Off Day Wednesday...

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

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

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

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

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

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

...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Blog Sex...

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

Because I don't want you to miss anything.

...



Push, Sweet Push

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

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

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

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

Growing Up...

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

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

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

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

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

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

Le Dodge A Trois...

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

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

Who shot this fucking movie?

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

My Behavior II...

I was at a bar last night and it got me thinking about something because something always does, because I'm extraordinarily in my own head, because I feel self reflection is the key to growth -- or that's what I tell myself because that's what suits me. If you pay attention, you probably know this is something I commonly do - shape the world to suit my needs, to make myself its ultimate benefactor. Yeah, I know...either self righteous or totally insane...but that's the line I aim to toe.

So anyway, anyway, anyway...

I'm at a bar and this girl is hawking me all night, because I'm a specimen or for whatever reasons people hawk other people, fill in your own shit. I write a lot about girl plural and the pursuit of good things that sometimes associate with them because the entire process defines fascination to me. This has all been said before. For the last month or so, in so many words, I've been absolutely out of the game - and I do this often, all the time, actually...because catch this theme as I make it obvious...it also suits me. Why? Well, because at this point in my life, I'm going to dish hurt to everyone and I'm going to dish it quickly. So I certainly tell people to tell people not to chase me. I certainly do that. And in the rare, rare case that I do actually meet a game changer, and they change my game, I know that in the end, I'll lose. They'll cut my legs out. Why? Because I think let them...because ultimately, I think that's exactly what I want. Because I look at myself and I hear what you don't hear and I can say because I know, I am incapable of anything but these absolutes, these extremes. Because it's destructive, unrealistic, temporary. Because it keeps me clean.

Anyway, she does this thing that screams no game lotta confidence where I can't escape, no matter where I go in the bar, no matter how many new conversations or slip aways I conjure. It was remarkable, actually. And by remarkable, I mean fucking annoying but ultimately adorable because in my re-telling, I'm aiming for mildly harsh instead of honest. Because honesty is scary. After a while, she gets the nerve to ask for my number, evidently not keen to the fact that I was blatantly not asking for hers. I gave it away because I admired something in the whole process, and I wanted to give that to her, a trophy for all that hard work. Finally free, I made it over to a couple of my boys. Among them were a couple of strangers also -- the impending key to my roundabout tale of self-reflection...

People who know me know that I'm sweet and composed, that I'm solid...a kind and gentle guy. People who really, really know me know that I'm a confused, disheveled, crude and arrogant dickbag. And I think once you know that, this whole thing that's me...it works. So I'm approaching this group I just mentioned, and my eyes are wide and I blow a monster exhale out of my lips to signify my escape -- because I'm a fucking child -- and I say exactly, "Wow she's really swinging for the fences, huh?" Then I'm introduced to two people I've never met and without hearing their name I say exactly, "That's the first thing you ever heard me say. Wow. I'd stay and apologize and lie about how grateful and appreciative I am of the affection I receive in this world and I'd try to convince you that I'm not some arrogant dickbag but I don't want to compound lies with poison and bullshit. Anyway, I've got to go to the little boys room."

...

I'm losing the ability to vocally communicate to the world. In my mind, before any words vacate my body, I feel like I'm forming prose, all the time forming prose, and I have to speak like a hurricane to keep up, to stay on pace, to not fall behind, to satisfy the judges that live inside here, checking my moment to moment. I'm ranting to myself often, silently or out loud, long ago dismissing the need to have someone there in front of me...to bounce with...and that can't be helping. I lose myself often, sometimes feel like I'm trading one form of communication for another, that to find growth here - words on pages - the world has to deem my speech incoherent. If that's how it's gonna go down then that's how it's gonna go down.

I'm alright with that. I am tightening...

Where The Wild Things Are...

So anyone who has had a childhood or had a child, or grandchild in the last 50 years - everyone - has to be at least a little curious about the release of the forever in the works, "Where The Wild Things Are" movie. If you don't spend your life obsessing and living in and around the Hollywood community, you probably don't know that whispers have been on the downturn for some time now. I can tell you that Spike Jones is a genius and he directed it...and that he wrote the script with Dave Eggers, who is absolutely a genius. The cast is genius and everything about this movie seemed to have everything in line to be a monster - and I guarantee it will be, no matter what the first word is. But, but, but...if you're obsessive like me, you know they've been making this movie FOREVER...and that they've been re-shooting...and spending tons and tons of money...and with all that baggage comes the likely behind door battles...which undoubtedly lead to compromise. So maybe you can feel I've got a little cynical on my tongue, but that doesn't mean I'm not rooting for it. That doesn't mean I'm not a little crazy for it.

It's not just because someone ponied up coin enough for the right to blend what looks to be wondrous footage with one of the 3 greatest songs ever created, Arcade Fire's "Wake Up." It's not just because I'm being bought by that...because that exact thing worries me as much as it gives me hope.

Please enjoy. I did. I am...

Stud...

Fine Music and Marathoning...

I want the soundtrack of my life set to Beirut's The Gulag Orkestar because right now, that feels about right, because of what I'm sitting in and thinking of and sifting through on my off-day Friday leading into my off-day Saturday leading into my off-day Sunday. That calm and beautiful roll and the carnival fucking moaning. That feels about right.

I think I'm done apologizing to myself for how I spend my weekends, for the directions I'm clearly not subconsciously aligning myself. This weekend, I have 22 miles to run. Next weekend, I have 31. The following weeks go something like 23, 31, 22, 32...and I'm recently coming to terms with the fact that I have to make time in under 3:11 because otherwise, I'll think of myself as a failure and have to live with that, setting mind to something and falling short -- and in my home of one, that's a dangerous game to play, and the thought of falling short makes me nauseous and it makes me sweat...thinking about having to deal with myself in mornings or on Sunday nights...holy shit, Sunday nights. Don't need that.

I tried to go out a couple nights this week. And by that, I mean I did make it out - not like I stopped at the door and turned back to come inside, afraid of the outside world. What I am saying is that I put my hat on, always put my hat on and more often than not, come home with nothing but collection, hardly roused...and I'm worried the people I spend time with think of me as fading, distancing...and I don't mean to be. There is acid, fucking acid in my blood - here, on the trail, in the push I'm always chasing. And I don't know if other people have that acid, but I'm looking and failing and every day, the deeper I get, the more it becomes all and only mine. And I'm done apologizing for that. Not that I ever was, I'm just done. Done.

