Barcelona...

Her majesty is beautiful...this city of Spain. Queen Barcelona. She stretches high above any these eyes have yet seen in this month of travel. Trying to wrap it all up here, now, is utterly daunting. I´m not going to do that.

Yesterday, I was walking back from a day spent at the beach...through the main park, past the Barcelona Zoo. There was a child with his mother. I saw it in his eyes, the utter ecstasy only a child can produce. The great and rare animals of the world, all wrapped up in an afternoon, all in his backyard. Doubting the courier of good fate would even think to deliver anything else, he saw it...a spore ball on the ground. Suddenly, impossible spun possible...and his day was about to get even better. At least so he thought...

His mother told him to leave it be...which he refused. And turning himself around, he threw it up into the air just as the wind changed direction, unloading millions of lung clogging parasites into his fragile little body.

He maneuvered evasively but it was too late. He was already chagging...and violently. If a sneeze, choke and gague could meet and have furious sex...this boy was its father. His mother rolled her eyes in a, "You should have listened. Now, you will die because of your reckless insistence...just like your father."

Of course, she said this in Catalan.

When I laughed out loud she turned, caught me with a stare so dirty, I had to check and make sure I wasn´t made of stone. Then the guilt hit...laughing at this poor, helpless child and his lone moment of misforture on what would have otherwise been a perfect, shiny and happy day. Guilt...realization that I lack compassion, heart. Guilt...fear of the animal I´m becoming. Guilt...it wasn´t so long ago that I was considered in some circles to be a decent man...

Guilt...but really, only cause she caught me.

Hilarious.

Dublin...

I said it with tonal tragedy, trying to explain my initial impression of Dublin...of Ireland. If there's a foreign land that holds my ancestral claim more than any other, this is it...

And wrapping the first day, looking out from the top floor of the Guinness Factory, I felt I'd seen it all. Everything...and it was heartbreaking. I walked home across frigid streets, quickly recalled that time of year and geographic location make for ever-changing climates across the world...

That's when I saw it. Across the street, a small Irish pizzeria...a little wooden sign over the door...

"Steve's - Probably the Best Pizza in Dublin." Now, certainly, I had seen it all.

I took an Ad class or two in college...and though I likely attended something in the ballpark of 8% of the lectures, I fail to recall the comparable bullet point: There is nothing like the Siren Song of indecision and professional insecurity to lure the undecided into your business or establishment.

...

Yesterday, I took a train through the heart of the country and ended up in Galway, a city on the western coast...and it was swell. Swell, I suppose. I walked through town, bought a .35 Euro, "cheat without cheating" McDonald's vanilla ice cream cone(That's what happens on birthdays - you get quoted). Then, I bought a bag of mixed fruit and nuts from a whole foods shop and wandered as far as I could wander...which turned out to be nowhere. Just as my legs loosened, the town ended. There were no bikes to ride the endless coasts...no cliff tours free of hassle. The day faded into a consolation of satisfaction as if seeing both coasts cleared me of the ignorance of not giving this country a fair chance.

I boarded the train for Dublin at the always fateful 6:30, long after my impossible expectations had faded away. And it was immediate, pulling out of the station, the look of Galway Bay...exactly what I had been searching for. Sunset. That ceaselessly stunning paint of perfection stretching across the bogs and channels. The lush, stretching green surrounded by stone fences and rolling hills that I didn't quite catch the first time through. Every moment in that hour, until the sun went down, I found satisfaction, then disappointment...what else was out there? What else was I missing? Quickly though, I decided not to push luck. To salvage this mind is not an easy trick to turn.

...

On my way home, with a thirst to intoxicate freshly inspired, I ventured into the land of Temple Bar. After discovering an inability at the first stop(Madigan's...maybe) to decipher even a syllable of the English genuine Paddy's speak, I moved onto The Temple Bar...in Temple Bar.

When I walked in, it was full. When I walked out, drunks were spilling out its ears. I give attribution to the two man band. The lead singer was immediately named Ricky Gervais. His side wizard of a string-plucker took a lap of thought before I settled in on Soafl Sodef - Strung out and fossilized lead singer of Def Leppard...

Obviously.

And they were most-licious...with an advanced and impressive understanding of how to assault a multi-generational crowd with a near perfect playlist. Sandwich a 4-song Police medley between Mrs. Robinson and Losing My Religion...while whipping out the baby gii-tar...and watch the asses of a nowhere near sober or docile crowd light on fire.

I stood in the back, eyes peering over the heads of the less genetically blessed and became caught in the moment. With a likely gallon of Guinness down and destructing, finally...I got it.

Dublin, Ireland.

Brussels...

I must have fallen asleep without knowing it, knowing better than to fall asleep in the corridor of a 24 hour parking garage at 2:45 in the morning...but I did, nonetheless.

