You Know, Like That Green Day Song...

There's been a lot of movement lately, in life...on many fronts. And at some point, when August was fading, I remember bracing, readying myself that September was going to be rough...but that once I made it through to the other side, all that would await: bright lights and a new and majestic life. And a few days ago, the above song crept into my playlist and it started banging my head and it kind of made me smile - thinking back to what I was thinking, labeling a month as this villain, training myself to think of it as a battle. Funny, behavior in hindsight.

I've been working hard on a script that is going to change my life. I completely believe that. And last week, I finished it, and I had in my hands a story about two kids in love, and it's raw and it moves and it crushes. I believe all that. And on Tuesday night, I had a meeting with Team Burn to talk about the direction we were going to take it in. We talked about the process of sending out a spec - that you get it in the best possible shape it can be in, you get everyone on board in the company (in my case, a management company), and usually on a Tuesday, you circle the wagons and send it out to everyone around town. And then you wait. And the thought of it put a fire in me. And we started talking about the small things we had to do to get it there -- the character work that we needed to do before it would be ready. Then we started talking about other things - scripts, ideas, writers who had recently caught fire and the scripts they wrote, the scripts they broke with -- everything that had been moving lately around town.

Then we started talking about our expectations of ourselves and of each other. We talked about our expectations of the scripts we want to take out to town - our names big and bold on the front. And we came to a couple conclusions about our kids, Kim and Val. We knew that the story was good, and that it works and works well...it does. And we knew the writing was there. But this moment hit and we couldn't avoid it...there's room. It can be better. It can be bigger. It can be bolder. It can blow the fucking doors off this town. And the only thing standing in the way of it being better is the work, is the grind and the shit and the piss. And running from all that is coward. And running from all that isn't how I'm wired. Lucky and/or fucky for me - it seems Team Burn's gonna hold me to it.

He left and left notes and I chewed through it all. And all day yesterday, all day, I felt like I was going to throw up...all day. It was amazing, all these feelings and ideas burning and tumbling through one another. Like everything was coming to life and dying all at the same time. Because I realized that October is going to be just like September. And November is going to be just like October. And down the line when this sells and my life does change, 2009 is going to be just like 2008 and nothing is going to change. And I'm okay with that. Because looking back, September was pretty fucking raw...but pretty fucking sensational. I've never made strides like this, ever. I've never grown like this, ever. And I can be happy pretending to be miserable for the rest of my life. So anyway...

I'm sitting at home yesterday, honestly fucked out of my mind and I get this phone call. It was from a production company that works in the 10-20 million range. And they roll out with Warner Bros. and Universal and Fox. And this girl says that she read Kim and Val and that she loved them and that it was the kind of film they might be interested in -- maybe with a little less violence and a little development - and she said her boss already had it and was going to read it on her flight to London or sometime after she got there. And I said that was great and amazing and that I was flattered and through the roof -- but that it is still evolving and that me and Team Burn were going to take it under the knife again - that it will be ready soon, and to be patient. And she was cool with that, said that when I was ready, they'll be ready for it. Hard move...but the right move.

I just can't cut the corner on this one. I just can't do it - unable to allow self. And I made a promise with Team Burn that we will never settle for anything less than the best we can possibly be. And he made a promise back. We're going big, eyes set on the biggest of big boys...in the biggest of big boy towns.

And so away we go...once again and forever 'til we find that screen.

Wolf Parade...

Anyone who has the stones to even put down an 11 minute song, and then release it, and then absolutely at least blow my mind deserves chronicle. Everything here is exquisite...

1925-2008...

Friday Night 9:45-11:00...

Dear Kim & Val...

I apologize, it's been a while since we checked in. Or, since I've checked in. See, I've been busy. I've been working -- sweat, blood, tears to bring the two of you to life. I've been fighting, every day, nearly a thought a minute, doing everything I can to help you find immortality. You've taken my sleep, my calm, my rational thought and replaced it with fury and invincibility and hope. You've made my mind and heart unstable. To that, I give profound thanks. Every day, you get inside me, save me, occupy me...and to that, I give profound thanks. All I can offer in return -- a promise to not let you down, to not stop until you're on that screen, until your story pours out onto the world. That I promise.

Since we met, you've been my obsession. And I hope that's not weird, me coming out and saying so. I believe in and value honesty above all things and can't help but think our rapport is strong enough to handle any truth.

Recently, as you know, I sent your story, in progress, out to the first line of gatekeepers in charge of making possible everything we envision. And they loved you. They're fascinated by you. And now there's a team working to give you due perfection. We're working together to bring you to life - not one inch short of what you deserve. And with this team behind me behind you, you will be unstoppable. And you'll find life. And your story will take over the world. And you'll never die...

But patience now. Much work ahead. Soon, we begin.

All love,

Burn

Fascination...

A few days ago, I was standing by the pool at work, mind clenching, face numb - something like that after a long day of work and being at work was this terrible drag, something pulling on me something awful.

And I was holding this pen behind my back, in my right hand. This metal pen and I bent it until it snapped and it echoed through the courtyard. I looked to my finger and it was torn open, nothing too awful, but not too pretty. And it was bleeding, and I'm looking at it now and the Neosporin I'm now pouring on and into it because it's starting to hurt and I think it's going to have to get amputated because the pain is pretty deep and I keep on envisioning myself with 9 fingers -- a right hand without a thumb and I think that would look pretty cool. Pretty cool.

And I look to my body and I'm looking for scars - worry a day will come when I feel there should be more - that I've been cheated or that I've cheated myself. Then I laugh. Just because they can't be seen...

I remind self - I'm doing a fine job, a good job - that the line is falling, and I toe it as it falls. And I'm mistaking happiness for madness, because there's so much of one or the other at any given moment and it's a lot, asking someone to deal with either or both, everything all at the same time. I just breathe.

Because I'm still learning to be capable -- of handling -- of managing these assets of mind. On nights like this, in the past, I'd head out and grab a drink, let it spiral into something special. And by special, I mean the opposite of. But that's where I'm headed tonight - out to see what's what. I feel alright, like I'm headed somewhere, away from destruction and this is the new path, tonight, for a while...to see what's what...

Show me a faraway land. Show me a faraway land. Show me a faraway land.

Kings of Leon...

Oh, Kids...

I woke up today the same way I've woken every day for the past 2 weeks. I eat, settle and greet the kids -- Kim and Val -- for a span of time ranging anywhere from 5-9 hours. And I slam and destroy and bend words and feelings, trying to make something so flimsy into something so concrete - something that'll fetch me my 5-6 figures - something that officially ends playtime and begins, well...playtime.

I'm abstract when I'm working, at least when I'm in deep. I have nothing left at the end of the day. Things get simple, things are simply simplified. And the harder I work the harder I have to work to blow it all out, to fit it in a box and dispose of it somewhere outside of my person. Today, after a brutal but all affirming day of script work, before going to the gym, I ran up Sunset Plaza Drive with my buddy Will. Last March, we somewhat ran the LA marathon together and have made this something of a weekly appointment - to climb the steep and winding hill until we reach the top, above the smog, above the cars, above this wonderfully poisoned city . It's metaphorical to say the least. Between breaths, we talk shit and of ideas that fetch far. And when we get to the top, we check the clock at Ice Cube's house, slap hands and decide the pace of decent -- all depending on how much time we have before the real workout starts.