Because I'm going out to leave bars early to walk home, to raise my headphones and move in the black, to dance steps as I walk, to feel like I'm re-aligning myself after drifting off course. It's Friday morning and I'm trying to figure out exactly what that means...

Julia Roberts...

There's a good looking movie coming out this weekend called Duplicity. It's a Clive Owen/Julia Roberts piece directed by Michael Clayton's Tony Gilroy. I was just reading some reviews and it's certainly now reading like a winner, too. But that's not what struck me. I saw this above picture and that's what did it -- a right hook from Julia Roberts, after all this time, after swooning us all for what...the last 20 years, to actually own the capability to be re-discovered now, at 41, after taking the time to get a family off the ground...

What a woman. What a darling. And she makes me feel like such a child, such a little boy. And I'm always alright with that. And when I'm moved, I speak...proud that when my era of film comes and goes - I'll be able to look back, hang my hat on a woman like that.

GrabBag and GaGa...

Durban just sent me his last post on the third city we shared pages. I wrote the last leg and we brought it in at a little under 10,000 words and I think we both feel pretty good about it. He's living in London for the next month, said in the message that he's spending his time, "laying low and keeping it real." We're moving in a good direction and both seem to be having this problem where we have such an abundance to say and sometimes, I feel like these chapters are a bit sprawling but in the best of ways. I think the most difficult part of writing a book is all you have to store and keep internal. And on top of that, the build is ceaseless. Thousands upon thousands upon thousands of words...and every one selected with care.

Everything else I've written has always been at least something of a smash and grab...and whether it's shit or great, that mattered but never really mattered to me. All that mattered, ever, was the feeling of getting it out and off. Sure, we all want to find fame and fortune in the artistic work we do, but hopefully, that's not why we do it. The reason you'll often find me here is that it's instant gratification. If I didn't have it, this forum, I'd gnaw through my arm.

I told you earlier what this book is all about...me and Durban jerking ourselves and each other off for 200 some pages. That's it, so when he sent me the last stretch, the passage that's about to follow came highlighted. If you ever want to learn something about yourself or if you're the type of person that's into self exploration/worship, find a friend with whom you've shared privileged time and then write a book about that time. You'll have no choice but to dish on each other and yourselves. The following is what he just gave me. I thought of it as something eye opening...still rough draft, mind you. I think he'd be upset if I didn't mention that...such a rook writer, Durban...

"Burn isn't much of a conversationalist. Sometimes, when we're going into social situations, I see this look on his face where I know he's prepping himself to deal with people, as if he has to change his persona to handle the masses he'll never otherwise be able to relate to. Sometimes, he strikes me as having a very schizophrenic personality and I've told him on several occasions it's something he should get checked out. Of course, my advice never moves him. Don't ever get Burn started on industries of psychological therapy and behavioral meds. For an often apathetic and drifting motherfucker, he turns into exactly that, a mother fucker...spitting, rabid and vile. Actually, the contradiction is quite remarkable. You need to know that when he gets uncomfortable, he goes internal...and his mouth shuts like a rusted bear trap, which, in turn, means the weight of being holed up and hiding out in a tin shanty with a ferocious and suspicious and protective mother of two becomes entirely my burden to carry. You need to know that."

...

I've been all over YouTube today stalking Lady Gaga. This was what I came across, exactly what I was looking for -- footage from last night's LA show because YouTube today is sensational like that...

She played at the Wiltern and I never thought much about making the trip since it's not exactly my style. Don't get me wrong, I think her music is phenominal -- some of the best hooks and drops I've ever heard...and I've been playing her songs in my classes and in my headphones for a long while now. She works and then some, but I always...and ignorantly thought of her as a manufactured pop princess and never really wanted to get real deep with her because nothing about that ever moves me. I always knew she was young...22, and owned vicious and beautiful self confidence and I dug on that because I always dig on that. Then, I started reading...and everything about her read like the life of a musical prodigy -- and she was hanging her influences on Bowie and Mercury and I was watching clips from last night's show like the one above...and then I watched what's now about to follow for you and I realized I'm forever sold. Remember here what we do with genius? Yeah...

Let's Stay On Music...

Because I'm starting to feel that pull. I think it has something to do with daylight savings and the light staying around longer than usual - and the world waking up again - and this this idea of elevated happiness for 7 months until time comes calling for the world to tuck itself away...and I always follow suit, maybe because I'm a creature of habit, maybe because I've yet to fully figure myself out.

Anyway, all of this leads us back into Muse...who released Black Holes And Revelations a few years ago. You can certainly dig through my posts and find me writing up all their glory over and repeatedly on here...

Countless mentions on shows or nights spent chasing them on YouTube, or proclaiming to any willing ears, the title Rock God upon Matt Bellamy - because when it comes to them, maybe more than anything else in this artistic world, I am a fanboy and have no problem saying that. And when I watch the videos of Wembley in '07, I feel like I'd give a year of my life to have been there. That's where I'm at.

So tonight, I was fishing around a little bit, because it's time. It's time to give me something new to root for in life. Time for a new album. I respect the fact that they take exactly that...time, usually a couple years between releases and usually tour like monsters before, during and after dropping an album...but like I said, again, for the 5th and 6th time, it's time.

So this was nice...

"I'd say we're about halfway there. We're creating a lot of material now and a lot of it's going off in all sorts of directions... Over the next couple of months I think we're gonna have to start narrowing it down and start saying, 'Right, what are we going to do here?' Because at the moment we're just enjoying totally exploring everything that we've got to offer really, but I think it's going very well... We've got to finish the album first, but I'd hope that we're on for a tour later in the year sometime... Probably autumn time or something like that I should think we'll be back on the road."

It'll be October. Good date to chase music around the world...somewhere that trades winter for summer. Yeah.

Because We Speak Of These Things Here...

This is what it looked like from the outside of Walt Disney Concert Hall. I wont use words. That diamond is the moon, as if the camera couldn't handle its grandeur next to the silver and alien building.