He was about a body's length away, swishing his shoes against the ground as he walked...a man I instantly and subconsciously named, Holy Shit. I leapt to my feet, drowsy, trying to figure from which side the shank strike would come. It didn't. Instead, he pulled a cigarette, lit it with shaking hands.

"Fucking cold out there, man."

Yeah, it certainly was. And not just cold, but angry. Every room save the 500 Euro suites at the Meridian were full. In most cities, the major train stations are open all night. I've found, as I did in Munich, that though they have some glaring holes in terms of accommodative quality, they more than suffice as a means to burn off hours waiting to jump ship to a new city.

Well, in Brussels...they close. And in Brussels, I found myself wandering, trying to find remotely safe places to read or write through the early hours of a new day...

Which delivers us to the point from which we began. I quickly discovered the impossibility of reading through an entire night on determination alone. It takes fear...and a compilation of such I would soon meet. I pulled a dip on Holy Shit, still reeling, and emerged from the parking garage into the face of a fight. Usually, I would stay and watch...pick the underdog and secretly root. But this was too much. After all, I had had no time for collection. It was delirium...then a flurry of blows, one after another.

My eyes shot through the scene, tried to settle mind on the next move when I noticed lights on top of their cars. Cabbies, crazed cabbies. They weren't drunk or drugged...at least that much credit I'll partially give. Finally, a moment of ease. Their confrontation faded after a punchless tussle over the cons of interplanetary warfare(likely, do I speak like I speak Belkriesch?). Soon after, Holy Shit emerged from my nest. I watched as he walked into a nearby park, took a piss and continued his pilgrimage(again, likely). I walked back into the tunnel, took a cold seat on the tiled ground and read and spilled ink for the next four hours.

...

The next day...or later that day, depending on your consideration, I found hell on Earth. Charleroi Airport. They call it Brussels south, which would be like calling yourself 100 pounds when you actually tip scale at 145...as if you could somehow justify that as a round down.

Thinking I could get an earlier flight out of town, I showed up 12 hours early...and would end up sitting there for 12 hours as the cattle calls of cheap flight fliers stormed through the terminal. Sometimes, for half hours at a time, I would drop head on my backpack and fall asleep. When I would wake up with knowing and glaring impressions across my face, I would stare at stare-ers with eyes, "What? I was born with this you inconside...find a mirror, YOU made THAT." I was steamed. It didn't matter that the airport music was pulled from the John Hughes' greatest hits soundtrack...however the fuck that came to be. I'd had enough of Belgium, this sweet country and experience I knowingly elected to turn on its head...again. Yes, the re-appearing themes here are glaring.

When the ticket agent stepped to the podium, the masses erupted. If ever you want to create lawlessness, simply don't assign seats to passengers. It was a perfect portrait of this place...Hell on Earth, yet on this day, it didn't even begin to scratch surface.

I gave in, stepped up. And in that unexpected moment where I joined the ranks of anarchy, I was saved. Saved by Sinead O'Connor...

"It's been so lonely without you here. Since you took your love away. Ah, Ah, Ah, Ah, Ah..."

I closed my eyes and imagined, against the dark backdrop of her video...singing with Sinead. Nothing compares to me, Sinead? I know this. She would sing to me and I her. We would share notes and she would, at first, think it adorable...my insistence to play with her bald head. Midway through the second verse, she would grow angry and storm off the set. I would be left there with no Sinead...the lights shining down...the cameras still rolling...the-

I opened my eyes. Window seat. One of the last ones on the plane. Flight attendants, prepare for takeoff...

Time to move me the fuck on.

Brugge...

Rented a bike the other day, rode it from the city to the North Sea. Took a left when I hit Zebrugge and headed along the coast until I found an empty beach. More specifically, until I found vast emptiness where past armies landed, scattered feet through sand with dreams of home and victory, hope and love...fears of battle and death, which day would be their last.

The beach was endless. I stood on the boardwalk, far from the sea and decided it would be a decision of poor standing and ill fate to not walk out, soak my content and dry feet. 600 long paces from the boardwalk, I reached the water, accomplished my symbolic gesture...stood and admired...and went on my way.

Rolled back into Brugge after riding through the Belgian country all day...anywhere from 40-60 miles, I imagine. I stepped off, noticed for the first time that the pedals were tilted down at an angle...very not straight. Following the next logical step in preserving the anatomical balance of the rider, I checked out my problematic left knee. It was perfectly fine...all save the mysterious bone to the left of my kneecap that was gallantly trying to push its way through skin. Ill protrusion, it's the only way I could describe it. I thought back to my childhood, there was only one way to fix this...and it would have to come under the tutelage of Suzanne Sommers. I hobbled back to my room, salty over my subconscious insistence to ignore any and all pain as a form of warning sign. I sat on the ground, lined my ankles up with the posts of the iron bunks and squeezed that motherfucker until the muscles on the insides of my legs began to cramp. The next day, I ran painlessly (Automatic for the People) along the parks surrounding the city, thinking the entire time...how can one man be so instinctively perfect?

...