I left the gym sometime after 7 tonight, overdone as usual, but lighter. My motor skills and skills of mind had long ago departed. When I'm in work, I lose my gift of communication. The vocal webs I usually sling with such skill and savvy hang limp like Durban's whiskdic. People think I'm on drugs. I'm actually not. It's all good...because I'm on pace. I'm at the exact spot I want to be. And this progression is my vigor, and I'm moving into something of a rare form, only wanting to be composed of three things -- moving towards a day where I am all and only three things...Muscle, Brain, Heart. That's all, all I have a tolerance left to carry.

Hangin' Wit J...

Somewhere In The Night...

I'm on a new kick, back to Knights of Cydonia - and it's pounding me, somewhere in my guts, because I listen to everything too loud, because I want it to explode my head. And it's pulling back memories -- of seeing the Muse boys play live and feeling something so profound, so big, so charging.

I'm berserk. Last night, lightning struck, something coming into me, changing me with a no discussion declaration -- that the things that have brought me happiness will no longer serve - that the things making me content will no longer suffice. I felt in an instant I would never get back the person I had so recently been. And I can't point to exactly what caused it. I got back from dinner sometime around midnight and couldn't sit still. I paced and analyzed and fantasized and spoke to myself in such abundance that I had to stop, find a mirror, tell myself I was speaking to myself in such abundance - because calling it out makes it okay. And I couldn't settle. I couldn't right my mind and didn't want to -- it was involuntarily righting itself.

There's something big afoot here - something that's bigger than anything I've ever been. I can feel it. And the thought of it stretches, and the thought of it is the aim of my every search, and the thought of it transforms the world I know - teaches me to cope with revelation.

Because this, THIS has to be bigger than everything in this life. And I feel like life has to suffer for it to flourish - because nothing gives me glory like it - and I'm okay with that - I feel like I'm going to have to be okay with that - and I'm never going to apologize for it. This is a state of evolution. When I don't know how to handle these things, I simply sit back and let them handle me.

In Dreams and Welcome Back...

I woke up yesterday with this great gift. Usually on Sundays, I wake up with an apocalyptic mind. Yesterday was different.

I was sleeping when I got the phone call. When I answered, I was still sleeping, if you follow. Someone was yelling on the other end, so angry at me - my actions, my lacking responsibility. The voice told me to come to the hospital and fast.

When I arrived, there was this line of people waiting for me, eyes like razors as I made my approach. And they were judging, hostile. I felt awful, not so much as for what I'd done, but for what I would have to live with. When I got to the room and turned inside, I found this girl, and she was holding a baby. I recognized her straight away - a girl from my past. She was beautiful, so beautiful. Durbs, you woulda been so proud - a mag girl on many occasions. I remembered a distant feeling, lusting after this...her and her face and her body like possibly no other I had known. But when we spoke, I'd float away. We went to dinner, maybe a movie a long time ago and I remember this numbing feeling crawling over my body and mind, so un-held. I remember taking her to bed, knowing I wanted to but shouldn't. And I remember that being that, knowing it was going to turn out exactly like that.

Everyone in the room started in on me, yelling and screaming, evidently pissed that I had slept through the birth of my child. I looked at the mother and she was indifferent, soul-less, like they or I or everything had sucked it from her. They were yelling and screaming and I felt like I was dead or wanted to be.

I woke up a few minutes after 8 and didn't move, let it settle that what happened in my sleep wasn't my reality. I considered the possibility that laying in bed not being a father was my dream, that the alternate reality was in fact, mine.

It wasn't. It isn't. I was okay.

...

It's Monday. I woke today before 7 to start back in on my two darling, deviant lovers. I woke up with some shit in my guts, still some remnants of the recent girl, one held in distantly higher esteem. The fact that she's still here is marveling and maddening. I want to go to the bathroom and puke her out, all of her - be clean again - for moments. But then comes back my thirst for self destruct, something inside me and all it wants to do is embrace the shit, teach me how to love it like I would my would-be bastard child.

Good things, I'm in. Promise.

...

This room is dark and long and would echo if you let it. These headphones swallow my head. This instrument beneath my hands makes me strong. My heart is bleeding. This feeling feels like home. I'm home. Now I eat the world.

Bonnie & Clyde...

Butch & Sundance...

I spent the day at the WGA library, glued, leafing through William Goldman's 190 some page Butch Cassidy and The Sundance Kid. I was reading it for style...how he handled the stick up robberies of the old days and how to send two brilliantly drawn characters to their death and into cinema immortality. The day was awe-inspiring. I mean, Goldman goes so far beyond brilliant that it's like he's all ease. His pen just glides. Fiction, screenplays, whatever. Read Princess Bride and tell me otherwise.

And this...oh, this...

Clarence & Alabama...

"Well, Lee, it's like this. You're getting the bargain of a lifetime because I don't know what the fuck I'm doing. You're used to dealin' with professionals. I'm not a professional. I'm a rank amateur. I could take that and I could cut it and I could sell it a little bit at a time and make a helluva lot more money. But, in order to do that, I'd have to become a drug dealer. I'm not a drug dealer. And I don't want to be a drug dealer. Deal with cut-throat junkies, killers; worry about gettin' busted all the time. Just meetin' you here today scares the shit out of me and you're not a junkie, a killer or a cop, you're a fucking movie producer. I like you and I'm still scared. I'm a punk kid who picked up a rock in the street, only to find out it's the Hope Diamond. It's worth a million dollars, but I can't get a million for it. But you can. So I'll sell it to you for a couple a' hundred thousand. You go make a million. It's all found money to me anyway. Me and my wife are minimum wage kids, two hundred thousand is the world." QT

4:38 destroys me...

Romeo & Juliet...

This weekend, I met with a gentleman who is going to manage me and career. We're on the same path - two young bucks, foaming at the mouth, eyes with aim on world domination. He took a liking to Kim and Val, embraced its strength, its weaknesses that I was too weak to see and we tore through it with a plan -- go back to work, spit it out in a couple of months when its undeniable, let it alter our paths in life. And I feel there's a weight been carried away. I got a corner man.

The process for this week is simple. Read a script, watch the film. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Last night was Boondock Saints. This was today's:

Dear Durban...

Sound advice, chap. (In case you aren't wise to the exploits of my friend, John Durban, kindly play catch up link right).

Let's stick to themes here. You quote me, I quote you. It keeps going through my head, you, knowing some girl just touched me up, explaining the ways and woes of love. I want to play a game. Since your readers suffered the luxury of playing out my shit at home, let's turn a table, call the name of my game, "Consider the Source."

This is you in love. I know. I've been there...

"She took me into her mouth. I think it was the taller one, but I had lost track. By now they were both on their knees, double team revival. Nothing was happening. Nothing. Not a movement. I didn't know what it was. I tried to explain. I said things like whisky and blow and weed and that mystery yellow pill I dropped on Marnixstraat and fucking blue balls and double fucking two Japanese school girls and the combination of everything but they didn't speak a lot of English."

And that's what I always admire about you, John, your invested heart. You lay it out there. You delve, and deep. The authority by which you speak is warranted and staggering. I've found that only those in possession of a hyper-ripe moral compass can expect to dish beliefs by which I pay even a momentary mind. So let's put you to the test. Speed round, shall we Durbs?