This is what it looked like watching M83 on the inside, playing with the LA Philharmonic. I went on a man date, taking one of my dearest because he's solid and then some and because I've recently decided to get off romance. So that's where I was at, out on a Saturday night, drifting downtown and fully sober because of the things I knew I was going to put my body through today...Sunday. They executed the evening as something of a tag team. Anthony Gonzalez came out and did three songs all by himself, just computers and synthesizers and foot pedals and the sound inside of this place is like nothing I had ever heard...just echoing, like you can feel the music swimming into your ears and running laps around your brain. No drugs...honestly. When he got going and he was moving and just playing with his little machines, it was hypnotic and beautiful and transcendent and all the other words I'm leaving out because I'm already being redundant.

"Dream Pop" is the best genre I've ever heard to describe what they're doing. It really is remarkable.

After Gonzalez exited, part of the Philharmonic came on to play some compilation that Gonzalez and the conductor had chosen. And it was chill and it was quiet and it was dainty and beautiful and you can tell where I'm going with this or maybe you can't...

After the intermission, the orchestra came back on and played an 11 minute concierto -- I have no idea if that's the right word, am obviously too lazy to M-W or wiki it...and again, it was all the things I had previously mentioned. Finally, they came together, and the rest of the band came out to play divine "Moonchild" and then the band left, then they returned...and they kept going for a few songs and all I could think, all I was waiting for was for someone to blow the fucking roof off Disney. Because they were absolutely capable -- all the pieces were in place. Fuck, I heard it for the first three songs of the night. I wanted it so bad I was ready to scream it...and I immediately realized the mistake, looking around the stage, counting the 80 members of the Philharmonic plucking their strings and blowing their horns and I looked to the band of three and their technology and all their machines and call me new fashioned, but M83's incredibility is that so few can sound like such an army...and when you actually bring in an army to support them, it's defeating and hold-backing.

Now wait -- It was very good. I don't want to give the wrong impression because only a fool could find absence of beauty in the things I saw last night. I mean, honestly...a musical experience...

But it could have been so much better. In that tiny concert hall, with the sounds that were bouncing off those walls...and with the magic in those machines at Gonzalez' fingertips...I think it could have been the best I've ever seen. That was the potential that's stuck in my mind, and it's just dangling there, here, right fucking here. What does that mean? Well...

It was like a really good dry hand job. I'll take it and tell you it was really good...but in the future, we aim for progression.

Where does that leave me? I'll tell you exactly...

It's Sunday night and I can't move my body and I just finished the most genius dinner I've eaten in a long time -- PBJ burritos side egg whites and I'm thirsty and restless obviously because it's Sunday and all I can think...what drugs can I sell, how can I prostitute this rockin' body, how can I pander my literature into enough cash to pay for a puddle jump to Sydney to see them play the V on March 28th with The Killers? That's it...and it's gonna consume me because that's what happens, to me, in my life.

JJ Abrams...

I feel like this is going to be a big year for the movies, start to finish. 2008 had some bright spots and then found itself fluttering a bit. I've had my eye on this one for a while, because everything Mr. Abrams does turns to solid gold. And because ever since seeing Chris Pine in Smokin' Aces, I've been itching to see someone throw something really, really heavy on his back. Well, here we go, and I'm definitely not a Star Trek guy per se...but I've already watched this like 10 times.

Love Is Carnage...

I just hit send to Durban on a 6,000 word chapter called "Athens/Santorini, Greece -- November 2007." The next one we're on is going to be a tag-team, I believe, but it's going to take him a while to wake up from whatever coma he's in and actually read it so let us digress into some overdue prose.

I've been not sleeping very much lately - this usually happens on the weekends, surrounding my no sleep Sundays and early morning Monday class and my waking up before the classes I teach on Saturdays and Sundays to run for hours at a time. I've been in the middle of some serious training and the intervals are only going to increase from here on...so we must be careful. On top of that, I've had to pick up rogue working shifts because people are booking shows/going on vacation. My time of late has been shortening. So...to keep up with the pen, I've been getting up in the 5's or 6's to get my work done so as to not drive myself sinister - which I absolutely do if this, the grand plan - is ever ignored or side stepped. This is all going somewhere...

So this morning, I woke up to find this sweet (I see sweetness in odd things) and direct letter in my in-box that's peppered with words like rude and curt and douchebag. The douchebag thing was more of a warning and not an accusation. We all know I'm not a douchebag -- she does too. There were also quite a few f-bombs...not angry ones, just...expressive. And I think I got the letter because of everything I just mentioned, and my likely resulting behavior due to the laundry list of excuses as to why my life is supposedly in disarray...and it is, it absolutely is, and it will always be in absolute disarray because that's what I need in my life and only people in disarray can understand that.

But here's the catch about my life: it's also perfect, and it's mine, and it's composed like a beautiful fucking symphony and every day, the notes sound sweeter and it's building and I'm very protective of anyone walking in on that because when we hit that crescendo...

If you follow me and read me and retain any of these words, you know that I was at least sometime in the last year touched up pretty badly by a girl. You know that before her, I have been touched up pretty badly in the past. You know that I own the sensitivity to handle reverse situations with grace and chivalry and you know of me as being an exemplary enough character that I remember my own broken hearts and that I would at least try my damnedest to never let my actions deal any ill-feelings or broken hearts. I hope you know that -- that I would never apologize for my supposed indiscretions -- but that I would at least always try to do right.

But love is carnage. Absolute fucking carnage. And no matter how clean we try to make it, no matter how great the intentions or how remarkable both involved parties are capable of being, someone always gets touched up. It's the price we should all be willing to pay. Because to me, there is nothing as awe inspiring in this world as being in love. The thought of it literally inspires my every turn. And the higher you rise and the better it gets, the greater the crater...and someone always winds up in the crater, always. The truth, there have been a short few that have left me there...some deep, others glancing. The truth, I've left many, many more - and don't you dare think that's me holding a trophy, that's the last thing I would ever do. It's a definition, a self-realization. Because every time I wake up with one of these letters, I'm reminded of my sweet incapability. I'm reminded of my true romance...

Me, my chase, the clock, these keys, this instrument...

Which Of Course Got Me Then Thinking...

About the most recent song that did it to me...

First Ear Phenomena...