Brugge is a not so secret gem tucked in the Northwest region of Belgium. The beer is good enough to make you shudder, the chocolate is good enough to...well, dirty, messy things.

Every corner I turn, I wait to find Gene Wilder or the original, moppy haired Charlie Bucket. I don't know where Wonka's factory is, but I've been asking geese the ENTIRE time I've been here. That much I assure.

Sometimes, I try to judge a city's hold by asking if I'll ever come back. My reply last night was that I would return in my golden-er years. The kind of place I'll come to sit back, think of the man I used to be...dream of a life beginning with the woman who accepted my ring some 30 years prior.

Amsterdam...

Slept off another sleepless night upon arrival, eventually staggering out of my room around 5. I walked the streets, smoke, smoke pouring from every window, from every car, off every passing bike. And though I paint it as such, the one thing that initially swooned me about this city is that although everyone gets high...and almost all the time, not EVERYONE does.

Uninspired and groggy, I stopped the first day at a skate park on Marnixstraat. It was about 10 blocks from the room I was staying. Around 5 when I first sat down, the scene was fairly unimpressive. Each skater took their unspoken turn dropping into the hollow pool. Some would take screeching dives, others would emerge unscathed. A bike would pass, stop. Tourists would stop, take pictures...watch a few rounds and move on. The initial skater who stole my stare was a youngin...probably in the vicinity of 11 or 12. It's not that he stood out or had any especially blinding talents. Actually, he did the same fucking thing every time he dropped in. Not to mention, he was the only one there toting a full suit of armor. It was probably part of the deal his parents gave in on...to hang out with the "burn-outs" and "drifters," a compromise would have to be met. So, he skated with the big boys on Saturday afternoons...and fearlessly. Or, ignorantly. Though his actions likely fall to the latter side of the fence, you could certainly argue that each is bliss. Since I watched him for a good while, I am. You should.

I sat on the steps for a little over an hour, looked up, noticed that the sun was beginning to grow weak. That beautiful painting, catching my stare for an uncertain amount of time. When I looked back down to the pool, the dynamics had spun face. As a glow set over the city, this city of vampires came to life...and the big boys rolled onto the scene. With them, hundreds lined the pool, filled its emptiness with their adrenaline. They had speed, skills and style that buried earlier comrades. The grinds slid farther, the jumps soared higher, the crowd cracked louder.

I put "Moonlight Sonata" on repeat in my head, got up...stood beside the pool. It was right about the time a miniature Shawn White arrived. When I say miniature, I'm speaking for all 5'1 of him. He was the cream. And as skaters dropped into the pool, as some flew off the perches from which this stage was set, he would shadow their moves...this beautiful and poetic dance. They would flash around the base of the pool, like watching a bull fighter with minority hope he'll get mauled. And as they emerged, to the roar of the crowd, I cut my music and path...walked away.

...

The place I found to lay my head was a last resort. Because again, it was impossible coming in on a Saturday...finding a room. But this mistake, "My Home Hotel" will undoubtedly go down as the most memorable. The lobby was outstretched on the second floor with a window and balcony looking down on the streets below. There was a TV that usually ran Dutch gameshows or K1 fights...but one night, a Rolling Stones concert...

How is it possible they are in their prime, now?

The stereo played through a constant attack of classic American rock pulled from a towering stack of CD's. How retro? Every morning, Mark, the owner would cook breakfast and announce my entrance, "Ryan, savior of the free world."

I corrected him on neither...

Prague 2...

Standing at the base of the astounding architectural wonder that marks the entrance to my section of town, Prague 3, I couldn't help but wonder if I'd had 3-7 drinks too many. It was a monster of a tower, stretching high into the air...lit blue and red along an off-chute that looked to be a pricey dining establishment. I'm guessing it was the final phase of construction, the cherry on top, that spun my mind. Giant babies...at least a half dozen of them, all with vagina faces, scaling the tower with what I could only presume to be a fearless tenacity?

And where were their mothers?

...

I began running this morning in considerable pain. My left knee...the one I spun off 10 to 20 thousand times too many in a previous life, wasn't having any of this marathon training "bull shit." Every lift felt as if inseparable joints were coming apart. I tried side stepping, back peddling, high knee-ing, ass kicking...no avail. The music was all I had to lean on. A delicate batch made for and named after a girl called Lindsey who I burned the CD for back in the real world. 16 songs of perfection to smuggle into the afterlife...else find doom at the hands of an eternal purgatory of let down.

Yes, that good.

But my knee ceases to become forgetful and all I can tell myself is that this is the moment the rest of the world breaks down, turns back.

Ahead, just before the first tear fell, my road veered left. And to the right...a nothing road straight into the forest. I ran through the dense bushes, stumbled on a thick tree root before re-gaining balance. From this point, I had a 9 inch wide dirt path with which to operate my footing. Between careful steps, I remember thinking that it was in these very woods that Hansel was sodomized by the wolf...or that just beyond the clearing, I'll certainly find the house where Little Red Riding Hood had her first taste of girl on girl action with the snub nosed witch.

