Madison Reese...

Every now and again, I get reader e-mail. This one turned my head for a handful of reasons, and since I'm a glutton for fodder, perhaps it's best we discuss it here...because I'm a firm believer that with smoke comes fire...because fires need to either be fed or extinguished. I'm not sure which I'm doing here. The only thing I'm taking out will be potentially identifiable characteristics. I haven't a clue who this...but someone might. So...

...

Your Blog...

So here is the thing….I have debated for months on whether to write you or not….you came into my world in the fall of 2008----I took you spinning class at equinox---no I wasn’t one of the ******* ** ***** * *** * ***** ** **** ******* *** ******* huffing and puffing and trying not to get ass sweat (sexy I know). I thought you were gay….dont be offended being a ******* girl I think most men in LA are gay…unless they tell me otherwise. You never noticed me. You never looked in my direction…but I took your class a couple more times listened to you guide us with your cosmic energy watched as you pushed the girls (and lets be honest most of the guys) with your charm and your playlist….heavy on Kings of Leon and Radiohead….I could tell you were a lover, a manipulator, and man with a story. It wasn’t until 5 months ago when I began reading your blog that I began to put your life together…extremely confident, somewhat talented, and the most passionate person I have ever known (seen/read/been aware of). I guess to say I know you would be wrong. I know the point of your blog is to put your thoughts out there I don’t know if its for peace of mind or the hopes that your true love will read it or someone in the industry namely Danny McBride (I asked BJ-his asst---he hasn’t heard anything about it) would stumble upon your yearning to write for EAD. You make me happy and angry all at once. You are so confident, almost cocky, we have mutual friends, I respect you for some, I question you for others. I admire your commitment to health (this shouldn’t mean much I mainly eat my feelings---mostly mcdonalds---and rarely exercising---it’s a form of self loathing). I think you are a great hustler in a town of hustlers---you have waited on me before----I was with * *********---a ****** *****----you barely looked at me---instead you told a story of baseball and Illinois---and made quips---you thought were charming----I thought were annoying. You have magnetism---and you know it. You are very self aware---and to be honest you are a great writer---I wonder if you have a small dick---I get that you have huge balls---but where are the faults??? You say all these women hit on you---I do not doubt it----but no self deprecating humor---no questioning---every time I read your blog I buy into the bullshit---ive read it in its entirety---I have a lot of a sleepless nights---im **********---ok to be honest ive never really been ********---living off of * ***** and hating every minute---we are beyond different---our problems are never the same---so I guess the reason I am writing is to find out----is it real??? Are you this person or are you projecting?? Have you had the successes with your specs and scripts or are you moonlighting as someone on the verge of success??? Do you believe in happily ever after??? I don’t know what answers I am looking for I don’t even know why I am writing ----just give me something---another letter will come again---when my thoughts are more clear----until then…..

Ps I used no punctuation and bad grammar to piss you off??? Did it work?? Do you get mad about stuff like that???

My name isnt madison reese----it isnt even close----im too much of a coward to reveal my identity---too scared you wont respond

pps this is by far the creepiest thing i have EVER done

Madison

...

I wrote back saying this is the kind of thing I would do, writing someone like this. I'm the kind of guy who has dozens of unsent e-mails sitting in his outbox, addressed to guess who(s), never having any intention of sending them. So I get it, and the whole art of expression through words. I don't know why exactly, but I felt like this one needs to be taken on here. This is not creepy. Or, if it is...then I'm creepy too and fuck the world. I'm right, they're wrong.

I got this e-mail as I was leaving to drive to San Francisco on friday and it moved me through some self-reflection, which is essentially what this entire blog is. It's selfish and self stroking and now this letter is a part of that, because to be honest, it got me off...and I don't think that was the intention. Sure, there are some digs and it might make you wonder if, say, my confidence is compensation for having a small dick, but in full disclosure, it's an ego feeder. So thank you, sweet Madison. Now, this may be a one time thing and I'll be over it tomorrow, but if you write a blog in this world and people get invested...so much that they come at you...I think you owe them something. So, let's begin...

- Not Gay.
- Somewhat talented? Please.
- Peace of mind.
- My true love (word choice) will never have to read my blog.
- No agency is going to give a spec episode of EBD to Danny McBride, too much hustle too little money.
- Hustler? I could have fucked my way out of the service industry a long time ago. I work.
- I make quips behind the bars I work. I am charming. You probably weren't THAT annoyed. I know what I'm doing.
- I am very self aware, hyper sensitive. Sometimes, I have a hard time dealing because of it.
- No.
- My blog, so far, is essentially about my failure to be the two things in this world I desire to be - a lover and a writer. I've never put a term on that before, because that's not the kind of thing I do, but if I had to pick a term, what would it be more than self-deprecation?
- I've had "success" as a writer. You're writing me, aren't you? Truth, no...not really. After all, I still work in a restaurant and have made that pretty clear. People like me don't choose to work in a restaurant. In terms of EBD...all that stuff is either true or a large handful of industry people are conspiring to fuck with me. It's 30 pages, it's a great script. I can write. I played baseball. As you know, I have something of an ego. I know recreational drug abuse. Clearly, you know the show. Do the math.
- Did my last spec get love then get blasted in studio coverage? Yes. Did it get me signed? Yes. Am I on the verge of success? By world definition...I believe so. Could I be wrong? No.
- Happily ever after? I think you're asking about two lovers and I don't know that. If I died tomorrow and someone were writing my story, they could say I lived happily ever after. And I'm alone. Right now, I've everything I need. So yes.
- Bad grammar pisses me off. Spelling is worse.

Is this me? Am I this?

Yes.

Another 26.2...

And I'm on my way here, staying at a place in Union Square. On Sunday, I'm running the 5 AM marathon and haven't run seriously for about two weeks - doing 8 on each Saturday in hopes that my IT bands will somehow rebound and let me finish the entire run. This week, I met a chef who invited me to his Nob Hill restaurant so that he could cook for me. I also met a sensationally beautiful married woman who invited me to call her so that we could play adultery. I will certainly follow up on one of the two. Off to San Francisco.

Excerpt #4 - Amalfi...

Getting there. 29,000 words left to go and now things are getting tight. See, I recently wrote a new script that's been wildly received...or so I like to think, and it's now gotten me into some other trouble, the kind of trouble of stacking projects, good projects...projects that are now being welcomely demanded from me. I could only tell someone I was on sabbatical, off writing a book for so long before those someones start to get pissed off. Right now I'm enjoying this last stretch of the book, but cramming enjoyment because there's a lot of inspiration out there for me right now and I have to grab hold of it. As Team Burn recently wrote, "we're on a very good path right now...let's do the work and see how it turns out." There's lots of work, so much work...and I feel wealthy and overwhelmed by it and so anxious to take it on and mold it and shape it and eat it and fuck it. So onward but in the meantime, I just cleaned up on of Durban's opening passages and wanted to share it...because it's just...it's just.

I’m thinking about what she was thinking at the end, when she knew her end was coming…when it was close. She used to speak about slowing the world, this fantasy of paralyzing our time together so that nothing could touch or divide us. Control. I’m thinking about her end, the moments when her last pieces melted away. Maybe she succeeded, right then, and found that pause...sometime on or around her last breath. I often wonder if I crossed her mind. I wonder what she was thinking, if she thought of herself as the girl who left me behind – the only girl who ever had what it took to stand me on my feet and keep me there. I’m thinking of her crimson blood stretching across that perfect white floor and all I want to know, the only thing I want to know was whether or not she thought of me…because I’m selfish and because I’m a motherfucker and because I feel like I deserve to know. I’d give everything I have.

Absolutely...

In Catching Up With Team Burn...