I talk a lot on here about hearing a song for the first time...or maybe I talk a lot about it in life -- to anyone who will listen -- this idea of a drop or beat or croon actually, physically changing me...the idea that I remember forever, the first time I hear a certain song and the way it makes me feel, about how it latches on and becomes a part of the path of the rest of my life. Yes, that heavy. I'd like to think that everything done here is done in an attempt to honor the everyday profound and to me, music has the skills...

I've been writing all day today minus the 3 hour workout break I took in the early afternoon and was just re-reading a passage that inspired two thoughts. The first was about how a potential editor is going to deal with my form of expression when they read something like...

"I got up and started to walk, watching as I moved, the lightning cutting reveals into the jagged and abandoned land. Within minutes, my entire body was soaked. Drops of water were forming on my brow, would drip as I'd blink, fighting to see far enough ahead to merely place one foot in front of the next, to stay on the path of that black and invisible road. I hadn't yet turned to double back, not yet having any intention to return home, to my room at Villa Holiday Beach and the storm was growing. At the end of the Perissa beaches, there's a road to Oia that splits through the middle of two imposing hills and crosses through the center of the island. I stood before it and thought of it as a passage, because between strobes of the sky, it looked almost mythological, as if braving that road, that night would transport me anywhere...on Earth or in my dreams. I remember it gave me vicious chills, introduced me to a fear of grandeur. Maybe for the first time in my life, I thought of the possibility of something in this life existing that was bigger than myself."

The second thing...what was the first song that did it to me...the first time I remember experiencing what I just recently dubbed First Ear Phenomena. The answer came quick and easy. It was this song...and I wanted to honor that...

Feels Like A Midnight Show...

Here Comes Oscar...not so roaring back...

Tomorrow, the great golden statues are being handed out. Oscar Sunday is usually something of a holy day for me...usually. There's something about the weight of it - and celebrating great films over the course of the year usually makes for a date I calendar circle. This year...I don't know. Not so much. Don't get me wrong, I thought this was an excellent year, and I do remember being somewhat thoroughly entertained and there were a lot of good movies...good movies.

But I felt like most of them got me so close and then...they just left me, dick in my own hand, having to then take care of myself. Excuse the profanity, you have no idea what it's like working in proximity with this cretin Durban. In the past, I've found myself to be something of an elitist, maybe even a smug film-goer. I love awards season films - they're what inspired me to come out here. This year, though movie going's been solid, I feel like it's been just that and only that. And looking back, I think there were only a handful of films that really got me off. Dark Knight, Tropic Thunder, Wall-E, Let The Right One In, Cloverfield, In Bruges, and this one, Ghost Town, that I saw tonight...this potentially derivative bag of shit high concept studio snatch up that unsurprisingly turned out to be not that at all. All from the great, great, great Ricky Gervais...

I feel like I'm going to be watching the Oscars like I'm watching Super Bowl Pittsburg v. Arizona. I care, but a whole hell of a lot less than you might think. Smug is out. It just ain't workin' for me this year. Apologies to all you Frosty Revolutionary Readers and Wrestling high Buttoned Milk drinking Slumdog Doubters. Apologies.

Point studios.

Hal Higdon...

My fucking calves. My fucking life. My fucking needs. Hal Higdon, welcome into my world.

I can't walk very pain free right now. And when I get out of bed, this is dramatic, but today, I nearly crumbled after that first foot hit the ground because I recently decided to undertake Hal Higdon's Advanced II Training program that will lead me into the LA Marathon on May 25th. It means that on top of the grueling classes I already teach...and the grueling classes I already take, I'm going to be running 4-5 extra sessions a week. I went for a run yesterday afternoon, an easy 4 miler, and in my mind, it felt like the exertion equivalent of brushing my teeth...because it has to, because in terms of relativity, I simply have no room in my mind to spend even a drop of my stretched discipline during the weekday runs when I know the long ones are waiting for me on the weekends.

It's early here on Thursday night. Really, quite early and I want to go to bed so I can wake up in the 5's...and for no real reason but because I have work to do...so much work to do. My Thursday has been utterly exhausted. I stayed up late last night, too many bouts of loveless sex and have been feeling the after-affects all day long, weighing on the soul...forcing me to confront myself, my past...my future, because I was born with extreme sensitivity. Sometimes, I wish I could just be...anything but constantly in my head...all the time. All the fucking time. With age and understanding, I'm finding that it (my mind, my place in the world) keeps brightening...or darkening, depending on your point of view, depending on which side of the fence you stand.

Me and Durban are working on this book and I have to say, it is utterly fulfilling, an absolute cure to the post K&V empty space that had me sinking. And I'm getting up every day and I don't run with my headphones anymore because the evolution of my mind thinks of them as a distraction...me keeping me from myself. In the arenas of creative and physical exertion, I'm as content as I've ever been. This is growth.

It's the 19th of February and I'm 27 years old. Next year, on the 19th of February, I'll be 28 years old. In one year, everything that exists in this world will have changed. Everything. And I won't know this person I am now, other than to know that I'll hold up well...that all through time, I'll know one thing for sure - that as I evolve, and I do everyday - I will always hold up.

Things are loose. I have all these anchors right now, these wonderful, colorful, hopeful anchors, crippling anchors. And they're out and falling and falling and as their slack is endlessly unwinding, I'm just coasting along. Because when the ocean is too deep...and sometimes it can be, there's little choice but to drift...and coast...and drift...

I hit a point recently where I stopped worrying when they'll catch or if they'll catch. I'm just letting them do their thing. And eventually, maybe I'll forget about whether or not they're drifting. And eventually, I'll forget about whether or not they're there. And eventually, eventually I'll just be...

Laughing at the thought of people Google searching "Hal Higdon Marathon Training Programs" and winding up here.

Fleet Foxes...

HVD...

So I'm sitting here on Valentine's Night putting together a playlist and getting ready to give Mulholland a go, and waiting on the Alec Baldwin SNL, and taking a break from the on again off again novel me and Durban have been writing the entire day through correspondence (he's still in London) and I'm thinking to myself, well, at least I'm keeping it real and all, Valentine's Day being a day you spend with someone you love and who in this world will I ever love more than myself? Real.

Durban just sent me an e-mail, precious he is. He had just written a section of our first chapter, Paris, bouncing back from my memoirs of our time spent in the Ritz Hemingway bar and sent me the opening line of the book - the line we'll be judged by throughout the rest of literary eternity...