"I didn't know anything about the pills we took. I didn't know what had brought me to the Italian coast, but I was driving, fucked out of my mind and she was screaming at me and I couldn't hear a word of it. Nothing was processing. I was winding the coast in and old Alfa Romeo - topless - trying to hit a hundred miles an hour screaming back I want to die I want to die I want to die."

Nice.

"Prague is good for two things -- hookers and cocaine."

Excellent.

"There's a very distinct sound that happens when you clear out a man's teeth with a rusted hammer, like breaking through an egg shell -- soft, delicate, yet there's enough fortitude there to actually give the metal of the hammer a slight ring."

Sensational.

"Let her go. You'll be fine. You'll always be fine. You're the fucking Burn, man. The fucking Burn."

Thanks, D.

Ouch...

27...

Kinda feels like...

But not because I'm getting older. In my desired profession, I've found at this point that my age has only hindered me. Every year, every day, my pen grows mightier. Barring a breakdown, which is quite reasonable, in my golden years, I'll be so good, no one will even be able to understand a word I'm saying. I can't decide yet if that's what I want.

But birthdays are strange. I feel like every year, I get duped into getting people together, which actually makes me wildly uncomfortable. I don't like the idea of assembly anywhere even in the proximity of the realm of my behalf. I like to hide in corners, listen, maneuver, plot. I need to always have an out - find comfort in such things. Tonight, I'll find no such comfort. There will be no escape. The thought of it right now unsteadies me.

I feel like all day, my phone has been ringing, vibrating so often it almost got me off. And out of the woodwork - all these well wishes and rsvp's and I wonder what the hell I'm getting myself into every time this happens. And seeing the names pop up one after the other, and the cards and the blessings and these people I haven't seen in so long -- I'm such a cock but I'm not I just...tuck away. I don't keep up and I stopped apologizing for it. It's not that I don't care it's just that I...don't care.

So tonight. Good times, of course...always - because it's in my blood, above all else, and to them I'll always revert...

So it begins with the second drop in "Juno." Fuck me. Fuck you. Tokyo Police Club, who woulda thought...

Thursday Evening...

A couple days ago, I was watching Scorsese's "Shine a Light." It's a Rolling Stones docu that was shot mostly at NYC's Beacon Theater in 2006. It was cool, absolutely blows my mind that they're still around, blows my mind all they've made...

Between songs, there were these cuts to their days of youth, interviews they would give - Mick Jagger, Keith Richards, Charlie Watts, Ronnie Wood. And there was something to it - seeing them, for me, maybe for the first time in their youth - classy punks, collected, composed. I have such admiration.

There was this clip where Keith was going on and on - distant and flying - after he and Mick had been released from jail on some sort of narcotic possession charge. The interviewer was digging at him, trying to evoke a gunslinger's response about the system and their imprisonment and all he could say, spacing and direct, "Well... maybe we'll get a song out of it."

...

I've got ache. All I can hope for is that it's dying -- not ripped raw. Right now though, it's lingering and I don't know which way it's gonna tip - still too fresh to call...

I had lunch with this girl today. She's something. She's --

I've loved two girls in my life -- told two girls that I had love for them. One I dated for years -- some great, many crushing. I look back and think we almost killed each other. She broke my first heart - never again had one like it. The other and I lived together in Cape Town...among other places. We dated for sub 1 year, saw the world's rare stretches, thought we died together in the Zambezi, may very well be forever etched into each other. For an overly dramatic 26 (27 in minutes) year old romantic, I can't help but think that's sparse. Between the in-between moments and relationships of my life, to find anything but a momentary spark has been so rare. Sometimes, friends think I'm gay. Often, I turn down "guilt-free" female fucks. In fact, I scoffed at two last night -- beautiful, and great, and interesting...

Just not for me. Nothing ever enough...

Then came a third girl. We saw each other for 6 weeks. After a month, when we were lying in bed, I told her I loved her. She smiled, gripped me tight, said something back but I didn't hear, couldn't hear, refused to hear. And I can't explain it, my style that's nothing if it isn't Kamikaze. And she was beautiful. Some kinda rare beautiful thing that's no longer mine. And it better be fucking okay that that stings because it does. Then or now, I could never wrap my head around her. I never wanted to, will never want to. Some things are there just to exist. She was like that.

We had a lunch today that began with a heavy kiss and ended with her gift-giving and a heavy goodbye. She drove away and I didn't watch -- some kind of conquering perception of mind -- my illusion of strength disallowed it. I opened the gate and had to stop. I felt light, like something was pouring from the soles in my feet, bleeding out into the concrete -- this force vacating my body, instantly replaced by another force, something heavy and daunting, a familiar thing to me. It was my Conquer, coming back, rushing through me, trained to not let a moment of weakness or hurt find me. And all it could say, push, push, push, we don't have time for this - there's too much, too much, too much. I can't help but listen. I want to listen. I have no choice. This is what I do. This is my life.

We compromised, Conquer and I, and I was allowed the time it took to get from the gate to the back door, through the hallway and into my apartment : : :

The smile came first and I had to dismiss it - too crippling. Then the eyes, that curl in her cheek, her stare -- always burning -- thinking back to how I'd reach my hand out in the middle of the night to find hers and she'd find me back. I remember giving up on sleep, never being tired, feeling my body crumbling inside, sick and addicted to the adrenaline of this she. I remember the world disappearing -- inside her -- I can't. Too much. It was too much then, it's too much now. We were so on and so wrong. I don't know how I expected myself to deal with any such things. So off and so right. This great competence I praise in myself often fails.

Sitting here now, I can't help but go against the grain. I can't help this. Tonight I'll sleep. Tomorrow, maybe all of this will be gone, though it certainly won't. It'll disappear in the stages I gave. Problem now - I was in deep. This girl took breath like Beckett's hammer curve. She was electric like watching Bellamy play God on stage. She crushed like that scene in Neverending Story when Artax loses his battle with the Nothing and fucking gives up and fucking drowns, just fucking drowns right there in the Swamp of fucking Sadness and it doesn't matter that he comes back in the end to ride the fucking plains, who fucking gives up in the Swamp of Sadness? This girl will always be...so good. Make no mistake. Sensational.

And she listened when I commented on the pleasantries of her down comforter, took note of my jealousies. And she saw the holes in my work socks, listened to my rant, my endless rants - one of them something along the lines of fuck work fuck them they can suck my balls before they even try to fire me do you think I will ever buy new socks for those...

Now there's a beautiful white down comforter on my bed. On top of the comforter, 5 pairs of black socks- this poetic juxtaposition...so pretty it gives me hurt. They were for my birthday...are still for my birthday, I suppose.

It's not an easy thing to do -- to let it go, when you want to fight for something you can't fight for - when there's still something screaming and you have to put it to bed, tuck it in and smother it with a pillow -- and you have to watch it kick and scream and fight for air, yelling through the pillow, this is wrong! this is wrong! this is wrong!

...

But I rationalize. I cut losses so that at the end of the day, I can try and sleep and live with the choices and paths I take. And I boil it down. I find comfort in simplicity. So this is it, all I'm trying to do, in this life...come up with a few good songs, maybe someday have enough to spin an album -- something that makes me happy, content. I have so many about growth and adventure and danger and they're great, they are...it's just...

