Easy...

The first point of order was to check in, to snap ourselves to life with pixie dust and then move through the city, everything, to eat it and consume Berlin. I had seen good bits of it but not enough. I told him we were going to go through my process, the way I take on a new city before the story can arrive. We walked and he bitched. We listened to people on the streets, watched the way they moved, observed their manners, the way they looked at us as we passed. Everyone looks at us as we pass. We are a hurricane on four legs, just moving. When Durban got cold, we stopped for a drink somewhere pretty and then moved on. When we got hungry, we stopped at an Italian place off Charlottenstrasse because John said look they've got big candles. There we drank wine and ate and met the owner of the joint and Durban just talked and talked with the guy. Endlessly. When I look in John's eyes, I can see inside him...know with certainty I am looking into a maniac. There is no other way to put it. John Durban is a maniac. He's unstable and moving and distrusting and brimming with acid. Often, I wonder what others see. I'm not sure why we work but we do, maybe because I see light in him where others see darkness. There is light, I'm sure of it, whether he will admit it or not.

From dinner, we moved. Bar to bar, stop to stop - every subway and stop in Mitte and beyond. We got cold often and stopped to drink often, talking the world, our next play, chasing beer with whiskey. Once we were walking straight, Durban began to get in the mood to grab a gal. He asked me if I wanted to wing him, spoke of the girls in Berlin to be all beautiful, something in their eyes. We met pair after pair starting sometime around midnight. Thing about Durban is that he's very discriminate, meaning that if he picks a pair, they're going to be worth it - at least superficially. For me the process is easy. Durban takes care of everything really, the approach and all that then comes. At some point, he looks to me and finds out which one I prefer and then takes the other...because 99 percent of the time, it doesn't matter to John. We're both particular but in a lot of surprising ways, I am more so...because I don't have an addiction like John. I don't need to have it, sex doesn't rule me like it does him. Last night, something was going on. John was having problems. He's been having problems ever since what happened happened - one foot in if at all. It meant that right out of the chute, we met two crazy young Berliners, 19 and 21 and taut and fiery. John pretended he was an American boy and they fell in love with us and I didn't need it but the older of the two took my hand and kissed my cheek for no reason and made me want her terribly. I was ready to leave, to see their apartment and her bed when I looked to John and saw him pulling back, walking out of the bar. I followed him and told my Girl I'd be back - because she had won me. John was walking fast and away down the street. When I caught his steps, he started spitting exactly they weren't right...not for me not for you. Then he said don't worry Burn I'll take care of you I'll take care of you.

We moved on and around, beer and shot, beer and shot, meeting girls meeting girls. Dozens of girls. Every time we approached we'd win them. Every time, like whatever we are and whatever we project together is impossible to resist. It just happens. It got stale for me real quick. I couldn't stop thinking about the Girl I left behind, the first girl. If I fall in a night...which I rarely do and realized I might have, there is no chance I'm going to fall again. After the 3rd pair, we were just going through motions. John would bark and I would be quiet and precious and sweet and they would do anything to take us around, to show us their town...anything we wanted. At the exact point, for seriously 6 pairs, John would bail and walk out of the bar, storming even, and I would excuse myself and catch up with him and say something like you know there's obviously some poison shit going on inside of you right now. He told me he knew and that was all he said, all that needed to be said. We were drunk, fucking drunk and it was after 3. My skull was pounding and my heart was failing and I felt like everything I had left was about to drain. I told Durban that I was going to bail on him...knowing it was what he needed. He stopped, stood in the middle of the street and started turning in the darkness, blowing breath from out of his insides, so amused by it...seeing his steam escape. Then he said exactly, alright Burn alright...I'll be on tomorrow. Then he turned and walked away into the darkness.

UPDATE ------> DURBAN SPEAKS, LINK RIGHT

John Durban Arrives...

Much unlike the end of the world, with a bang, not a whimper. He saw me standing on the balcony from at least a block away and began belting, fucking belting, hat on Burn...get it on motherfucker.

I haven't seen John for a long time. So long, I don't even want to talk about it. We both knew that truth and spoke words without speaking when he showed up at the door and said give me something to get me started I need a shower. That's where he is while I'm typing, occupied like a small child. We're gonna grab a bite and then let the night take us away. I told him we're going to need a new chapter and that it might have to come from tonight and that that is a huge fucking responsibility but that I'm up for it. Of course he was too. Every quarter day John Durban lives could be a chapter.

He was supposed to come in last night or at least claimed that he was going to try. It was absolutely a show he wanted to see. We don't have all of the same tastes, but Muse certainly floods both our canals. Still, I wasn't put off by his absence. In fact, I knew he wasn't going to come. He's been reclusive since the incident, even though some time has passed, so when I went alone, there was no surprise. Not at all.

Today he sent me a text and I told him not to because it's expensive when bouncing from the states and through whatever provider is swiping me out here. I told him to write me in an e-mail, not thinking about who I was dealing with...

H / i / B / u / r / n (slashes denote separate texts)
Are you serious? Stop
Yeah, okay / I didn't make it / are you there? / please don't ignore me / I'm fragile
Motherfucker!
I read / It looked good / Those boys can play / Sorry / Again
Alright cocksucker text me. Drinks on you.
Drinks always on me
You're coming?
don't know
Alright dude...
tone! that's a tone. why do you have a tone?
You should come.
You should talk
Halloween. I met a girl on the flight from NYC.
what's she do?
Fashion, runway.
Yeah?
Has 6 friends, same bill, edge beauty the cast type.
My type
They want to get righteous for Halloween.
Coincidence! so the fuck do I!!
You coming?
I always was. For you not them. Though I look a little false now.
Your MO. When?
7, already in the cab.
Alright.
Do you really think we need another chapter?
Yes. Maybe 2. One more push and they'll publish.
Let's make her famous / the city / maybe a pair of dames, too...

Better...

For Now, This One's Pretty Good...

Sometime After 5 AM...

After going to bed at 1 and feeling like I had slept perfectly for days, I got up and went for a run. Today, I went west and went for 6 songs and then turned back, all Killers, set on shuffle. I shot steam with every exhale and in spite of things I've been through over the past few days, my legs felt strong, voracious. My breath was easy. I felt unstoppable and this is how it has to happen for the rest of my life. The TV doesn't work so I read books. I have no friends so I talk and wander and explore. I have no fear so I am fearless. There's an energy charging through me now, in this new city...in every new city from now until I no longer have the urge to do this. I am growing, exponentially when I chase these things and knew this when I booked the ticket a month ago, knew of its coming necessity - of all the reminder a trip like this provides. I need adventure to survive. I need growth to survive. It's easy to forget, to get comfortable and stable in the lives we live. To tuck away and be safe and just fucking hang on. There's a bloody red tattoo inked onto this right wrist of mine - reminding me to suffer, suffer in my pursuits - reminding me I don't need to be understood by anyone but myself.