Fuck, I want to tell you what it is...so much, knowing if this ever sees the light of day, a single word of it will never be changed. That's why I'm breaking rule #1 on this one - actual collaboration with the oddest of companions - because when he shines, kid fucking shines. And...he'll give me shit for this, but sometimes, even I need someone to lean on.

Anyway, I'm occupied again, and we're past the point of no return and it's starting to roll. I was talking to someone today and I didn't want to talk about the book too much and they asked me something like so you've got a good idea for this and I brushed it off with a yes, careless now and maybe forever - other's perceptions of what constitutes a good idea. Me and Durban are out to jerk ourselves and each other off for 200 pages. That's our idea.

...

So I'm sitting here writing a post about Valentine's and I'm starting to think that maybe I do have something that constitutes as a potential Valentine. Here's what I do, though. She's got my attention, and I can almost guarantee that even if we're operating in a worst case scenario, worst case scenario, I'm still going to go out with her a few more times. Or...maybe she ditches me but I really only say that to sound less than completely full of myself but by flagging the statement I turn everything around and leave you thinking exactly that...which is actually exactly what I want. So anyway...

I don't want to give the impression that I'm not excited about what's going on here. If we're keeping score...which I usually do, this girl has already once blown me back off my feet in our limited existence. FYI - those be rare words.

Almost there. Stick around because there's a lot of insight and subtext embedded into everything I'm saying. I'm not that cynical, per se. Actually, the thought of finding love - the good kind I've rarely stumbled upon is literally what gets me out of bed. It's the basis, essentially, of everything I write...and to be dramatic, it's the reason I keep breathing. Because when you hit that stride and find someone...that's all folks - at least until the fail or fade hits. Actually, that's very cynical.

But I'm in this...phase. And I can't really gauge what or who is happening in front of me. I'm afraid of anyone growing too fond...on either end, I suppose. And I love the guard. It's not always here. When it's not, I don't think about worst case scenario and of the number of times I'm going to see someone before it all comes crumbling down. Instead, I would pick up a rose and write a letter and tell someone at her work to pass it along and I wouldn't think about anything beyond tonight or whether we've been out enough for me to partake in such a gesture...I'd just do it. And man, when I'm in it, I envy the girls who get that. And when I have girls who give that to me, I step back, honestly, and envy myself.

But that's just not where I'm at, not today, not even for the sake of Saint Valentine...

All about keepin' it real.

So I'm Starting To Think It's Me...

Which is okay. I love epiphanies.

Sometime...either two nights ago or two months ago, I went out for a night on the town with this girl I'd previously met at a party. I was immediately drawn to her. And that's how it happens with me, knowing straight away whether someone stands a chance at occupying my time. And I get very forward. I pulled up a chair and we talked about tattoos and the expectations of life and all the things two oddly charming people talk about when they're dancing steps around each other.

We met for a drink sometime in that span, stayed at the first bar until it closed. And I don't drink that much any more, but it was as decent a reason as any to stay out, so we moved to a second bar, stayed until those lights came up.

And I don't know why I'm saying this, other than to work through self-realization...and because I've got these bruises on my shoulder and back...and I was looking in the mirror and realized that I'd forgotten my response to her question in the backseat of my car, asking if she could bite me and then my daring her, then again...then again and soon after just hoping a cop wasn't going to drive by while all the while thinking to myself -- I should have gotten this out of my system in high school.

That and why do I have to be so tall...

Hollywood weeknights.

Phoenix and Letterman...

Boycott Kelloggs...

I'll be the first to admit. I've always thought Michael Phelps was something of a douche. Not really a bad douche though - I'm just saying that if he was a regular guy who didn't win a dozen or so gold medals at the Olympics and I was talking to him at a party, I'd likely turn to a friend afterwards and say something like okay...I don't need to ever talk to that guy again. Harmless.

When the photos came out of him hitting a bong at some campus party, I laughed. In my mind, I thought something like okay, douche...good for you. And not because I'm a liberal druggie or that I like weed. Actually, I can't stand the stuff. More because...well, maybe I like the idea of bringing our heroes down because it's honest.

So I was reading an article on espn.com today and it really pissed me off. We all know Phelps has had some sponsorship issues since the whole thing went down, most notably, Kelloggs. I pulled this from the article, the whole thing about whether or not Phelps was going to compete in the 2012 Olympics, whether or not he was going to decide to be an entire nation's superman...again.

"
"I'm not feeling too good physically," Phelps said, according to the report. "But I'm actually able to sleep now. I had a real hard time sleeping over the last two weeks or so. Just swimming and thinking about everything going on. Everything is back to what I call normal, I guess."

Phelps, the winner of a record-breaking eight gold medals at Beijing last summer, said he called every one of his sponsors to apologize and spoke to everyone except Kellogg, according to the report.

"I guess the only one I didn't really talk to was Kellogg, and I attempted to call four days in a row and didn't get any responses," Phelps said, The Sun reported. "I talked to everybody else, and they're all supportive."
"

So now I have something to say...and it goes a little something like this...

Fuck you Tony the Tiger...

And you Toucan Sam...

Same goes for you Snap, Crackle and Pop. Actually, try this instead...have a 3-way and go fuck yourselves.


Even Douches need support.

Joshua Tree and Weekend Expansion...

I landed here sometime around 4 on Friday, as the sun was starting to fade...swirling clouds everywhere. Black skies, purple skies, red skies, blue. Something about being somewhere so empty when things in Los Angeles are so full all the time.

...

My entire life in a single picture...

And I realized the moment I took it, immediately moved. Winding road, chasing a setting sun. Empty, hopeful. Full, hopeless. Someday, I'll go back to sleep in the desert, let it fall and wash over me. The seed's in my mind.

...

From Joshua Tree, I made way to La Quinta. There, I met some gym rat friends for a yoga retreat. I signed on because it was a chance to get out of the city. I thought it would be a chill weekend at a far enough away resort, some chill yoga...all that biz. The first 90 minute class on Friday led to a 120 minute class on Saturday morning which led to 150 minutes of possibly the most opening class I've taken, ever, on Saturday night. When I speak of opening, know this isn't about body. Here, we almost only and always speak of the mind...