Last week, we sat down, me and my guy, my rep, my back. We had spoken a little bit here and there since Kim and Val but at some point I said something like I'm going to go write a book with my boy Durban and he kind of just gave me some space...maybe because we had been though some shit, maybe because he knew it's what I was asking for. Then last week, we spoke and I told him I was almost done and ready to get back into the fight...our fight, the fight of conquering features. Meanwhile, I've been picking others all over town, every day every night every morning. I sent him the opening chapter, Paris, to read before we had dinner and a couple drinks at 3rd Stop last whenever. He read it, or at least enough of it to say something like, look...finish the fucking thing so that we can get back to business...it's good and it flies and I have someone lined up who will take it on...but finish it. I told this to Durban and of course he told me he had plenty of people, plenty of suitors who might take it on but that they would all resent him for being who he was, for all he had. He agreed Team Burn might be a good place to start, at least for the sake of loyalty.

Anyway, we parted after dinner with an agreement to meet sometime after the book was finished, before I started in on my next thing. That was the plan. Now I'm going to tell you why this game is so backbreaking. I'm going to tell you why I've so hardened, why I'm so cynical and fucking tortured. Start with my April 22nd post about the spec episode I wrote for Eastbound and Down. I wrote it in two days, hammered it out and sent it out to friends during the first draft of the book. Everyone loved it because it's near fucking perfect, and everyone gave it to their agents and passed it up and around. I have two cc'd e-mails from TV lit partners at two of the top agencies in town, proof that it was liked enough by successful enough people to put their necks out for me. I haven't heard much because the maddening fucking secret about this town is that no one reads anything, so everything you write just goes out and drifts into abyss - and that's if you're fucking good. Me and Team Burn were on the second beer and I told him I had submitted the Eastbound and Down to Disney and NBC, and told him that I was certain it would at least get me an interview. He glanced over it a little bit and tried to move off the topic and I told him I knew he hadn't read it. He admitted, and apologized, saying that there was nothing he could do with it, nothing he knew to do with it. It was 30 pages long and I told him I thought it was mild bullshit that he hadn't read it, because most importantly...he needed to know my capability of writing something other than drama and love and intensity. He said he would put it on his list and then we moved onto talking about this...

Last night, I was driving around town and something made me want to give him shit. I sent a text while I was waiting for Harry Potter that said something like, Hey Cinderella...how's Kenny Fucking Powers? I got a text back in a couple hours and he told me it was great, then to finish the book so we could get back to work. I laughed, thinking he hadn't read it, again...thinking whatever, forgivable, still my boy. Today, I was finishing a chapter about Rio around 6 when he sent me an e-mail asking about everyone who knew anything about the spec and at which agencies they were located. Then he called soon after and said something like, here I am thinking you're this very serious and love obsessed writer and you drop this on me...comic fucking genius...I printed it out and gave it to everyone I could to read today at the office and it held up...they loved it...they're quoting it...laughing out loud. Then he told me he had been running it around all day and that it was in the very least, going to draw some serious interest for a spec of the same tone, by a writer of my name. I told him I could write the next spec feature in 2 weeks once I had a clear slate, because I like to set myself up for self-destruction. We're meeting on Sunday so I can show him that when I do start this new one, it's going to deliver. I still have a book to finish, and right now that's all that matters...but you gotta respect fire when it gets lit under someone's ass who reads a couple thousand pages a week.

When the click happens, in whatever literary world it happens in, people are going to read about it and say something like, oh the timing. I'll know better. There are no Cinderellas.

Girl Talk...

Next friday, I'm leaving for San Francisco to run a marathon on a destroyed body. I have to wake up at 4 on Sunday to make my way to the line and honestly have no idea how I'm even going to finish. That's what it's going to be like. So I'm thinking this...that since I wont be sleeping Saturday night anyway, I'm gonna drive the 150 miles to Lake Tahoe to chase a show, to see this and get loose. If you only have 7 seconds, just watch 1:42-1:49...reason enough.

Death Cab...

I taught a class last night that ended on one of the great songs I know - maybe again cracking the top 10 - Death Cab's Transatlanticism. And this guy I had never met came up to me after class and asked me if I had been to the Hollywood Bowl on the 5th to see them close their encore to it. Like I said, I had never spoken to him and he seemed pretty reserved but something in the way I teach or behave made him comfortable enough to offer that seeing it that day made him cry - that it was easily the best thing he's ever seen. He told me and I got the chills then regretted so full heartedly that I missed it. Then he told me to find it on YouTube, because it was there...so I did. Here you go. Stick around for it...

Let Me Tell You Why I'm Single...

I was leaving a party tonight, on a Sunday with this girl who I had earlier traded numbers with. She liked me, maybe quite a bit, and went out of her way to make that known before things came to an end at the end of the night. I'm superficial. I liked her too. Remember Diddy's white party - she was there, hired to hang out. We said goodbye and went our separate ways and I told her I would call her or that we would hang out but I hadn't yet decided if it was truth, not whether I wanted to...only if it was truth. I remember thinking as I was walking away something like dear oh dear...my dear you have no idea. And I think all people who think they're difficult and complex like to say things like that in their mind. I certainly do. I was getting into my car when she drove by and asked me if I wanted to hear her favorite song. I smiled and got inside and we didn't listen long before she put her seat down and back and things began to happen. Not much, but things. She spoke some words between action and I smiled and laughed and thought it to be a perfect cap to the evening, listening to Radiohead and then some in some pretty girl's car. She was playing games I thought, very sweet but semi rehearsed and maybe calculated but I was okay with that because I was just there. There were moments between where we'd have short conversations and I don't remember what she was saying, only that I was thinking we were crossing the point I'd crossed with past girls and told them how messy and awful I am, warning them of how messy and awful I might turn out to be, immediately and always laying down jagged and holed roads. But I didn't, and felt like I was over that sort of behavior...actually felt growth in the moment of my realization. Instead, I just smiled...or laughed, and all I was thinking of was how maniacal I felt, knowing she must have been thinking of how sweet and cute I seemed to be. I wasn't interested in telling her I didn't much live for a tomorrow girl or any girl unless she spits acid and scares the shit from me - thus insinuating she did neither. But still...something had pulled me into that car. At some point, when the crossroads came, I gave her a shot at the crown, because Kings Road wasn't far and because for whatever reason, I felt so rarely inclined. I knew what was coming. She balked, as if the invitation were laced with such scandal. Then she surrounded the word tomorrow with a series of other unimportant words. I think I'm supposed to call her.

Team Burn Gave Me This Great Great Short To Watch After Drinks Last Night, This Is The Trailer...

They're Coming...

A couple months ago, I was honestly trying to line up life so that I could fly to Sydney for a night and see the Killers play the V festival. Tickets were cheap and I was going through something, I suppose, where everything about that idea made absolute sense. Of course I didn't go and the idea faded and I stayed in Los Angeles, maybe hoping that with patience, they would come to me. Now they are...Hollywood Bowl in September - and although I like to hit bands when they're fresh on tour for a new album, this might work out just as well - and maybe they'll go deep enough to pull something like Sweet Talk or Bourbon. Even though this video looks like a movie everyone made when they were in high school or college, including me...the song remains one of the 5 or 10 most moving in my life.

Actually, maybe listen and not watch. It's just too big. Password is KROQFAIRYTALE.

Pop Orgy From The Eye Of An iPhone...

I felt kind of raw looking back...the time right around Michael Jackson died and hearing stories of friends being out to clubs or parties and the whole night turning into a tribute to the king. I've been staying in, sticking to the work...and the reality that I've grown out of being a club kid - not that I ever really was. Anyway, last night I was on the floor of Don't Call Me Diddy's White Party and the sun was going down and the DJ started spinning Mike and this fever ran through the crowd. I looked over my shoulder, saw I was rubbing shoulders with the second coming and all I could think was that I hadn't missed a thing.

