Gisele Bundchen...

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

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

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

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

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

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

It's Always Sunny...

Parking Meters...

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

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

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

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

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

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

Team Anderson...

Housesitting...

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

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

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

Ah, Brotherhood...

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




Well, I do.

My Behavior...

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

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

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

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

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

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

Daria Werbowy...

Thank You, H&M Girl.

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



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

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

An Evening With Bear Grylls...

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



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

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



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



...

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

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

The Killers...

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

Brothers and sisters, those tunes are etched.

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

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

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

Please, just watch his hands.

Tom Tykwer...

Thanks Pal...

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

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

And not just because I’m a seasonal lover.

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

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

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

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

Celibacy.

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

Again…thanks pal.

This Town Ain't What It Used To Be...

Two nights ago, my friend Benny, a cook, was taking a break at my house of employment. He stepped out the side door to make a phone call, have a smoke, drink a beer…whatever. Three men approached. They asked about the food, the scene, cornered him against the wall of our pricey Beverly Hills boutique hotel. One of the men pulled a gun, pressed it against his forehead, took what he had.

No shots were fired.

As they drove away, Benny picked up one of our buffed deco stones and threw it at the fleeing car. And missed.

Los Angeles has long been known for its outstandingly bloody history. Our true pillars of violent excellence take up residence in the East and Southern lands. Bloods, Crips, Latin Kings...

But Beverly Hills? Our steaks go for 45. Martinis come in at 15. And about 20 yards from a table of two with a two hundred dollar check, some shithouse with a gun was taking Benny’s breath away. The math? Pretty fucky fucky.

It all started me thinking. I thought about dying…again. I thought about the idea of a drifting soul, one with the consciousness to look back on a life. I thought about the possibility of losing mine to men like this, after cooperating, after doing everything they asked of me. It made me want to scream, put my fist, face and foot through a wall. It made me want to tear the world apart.

I don’t know what I would have done if Benny and me swapped spots that night. Suppose no one can. But I imagined it. I imagined myself with a knife, the same pocketknife that sticks out from the wood in my desk, inches from my fingers that type as we speak. I saw this man on me with a gun...

He looks away for a second and I stab him in the neck. I put the knife away as he goes down, clutching his gaping and blood-spewing throat. But I don’t call for help…and I'm not exercised. I take his gun, turn it around and smash his face over, over, over. I get bored. I pull my clicky pen, the same pen I use to take orders and I stab his thighs, puncture them until the pen breaks. I go through a dozen pens. Then I stand over him, spit onto him until I can no longer. I kick dirt in his face, into his wounds before washing them clean with my urine. Out of breath, I call for help, to save him…so he can feel it all.

I’m not an angry person.

The Announcement...

Caffeine Inspiration: The Announcement from Folly Films on Vimeo.

Coldplay...

Saw this performance the other night. Actually, saw it on YouTube since I find anything MTV rather despicable these days and for some time. My, how refreshing, a summer coming with Coldplay.

Even if they weren't as impressive as they are...even if they weren't this generation's Beatles, Chris Martin is still married to Gweneth Paltrow, and they're giving their kids weird cool names. World conquering band aside, either one of those factors is merit enough to win mention here.

To me, though, there's something else - seeing someone handle grandeur so effortlessly...what a sight.

This album will be a soundtrack...coming back from Malibu or beyond on the PCH, sun setting, skin glowing, wind blowing...pretty young thing riding shotgun.

And judging by the dig from Team Apatow, the whole world's about to be gay again.

The Fall...

I should be sleeping. I haven't really slept in days. Tonight, I ran out for a 10:40 show of the movie The Fall. It's directed by a visual wizard named Tarsem. Yes, he's of the one name sort. After seeing this tonight, I'll allow any calling he chooses.

Utterly majestic. There's a little girl you wont forget. Lee Pace is the lead - a name you should know if you don't. He'll win an Oscar. Not for this, but something else down the line - one of the very few riveters in town. I'll talk endlessly about Pushing Daisies come Autumn...but for now, we'll stop here.

By the time you read this, it's Sunday. If you trust me then go find a matinee. If it's Monday or Tuesday or Wednesday, find a theater.

What Happened to Frank Darabont...

I just watched The Mist, another Steven King adaptation brought to screen life by the wonderfully talented Mr. Frank Darabont. This is the same Frank Darabont of Shawshank Redeption, Green Mile and The Majestic fame. Be wary my kindness.

I'll say something without reluctance or hesitation...Shawshank Redemption made me want to do everything I'm doing today. Um no...not blogging. As a young chap, that movie shaped what I wanted to be, hands down. It's the exact voice I aspire to hold...remarkable and affirming and inspiring and tragic and beautiful. It made me want to stand on the roof of every house I lived in and declare to the world -- Frank Darabont is my guy. That guy is my aim.

Since those days, he's been long dethroned -- names the likes of Anderson Anderson and Crowe...but still. When The Mist came out, I put it at the top of my Netflix. Then, I waited...waited and waited. Yesterday, it came. Yesterday I started it. Yesterday I stopped it. Today I decided to give it full due, to finish it. Today, I stopped it again. I went up to the roof, sat in the sun for 2 hours, returned, and finally finished it.

I don't really know what to say. I guess the are a lot of things I don't understand about auteurs...to start with Shawshank and end up here.

I'm sorry, Frank. Truth is I feel ill calling you out like this. You're remarkable, I want you to know. And a lot of people really liked The Mist, I think. I know I heard a handful of people tell me how gripping and moving it was to them. All I can say...bold ending, ridiculous but bold.

Hope you don't mind If I remember you for something else...

Bat For Lashes...

Long overdue. When you make a commitment to post every day or every other, you find yourself tapping into old inspirations. I was checking my top plays list on I-Tunes recently and found this song ranked quite high. It made me think back to the video I saw...and the sound, so hypnotic. I thought you should know...and see.

LOST and the Ruling Minds of Bad Robot...

Last September, I found myself wandering through a maelstrom of television stardom at an Entertainment Weekly pre-Emmy party. My date was there to cover the event for TV Guide...the stars, the shows, the scene. I was there for cocktails, to gaze.

I remember meeting infinite rounds of young and/or seasoned actors. They were in attendance to pimp their new shows, their comebacks, their career aspirations. Since I claimed to not be in their “industry,” I quickly became a sounding board, one after the other. Over the course of the night, I must’ve had words with stars from 80% of last fall’s television lineup. Thinking back, the only conversation I mostly recall was one with Josh Radnor – the guy from How I Met Your Mother. It went something like…

Nice night. Good party.

Isn’t that the worst-

When our dates pull the intro and dip, leave us here. I don’t know you. You don't know me.

And now we’re stuck, soon talking about something we both know'll be complete bullshit.

Okay. But if you call it out like that doesn't it make this real? We’re both being totally real now.

Race you to the bottom of the drink.

Deal. Go.