On Sunday, after what turned out to be a grueling schedule, I couldn't walk straight, absolutely ready for an easy 90 minute "reflection" class before I hit the road back to Los Angeles. Instead, we eased into something that demands explanation...

We started easy, early morning moving. If you don't do yoga, when you learn to commit, it's all about strength of mind and body working together, and breath - and you learn to reach for this thing I'll dub here as the push. It's about finding a place in your body that panics through work and finds struggle, suffering...and from there it's about controlling and rising above the suffering. When you get deep, it can be a deepening experience. That's what hit me on Sunday. As the class started to unfold, things grew aggressive. We crossed 1 hour, 90 minutes, 120 minutes, 150 minutes...just pushing and pushing and pushing - straight through failure, straight through exhaustion - straight through students snapping at their teacher - straight through all the shit you have to face when you put yourself through this kind of thing - because we're all capable of so much more than we know, because we're so much stronger than we realize...and I'm not talking bull shit affirmation.

Sometime around the 2 and a half hour mark, she brought us into a position called Frog. You lay face down and split your knees, rest with all your weight into your groin and outer hips...and it feels like you're giving birth and all you can do is sit and breathe and deal. In class at the WeHo Q-Nox, we'll hold the pose for 5 minutes, 10 if we go absolutely nuts. It's brutal. If you've got mess of life in your head and heart and body...they say you hold it all in your hips. Try this pose for 30 seconds and you'll believe exactly that. On Sunday, at the 15 minute point, I was done, completely cooked, completely ready to get up and go home and call it a tough and lovely weekend. Maybe she could read me...maybe we were just falling into the grand plan. She came around behind me and put her legs over my hips and started to lean back and I went nuts, hissing and twitching, no drama...all pain, all panic. At 17 minutes I was howling, literally involuntarily through the room...

There's that scene in Fight Club where Brad Pitt pours acid over Ed Norton's hand...it was that, maybe worse. And all she was saying...there's no pain you can't handle, there's no pain you can't deal with, I'm not going anywhere, you're not coming out, you're not done until you can find a way to let go. At 22 minutes, mind flowing with poison, I had to bite through my lip to keep something like you fucking bitch, get off me, fuck you, fuck you...down. At 24 minutes, I was about to throw up, saying I'm gonna puke I'm gonna puke I'm gonna puke...before realizing it was or wasn't my body pulling up whatever it had to to get me away from that pain - like it thought I was dying...and in turn was fighting for survival - literally trying to use parlor tricks as a method of escape. My body would go through these spurts of rest and panic, rest and panic and she was still leaning back on me, still pulling and at some point I was so far beyond gone I had to decide I would give up, die in it if I had to...that's the only way I can give a satisfactory explanation. At 26 minutes, she pulled off and left me there for 9 more minutes. There was no relief, just paralysis and pain...and all I had was breath and there was a waterfall in the background and I remember trying to hold onto that. When we hit 35 minutes, she told us to come out, slowly. I tried and couldn't, just pain. When I finally fell onto my chest, I broke in half...involuntary tears and no control and just laying there, face on the cold tile, trying to wrap mind on what had just happened to me.

...

I've been preaching something in my classes since the beginning. It's this idea of setting bars for yourself, and that I don't want people in my classes who only come to maintain or go through the motions. I demand growth. Spinning is leaving a job you can't stand. Yoga is having the guts to chase down someone you feel you should love. Push your heart, push your life. Cut corners anywhere, pay the price everywhere.

I taught a class this morning and felt the need to preach this, what I'd been through...because if I had a teacher who went through the things I went through this weekend, I'd want to hear it - I'd want to own it...

All I have left to say is that to some people...everything about this shared experience is absurd. And I get that...there was a day a while back where this would have been absurd to me, too. I'm not saying this is the path for everyone - or that we all find depth in the same things...I know this isn't the case...

But I left Los Angeles on Friday. It's Monday morning and the world looks different. We have absolute control.

Ditching Town...

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There Goes The Neighborhood...

I can't say that Team Burn is going to be particularly excited about this one, but me and Durban finally broke ground on the novel we've been threatening. Okay, novella. Either way, it's going to be a bit of a departure. I can't quite wrap my head around a knockout script idea - and until I can, there's little use diving into something for the sake of. Since not writing or taking much of a break isn't a realistic option, I gotta keep moving...and in this case, I'm moving forward with an unstable collaborator. Today, he sent me a piece with an attached header, "crush back ut-fuck." Obviously, he meant to say nut-fuck but hardly believes in a one line proofread. The first thought I had, I had never heard that used before...nut-fuck. It makes no sense. None of this makes any sense and you can call me ill-led, but the thought of diving into senseless right now lights me up, me and Durban. I'm riding that. That's what I'm riding.

We both have this thing that's probably not very charming to anyone outside the two of us -- belief that we're literary gods in the ripening. I suppose only time will tell. But I can tell you this...the novel, the novella...anything that takes time and genuine thought to consume in this world is going extinct. We're ending. When our children's children rule the world, there won't be a world left to rule. I can't explain how that exact notion is going to relate exactly to our mighty pens, but it will.

Tragic, romantic, ridiculous, fitting. Durban And The Burn, Sweethearts...Durban And The Burn.

Well...At Least There Were Laser Cats...

We Can Talk About This Real Quick...

It's 11:24 on the west coast. In 6 minutes, Steve Martin is crashing SNL. Steve Martin. I'm going to speak about this in hindsight, you know, but it's so big to me, I feel like I have to talk about it now, too. Legend. Legend. Legend.

Actually, that's all I have to say for now...and I put this up a while ago, but they finally posted the full version. This is so good, I weep, literally, honestly. Weep, and not just for Farley and Hartman...

Goin' A Little Nuts For This...

Walt Disney Concert Hall. 4 years living in Los Angeles and I've never been. Truth is, I've hardly even driven by. You have to get off the highway and/or venture into a certain part of downtown. I'd be willing to bet...if we're aiming percentile, that 98% of Angelenos have never stepped foot inside. Kinda sad, I mean look at this place. We're talking as architectural wonder as architectural wonder gets.