Excerpt #3 - Cape Town...

I've been doing edits all morning and will be doing edits all day, and I was listening to Pandora and had one of those rare moments - hearing a song for the first time that's so good chills or weeps me. Devotchka's The Last Beat of My Heart, and either it or Durban's work or both was inspiring to me, and I thought it time to share again.


There’s a grotto at the Dunleen that I’m partial to and not many people know about. I told my new friend Susanna about it to get her in the pool, hyped it more to get her to swim beneath the pool’s waterfall, under a set of faux boulders and into what turned out to be more of a maintenance room than anything resembling my descriptions of a grotto. Clearly, I hadn’t been sober the last time I visited this place. Nevertheless, I now had her alone in a cave, away from the party, and her eyes were begging for me to do my sweet damage. Unlike X and most high form hallucinogens, the drug that had passed through my body didn’t just give me desire, but absolute need. I could feel our bodies pulling into one another, a fierce energy shooting about the enclosed space. When I take Ecstasy, fucking is hardly a byproduct and more of a contractual obligation I have with myself or with what Burn would call my stage two disingenuous nymphomania. Whatever I had taken, this was different. Fucking her was necessity. When all you have to do is pull two strings and have them standing naked, things go quick. We certainly did. This girl…she was cut from stone, every feature. This girl was going to be a star.

Once I was inside of her, it didn’t take long for her to come. And it wasn’t necessarily me. I can tell you that I have a great piece between my legs and that I’m enough of an athlete and sexual scholar to please the women I’m with. Also, I’m conveniently selfless…meaning that unless she comes, I can’t, as if my doing so alone would give her and the collective them a power I simply can’t release. She was gripping me hard and I was propping her back, holding her up with my hands, my biceps melting and shoulders cramping as she did this thing where her head fell back and her breath stopped before she let out this echoing and wailing cry…and with it, she shook from the inside out. It was beautiful, so incredible to be so close to her, to see her go. Then she fell into stillness, looked to me and kissed me before she leaned back, fell onto the cement and said something like fuck me sweetly, and so I did. In 60 minutes, she came seven times. I counted every one, every orgasm a precious and true performance. At some point, she looked to me and asked me if I was ready, if she could do anything to help me. I looked back, told her she was doing enough, that giving up even a moment of what I was in for an act so selfish was a risk I wasn’t willing to take. She smiled and kissed me. It was nice. She was unforgettable. I felt like a lover poet. I wanted to hold onto that.

And Then There Were...

Out Of Sight, But That's About It...

Someone recently asked me one of the most generic questions one can be asked...what is your greatest regret in life? And I thought about it and had to give the answer that I absolutely believe in. College, I never would have gone to college. I was sitting at home my junior year of high school on a bad night because I had done something bad in my life and because I'm a dramatic fool, I was 30-40% out the door, ready to drive off and leave town and start some sort of life, likely in California, because this state pulls to anyone growing up in the midwest. I should also make clear that what I'm saying has nothing to do with the home I was living in - it was as right a home as anyone could hope to live in - and everything to do with the world I was living in. And I told that person that I was judging based on what I would deem to be my own growth in the world, and that college sort of stalled that for me - of course that assumption only works if you take all the heart out of the scenario, and forget about the friends and girlfriends and battles and only look back on the academic world that so failed to inspire me. But I was cleaning out one of my online portfolios tonight and came across all the old stuff I made junior and senior year and I suppose some of the stuff when I first got to California. And I tried to think of what would have replaced those 4 years of my life - besides dropping out and taking off. And not just that, but everything these soon to be seen and ridiculous fuckers represent to me, still and I guess always. And maybe I'm doing the one thing I don't believe has much use in the world...the look back, but this was found in a stumble tonight, not in something I set out to do...and even though I do sometimes wish I would have went off looking for my life at 17 instead of 22, I see something like this and everything that goes with it and I feel bad for all I would have missed. But still...

This is the extended trailer for the first short I made in college. Link to the full version is on the YouTube page. Still can't believe that dance sequence was a one and done take. Clint Fucking Eastwood.

"This may be the best live performance I've ever seen, Yes Yes?"

Quoted from my brother, the only remaining Mozart I know, taken from this...

To which I returned, and now share:

Well picked and well played. And being a musician, I'm sure it's hitting on levels I can't even hear. That song has so many dimensions, literally it's like a fucking journey. What got me, though, was when the breakdown comes - and Ed O'Brien is just sitting on the stage - mouthing the words, looking a little toolsy. Then I kept watching to see him get upstaged by one of the Greenwoods bouncing around and singing to himself - going fucking nuts to a song he'd heard or performed 1000 times already, likely...like he's dying to be it or get in it before it gets sent out into the world. That's fire, or gravity...like it's so heavy it's pulling 'em down. That's what it takes to be one of the all time greats, that's what I'm thinking. We're talking 3-4 bands ever, are we not? And they could certainly make a case to land at the top, yes yes?

Excerpt #2 - Prague...

And if we're playing catch up, I continue to present to you John Durban. Getting closer to being able to drop the line, "buy the book," and with authenticity.


I woke up the morning of Christmas Eve on the hardwood floor of my Boscolo Carlo presidential, covered in cold, rank piss. There was a pounding noise shaking the room. I ditched my pants and opened the door to find the general manager standing with 2 brutes. He was holding a copy of my bill in his hand, telling me in shaky English that my card had been over-extended, that I was no longer welcome at their establishment. In Paris, or London, or anywhere in the states…anywhere but Eastern Europe, I could have made one call and been graciously accommodated. Problem with Prague, it was my first visit – no one knew of or gave a shit about who John Durban was. They didn’t know of my worldly status or of my worldly friends. To them, I was just a broke deadbeat who had recently pissed his pants.

I managed to negotiate 30 minutes for a shower and change of clothes, all the while trying to piece the pieces of the previous night into coherence. I’ve always found the shower to be an excellent avenue for thought and recollection, and right on cue, as those warm and resurrecting streams of water hit my face and ran over my scalp, everything came back. We were at Girl’s house the night before, somewhere just outside the city, having dinner with her family. They were serving Goulash of some sort – I think that’s what she called it in translation. I remember trying to eat it and my face being so numb from the cocaine – we had picked up an uncut key on the way over – that I couldn’t chew. I put a bite in my mouth and let it sit for what could have been either two minutes or two hours. Everyone was speaking Czech and fiercely arguing, I think insulted by my being there, some American boy who was fucking the life out of their overnight famous Czech princess, and I could see it in their eyes and feel it in their tones, not needing to speak their language to know what the conversation was all about. The family was well off, and they had found success through hard work and study and dedication. Her and I were the opposite epitome of that belief. This was a conservative family of doctors and lawyers and the thought of her jet setting, posing nude and shaking up with the John Durban’s of the world didn’t exactly ease their collective heart. In spite of my charm and devilishly good looks, there is a breed that sees through me, all of me…this was the breed. Looking back, I have no idea what we were doing there. The whole experience was grotesque. Maybe she wanted to smear her success in their faces, I don’t know. On several occasions, Girl’s father had to step between her and her two brothers because they were threatening physical harm to me or to her or to both of us, I don’t know. What I did know was that if they did touch her, or me, I was going to stab their eyes with my Goulash knife…not because I cared for her or because I felt the need to defend her, but more because I liked the idea of it, of chivalry, of masquerading as a guy who defends the honor of a girl whose name I should have known but didn’t.

How It Comes...

I didn't make it much of a secret that I had been training for the Los Angeles marathon, or that I fell short of the time I was going for, or that I signed up the night after to run another one in San Francisco on July 26th. I decided to take something of a new approach to my training. It goes something like this - run fucking faster.