I pushed through the pain - as the thick forest buried me...as the sun fought trees to reach spots of my desperate face...as the darkening leaves fell around my suddenly gliding footsteps...as the drop on Cat Stevens' "Father and Son" kicked in...

The pain escaped. And in that moment, I left a different breed of tear behind.

...

In 11 hours, I leave town...aware again, my propensity for self destruction.

But I was sitting in the lobby today, reading in a serene corner - American Psycho. Patrick Bateman had just cut open a Sharpei and proceeded to "randomly stab" the owner in "the face and head" before "running down Broadway, then up Broadway, then down again, screaming like a banshee, coat open, flying out like some sort of cape."

I looked up and laughed, found eyes with the only other girl in the room as if, "Did you just read that?"

No. Her literary choice, the King James Bible, made me certain that one of us was potentially seriously being misled...

And I'll certainly pray for her. If I can remember, that is.

Prague...

Hopped the wrong train due for the Czech Rep early two mornings passed. I had spent the night in the Munich Train station sleeping against the concrete, hiding under my sleeping bag and murdering time with discreet mercy before the 6:45 train came. It was cold and miserable, stirred exponentially every 3 minutes by a drunken wanderer hailing from Oktoberfest.

At 5:20, I walked to the far platform, 24. It was leaving for Prague at 6:45 and would certainly be an ample and warm place to shut eyes. And it was until 5:45...right up until the moment it undoubtedly departed for destination code name: Secret American Death Camp. I ran to a Corky looking fellow responsible for punching tickets. He told me the name of a station I couldn't understand along with a vague time. Then, he punched my ticket with a suspicious "Good Luck."

Know...I would have left marks on Fuckbag's face had the same tonal choices been made in the red white and blue.

I jumped trains at station Bieksblargistenburg, 20 minutes ahead of the train due for Prague...the one I should have been on. It happened to be stopping one track from where I stood. Oh, R Smith...

...

Woke up today around 11, feeling no ill affects from a night of Urquell and Absinthe...which a waiter free-based for us at dinner. I realized the only remaining scar tissue came in the form of Czechs trying to karaoke Sinatra...but I powered through it with help from a bowl of Czech Cocoa Puffs, compliments of the Maribou Hostel.

After dinner, I went for a 2 album run...Muse's Black Holes and Revelations and Sigur Ros' Takk. It took me through the city...across its castles, parks, cathedrals, bridges. About 7 miles in, I was backpedaling away from the great Prague Castle wondering if it would be appropriate to stop and take a closer look. And though it probably was...I didn't, opting instead to press on.

The run cleared me. It cleared all the shit that came pouring in...standing on a bridge in Munich, my body taking the rain, waiting to leave town. The sweetness of constantly finding a pearl of comfort before abandoning it...and then the vicious cycle of doing it all over again for the next 6 weeks.

Europe has been cold, dark and heavy in the eternity that has been the last three days. As I stepped out of the hostel and began to walk into town, the fixing glow that had been hiding...the beauty of a fading day resided high above this city of stolen wind. I picked up a pack of Haribo Kinder Schnuller and walked...and walked...and walked. And inside, somewhere...I knew that smile and laugh had returned...settled again in a new and distant city, with that evading pearl residing somewhere on my being for no less than three days.

Munich...

I stepped off the overnight train from Paris like a shot and ailing bandit, sharing steps with my new friend, Spanish Kitchen. Since pronunciation here is hopeless for Americans...and I mean hopeless, lean on alternatives. Her name was Cocina, which was the origin for Spanish Kitchen, but when she wrote it out, Kristina. Don't ask. She was a German living in Paris, coming home for the one weekend (or month) that returns all of Munich's sons and daughters.

We shared a cabin and she happened to be wonderfully talkative in the only language I understand. Most Germans seem to be...at least those schooled post crumble of the Third Reich. And it was comforting, going into a new city with something of a foot up. Compared to Paris, Munich is a walk in the park...

Though, since I'll be rarely sober and likely spitting drunk most of the time, let's preemptively dub it...too close to Call.

...

Before even making it out of the train station, I wandered into a Nationalistic Drunken Halloween. Remember the over the top scenes from Lampoon's European Vacation...Clark Griswold and company? Yeah...not over the top. Not one penny, drop or feather. Dead on.

I maneuvered my way through the frenzied streets to a hostel I had heard about and felt obligated to grace with my being. The two women behind the counter were already at least a liter or two deep, so when I stepped up to ask for a room without a reservation, only 50% of them could manage to keep a straight face. Ms. Composure made some phone calls while I waited. Denied...denied...denied...

As I grew unsettled, they bantered back and fourth with German words of problem solving before the heckler-ish one turned to me, stopping on a dime to pull out perfect English...

"You have some pretty big balls, showing up on the first day of Oktoberfest without a reservation."