I feel like this girl pulled 2-3 songs out of me. 2-3 songs that at any given moment could have cured all that ails and ailed. Now that she's gone, they're gone. They're lost. And I'll never know. I'm worried a night will come and the thought won't let me sleep, maybe for weeks. Maybe I worry too much.

I keep telling myself, all I keep telling myself, over and over -- respect it, love it, cherish it.

Because this is my song.

This is what I do.

Thursday Afternoon...

Elevator Music...

7.4 and they turn and they turn...

Cahuenga to Beverly Glen and instantly and in stretches it smells like cum, something in the trees. I start my climb and the higher I get the more I need. I bleed my ears as my sound bangs the canyons, back and fourth a thousand times until it dissipates and dies. It follows me like a stream through the turns, above the lights as I tear the flesh from my wheel, from my throat, wishing it would never end, burning -- a heap that just got its match. Sunday. Again. Always. Eyes ripped in the mirror. Red. And behind them, invasion, conquering, and I've already turned from sleep, stuck, and my tires sing and in my mind I yearn for coast. The only one I know. And I want it back, need it back -- something in me begging again, where's my coast, where's my coast...relentless and chasing...where'd it go, where'd you go. Don't you forget. Get it back. Get it back. Run.

Stay Hot, Cuba...

The Olympics can be a trying time. Athletes devote everything, mentally, physically for a taste to compete at such an epic level, to call themselves Olympians. It's a badge I'm certain they wear on their hearts until the day they die.

And if things don't happen to go their way, like, say in the bronze medal match of taekwondo, they can always pull this...

I just wouldn't recommend it.

Likely What Started It All...

Everyone Could Use An LA Monday...

I woke up at 10 today, a solid 10 hours of sleep after putting together a string of 4,6,3,6,4. The culprits, well... some of the usual suspects, some new ones. Certainly still Kim and Val. There's a new old one called Billy Bambino that's contributed. Then there's the Olympics and my spending 5 hours a night glued and weeping...

Trying to devise plots to propose Shawn Johnson to be my honorary little sister. Because she's sensational...that stare. I also believe her to be raised by wolves.

Let me take a breath, pause, cause what's comin' here ain't petty...

Two days ago, I told a girl...something. I said something to her. Four letter word. And it was easy. And I don't know how it happened. And I can't even begin to address the trouble in such things.

...

So today, my LA Monday:

I sped through chapters of Before the Devil Knows You're Dead, packaged it up, sent it back to the Netflix home base with Waterhorse: Legend of the Deep because I haven't used my fucking account in over a month and could no longer handle the feeling of stale films to exist in my abode.

I ran through the bank, picked up three rolls of quarters for laundry, made a cash deposit into a savings account I've not so subtlety titled, "Brazil."

I washed the filth from my car...usually a metaphor for something bigger.

I skimmed The Pillowman after reading The Lieutenant of Inishmore after forming a fascination for Martin McDonagh after falling for In Bruges last week after falling for it months ago.

Laundry.

I ate Oreos with a glass of milk, remembered what childhood felt like.

I shopped online.

I sketched out a tattoo, plotted.

I made a new spin playlist because I now teach the fanatically fit at Equinox and because the feeling of 80 constant and judgmental eyes is a powerful and refreshing thing to suffer.

I wrote a blog.

...

I'll go to work. I'll endure and endure and endure and endure.

I'll say goodbye and see someone off.

I'll come home, close my door, click the lock and stand there, listening to the pumping air conditioner and the silence of my apartment. I'll close my eyes and not move, circling, thinking of leaving thinking of staying. I'll make a phone call. I'll sit, stand, sit, stand. I'll pace. 125 minutes will pass. I'll calm down, decide to trap myself, to keep myself there...here. I'll wonder what's coming, hoping for the best, prepping for the worst. I'll fight myself, set my alarm for 5:56 and the next thing I know, I'm there...red lights blazing from that clock. Blazing, blazing, blazing. It screams at me. Sometimes, I scream back.

Mattress Man...

Norwood Blues...

A package just arrived at my door, ringing doorbell, startling me something awful. Listed on the box was a return address to Richard Pildes of Chicago -- to some, an arbitrary name, but to me: Deuce, Deuce Dog, Captain Insanity. He was a man I came to know in the Fall of my junior year in high school.

Pildes was a baseball coach like none I'd ever known. He was passionate, persistent, headstrong, steady and righteously insane. He was a man of small stature, certainly, but had this bite - so subtle and affecting, he'd invade sleep. I loved him. He has also likely won 52 thousand games in his coaching career.

A couple months ago, cleaning my apartment, I stumbled into a wave of personal nostalgia - box of old pictures. I came across this photo...


1999 Norwood Blues. It was right after we had lost the NABF national championship to an outfit called the Bill Hood Broncos out of somewhere in the vicinity of Baton Rouge. I think we finished that year 54-7. Wins were foggy, losses I remember. 7 losses. The last one was tough...something in the air - those boys on the other side of the diamond played the game of their lives and I'm not just saying that 'cause we went down. They had a full ride LSU hurler/draftee on the hill that had been saved for us, somehow, 6 games deep into the World Series. He could shove, and a southpaw. They had a monster first inning and won the game something like 10-4. We took second place.

Inside this package...two T-shirts and a hat, all bearing logos I so revered in my back half years of high school. It smiled me something wide. I still so revere them. I was a Norwood Blue.

Summer baseball is supposed to be a time when you kick back, enjoy the dog days with the boys around town - play against other town's boys around town. It's about regional pride, a "our town is better than your town" kinda thing. I'm sure at some point, things were like that around Chicago. Pildes crushed that, treated the Chicago metro area as his own personal grab bag. In the Fall, calls would go out to his objects of desire. He'd recruit and assemble, steal each town's best player, build this arsenal that would go on tour when schools let their fools out. Truth was, most towns didn't have a player good enough. We were a force...

Every legion team we played circled their schedule. Most wouldn't come near us. The teams that did would save their best pitcher for the occasion. We'd win 18-2. When traffic was bad or when we were shorthanded and our pitchers had to hit, we'd win 11-2. We'd pimp home runs. Our fastballs were scorching. If towns were villages and we were raiders, the children would have been killed, the women raped and the homes burned. That's just how we rolled. And the swagger...oh, the swagger. In a sense, something about it all almost felt sadistic. We were evil but run with absolute class. It was the time of my athletic life.

In my 15 or so years of playing, I was never on a roster like the '99 Blues. Everyone went on to play college ball - most to major college programs. A handful were drafted. Two are playing in the Olympics** right now. But it wasn't just that. We had brilliant minds, a valedictorian - Ivy leaguers and professor's sons -- we had guys who puked at the first sight of a book. Such a ripe blend.

Oh nostalgia...fuck off but come and find me any time. Any time.

My Old Friend Walt...

These last few days have been blurry. I flamed through 5 new drafts of Kim and Val - cut 20 pages. Two weeks ago and today, I could have defended every word when it was 126 pages. Today, it's 106...and it's better, tighter. Sometimes, it all feels so fickle.

The process behind this is taking a little longer than my initial expectation, which was overnight...but it's getting there. A consultant recently sent me an e-mail, a note about the Disney Fellowship. They employ up to 4 writers per year, pay them an annual salary to work on the lot and come up with original material. I had flirted with something like this in the past at Disney, just a few notches above. I thought, why not try again? Hell, I have a gem in my back pocket, right?