So I got off work today and went into the gym to get a lift in before a fast 4.2 miles out on the road. These days, I roam the gym with absolute ADD, going from machine to machine in random but calculated and crushing sets. I'm never sure how long I'm going to be there, or exactly what I'm going to do. When I finish, I finish...and today, finishing meant it was time to run Sunset through Beverly Hills and back. The first stretch is a little bit of up and down, running through the mess of Sunset Plaza and the last bits of West Sunset. Then, things calm when you cross into Beverly Hills and there's this straight shot from Doheny to Whittier - the pass where Sunset winds and takes you to UCLA. I was coming over the hill, ready to kill my 3.2 mile loop to Whittier and back when I saw a runner on the opposite side of the street. He was about 20 yards ahead of me, just as I was starting my kick and I was thinking in my head - because these are the things I think - alright fucker, let's roll. I overtook him, just beating my feet against the pavement until I had to run around a car and lost my pace. He took the lead again before I overtook him and thought that to be the end of it. His body was torn up, but he had a little too much muscle to be that fast or committed to being anything but that - a good body. I thought. Cars started honking behind me and I thought nothing of it. It didn't take long before I heard this huffing coming up from behind me. This dude had Froggered Sunset to chase me down and all he said as he ran up to my side - crazy pace man, people don't run like this in Los Angeles. I laughed, immediately measured him - he meant business. I was moving and he chased me down from the opposite side of the street with composed breath. It didn't take long for him to give his name - Nathan - and for me to admit that I was training for San Francisco - and for me to get him to spill that he ran Miami in 3:01 and had a personal best of 1:17 in the half. Over the course of the first half mile, we agreed to extend my run to 6 miles, to the loop he was planning on running - and we agreed without words, because I could feel he was a competitive fucker just like me - that we were just going to slaughter it. I had felt awful all over before we started the run, sore in my hips and back and calves but I tucked it in my back pocket the second we started our kick together. I like to think we were flying down Sunset...because we were, and I don't know the exact pace, but could feel some of the miles passing in the low 6's, and we were introducing our lives and talking the whole way.

The loop came and went, and we made it back to Sunset and crossed Doheny and from there, on the home stretch, the pace quickened. He was ahead of me and started to fly. All I had to do was follow, chase a rabbit and he was trying to pull away. I could feel my legs thumping as they flexed and extended...and I was just floating along and we were racing through Sunset Plaza, on the home stretch, two motherfucking colts galloping past the digs of men who despised and envied our strength, past the whistles of women who wanted to take us to bed. He was 5 paces ahead and the world slowed for me, and I tried to think back to a time I was ever chasing someone else, trying to catch someone else. I couldn't recall and it was an amazing feeling, getting beat.

I got home tonight after we traded info, got a text that said - "I could see us breaking barriers. Crush your 16 in Palm Springs. Let's set up for some quality miles next week."

My return - "Funny. One more set and all we do is pass each other. You'll be hearing from me."

Excerpt #1 - Paris

Writing a book can be an occupying task. Me and Durban ran through the first swing and are now in the process of drafting - which falls mostly on my shoulders...but that was the deal. Stick to strengths. Anyway, I have little clue what to even try to do with this thing once we're done, and I've found that to be something of a comfort..to just focus on the work and not on a theory of hope that's doomed me in the past. So anyway, this is going to be long and arduous in all the best of ways, and I don't believe in self promotion totally (see entire blog to refute this statement)...but what I do believe in is promoting Durban and his work because I think he's a lunatic genius and because our work is going to be housed together and under the same roof - thus indirectly promoting my own work at the same time. As we get through these second drafts, I'm going to start posting pieces...some sort of prelude to the entirety, if you will, starting now, with Monsieur Durban...

His eyes lit so bright when she called. I’ll never forget it. I ordered a drink, followed him out into the hallway, keeping my distance, out of sight. Poor kid, I thought, no one deserves what he was about to go through. Personally, I’m a man who finds beauty in life’s less finer things, believe there’s nothing so beautiful as a broken heart. As much as it pained me to watch the suffering of my newfound friend, there would have been nothing in the world worthy of prying my eyes from him. I watched, and I sipped my drink and I waited and felt the imminent rush of destruction approaching.

There was a point in the conversation where he turned to face me perfectly, just as his world began to change, and he held steady, and I was able to see everything in his face, the moment of it all, the moment she so bravely told him. I was so proud of her, watching him unfold, knowing how few would be either willing or able to give him freedom like that. That fucking whore. She would never find someone one tenth of him. That lunatic cunt. I wanted to kiss her and rip out her throat. I wanted to fuck her and saw her in half. I watched as a seam opened along the front and center of Burn’s body and I waited and watched as if the whole of his insides were going to spill out onto the floor. They didn’t. He covered his brow with a hand and began to walk in circles, rushed and moving and I knew in that moment my actions had cauterized a bond between us. He was now my responsibility. Whatever fate he sought for the rest of his life, I would have no choice but to adopt it as my own…and I was willing and ready for that.

The Day I Finished...

My horoscope in the Chicago Tribune said exactly...

"If you're going to write a story about your adventures, give it a good ending. Have the hero emerge enormously successful."

So Me And Durban Wrote A Book...

Or at least we're done with the first draft.

- It has a title.
- The title is not Durban and The Burn.
- It's 75,060 words.
- We're very pleased.
- It only took 4 months.
- We very much love ourselves.

Drag Me To Hell...

I remember the first time I saw Army Of Darkness on Pay Per View. I had a cable descrambler growing up as a child (or maybe I'm just making this up)...because clearly, I've never done anything morally objectionable in my life. Anyway, it was a movie and watching experience I'll never forget. Hilarious and scary and wild and it planted the seeds of my being able to say that this new one, Drag Me To Hell, is absolutely Sam Raimi, and it's really good for all the same reasons. Totally fun and nasty and scary and absurd.

I've always been a big fan of Alison Lohman - something about her always works for me. I'm watching this movie and the whole time, I'm in my seat and applauding because I know she's this beauty starlet, and that she's very talented, and I know that some of the shit Raimi was asking her to do would scare off and did scare off at least one other massively talented starlet in town. I remember when this one was coming together...and I remember being wickedly hyped for it. I also remember having this feeling that it was a huge diceroll. It was. Now that I'm through and I've seen it, I have to say it kicks. And Ms. Lohman dives head first and just crushes it. When you see it, you'll see that's not an easy thing to do. I met her at a party a ways back (drop!) and we're talking about the craziest shit Sam Raimi asked of her, knowing he was going back to his horror/gore roots and I'm admitting that I'm a savant/loser and she started talking in spurts about all these things and her mouth and I didn't get it at the time but now...now, I fucking get it. Gross. Amazing. It's a great flick and she elevates. See it. Take someone not pompous.

So I'm Not Okay With This...

And I'm not okay. I finished running yesterday and got into my car and drove home and went out to lunch and then to a barbeque. When I got home, I didn't take the time to think about everything that went down. I didn't think about and certainly didn't celebrate pushing my body into failure. I took calls and congratulations for my supposed accomplishments all day, and all day today -- every one of them telling me how I shouldn't be hard on myself, that I should celebrate a time so many would be extremely proud of. I replied over and over...that I was happy for what I'd done, that I did feel accomplished -- but it wasn't really true. Saying it over and over and appeasing and misleading must have dug something out of me because there's a definite demon inside me now, and I couldn't walk all day today and I just got out of a class that I didn't think I'd be able to teach because my body is in pain...and I felt an immediate need to address the poison that was happening inside of my body - or the awful possibility that I had inadvertently spit that poison into the faces of my 50 students. I was walking out alone, and I was spent and hurting...and felt like I was about to break down and almost did before I got my shit together or buried, one or the other.