Gets me by.

Muse - Berlin O2 Arena - 10/29/09...

I woke up at 430 Berlin time, before my alarm, wondering who and where the fuck I was. Seriously. I felt like I was going to die so I turned to drugs, resurrection in the form of 15mg's and was on my feet in no time - or at least in anticipation of being back on my feet in no time. In the morning I had eaten some bizarre form of yogurt Haribos and that was it so I crossed the river and found a small Italian place with a table by the door...

I ordered house made penne with prawns in a lobster cream sauce and a small margherita pizza and a Warsteiner. Half-way through the beer I started to feel my guts, shooting - like all that I was going to be was coming to life. It would have happened without the drugs, sure...I just don't know to what extent, and I don't know how exhaustion would have played its hand. The night was too big to leave things up to chance so I didn't. By the time the food came, I was rolling and starving and all I wanted to do was devour it so I did. Incredible. One of the better meals I have ever had - absolute comfort. I was reading the map and memorizing the subways and squares and parks like a machine and the waitresses were softening to me because I am who I am. I started to ask them how to say things in German, maybe telling them I loved them for teaching me, for bringing me along, for giving me such incredible hospitality while all the while thinking I'm on drugs I'm on drugs I'm on drugs. They sat down at my table and we talked because it was slow and because I am who I am and I promised them I would return. Of course I would return. Of course I would never forget them. Of course. The more oncoming of the two told me I could walk to the O2 and that made me very excited, crossing town in 20 minutes while relying entirely on myself and my feet and my toes, knees, heart, eyes...my brewing fucking insanity.

The streets were cold. LA has thinned me in too many ways. My guts were pumping and I was thinking about all the small things it took to land me in this town - alarms to shuttles to flights to flights to hotels to maps to millions of things I wasn't even capable to comprehend. It was too much and there was still so much that would need to happen - like getting a ticket to the show I flew in to see. When I got there around 7, it happened quick. Face value from will call, floor - exactly and all I was looking for - something like 50 Euros. I told the will call girl that I loved her. She blushed.

I was standing about 4 rows from the gates when they, the band, came on. It's been a while since I took something in from the floor. The people surrounding were all German, everyone, naturally and surprisingly, and one out of every 3 was wearing a Muse T-shirt. Amazing! Concert T's and they didn't give a fuck about it or to know any better. Exactly where I wanted to be...right in the shit.

I can't really say what it was like. We all have a form of art that for a lack of better words simply speaks to us. These guys so simply speak to me...but with blazing force. The motherfuckers in the crowd surrounding me were crazy and rabid and I left the show wearing a jacket soaked with sweat. It was exactly what I came to see, exactly what I came to feel -- everything and then the drop in Cydonia to close. Every human should experience a moment like the one I caught before they die. I'd speak of it, but to speak of magic is to kill it. I'm certainly not here to do that.

Berlin...

I don't think I'll ever get tired of the feeling behind getting on a plane and falling into a daze for hours or days and waking up in a very different country in a very different part of the world. Last time I came to Germany, I remember it being somewhat scary and overwhelming. It was Munich for Oktoberfest and it was the second stop on my tour and it just felt so foreign. This time, the feeling is different, like I'm catching it in stride, like any town in the world I want to be mine can instantly become that. It's cold here, and drizzling, and the colors are beautiful, so fucking beautiful. I came to check into my room and my hands were so cold, I couldn't hold a pen...like that. It looks like this...

I haven't slept in days and my eyes are caving into my skull. I didn't sleep on the plane because I sat next to a Girl who is in town for a runway show - we picked her up in New York. I don't like to talk much on planes or in life, but we started talking and never really stopped. Beautiful girl. Model. Dark. Funny. Precious. She was on the plane with an entire staff of girls in town for the same show - flown in from New York. She was afraid of turbulence and for stretches, I wanted to kiss her or hold her hand because of it and for the sake of neither of us forgetting that flight. I didn't - can't assume the entire world behaves in the manner I do all the time. Instead, we agreed to meet at some place, at some point...out on this town. See what's what, fall for a couple hours or days or never see each other again. I prefer to make life behave in such a manner.

It's one or something in the afternoon here. I have to make my way over to the O2 at some point, or to some ticket broker at some point to get this Muse ticket. Of course I don't have it yet. I'm exhausted but fueled, oh so fucking fueled. I just spent the last 2 hours wandering the city on foot, waiting to stumble upon my hotel or the street of my hotel before I stopped to buy a map...so I've seen a lot. I don't care why I do the things I do anymore and have instead learned to accept them and myself. This city feels heavy to me, beautifully and romantically and tragically heavy and I'm floating through it. I need to sleep but I need to wander, I need to walk, I need to see what's out there. And when the legs start to give and there appears that tired ache behind my eyes and my beating heart tells me to stop to fucking stop to take a fucking breath, I compromise on something that looks something like this...

And press the fuck on.

Aha, A Letter From John Durban...

In the morning, sometime around 5, super shuttle is going to come and take me away to New York so that another airplane can take me to Berlin. Durban has been living in London for as long as I remember, and though he can be absent for good stretches of time, he does come back when due. His words, not as eloquent as mine, go something like this...

Burn - so Berlin, of all places when you come to my side of the world. I understand the obsession with Muse, they can kick, but the last time I was in Berlin, I think I got in a lot of trouble. I was in jail, maybe, and someone told me I was the devil's son before they told me to never return. Wherever I go, someone is always telling me to never return. It hasn't happened in a while, and I suppose they call this growing up, but I'm fucking sick of it so you better come with your hat on motherfucker. With your hat on.

I'm bringing a stack of books from Frey to Burroughs to Bukowski and enough lift me drugs to power though anything that days of deprived sleep and hours and hours of cross world flying can take out of me. And then of course, there's whatever JD decides to bring to town. Look out.

Floor to ceiling. We're gonna paint it.

Why Does Walt Make Me Want To Wear My Levis?

Wild Things...