So I started thinking, breaking it all down. Kimberly and Valentine in the house that Walt built. Let's see...

The word fuck or a variation of appears 19 times.
There's a scene involving rape.
Someone bites off someone else's ear.
Someone cuts off someone else's hand.
Sex is had or implied in 4 scenes.
A dead body is mounted against the grill of an SUV.
Guns and/or drugs appear in...too many scenes to count.
There's a miscarriage.
The word cunt is used twice.
Many die...quite violently.

Sometimes I stop...think about the phrase "setting up for success," wonder my competence for such things. Or care.

Gary Oldman...

My Watch...

I lost it. Don't know where it is. Seems to have escaped. All I know is this sinking and it's growing, building me mad.

Where do I begin? Trouble is, I only had it for a short period of time, quite brief in the grand scheme of things...but it looked right, felt right. I'd put it on and felt like it made me something else, something I wasn't before. Lifting. Yes, a fucking watch...if you can believe. These things happen all the time, mostly when we're not looking.

It was beautiful. It was my destruction. Wherever it is now, it certainly still is both, making it difficult, coping, thinking it's out there but not here...somewhere but not known.

The face...like none I'd seen. Exquisite, piercing. Sharp and slicing...smooth. It was crafted, absolutely, somewhere for sure. I imagined the little cranks and wheels, the internal tapestry by which it functioned. I tried. I tried. The thought of it alone -- mesmerizing. Every day, I would turn to give it a thousand glances, admire the way it wrapped my wrist. Tight or delicate, sensational always.

All I want is it. Back. Wrapped. Here. Home. Lost.

Like A Warm Fall Blanket...

Earthquake...

I was laying in bed at 11:42 in the AM - whenever it hit. In bed because I had slept minutes last night before gymming at 6 in the AM. Needed two hours. FYI - I don't sleep into the middle of the day. Not in this life.

My mirrors started to sway, the entire building was shaking. It felt pretty serious, hit something around 5.8, and froze me for literally 15 seconds - a long bastard. I was waiting for the ceiling to crack, thinking I should get into the middle of a doorway or something, cover my head or kidneys...protect the vitals, you know. I was waiting for something big and exciting and dramatic to happen, found myself wishing it was the beginning of "the one." Though, it wasn't.

It's funny though - listening to the news in the background, caller after caller ringing in, telling their experiences in "the field." Everyone explaining shaking and swaying and shattering, something to shake up our days and lives - our regularly scheduled programming interrupted.

We're all such fucking monkeys.

Two assholes walk into a Seattle candy shop, another one takes their picture...

First Word...

It's into the third week since I carefully introduced Kim and Val. All this fucking waiting making me nutso. Yesterday, I got word from a producer quite wired in the game. Not one of the first two, but still the first real word. I was expecting him to take it for a run, take it to his people for a run and so on and so on.

Didn't get it. Missed. Overshot.

I heard things like they're too in love, that it never stops, too intense the whole way through, never a moment for a breather.

I respect his opinion, and hate, hate defensive writers, but I quickly found myself un-listening. I tuned out, thinking how could you miss this, how could you let this go over your head, how could you miss this...

...

Lately, I've been losing sleep. Not that I've been sleeping all that much in the past 6 months, but still. And I can tell you what it is... or who -- Nikkorela...

She started showing up 2 weeks ago or something like it. Maybe in a dream, maybe not. Truth is, I still can't tell if she's real or imaginary. But I'm okay with that. I'm okay with the possibility that she's an invention of the mind, here to save me from void. She recently came to me in my sleep to speak of an ancient tale -- a master sculptor and his student, because I think she thought I needed it...

It was at the height of the Roman Empire, Luido was living in a province 200 miles south of Rome. He had at one time been stationed in the golden city, there to serve as personal sculptor to the Emperor himself. In his stay, he had witnessed the birth, the coming and going of the most gifted artists and visionaries that had ever lived.

When old age crept into him and the pace of the city grew too scathing, he decided to leave Rome and settle in a distant land, far removed. One day, walking the fields, he came across a young boy, Oederon, as if he were placed before Luido by the Gods themselves...he was sculpting the vinyards, olive fields, distant landscapes with a hand so steady, an eye so agile, it brought tears to Luido's eyes.

Luido took him on as his apprentice, though it was evident early on that the pupil's skill far surpassed that of his master.

Word began to spread through the hills and valleys, all the way to the golden city -- whispers of a boy with a hand that was guided by the gods. The Emperor summoned him at once. And so, Luido and Oederon traveled to Rome. The Emperor welcomed them, thanked them, declared that he was to hire a master sculptor to document the days of their empire, to immortalize his legacy. It was to be the most prestigous title an Emperor had bestowed upon an artist.

Luido had known since that first day that no man could stand against Oederon's talents...not even Rome's master sculptors. When the Emperor saw Luido in the audience, he summoned him forward. A recognition, for Luido had served as Rome's master sculptor when this current Emperor was just a boy. The Emperor spoke with an echo that rang through the royal courtyard...

"Great Luido, master servant of the Roman empire, you stand before us now with this fabled young boy. Word has traveled far of his divine talents. Of this boy named Oederon. I ask you now to speak in his favor, as his master. Tell me he is everything I have heard and there will be no trial. He will live here, amongst us until the day he no longer chooses, until he no longer sees it fit to document our travails. Speak your certainty and all this will be over."

Luido looked into Oederon's hungry eyes, certain, then looked back to the Emperor...

"I am not certain."

Oederon was sent off to complete his great trial, a sculpture that was to enter him into the forefront of Roman lore. But Oederon had lost his will. He felt betrayed by his master Luido. He was uncertain, weak. When the day had passed and the Emperor's royal advisors came to judge Oederon's work, he was nowhere to be found. He had left, alone, to wander distant lands.

Many years later, as Luido was on his deathbed, Oederon came to see his old master. Luido smiled, welcomed him, told him to sit. Oederon kissed Luido's forehead, spoke of his travels, the search of his destiny. The years had been difficult on both of them. Oederon's skin had hardened and stretched, a leathery glow. The color in his eyes had emptied. Luido's mind had grown forgetful, his thoughts had run senile. Oederon said goodbye, took Luido's hand, walked to the door when he turned back...

"Master, I have to know something. That day in Rome, when the Emperor asked for your blessing of me. He asked of my gifted hand. I never understood. All those days in the fields, all those days we had spent in the fields...if you didn't believe-

My son, I believed. The great Jupiter was alive in you.

Then why? Why? Why didn't you say so? Why did you leave me like that, why did you abandon me like that. It was my destiny, and you took it away from me. Why didn't you tell the Emperor?

Because my son, if it was your destiny, you wouldn't have listened to a word I said...you would have seized it for yourself."

Two assholes walk into a Seattle bar, another one takes their picture...

Sigur Ros, Durban...

I'm sitting here listening to the new Sigur Ros. Very good. I was kicking around the web, to the song "Ara batur" when I checked Durban's site. Something about the timing of the song, so right and wrong. So terrible and beautiful. Kinda crushing but life. Fucking life. Fucking life.

This is Durban's post:

Something In Her Way.