She said it with a glow in her eye, as if waiting for me to show her. I didn't. Her glow faded just as the constructive of the two, my phone baron, hung up...and with partial success.

"One bed left. Probably the last in Munich. They said they would hold it for a half hour. 12 blocks, can you do that?"

"For the last bed in this town, and on these fleet fucking feet? Circle it and with love, I'm gone."

She did, I was. 4 blocks in, my head was down as flirting perfection rolled through my ears...OK Computer. Around me, the crowd stiffened. I looked up and they were stopped dead...cut off by the Oktoberfest parade. There was nowhere to move. No. Where. I backtracked from the dierection I came, began to head East, checking every street, every sidestreet I passed. Blocked. Blocked. Blocked. Apparently, nobody...and I mean nobody fucks with the flow of Munich's Oktoberfest parade. I stomped 3 blocks, 5 blocks, 7 blocks and finally found a break in one of the two directions. 20 minutes burned and I had doubled the distance while yet finding a way to cut over. 3 blocks down, 5 blocks. It was in this moment that I simultaneously realized:

1)There was daylight up ahead...an opening.
2)I could have initially waited it out, enjoyed the drunken festivities and would have already been sitting in my room.

I cut over and began to triple time it, worried that for the first time in my life, everything might not work out.

20 minutes late, I showed up to the hostel. "401. I hope you know we only gave you the room because they said you were cute...and foolish."

Last bed in Munich.

...

One of these days, Life is going to speak down and offer me her kind wisdom. "Only dipshits and assholes live with that kind of irresponsibility. One of these days, mark my words, it's going to catch up with you."

But not today...and not now. I have to foot it to the Hofbrauhaus...they're serving shenanigans in the form of liter size beers.

Welcome to Germany.

Paris 2...

Few words could effectively explain the genius I'm becoming...

I say this, of course...before being distracted by a tantruming Asian man two blocks North of Republique. He's jumping and screaming, pumping madness as if auditioning for the next Hunter S. Thompson novel. I wont tell him if you don't...our friend ate a lovely shotgun blast to the face and wont be joining us for the rest of eternity. Seriously though, how else could he have gone out?

But this guy is totally going to get wiped off the street by an angry Parisian on a moped...if that can even happen. Fucking French...

Let us, for the sake of time get back to my genius and the decision to train for the original 26.2 mile route from Marathon to Athens. Today, I put in 6 that inevitably brought me to the part of town responsible for housing the city's most talented pickpockets and cab drivers. No further evidence was needed after I passed a welcoming "RAPE" sign in front of a hotel. Certainly, this was not an avenue dedicated to venturing Americans.

So, he's kicking leaves in the gutter, screaming obscenities in what could perhaps be...Malaysian? Yeah, I'd say he's crazy if it weren't for the day pack and a bottle of Evian. Someone must have slipped him something. Shit...I hope this isn't one of my roomates...

I visited the orgy of grandeur also known as the Louvre today. Too much. Far too much...so I made a personal deal to breeze through before the 26 songs on the Zepplin Remasters dried out on my I-Pod. I made it out by "No Quarter" which if I may mention, was impressive. How? Why? Well, I'm over it. I'm over the hordes taught to revere the past. Over the digital cameras and the mindless happies being happily directed by arrows to what should be considered beautiful...as if it were a label. In this respect, parts of Paris have certainly been troubling. I wish they weren't...but we are what we are, I suppose.

Turning the corner on the second wing at the Louve, I came face to face with that squinty tramp, Mona Lisa...and couldn't help but wonder. Who the fuck are you to look at me like that? Understand...I would have been the best you ever had. Ever...ever...ever...

Bitch didn't say a word.

Paris...

I was getting into the shower when Tom knocked on the door. He introduced himself as a postal worker from Pittsburgh and I let slide the fact that he was at the very least, 24 years past his prime to be making a second tour on the European backpacking circuit. He was candid and friendly, immediately peeing without closing the bathroom door, and I was pretty sure that I almost somewhat partially liked him.

He told me about his day and quickly offered his pipe in an obvious attempt to reach out to another weary traveler. 'Amsterdamian Belly Rolling Bud' was what he called it. One sniff spoke devil's trouble and I passed. Partly because I'm a daylight lightweight, but mostly...it would have been far too much closeness between me and my new sketch friend.

I spread out on the cot and it hit. Heaviness from the redeye out of Newark. Heaviness from being the only white boy...wedged in the middle of the middle section of an Air India flight. Heaviness of landing in a country where my greatest weapon...that of the tongue, rendered irrelevant. Heaviness of figuring out one of the greatest metropolitan centers of the world toting a 100 pound backpack and a sleepless mind.

He launched into a rant, vast and aimless...quickly covering the religious conspiracies swirling the world and I closed my eyes. In that moment, I realized my only potential defense...pretend to fall asleep.