No, not Neve Campbell pouring champagne across Denise Richards and giving me awakening. This was something else, that book from when we were kids or parents about a boy who wears pajamas and gets transported to this wild land with wild and amazing creatures. That. Holy shit, those creatures were amazing, maybe one of the most amazing things I've seen on screen in a long time - and the music was so great. Really. And I haven't walked out of a movie in a long, long time. I did for this one -- but it wasn't necessarily because of the movie - as I'm sure one day I'll learn to respect it. I don't know what kind of mood I'm in these days to make me do such a thing - but I just remember feeling like I was having an episode there in my seat as this world was unfolding and nothing was happening and all of this wild magic was going to waste. I read great books sometimes - books that someone has told me were great, epic, life-changing and I'll get through 100 pages if even that and drop it because if it hasn't connected, it won't. Movies, I don't ever play like that but last night was a different story. It was failing me and I don't know why. I kept on having these visions of riding down dirt trails going 100 miles per hour on a pedal bike and hitting a stump and flying over the handlebars and rolling and tumbling and smashing and destroying and wanting it like a mad craving. I wanted to leave the theater and get in a fight and not fight back and just get beat up. I was so still and have such intolerance for it. Sometimes, I don't know what to do.

In 5 days, I leave to go to Berlin. Maybe it's my body prepping to fly all day and night, twice to go to some new and live city and paint it like a motherfucker in a blitz of 3-4 days. Maybe I've been writing some vicious shit and it's starting to get to me. I don't know. Sometimes when my crazy leaves, I get bored and wish it back. When it's here, I'm not saying I wish it away, but it can be a lot. Timing isn't everything but it's a lot of things. I think I need to think about all of this.

Feel like a slacking dickbag...

Cause it's been a while and I've been working and fixing cars and riding bikes. Sometimes all it takes is to leave a post here after it's been a while to settle me because I'm hopelessly obsessive like that. Right now, I'm sitting alone at the century city AMC because I just saw Paranormal Activity with my LA family and now I'm wasting time waiting for the IMAX Where The Wild Things Are. I've biked at least 30 miles today because my transmission is fucked and after the movie I've got 12 more because I'm riding to Delancey to have a couple beers because I've always wanted to ride my bike to a bar...pick up some really beautiful girl I don't really want to sleep with and then get outside the bar and say something like I rode my bike will that be a problem?

My Thursday when the sun goes down. Blogged from an iPhone.

Christopher Lloyd...

Things tend to drag sometimes when I'm at work late in the afternoon when the bar clears out. Things slow down...I go off and fetch and restock everything we lost in the crush. It's slow...the time goes by slow...I count the minutes until 430 when I can actually escape. Today, I came back from the wine room with my arms full to see there was someone sitting alone at my bar. And I had a moment where I told myself something like, yeah I wish I was doing something else with my Monday Tuesday and Thursday afternoons...something not Mozza and more related to moving my pen or fingers to make words. All in due time. But anyway, my loner was this guy...

I've waited on everyone. Sometimes, it's funny to find out the few who actually faze. Something about this guy is so iconic to me. Maybe because he's an icon - I was rapping with him and I think I was thinking something like, well all things considered this might not be a terrible way to spend a slow hour at work, hanging with Doc...

I'm Not One To Plunder Unless Truly Moved...

Foran put this up. I'm stealing. We've all known this one to be coming for a long, long time. Gilliam seems to me pretty hit or miss and after Heath Ledger died, and I heard stories of Jude Law, Johnny Depp and Colin Farrell taking his place as the same actor in the same movie, I was hopefully optimistic. But come on. I immediately all but chalked it up as a fine farewell to a fine actor and began to prematurely appreciate the film for what it was - a miracle if they put something...anything together. Then I saw this...

And at some point, my easy sensibilities turned to hope...turned to something else entirely - left me wondering if this could possibly be something great, some form of terrible fortune masterpiece. Because the trailer cuts with an energy that says something close to exactly that. But it can't be, right? It has to be a bloody mess. Nothing can endure what this had to endure and make it out alive, right? I'm not so sure.

Getting Moving...

I was at work today when I got an e-mail that read:

R -

Send me the book. I'll check it out.

J

...

Before that, I was invited to write this person. My words read:

I can only imagine the battles you fought and the process of first getting published. I've never chased this and have never been anywhere near the NYC pipeline to even know how these things work. Maybe one of the agencies takes it on and sets me up with an editor that wants to take it on and we really start the fight. That's what I imagine, but there's no spine behind my imagination. I look at your work like this...the way I look at the work of true artists - that if for whatever reason, your stuff never made it out into the world, the world would have failed and become a lesser place for that failure. That sounds grandiose, I know...but I feel that way about my work - about my future work - that it's time for me to start my walk.

I needed to speak this to someone who understands. maybe you have some light to shed, maybe not. But know that I appreciate you allowing me to reach out.

Best,

Reilly Winburn

...

I had just carried a keg of Moretti through the kitchen, across the floor and to the back of the bar before I pulled out my phone to check how much time I had left to put in. His response was sitting there waiting for me. The man behind those few words is an author who I respect a great deal. I also now have to read and re-read some books because what an asshole I'd be if he finishes mine before I finish all of his - a man who has trampled the NY Times bestseller lists. I read somewhere that someone dubbed him the most important author of the last 20 years. I don't know about that...or anything...or if I would ever do what he's doing when I'm in his position. But I sent it, and I think all of this is what they call momentum. I don't really see it stopping anytime soon. I feel like I might be getting strapped into the ride...or at least finally at the front of the line. Here's to that.

Madison Reese: "Expect Something In The Mail Soon..."

Honestly Reese, if it's anything less than Gweneth Paltrow's head, I'm going to be severely disappointed.

I Just Started Thinking...

That when all three of these guys are gone, I am going to be terribly sad. Because new stuff like this will never come out again. And then I'll move somewhere far, far away and never come back. Just perfect.

It's Starting To Smell Like Renewed Adventure Around Here...

Saturday 3-Fer...

I showed up at the Grove sometime around 11, intent on making my Saturday a day at the movies. It's been a long time since there have been 3 movies released in the same weekend that I really wanted to see -- Invention of Lying, Zombieland and Whip It. Also, I have no problem spending 5 hours of a beautiful Los Angeles Saturday in the dark of the matinee. So, that's what I did, starting off with this one...

Part of the reason I was so inclined to participate in this binge was because two of my obsessions held starring roles, starting with Ricky Gervais. He is a unique, unique talent and actually co-directed this one too. I liked it...or especially parts of it. I find him fascinating - his performance, the direction of his voice. But unlike Ghost Town, I think you can wait for this one to come out on DVD.

Second up was Zombieland...

