infinite bullet wounds didn’t exist. They weren’t real, none of it was. And the part that stung…

I lost my girl.

The Grind?

Come 10:30, things die down at work. Since I breeze through the Times by early morning, it’s customary to place a housekeeping call with intentions to freshen up the Bistro’s magazine stockpile. I sit at the bar and bide time, flipping through Vogue, Vanity Fair, Rolling Stone, People, Premiere, W…

In case your bag of tricks excludes reading between the lines, I’ve reached an uber preliminary mid-life crisis doused with this screaming need to broaden personal horizons. And on that similar note, if you fail to read between lines, I have to apologize. My brilliance far exceeds your realization.

Every now and then in the mid-afternoon, we’ll get a walk in. Usually, they’re key.

And by key, I mean they’re in town on “business.” I assure you that “business” in Los Angeles is like business in no other city.

I’ve talked with Grammy winners as they traded dirt on performing with Madonna.

I heard a genius physicist’s pitch on the next billion dollar-advertising breakthrough. Trust me, it’s legit…like shit from Minority Report.

And last week, when a lovely lady stepped into my empty bar, I knew my immediate future would be anything but uneventful. She was a sight, first and foremost…and just booked the swimsuit issue cover of…I probably shouldn’t.

But I will tell that the follow up joke went something like…”how ironic that THIS job for THIS magazine is going to pay off my credit cards.”

…

There’s a certain style of people in this world I instantly adore. Speak to me like you don’t give a fuck about how I’ll judge you…speak to me like you will never see me again for the rest of your life and I’ll give you my ears and more. She did, so I did.

Sure, bonus points are awarded to cover girls, but really…that only gets you off the ground. Again, planes don’t fly themselves. I anchored in. Off we went.

…

Two bites through her chicken wrap, we were dug in. She lives in New York with an actor boyfriend in Los Angeles. I instantly felt for her…braving the distance. She was eating lunch alone at my counter, spilling her heart to a stranger. It’s my genetics. Something in my face that says I’ll do you no damage. You can trust me, you can confide in me. I wouldn’t often advise people to do such things, but they do. She did.

She raised her arms in the air, giddy, “I’m having a kid.” From here on in, perhaps it would be best to work in dialogue. We’ll cut in and out, else it will take too long. And we’ll play one of my most favorite games: Spot the Red Flags.

…

-A kid! Congratulations.
-No, not yet. I came to L.A. to tell him that if he didn’t want to have a kid with me, I would find someone else.
-What did he say?
-He said okay.
-The ultimatum route. That’s…one way to do it.
-I’m 23, I want a kid.
-Does he work? At least enough to, you know?
-Yeah, he works.
-Is he good?
-Yeah. At least I think so. People say he’s pretty good. And he makes a lot of money.
-Throw me a name, maybe I’ve heard of him.
-@@@@@@@@
-The Oscar winner?
-Yeah.
-Yeah…he’s pretty really amazing fucking good.

…

The phones in the restaurant went quiet. She sat there for over an hour, as if waiting for a face we both knew wasn’t going to come. When we hit a snag in the conversation, she would drop gems like, “I can’t believe the pictures we were taking last night. They were out of control.”

She said it once, I laughed. She mentioned it twice, I smiled. After the third drop…

-Show me the fucking snaps!

Which led us into a conversation about the Colin Farrell sex tape. If you haven’t seen it, don’t. I wish I never did. Not that I rush out to see Colin Farrell movies, but I know I’ll never be able to give one an honest chance again. Hilarious.

…

She asked about the wildest thing I had seen at the hotel. Two weeks prior, the porn awards rolled through town. I went up to a room to drop a bottle of champagne and orange juice to three lesbian-ish porn stars. Ten minutes later, they called back, asking for a wine menu. Every ten minutes, they would call back. Sometimes for wine, sometimes for nothing but face time. Sweet girls…at least as far as porn stars go, I imagine.

I told my cover girl that on the last visit, they were all in bed together. It wasn’t much of a surprise. The walls had been slowly crumbling all afternoon. Truth be told, I was expecting it. They knew my shift was ending. I said goodbye with a side note that they brightened my day. Yes, I drop shit like that. As I reached for the door, one of them leapt up, kissed me on the cheek and verbatim…

-Punch out and get that ass up here.

…

-What happened?
-I didn’t go.
-What?! Are you fucking kidding me?! I’m a chick and I would have been up there in three seconds.
-Only one of them was hot.
-So?
-So, I’m tough like that.
-Give me a fucking break. I can’t believe you.
-It wouldn’t have been worth losing my job. I like it here.
-So don’t get caught.
-That’s not the point. And, let’s not forget, they were porn stars.
-Exactly!
-It’s possible we work on different levels.
-So you would never do something like that?
-I didn’t say that.
-What did you say?
-Not unless it’s worth losing my job.
-And how do you know?
-You know. You always know.
-I can’t believe I booked the red eye. I’m stuck here all day.
-Don’t you have any friends out here?
-They’re busy.
-What about @@@@@@@@?
-He’s…look, I’m not a fool enough to pretend he doesn’t see other people.
-Can I get you anything else?
-No, I’m good. I think I’ll just go to my room, 419, watch Fox News for the rest of the day. Kill time. 419.

In Battle, There Is No Intermission...

Train your eyes. Learn to stare at an image, a symbol long enough and in the end, you’ll land in a reality so distorted it’s difficult to tell from which side you began…from which person you began.

My dreams are no longer, at least not often wild and obscure adventures. They’ve spun to obligations, duties to a world that in spurts…I seem to ignore.

In my dreams I fall in love, waking broken for ten minutes at a time. In my dreams, I am good and considerate. I am selfless, tucking friends under impenetrable wings. In my dreams, it takes me less than ten days to return phone calls. In my dreams, I don’t go missing. I’m a good person.

…

He walked through the city as a darkness covered the faces of buildings. It was a moment to introduce hands and dip heads, begging. A moment he could only hope to will away from eternity. If only…if only…if only.

The sun vanished weeks ago. And hope…a word with the power to mean and be so much or so little…long before that.

He was surrounded by a city of dead. With the swing of life long gone, his breath had grown empty. His smile and laugh and tears, invisible…silent...dry.

Victory was theirs. Defeat, ours.

He looked to the sky and asked forgiveness for all the injustice his heart had endured. He couldn’t speak, only feel. It was huge and overwhelming…nailing his feet to the ground to keep him from floating away.

It was in that moment, the sun burned a hole through its shroud.

The rains fell.

He looked to the Heavens and their tears covered his face. Within his next breath, he knew the pleas of his heart were met by those in the clouds…and beyond.

There was no promise, nor assurance. He asked for neither…

That was enough.

On a Night of Golden Statues...

I’m throwing in the towel. I’m giving up. My tail is tucked and I’m headed back to the land from which I came. Okay, not really, but…

I don’t belong in Los Angeles, in the movie business. After all, I have no clue. My gauge is off, my readings are skewed. Worst of all, re-calibration at age 24 is both hopeless and impossible.

I watched as Crash was given a golden statue as the year’s best picture and my heart fell. My stomach, my lungs…and if you’ll allow, my soul.

I have lost faith in the Academy.

I’m not shy. I fucking hated Crash. So much that I have to irresponsibly lead with profanity in an attempt to paint my disdain.