…

Later in the night, my date introduced me to Carlton Cuse. He’s a large part of the multi functioning brain (Bad Robot) behind the show Lost. This encounter I haven’t forgotten. Let me tell you why…

See, this episode called, “Through The Looking Glass” had somewhat recently aired, the third season finale. He wrote the episode. And it was…for lack of a description more fitting – a moment in the art of story that absolutely turned me on my head. It was a revolution, a revelation.

I told him I didn’t remember being more moved by any form of entertainment in my entire life…across all mediums, in that moment. I shook his hand and applauded him right there. The jig was up. I think he saw it in my eyes, knew instantly that I yearned to have exactly what he had, to do exactly what he was doing. He didn’t mind. And so we began rapping…

He spoke of their recent announcement, marking an end-date for the show…six seasons. After “Through The Looking Glass,” three seasons remained. After tonight’s season four finale, "There's No Place Like Home," two remain. We spoke for a while, most of our banter insufficient to repeat here.

But as my date and I were leaving the party, I couldn’t stop thinking to myself…in the end, when it’s all said and done, Lost will go down as the finest television show ever created. That and whether I was in the mood for some fine hot sex.

I realize my claims are heavy. Two of the biggest words in the English language are best and ever. I think these guys are capable of it. I think there’s an office somewhere in the middle of J.J. Abrams’ Bad Robot where these guys – these cream of creative minds got together and binged out the last three seasons of the show. I think they probably battled and struggled and fought for days before they hit a moment. I think someone said something that quieted the room…and they all sat back in their chairs and saw their show go to black, exercised, pleased.

Do what it takes to catch up. If there’s another one of these moments lurking in the next two years, someone’s got to be around to see it. Everything’s not for everyone, I know…but even if you felt only a fragment of what I felt…

And I’m mostly drug free!

…

If what I’m about to post is missing context, then either watch every episode up until this point or just watch the clip and weep silently, feel subtext.

Honestly, this changed my world…

The Dogs Of Santorini...

It was beyond cloudy. That was the first thing I noticed as we were pulling in. The land was ominous, far from rolling out welcome. I remember it being exactly what I was looking for.

I told a woman at the port to take me to the black sand beaches. This was where I wanted to stay. She obliged, warned I would have the entire back half of the island to myself. I said fine, gave her 45 Euros for a room that would be mine for three nights.

My own bed, shower, bathroom…remarkable. You don’t know what I had been through.

…

I threw my bags on the tile floor and went out walking. The streets were empty. Cars seldom passed. Most of the stores and businesses and restaurants had packed up for the season. The back half of the island was mine. A ghost town.

It wasn’t long before I met them, The Dogs of Santorini. They came from under telephone booths, from inside the half-torn houses, from under cars, all following the same etiquette. They’d run up, barking, fierce, wild…look into my eyes and fall into formation, some ahead, some behind, and we would walk together along the 2 miles of back island road. Their spacing was scientific, their strut…confident. They were either leading or following as I made rounds to the bakery, the cleaners, the one bar, or one restaurant still open in my part of town. When I’d go where they couldn’t follow, they would wait. When I’d return to the streets, they’d fall in line and we would continue, aimless, wandering…a force to be reckoned with.

We were greatness, Team Greatness.

At the height of our empire, including myself, we were nine strong. And I found myself going out more often than necessary, soundtracking the walk with songs like Zeppelin’s “Immigrant Song” or the Beatles’ “Come Together.” I’d buy extra flatbreads from the baker -- whose name, I think was Zelda -- to nourish my comrades in times of hunger. They were weak, sure…but their spirits were high. I found this evident in the freedom of their walk. Passing tourists from more populous parts of the island would pass in their rented cars and stop to take pictures. We were a sight to see. Zelda even came out of her bakery to take a picture. A local. Brilliant.

…

On the second day, we walked to the far part of the island, to the end of the black sand beaches. I stopped to survey our options. Team Greatness stopped, waiting as I pondered. We could continue on the road, through the hills into Oia to watch the sunset. Or, we could head back and stop by Zelda’s for snacks before turning in.

I was tired, the sun was setting, we were all in the mood for snacks. The choice was easy. That’s when it happened. Batshit. I saw her coming from a mile away, this Doberman. She came sloshing down the hill, from a junkyard. Yes, a fucking junkyard. She was barking, prancing, potentially rabid I thought. Immediately, I saw it in Team Greatness’ eyes. They weren’t afraid. More annoyed, maybe confused…as if they’d been through this before.

When Batshit got closer, I could tell…this empire I had built, forged through love and trust was going to soon be tested.

Team Greatness began to rally. We actually broke formation…

Let me stop here for a second to say something. If you often read my words, you know I can be something of a deceptive, somewhat manipulative, dramatist whore. I’m not going to dispute this. But I am truthful, quite certain I’ve always been truthful. And the Dogs of Santorini…as real as anything I’ve ever written.

So we actually broke formation. The three trailers rallied around me, coming closer than ever before. The four leaders prepared for Batshit’s approach. She was approaching with vigor only an insane dog could harness. She was fast, pushed through Team Greatness’ first line of defense. Our nipping provided little deterrence. She was coming straight at me, barking, in this agitated prance. I scanned the battlefield. Our first line seemed suddenly disinterested, as if she was now out of their jurisdiction. Perhaps our morale wasn’t as strong as I had recently speculated. Suddenly, I grew fearful.

After all, this was a fucking Doberman.

She came within an arm’s reach when my last line sprung into duty. They leapt for her, nipped at her ears and tail. And in the midst of their inspired defense, the rest of Team Greatness re-engaged. Seven on one and Batshit stood little chance…

My fear subsided.

I watched as Team Greatness chased her into retreat. We were victorious!

My first thought was to hit the road, to leave this place of turmoil and return to the more fertile, peaceful lands we called home. So we turned back, heads held high…

But something was off. Way off. It was our formation. Every few paces, I would watch as a member of Team Greatness would stray and run off, barking wildly into the distance. Some would never return, AWOL.

Suspicious and scanning the horizon, I saw…Batshit was following us.

The 50 yards that stood between Batshit and Team Greatness dwindled down to 40, to 30, to 20. She was again trying to crack formation…

By the time I found myself saying things like, “If you come any closer, I will fucking punt you, bitch,” the glory hours of Team Greatness were but a semi-sweet memory.

We were all over the road. Those that hadn’t abandoned and weren’t fighting with Batshit began fighting amongst themselves, mutinous.

As we passed the bakery, I was too shamed to stop. We were such a mess. What was so recently a symbol of strength and grace had transformed into something else entirely. It broke my heart. When the two remaining members of Team Greatness began making sexual advances on the very thing that had corrupted us, I had had enough. I slipped into my room and watched BBC World until sleep found me.

…

I woke the next morning, packed bag and left my keys in a drawer behind the check-in desk. Honor code. I walked to the bakery and picked up some breakfast. Zelda wasn’t working. As I walked outside, Batshit was waiting for me. She approached, barking. I threw her a piece of bread and we started walking. She jumped into formation ahead of me, constantly urging me with barks or odd spasms. At times, I thought she was going to attack. She never did.