Excellent, awesome. Maybe the winner of the day. Jesse Eisenberg has been getting some press in here lately and I don't know how all these excellent roles are lining up for him to take (also Social Network), but they are...and he's killing them all. Love this guy. The rest of the cast is perfect, the movie is perfect for what it is. Absolutely see it. But the best moment of the movie happened in the opening credits. There's this intro to a world infested with flesh eating zombies and they're tearing people apart and blood and guts are spewing everywhere and I noticed this stumbling movement out of the corner of my eye. 3 people were already getting up to walk out...but here's the thing - they were a combined age of at least 230, walking sticks and traumatized looks and all. They walked right past me and I couldn't take it. I pulled my hood back and stood up, found eyes with anyone and everyone I could - some great witnessing moment. How the fuck did they end up at a matinee of Zombieland? And who gave them this recco? What did they think a movie called Zombieland was going to be about? How the fuck could they confuse the title Zombieland with anything else that is out right now? Amazing, I thought...and then of how much I wished for that moment I wasn't such a proud loner. One of my friends mentioned to me going in that this movie had one of the greatest cameos in the history of cameos. I was looking for it the whole time and when it came, I said the same thing to myself - hands down. Greatest ever. Hands down. It doesn't matter how much I build it up.

Last one was Whip It, starring my second obsession of the day - the wonderfully talented Ms. Ellen Page...

There are a couple actresses out there that I'll see in anything, because they make me feel like I've got a crush when I walk out. She's absolutely that to me...just holds it so tight. Good movie, good moments, flawless lead.

I walked out around 5 and it was cool and it felt like fall. I started to think of how little I miss summer, how I didn't want to be doing anything else anywhere else in the world. That's usually how I'm judging my life these days. Lately, it's been lining up fairly well. New SNL on tonight, I've got a new script that I think I might be excited to start writing...I mean really start writing (sorry TB). Sometimes, I feel like I want to fall in love for hours at a time, that it's the only thing that's missing. But I know better. Seriously, it would never work out.

Thom Yorke - Echoplex - 10/3/09...

I woke up this morning and went running for 210 minutes, early enough to make it back before noon to fight and claw the Ticketweb shitshow and snag 2 tickets for tonight's show. At least that was the plan. Of course, I didn't get my tickets and watched as they popped up all day on Craigslist and eBay from anywhere to 250-3000 dollars. I've been pinching lately, fighting to put away every dollar I can spare for my end of the month trip to Berlin. So, no matter how much I wanted to see the show, I wasn't going to pay more than 60 to see it. I couldn't.

I left my apartment around 730 to make the drive over to the East side. I parked and walked up Sunset and stopped at the back entrance to talk to security. They told me it was impossible, that there was no chance, that they couldn't even get their girlfriends in. I waited in line anyway. It looked like this from the "need tickets" side...

We watched as the hundreds - yes, barely hundreds filed in for about an hour and a half, two at a time. There were moments like the one where Zack de la Rocha walked by and I worried I was going to spend the night standing in line and not get in and miss his jumping up onto the stage for an encore and on my deathbed think I should have done more...whatever it took to make it in. But it never came to that. Once everyone was inside, they counted all who were left and let us through. When I stepped up to the front of the line, there was a girl talking to security and they weren't letting her in. In fact, they were escorting her out and she was saying something about not having any money and needing to get inside to get it, promising that she would come right back out but they were still taking her away. When she crossed me, I grabbed her arm and took her inside, paying her 20 and my 20. We were walking through the door and there was smoke and she was thanking me and Thom Yorke was singing over my shoulder and Flea was jumping around the stage when she broke down crying. We stood there. Then she said exactly and unraveling, it's been the worst day. Then she fell into me. I was holding her in the middle of that club and for a moment, I forgot who or where I was. Then I said something exactly like, baby girl it's okay...look around we're inside...what in the world could be wrong? She smiled. Thom Yorke was playing a room in Los Angeles. A fucking room. We were there.

So This Crazy Motherfucker...

Has been pouncing around town for a couple weeks now. This Sunday and Monday, he's playing at the very intimate Orpheum downtown. I didn't get tickets, instead, was too busy lining up my ducks to travel thousands of hours and countries away to see another band. Sometimes, that's just how things go. No sweat. In the meantime, something else came up, they're adding a show at the Echoplex tomorrow night - Friday. It's this little mashgroup that's going to run through Yorke's entire The Eraser that came out a couple years ago. It was one of the albums I had with me in South Africa, the unforgettable sort that included the then recently released Sam's Town. Quite a time in my life and that music was directly tied. Anyway, I'm trying not to think too much about the chances of racing battalions of LA hipsters. Not going to think too much about that. Or that this place is about the size of my fist. Not gonna think about that. But holy shit...for 20 bucks and a cross-town trip to Echo Park, to catch this crazy motherfucker...

Could be a solid friday night. Could be, could be.

Does Anyone Else Feel Like eHarmony Lee Beats The Hell Out Of His eHarmony Girlfriend...

Because I do.

Just Precious...

One of my girls who looks out for all things good just sent this link to me. So that band I'm chasing down in Germany booked this below Italian TV show to promote the release of their album which came out something like 10 days ago. Apparently, the show's producers demanded that the band lip sync their song for whatever reason...and then likely got very serious about it saying something like, don't you know who we are peasant band...we're an Italian TV show! At least I'm guessing that's what happened because when the band members playing on your show decide to swap instruments and positions before they "perform", you're not exactly holding a storm of clout. Douche.

My Empty Words Were Growing Far Too Tiresome...

I've been walking around lately telling people something exactly like, well I'm far too good looking and far too charming to ever pay for any lodging in any city outside the confines of Los Angeles. I only say this because it makes the burden of having little money less of a burden. My intolerance for stillness is absolute and I haven't done anything to bury it for a long, long time.

So I decided to do something about it. Last week, I bought a ticket to Germany to land in town the day Muse lands. The boys are playing at the O2 in Berlin on October 29th and I'm gonna crash it. You can only talk so much shit about taking off and chasing something in a faraway country for a weekend for so long until you become full of shit and I can't ever let that happen. Sometimes, I get stuck waiting for a boat to come in before I get out and do the things that move me in this world and I'm ashamed to admit that because it's cowardly. I can't ever let that happen again. I wont ever let that happen again.

Arctic Monkeys...

Berlin On My Mind...

Adventureland...

Great movie. And it's not because I spent the summer after my freshman year of college working at a Six Flags in Jackson, New Jersey. I lived in a company house with 8 other baseball players from all over the country. We'd have bonfires of garbage because nobody ever came to pick it up and rave dance parties with the European kids who came over to work for the summer. To get let in, I'd ask them to bring their free park passes, given to any employee after they accumulated a certain number of hours on the job. We'd get blacked out and fuck this house like you wouldn't believe. There was a Czech girl Ieva, beautiful blonde, who was always begging me to have sex with her...to save her from the arranged marriage that was waiting for her back home. I never did...told over over and over that I was in love with some faraway girl named Clark. One morning after a banner party, I stood outside the McDonalds by the park entrance, right off the highway and made 600 dollars selling the Euro kids' passes to suspicious Garden State natives.