Excuse me while I stage the dramatic, but I must get this point across…

Say you grew up believing in God. For as long as you can remember, your faith has been absolute, unwavering. You have trusted his guidance without question or suspicion. One thing leads to another, which leads to another. General, I know…but such is life. You find yourself at the county fair in Milton, Arkansas. Don’t look up Milton, Arkansas. Chances are, it doesn’t exist. You walk the rounds and find 5 ride tickets crumpled up on the ground. Lovely. So you buy a funnel cake and hit the Tilt-A-Whirl. Next thing you know, you’re alone at the front of the line. Thousands of people, none sharing a desire to tilt OR whirl, apparently. The operator calls your name and invites you to come aboard, which you reluctantly do. “But how did you know my name?” you ask. By which he responds, “Actually, it’s quite simple. I am God. Though, my true passion lies in the carnie arts. Six months out of the year, I please riders to their heart’s content…”

Suddenly, every word God speaks distances his proximity from being absolute. He stands not on rock, but ice. He can no longer face the tornado, but is blown off by a gentle gust. You watch as he wavers and feel loneliness greater than any you have previously known. All because of an inescapable, faith-murdering curiosity…

God runs the Tilt-A-Whirl?

…

Next time our paths cross, I want you to ask me a question. I’ll even include unisex formalities. It’s the kind of guy I am. Goes a little something like…

“Hey Reilly, how’s it going? It would pleasure me greatly to state this: you inspire my life. And let me also add, as a side note, that if our world met the fate of a near apocalyptic catastrophe and only one man could be selected to re-populate the entire species of man, I would be honored to spearhead your election committee. Now that I got that off my chest, I have a query. Would you rather, a) Purchase the movie Crash, allow it into your home and watch it for a second time, or b) Fuck a barbed wire mannequin?”

I can assure that in the seconds following…if you watch closely…you will bear witness to a pondering mind. Yes, that IS sincerity talking.

…

Trailers began popping up early April leading into the May 6th release. It was gripping. In fact, I drove all the way out to Universal City for the 12:01 show on Friday morning just to see it. I was ready for Paul Haggis to blow me back. I was ready to build upon my layers of love for Don Cheadle. I was ready to be pleasantly surprised by Sandra Bullock. I was even ready to look past the fact that Brendan Fraser is the most regrettable lead this town has ever lent stardom.

And beyond the eye rolling and face burying, I couldn’t help but feel as if someone were cashing out. This irresponsible thing was rolling out in front of me, exploiting race cards like trying to take a dive in Jenga. It was a “top this” of absurdity.

As the end credits rolled, I heard applause. As we were herded out, I listened as praises filled the halls. I looked around and thought to myself, “It’s a dupe. You’ve all been played.”

…

I despised Crash, yes. But I want to make very clear that I have NO problem with the millions who apparently made it their darling. After all, what’s art if not that? And although it is admittedly in my nature to at times fly against the grain for the pleasure of, I assure this is not one such instance.

Which brings me back to the Academy…

There is no greater way to cap off this year in film than to see Crash take home best picture. It felt like the 2004 Presidential Election. Certainly, this can’t be it. Or can it?

Can it?

…

I’m not going anywhere. Nights like this cement my foot into the ground. Nights like this lock me in for the long haul, so that I may never send accusations of hypocrisy to, well, myself for not being the agent of change I preach.

Because at some point, someone is going to have to stand up and fight for a town that has let go of its foundation. Someone who realizes it’s about more than exclusively taking the heart or mind for a successful ride, but having the decency and capability to take both. I know, it’s a rarity…but the time, it’s coming.

If history is any guide, I have little to lose sleep over on this troubled night. Change like this, it usually occurs in waves. They’re large. They’re violent. They’re sweeping…

And all they know to do…carry us away.

Tell Me You Hear My Melody...

I stayed in all of last week…mostly.

Certainly though, all this weekend, teaching words to dance brilliance around my not so modest foray of a script. I’m deep, deep in it. Lately, I’ve been carrying a heavy walk and talk. Draw what you will from such a statement. I’m opting out of an explanation.

…

Endless bottles of 32 oz. Gatorade stand scattered about the battlefield I call an apartment. 10 FOR 10 at my neighborhood 24-hour Pavilions. It’s flowing like a bountiful Egyptian tributary here at 8736 Holloway. Of course, you don’t have to buy 10. They could just as well place a sticker, “Gatorade for a buck. No need to buy an ass-load.” It can’t be helped. I HAVE to buy 10, as if I’m somehow pulling double reversal…so that I may some day bring the Pavilions regime to its knees.

I bore easily. It’s either that, or I’ve developed a serious case of ADD…even though I don’t believe in AD fucking D. Again, point of reference.

As I paced the grounds of my palace, I found three Gatorade bottles, each 1/3 full. I’ll be frank in stating I’m no mathematician. Truth be told, I think it was 3rd grade when I peaked. When the early stuff was the only thing on my plate, I was given a special book and a special class of one. I remember clearly, sitting with Miss Humm one day after school working out problems. She pulled her glasses from a soft, “should I roll the dice on my tenure and risk becoming a social outcast to breed with this soon to be stallion,” face. I remember it clearly. That was EXACTLY what I was thinking. The fundamental principles of early sexual investment. What?

No advances were made. Instead, she opted for the path of professionalism. Though, there was one remark I remember clearly from that afternoon. “How are you doing this? You’re getting these faster than I am.” I was on my way to becoming the next Bobby Fisher. All I needed was an abusive, alcoholic father…a broken home…and nowhere to turn but the mean streets.

After realizing I had none of above elements working in my favor, I moved on. Not long after, I remember getting REALLY into playground kickball. After that, I developed an obsession for grilled cheese sandwich and chicken noodle soup Wednesdays at the Sheridan School cafeteria.

Fifteen years later, I’m in West Hollywood, putting my pen to the movies...or, at least on my way. Though I can’t pinpoint the factors of grade school responsible for my landing on the West Coast, I’m here now…tangenting wildly as usual. What else matters?

…

Gatorade, fucking taste wizards. When was the moment exactly? The moment they decided to roll out the insanity carpet, creating the force of X-Factor. Without a doubt, hands down, THE most dangerous taste mating since the French roll smeared with wasabi and banana paste exploded on the late-Summer/early-Autumn scene, 2005. Seriously, who could forget?

The X-Factors have revolutionized the Gatorade field, standing above any other unleashed flavor of my lifetime. These lethal blends were strewn about my living quarters. On my desk sat Orange&Tropical Fruit. On my kitchen counter, Fruit Punch&Berry. In the fridge, Lemon Lime&Strawberry. Each bottle had 1/3 of its lifeblood still flowing.

That’s when it happened. I grabbed all three and lined them up on my coffee table. It was at that moment I could sense an approaching date with destiny. Again, let me stress…in each bottle remained equivalent amounts. I could have measured them to the last drop. Certainly, THIS meant something.

I lit a candle and said a prayer for the tenants resting peacefully at the corner of Holloway and Hancock. For I was a mad scientist ready to embark on a forbidden and uncharted journey. 6 flavors, varying temperatures, one small venue. It was in that moment I made a commitment…to progress, to fearlessness, to vision.

I lifted the two X-Factors that flanked the center, held my breath, held it some more…and poured…

Nothing happened. Not a thing.

Or perhaps the actual result was far too extreme to speak of…

Either way, I had myself some Internet sex and got back to work.

What's Eating Gilbert Grape? The Sequel...

To all my people past and present in Champaign, Illinois. This one's well overdue.

Happy 22nd, Frank. But first, let's look back to your 20th...shall we?

Hit "The Cody Link."


<------------------------------

PB & J Sammiches...

I would like to offer happy trails and good luck wishes to an honorary charter member of Team Smith, Jason Anderson, who is now Padre. No, not a daddy…

Come to think of it, for accuracy, let us stick to provable statements.

Jason Anderson is now a Padre of the San Diego variety.

Can I finally say, again…the New York Yankees are about as destructive and evil to the game of baseball as the aforementioned J-Train was to the cumulative GPA of the University of Illinois Baseball House, fall, 2002.