I thought it then, knew it when she disappeared. This bird I knew when I was in Amalfi. Jennifer. Don't know her last name, didn't think to care. All I remember, her face, something in her stare that bled me. It ripped through me. All I remember, being inside her, watching her shake, feeling her quiver. Those eyes. Those fucking eyes. I was electric. For 2 weeks, we paired. In cars, in alleys, in bedrooms we would never leave. She was electric.

I didn't know anything about the pills we took. I didn't know what had brought me to the Italian coast, but I was driving, fucked out of my mind and she was screaming at me and I couldn't hear a word of it. Nothing was processing. I was winding the coast in an old Alfa Romeo - topless - trying to hit a hundred miles an hour, screaming back I want to die I want to die I want to die. That much I remember. The cliffs were high. I wanted so desperately to miss a turn, drive through the guardrails and fly away with her. I wanted that to be it. I wanted to fucking end it and at every last second, I'd pull away - some guardian guiding my hand, pulling me back to the road. I think she was egging me on. She wanted me to do it. I wanted to do it. Something in the pills, something in them bringing out something in the two of us, something vicious and exquisite and we both knew...everything too much.

We stopped. We had smashed into a cliff. Blood was running through her hairline, running through her dark strands. Two days later, I would learn three of my ribs had cracked. The car was fucked. We fucked. Her blood and my pain, everything so sobering and clear. She told me then she loved me, the first and only time I had ever wanted to hear it in my life. We hitched a lift to Positano, got a room and stayed there, in bed, our hands and bodies twisted as the rain fell against our shutters and I thought that was it, our apologies and the end of me and anything I had ever thought I needed.

When I woke, she was gone. No note. All I had left was the dried blood on her pillow. Fuck her. Fuck her, all I could think - I would kill her if I ever found her again. Those words, those fucking words how dare she let slip. I would kill her. I'd take her back to Amalfi and show her my might, that it could be done, that I could put an end to everything - and be content, being with her...I'd tell her it was all for her - kiss her as we fell until the end found us. I thought of the things I'd say, the things I'd do to touch her again, to have her there again knowing I'd never let go. To tell her I'm never going to let go.

But I never saw her again. I knew I never would.

-- From my friend Romero, a friend of travels...that I received today --

"Durban. I love you man. Know that before everything. I'm sorry. Jenny's dead, found her this morning. It was her. Her. Nothing we could do. Nothing she left. I'm sorry. We all miss you. Come back soon. I'm so sorry."

...

I shot back through my pictures, my records of travel, certain I had something of the two of them. I remembered her. How could I forget. All I found was this, from Pompeii, likely just before Amalfi, fitting...

Even Then...

Simon Pegg and Nick Frost...

I'm trying to define the term "star struck," since in this town, it's a fascinating phenomena. It's happened to me a couple times, though the exact names, I'm too lazy to fetch. Yesterday, it happened again and made me wonder...

There were already a couple "names" in the restaurant when I came to work -- Woody Harrelson and Kristen Stewart. Mr. Harrelson has been around forever, from White Men Can't Jump to Indecent Proposal to Natural Born Killers to Semi-Pro, he's heavily accomplished. Kristen Stewart has been good from Panic Room and Into The Wild. Her new movie Twilight is supposed to be pretty cool, possibly a franchise. I hit their table with a smile and went about my business, nothing to it. It's not to say I didn't care, I did. I respect their success, but I respect it in the same manner I would respect a stock broker who can spin millions when the rest of the world eats lunch...nothing about me was struck.

Then the Shaun Of The Dead boys strolled in...



Without thinking, my face washed to giddy. We traded smiles and heys and I had to fight myself to not saddle up on Nick Frost's back. I was totally star struck and only after realized why. If you haven't seen Shaun Of The Dead or Hot Fuzz, I can say that you're deeply missing out. These are totally original and brilliant movies...heartfelt and hilarious, and I'm guessing are the product of a few friends sitting around, writing a script about what they love and what inspires them, then having the time of their lives going off and shooting it...



Maybe because they represent the ideal...either or any way, it's gonna take composure when that table comes.

Coldplay 7/15/08, The Forum, Inglewood CA...

I must admit, expectations fell somewhere short of stellar. I had earlier seen Muse play The Forum in beautiful Inglewood, California and left thinking the place had sapped their invincibility. When I heard Coldplay was coming to town, and that they were coming to the Forum, I grunted, knew I had little choice but to make the purchase. They're certainly on my list and I'd never seen them live.

I don't know how to lead into this, so I'm just gonna go...

The show was painfully good. Honestly, I think in spots, I ached because of it. Chris Martin is obnoxous and arrogant and amazing. The moment the lights went down, I couldn't fight away this feeling, going over and over in my mind that this was going to be a night I envy for the rest of my life. They were absolutely fucking brilliant. Absolutely. Every song reminded me of the titans they are. All I can think of now, all I know is this yearning to go back and live it again. They crushed the stage, played maybe 13 songs before pulling a rabbit...

Mr. Martin thanked the audience and took off running for what seemed to be an encore tease. But the band followed him through the crowd and up into section 8, to a stage that was really more like a wooden desk, where they hunched together, started in again.

This is what it looked like from my seats in section 7, not far off...



If you fancy the band called Coldplay, I'll tell you few words could fairly paint the scene I'm explaining. In light of such things, allow my progression. See, because I must now speak of my company. Because failure to do so would go against everything I believe in...

I was with this girl, this lovely and totally scary thing. High praise. The band started in on a tame form of "Yellow." Believe, believe it was so good I sunk into the floor. In that moment, I speak with certainty, my moment was as good as anyone's around the world. These things I know. I remember turning to her saying something like come here before the first kiss. I remember pulling back, smiling, moving my eyes back to the band and saying something like my legs are shaking. I remember not knowing which culprit was the cause of my ailment, the band or the girl. I remember being alright with that.

Oh, my night. What a motherfucking night. What a motherfucking night. All I wanna do is listen to "Lovers in Japan" over and over. I can't stop, already missing this, every drop of it.

Sam Rockwell...

Since I'm still waiting on reads, while there's some down time, we're going to play a game. It's called "Fit This..."

Crouched behind a car and fighting to crack a tin pillbox, MARSHAL, evil Jesus in slum-chic, 37. The right sleeve of his bright white suit is saturated in blood.

In pain and fighting, he finally cracks the pillbox, viciously snorts a red powder. His eyes turn frenzied as he coughs.

He stands from cover. An antique 1800’s American Old West Marshal badge gleams from his lapel in the morning sun.



"You know what it means? The name. Bloodlines. History is fascinating, isn’t it? Please, I beg you indulge me. Mine is Marshal. It’s a throwback, homage to the Old West. It means I’m a lawman -- in the purest of forms. Long before droves and divisions of law enforcement polluted the justice system of this our great country. You know what I do with my little gang here?"

And just for good measure...

Headed For Something Special...

I'm more than a little concerned. See, I've sort of hit the point. Mind you, we're now going to talk about something relevant and concrete, my life and career. Quite a refreshing change, or perhaps not.

I've been working on this latest tale, Kimberly and Valentine for about 5 months now. There's a fairly detailed history of its process on these very pages, but to give a quick catch up, I shot through a 92 page version, gave it out for two pairs of eyes to read 14 weeks or so ago. Today, it comes in at 126...14 weeks to add what only looks to be a total of 34 pages. But that's how it works. Because 34 pages change every word, every tone, much work had to be done to get it right here, exactly where I want it to be.