So last night, I'm on my computer, fishing, lurking...when I get a notice from ticketmaster -- that this newfound band of mine is going to be playing there in March. They're called m83 - I recently posted a live video of "We Own The Sky" -- which to me feels shudderingly profound every time I give listen. Under the headline, there's this little note, saying something not quite little, that they'll be playing with the Los Angeles Philharmonic -- this entire fucking orgy of light and sound and brilliance...

It didn't say that. I'm saying that. I'm seeing that. I'm thinking that.

So I started digging online, found a blog that posted the pre-sale password and picked up a pair of tickets, thinking the whole time fuck, fuck, fuck...how incredible, things like this happening in my own backyard -- and so available. So available.

March the 7th, not soon enough...

A Casual Stranger Saw My Penis This Afternoon...

This week, I've been very careful about what I've been eating. Very careful. It's been all and only fruits, steamed veggies and clean protein. Very very clean. It's not been a huge departure, but it's the little things that make it all the more crushing - like no sushi because of the rice. It's always hard to discipline the already disciplined, but that's also why I'm doing it - because no matter where you're at, there's always somewhere to go - and we all face the same challenges, out there.

I met this woman a stretch back - we met when a friend of mine referred her to me. She's a photographer, does a lot of "active sport" shooting for men...and then liscenses the shots to retail outlets, magazines, calendars, etc. I've seen the work, it's legit. The men who shoot get a relatively small fee up front and then are tied to the liscensing of said photo - so you get paid by the usage of an image. I think this is fairly rare in the modeling arenas - most deal in buy-outs...probably why she grabs amateurs. Anyway, it means if you're pretty enough when you're 27, you could still get a check for the image when you're 37 -- could be large, could be small. Either way, my problem is this...a professional photog comes up to me, tells me I'm pretty enough, says she's heard I have a pretty enough body and that she can make us both some money, obviously I'm going to say yes. Because I'm vain and self absorbed and all that shit...

Today, I took a drive to her office...in an nice office building in Pasadena (believe me, in sleazebag LA, these assets are like a warm blanket) to talk things through since we're shooting on Saturday. And I saw all of her work. Like I said, some of it has been used in high end retail and some of it in teen and office calendars. All totally tasteful...all of it a legit operation. And she went to Duke...so I started to feel pretty decent about the situation. She showed me this series called crafted by light or something like it - these beautiful and artsy black and whites with shadows and ridges resembling what to me, seemed ancient and Greek and Olympian and potentially dazzling, and I started thinking of myself when I'm 50, thinking part of me would like to have my 27 year old self frozen into something like that...

So I'm down to my Hugo's, and she's taking measurements and we get through it all and she tells me -- alright, you liked the crafted by light...if you do, and you want to do it, you gotta drop 'em. I gotta see you head to toe, sides, back...I gotta read you.

Stay with me while I make this clear...in the series, everything is concealed from the sides, everything. But...to do it right, clothing ain't optional. This isn't Playgirl...it just is what it is. So I'm standing there, naked in this office in Pasadena, a little uncomfortable as she circles and then I circle...more worried for her than for myself...

And In my mind, for the sake of art, all I could think as I was on the street, heading back to my car...I sure didn't wake up today thinking I'd be thinking wow, a casual stranger saw my penis this afternoon.

Dodgeball, Baby...

You remember the camaraderie of Fight Club, where you have this handful of outrageous cretins and they're spread all over the city of Los Angeles...

And they're waiters and paper pushers and whatever else people do to get by in life. That's all I kept thinking, looking around the gym...something along the lines of we could totally just take over.

I don't know what -- either the world or a 7-11, still working it out.

Camera Whore...

On Saturday, I spent all day learning how to safely take a class through Kettlebell training. Then my friend Mary wanted to make a video to post on her website. Then and I agreed. Then I posted it here.

It's Tuesday and I can hardly walk. When you tell people you are going to change their bodies in this town, it's like you become a prophet. In that fashion, Los Angeles has no equal. And this absolutely works.

Kettle Bells 101 with Reilly from Mary Rambin on Vimeo.

On This Sunday...

I'm good. I filled a class, fell asleep on the couch, walked...actually walked the neighborhood, played the I don't hear you and hustle away from some cop who was trying to give me a jaywalking ticket...game, made some interesting phone calls, played some dodgeball, had a great dinner, watched brilliant Sunshine, gonna finish The Road, gonna go to bed, gonna wake up in a few hours and start a whole day something new. And today worked for me today. Sunday.

The most profound thing I collected on this Sunday, the thing that's constantly hunting me...all around, all the time, the thing with which I'm in a constant battle, the thing that smashed me in the face today...made me smile, made me fucking snarl...was the pull down. Because I'm paranoid, I see and hear and feel it all around all the time...because I have an insecure superiority complex. Today, it hit...someone grabbing hold of an ankle and pleading, fighting, screaming you don't want to go up there. Don't!

Days like today, they remind me why I have so few, why I discriminate so much...why in my heart, I am such a necessary fucking bastard.

It was a brilliant day. Reach in this world and you know exactly what I'm talking about.

And mark me now because I'm marking myself. As I continue success, it'll be exactly because I never let it touch me. And thinking about that and knowing it's out there is plenty enough to keep me occupied and absolutely obscure. Today. On this Sunday.

Been Diggin' On This Hard...

We're All Capable Of Being Angels...

So I work at this really great restaurant in town, sensational actually. Personally, I patrol the 12 seats that make up the wine bar - mostly 3 days a week, for lunch...and occasionally nights when someone needs a cover. It's safe to say that the people I meet there and attend to are outstanding. They're all there to have a good time, to eat amazing food, sip great Italian wine and take in the always, always moving scene. Being the bartender, I rap endlessly with any who care to rap back. This past week, I had a return hit it off couple that I remembered from New Years Eve. I told them they were superstars at life - mostly because certain people just have an energy you feel free to engage. They were like that. It was good seeing them again.

So I was on the heels of getting back this raw studio coverage I've been rambling about - and had that lurking in my mind. They sat down after a bit of a wait and we started in, lyrics of life. Round two usually goes a little deeper and we crossed the point of conversation where you ask the bartender what he/she really wants to do with their life. I don't usually offer things very freely to the world (this site is the exception), but I told them, especially her, that I wrote...that maybe I wanted to travel professionally...or buy the gym in Camps Bay and live out my days in South Africa. She told me she was a writer, too. Then I went on to find out that her manager was essentially my manager -- essentially being that I'm a glorified hip-pocket and she...well, she pulls loot.