You’re right, that’s an inside statement. Since it would pain me to segregate darling readers…

If that semester bore a love child, its name would be Saddama Bin Hussein.

Oh, sorry Conroy. That Yankee thing…I didn’t say that.

…

Lately, my dreams have been almost completely dominated by episodes of drunk driving. A reaper in a Chevy, that’s me. I actually STILL have friends who claim they're better at handling the wheel post tipping intoxicants for the better part of an evening. Because the part of my brain responsible for logic isn’t an ice cream dildo, I fail to invest in such claims.

In my dreams, I’m a hit and run specialist. Weeks ago, I would smash other cars at blistering high speeds and drive off relatively unharmed as they shouted obscenities through smashed windows. It was quite unlikely they were anything but relatively QUITE harmed. Such is fucking life. Like I have the time in my dreams to stop and check up on every person whose death I likely deal.

Yesterday, I mowed down 3 Golden Girl look-a-likes as they were crossing the street in what looked to be Edenton, North Carolina. The fourth…you know, the little sparkplug…she leapt out of harm's way at the last second. This morning, I watched patiently as my wiper cycle cleared the Westminster Club’s 2006 “Best in Show” Bull Terrier off my windshield. Seriously. I saw a picture online the night before. It was definitely him.

The latter entered me in a high-speed police chase that was interrupted…at its peak, of course…by the sun as it sliced its way through my blinds.

Either way, I wake up to the relief of not having to deal with a laundry list of criminal charges. Been there, done that. Fuck Folgers. I kick off my sheets and roll.

…

I need to enter myself into a wildly destructive relationship. I need to slip into the dark underbelly of crime that runs through the city of Los Angeles. I need to pick up a painful and harsh addiction.

My days and nights have blended to a mesh. My weeks, my months. I pick up sleep when it’s required. Sometimes at night, sometimes during the day. I kick my own ass at the gym to burn off something that would otherwise build until I began eating my own arms.

Fuck! Here’s the thing about being a writer. It’s this craving, this itch to scratch. This need to say something, anything. Other than that, all I want to do with my life is eat PB&J sammiches. Still, I refrain. After all, this is Los Angeles. I can’t be rolling through tubs of Skippy. Talk about self-destruction.

…

Let’s talk about our relationship for a moment. After all, I think it’s important. I want you to know where we stand.

I’ve been cheating, again. The warning signs were apparent. Infrequent posts, the distancing. The cold in our kisses. Hell, we haven’t “made love” in 22 days. Yes, those quotation marks hold significance.

You deserve nothing less than the truth. How lovely, it’s what I exclusively deal…

Wait, that’s a lie.

I’ve been with someone else. Someone I’ve been talking about for many weeks. Lately, things have heated up…considerably. I hate to be harsh, but sometimes it’s the only recipe for healing. Today, I had the day off. We fucked all day. Truth be told, we haven’t stopped fucking for the past ten days…

On counters and floors, against walls and under water, in public and on sandy beaches. It’s been endless, profound, poetic and brilliant. I left a steamy session to drop this note. When I’m finished, a steamy session awaits…likely going late into the night.

Don’t be stung, or hurt, or bitten. Don’t feel rejected. At the moment, you may find it difficult to realize, but it’s nothing more than a link in the procedural chain.

Back to my darling, my tentative, “Saint Will.” Should be able to push through to finish by the beginning of March. Or middle…or late…but soon.

What else would I be talking about?

A Promise for the Sake of Sweet Valentine's...

I wake in the morning and eat powder for breakfast. Chocolate or vanilla. Blend with milk and serve in a makeshift plastic cup.

For some reason, in my head, I believe that doing so will fill the holes of my body in places I can’t see. That it will, in some magical way…fix me.

Lately, it’s been working.

…

All is quiet on the western front. Troubling, indeed. Everything seems to be falling into place. I have no twitch, no ache, no bell. More than once this week, it has crossed my mind, the possibility that I dabble in self-destruction. That I need to find a way to fuck everything up and turn my lovely endeavors on their head before I can patch them up and build them higher.

I’ll let you know how that goes.

…

Fucking satisfaction, everywhere I am lately turning…to an extent. Look what it’s doing to me, to us. Worry not, I’ll soon swallow a bomb, blow myself into a thousand pieces and have lots of wonderful things to speak.

Tonight, I was planning on being relevant, for once. All for the sake of Valentine’s. I was just on the roof with Cupid. Yes, THE Cupid. We had a heart to heart about the state of things. It was more than a little depressing.

First of all, let me tell you a bit about my friend Q-12. Since it’s a family of 32, they’re numbered Q-1 through Q-32. Each is responsible for inspiring love in different regions of the world. Q-12 is exclusively responsible for Los Angeles. On the surface, I know…it does seem overly generous to designate one Cupid for a single city. Trust me when I say…we need it.

The Q’s, as they prefer, are a strange breed. As we survive and grow through nourishment in the form of food, water and safe shelter, their sole source is the satisfaction of turning strangers into lovers. He went on to speak endlessly with great conviction, the profound ideal of turning any corner of any street and finding someone you can’t live without.

I couldn’t help but agree.

On the surface, Q-12 is a nasty, nasty little man. Literally. He stands a rough four feet…and that’s generous. The threads he totes consist of an oversized and stained wife beater that flows over his “Caboose to Big-Boy City” Huggies. He chain-smokes and shoots bourbon…constantly.

In his ramblings, he told me how he was born an Adonis. Tall, charming, beautiful. Over the course of time, he had been reduced by a city so ugly in its pursuit of love, he was slowly transformed. He told me this as he unwrapped and wolfed down a Carl’s Jr. Jalapeño Burger that I’m certain he shoplifted.

I bought him a cup of coffee and began to send him on his way. Before he left, he asked me to make a promise.

Since he was beyond drunk, allow me to transcribe. For my words are sweeter than his…

Be not alone on this day…allow me the good fortune to collect the pieces of a once proud, now tattered being. Find a sweet girl…treat her sweet, for me…for my day.

I agreed.

Then, I got down on a knee and we embraced. It was a moment I’ll never forget. After all, I was holding a legend in my arms. But it wasn’t just that. There was an unforgettable aroma seeping from his pores. I gagged, many times. He pulled back, leaving greasy impressions on my jeans and jacket.

And he took off into flight…

I watched as he zigged and zagged through the air without an ounce of grace. It made me sad to think I live in such a place. A place that could transform a man into that. How tragic, I’ve fallen in love with a city full of souls afraid to fall in love. A city so wrapped in its own pursuits that we treat THAT sort of happiness as if it were a poison.

How sad that after the expiration of my promise, I’m certain I’ll get over it. After all, my city is yet conquered.

Master of Self Rescue...

It was 8:30 in the morning when my face met the bathroom mirror on Saturday. I had grown darling freckles under and around my eyes. My first thought was to send them back…as if I need any more help in the department of woo.

And it came back to me…Roosevelt Hotel…black tie party.

I started with beer, switched to red, champagne toast, back to red to champagne. When I went out for a breather, I talked the bartender into pouring me a Jack and diet. But there’s just something about getting done up…a craving to sip and swirl crimson. Back to red we went.

Off to Tropicana…

I remember the 4 bottles of Grey Goose and 2 bottles of Dom hitting the table.

After that, any tales I tell will likely be a moist blend of faction, so I’ll refrain. I soon realized the methods by which I grew charming ocular freckles must have been anything but…charming.

Don’t ask me how I woke up any time before noon that morning. The point, my dears, is that I did. The point, my dears, is that I always do and always will…even without an alarm. How?

Because I’m a bright and shining fucking star.