So now it's done. Finished on this end. When it gets picked up and goes into development, it's going to be shaped again, but until that point, there's nothing I can do to it, nothing I should. It says exactly what I want it to say and I don't think I've ever been happier, never been more hopeful or excited about the possibilities of tomorrow, or two hours from now...two minutes. It's brilliant. I don't feel like it's my work anymore. Something schizophrenic has happened, as if I've completely removed myself from it, able to talk it up like I were a fan, a crazy and rabid fan toting someone else's work.

Which brings me to the title of this post, the thing that really scorches me about this whole process. This weekend, maybe next, a handful of people are going to take it home with them. They're going to read it, say holy shit in their minds, make a call, line up their cards so that it becomes a weekend read for execs of the major studios around town. Several of them are going to jump on it, say something like this is great, that the youth will really gravitate, that it could be a very defining for a generation. They'll say it's timely and commercial and sensational and different. They'll make offers on a Monday. It'll sell and I'll sit back for 5 minutes and say something like shit, took long enough.

But that's not even the exciting part. The exciting part is the possibility that I am totally wrong. There certainly is a 10 percent chance or greater that it's none of that. There's a possibility that no one wants to see a movie about two scorching hot, star crossed criminal lovers. There's a chance I have no idea how to weave words. And the thought of it all excites me nearly as much as success. Because after all I've been through, after all I've labored and suffered over, if Kimberly and Valentine fall flat on their faces, I'm likely headed for a breakdown of epic proportions.

And I imagine myself wandering through South America, befriending guerrilla warlords or heading back to Africa to live in the Eastern villages. Out of touch, out of sight. Brilliant. And the thought of it lights me up. And the thought of it make me feel alive.

Let The Games Begin...

"Hypothetical" - Title of my reach out - sent to a Lit Department partner at a major management company who offered a look but is a virgin to my work...history-less.

XXXX,

So what if I've got a script that isn't just good but great...something with a new voice, timely, raw, sweet, disarming...

The kind of movie that creeps in as a June release and plays all summer.

That can be done cheap, with a 1 sheet that would lend beauty to billboards and define everyone involved, the kind of movie to launch two pretty young things into stardom.

The sort that in 15 years, shows up on AMC, because that's what it'll be...as a rescue for when the world comes home, searching channels, when all they want to do is watch something great for 2 hours and remember those feelings -- "The first time I saw this..."

What if...aside from all this love I have for myself, what if I'm right? What should I do, hypothetically speaking...if you have a minute. All I have are forgotten hip-pockets and no one's seen this...

Sincerely,

Reilly Winburn

John Durban...

So a year and change ago, I was sitting on the lawn beneath the Eiffel Tower, waiting for the lights to ignite. I had just arrived in Paris and was about to embark on 4 months of travel. I think I was reading "Fear and Loathing," had an open bottle of Bordeaux, a roll of Camembert and some fresh bread and this guy came stumbling towards me.

I say stumbling because I choose my words carefully, because he did seem to be stumbling...not from some form of intoxicant but rather a perma punch-drunk. In my mind, impressions gather quickly.

He sat down next to me, rather uncomfortably close, began to speak in a drawl that was English, but not exactly mine. I remember listening, watching as he took a pull of my wine without asking. He ripped off a hunk of my bread, used it to tear through my cheese until it was gone.

We watched as the Eiffel sparkled. At some point, he reached across himself to offer a hand. "John. Durban. John Durban." He said it exactly like that, breaking up words exactly like that. Immediately, I thought there was something wrong with him. There totally was. Still, something in his tone...too endearing to ignore.

He said he was working in London, was in Paris to meet some girl but it all went to shit. We got very drunk that night. At some point, we shook hands and parted ways. I don't quite remember.

Later, we made appointments to meet in Berlin, Amsterdam and Barcelona. All failed. When we met again, we met in Monaco. We hit the casino, got drunk...at some point shook hands and parted ways. I don't quite remember.

...

Tonight, I get an e-mail titled "John Durban." He does this with all of his e-mails, titling them with his name...as if to signal warning of his impending approach.

"You arrogant fucker. What's up I'm tired of reading your shit, tired of your not listening to anything I say so now you're gonna. Started a blog in honor of your limpness(you). Gonna show you how it's done. Tough shoes to follow - following a guy who changes his last name so "I'll be the only one. Reilly Winburn." You're such a bitch. Link me fucker. I'll link you."

...

So here's your link, Jonny. Top, to the right. May they jump at their own risk.

And So It Goes...

Pushing Daisies...

Hollywood Sunday...

I think I was at the bottom of my Blanche De Chambly, falling asleep in my bed at the condo as the Nelms boys were setting up the first shot of the short they were doing about guys and gals, dating and such. It was already past midnight.

We wrapped around 2:30. I saw them off soon after, found my way to bed by 3:30, dog wrapped around my legs, intent on keeping my stints of sleep on the short.

I showed up at work something around 9, decided again I need to stop working. I got off, got to the gym, burned off service rage before deciding again, I need to stop fucking working. Honestly.

I came home, showered, brought some Sancerre to a place up Beachwood, drank it, ate some cheese, caught up with an old Navigator.

I left, picked up a friend, headed to the wrap party of Sam Raimi's "Drag Me To Hell."

Remember my screen crushes. Met one. This one...


We had a moment. I left.

Drove around the La Brea's and Fairfax's of this town to Arcade Fire before swinging into Grand Lux...my Southwest salad.

Home.

Over my shoulder now, a full, full vouche, this...



I kinda dig this town.

Gisele Bundchen...

I've never really been a fan. At least in the gawker sense, the sense of ever being "struck." I think it's something in the eyes of a gal that gets me, that's just who I am. Then I saw the recent cover of GQ. Didn't really know how to handle this...

And I found it fascinating and beautiful and morbid, reading quotes from the article, snippets from the interview toting her in shades of "The globe's reining symbol of female perfection." And I guess by writing about it too, I make a contribution to what's morbid in obsession.

I read the article (GQ.com) and it's like there's this terrible struggle between the interviewer and Ms. B. And this struggle between Ms. B and herself. And there's this struggle between minority parts of the world that respect certain forms of beauty versus the majority that would prefer to bring them down.

"Look, I know who I am, and I know where I come from. I think there is danger obviously when you’re really young and they make you all glamorous and you start thinking you are that. I have been here for a while, and I do see girls.… You’re playing a role. The important thing for me that helped save me is that I never believed… This is exactly how I would describe my work: I get there, I put on the clothes, I leave it on the hanger, and I go home. And that’s what I do."

Fascinating. Fascinating because you take an 18 year old girl from Brazil, put her in the hands of 81 year old photog Arthur Penn. He comes up with this...

And lands her on the cover of Vogue. Nine years later, she's everything she is...has been for some time. 27 years old.

It's Always Sunny...

Parking Meters...

I have a problem giving money to the city of Beverly Hills. It's an adamant problem. So when I get a ticket, I contest it...no matter what. If I've been parked overnight in a tow away, street cleaning, loading zone...double parking a fire truck, I'll contest it.