So she gives me her e-mail and I tell her I'm about to get ripped by this stranger and she tells me to reach out, probably because she could see it was exactly what I was going to need...probably because she saw in me, exact parts of her past self.

I got them brilliantly smashed, and fed them well. And they sang praises of the night. And sometimes, I really have great fun working behind that bar.

And then today, I reached out, saving names where applicable...

On Jan 21, 2009, at 11:40 AM, Reilly wrote:

I don't know, I guess I feel like if I find my place out here, it's got to be as a writer who makes concept through writing...instead of a concept guy who just gets re-written.

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THIS IS SO KEY. NEVER, EVER FORGET THIS. Paste it to your mirror if you have to. Somewhere along the way, you will need to remind yourself that this is who you are.

Comedy comes from character, concept comes from character -- anyone worth their salt will tell you that. Those who disagree are either misinformed or not that smart.

That said, we are writing screenplays, not novels, and in movies... love it or hate it... in movies, concept is what sells. So, you may need to play the game a little bit, in order to get IN the game... does that make sense? You don't want to pander to concept... but I think you do want to be able to speak the language. I think. (I reserve the right to amend that last notion. I am not one-hundred percent sure I believe it, or whether it is just some bogus notion that I have been told to believe. So, I'll be in touch about that.)

The ********** journey was a bit of odyssey for me. For brevity's sake, I'm gonna to try to boil it down for you. (I will elaborate in person some time.)

As previously discussed, I had written a few scripts that were pretty bad. Then, I wrote a script that was not so bad (but still not great.) It was a thriller inspired by an unsolved murder that happened years ago in my hometown that had always intrigued me. I built my own story and characters around the circumstances of that case. ****** signed me off that script. It did not sell. To pay my bills, I was working on various film productions at the time, assisting a director and then an actor, so as a result, I would tend to write in fits and starts. I would work on a movie, have some fun, live some life, put away some money and then take a month or two to do nothing but write. Then I would panic about money and go get another production job. I was terrified the entire time. As we discussed the other night at Mozza (ahem, I think we discussed this... details are fuzzy, thanks to your heavy pouring hand. BLESS YOU, BLESS YOU, BLESS YOU) Anyway, what I mean to say is that I come from a long line of left-brained types: lawyers and bankers and other people who wear neckties. No one in my family had ever made a living doing a creative endeavor, so I struggled with the notion. I still do at times.

Sometime around then, I wrote a script called ******. I loved it. It was a somewhat autobiographical tale about an experience I had with another writer who became my mentor and whom I still keep in touch with to this day. It was very sweet and wholesome and inspiring. The script did not sell or get set up anywhere, but it didn't matter. I knew it was good. I was proud to give it to people and more importantly -- I knew, on that script, that I had found "my voice." (The irony is that now when I read ******, I die inside a little bit, because it reads so earnest and eager and I have become far more cynical, but that's my own journey and a conversation for a different day.)

Incidentally, ****** was also the script that got me an agent. A GREAT agent. (When she left to become a producer a couple of years later, I was beyond bummed) and that agent got me a lot of meetings with fancy people around town. All of those people were very nice to me and none of them gave me any writing jobs. Which led me to write ******.

I said I was going to make this brief, didn't I? Haaaaa. Sucker.

Bottom line: I wrote ****** over the course of one summer when I was up for my first real, live studio gig and they couldn't decide whether to hire me. It dragged on for MONTHS. I was completely out of money and I was feeling very angry that nothing seemed to be going my way. All my friends were working far less hard and seeming much more happy... and I thought to myself, well, maybe this is it. Maybe this dream is just not gonna happen. Maybe I'll just have to move back to Philadelphia and work in a bank. And I was taking a hike in Griffith Park one day, contemplating doing just that when the title ****** popped into my head. That's it. Nothing more than that. Just a funny play on words that I thought to myself: "Huh, that's interesting. That would be a good title for a movie. What if there were a guy that *********************************" And that was that. That's as concept-y as I got. I clung to that notion (and title) and day by day, I built on it a little bit more. And pretty soon, I was off to the races. The thing sort of took on a life of its own.

There is nothing quite as clarifying to the mind than the iron-grip of FEAR saying: If you don't get a move on, you are going to be back in your hometown with nothing to show for yourself but a couple of good L.A. Stories. And that was enough to strike the fear of God in me and I got quiet. Like, REALLY REALLY quiet and I sat my ass down and I did not get up until I had a script that was funny and that would show all these people that weren't giving me jobs that YES, I can write comedy, okay? I'd never written anything that fast before -- I started on Memorial Day, finished it Labor Day. I handed it to ****** in mid-September and she sold it like gangbusters the first week of October. I doubt it will EVER happen that easily again. Something was happening during that time period and I had, if nothing else, the wisdom to get out of the way and let it happen.

I'd love to tell you it's all been wine and roses since then, but I'd be lying. However, that sale did bust open the doors for me. One of the most frustrating things about Hollywood for me is that people are sheep. No one will hire you until someone else has hired you. So, this made my life easier I guess, in certain ways. I had money in the bank and finally people knew my name. Unfortunately, they still haven't made the movie. So, that's my next big hurdle, getting something produced. But let's talk about all that later. For now, keep writing - and ignore the guy at *******. He gets paid to pass on things. If he knew how to do it better, he's be out there doing it.

Didn't intend for this to be so long! Hope it was remotely helpful????? Oh, and I'll get you a copy of ******* and hopefully you'll have a laugh.

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Sometimes, I feel like I have to step back and appreciate. That night. This letter. All the shit that can be so trying - not just sitting in front of a computer for months on end squeezing yourself out onto a flickering monitor. It's the chase that'll get you...and when you take a hit, she nailed it, the chase becomes something much worse...

Fear.

What if?

Dwell in it long enough and you're claimed. So I guess all I have to say, minutes past midnight on a Wednesday night, knowing I'll be waking up in the 6's to get going again tomorrow morning, is that when the medicine comes along, whatever form it's in, you gotta grab it and hold it...

Thank you, thank you, thank you.

Le Return...