I'm sitting here now and I can feel this tightening in my body...this tightening in my mind, this need to find and lock onto the weaknesses in my life so that I can destroy them. Maybe this is obsession, maybe not. I'm proud of the time I ran yesterday, sure, and the fight I put in...because I fucking bled myself out on that course, I did...but not enough. Something's missing. I can tell you what I am proud of...this reaction, what's happening to me right now, the parts of me that are holding onto the disappointment of 14 minutes. I can't handle that. Because this isn't just about running. Truth, it probably has nothing to do with running. It's about settling for 3:25 or saying fuck that...I'm better than that...and I'm not going to celebrate a fucking drop until I get exactly what I want. And maybe I'll never get that. Maybe 3:11 makes way for 3:05 makes way for 2:55 makes way for me grinding myself into the ground. Maybe...but I'm ready for that. I'm prepared for that.

So I'm going to San Francisco at the end of July because I've got a fight to pick on Sunday the 26th. Because I have to fix this. Because that's just who I am. That's just what I do.

How It Went Down...

It always happens at mile 20, always. My insides started twisting and a pain shot through my abs and sides, slowed me to a trot. By mile 21, I was grinding and my pace had slowed to something close to 9 minutes per. Over my shoulder, I could see a runner was passing me. In his hand, he was carrying a balloon labeled 3:10:00. He was the pace I had to keep up with to make my time and I told myself that this was the exact fight I set out to pick. I stayed with him for a half a mile before I started to fade...and then I became helpless. The distance between us grew and he slowly drifted away, like I was in a dream and fighting and pushing and pumping my legs but I wasn't moving.

At 23, my calves and hamstrings started to cramp and freeze and by then there was nothing I could do, like handfuls of others on the side of the road stretching and not moving and so close to the finish...helpless to the cave of their bodies. When it was all said and done, I came in at 3:25. I finished 370 out of 14139 runners. My 10k was 43:04, my half was 1:31:33, my 30k was 2:13:39...which means that everything was going exactly as planned until I hit the "guts" segment of the race, the last quarter. My pace went from 7 to 8 to 9 to 10 and I can tell you that it had a lot less to do with guts than I hoped it would.

I crossed the line and my hips and shoulders hurt terribly, and my steps were swaying and I felt relief for being done, but I wasn't relieved. It was the opposite. Truth, I'm a maniac for self abuse, and the fact that I set out to get 3:11:00 and didn't, it cut me something awful. Then something else happened. I got hungry...and I couldn't walk but was immediately thinking of the next fight I could pick, the next city that could host my chase. I told myself I want to run the Boston Marathon in April, and I'm not the kind of person to be daunted by setback -- skin of a writer. And when someone is holding a running party somewhere in the world and I find myself not invited because I'm 14 minutes too slow...that doesn't sit pretty in me. Not one bit.

So sleep tonight, back tomorrow. This one's gonna take another step...or two or ten. I'm alright with that.

26.2 Coming...

I've been burning on nerves all weekend. Saturday, I was driving down Olympic, on my way to pick up bib "#706 - Burn" for the Los Angeles marathon and I could feel a turning in my stomach. Over my head, somewhere East of Vermont, a banner was tied on two ends and blowing in the wind. It read, "Mile 23." On my I-Pod, The Killers' "Dustland Fairytale" was just getting going and Brandon Flowers was saying something exactly like, "I saw the devil wrappin' up his hands, he's getting' ready for the showdown," and I thought that to be about right...my chase of 26.2 miles under 3:11:00.

I have a lap watch and GPS to track my minutes per mile. Too fast or too slow and I'm finished. I have 4 packs of Vanilla Bean "GU" that I plan on eating at rough points of 4, 11, 17 and 22 miles. On the road and in the middle of badness, they are fine dining and life saving. I've constructed a plan where I'm going to run the first 16 miles at an exact 7 minute pace. For every mile that's run at a flat 7, I'll have 17 seconds to slap onto the back end, protecting me from the inevitable crash. With 16 miles in the can, I'll switch to guts on the last 10.2, hoping to have a strong enough bank to get me in under 3:11:00 -- the qualifying time in my age bracket for the Boston Marathon.

I've been talking to people lately, mostly those who call me "Teach," and they all have this great and obvious confidence in my ability to do exactly what I set out to do. Allow me to salvage the suspense by admitting that there is nothing obvious about what's coming for me tomorrow. I've prepared. I've run and pushed and focused and committed and still, still have no real idea of my capability...after 27 years of life. No one does. No one should. Truth, I'm afraid...because I know that in a span of three hours tomorrow morning, I'll have an opportunity to re-define the way I see the world.

There's going to be a moment...I know, I've seen it in my sleep, where my mile times start to slow and my legs turn to iron and my body just stops. I'll feel helpless and no matter how much distance remains, it's going to be impossible. I can see it, and when it comes, I like to think I know how I'll behave...but I don't. No one does. No one should. I like to think that no matter the pain in my body, I own the capability of becoming all heart, all guts...capable of powering through, focusing on the simplest of motions, one step at a time. I like to believe all of these admirable things live in me, but I don't know. I have never chased something like this -- 7 words I hope to carry with me for the rest of my life. And along the way, if every now and again, I can fill this need to create and then hold steady a crumbling world...I think I might be alright.

Not just tomorrow, forever.

So They Think I'm A Prostitute...

I never thought myself to be the enigmatic vibe type. I feel like I'm working a lot of jobs these days, floating around town doing what I can to make a buck...and maybe I've said stuff like that out loud or give the impression that I'll do whatever it takes to get by. Maybe...

I still work in a restaurant, I think I've stated this before. But, I cut my shifts back to 3 lunches per week in an effort to be barely there...to go unnoticed in a sense, passing without trouble. Days are short and sweet and I go about my business and get out. I'm sort of the new guy amongst a tight group, all have been there for a long time -- at least longer than me. So there was some down time yesterday when one of the servers -- my confidant -- comes up to say he heard something about me that made him laugh...that 3 members of the staff were convinced, convinced that I spent my nights moonlighting as a hooker. They had proceeded to build a case of proof against me. I laughed, quickly realizing that the case was about to be laid out and then it was. He hit bullet points, one after the other that were both precisely hilarious and precisely true. Wait. Shit. They were actually onto something...I thought, and if something like accusatory court existed and I was placed on the stand, I realized I'd actually be in some trouble. I laughed with him but quickly checked myself...trying hard to not laugh so hard that I would create even more unnecessary suspicion. The points were so convincing, in fact, that I started to believe that maybe I was...or that maybe I should be doing exactly what they claimed I was doing. He walked away and I started to wonder if he was still wondering. Had I been convincing in the least in my dispute of their claims? Did I even care? Then suddenly, I got pissed off, insulted even. Who did these people think I was? Didn't they see me 3 days a week? Couldn't they formulate enough opinion on me to know that if I were hooking on the side, my quote would be high enough where I wouldn't be wasting 3 days a week slinging pizzas and Italian wines to locals. Honestly...

Unless he forgot to include bullet point #5 -- Pizzeria Mozza is the perfect cover...

Absolutely Hooked On This...

And things have been wound pretty tight lately. Lately, I've felt like I've had so much piling that I thought I was about to lose my shit. Everything has been so tight and weighing...and waiting for this marathon to come has been driving me fucking mad and I can't explain what waiting and stillness can do to a mind like mine. I've been feeling fat and slow and sluggish and had no reason to, maybe because I've been living in the fear of finishing anywhere north of 3:11:00. I've been living in the fear of the adrenaline and everything I don't want to talk about when next Monday arrives. That's where I'm at. It was 5 o'clock today and I had to sit myself down to breathe. And when I went out to walk, I had to force myself to consciously slow my always stomping pace to a half time leisurely stroll, finally accepting that I didn't need to have to have something to do tonight. I picked up dinner and sat down to watch this...