…

On Saturday, I saw the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen in my life. Fuck it, I’ll speak for you as well. Don’t bother to Tommy Top My Story. You’ll fall on your face.

We have this girl…this darling beyond darlings, Krisi. Southern Belle to the bone. Deep, beautiful Arkansas accent. The moment I met her, I heard screams of victim hearts…simultaneously crying over the past injustices she had caused. Like a new millennium Trail of Tears following the footsteps of her life.

We were on the field before walkthrough…all dragging our feet, participants in the greatest mass hangover I have ever lent affiliation. She dropped her glasses, passed off her Marlboro and flipped her feet over her head with a casual grace that nearly pulled a proposal from depths of me believed to be sealed in an impenetrable time capsule until the rough age of 32. Her hand never touched the ground. When she stuck the landing, which was immaculate, she reached for her cigarette and took a drag before falling back to the ground. I don’t think it’s possible I’ll ever forget that…

Or the after party chat I had with the guy who LOST the ultimate fighting championship the night before. Though, I’m not sure if it was the conversation or the demolished face he was sporting.

…

I loved my time on this project, the people, the problems, the successes, the failures. Now that I’m here, three weeks later, I love that it’s over.

Because it was the second week when I hit a slide. There was a point I didn’t realize, but remembered…

Somewhere, somewhen…this voice graffitied my insides with a string of delicate words. The sort you pass on the subway in awe, hoping the NYCDOT turns a cheek and permits eternal life.

This voice left something that clung…something that builds on itself as I continue to grow older…as my progressively foolish path continues to grow. And it’s no whisper. If I remember correctly, it’s always been in the equivalent form of a bastard asshole screaming into my ear.

The message was Latin…so I never know what gets lost in translation, but the important parts always remain intact…

You have been given a gift that defines remarkable…a gift that is limitless. You have been given a currency, however, that is limited. Spend generously, yet carefully. Spend like a time bomb, yet with a steady mind. Spend as if pain and loss failed survival. Spend forever and never stop…else all you’ll become is a give in.

Just a Taste, Bloom's Coming...

It's been a couple years, Gents.

Time to freshen things before my #1 makes it's way up. Darling Bloom 6.

Just because I've been playing catch with myself the last couple forays doesn't mean I prefer it.

Bloom Tease...on the left...may it fare well.

Now Bring Me that Horizon...

I’m amused at how tangled things have become. Instead of writing about my battles in the game of Hollywood, I hitch. I hesitate as if THAT were my soft spot. On the flip side, my reservations in writing about my life have whittled to almost nothing. It’s more than a bit troubling…

I got a call yesterday. When I hung up, I felt ill…even if it was only for a moment.

In terms of my career, the career I re-located my ass out here for…I really only have two things on my plate. In case you need to be brought up to speed…

1. Wrapping a Script.
2. Swapping jabs with Mickey Mouse house.

That’s it. For the time being, my personal and professional directions are mapped out and tidy. You could say I’m simplifying things…that I need to broaden my perspective. I disagree. Things are good. Things are perfect.

But the call was from Disney. If you’ve been reading, the “girl” I’ve been referring is an exec from the studio. I know it’s difficult to sift. In between the banished ex girlfriends I foolishly re-fall for, the Philippine call girls and my 8-12 hour crushes…the “she” droppings can be a bit much. My separation is the knowledge that this is the one breaking me in.

By now, we have a good repore. Good enough where she calls…or, at least has her assistant call to say they filled MY POSITION. It was the position I was supposed to pitch for “In the New Year.” What’s the date today? January 26th. I had an opportunity that 10,000 people in this town would cut their wrists for…and I let it roll off my back. I flaked…sort of. And I feel a slight awful for it.

This is a town full of cold shoulders…the most locked down industry in the world. There are millions of “wannabes” and only a handful of “ares.” It’s your run of the mill power struggle scenario. Simply swap variables. Vanity for genocide. Narcotic driven economy for…actually, that works on both fronts. As I was saying, those holding power want to keep it. AND, those that have it remember how many times they had to break, mend and re-break their backs to get it.

I don’t understand why they called, again. Or…why they’re so encouraging, again. “Come June, you’ll have a foot up.” It’s not like they owe me anything, again. To them, I should be a nobody (though you and I know considerably better). Then again, she read my 1st(4th) script and said she and another executive really liked it. Hence, my meeting/our relationship. For some reason, I never believed her.

At the very least, if you were curious as to why I wanted to land this thing, your question should be answered. There’s heart there. If anything gets me…that’s it.

And yet the other side of my head knows I’d be better off on my own. Give and take…the greatest fucking bastard I know.

…

It’s funny, the process. Come to Hollywood with Hollywood dreams and all you want is a chance…the coveted “foot in the door.” Most people never get one, and 99% of the time…deservedly so.

Mine’s in. I’m 1 person away from anyone in this town. Tom Cruise might be 2, but besides Tommy, anyone else. It’s comforting, calming, cooling. There’s no who, what, when, where, why or how. I only have to worry about being one thing in this entire world…

Fucking remarkable.

And I want you to understand what I’ve understood. I took a break from my script, my “in” to write this. If it were a shit piece, I’d be upstairs, kicking the hell out of Frank, my accountant neighbor due to concerns I let a golden opportunity slide.

Frank is fine. He’s upstairs, probably masturbating to gay porn…getting ready to dream the night away. I didn’t harm a hair on his head.

If it were a shit piece, I’d be a twitchy, panicked, backpedaling fuckrunner. Use your imagination. Just like it sounds.

I ain’t that. So at the end of the day, at the end of it all, is it any surprise that all roads lead to such familiar stomping grounds…

Sweet, coveted uncertainty.

No Lawsuits, Please...

The neighborhood is changing. Link bar stage left says so. I advise you take a look…a listen. Though a bounty of copyrights stand violated, I do fully support I-Tunes. Therefore, I own a clear conscience. How’s yours doin?

One child remains missing. Fabled Bloom 6. I had to track down a pirated copy from Signapore. Crossies, it’s on the way.

It’s nice. Things are calm this week. I’ve been working. You know, small things here and there…trying to tie up loose ends of the Lingerie Bowl before it goes up live on Super Bowl Sunday. Loose ends like finding Dennis Rodman a helicopter that will drop him off on the 50 yard line of the LA Coliseum. If anyone can beat 3500 AND fly a Huey, consider yourself hired. I never pretended this was a “normal” job.

I have a problem. In professional terms, it’s called a “to-do laundry list.” Sorry if I lost anyone. It’s super duper complicated stuff, coordinating production. Can you hear the focus in my words? The clear direction? I have things…concrete things whose fate rest on these sturdy shoulders. Tonight, the burden is life-raping.

Worry not, weary travelers. It wont last. You caught me on a bad day.

…

I took a piss test on Friday. Like I said a few weeks ago…a time will come where I’ll have to shop for sweet new means of an LA paycheck. Once Lingerie Bowl wraps, I’m falling back into another overpaying, slender hour job. I told them Saturdays, Sundays and Mondays would be out of the question. Their response? Welcome aboard.

There’s usually a simple explanation for such a reaction. Someone wants to fuck or get fucked by…you. What? At least out here, we don’t pretend.

…

Turning the corner. Sometimes, I stray from what started this fiasco. Oh, to write for the silver screen. I go through typhoons of shits and giggles in this life. However, you could cut out my eyes and I wouldn’t lose sight of why I’m here…what I’m doing. If it ever seems as if life is getting in the way, realize you’re fortune’s fool before it’s too late. Life IS the way.

I’ll be wrapping my latest foray in a month. Slightly behind schedule, but it should be worth the wait. And I’m not really worried about anything. All of the “daunting” parts of this city and this business have failed to reach me. If they haven’t come yet, they never will.