So anyway, it's not because of that. Although if I ever did see any of those guys again, I feel like we could laugh for weeks. Like the Saturday we all went to Home Depot, fucking drunk, to buy axes and chop down healthy trees. Fucking weeks. Anyway, I adore this movie because Kristen Stewart and Jesse Eisenberg are excellent and because the sum is a cut above what I expected. If you're going to watch the movie, don't watch this...but this is perfect...

This One Too...

The great thing about concerts and YouTube is that when a band is playing a song and you wish you could take it with you and see it again...there is now always at least one asshole recording instead of watching. The first time I heard Bling I won't forget. See, Sam's Town came out right after I left to go travel Europe. My iPod had already been fully stocked and I couldn't add anything to it until I met my girlfriend and her computer in Africa. So, I ducked into this tiny internet cafe in Athens and streamed the entire album out of Pandora and just sat there for hours, literally. This song killed the first time through. A couple of my friends had gotten back to me through correspondence that Sam's Town wasn't great. After Hot Fuss, I know a lot of people jumped off. And maybe part of that gave me the head of steam I got going in, where everything just worked, but I absolutely believe Sam's Town is one of the greatest albums ever made. This was brilliant...and now I can have it back. Thank you dickhead section J row F seat 8392!

And to you, beautiful asshole in the front fucking row...

This Is The Sexiest Thing I've Seen In A Long Long Time...

Madison Reese Is Pissed!!!

Because I mentioned her so glancingly on my blog last night. Maybe because I didn't do her enough justice on my blog last night. See, since that first and introductory post, me and Reese have been going back and fourth talking about the beauty and shit of the world. And she wondered why I didn't tell the world of her insanity or edge. She's fucking batshit, no doubt. I mean, she has to be to have held me this long. She absolutely deserves more, and deserves to know that I absolutely will always treat her with delicacy - and not only because this all started because of our mutual love for me. I am amazing - and we absolutely celebrate that! But I digress...because she's a talent in her own right - even if she's hiding behind shadows and names. At the end of the day, aren't we all? I certainly fucking am. She'll send me quotes from Kerouac and tell me they reminded her of me...she'll call me out and tell me I'm a cunt (I think she's called me a cunt...or something like it) when I step out of line and behave poorly in the world. If she doesn't write or respond for a good stretch, I'll wonder what I did...such a child.

How bout some of the best of Madison Reese - some scared and brilliantly interesting girl's alter-ego. She says she can't behave like this in the real world, that it only comes through e-mails sent to me. Fucking shame. But anyway, here...we hold up the Reeses...

I do hate people like you that can just be done with someone after a hang up----I will never know why yall do that—PERSONAL STORY ALERT—less than a year ago I stole my best friends boyfriend—yes I am the dirty mistress--im too addicted to the people I once loved to ever give up on them---because I choose to remember the good times and block out the bad---probably why I get stepped on and hurt by the same people over and over---im always gripping into darkness for control and coming up empty handed followed by I dive into cookie cake or vodka and cigarettes---either/or its disgusting and very Bridget Jones-esque---sexy?? I always just want what I cant have---it’s the inner 5 yo in me –but I also wont settle for less (hopefully?) than some great love story---because I am that asshole that believes The Notebook, Tristan and Isolde, and now Twilight are real---oh the shame in admitting that! A boy once told me “life is a lot less romantic than you think and the longer you believe that it is the longer you will be alone.”

I'm going to call you out---its what I do...why do you say your ex is so crazy?? what makes her so crazy?? did she throw shit? manipulate you??? key your car?? Did she live passionately?? did she lie and cheat and steal??? do you love her just because she is still beautiful or do you love her because she was always changing always challenging?? making you think you were never quite good enough....but then just when you thought it wasn't possible she would whisper sweet nothings in post coital bliss and you would think "i cant believe she mine I cant believe she picked me----no one has ever loved this openly and honestly and freely"

Don’t you get it? I am jealous of you! Jealous that you put yourself out there and you fight for what you want and you don’t take no for an answer. I call you cocky-you are- but I think the better word is confident. True confidence-you back it up with hard work and precision you take the steps to succeed but you somehow don’t seem desperate-what’s your secret?? I guess you are a breath of fresh air-I know I come off as a fan or a love sick school girl or some sort of admirer but someone should tell you---really tell you- without wanting anything in return that you have the makings of someone great---an don’t the great ones die young anyway? I didn’t mean to tear down something so rare- honest uncensored thought- I just wanted a reaction- some attention from you and I didn’t know another way----guess my “master plan” worked? Because even if you do make me angry at least you make me something! Its almost tomorrow and you will be over this girl “Madison” because deep down I know you wonder who I am- who I could be. Maybe im your fairy godmother sent to you to help you along in your success to test you the way no one else does.

She thinks she would disappoint me if I ever met her...maybe because I project poison on here sometimes...maybe because that's my shadow. When she says that, I'm ashamed of it. Somewhat. And at the same time, I am poison, absolutely. Saying anything but that would be deceit.

She sent me a picture of herself late last night. To me, it's fascinating...this dance that's so unnecessary but that I'll probably turn into a television show someday. Regardless of how one chooses to look at this situation, Reese has absolutely become a part of my life. And like Bob Greene wrote in the Sun Times or Tribune after he answered my mother's plea to get her children tickets to The Bozo Show in Chicago -- this wont happen a second time. At some point in my life, I decided the noble thing to chase would be no mask - to throw it all out there and sink or swim, give the best and worst of myself and lose any attachment to the consequence. Reese ain't quite there. That's fine. Maybe it's better that way - she knows me enough to know this wont be some movie romance. She knows. Regardless of anything and everything else, I think this is beautiful...a picture of my crazy bitch penpal. The second she tells me to take it down, I will. Until then, ladies and gentlemen, let me introduce you to the wonderful, the beautiful (no matter what kind of self depricating shit she'll throw back at me), the motherfucking crazed Madison Reese...

The Killers - Hollywood Bowl - 9/16/09...

I said something crazy and true to my friend tonight, something like I mark my life through the shows I've seen, the amazing shows...the ones that turn my axis by degrees at a time and make me a little bit something else for having witnessed. Tonight was a little bit like that, no doubt.

I turned at another point and said something about Brandon Flowers that I've said many times...that motherfucker speaks to me - everything he says and does, the manner in which he behaves. I wrote him into my fucking book - actual Brandon Flowers into actual We Are The Dusk...because it felt valid as some form of tribute - to mark the times and to mark my soul. That. Mother. Fucker. Speaks. To. Me. When I meet him, I'll tell him. On the last song, he said something exactly like, okay...we are going to play this song as hard as we can - I hope you try and receive it as hard as you can. Fuck.