Charlie Boorman and Ewan McGregor's sequel to "Long Way Round" called "Long Way Down." It's a motorcycle trip from Scotland to Cape Town and most of the time, I stayed in bed and just watched it...all 4 hours of the first disc and it's okay because this is Sunday and all I am right now is envy but maybe I feel like I've let something go. Maybe I feel like everything is alright...like the rope found some slack because of these boys.

You Can Call Me Golden Boy, Some Do...

Today, I was asked by Equinox national to teach a class and walk and talk on a microphone for a charity called Best Buddies. Someone gave someone else 100,000 dollars and the first lady of California was there in the front row and one of the organizers tried to introduce me to her when I was helping another rider get situated on their bike and I gave Mrs. Arnold Schwartz this little chin flip like what's up when they were actually trying to organize a photo op. It was kind of awkward, I later thought when I really thought about it.

I took the class through a handful of songs, quickly realizing that none of the riders were into the kind of exercise suicide I teach in West Hollywood. When I walked out, I was met with some forms of praise, I think...I really have no idea anymore, am starting to feel like my perceptions are floating away from me or away from most of the world.

When someone came up to pay me, or mentioned my payment, they asked for an address where they could send the check, adding an unnecessary step to the equation and I felt like they were waiting for me to say something like oh no I could never accept payment...that having the opportunity to work for such a grand and worthy cause was payment enough. So I felt like a dick, but whatever...this is the machine, and you should have seen the machine in action today. No, I'm not talking about myself for once. When I talk about myself, I use words like Adonis or Gifted One or Golden Boy...

But you should already know that.

Girl, Girl, Girl...

I've been stuck on this crush lately. Stuck defined means that I went from curiosity to intrigue to the girl showing up in my dreams, affecting the way I wake up and feel in the morning. It's been getting to the point where I knew I was going to have to do something about it because things have been getting increasingly engaged between the two of us. And not doing anything about it would cause me to deal with an absurd personal weakness I'm not prepared to deal with at this moment. As previously stated...I don't know why I feel the need to overstate this, but I do...maybe to try and convince any and all (myself) of my composure in the face of things like this -- anyway, I know the game well enough to know when I'm being gamed. So, I had a crush...have a crush...that she started...that got crushed this morning when one of my friends told me about the boyfriend he was almost certain she still had. And he, the boyfriend, is a formidable one, and for me to say that means something. It meant that I was able to let it go, for the time being, under the ominous and gray skies of an early LA sunday morning. And letting it go...got me thinking.

I was having a conversation with a friend of mine about what it was that I was looking for -- about what in a girl and chase appealed to me right now. I told him I was after someone above me, someone with only a touch of time for me, someone who adored and respected me and at the same time, may or may not be off fucking someone else's prince in a faraway country. He said I was out of my mind and I told him I'd long ago given up on trying to abide by the ever changing definitions of world sanity. I told him that my desire for her potential indiscretions weren't due to a lack of self-respect. Actually, quite the contrary - I have a great deal of respect for myself. Maybe, instead, it has something to do with self-preservation...that's what I said. But I think in the end, all I'm interested in right now is honesty. That was me being honest, I said. I don't know if he believed me...or if anyone ever believes me anymore and I don't know exactly when that happened.

I came home, collected myself and left to run a fast 12 miles, the last prep for the 2 week away marathon that is gonna slaughter me and me it and when I finished, I got in bed and let those thoughts parade for a while. It was around 3 when I got to my desk and I just started this roll. Me and Durban recently crossed 65,000 words and the first pass is starting to see the potential of its own end, and everything I'm writing now is big and its putting a mirror in front of my face and forcing me to look and examine and somewhere around my passing 2,000 words for the day, this song came into my ears that I had never heard before the weekend, Miles Benjamin Anthony Robinson's called Buriedfed and it put a crack in me before taking something from me...some form of culmination of everything that's been loading and coming. I can't explain or maybe I just did.

After that, I went to a Sunday night cocktail party that was serving Haribos. I didn't know anyone, really. I never know anyone, really - and no one else did either and it was a surprisingly good time, watching everyone lean on charm and wit and alcohol to make things work. I had a couple of drinks and some good and memorable conversation and met some good people, and walking out with a late showing friend of mine, I started to hear something I think I knew was coming, something I knew I would have to handle delicately and with some form of ultimate love...ultimate love being the preparation of everything I've seen and felt and been dealt in life. She told me she'd been spinning before gifting to me what she described as this great admiration. She was this beautiful and sweet and kind girl and she was looking particularly stunning on this Sunday evening on a sidewalk in Hancock Park and I told her I could feel her, that I'd been her before and that I'll be there for her because I do adore her in many ways, but that I couldn't stop the spin, that I was incapable of being the things she wanted me to be. Incapable because I'm never the things people want me to be, never the things people think of me to be. We said goodnight and as I was turning, I kept asking myself over and over whether I gave to her hurt or hope and I couldn't figure out which was better to give.

I walked down the street alone with two red roses in my hand, the gift I was given, and I think I thought of the world and my place in it and whether it's dysfunction or clarity that rules my steps and which of the two I was going to be rooting for for the rest of my life.

Sunday.

Happy Mom's Day, Everyone...

Hey! You! Guys!...

If I wasn't sure about why I moved into Los Angeles some four years ago, I think I'd be able to pin down motive on nights like tonight, like when I decide to find myself at the midnight show of The Goonies on the corner of Beverly and Fairfax. When the place you're living does everything in its power to cater to whatever is kicking around in your guts...I think that's what they call home.

Blog Sex 2...

Running builds character. If you're a runner, you know this. If you're not a runner, you've likely spent far too much time contemplating how the act itself isn't right for you or your body. I get it, I absolutely do. In fact, I've spent most of my life doing the same thing, everyone does...and I'm about to run my 3rd marathon. Like all of the finer things in life, the act of running, to most people, makes little sense.

Today, we're going to stop talking and set you off on one of my favorite workouts that will, I promise, build character. In 21 days, I'm running the LA Marathon with an aim of finishing under 3:11:00. If I can manage to stay below that time, I'll qualify for Boston. So...all this work, just to run another marathon? I know. We've already discussed how non-sensical this is, just let it go.

To get faster and stronger, I knew I would have to design a route that constantly tested and pushed both aspects of my training. I went to Google maps and plotted the distance of a home-centric Los Angeles lap: Melrose to La Cienega to Santa Monica to Crescent Heights - 2.19 miles. I knew the route was graded. It meant that no matter which direction I was moving, I would always have an up-hill and I would always have a down-hill. This is important. Monotony has its place out there on the road, just not in this workout. The first time I ran the route, maybe 10 weeks ago, I ran four laps around 15:20 per lap. Keep your times. Recently, my good laps have been reading in the 13:50's...usually occurring on the last lap of the run. Every week for the past 10 weeks, as I crossed the finish and watched my times shrink (our aim), I felt strength. I felt like I was growing. That's why I'm here, telling you to try it. If you commit, really commit to getting under the surface of this run, it becomes something bigger than getting in shape.

Here's the recipe...

- Pick a smart route that's graded and Google it. Make a strong but realistic choice on your distance. You can always add later. If you live in the city, pick a route where a stoplight wont stop you, where you can always turn in and cut over without sacrificing time or distance. Obviously, a square route is optimal.

- Start strong. First lap should be your second fastest. Wind yourself slightly, it's okay. Overshoot, it's okay. Second two laps should be maintaining. Last lap is your anchor - your fastest lap.

- Attack the hills. Don't fall behind on the climbs - they're there to be nasty, let them be. Don't coast running down hill - push that speed. If we're always trying to better our time, these two legs of each lap are key.

- Run with grace. Do everything in life with grace, obviously...but especially here. This workout is designed to push your heart and mind. There's a ticking clock on your shoulder. Let it push you harder than you would otherwise want to push.