Three minutes later, Tom stopped talking. And if there's one assurance I can offer, it's that Tom struggles with the principles of a clean conversational 'break.' He left the room to pick up his laundry and I feasted on 17 minutes of sleep.

Chicago and Crew Good Times...

I’m leaving for Paris on Sunday after a three day stop in New York. One last little stateside tour before leaving for either three months or eternity. Dramatic Stretch? If you knew what I know...well, you don’t.

I got a text message on Sunday. It came from one of the good timers. See, I have these friends that remained, for obvious reasons, in states far from the California that vanished me. When I roll through Chicago, we meet up. Their title implies what ensues...



I made the drive to the city of...I know Brotherly Love is Philly, we must be Big Shoulders...whatever the fuck that means. We slapped hands and faces, cracked a handle-less handle of Jack and were off with stories of the ball fields that left us behind and the women we’ll forever chase. And it was good. Steel wool couldn’t have ripped the smile from my face.

We showed up to the first bar around midnight...ordered five Jameson’s, five chaperones. Mine was a Guinness. We either saluted health or, most likely: douchebag, cocksucker, motherfucker.

Just as I blew out Jamie’s pinch, I noticed across the bar another familiar group. The high school equivalent. Our reunion: Jager and Sam Adams...brewer, patriot.

From there, I bounced...to, fro. The rounds came hard and fast on two fronts until I slipped into a state of composure so far beyond drunk that the body gives up. Drink through drunk, come out clean on the other side. These are the things I tell myself late at night, between dripping charm and spitting gravity.

The lights came up around 2. My high school and college baseball coaches used to say that nothing good happens past midnight. And I get it, okay. Tommy, Itch...I knew what you were getting at. I always did, it’s just that...come on, boys. Let’s compromise and settle on 2, just as the lights at the first bar came up. I should have listened, but then again...


I wouldn’t have hopped to another bar, one that stayed open until 4.
-
I wouldn’t have had the bonding moments and laughs that no one will ever remember.
-
I wouldn’t have had my face smashed into the sidewalk by a member of our country’s elite armed forces.
-
I wouldn’t have bled all over Chad’s white? shirt.
-
I wouldn’t have spent a half hour combing the city with the rapid response South Side brawlers Flynn called in. They need a name...Cops and Maglites. I know at least 8 people who will get that.
-
I wouldn’t have been cut deep by threats of excommunication from the woman of my heart who despises(kick to the cock style) fighting.
-
Just before the sun came up, I found a spot on the floor to close my eyes...and remember, actually remember breaking into hysterical laughter. Wouldn’t have had that either.

...

So I’m off to wander...more than usual. It’s going to go a little something like...

Paris, Munich, Prague, Amsterdam, Brussels, Barcelona, Nice, Monaco, Florence, Rome, Athens, Cape Town.

At least that’s the skeleton. Expect broken bones...but hopefully, only in metaphor.

Kelly Clarkson...

On Monday nights, there’s this little band called Metal Skool that plays at this little place called Key Club, just down the street from home base Smith. They used to be two doors down at the Roxy and either grew restless or moved venue when bidder higher came calling.

They do 80’s, and fucking hot. Lots of G&R, little White Snake…touch of Def Leppard. Get the idea. I’d never seen, only heard of them before Monday night. When Sosohuman opened a show at Vanguard a few months back, I found out they were headlining the next morning, far after dreams ruled that night.

And I felt something ill about it, ill that I had walked out…ill informed. But as would later be discovered, it simply wasn’t my time.

Three songs in, they welcomed “Kelly Clarkson” with a filthy intro and a perfectly classless invite to the stage. I don’t remember the exact cordialities the band offered, but they fell somewhere within the spectrum of “show us your tits” and/or “get on your knees.”

And I’m cleaning it up considerably.

When the house camera turned to the crowd, I pulled previous quotation marks. It was indeed the only American Idol that anyone in America gives a shit about. And I’m going to tell you why…

She didn’t run. She didn’t cower or hide behind a glossy image. She rolled…glass eyed, heavy and hard onto that stage and powered…and I mean motherfucking powered her way through “Sweet Child O’Mine” and later, “Don’t Stop Believing” by a fistful of gentlemen also known as Journey. And this little thing with a roof rattling voice stole a room and everyone in it.

4 years never too late, Kelly Clarkson is a member the prestigious R Smith wife club.

…

It was 6:21 when I found myself walking to work the next morning, selectively late. High on a sleepless night of sex* and rock and roll, a moment of recall broke me up…

As the closing lights lit Key Club, Metal Skool offered the night’s final words of guidance. “Be responsible. Don’t get behind the wheel if you’re drunk…”

“Do a bump first.”


What an endearing end to the beginning of a perfect night.

So Let Me Tell You About a Tuesday LA Party...