When we reached the bus stop where I would await my ride into the port, I found a seat on the dirt. It took Batshit a good while before she turned, noticed I was no longer advancing. Quickly and inspired, she doubled back, urged me on. I had no choice but to refuse.

Following a dog I named Batshit didn’t rank very high on my list of must-do.

She began running circles around the stop, barking wildly, obviously disapproving. I told her to shut the fuck up and then placed what was left of the bread on the ground. She curled down next to me, began pulling bites from the bread and I thought it somewhat fitting…stuck here, alone with this spastic and alienated dog.

My ride pulled up as she was finishing. She began sneezing as I stepped inside. I closed the door, the window open, and negotiated the fee to port. She wouldn’t, couldn’t stop sneezing. The driver looked to the dog, to me…I shrugged, leaned out the window, said something like be good and we pulled off.

The Last Shadow Puppets...

Hell On Earth...Because I'm Kind...

Only a select few outside camp Winburn could have told you what the fuck I was doing there – playing video poker, !Deuces Wild! in Cabazon, California at 1:42 in the AM on a Saturday night – but I certainly was. How do I begin to explain…

Cabazon is a wasteland. Actually, we can stop there.

As I realized the time, that I still had 90 miles to go between the place I call home and the place from which I stood, my prized mind began to shed prized composure. The scent of passer-bys was perverse. My hope for the future of mankind was dwindling by the second...eating out my insides, rotting the slender faith that remained. Yes, I’m fucking judgemental. Yes, I have a superiority complex. Do we really need to beat that dead horse again?

I tried to blow through dollar hand video poker, maxing credits to burn through the 28 dollars I had left. Blow through as in lose. Seriously. I work hard for my money and was trying to rip myself from it. Have I made this abundantly clear? Or that this place wasn't Disneyland? Have I yet?

Let this be a lesson for all to learn – Morongo casino is Hotel California...discounting everything save, "But you can never fucking leave." Expletive added.

I maxed bets to 3 dollar hands. Every last hand, as I would stand, ready to flee, I’d pull a four of a kind, a straight flush, full house. Every time I was two steps to the door, !Deuces Wild! would sink her talons, pull me back.

And cashing out meant interaction. This also was not an option -- at least for nothing short of 500.

I stepped back, fell to my knees, prayed Morongo allow me go free. I continued to offer my sacrifice, American currency acquired from an earlier dinner party in Palm Springs. I would give, she would give back, a vicious and haunting and relentless cycle. I started to think lustily, in flashes, the life I had so recently been living – open road, chill, darkness, freedom. I so yearned for it to return…so desperately wanted to cradle it and call it mine.

Bells…and fucking whistles…hum and stench and desperation. I wanted to cry. I maybe did. There were 4 credits left when I stood, intent only on escape. Forever.

I ran to my car. Seriously. And I'm guessing it was a sight to see, watching a grown man run from a casino in the middle of the desert in California, cursing himself audibly -- fuck, fuck, fuck -- then laughing audibly, thinking he was alone.

I hit the highway, scream sang the whole way home to stay awake…shot camera flashes in my face to ignite eyes and mind, today found one that follows tone...



And actually made it, rolling in at 3:42, excellent time, wondering again, always…

What is this life I’m living?

Indiana Jones and His Makers...

Last night, I braved the crowds to take in the 12:30 show Kingdom of the Crystal Skull. Shows played on every screen through the night and into the morning. In my theater alone, I counted 13 grown men dressed as Indiana Jones…half of them toting Marians around their arms. I couldn’t help but smile as they passed. And as they passed, they probably nudged and made mention of the smiling guy who showed up alone to a midnight movie. Everything’s relative.

All I’ll say is that if you liked any or all of the previous three films, you should like this one (minus the 21st century Lucas touch). Anyone saying otherwise is just being elitist.

…

I’m not going profound, but I will say that the tragedy of this movie hardly comes from what’s on screen. For me, as it was unfolding, I couldn’t dispose the idea of mortality from my mind. Harrison Ford, Steven Spielberg, George Lucas, Karen Allen…

They’ve aged. Everlasting life is not gifted to the Hollywood elite as I had dreamt. Though I’m still not convinced I ever will…or ever die for that matter, I feel like these guys, these amazing and iconic talents…eventually will. And now that I’m sitting here, 20 some hours removed, it makes me want to stand up and cheer.

…

I just caught this special, “Spielberg on Spielberg” on TCM, watched it for a couple hours. This guy just sends a surge through me. He’s been making great movies over the span of my entire life…movies that have been seen and loved on every corner and in every crack of the Earth. It makes me want to stand up and cheer.

Mr. Spielberg gets mention because he’s rare talent – something we should always strive to lift up, preserve and nourish, something that should inspire us all. Remember, everything is relative – and because I want to put this clip up…because it’s wound so deep in me, you couldn’t cut it free without spilling a heart.

Fred Armisen...

Saturday night was the season finale of SNL. Sad.

Honestly, it's always been something of a staple in my life, on par with hitting calcium DRV's as a sprouting chap. I'd rent "best of cassettes" for weekend sleepovers as a kid, falling asleep to Eddie Murphy as James Brown, Belushi as the samurai delicatessan or Bill Murray and Chevy Chase as, well... Bill Murray and Chevy Chase.

I'd come home from trick or treating and watch Farley stomp on flaming bags of shit as Matt Foley, or sleaze Dan Aykroyd pushing "Johnny Human Torch."

I'd watch Will Ferrell feeding Chris Parnell turkey like a mama bird. Was that even part of a Thanksgiving special? Actually, I don't think so. But Tonto, Tarzan and Frankenstein? Absolutely.

I'd watch Sandler do his Hanukkah song next to a fire and our family Christmas tree.

Best ever opening monologue... Steve Martin musical.



Best ever cast member... nobody made me laugh like Jimmy Fallon -- I'll be watching The Barry Gibb Talk Show once a week until the day I die.



Among other things, you could say I'm invested.

...

Tonight, I had Fred Armisen at table 3. He's one of those guys I instantly saw on the show and fell for -- something like nothing I'd ever seen. To me, that's the definition of genius... though I have been throwing the term around quite liberally lately. Anyway, he is. He came in with a lady friend, both hypnotically kind, and asked for a table inside... the only table inside.

When they were finished, as I was dropping the check, I fired the semi-customary small talk. He took off about his new car and splitting time between New York and Los Angeles and being afraid of parking the car on the street in K-Town and uncertain bi-coastal spans of life and grabbing a quiet room at a nice hotel and just driving around town for a little while. He said it all with a peaceful grace that I admired.

Then, he suddenly stopped, apologized for giving me this "avalanche" of unnecessarry information. I said it was fine but didn't linger, thanked them kindly and went on my way.

In my mind, I pulled up a chair and told him to continue, to go on and on and on. In my mind, I told him he makes me laugh sometimes until I cry. I told him everything I just told you, in my mind. And he shook my hand, thanked me kindly, told me that was exactly what he needed to hear.