- Be relentless. The body is going to give you a thousand reasons to quit...and the harder things get, the more intelligent and rational these reasons become. Don't listen. Power through. This is good for you. This will save you. Listen to me instead, think about everything your body was telling you AFTER you finish.

That's it. It doesn't matter if your laps are quarter miles or 10's. It doesn't matter if you're sprinting or walking...as long as you're making strong choices. If you don't know what that means, eventually you will...or keep reading and maybe I'll cover that next time. But for now, dive in. Find yourself a battle out there...

Accept it, love it, tell me about it.

Mt. Baldy...

This is what it looked like somewhere near the top, from my camera...

It took about an hour, starting around 9 in the AM to take Cahuenga Pass to Barham to Forest Glen to the 134 to the 210...to exit at Baseline to Padua to Mt Baldy Rd. to Mt. Baldy Village. I stopped off at the visitors center, ringing the bell over the door like a lunatic fucking bandit as I entered, as a room of children turned, as a park ranger's speech about coping with rattlesnake bites came to an immediate halt. I said something like trail maps and no less than three children pointed to the main desk. I swiped my guide and got out, not really in the mood to re-live whatever they were living in that moment or ever again.

From there, I parked at San Antonio Falls Road, packed up and started my climb. It was 70 degrees at the main entrance, starting at 5000 feet and across the way, the first thing I saw was a waterfall stampeding between two large masses of snow. It was alright. I spent the next 3-4 hours following the direction of the ski lifts, just hiking up and up. At the top of the lift, I climbed into one of the chairs and sat. There was no noise, no people. There were birds, maybe...and some bees, maybe...and then there was me. I set the chair into a rock and rested my head for a moment before falling into a short sleep. It was alright.

From there, to continue, I had to go a bit off trail, to this section of the mountain called "Devil's Backbone." It felt like the air was starting to thin and I could feel my temples pounding as I moved up and up, just telling myself to keep moving. A couple times, I tried to start an avalanche but the snow was too heavy.

Sometime between 2 and 3, I reached the summit, spent...maybe a little burned on the skin, a touch chapped in the lips. I hung out for a good little while, taking pictures...mostly gratuitously of myself. Once I got over serenity, I consulted my map and instantly decided I didn't want to take the same route back.


There are a couple of things you need to know about me before we proceed. First, I'm not a super strong map reader. I could be if I wanted to be, maybe, but the possibility of my being that will always fall victim to the second thing you need to know about me, that I am the world's #1 authority on behaving like an improvisational dipshit. What does this mean? Well, it means I was supposed to pick up the new trail somewhere to my East. Somewhere. I crossed through a couple mini snow valleys, thinking I would hit the path somewhere, that everything would work out fine because that's usually how things work for me. When I ran out of valleys and hit the edge of a rock cliff, I looked to a grade that seemed passable, and to a clear trail in the valley below. I think I was overcome with an initial abundance of pride, thinking I would be back in no time, that the descent would be a breeze, that someone should give me a Nobel Prize or something of the like so I started down.

I'm going to tell you a major key to descending a mountain, in case you don't already know...you can't really judge a drop by looking down on it.

Also, if you don't know what you're doing, maybe stay on the fucking path. Maybe they're there for a reason.

It took me about an hour to get down the first ridge. If you want me to fractionalize, I will...I was about 1/15th of the way down, just fucked. Have I made this abundantly clear yet? I started talking to the rocks, because they were so fickle. Most rocks were small and most steps caused them and about 30 of their ankle smashing friends to slide. So when I'd find a good one to grip, I'd say things like be strong my friend or take care of me now. Please don't think I'm kidding. There were at least two instances where I lost my footing and saved myself from a tumble with three fingers of an outstretched arm. Sometimes, I'd laugh it or the pain I'd recently suffered off, but most of the way, I was a little more panicked than I wanted to be, wondering what things were going to be like when the sun goes down.

Slowly, the grade began to mellow out...about two hours after I began. And by mellow, I mean if I lost grip and fell, I would fall 20 feet as opposed to 50. In the distance, I kept focusing my eyes on the path ahead...distantly ahead, using it as my only real form of comfort. The moment I believed myself to be making progress, I stepped over a rock that started to hiss. Yeah, no...I'll say that again. The motherfucking rock started to motherfucking hiss. Rattlesnakes. Apparently, this was their stomps, too. I told myself that it was too steep, that the one I crossed was an anomaly - that it must have been cast out from the flatter grounded rattlesnake communities, scorned even. That's what I told myself, maybe a thousand times in the next 10 minutes before settling my fear, self-affirming that if I got bit by a rattlesnake, I would fucking deal with whatever accompanied that and that that would be that...because that's exactly what I was on the mountain to do. The sun was beginning to fall and the temperature was falling and I was over and in the middle of everything I was out to chase.

Halfway down, once I had left the sporadic, large rocks behind, I started to ski. The rocks had settled into bunches that would cave and slide as I stepped and for maybe 10 feet at a time, with superb agility and grace (I obviously possess both), they could serve as transport. This is where I started to make up ground, turning single steps into tens of steps. Just as I was getting into a rythym, I heard rocks falling to my left, and in bunches. I looked over and saw a deer. But it wasn't a deer, it was a form of ram - it had horns on its head. I looked below me and saw 5 more. Then, to my right, there was another. Somehow, I had gotten in between a pack or family...and they were either studying or circling. I had heard stories of animals like this charging people like me and spent enough time in the African bush to know how the wild world works...I was way off path and if they thought I was threatening their young, I was going to be met with bad intentions on the side of that sliding hill. A new form of fear started to run through me. They weren't moving, just watching. I began picking up rocks and throwing them in their nearby - maybe as a demonstration of my might in hopes it might back them down. At this point, I'm not sure I was thinking things through. They didn't move. I calmed myself, decided that if I had to fight a fucking pack of rams on the side of that mountain on a Wednesday, then that's what I was going to have to do...because that's exactly what I was on the mountain to do. I back-tracked across, trying my best to demonstrate that I was suddenly and now backing down and by the time I had started my descent again, they were packed and moving off, watching me...actually, probably judging me. Fuckers.

I got back to the slide and the mountain was somewhat easing and I could see the path...or a path, but it was still so far away. And I don't know if it was the residue of adrenaline still in my guts or paranoia, but my mind moved to the sight I must have been, fireworks shooting off over my head as I rode an avalanche of rock down the face of that mountain. I began to think about the family of rams, and the ways of the world...and that if any hunting predator was after them, it certainly called an audible the moment it saw me. I searched the ground and picked up the two sharpest rocks I could find, decided I would walk with them, and that if I had to fight a fucking lion or something of the like up on that mountain...if I had to try and stab out its eyes before it ripped off my face, then that's what I was going to have to do...because -- yeah, we all get it.

Finally, the grounds began to flatten out. Finally, I stumbled onto something that resembled a beaten path, followed that for about a mile. Across a nearby stream, there was a green hut and outhouse. It was called something like camp Mt. San Antonio. On the other side of the hut, a true path began to take shape. It was somewhere around 630 and I started to jog, so happy to be somewhere someone else had maybe recently been, I couldn't contain myself. After about another mile, I saw a large and darting animal out of the corner of my eye and thought it was a wolf until I heard the ringing tags on its collar. It was a dog, and it ran up and I actually gave it a hug. Behind it, a man was trudging up the path, sweating and out of breath. There was so much love in my greeting, it knocked him off his feet. We had a quick conversation and I told him about the rams. He was either impressed or humoring, I don't know which. It didn't matter. I had found my way.

When the trees cleared and I got clear view of where I'd been, this is what I saw, the exact path that didn't seem that steep from the top...