I just got home. Worked the Chamberlain from 6 this morning until 1:30 in the afternoon. Then, drove to Chinatown to work from 2 until 1:30 this morning. Long day. And that’s saying not much. Oh, yes…and I’ll be back on the clock at 5:45 tomorrow morning, paranoid and helpless…spinning and depressed when that bitch of an alarm clock rips me from a dreaming slumber. One of forever love and a burn in the gut. Of a world that speaks poetic and spins fantastic…not yet.

Fuck tomorrow, sleep when you die. TODAY, I pulled enough coin to cover 20 nights in a European hostel.

…

So this party was…how shall I stamp it? Dinner theater.

Or…performance art.

Maybe, porn. Maybe.

We went through 6 standing courses, each with a wine or cocktail pairing. And in between, the “talent” would perform for the audience as a compliment to the course. The night was tabbed, “a sensual evening of surprise.” And it didn’t take long for the guests to get it.

I know what you’re thinking. Creepy party, strange crowd, middle of nowhere Los Angeles. Why can’t your city just fall off the flat side of the world?

Of all the parties I’ve worked at the Marvimon House, this was the best crowd. Hell, Vinnie Chase’s cameo lasted the duration…and he only barely stood out.

With the Scallops and Sage Margaritas, the “talent” (2 top shelf LA model/actresses, 2 mid shelf, 2 feisty lesbian porn stars) dueled in oversized boots and swung from ceiling harnesses to electricified guitar.

With the Squab and Whisky Sours, the “talent” were 40% skin as they dangled and tussled from hanging outdoor vines to a glorified harmonica.

With the Steak and Syrah, the…they fed each other and engaged in what could only be described as, well…I quickly found out that “sensual surprise” meant orgy…at the front of the room…as the crowd sipped their red, tried not to choke on steak sandwiches and collectively duped conscience into believing they were watching art.

The brilliant thing about performance art, I’ve recently found, is that no two pairs of talented couplets express themselves in the same manner. Of course, certain pairings were more representational than others, meaning…not everyone took liberty in the provided glass stage ornaments.

But two of them...they certainly did.

City of Delusion...

I was driving home to change when my car broke down at the corner of Holloway and La Cienega. Time was tight, had an hour to get across town for a show. The tow came, took my girl away. I ran home, changed, hopped a friend’s car and rode Fountain to Vermont to the Greek. On this night, thank the Angel of Hustle I was flying solo.

I parked at the bottom of the hill and began a half-mile jog uphill. Soaked and short on breath, I found my seat 30 seconds into “Take a Bow.” Muse had taken stage.

I don’t think I’ve ever seen a show of any kind stone sober. To this one, I had no choice. There was no time to sip contradiction as I trekked the hill. Green Tea Vitamin Water and Ciroc was still sitting in my fridge.

The show was tragic. I would have stayed all night. And if I had the time and wasn’t saving raisins for Europe, I’d drive to San Diego or Phoenix for a second taste. Walking down that hill after the show was over, I worried about never seeing a set as good…or a band as remarkable.

That was the story of the night…

…

Transition is an amazing thing. And with it, the fear of change. I think I’m going to give up my apartment when I leave Los Angeles. After all, how can you ever learn to fly with one foot tied to the ground? It means clearing house in the middle of August and trying to rustle scratch for stuff I’ll likely end up leaving on the curb.

My entire life, I’ve had a difficult time giving roots much of a chance to grow. For two years, this has been a temporary apartment. Couches, crates, cabinets…a six foot Love Sac that will certainly fetch a bill due to its appearance as a sexual Godsend when actually, it’s impossible. Everything inside this place floats.

How appropriate that the apartment’s tenant follows suit.

…

It’s a calm night here. Sigur Ros plays the soundtrack to a setting Los Angeles sun out the window, to a rattling fan over my shoulder. It’s purple outside and most nights, these are the moments I wish could last forever. And in the future, no matter what happens to this soul, whether it’s so full I’ll fear rupture…or whether it’s empty and content, that’s something that will never change. A dream to hold the world in a moment where everything is right or wrong.

…

Summer is slowly ticking, and with it, my first stint in Los Angeles is coming to an end. But too often lately, I find myself playing with variables. Call Summer X and Los Angeles Y.

Now, add urgency and the weight of self-imposed expectations that words would fail capture. Then, re-value your variables. X= My allotted time. Y= life. Last, say it four times out loud.

No. Say it like you mean it. Half of half as much as I do…

Maybe, just maybe you’ll partially understand. It’s scary…when all you want to do with a life is speak.

My Darling Compass...

There was something about it that stuck to me as I stood in a Pavilions’ parking lot in the Valley…as I watched hack fireworks blow through cracks in the trees. Something about it hurt. I knew better…

Navy Pier in Chicago…
Finch Field in Thomasville…
Concert on the Green in Lake Forest…
Lower Manhattan from the Jersey Shore…
Washington Harbor from the Georgetown side of D.C.

Like remembering Jerry Springer when societal pillars brawled without a cut away. Back when it was the best show on TV.

Fuck, things change.