Dried Strawberries and Jasmine, Maybe...

I guess it doesn’t matter. The point is that the smell has been draped upon me, stuck to my clothes like the clinging of cigarette smoke…but a good thing.

I’m closing in on a wall, right about to drive my face straight into it. Last night, I ran home from work so I could make it out for cocktails. Past midnight, all I could think to order was Walker with cubes. They ran fast, soothing, and things were good. Two hours prior, this girl had given me her number, the kind of girl whose number I would generally ask for but this time didn’t have to. So I had to find out about that…

My alarm went off this morning at 6:07, woke me from my 3 hour whiskey nap. I ran to the gym because going out is poor excuse to cut life corners. If I slept with her, I’d be writing about the dogs of Santorini or nothing at all. This should be clear and obvious.

The music was loud, lights pulsing. I was wandering when I crossed her by the bar. She reached out and touched my face and I let her. I looked to her and she let me.

Outside, after all that goes unsaid occurred, I took a cheek and spoke goodnight. As I passed her friend, I was stopped. She told me to be careful, concerned…for me.

I laughed.

She asked why.

I was already running home.

Then September...

He said the peaches were good. This was the first thing I heard today and it could have been the last. Instantly, I found a lightness of being. Peach season. They were soft to the touch, the samples promising. I purchased three pounds. White. Fuzzy. Welcome.

Every Sunday, I wish I had Sundays off. I dreamt so often of walking to the Melrose Place farmer’s market to roam with ease, black Gelson’s bag in hand…feeling, prodding, charming…to, fro. Today, for what could have been the first Sunday in a year, I was off, free. I roamed, felt, prodded and charmed. Was it as glorious as I had imagined? Yes. Magnificent.

…

Something happens to the air in Los Angeles when the peaches come. Four years of it already ingrained into my mind, rushing forward like an unrelenting force…


Mulholland. Stomping heavy footed and crooked down Melrose, Sunset, Fairfax. Rooftop pools and crowded beaches. Sweat. Eyes like death. The Greek. Corona, Don Julio. Those who stagger…all who try. Chavez and worries of infidelity. Daydrunk. Tan lines. Finding them. Body Shop Sprites at 3 in the AM. Rolling down the top of La Cienega as the sun fades. Summer romance. Failing all. Championing self-destruction. Sweet smell of AC and Hawaiian Tropic deep tanning oil. Knees burning on carpet, pinning hands, tilting, lifting, breathing…scored by Hot Fuss, Abbey Road, Dark Side of the Moon. Wishing on stars. Backyards and bouncycastles. Midnight shows. Optimism. Faith. Immortality. Planning the escape.

Genius...

Play. Pause. Let it load. Do something else for 2 mins. Volume up. Play.

An Evening Trip Through YouTube Playland...

I know, okay. Lately, I’ve been obsessed. This used to be a sanctuary for the written word. Lately, the YouTubification of Chronicles has been a little less than subtle. And my leaning solely on clips has been reprehensible to say the least.

But I want to prove that it serves a purpose. I want to show you my inspirations tonight, two things I came across that brought me to life. After all, you are visiting the site of a self-obsessed man who actually, just last week received an e-mail from an ex-girlfriend titled “Indicators of Narcissistic Personality Disorder…sound like anyone you know?”… and wouldn’t you know, I’m including an excerpt taken from that very e-mail:

1. Has a grandiose sense of self-importance.
2. Is preoccupied with fantasies of unlimited success, power, brilliance, beauty or ideal love.
3. Believes that he or she is overly special or unique.
4. Possesses a heightened sense of entitlement.

Obviously, I answered yes. But that’s not the point. I want to show you a couple things, things to me, on this night that are absolutely remarkable.

First, if you asked me to pick one person in the world to meet, I would initially freeze, then worry the choice I was about to make wouldn't hold enough gravity before dropping the inevitable words, Matthew Bellamy...

Now listen for me, to Hans Zimmer's remarkable chime. The Siren song comes in at 4:39 but don't cheat. Over the last 3 weeks, True Romance has absolutely been my saving grace. The score is so good, so intoxicating, you can literally float away on it. Maybe the most perfect ever. The rest speaks for itself...


...
...
...

I’ve just finished closing folder 9 of my latest script, Kimberly and Valentine. Inside it lies a sketchpad titled 9th revised and Final Draft Documents titled 9a, 9b and 9c. 8 folders precede folder 9, all with multiple drafts and multiple sketchpads…

Ten scripts make up a stack that sits on top of my bookshelf. They range anywhere from 64 to 184 pages. My Rescue Me and Billy Bambino won me praise, meetings and promises. Training Angels broke me down, sent me traveling the world for 4 months. The rest just sit there, sporadically brilliant but mostly overwritten, amateur or sloppy.

Recently, as was documented, I was more than bursting my own seams…aching, acid ripping through my brain because I more than hopefully gave draft 1b of Kimberly and Valentine to a person who could have connected my professional dots. In my mind, the glorious 3-step process could not have been simpler…

1. Put raw script in Titan’s hands.
2. Woo said Titan.
3. Titan lifts peasant from literary obscurity.

In reality though, it didn’t quite go like that. Turned out said Titan was rather more interested in said peasant’s rooster than his writing. Oh charm, why have you cursed me so…

This town is such a cliché. Never even read it.

…

But pain heals. I’ve moved on, about 17 drafts to be exact. I no longer feel like I’m going to puke when I talk or think about this new darling of mine. Funny thing happens over the course of a new script. As it matures, so does this writer.

Tomorrow morning, I wake up and start in again from page 20 of 9c. I’ll polish, help smooth and grow the new seeds I’ve recently planted inside it and lose track of life outside this blackened apartment for hours or weeks at a time. This is my life now. For this moment, obscurity is comfortable and I feel calm. Because, because…

In ten years, two stars, an actor and an actress will be 28 and 29. They’ll be the most sought after things in town, pitching tentpoles and filling billboards. And when you ask them about their success, they’ll both point back to the day when they were cast in this silly little movie written by a silly little writer who had never before written a silly little thing. The silly little movie will be called Kimberly and Valentine.

And that’s how it’s going to go down. Not because I’m talented, delusional or something in between, but something entirely else…

This town is such a cliché.

In Bruges...

There's obviously something wrong with him. He's taken off his shoes and one of his socks and actually... I think he's crying.

A smart man recently told me I can’t succeed without a broken heart. I laughed. People must think I’m so smug.

I don’t know if what I’ve experienced over the past couple weeks has been a dream -- these great and potential promises…or opportunities. Sometimes, I wake in the middle of the night, across the room or on my balcony, stirred from conversation with a mysterious gentleman in a suit whose face I try to ignore. At some point in our conversation, I bump my head or shin and realize I should go back to bed, to try and fall asleep before I think too much about what has again transpired, with growing frequency…before I remember again, the emptiness I feel when I look into his voided eyes.