They played Dustland Fairytale and Sweet Talk...fucking Sweet Talk. Amazing. Sweet talk. I left with my boy and we grabbed some Thai and talked about the world and our night inside of it.

At some point, they played the cover of that band UB40's cover - which was Elvis, correct? - and he was singing something exactly like, I can't help falling in love with you. I wished I had someone to kiss...someone to make me mean it.

I haven't slept in days or so it feels.

Madison Reese is writing me right now. The Madison Reese. We've been trading blows for a month or two now. No idea who this girl is. She saw me on my birthday, a little more than a little tipped at Katy Perry and said nothing. Tonight, she told me she was going to find me at the Bowl and introduce herself or something like it. Never happened. There were 2 girls who thought they were coming with me tonight and I don't know what happened. I invent distance. I saw Hands lurking in the crowd and wanted to say hello. I texted her. I'm not sure what happened. I've been losing things lately. I've been drifting, working very had...very hard. My eyes are so heavy right now. That show was remarkable. I want to give chase. I want to give chase.

Muse - The Resistance...

It's been a long time since I took something up to Mulholland. Sometimes I wonder how many times I have left to take something up to Mulholland...like right now. I can think of nothing better to glide me through my winds and turns.

Got it. Go get it. The album. It's out right now. Go steal it. Or don't. I don't care. But if we're on the same page, I think you should. Feel like this is going to be a big week...

Things I Love On Sunday...

Bear Grylls...

Ellen Page...

The Life Aquatic...

Three Kings...

This was on AMC last night. I own in and have seen it quite a few times, but never found myself as impressed as I was this time with it. Absolutely fine. I've always liked Mark Wahlberg, I think he's got a vulnerable quality that's all his own - and it's the little scenes that show off what I'm talking about...but this one is absolute education in form...across the board.

Chan Marshall...

I am in love with. Been in love ever since I first heard her song. I was trying to explain this to the girl who was taking me to The Greek to see her tonight. Hadn't been to the Greek all summer - best venue I've ever known, just exquisite. Anyway, when she first waltzed out onto that stage and started that raspy soul sucking shit, I felt like I was falling into the floor. I wanted to meet her, tell her she wooed me, that she should be honored and that so few actually do. I felt like I was saying all of this out loud to my company - possibly foreshadowing lightly of what was to come between the two of us in real life. See, I had been seeing this girl long enough - or better...had enough of a connection and enough respect for her to know we had to talk. We were moving in separate directions and I could feel it. She was absolutely moving into the direction she should have been moving - towards me - and I was...well, standing still. I just wrote an e-mail saying something like, I've only gone on 4+ dates with 2 girls in the 5 years I've been in Los Angeles and loved both of them...before deleting it, as if it was supposed to be some form of consolation for my ending the night with words that led her into slamming my door and starting intentions of not behaving normally around me for the next 3 weeks. I was lucky to be with her. Absolutely and still...this is just how I behave.

I couldn't fuck her, just couldn't do it anymore. I couldn't kiss her anymore. I couldn't do anything that wasn't absolute truth - even if she wanted me to and was asking nothing of me but to be present...or so she said...or so we all say. Today, I wrote my manager and asked him why the fuck he hasn't sold my rapture yet. He said something like Labor Day and then asked me why I haven't written my next outline. Over the next 3 days, on a sweet binge and out of spite and as a loving fuck you, I'm going to write my entire next script and drop it in his god damn face. Tomorrow, after a good 5 weeks off from running, I'm meeting Billy Mac to go for a run, to breathe in the shit and soot of these forest fires and start my obsession again with getting my 26.2 under 3:11. Fuck the booze I've been drinking and the weakness I've been consuming. This thing has to be done, both of them and everything and I was trying to explain to her that this was all on my mind and invading and that the invasion is unstoppable and she said something like that's just an excuse...that's all an excuse. Then she tried to lump my behavior into everyone else's, knowing how much it would piss me off to conjure such make believe - to group me into the fucking masses when we all know better.

It's not me, it's you. All I want is to speak and can't...

There is no one for me to play with.

Thank You Lindsey Long...

I was out to dinner at Hirozen last night with a dear old friend of mine - not Lindsey Long. We did sushi Omakase and finished our 4th round on Sea Urchin - have you ever had this? Fucking yikes. Takes a brave palate. Anyway, this has nothing to do with the dinner and more about a conversation we had when we were sitting down and of an e-mail I got from my former African Queen (Lindsey Long) a couple days prior. See, I always had something of a loose understanding with my dinner companion that I would give him any scripts I wrote before I gave them to anyone else. The reasoning was two parts, I think. The first is that I am wildly talented. The second is that he was humoring me. So we get down to talking and I'm telling him about this book I wrote and the response that's been coming in and of the big names that may or may not be taking a look at it. Then, I came out and told him the secret behind it - that isn't much of a secret but could definitely spin one's head if one would so allow...and he fucking turned on me. He dropped a word like juvenile and began to create these sticky scenarios of my flying to New York and going into meetings and the problems that would ensue and I started laughing and actually asked him if he was serious before getting serious and saying exactly - you haven't even read a page...you haven't even looked at it. He was really worked up and I was laughing in my head, asking myself if he was creatively bipolar and thinking back to the random e-mail Lindsey had so recently sent me that went something like this and by a guy called Kurt Vonnegut...

Any reviewer who expresses rage and loathing for a novel is preposterous. He or she is like a person who has put on full armor and attacked a hot fudge sundae.

When I managed to settle the dust, we agreed on the fact - which is pretty absolute - that a novel is either good or it isn't good...and that someone will either want to publish it or they won't want to publish it...and that I am absolutely fine with that, confident with that. This morning, I was thinking back to the encounter...still marveling in it a little bit. I thought if I could count on one slam dunk person to be in my corner, it would have been him. Not quite. Let me stress again - not one page read. This morning, I'm thinking he must've had a really tough time when he found out Santa Claus (or the religious equivalent) was a fake...and the tooth fairy...and the Easter Bunny...and Cinderella, Snow White, Pinocchio, God...

It's not my job to win world...just to be relevant in it.

Hemingway on Fitzgerald...

I was having lunch with Hands a couple weeks ago and well documented and she told me that I should read Hem's "A Moveable Feast." I forgot her reasoning, though it at the time seemed fairly profound. Also, I'm easily wooed by extraordinarily beautiful women who have previously wrecked me so of course I agreed. Eh, I drifted through the first 150 or so pages today, sometimes forgetting about what I was reading or thinking terrible things with all due respect like, I can slaughter this, when I came across a chapter titled Scott Fitzgerald...and the following passage...