My last script did exactly what it needed to do. It raised some important brows and in the process, shed layers of my Hollywood virginity. But somewhere along the way, I realized that I do actually have “it.” And the difference between knowing I have “it” and holding “it” in my hand is just a matter of time.

I give you this fair warning because I can feel the infallibility of my future. I’m well on my way to becoming a monster. It’s not until we embrace our capabilities that we understand what it takes to dance with immortality.

Chalk it up…that one’s all mine.

…

Now ease up, Dears. Still trying to find footing. Kid fell hard last week.

Ode to a Long Lost...

Someone’s gum is stuck to the chair next to my bed.

It was Friday the 13th. If ever a day flies the red flag, would it not have been that one? I should have seen it coming…

…

I have a feeling this post is going to roll heavy and telling. So if you will, permit me a brief digression in the spirit of easing tension.

If you ever get the urge to chain me down and lock me in a metal cabinet for a duration of time exceeding 10 weeks, the deal I strike is this: Give me 10 songs and I’ll manage. Though I refuse to dish the 10 songs unless you ask, I will confess that I recently found myself a new one. In case you didn’t pick up…that’s fairly high praise. I never lent an ear until a week ago. Shit Happens. In case you haven’t, lend yours when you get the chance.

Arcade Fire – Wake Up

…

Where was I? Friday the 13th.

I don’t much like to talk about it, but I used to have this painful addiction. The sort that can mix and toss pleasure and pain in such a ruthless manner that when it leaves, it leaves you cracked and chipped…broken into thousands of pieces.

My addiction was a she.

And it wasn’t all her fault. I have matured enough to know that in the realm of anything considered to be “normal” life, I am out of my fucking mind.

On Friday the 13th, she was a fog…rolling in and disappearing. So vivid, it very well could have been a dream. I knew the feeling all too well.

My feet are cold and my sleep pattern has suffered a ruthless Blitzkrieg. It takes a lot of work to go from being cynical to…something entirely else in the course of 6 hours. Let’s just say I had a little help from an “old friend.”

On Friday, my head hit pillow at five in the morning…alone, but not really. I was dead tired. Though, when I closed my eyes, I was not transported, lifted or whisked away. I got to hang out with me from 5-7am. Then, from 10am until 5am the next day. It’s not as hot as it sounds.

Let’s jump ahead to Saturday where the last thing I wanted to do on this entire fucking planet was go to Basque for a birthday party. I was sick with something doctors don’t “get.” Terribly fucking ill with something germs have no hand in.

I sucked it up, faked a good face and stayed until 2. Knowing sleep was out of the question, I went to an after hours coke bumping soiree and sat through Wedding Crashers. You’d be surprised how insightful the crew became. My head hit pillow just before the sun came up and I was alone. That “alone” feeling I had all but marvelously forgotten.

Oh, and FYI: If I blew coke, don’t you think I would have skipped that part of the story? Fucking please. In case you were wondering…I’m still me.

…

Sometimes, before I go out, I raise a glass with cronies, “here’s to falling in love for the night.” No one gets it, ever. Probably because I speak in the tonal ballpark of someone steps away from leaping through the window of a skyscraper. More than anything, it’s a joke for hopeless LA cynics who think they’re too good for everyone. Ladies, gentlemen…welcome to my thought process.

In more ways than I could ever succinctly explain, I’ve been bone picking with Cupid. To a man who puts food on his celestial table through the business of love, I’ve been downright disrespectful. On Friday, his vengeance was swift. Dude stuck a shank in my heart and left it in all weekend. I think it was a quarter to 1 when it happened…

Head, heels…you can fill the blanks.

What the fuck was she doing in my city?

…

We spend our lives jumping and catching trains…locked in a never-ending battle.

Come 4 o’clock on this Monday, it’s time to once again jump the train. Years ago, I’d jump and walk away with a broken neck. Mind you, walking becomes quite difficult when one sustains such an injury. These days, my tuck and roll is nearly flawless…allowing me the freedom to jump on and off without sustaining much injury at all.

Care for elaboration on the keyword, “much?” Of the thousands of cracks I earlier spoke...it’s down to a couple hundred. Nothing weeks of therapy couldn’t mend. Right, World?

…

But my tales are never always and only grim. This weekend, I found something that was absolutely necessary. There’s a point on the other side of the tunnel. And it’s this place where for a moment, all of your faults…all the rocks and razors you’ve stumbled across and bled by can somehow become…inconsequential. Because in that moment, you’re both holding a piece of something so haunting and fragile. Beyond and around, there’s endlessly nothing.

How I envy the parts of my past that knew it well.

I know. The sign is blinking, flashing, singing and screaming. It’s jumping out of the ground, trying to bash my face with its aluminum forged by our country’s finest condemned men and women. I know it all too well.

Sometime tomorrow, I’ll snap out of it. I’ll remember that I live in Los Angeles…that it’s time to jump. And even if the chemicals in my head were playing tricks on me, I know the good stuff when it comes. It came…and now it’s leaving. Forever, once again.

Don’t ask me why her gum is still stuck to the chair next to my bed. Or more importantly, why I haven’t thrown it away. I couldn’t tell you.

Okay, strike that. Allow me to steal a quote from paragraph 9…

“I have matured enough to know that in the realm of anything considered to be “normal” life, I am out of my fucking mind.”

Over the past day and a half, a realization has been rolling through my head. Its echoes refuse to stop. They just beat louder and louder and louder…

I’m fucked for the rest of my life. Forever and ever. All because of a she. What do you want me to say?

Oops.

Sigh...

I’m supposed to set up a meeting to pitch Mickey Mouse next week. Same studio…yes, again. Second week in January…that’s what my girl said. Though, my interpretation of the invitation was loose…so I am treating it as such. After all, I’m not ready.

Step back. Let me re-phrase. It’s not that I’m not ready. I’m full of soul-lifting, pull masses out of the gutter, tales. It’s just that I’m not ready for them.

Nothing forced will ever be good. Trying to hit my loose deadline next week would at this moment…seem forceful. Until my pitches are hotter than video-phone sex, she wont be hearing my rings. Then again, who’s to say a storm of brilliance doesn’t roll in tonight…in bed…while I fail to sleep.

This week in the trades, Disney got in on some action. It went a little something like…

'Chicken' pair sell Disney on 'Missing' pitch
6 Jan 2006 3:27am EST - By Tatiana Siegel

Chicken Little scribes Ron Friedman and Steve Bencich are reteaming with Walt Disney Pictures for the live-action family comedy The Missing Link. Disney paid mid-six figures for Friedman and Bencich's pitch, which is described as a monkey spy adventure in the vein of The Bourne Identity. Beau Flynn and Tripp Vinson of ContraFilm are producing along with Bryan Brucks, who brought the idea to Flynn and ContraFilm creative executive Gitty Daneshvari. Disney's Karen Glass and Casey Wolfe will oversee for the studio.

…

Did your eyes hear that? A “monkey spy adventure in the vein of Bourne Identity.” That’s what I’m up against. You might say it’s nowhere even in the realm of being up my alley. Or…how perfect?

It’s likely you know me better than I know myself…in THAT sense. Honest.

I’ll figure it out sooner rather than later. But lately, I’ve been deep into finishing my “soul searching angels in New York,” piece. At this very moment…my desktop is a digital picture from my last NYC jaunt. Battery Park. Taken from the hurricane deck on the Staten Island Ferry. I’ll never forget the feeling of a city so beautifully bitter.

One of these days, when I’m everything I promised I would be, you’ll look back with a certainty in your whisper and say…of course.