Los Angeles is screwed. Or it’s me. I need everything. I need so much, worry and hope I’ll never be fulfilled. I can’t wait. No calming talents remain. Today, I was at the gym from 630-8, again from 1230-145, and again from 5-8…consciously obsessive, for clearance. I was reaching for something, some sort of fix because I couldn’t work and didn’t want to fuck or think. In these situations, I know little else to do.

And there’s not enough money to leave again.

…

A broken heart. I started drinking yesterday at 11 after deeming it appropriate to induce feeling. I wanted to get 5 hours into my shift at work, doing rounds on tables, and come crashing down from the Guinness and Jameson and Baileys. I wanted to feel a brutal moment of life, to tempt the bottom to find me, to scream it away until my eyes would bleed, because…

So many things I can’t talk about here or anywhere. Just because.

Either way, it was coming. I’ve known for weeks now, coming off this high…of creation, of seeing and feeling and willing a scripted world that was mine but wasn’t…this world not capable of reciprocating the love I’ve given. Stories don’t matter at this point, just that they’re told and out. And this last one I told felt like love, clearing away all my lust and sadness and anger, like I was inducing an artificial peace in hopes it would correct me – like I was cheating – all along knowing I would be punished for it.

It feels like Sunday, dragging forever, but it’s Tuesday…or Wednesday. And I can’t tell myself everything will be better by Friday, or next Tuesday, or a month from now, or a year or ever. All I can see is a clock that reads 1:24 and it’s not moving. It may never again move. This is mine, bliss turned to shit and raging through my veins, poisoning me, my mind. I have to respect it.

…

Selectively, selectively falling in love with the places and things and people I can’t attain, to have this bastard thing nagging and pleading and scorching inside. What else have I ever known but broken…

I want to pull it out and eat it, show it off, spit it into every face I see.

There is no rescue.

Just now coming up for air...

I recently had one of those Hollywood encounters that people look back and speak of, somewhere from the top of the mountain, about bumping into and meeting someone with the clout and talent to lift them from where they once sat. I’ve had them in the past, but never like this. He said in as many words: write a script no one else has seen, make it your voice and nothing else, don’t sell out to the market and let me see it…but don’t dick around and do it fast – I’m staffing.

I had just finished a 125 page – 16 song musical that will somewhere, someday find an audience and was easing into the idea of starting something fresh when all this happened. In fact, I was just beginning the exact thing he was suggesting…a tale of two kids in love, their dreams of escape, robbery, bounty hunters, YouTube and the media circus, murder, sex, revenge and the Rolling Stones. At least that’s what I tell myself – that this was the exact thing he was suggesting.

But I wasn’t there yet, not even close to passing it off. It would take 2 brain-bleeding weeks to get there...and then even that would be a stretch. But since I’ve always had drive – I wasn’t worried about being good…and quick, very quick.

So that I may continue, please trust me when I say that this is big. Actually, now confronting all this, the thought of such a blunt and direct opportunity scares the shit out of me. Because at the end of the day, it means I have to face myself, cock out, ready to rock, on stage, full audience, under spotlight. For 2 weeks, I spent every minute of my life weaving stories and arcs, electrifying pages, dancing lines…all that shit.

Somewhere in the binge, she came out, and I understood, not for the first time, what it’s like to write with someone in mind, my damsel, my heroine, my Kimberly…

Alison Lohman. It was Matchstick Men that did it. I saw her on my pages, saying something like…if you harm him in any way, I will kill you and everyone in this place. And if he dies, from this moment until the day of my last breath, I’ll rain a hell on this corner of the world so vicious, Lucifer himself will plead me to stop.

And with that, things turned concrete. Every now and again, she would show up in my dreams, kiss my cheek something sweet and wake me under a spell of love. Yes, brilliant actresses woo me prudely while I sleep. I love it.

I finished the first pass and thought of puking, giddy, just to empty what remnants of residue I had left. After the fifth pass, my face was numb, like I’d been sucked beautifully dry. And with that, it was time.

…

On Sunday, I woke up before the sun to make a 6 in the AM train to Universal City. From there, at 8:15, I ran 26.2 miles through the streets of Los Angeles. When I finished (3:43), I sat in the middle of the street eating apples and bananas. Then, I took a nap in the street. Then, I was abruptly stirred by Paramedics who let me leave under my own accord after much convincing that I was just, “kickin’ it there and not actually dying.” Then, I took a couple trains back to my car and drove home, skin burnt red and nipples crazy-glued.

At 7, I met my encounter at the Chateau for dinner (the gentleman, not the girl in the picture). We talked about endeavors and what I could only sum up as the joy and pain of life. As I paid the valet, as we were leaving, I handed him a packet, home-made, containing my script, Kimberly and Valentine. Afterwards, I wandered about town, stopping for drinks here, there…I don’t always quite recall.

Eventually, I made it home, obviously, because I’m here now. Then I slept, nearly forever and dreamt of things good and futures bright…at least on this Sunday.

Accompany Piece...

Vampire Weekend, Coronet and the Things That Bide My Time...

Checking the play count on I-Tunes, I have officially listened to the aforementioned’s song Walcott 192 times since adding it last Wednesday. It’s Sunday. Sometimes, falling for a new song, I’ll set it on repeat and go on about my business. Either I spaced, left the room or got caught working on a hearty stretch of something new – something that must have spun me dizzy and orgasmic.

The reality is a likely blend of each – reason for my obsessive listening (in case you need a re-connection…some do). Everyone needs filler and this song is pretty wicked. There’s only so much of the family (Muse, Arcade Fire, R-Head & Off-Chutes, Killers, Arctic Monkeys, Modest Mouse) one can constantly listen.

…

This week I was out at the Coronet, saying goodbye to a friend. He was jumping ship to Rhode Island…soon to become a daddy. As if it would be poisonous to raise a child in Los Angeles…

One drink turned to…a couple, several? I don’t recall. What I do recall was a feeling, a tearing in the fibers of my heart, saying goodbye to something, someone who was leaving town. I remember the hug…more of an embrace and then wondering to self about the point in which this relationship had forged and how many others I had like it. Few? Several? Many? I lacked the time to think, had an inescapably pressing personal appointment at midnight. My feet and hands couldn’t stop kicking and tapping and pounding…not angry but unsettled, confounded, wild as usual.

On my way out of the bar, I felt eyes. It was as if some form of intense attention had shifted towards the route of my exit, following my steps. I heard yelling, someone pleading for my notice but I was in a hurry. Some girl. I kept moving, parting the crowd, out the door.

Outside, I waited to cross the street, jaywalked between passing cars because I’m rebel youth. She followed me out, calling, singing, stalking. There was tenderness in her words – I thought – I could feel it in the air. Tenderness or desperation. I glanced quickly, instantly determined she wasn’t the bed or wed type – my only two stopping types at that moment…

I judge. Then, blew a kiss without hearing a word, her voice muffled by the traffic between us. As I pulled away, she watched. I wondered where she got off, looking so sad. So disappointed. I wondered why I didn’t stop, wondered why I didn’t listen to what she had to say…even if just to hear…wondered why I act like this happens all the time, like I am above it or something worse. Is there anything worse? Does this happen all the time? I don’t know. I don’t care to remember. I had a fucking appointment.