His talent was as natural as the pattern that was made by the dust on a butterfly's wings. At one time he understood it no more than a butterfly did and he did not know when it was brushed or marred. Later, he became conscious of his damaged wings and of their construction and he learned to think and could not fly any more because the love of flight was gone and he could only remember when it had been effortless.

It was worth the book...and the 40 that followed. Fuck. Talent on talent.

Time Bandits...

Every night on Tuesday night, me and some people get together and have a movie night. We rotate the venue across this fine town and take turns cooking/hosting. Last night was at my friend Steven's place in Santa Monica. He showed this...

I had to show up a little late and came in about halfway through. Crazy, crazy fucking movie. I couldn't stop thinking about it the whole time, about the dozens and dozens of times I had watched it as a young pup. This was absolutely one of the staples of my childhood diet. And I feel like any imagination I have or am capable of stems back to this movie...at least has to give it a nod. Just amazing. This previous clip is the ending - and that doesn't ruin anything - before we drift away and up and get a title card. Insane...and that's nothing. Fucking Gilliam.

The Rat...

Somewhere on a come and gone road, I heard this song that fell into me...and maybe I heard it a couple more times before I forgot about it before I later tried to recall it and failed. I always remembered it was vicious and had this drop in the middle that went something like, when I used to go out I knew everyone I saw...now I go out alone if I go out at all. That was all I remembered and remember being tremendously affected by its 4 minutes. Recently, I've been cruising Pitchfork's top 500 songs of the 2000's and have been grabbing bunches of them I somehow missed. Today, fucking hungover and having not slept, slung out on the couch of this penthouse I'm staying, the song started playing - the song I've been scouring for. Oh, and it bent me over and shot me full and I'm bouncing, fucking bouncing, blowing out the speakers lining the halls and walls of this fortress. Amazing. The Walkmen. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.

28th...

I passed the organizers on the way out and said something like I couldn't have imagined it better. That good. Great night. I am lucky. I am fortunate. I am fucking drunk and have to teach a sold out 9am spin class. I'm a fucking soldier.

I've Got Something Of A Feeling...

It's gonna be one of those nights...

The world aligns. If you don't hear from me again, speak of me well. Birthday.

I Don't Understand...

Why a guy can't have a staggeringly good 5 course dinner cooked for him at a girls house he absolutely likes and has made this known - at least to the extent he is capable - with a playlist of music and menu that has been shaped to his exact taste, before he then beds that girl, before he then tells her he hasn't slept the entire week and that waking up somewhere not at home, where he can't immediately begin to tackle the world in the morning would leave him feeling so obtuse it would rattle his fucking skull...and not get crushed or feel like he's not getting crushed for saying he can't stay the night.

I'm aware. Still, when will things ever be okay?

Le Dodge a Trois...

How I miss you so...

Arctic Monkeys...

New album came out yesterday. These guys are an interesting lot. Love their stuff - very smashmouth and subtly crushing. The lead Mr. Turner is the kind of songman who makes me wish he'd write a book.

They're coming back to the Palladium in a couple of weeks and I'm planning on catching them. Caught them there maybe 2 years ago from the floor - really the only place to catch anyone at the Palladium - great venue by the way...and they had an energy I really respected and only remember seeing outdone by one other show - Arcade Fire, where I felt like they were actually a little upset at me for showing up, for coming to see them, to force them into ripping through 18 or so of their songs before slipping away.

Love this one...

Channeling Keanu...

I saw this again for the first time in a long time last week. Amazingly terrible...and Busey at his finest. Maybe I was inspired.

Today, I woke up at 645 to make the drive 22 or so miles into Malibu on the PCH, because I'd been living in California for close to 5 years and never once gave it a shot.


Got up once and bit it, spent most of the time on my knees but made it work. I was paddling out with my buddy about halfway in, when I told him I had an awful headache...that I had felt like I needed to throw up constantly for the past hour and he said something very casual like, sometimes your body has to get used to the bacteria in the water. When I got out after 3 hours, I almost fainted...like, had to catch my balance from a knee. Not sure from what. Killed it. Next up...Swayze.

70,446...

And every single word that survived survived a fucking war. I don't know what I feel right now. I wrote Durban and he said he didn't know what to say, only that he felt light and that if he felt light, that I should allow myself the same. Today, I did the last 4,000 words. I don't know what I feel right now, only that I'm spinning. The last thing he asked me was if he could tell people what it was going to be called...as if he had to get permission from me - something he claimed I earlier wouldn't allow. I don't remember this, but I suppose it is something I would say. I told him to go tell the world...

We Are The Dusk.

Fanboy...

I find myself continuously returning to Wembley on here or on empty nights or when I feel like a posting slacker...because it's not only brilliantly produced, but to me, it strikes as the finest live performance in the history of the world - and that's me trying not to sound as dramatic as I instinctually should.

The new album is about a month away - and the tour follows. I have these grand plans of working my ass off all of September to make an extra 1500 to blow it flying to Berlin to see a show on October 29th. You can pre-order their coming album on I-Tunes for the release date of September 15th and read the track list, 11 songs, ending with three called Exogenesis: Symphony Part 1, Exogenesis: Symphony Part 2, and Exogenesis: Symphony Part 3. I read grandeur like that and feel so inspired, I want to cry. When I hear them, I probably will. Because I'm like that, and fucking proud.

Wow Clement, Wow Rockwell...

Excerpt #6 - Seville...

8,000 words to go. I finished what I set out to do, wrote this book with John Durban a good bit ago, knowing a deep, deep draft was going to have to take place before reads could happen. I didn't know how long that deep draft would take, but after 6 weeks of bleeding my face across every passage, pulling and piecing and perfecting, it's right there. I'm finding myself lately in a state of reflection, knowing everything me and Durban set out to do and say is about to leave us for good...and I don't yet know how I feel about that. But it is a good feeling. It's a really good feeling. Light. I've been beginning my last bit of research before I go out and try to get this thing published - I need to find the feminine hand of a true artist, fool-hearted like me and D, capable of sentimental and unforgettable charcoal sketches that will ultimately map our tale. I mentioned this to Durban and he said he knew someone exactly who had a studio in Notting Hill and that he was going to talk to her. Two days later, he sent me an e-mail about their meeting, saying she was absolutely perfect for the job before sending me samples. They were incredible. Absolutely perfect. He told her we were already published - or that we had a deal, which was a lie - and she gave him a quote of 85,000 (Fucking Pounds) for 10 sketches...which he then negotiated down to 72,500, before putting her on hold. Fucking Durban. I suppose we're not quite there yet. Anyway, back to Durban. This is the beauty of a home stretch, I don't want it to end...