…

Did I mention that it’s Lingerie Bowl season? Yeah…it is. In case you don’t know what I’m talking about, I added a link from this site on the sidebar. I’ve pretty much been working with them since the day I set foot in this town. All of your questions regarding my work can be answered by one of the following responses…

1. Of course.
2. Worse.

It goes down on Pay-Per View at halftime of the Super Bowl. When the Director of Operations takes off for the 14-city bus tour in a week, I have to keep everything in Los Angeles running smooth…whatever that means.

My title for the company has spanned the board. When I first got into town, I straightened the Producer’s garage for a Benny. This summer, I wrote and floor directed their 50k television pilot that got a small offer from E!.

But really, my title should be Human Mapquest. We have 60 girls. Very beautiful. Very self-conscious. Very have lived in LA for much longer than I have and have no idea how to find ANYTHING. When we do photo shoots, hold events or have production days, they all seem to wind up with my cell number. Not funny. After the third pick up, I become quite swift in dropping, “I’m from Chicago…find you a gas station, Smith out.”

And here’s another thing. This town is all about chewing these girls up and spitting ‘em out. There will always be someone to come along that’s more beautiful…or exotic…or younger. Usually, all of the above.

It’s cruel and terrible, but it’s the nature of the beast in this town and in this life. Naturally, the process will break them down in bits and pieces. Over time, it adds up.

Since I’m not a pig, I can say this to you. Or perhaps the “pig” qualifier is that I am saying this to you. But 35 of the 60 girls want to have my children. The rest, I haven’t met. There’s something in my appearance that screams, “life/soul band aid.” Girls looking for that sort of healing usually turn out to be a little fucking bit out of their chain him down and cling, minds.

I got over certain things in this town real quick…real quick. Beautifully flaunting women was one of them. Now, around Lingerie Bowlers…I just pretend like I’m gay. Or, that I have a very serious girlfriend. Of course, in this town…nobody believes the latter.

…

Chronicles of the Sweet Life. That’s what I call these posts, correct? Sometimes, my worries stem from a failure to live up to my end of the deal. This past Friday served as a reminder to my initial reference.

I didn’t “work.” Technically. I woke up at 8 to polish a scene before heading to my cult spin class. Already rough, I know. Did I mention it was sunny and an unseasonably warm 80 degrees? Well, it was. I have a handful of friends in MWF noon spin. It’s like a family. Two of them were going to spend the afternoon by the pool at the Beverly Hills Hotel. I agreed to wingman. Now, I can’t really paint the picture of this place to you, but take my word that it’s exquisitely beautiful…elegant, sweet, wonderful. For reasons we don’t need to spend time on, they’re treated like King and Queen every time they go. Though, they’re not together. This will be important later.

Did I mention the entire place is painted pink?

We sat under the sun and drank champagne until the glowing rays cooled. After moving to the Jacuzzi, we ate Fruit Stripe and drank a toast to all our lovelies in the cold Midwest and on the East coast.

I met the Queen out that night in Santa Monica. We left…indiscriminately searching for a Westwood In and Out at 2AM. I don’t eat In and Out at 2AM. I don’t eat In and Out period. Something must be coming. When we got to her place, we allowed our lips a cheek and said goodbye through eyes and smiles.

That was a day…

Every now and then, one comes. Los Angeles has the power to be magic like that. Perhaps in greater frequency than any other crack in this world.

Now, it’s a part of me…that January 6th, 2006.

Hello There, 2006...

It’s been raining all day in Los Angeles. How fitting. If there’s a city that could afford to be washed clean, it’s this one. Nothing supports a New Years Day comaover like a never-ending rainstorm. New Years Day. Three little words that when strung together…hold such gravitas.

Let me tell you a bit about myself.

…

I believe in love at first sight. That we are well on our way to the end of the world. Psychiatry will take us there.

I believe that people give up too easy. That picking a fight is the greatest form of bonding. Atheists lack vision.

I believe the age of 12 is 94% responsible for how we turn out. That smoke always leads to a fire. Heavy hearts are murdering smiles.

I believe that when a kiss rivals sex…and it can, you’ve found the one. That tragedy creates an artist. There is no affirmation greater than a powerful storm.

I believe that hearts are meant to be broken. That NASCAR deserves be the national pastime of Guatemala. Paul Thomas Anderson is beyond brilliant.

I believe that I am going to live longer than anyone in human history. That there is nothing more admirable than determination. Only fools think hope is fading.

I believe that 100 years from now, your great grandchildren will be reading my words. That arrogance is healthy. Nothing soothes greater than marble painting.

I believe there are lessons to be learned from swallowing sand. That conquering fear leads to exponential growth. The past has its place.

I believe foolish instincts are our greatest life compass. That only fools ignore them. Ronald McDonald was originally designed to haunt children.

…

I also believe…and this is important…that New Years resolutions are the single most sinister thing one can engage in.

When people tell me about their resolutions, I make mental notes. Hint: avoid my mental notes like “Life Goes On” Corky avoids wild card entry into the 2006 Shanghai Underground Deathfight.

In this particular instance, my mental note would go a little something like…passionate about making generous and likely multi-annual contributions to the failure at life fund.

So let me get this straight…you want to change your life???

But…you have to wait until the first of the year to do it? I fail to understand. Apologies. I claim to be a lot of things, but never intelligent. Maybe that’s my boggle.

There is one thing, however…that I do know. Me and excuses, well…let’s just say that if excuses were little children, I’d hammer their fragile spines with a hockey stick. Don’t test me.

In truth, it’s not aggression that overcomes. I worry about the state of things.

How dare we let slip from our conscience what happens when the yellow brick road ceases to lead…

We die.

That Ticking Clock...Two Thousand What?

I’m sick. The body hurts. My whore of a home state infected me. Sweet Illinois…or so I thought. She sent me back to Cali with illness. All is fair, I suppose.

I suppose. What can I say? Bitch was pissed. She can’t let go. I’ve been bedding my current sweetheart going on a year and a half. Somewhere along the way, I fell for her…and now I’ve fallen hard. What’s an inspired, love starved youth to do?

I have boats to say. But…I’ll save my ramble for a later date. Or, more appropriately…a later year.

I can’t believe I just said that shit.

I’d be up till 4. Fraid I don’t love you that much.

Okay, not true. This heart has plenty. And speaking of my heart…I think it’s enlarged. No, I’m not being metaphorically cute. I’m talking medical disorder. For some reason, it’s gotten so big, it oozes, pulses and pops its way through the gaps in my ribs. In turn, I get this stabbing, drop a fire cracker down my aorta and feel it explode…thing.

It’s awesome.

What’s wrong, you ask?

Likely nothing. I pander to drama. But, to be fair and kind, let’s role-play.

I’ll be me. You can be my last call conquest. I take my cue as the lights come up.

~~It’s not that I’ve had bad luck with love…it’s just that I love recklessly. I love deeply. At least I like to believe I do. (This sounds thick, but consider the stage…and performer). I guess you could say that I should’ve learned my lesson. Leave yourself open and you’re bound to get cut. (Take a “painful” slug from your J&D…give her sub-conscious 1.2 seconds to recall a movie or song she thinks she’s now living). Call me a fool, but it’s something I’ve come to expect. But as many times as my heart has been torn in this life, it heals. It grows bigger, stronger…it begs me to take the leap…again…to not be chained down by my past. In complete sincerity, I want to tell you something. I don’t know how much room I have left. That’s why lately, I’ve closed off. I made a promise to myself. A promise that I’ve had no problem upholding…until tonight…until I met you.~~

…

Oh, Hollywood…

I’m not a piece of shit. Sometimes, maybe…

In my life, I bide time…waiting to be overthrown. Otherwise, I’m a tease who adores the game. It’s just that…if you don’t know me, never trust me.