…

Hurt clings. It grows and sharpens nails to stab and hold hearts from breaking free. Try to shake, ignore, deny or burn it off and you’ll be the first. In this life, we were built to have no such luck.

Never.

Ever.

…

But it’s not just the fireworks. It’s something else, something bigger…obviously always. In that parking lot, looking up at disappointment in the sky, I realized I had no choice but to leave a part of myself behind.

In my mind and memories, that part of me was comforting and pure. It was innocent and happy. It was youth and grass and mosquitoes. Unforgettable air and a sweat on my body. It was trading glares with a summer crush as our faces lit green, red, white. The finale and a mess of old friends. The easy summer and black, silent nights that cities are forever helpless to understand.

My Break Through...

This lately heart has been working like trying to fuck on whisky and misplaced insecurity.

And that doesn’t fly. Not now. Not ever.

…

I just bought a one way to Paris. Though, it’s not entirely impulsive. I’m not out for 2 months. I don’t know when or from where I’ll return to the states, but I will. Los Angeles is my home. It’s what I’ll miss when I go. This sweet, dirty little tramp of a city.

…

I need to be cracked, built, hurt, chipped, swooned, broken. I miss it hard and need it again. A million and one things I've yet to imagine. A million and one things that aren’t here for me all of a sudden.

This life has grown comfortable. It’s become safe and reliable. I’m content and it’s beginning to shake my skull. Why? Because honest, goodness…

I’d rather be miserable. I’d prefer being hung from my ankles, spun on my face.

Somewhere along the way, that’s what I became. When you think like that and mean it, really mean it…you have nothing to lose.

…

vag-a-bond
a: of, relating to, or characteristic of a wanderer.
b: leading an unsettled, irresponsible, or disreputable life.

What can I say? I’m a motherfucking Toys R’ Us kid.

So Felix Died...

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

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

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

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

Stay on Felix.

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

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

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

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

…

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

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

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

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

…

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

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

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

…

Happy travels, Felix…


I’m stealing your paper.

Everyone's Darling M.D.

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

…

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

So let’s clarify…

My motivation is in danger of facing change.

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

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

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

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

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

Here’s the problem…

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

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

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

Do I sound worried? You know better.

…

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

Doogie Howser.

Kicking Down Doors, The Prequel...

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

No.

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

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

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

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

So much to say, never enough time…

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

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

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

Goodbye. Goodbye. Forever goodbye.

Corner of Hell...

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

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

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

And this is all relevant, partially…somewhat.

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

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

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

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

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

Where were they?

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

Revolutionary, indeed.

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

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

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

…

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

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

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

…

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

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

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

May I one day forgive myself…

Mr. Next Door...

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

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

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

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

It’s the foolish things I never forget.

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

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

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

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

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

…

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

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

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

I bet I’ll laugh. No, I’m sure of it.

Because I Can (part 3)...

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

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

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

My ladies would be lined up at the bar…

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

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

Where hair pulls up, nothing short of disaster.

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

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

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

...

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

Smith out.

Because I Can (part 2)...

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

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

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

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

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

…

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

Because I Can (part 1)...

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

Theory of evolution…

…

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

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

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

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

Tomorrow, well, different story.

I Ooze Sex...

Yeah, no…that’s worth repeating…

I Ooze Sex.

…

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

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

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

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

…

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

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

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

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

…

…

…

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

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

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

At least for a little while.

Still...

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

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

No. This would be a battle fought straight…

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

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

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

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

…

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

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

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

These fucking eyes…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

…

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

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

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

I lost my girl.

The Grind?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

…

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

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

…

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

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

…

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

…

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

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

-Show me the fucking snaps!

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

…

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

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

-Punch out and get that ass up here.

…

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

In Battle, There Is No Intermission...

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

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

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

…

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

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

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

Victory was theirs. Defeat, ours.

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

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

The rains fell.

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

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

That was enough.

On a Night of Golden Statues...

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

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

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

I have lost faith in the Academy.

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

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

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

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

God runs the Tilt-A-Whirl?

…

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

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

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

…

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

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

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

…

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

Which brings me back to the Academy…

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

Can it?

…

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

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

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

And all they know to do…carry us away.

Tell Me You Hear My Melody...

I stayed in all of last week…mostly.

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

…

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

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

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

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

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

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

…

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

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

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

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

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

Nothing happened. Not a thing.

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

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

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

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

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

Hit "The Cody Link."


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

PB & J Sammiches...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

…

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

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

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

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

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

…

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

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

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

…

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

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

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

Wait, that’s a lie.

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

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

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

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

What else would I be talking about?

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

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

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

Lately, it’s been working.

…

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

I’ll let you know how that goes.

…

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

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

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

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

I couldn’t help but agree.

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

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

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

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

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

I agreed.

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

And he took off into flight…

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

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

Master of Self Rescue...

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

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

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

Off to Tropicana…

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

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

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

Because I’m a bright and shining fucking star.

…

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

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

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

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

…

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

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

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

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

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

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