…

I recently found myself studying the construction of the English alphabet. My definition of construction consists of straights and arcs, dots and crosses. I studied similarities between letters, how to break them into families, how fragments of some mirror fragments of others…how everything fits into a beautiful and simple puzzle. Everything.

Then I built my own. My straights and arcs, dots and crosses…to fill a specific need. To absolutely guarantee at least one comfort through the days of my life. To be foreign, when I choose…misunderstood when I need to be, to everyone save myself…as this life calls for it.

And I can’t say why.

And it makes me heavy.

Heath Ledger...

It stole my breath when I saw it, this freeze as it went from my eyes to my head…stopping in an instant to think it was wrong or misprinted. So arresting.

And it wasn’t just about the movies. It was the thought of a father, of a recent husband who somewhere, to an unknown extent had a grieving heart of his own.

It’s mind-bending, the thought…to have the best parts of you so visible…or what it would be like to find yourself in front of a camera and trying, just trying to be good, to be remembered. Then to be a small piece of a film that’s offered up to the world. To be offered up to the world. And suddenly everyone has a right to know and love, you…your life, or not, instantly materialized from air, from nothing.

He dealt make believe. And now, all that’s left, remnant memories…the life of a great and still budding talent coming to an instant and vicious halt. He had a pull, always had something of a pull, and now that he’s dead, I find myself realizing how easy it was to glance over the moment he became something else entirely, gravity, and in remarkable form, like a coat that takes time. Heath Ledger was a great promise far from ripe, an already rare talent and yet so far from realized.

He was a scientist on the brink of curing cancer. He was our hopeful to shatter record in the mile. He was a politician to rally sides divided. And the thought of a loss like that makes me sad. At the end of the day, all he was to us was an artist, an actor. But he was loved. The simplicity of it makes me sad.

I’m not going to come out and say he was too young, that it’s not supposed to go down like this. And I’m not going to fall back on crutches like, “this just goes to show.” Not a chance, ever…not how I’m constructed. Great and terrible things happen all the time.

Tonight, I rest with a heavy heart. Heavier than expected…and that seems to be the gathered sentiment.

We end on tonight’s final salute. Brilliant, tragic, brilliant…

Looking for Self at Home Depot Close to Midnight on a Saturday...

Long after my flirtation with losing grip had grown into a full blown reality, I found myself finishing off an Oreo McFlurry in the parking lot of the Hollywood Home Depot wondering what the hell I was doing there but thinking to myself, there are certainly worse places to be, things to be doing, people to become.

I knew what I was there for, thinking back, I think. I began in lumber, wound my way through gardening, kitchen appliances, piping…winding with grace, ease. When it comes to riding carts in the bulk-shopping super centers of world America, Home Depot shopping carts are a personal, hands down favorite. It’s a combination of three things really…

1. Wide aisles.
2. Sleek floors.
3. My enthusiasm.

The trick is to immediately load the front end with gallons of paint or something of the like...something very heavy. That way, while gliding the aisles at high speeds, there is no risk of the front wheels coming off the ground. This precaution, in turn, lessens the risk of the back wheels buckling sideways and throwing said rider from the cart, somewhat violently and spilling red paint, not blood onto the concrete floors. And all of this, in final turn, doesn’t lead to an embarrassing conversation between the rider and a graveyard shift employee of Home Depot about shopping cart abuse and the allowance of said shopper finishing said shopping experience.

I was there for paint, paint supplies, lacquer, urethane sealer. See, I’ve lately gotten into huffing, and hard.

Not really.

I wanted to paint something I saw in a dream. Kind of a cross between a color and place, peace and panic…and determined the first step in plan go about it would be to pay a visit to the Depot, late on a Saturday night. I also don’t believe in rational determination.

…

I’ve recently discovered my great fear...recently as in the last 10 hours. Now, let us play with analogy so as to aid in the illusion of self-preservation…

Let’s say I’m a basket maker…quite the noble trade, I assure. People need baskets. People will always need baskets. And let’s say that for the last 10 weeks, I’ve been making this amazing basket. Every time I look at it, blood fires through my guts. And when I feel it, liquid vitality. When I hold it, I learn a new shade of happiness for the first time, each time. Ah, pandering to drama…

But my basket is different. It’s not constructed entirely the same way other baskets are constructed. The handle doesn’t lead to a basin to place goods such as, say, shoes and apples. Instead, the basin and handle aren’t connected at all. So when you try to place goods beneath the handle, they fall, roll right off the flat surface. People look at the basket and say, “What the fuck? Why can’t you just attach the handle the right way like everyone else?” In my mind, I tell them it’s balanced. I tell them to hold the handle from beneath the basin, to balance the goods above the handle, because it’s totally skillful and awesome and who else does? They say, “But that’s insane, why would I want to balance the goods when I can simply carry them?”

It's an answer I know but can't yet speak. And that, friends, is torture.

…

This painting…or the image I see…

It’s light…and dark. It’s angry…and luminous. It’s like standing on clouds, waiting for the sun to come, to melt my footing away until I fall, forever and ever, wondering if the end is near, screaming, happy tears, laughter, loneliness…

It’s an everlasting love, at its peak before fail and the fallout all at the same time, a broken mess. It’s bitter then sweet, never bittersweet, never anything middle of the road, cowardly, balanced, medicated…

It’s an agitation of cool, a splinter in sexy, a kiss before the fight…in my head, my dream, my constant confusion.

My constantly confusion.

…

I need a nanny for my child. And by “my child,” I mean myself. And by “myself” I mean me…to watch me and tuck me in, to sing to me until I fall asleep and hold my hand as I cross the street.

Someone who doesn't once protest my treating every ounce and drip of this life as if it were a dream...and never once worries of the trouble ahead.

Catherine McNeil, Christmas and the Dip at Beverly and Crescent Heights...

Today I tore a spread out of Vogue, immediately struck…this photo, the love child of two of the great crushes of my life. I’ve had…four actual ones. Something in the expression, I tell you. Half…okay, yes, Natalie Portman again, though she’s not actual. The other half is someone from side actual, someone who gave me her lips once and never again, someone I never quite figured out…



It’s Christmas Eve and I’m spending it in Los Angeles. Last year, on the beaches of Camps Bay, way down in the SA (sorry, writing a musical), all I could think of was getting back to the cold and snow and country of states united. This year, all I can think of is Christmas Story marathon, alone with nostalgic glory in my apartment on Kings Road. Things change. Themes remain the same.

Because I’m so predictable, I can tell you something. Christmas night, finding myself suddenly over a mid-day drunk, I’ll stand on my back balcony, look to the sky, wait for an impossible snowfall to come, hope for visible breath, a chill before losing balance of mind…which will drive me to head out, likely first to Mulholland then later the dip. The dip happens not far from where I live, just as you pass the light on the north side of the intersection. There’s a big yellow sign just off to the side, “DIP.” Though, I doubt with sincerity this offers relief to any drivers green to the intersection of Beverly and Crescent Heights.