What? At least I’m honest…here. And that’s some that counts, right?

…

Anyway, I’ve 2 things for you. SNL again, but fucking wow. Dare you to watch it less than 10 times.

Make that the triple dog variety.

http://www.youtube.com/watch.php?v=zLElfJ9YCh0

…

And I found about 20 old, burned CD’s. Digs from my old, polluted computer. How I missed them. Precious orphans. I’ll give a few.

Aaron Lewis – Outside (Live - ’99 Family Values Tour)
Dire Straits – Romeo and Juliet
Joe Cocker – The Letter (Live)
Primitive Radio Gods – Standing Outside a Broken Phone Booth With Money in My Hand
Aimee Mann – Save Me
Smashing Pumpkins – Tonight, Tonight
Our Lady Peace – Superman’s Dead (Live)

…

And since I am the Devil’s Advocate…allow me to lend a little New Year’s Eve advice…

Shoot warm Cuervo…find a hot tub. Have a drunken heart to heart with a stranger. Perhaps a second? Get naked. Welcome 2006 in the only reliably fitting manner…leaping off balconies singing cartwheels.

Inapropo Refs and Gratitude. Grease pan, bake a 375, 12 mins...

My site, the site you’re eyes are currently dancing…is a gang-bang. No need to waste time on a darling Monday. Analogies will drop early, often.

Have you ever been in a situation where someone stops you with a look? One that informs of a line in the sand. Watch out. They’ll usually follow the declaration with a second look…you just crossed it.

Por ejemplo…

I was in Baja last January, a gringo with a map and no compass…trying to make a movie. On the second night, 145 miles north of Bajia De Los Angeles, I stopped at an abandoned beach 2 miles off the broken and ripped main road. I can almost promise you’ve never seen anything like it. I meant the road…but the beach, too. The road was the sort where you cross fingers for hours on end, praying your car doesn’t shake to pieces and strand you in the middle of the fucking desert. How else should I describe it? It’s a fucking desert!

It was 11:45 Baja time…whatever that means. I locked my doors and clenched my hatchet…which would likely qualify me as a junior barbarian or barbarian in training. That night, one thing was for sure…the banditos were coming for me. I would fight them off, plunge my baby axe into one of their faces and spend the rest of my life in a sub-standard Mexican prison.

Not exactly the thoughts that breed sweet dreams. And that’s not even mentioning the faint, flickering light coming from the other side of the burm. Being an avid explorer, I had to know where the light was being made. I left my car and crossed a small sand dune. Then, another…

There was a beach fire in between my secluded spot and what I thought was an out of season hotel. Wouldn’t you know, that night…3 lovely San Diegans just happened to be tipping a handle of Bacardi by the fire. Looking back, it’s possible they were Sirens.

Why am I telling this story? I don’t remember where I was heading. Perhaps a reference…the last time a suggestion or action of mine inspired a, “line cross.”

I’m lost. An abandoned beach? Rum? Fire? Outnumbered bachelor? Starry, open sky, secret-is-safe Mexico?

Apologies. It just ain’t clicking. Maybe I’m tired. Or, maybe my imagination isn’t firing on all cylinders tonight. You should know which word to underline there. Come now, this is a heart too sweet for that.

At least I like to believe it is.

…

There’s a line you cross, a barrier when you stray past the semi-taboo and enter into something else. Like I said, this site is and has always aspired to be a gang bang.

And if you’re going to gang bang, fucking gang bang. Commit.

Now that I’ve come this far tonight, I fail to see the romance. Exactly. See how you back into it? How it works on so many…plateaus?

I often have a roundabout style. But for one night, let me translate this merry-go-round…

Thanks for reading. Thanks for writing that you’re reading. Thanks for writing to read. Since I’m not dying for another 90 years, we got a long way to go.

Yes. I could have saved time, if only I began where I ended…

Thank you, no.

Saturday Night Live...

Still and always the most untouchable show on TV.

http://img-nex.kongisking.net/kong/movies/121705-SNLJackBlack9.mov

And how tragically John Belushi is Jack Black?

Let Me Tell You Why I'm an Idiot...

Then again, when has the power of sight ever failed in painting the more resonant picture? Top of Rockefeller Center in New York City…the newly opened suicide dreamer’s Candyland.

http://homepage.mac.com/winburnsmith/PhotoAlbum10.html

Some things, I’ll never understand. Like heights, for example. Or Vertigo…and why the fuck I put myself through it.

My fingers need to touch foundation, no wandering.
Short, quick breaths…constant shivers.
Testicles retreat into my lower intestines.
People think I’m a 24-year-old crack baby.
I make unsettling, involuntary noises.
I close my eyes and dart through narrow passages with the bravado of John Bobbit moments before his second, “first” sexual encounter.
I laugh to myself…a calming of the nerves.
The alarm in my stomach calls for vomit…but nothing is locked or loaded.

Bitter, freezing wind. Every moment, I waited for it to blow hard enough to dust me off the landing, foster my date with destiny. That never happened.

There were three platforms...and stairs leading to those platforms. This means one could elect to see just one platform and head down…or elect to see all three.

In spite of the buckets of personal anguish I share…I elected to be an idiot. I elected to eliminate the potential regret of not making it to the top.

It’s that same trigger that likes to selectively fire. Tell me what to do? Go fuck yourself. Don’t eat arsenic, it’s bad for you? Yourself, go fuck. The same stubborn shit applies to my own instincts.

My heart beats 54 times every minute. For those 8 minutes I spent on top of the world… double that. And when I walked past an engineer speaking quietly with one of the security officers…

“Not super smooth. The main elevator just crapped out.”

Triple it.

My insides shook something fierce. When I finally made it back down, bet your cabinet of illegal prescription drugs that my hand ran across the marble on floor one. Trust me, it’s not cliché when you feel shit like that.

…

Of course the city was great. There was a distinct sweetness I was hoping to find. Spirits were high…crowds rampant. Everyone follows “The New Yorker’s Guide to Mastering the Holiday Dating Trifecta: The Scarf-Wrap, Arm Brace and Sidewalk Strut.” I passed dozens if not hundreds of couples with a smirk, freezing my naked face off…knowing they would have a place in my Blogville. Usually…the uniformity would tempt my desire to dish swift facial roundhouses. But in sincerity, I dug it. What else are the holidays about?

But wait…

Breed that, the reflection of another great and wandering trip to our country’s great city…confusion, wonder, exhaustion…and the ache of my desire to return home, to my city of angels…and I’ve earned allowance to drop something a little more profound…

What else is life about?

A Fresh Battle and Back to NYC...

I just finished a Mulholland Drive…drive.

As I returned and passed the Beverly Hills Hotel, my mix ran out. A mix that did its job…carrying me through the beautiful valley views.

But, I needed something to carry me home. Lucky for Winburn, Pat Benatar was kickin' it on XM. And I concur, love is most certainly a battlefield. What a fucking jam. Suddenly, dance is my craving.

I haven’t fully ruled out the possibility that I’m partially insane…or that I have serious, bubbling emotional problems. But we’ll get back to that. Perhaps another night. This one might run long.

I treated this week as if it were another one of my be all, end all’s. See, I had another pitch with a studio bigwig yesterday. I’ve been speaking a bit of rabble lately…flaked out on a handful of good souls. Now, you know why.

So I talked with my little chickadee late on Thursday. She had spots to fill. Spots with my name attached, perhaps?