Yesterday, when I got off work after midnight, I had a ticket on my windshield. Forty dollars. If a parking cop approached me saying that it's just their job, they're just doing their job, I would likely make a reference to Satan or Hitler while backing away and shaking my judgmental finger, "No no no no no. Thank you. Enjoy your time in this world." It wouldn't be my most composed or proud moments, and I would likely be crueler than I ought to be...but that's life.

When I go to contest, I have this vision, this hope that I'm notorious in the Beverly Hills Parking Citation Office of Appeals. When one of mine come in...like this morning, a bell rings, red lights flash. They all rush to grab it until a winner reads it out loud...

"I arrived at the parking meter ten minutes to 5 in the afternoon, gathered my things, approached the meter with 5 quarters. I knew this would be a sufficient amount of money to provide parking in the space until 6 o'clock, when the meters are no longer enforced. When I dropped my quarters, all five, the meter would not exceed 1 hour paid. Immediately, I realized the malfunction, however, couldn't move my car because I had no quarters left. If you could check the drop logs, you will see that they will validate my story, and prove that this appeal is just and valid. Thank you kindly. Reilly Winburn Smith."

You may think I have better things to do. Or that I know what a drop log is...or if they even exist. Think again.

Jerry Springer's "Lesbian Snowball Fight" is on on the TV over my shoulder.

Team Anderson...

Housesitting...

For the next 10 days, as my two friends trounce through the Tuscan fields, I'll be playing make believe and living in their humble abode above the Sunset Strip. They asked me because their dog is crazy and amazing and because she and I have a developing rapport. Situations like this sometimes make me stop and think about things like trust and why someone would give theirs to me...whether I would give it to me...whether the nightmares will start again now that I'm living in one of the city's tallest buildings.

I came back from the gym today, explained to the daytime shift of security that though I am a cretin, I was not there to make a delivery and that I would be staying in spread 802. I wandered, settled in, had a Pellegrino on the deck as the hyper sensitive dog judged me without approach for 30 minutes. 30 minutes! I was here last fucking night.

Did I mention the lighting? Just back from the gym? Or my overabundant self-love...camera in hand? Sometimes, I want to fuck myself. Perhaps one day, a great number of people will want me to do just that...

Ah, Brotherhood...

Do you ever look at children these days and say to yourself something along the lines of please let me die before this generation comes to fruition?




Well, I do.

My Behavior...

I do this thing in the elevator when I see a pod of approaching and aspiring riders...

If they start to make a break for the door, or rush, I go frantic, pretend like I have no idea how to stop the closing doors or how to decipher the semantics behind the "open door" button. Then, as the last inch closes on their hopeless faces, I give off a grunt like, "oh, technology...what can we do?" It's truly a brilliant performance.

The other day, I stepped in with a girl I knew and two strangers. From outside, two hopefuls began to approach. I said something like watch this and launched into my semi-tirade of confusion. When my friend tried to hit the "open door" button, I slapped her hand, watched as the doors closed. I grunted.

As we rode down two floors, I turned to my friend and smiled, in great anticipation of her sure to be admiring reaction. She said something like did you really just do that I'm glad I know that about you. She got out on the second floor with another rider, both disappointed in me, gave a dual hesitant goodbye.

The doors closed on me and another girl, a stranger. We rode down to the third floor, in momentary silence before, "I totally do that too." She smiled.

I wanted to make sweet elevator love to her right there.

Daria Werbowy...

Thank You, H&M Girl.

I walk out the gym, take the escalator down to the first floor, turn, come to face this as a billboard...



Whether people are with me, or if I'm alone, I usually say things like she's my wife or she's waiting for me. I find it helps to clear up any sexual ambiguity, which I find important...in this town.

Also she is...in fact...my wife.

An Evening With Bear Grylls...

I'm pretty sure I'm high. My apartment has no windows, only a sliding door that leads to the back deck. It's open, the fan is on, the AC...but still, I just painted every inch of this shoebox I call home and I think the fumes are getting to me.



Long ago, I stopped going out out on Friday nights...unless something really something shakes my tail feather, which is rare. Instead, you can find me here, spending evenings with a gentleman by the name of Bear Grylls. Also on this night, Mr. Indiana Jones.

You don't know who Bear Grylls is? Well, let me introduce you...



Wait. I'm not finished, nor is he...



...

After I painted my apartment, I cut my hair. I can't sit still. It's Friday and when I sometimes want to take off and pull together a BOTO, I usually find myself wandering to the only true wander worth mention in this town. The lovely, the daunting, the alluring Mulholland.

That's where you'll find me. Now. As a ghost when I'm gone.

The Killers...

A lot of people dumped or dumped on them after Sam's Town came out. Hilarious. I remember reading an article that quoted Brandon Flowers saying something about the smoke clearing, somewhere down the road...Sam's Town would go down as one of the greatest albums ever recorded. Now, I'm not quoting and could be off base, but I remember reading that and applauding. That album was my soundtrack in South Africa. It's what I listened to as I trekked up Lion's Head alone, after it was closed due to fog, battling bouts of Vertigo, thinking I was being hunted/would soon be bit by a death dealing snake with no one to help and I would end on top of that fucking mountain.

Brothers and sisters, those tunes are etched.

That doesn't mean Hot Fuss isn't. It is remarkable, indeed. When I look back on memories tied to songs and albums and find myself picking between roaming the South of Africa and blackout nights in the Hollywood Hills, I gotta give grat that the former holds this heart.

Then they pulled together this album called Sawdust. I was a little hesitant at first, thinking it was mostly comprised of mash ups and cut tracks. It's not. Or, it is...but it's not. While every track deserves a listen, if you aren't going to listen to them at all, please grab tracks 3 and 4. Because I care about you.

The first time I heard the drop, drop in "Bourbon," I wept. It crippled me. A thousand times later, it still does. And though this coming video doesn't hold the exact clout of the studio version, it serves dual purpose in backing that The Killers are possibly the most inspired band playing the world today...and this clip - the exact reason YouFuckingTube was invented.

Please, just watch his hands.

Tom Tykwer...

Thanks Pal...

Last week I went out with this girl...kinda put my head through the ceiling, somewhere short of the moon, but still. No fault of her own.

I thought she was a beautiful, admirably guarded…for stretches potentially remarkable. Though my years are few, my woes in the game of love weigh heavy. You could say it has left me somewhat colder, hesitant, apathetic. Others call me fucking bastard. Beauty of the game -- many can relate, none in the same. But this girl, something in her left me unwound.

And not just because I’m a seasonal lover.

We went out last week. I believed it to be borderline electric. You know, when a kiss is enough because there’ll be another day. Another day…I don’t often think in such a manner.

When that another day finally came (62 minutes ago), something in the air seemed heavy, significantly heavier than it was during our previous encounter. She was prepping for this tumble and I could feel it. Every line and word falling from our lips was only there as filler, something to dance around the scent of inevitable and it was maddening.

Now that hindsight is my friend, I can say I was hoping her confession to be anything other than what it was. You're a bigot? Passionate. Intolerant? Focused. Monger for power? Determined. Moral shortcomings? Join the team...hell, I'm captain.

But alas and of course, it was something else, something that took a knife to my Achilles and cut it through. Her confession, her word…

Celibacy.

Celibacy? Celibacy. Celibacy? Celibacy... ... ... Celebacy? Celebacy.

Again…thanks pal.