Most of the time, late at night, I begin my northern creep between Beverly and 3rd street, waiting for the light to change from red to green. Sometimes, when traffic allows, I’ll sit idle in the middle of the street, waiting. I wonder what the locals think of me. I wonder if I’m lore…sometimes think about how much I yearn to be.

When the light does finally change, I go. The first time I hit the dip, accidentally going 20-25, I shot into the air, remember thinking something to myself, something along the lines of “Fucking LA.” Then later, “Fucking awesome LA.”

Over time, I worked my way into the 30’s…later to the 40’s…last week flirting into the 50’s. And yeah, life permitting, I think I enjoy it...among other things.

…

"I’m finished."

Mostly Juno...

So I get home from Juno and go to the I-Tunes store, immediately pick up Mott The Hoople’s “All The Young Dudes,” so I can set it on repeat to try and replicate the feelings I constantly fear losing, to recall my initial intentions of landing on this island that’s actually nothing like an island and makes me wonder from time to time what the fuck I’m going on and on and on about…

Oh, Juno. Brilliant. It will be for some time to come…hopefully forever.

Because above other things, this movie has a scene, a moment where I forgot where I was, and this flooding dodged its way through my ribs and into my stomach. Like juices of euphoria…like I had just fallen in love, a love I would never again fall from and all I could do was smile, let ‘em fall. I want to see it again, again and again, already so deeply missing that feeling.

…

After the show, I met my friend Allison, who was in the movie. She was fantastic, always fantastic. When Jason Bateman and Diablo Cody (diablocody.blogspot.com) and Jason Reitman came by, I did this priceless thing I often do that’s part genius but honestly, mostly awkward, where I want to meet them and tell them that in that moment I want to be them but actually look for something like a flat screen TV and basketball game to distract me so that I don’t have to deal with the reality of being smaller than anyone, ever, in this life. Sad, isn’t it?

And drinking a round around a dark table of a dark bar somewhere on Pico, all I could think to myself, over and over…when will I make my Juno?

…

Today, I got notes back on a project from a man whose work in this town I seriously respect and possibly revere. The project is a feature I kicked out in an inspired 7 weeks. A couple months ago, when I was winning agency looks with a TV hook, I also managed to impress this aforementioned auteur with my keyboard moves. Things were happening. Things were moving. Then, the strike hit. I lost support from one agent who left the agencies behind, didn’t yet have a pilot ready to win another agent who dug my shit…still don’t. I think he’s waiting? I felt naked…still do. The town felt dead…still does. Fucking strike, man.

So I wrote this new spec. It’s ambitious. Ambitious…that’s a funny word. It’s a word often pinned on my face, somewhat unfortunately I think. But ambitious…it’s like commending a heroin addict for using home made needles, right? When I’ve failed, without exception, it’s because I’ve gone big…and call me blue or green or whatever, but I find comfort by seeing little shame in that.

…

I was recently out to Mozza for dinner, with a friend, and remember telling him of the man reading my script. My friend, a high ladder Hollywood vet, was seriously impressed. Though I remember being fairly deep into some fine Italian red, I remember saying something like…

“You know what I want…you know what I really want. I want him to read it and toss it back in my face. I want him to look at me and ask if I know who the fuck he is and who the fuck I thought I was giving this to him…an early draft of a new piece. I want him to rip it to pieces.”

What did he actually say? Well, let me preface that by something else, what he said to me in an e-mail dated October 1, 2007 about another piece, Billy Bambino:

“You’re a very talented writer – already. Very touching, funny, surprising. Good scene structure, great dialogue, well-drawn characters, even the minor ones. No doubt in my mind you’ll be making a living in this field before much time has passed.”

At our following meeting, he echoed the same sentiments. Note: I often precede severe blows by padding them in pillows of praise…self preservation at its finest.

So when he read the new piece…

“I loved the first number…from then on, I have lots of notes to give you. I think it’s really ambitious.” Then he told me kindly, well, basically what I asked for, drunk, perched atop the bar stool at Mozza.

…

So I went into Juno needing something…a cinematic hug out and so much more. And you know what, I got it. And I could have thanked those responsible outside the theater, but I didn’t, because of my personal style or behavioral retardation or something like it.

It’s after one on a Wednesday night, and still, after getting drilled today (not really, but it feels like it) I’m good. I’ll be good. On Monday, when we meet, I battle for my wild and brilliant and bashed piece of work to a brilliant and successful man...with open ears, start another roll from there.

I don't expect it to be my Juno. I’m not there yet. But when I have my Juno, I’ll know who to thank…and by then I just may.

Natalie Portman...

Right now, I find myself wishing there were an opposite equivalent for the term gentleman suitor. I’ve been trying to think of it, something capable of holding the clout I need for a title to this post, something I could follow with a simple colon and roll right in, a memo of sorts…because its construction is beautiful. My discovery: there isn’t one or I am a failing wordsmith. Either way, I am fortune’s fool, have no choice but to press on, adjust on the fly.

…

The other night I had a dream. She was packing, on her way to some far away locale when we met up. She was going on about her latest role as Anne Boleyn and the magnificence of Dover Castle in England…something about it she so revered. I wasn’t completely aware I knew either existed for sure until I awoke and recalled how, in my dreams, I also recalled the ability to speak foreign foreign languages in perfect tongue and began wondering if the two phenomena were connected in some way.

…

It all started in my childhood best man, Patrick Rice’s basement. He lived right next to a Woolworth, which was both run by our town’s elderly mafia and had seriously intense candy aisles...right next to the exit. I remember this because for a brief stint (as most kids go through, right?) we stole a lot of shit…but that all ended when a green member of our crew got pinched. I wish I could remember who it was so I could out him…

We would bring our hauls back to the basement and either play video games or watch movies until coma hit. When I think of how my screen crush on Ms. Portman started, all I can think of was that basement and the crane shot to finish one of the true screen gems for all time, The Professional, and her whispering assurance to the plant she named Leon as she buried it into the resurrecting ground, away from the city, safe, so that its roots could grow.

Soon after or quite possibly in that moment, my childhood ended.

…

In the dream, we walked through Central Park, alone, down what felt like Poet’s Walk. I was carrying her small suitcase, content to listen. The colors of the ground and sky were a magnificent New York Autumn. The fallen leaves dusting our steps were replaced in their former trees by bright, animated greens and yellows and blues as if someone had painted in the voids left by seasonal change. I don’t remember the conversation we were having, just her smile and my knowing that at the end of our walk, she was leaving. I turned to her and said something mundane. We stopped, she turned to me with a smile that warmed me through and said, “I know. You already told me, a long time ago.” She leaned forward; I leaned down and gave her my cheek to kiss. She walked off and disappeared into the brilliant foliage.

…

I woke and took the opposite approach, laughed straight through the crushing sensation…unable to recall her ever making a cameo in my sleep.