Let me first tell you that landing this gig would be striking oil, gold…golden oil. Whatever. Orgasm. There’s little more I could ask for. I thought I was shooting for a 1-year contract with a salary that tips in around a grand a week. I thought wrong. Apparently, I’ve been shooting much higher. Or, at least…so I was informed. Like, 140% higher. So, they ain’t fuckin' around.

I like to think of myself as a creative individual…with a very active, dancing mind. When she called and asked me to pitch again, no sweat. I know my stuff, I trust my stuff. But, well…let me explain.

You see, the first time around, I went into the pitch with “my stuff” and bombed. Not because “my stuff” is bomb material. It’s that “my stuff” wasn’t going to become “their stuff” any time in the near future. Creatively, we were miles apart.

So she told me to study “their stuff” and fire away. “The sooner, the better.” I spent this past weekend watching movies I would have never otherwise taken the time to see. Very broad appeal, comedic, family-friendly fare. I thought I was in for a shit flavored treat, but when Vin Diesel starts referring to the infant as “Red Baby” in The Pacifier…I mean, come on. Good stuff. I watched a lot of movies this weekend. More than usual.

And I came up with about 30 ideas. From those, I cut it down to 2, set up my meeting and came out swinging. The others were a little too…not for them.

That means roughly 93% of my ideas aren’t even allowed to set foot on this studio’s playground. Trust me, this thing isn’t as easy as it sounds.

I prepare for a pitch about the same way I prepared to pitch back in my days of tossing baseballs. Funny, huh? It’s the same principle as going on stage, as giving a speech, as performing 30 Jacks deep while your friends are filming in the closet...

Okay, that last one, I didn’t even give myself a chance.

But, there’s something really personal about giving a pitch. You’re so vulnerable. The only protection I had was the rationalization that these weren’t my babies, they were my whore children. Derived to impress a studio that has found extraordinary success by following a specific formula. They know what they’re doing, and do it well. I want in.

If the job were mine, you would have been informed in my opening sentence. Following that, my closing sentence would have informed you of my intentions to go on a 122-hour drunkard of celebration. I’m here. I’m sober. I didn’t get the job.

I started right into the first pitch. My greatest challenge in talking creative is staying focused and not diving into, “what the fuck did you just say?” territory. When you’re accomplished, dive all you want. When you’re a young pup, you’ve got to be short and sweet…cut and dry. It’s all part of the pecking order. Right now, executives own me. In 10 years, I’ll own them. But right now…the only time that matters…I have heaps to learn. It’s really fucking tough telling a 2-hour story in a succinct 3 minutes. There’s so much I want to say. So much brilliance I want to demonstrate. It’s the curse of being blessed as a gifted writer.

New readers, take that last bit with a sip of sarcasm.

But if you want to debate the “blessed” remark, you’d better hurry. It wont be much of a debate for long.

That was 100% sincere.

So my first idea…and let me state upfront that the lack of originality pains me. It was Freaky Friday meets The Breakfast Club. I divulge because I doubt it will ever make it to paper. “The Hot Chick” made 35 million in the box office. Come the fuck on. This would make a killing. Especially with my scorching words as its backbone. Yes, scorching.

“The elements are strong…and there’s no way for you to have known this, but the studio is moving away from “high school” movies.”

She’s like a queen who reins with an iron fist over my only insecurity. Plus, I think one fifth of me is in love with her. I don’t know if that hurts or helps the situation.

Next!

Okay, whatever. She passed on my gimmick idea. I wasn’t completely heartbroken. The first pitch was more of an icebreaker than anything. And I needed it. In all honesty, half way through, I hit this terrible snag where I crossed my fingers and prayed for coherence. Pitching is the scariest and most exciting thing in my life.

My second pitch…Elf meets Big Fish. Try spinning that web in a tight 3 minutes. I did…try, that is. Mine took 7. Still, it managed to stand. Why? Because it would be a Christmas classic…hilarious and heartfelt. But what can I say, you have to hire me and find out. I can’t speak my sweet subtlety to you. All I need is some paper, a pen and just a little bit of time. Roll the dice on me. See what it feels like to scream, “Yahtzee, motherfucker!”

She gave me some feedback. The kind of feedback where I try to be brief and not overstay my welcome. At the end of it all, I had to ask…where does this leave us?

I expected her to show appreciation for my time…upon which time, I would thank her for her valuable time. We would endure a clean break and part ways with cheerful holiday wishes. Then, I would run into her at a party 5 years from now with a, “Told you I had skillz. You should have hired me. You could have been the shout out in all my acceptance speeches.” Instead…

“We’ll just keep going back and fourth. Call me with a slam-dunk. January, we’ll go again.”

I had three crammed days and came up with a foul tip. Now, I have 30. Might as well go out and celebrate. Close a door and I’ll kick it open. Leave it open, and it’s over. Baby, come January…I’m taking that job.

Mind you, coming up with a slam-dunk in this town is like pissing into the bullseye of a water gun game at your hometown summer carnival…from 30 feet out.

Since my stream is strong, steady…I say no worries.

The funny thing about life is that you can choose to take every situation in one of two directions.

I’m choosing to take this as someone trying to lasso a wild talent. She hears my thousand mile per hour sputter and sees a project. Give him a month to sand himself out…to sand over those rough edges and that boy could be smooth.

…

So I’m heading back to New York this Saturday…staying till Tuesday. Need to fill in the last few blanks for the script. Okay, very large blanks. I used to have a deadline. Mid-January. No thanks. I’ll get there when I get there. Especially with the “new development.” I’d be a fool if I took it lightly.

My little scripting vacation is all but over. Come January, time to pimp the charm and land some sweet new means of an LA paycheck.

But things are going. If anything, I’ll always have that. And I’ve written about this quite a bit, but how fucking romantic can it get? These will be the times we all look back and smile. Having no real idea of who we are or where we’re going…fighting to keep that head above water.

We remember feelings. The times we fought, the times we fell, the times we laughed, loved, cried.

And when they’re swirling, which they are…

What a gift.

Blanket Blue Ball, you and me both...

I’m trying to think of the last time I shed a tear over something in REAL life. Either way you look at it…troubling.

I just watched a great movie. In America. Really good. Though, talk about botched marketing. It’s some asshole’s fault it took me this long to give it a good look. Anyway, take a guess at what inspired the initial link in my chain of thought?

I’ve been in all weekend. Flaked 2 parties cause I’m buried in headwork. Buried. Of course, this headwork is real work…that will hopefully lead to real work. Got me???

In case you haven’t noticed, I’m not always super direct. Ask my ex’s.

They’ve been fixing my apartment complex for 3 months. No, not my ex’s. The Bandaras family of handy men. When they finally leave, I’ll take my stab at figuring out what the fuck they did.

They DO leave El Pollo Loco all over my courtyard. I will CERTAINLY give them that.

I’m fucking salty!

On Saturday, they re-paved the steps leading up to my apartment. Any NORMAL human being would have been confined.

Not this nimble minx…

Hold on…Fuck me, that little slide hits me every time. #6 on August and Everything After. For cliff noters, pick it up at 2:35. Every time and I don’t know why. That whole album is orgasm.

But anyway…

Upon lurching my way across railing in nimble feats of strength and grace, I tore a hole in the ass of my #1 pair of pants. The kind of hole that lures in a sweet whisper to viewing audiences…

Watch closely…magic waits behind but one curtain. That is…if I’m even wearing a buffer…which is rare these days.

I just killed my candle. The wax reservoir escaped. Fucking idiot.

My face is heavy. This is what it feels like to throw your head in a frying pan…on high for 3 days…with a splash of De Cecco.

Crossies. Juices will fly before this chap leaves for NYC. Daddy is about to throw me into the lake…see if I sink or swim.

Let’s get it over with, fuckbags. I’ve got one hell of a crawl stroke.