I paused because I usually do when life calls for it, realized not for the first time in my life, that one day I am going to pay for the decisions I make. Just not today. I got back to my car and actually applauded, not caring if anyone was around to see or ask why I was clapping, or why my eyes looked like they were housing delirium. I drove into Mt. Baldy Village and stopped at the one restaurant in town. They were serving a special of "spaghetti" for 8.95. I took that without question and a beer. "Love Hurts" was playing on the stereo or jukebox and the locals were singing along and all I could do was try -- fucking try to take it all in, to let everything in a day stick to and become me.


...

I got back on the 210 around 8 and the roads were clear. I flew home, music so loud it numbed my speakers. I was dirty and hurt everywhere and the only thing that remained in my day was sleep. It felt like something...

Like I had taken a life shower. Maybe I had. It felt like I had borrowed time from another world. I absolutely did.

I Want To Go There...

I do this thing often where I grow restless with the world I'm living in and start to dream of wild and faraway places where I can seek and find expansion...because in my mind, these things can only happen in faraway places and exotic locales. Crazy, perception. Last week, I was talking to a friend who said he took a drive last week to this place called Mt. Baldy. He said something like, you know, the top of that mountain range where you can usually see snow if you look East from LA. He told me it wasn't that far and that it took 8 hours to hike and I told him to send me directions.

Last night, I was lying in bed, battling this flash fever and scary, painful glands...but was healthy everywhere else and felt fine. So naturally, I started to think of how long I have left before the poison spreads through me and whether I'll be healthy enough to bounce back and climb Mt. Baldy on an LA wednesday. I managed to test my strength with a run this morning...passed. I took a serious fucking yoga class before teaching...passed. The delirium seems to have faded. And I have a feeling I'll be strong, at least for tomorrow and that's all I can care about.

I need to be cleared right now, that's all I can think of...so that's where I'm going, there.

Sunday Funday...

I woke up this morning and turned my phone on, initially trying to wrap my mind around the fact that I flaked on a party I was going to go to last night...and flaked it hard. I sent some texts this morning out, out of apology, and understand why but can't tell it to anyone else, that I'm simply finding a hard time bringing myself to do anything these days unless it's done in the chase of profundity. That means creation...or expansion...or love and that's about it.

I ran off to teach a 9 AM class this morning before heading to the Melrose Place farmer's market. There, I bought a 3 park of strawberries, content enough...just happy to be enjoying my sunday neighborhood farmer's market before I tasted two stands down, the most incredible strawberries I had ever tasted in my life. They were large, they were dark, they were ripe, they were perfect. And you know what, I wouldn't let myself buy them...I think out of spite - yes, for myself - and because what person buys 6 fucking crates of strawberries in a single day. I thought for a moment, that the initially premature transaction might ruin that quarter hour of my life, but quickly realized I was being a dickhead before making my way home, living in the glory of what was a perfect Los Angeles sunday.

...

Next week, on Friday I believe, I'm moving apartments. See, I've been paying 1450 per month in rent for the last two years. Lately, after the change in jobs and severe reduction of working hours on the jobs I job, I came to the conclusion that I didn't want to afford that much anymore. Also, the economy is bad -- you heard it here first. I wrote a letter to the property management telling them these things and that at best, I could do 1250, but that that would be pushing it. I didn't hear back. So...I went to my landlady, who is a sweet crazy person and told her the same deal. She came back at me with something like "I'll get back to you." Then she did. Then I went in to talk to her and she told me I couldn't keep the apartment I was living in, but that they would move me to one of two rooms in the building for 1250 and that first month's rent would be on the house. Hard bargainer...

The apartment I'm moving into is on the third floor, and it's exactly like the one I'm in except she told me it usually rents for more than mine. There's a ramp to a bedroom skylight I'm going to try and loft, plant a garden out on the roof - which I plan to now claim as my own. And as we're looking at it and moving through the space, she flips this switch, totally multi-perso on me where she's trying to sell it...this consummate lunatic saleswoman, telling me about the neighborhood and the views and how quiet the building is and our glorious rooftop pool and the "retro" mini-stove(fucking really?). I wanted to stop her, to tell her to shut the fuck up and probably should have...that I'd appreciate more if she just stayed real with me...but then I calmed down, remembered this was what she does and I thought not to take her moment away from her. Then I took the apartment.

...

I'm walking around on friday and there's something seriously, emotionally wrong with me. I felt like someone died, or that I was dying. I couldn't really speak above a whisper, and trying to awaken myself from the shit I was in would only make me sound awkward and inspire others to ask me who died. The entire day, I was apologizing for my behavior, stating over and over something like if I sat down and tried to figure it out, I'm sure I could, but that I didn't feel like it, that I didn't really want to try and explain anything.

I'm moving. That's all. On friday, I'm going to take all of my shit from apartment 121 and move it to an apartment somewhere in the 3's. And if you asked me, honestly, I could give a shit. It makes little real difference to me. Okay...truth, I'm excited to move upstairs, something new and exciting...even if it's in the same building. But you know what, there's something inside of me that doesn't see things that way, some kind of powerful, powerful minority...and it's been putting poison into my body ever since I dropped off that deposit. It's trying to tell me that we had some memorable times, here, in 121, that we've had good friends in this apartment, good fucks in this apartment, a good life in this apartment. It's telling me that we've had hearts lifted here, and torn here...that maybe we've dropped a lot of fucking tears and sounded a symphony of laughs and that things have been good...and that giving up 121 may put everything, the entirety of my life in jeopardy.

I am not this part of me, but it does live inside of me. When it speaks, it speaks with resonance. Still, I'm moving. Obviously.

But I'm not really cleaning up. And lightbulbs are going out all over, and I'm not changing them. I'm not going to paint over the walls, the dark and soothing slashes of red and blue. I'm just going to move on, because this doesn't mean anything...because none of this means anything. And here I am, stuck living with it, stuck living in the paranoia of having to unearth myself from a life that's swirling all around me. Poor fucking me. Poor fucking me, if only I could get over it...the it that wont let up until I move all of my stuff out and get settled somewhere new, until I can show it - whatever the fuck it is - that we have a home, that we have somewhere where we can be safe to live, to be untouched, to rule out eternity if we chose to. And I don't know how to explain it in any way other than that. I'd rather not.

Who Knows Ben Best or Jody Hill or Danny McBride or Chris Henchy or Adam McKay or Will Ferrell...

I'm hustling this script around town...episode 1 of season 2 of Eastbound And Down. Hammered it out over the weekend and it's legit, mostly because it's not that hard to ride on the coat-tails of success and or originality and or filthy, filthy writing. Or maybe it is, I don't know. Actually, that's what I banking on, exactly that it is...and that someone super involved is willing to listen to a 27 year old egomaniacal writer who thinks he can slaughter their shit.

Wow...

Coachella '09...

I was having a real hard time sleeping last night, laying my head down around the same time The Killers were coming on just a couple hours down the road. I don't know why I've never been and I didn't go last night, maybe something about the thousands upon thousands upon thousands of the human public all in one place at one time - and for long hours - and long, hot days - sadly, most of the time, there's something too elitist or non-functional in me that wont allow me to partake. But it still hurt. This year's lineup definitely did some damage - not like in years past, where I had no excuse to have not been in attendance. Maybe next year -- I think my stars are all going to align again and things will work out, but that's just preliminary speculation.

Instead, I stayed in yesterday, worked from sunrise until 10 PM. I don't think I left my apartment, finished the day 22 pages into my own Eastbound and Down. I'm hoping to finish it and polish it tonight, send it off in the morning or afternoon before work but I'm battling this mild bout of heat stroke right now because it was 95 and blazing outside today and I ran 20 miles in the sun after teaching spin and I don't feel so hot but there's no time for dilly dally, not when you aim to conquer.

Anyway, all this helps...and water...and my bed...the feeling of my stretching heart.