I’m not a fool who only falls in his dreams…not the slightest. But it certainly lends worry, being this capable. And so, the memo…

And so, and so on.

Arctic Monkeys

Radiohead and My Black Gelson's Grocery Bag...

I can’t stop listening to the first 42 seconds of the In Rainbows “Nude.” It reminds me of waking up without alarm or neighbor’s ringing keys or blowers or vacuums or anything. It reminds me of walking out my front door, naked, to find nothing left…anywhere.

I don’t remember where I saw this vision, just that I did. Just erased, all life and any evidential trace of it. And it was beautiful for reasons I’m certain I’d have to explain…and because of this, my choice is to refrain. But I will tell you; it wasn’t just in a dream.

16 seconds in, the moment I keep re-visiting because I’ve never heard joy or sadness come out like this. And I don’t know which it is and it makes me want to give in and give up. And the more I think of it, the more it breaks me in half, the more I realize this is my intention. I only know that I want to feel it and hold it and own it…acquire this emotion. In my mind, I try to break it into edible pieces, send it to the kitchens in my soul or heart or gut so that it may be prepared and tasted raw, seasoned, powdered, charred, in soups, as a terrine, caramelized, emulsified and everything else so as to leave nothing gray…so that it can become mine until it is.

…

Today, I was hopping down the street with my "from the neighborhood, re-usable" black grocery bag in hand. The sun was shining through trees above my beautifully shaded Kings Road. There were children ahead following the lead of their mothers or nannies. When they reached the entrance of the Kings Road Park, they cried out, one after the other in perfect enthusiastic unison. “Yeah, the park!” And for a split second, I wished they would turn around and invite me…

But they didn’t.

I walked into the grocery store with my grocery store bag as I do 5 or so times a week. I picked up some milk, paper towels, light bulbs and a sandwich. I spoke with several employees, most of whom I know on a first name basis. I often catch wordless nods from the manager as I pass. Sometimes, he gives me free condoms and ice cream.

Okay, that's not entirely true. Anyway...

Whenever I reach the counter, there is no exchange of mundane conversation. Unless there’s a rookie bagger, the words paper or plastic aren’t spoken at all. Instead, I curl my bottom lip over the top, squint my eyes and pass with a satisfaction…I’m one of your people.

Someone once said it’s the little things that make all the difference. I’m not sure I know what that means…

But I always skip home.

This Is An Adventure...

Nostalgia...

I think it happened somewhere between cutting into my fine Gelson's filet and watching an ex thing of mine on the Entourage season finale (98%), topless, blowing coke off the t's of a non ex thing of mine. I found self wondering what the hell I was doing this time last year...

That and oh my, aside from an episode on the Roosevelt kitchen floor…how sweet she used to appear.

...

This last week fucked my head. I turned 26. It was the first week in waiting for response to my television foray (usually 10-14 days). I couldn't do anything. I tried to pull together my book, tried to dive into a script, find a backup TV show...all left me limp. I picked semi-inadvertent fights with friends. I was dead, dried up, burnt out and swimming through the murk of a late summer in Los Angeles.

I decided that if I didn’t do something, there would only be bigger, deeper trouble for all parties involved in my life (just me).

The title of this post and a flooding of my heart led me somewhere semi-fresh. It's a place where only a douche would nitpick the offbeats. Honestly, don’t be a douche. I know, okay. How much time do you expect me to burn correcting? Another glorious week begins and these hands gotta be clean, this head gotta rest.

Why don't you let me handle the tone? ------------------->>>
Top right link...use headphones.

The Float...

Something stagnant but I don’t and always know exactly what it is. It’s been hot lately, and gritty heat making appearance for the first time in late August seems strange to me. LA is funny.

I was somewhere between Brussels, Barcelona and Dublin last year when it came out. Beck released this new CD, “Information.” I remember going to a record store in Cape Town, on the waterfront last November and asking one attendant, another, another if they had it…then anything by Beck, then if they had ever heard of him and finally if something was getting lost in the translation of our same language. I gave up, then forgot.

So I guess it’s only fitting that as a deadness settles in over the city of Los Angeles for the next 2 weeks, I finally get around to picking it up because of the new and free standing and initially infectious turned festeringly good single “Timebomb.” And goodness, I needed it…a fresh soundtrack to sponsor this drift.

…

So this week we’re going to play a game. This is usually the season love (or the illusion of) dies…late August, and since my lately romances have been anything but inspiring, we have to seek dialogue elsewhere.

Momentarily, I thought of telling you about the elderly community that lives on my Kings Road but closer to Melrose and how sometimes, they band together, stand in the street and direct…okay, scream at traffic in mysterious tongue. Sometimes, they form a crazed fleet and launch offensives against passing cars. But I changed mind. Not only should the mental image suffice, but honestly, my quota for penning the crazed has been more than fulfilled.

So…let’s stick to business. If you read, you know I’m making a hard push into changing forms of paid work. Obviously, I’ve been trying to get paid through writing since I first set foot in this town, mostly to no avail. Though, in my own defense, I wasn’t giving myself a massively fair chance in trying to pump out passion projects to major studios as a 23-24 year old. So, instead of focusing on something commercially viable that I could write well, I dove deeper in the wrong direction, writing two new, separate scripts that nearly killed me. They were big and beautiful and bold…just covered in vomit I wasn’t at the time capable of wiping clean.

As I earlier mentioned, I was writing a spec episode of Rescue Me. I figured that if I played by someone else’s rules…colored mostly in the lines, I would be giving myself a fair chance to get out of the business of selling 15 dollar martinis to the patrons of Beverly Hills. So I did. It’s out, I nailed it, let’s play…

Timeline:

Background – The Ref is brilliant. Denis Leary doesn’t get to fuck Rene Russo on the stairs in Thomas Crown Affair. I like Denis Leary, I feel for Denis Leary. Rescue Me is a great show. Because of Lost and Denny Duquette, I want my own.

April – I get DVR.

Early July – I watch the previous 56 episodes of Rescue Me.

7/22 – I begin my episode, fictionally slotted mid next season, “Sabotage.”

8/3 – Solid draft done.

8/4 – 8/8 – Sun. Sex. Spin. Sleep. Ciroc. Trois Pistoles. Yoga. MacCallan 18. Harry Potter.

8/13 – Revisions done.

8/17 – “Sabotage” out to ICM.

8/18 – 8/21 – Script received. In read queue at ICM. Writer freaks out, thinks he wrote a gem and that all eggs being in a single basket isn’t in his best interest.

8/22 – Writer calls in favors. “Sabotage” goes out to William Morris and UTA.

8/23 – 8/30 – Repeat “8/4 – 8/8,” only with a new book and this new, excellent album on repeat. Try to enjoy riding a rein-less animal. Mull over the next project, confide in self that no matter the outcome, in one form or another, this is life and a sweet one at that. Remind self that it’s to always, always be played like buying shoes for a child with Osgood Schlatter’s…

Room to grow.

Sello Tape