Several years ago, on one of my stops in Paris, I befriended a chef named Maurice. For 40 straight nights, I ate in his restaurant and he sent me everything in this world that could possibly be eaten…some of it inedible. That’s where I got my true culinary education, from Chef Mo. For that stretch and then continuing in life, I became his greatest admirer and critic and sounding board. He worked with fierceness and owned this dedication that were both at the time, so unknown to me. We became friends and stayed remotely in touch. When he decided on opening up his own place back home in Seville, a place that would immediately fuck the map of world culinary excellence, I asked if I could study under him. He said yes. I moved to Seville.

I told him right away I wasn’t interested in getting paid and he said something like, are you crazy…I wasn’t going to fucking pay you John. We agreed on the word apprenticeship, because I liked the way it sounded, and I painted him with lines like, your presence and knowledge alone is richness to me. No one is immune to praise, least of all proud Spaniards. I spent my days following him around from morning to night, 6 days a week and sleeping 20 hours on Sundays, writing after I had finished a shift in the kitchen and a few cocktails, powering through exhaustion so heavy, I thought it possible I might die from it. At one point, Mo asked me if I was trying to be like Hemingway. I told him yes…or that I was at one point but not anymore. When we were together, cooking was the only art. I wanted to be an artist to Mo, to stretch and struggle and suffer for something that was new and beautiful to me. It moved him when I spoke of the one thing he truly loved in this manner. Now that my days were nearing their end, I began to cycle out sleep…sometimes awake until 4 in the morning before sleeping for an hour before running for two before meeting Mo at the markets at 7. I learned how to pick fruits and vegetables, to sift and be discriminate in finding the night’s perfect proteins. He taught me to revere our time at the markets, saying something like, what happens here paves the way for what happens there (pointing to his restaurant)…if you fuck up here, you’re fucked back there…even I can’t rescue a dickhead haul do you understand? The market was his church, his survival, his livelihood and he treated every vendor as his deity. I’d watch him move through the bouquets of goods like a dancer, all elegance and intensity, listening to the food because I swear it spoke to him. He was loved by some and loathed by others…respected by all, a knight of the court before us and I was his squire, content just to hold the horse.

Ladies And Gentlemen I Present To You The Hands Of A Girl I Once Loved...

I hadn't seen them in over a year, or spoken to the mouth above them in over a year because things didn't end so pretty for the two of us. There was a point in the relationship - which by world standards was brief, and she was quick to point this out - where I fell for something I originally promised not to fall for. Soon after, we fell out and I spent the next 2-4 months dealing with the sort of things someone deals with when these things happen. It was a fine period in my life, and if one were so inclined, they could literally go back on here, back to last July until November and see the process of my driving a speeding car, seatbelt off and knives pointing out from the steering wheel, straight into a brick wall. I haven't looked back, but someday I will...and I'll thank her in a note, saying something like, thank you...you amazing bitch...thank you.

I sat down and we talked about the things we were chasing, the worlds we were occupying and the people we were fucking. Right away she said something like okay we're going to talk about that and then we're going to talk about how crazy you are. Then she smiled. From that smile on, within moments of my sitting down, everything was light and easy, the way it should be...the way it should have been but never could have been until today. We talked about my faults and hers, taking turns calling out and then defending each other, trading apologies and inabilities we both hoped to one day separately conquer. We sat there for close to 2 hours and she held me that entire time, and I never once worried about the thousand things I had to do or the thousand and one worlds I had to conquer. I was there and could have stayed there forever, honestly...that kind of girl.

When she got up to go to the bathroom, I found myself thinking back to times long ago, back to a brief stretch when we were wild about each other. I remember telling her I thought she was rarity, that she stood me up like no one I had ever experienced, that no matter what happened...even if things got bad between us...we had to fight to keep a friendly fragment of what we had intact...and not just because I thought I might always want to bed this girl. Then I remembered another conversation that went something like, when this ends it's gonna end bad, before we laughed about it and fucking dared each other to break it off...constantly. We were madly wrong and right for each other - a total floating disaster, covered in gasoline, pissing on an open flame.

One year and change later, today, we were walking to our cars on the sidewalk of Highland. She said she was sorry that I got hurt, that she cried too for the same reasons, my getting hurt, and I told her to stop. I didn't know what we were apologizing for...the shit we're made of that made us fall, then fall apart - the shit that allowed us as strangers to spit fire and laughter for two hours at some coffee shop in Hollywood - the shit that's going to carry us with grace through the remains of our lives? Fuck that. I'm sorry it took us a year to speak, sure, but I'm not sorry that I flipped out and picked a raw fight and she's not sorry that she responded by hanging me out...and we both admitted this and then laughed about it. That was us...we're still all that. If we weren't all those things, we never would have known any of this. I'll take that. I think she would too.

Excerpt #5 - Las Vegas...

Mine not Durban's. Spoilers everywhere, but you gotta be on it...

My Mother...

I've always had the sort of parents that have been game for anything. When I showed up with my first tattoo as a 12 year old, they said okay. The first time I was arrested, they said okay (not so much on the subsequent and escalating ones). When I wanted to play baseball for a living, they said okay. When I wanted to move to Hollywood and try to write movies and later books and television shows for a living, they said okay. When I packed my bags and left to blindly tour the world, they said okay. We've always had something of an understanding that life was mine and that I could do with it what I wanted. Amazing concept - I don't think everyone grows up with. Anyway, I talk a lot of shit on here and in life about my personal pursuits and recently, my old man (who is actually closer to 22) asked if I'd send him a copy of the Eastbound and Down I wrote. I sent it about a week ago and knew he printed it up and that it was sitting somewhere in my Lake Forest home when I got this text from my mother today, quoting...

"Only pussies, assholes and/or fags off themselves with pills."

How lucky can one guy be? Honestly.

Muse...

I was absolutely planning on going into Tower Bar to see my old friend Dimitri tonight. Now I'm occupied, can't stop listening to this...

This Fall is going to be something else. A couple years ago, it felt like everyone was lining up and dropping at the same time. Within the next 2 months, Modest Mouse, Arcade Fire, Arctic Monkeys, MGMT and Vampire Weekend (both not quite in the company yet) and most importantly Muse all have new stuff coming. My deities are returning. I will say again what I have said a thousand times in this limited life -- this is the finest band that has ever walked the earth. Take me away Bellamy. Take me away...

MGMT...

I had never seen this video until today. Sometimes, I feel like there's nothing that sneaks by. Imagine the surprise. Why do I feel like it was maybe banned in parts of the world?