First Word...

It's into the third week since I carefully introduced Kim and Val. All this fucking waiting making me nutso. Yesterday, I got word from a producer quite wired in the game. Not one of the first two, but still the first real word. I was expecting him to take it for a run, take it to his people for a run and so on and so on.

Didn't get it. Missed. Overshot.

I heard things like they're too in love, that it never stops, too intense the whole way through, never a moment for a breather.

I respect his opinion, and hate, hate defensive writers, but I quickly found myself un-listening. I tuned out, thinking how could you miss this, how could you let this go over your head, how could you miss this...

...

Lately, I've been losing sleep. Not that I've been sleeping all that much in the past 6 months, but still. And I can tell you what it is... or who -- Nikkorela...

She started showing up 2 weeks ago or something like it. Maybe in a dream, maybe not. Truth is, I still can't tell if she's real or imaginary. But I'm okay with that. I'm okay with the possibility that she's an invention of the mind, here to save me from void. She recently came to me in my sleep to speak of an ancient tale -- a master sculptor and his student, because I think she thought I needed it...

It was at the height of the Roman Empire, Luido was living in a province 200 miles south of Rome. He had at one time been stationed in the golden city, there to serve as personal sculptor to the Emperor himself. In his stay, he had witnessed the birth, the coming and going of the most gifted artists and visionaries that had ever lived.

When old age crept into him and the pace of the city grew too scathing, he decided to leave Rome and settle in a distant land, far removed. One day, walking the fields, he came across a young boy, Oederon, as if he were placed before Luido by the Gods themselves...he was sculpting the vinyards, olive fields, distant landscapes with a hand so steady, an eye so agile, it brought tears to Luido's eyes.

Luido took him on as his apprentice, though it was evident early on that the pupil's skill far surpassed that of his master.

Word began to spread through the hills and valleys, all the way to the golden city -- whispers of a boy with a hand that was guided by the gods. The Emperor summoned him at once. And so, Luido and Oederon traveled to Rome. The Emperor welcomed them, thanked them, declared that he was to hire a master sculptor to document the days of their empire, to immortalize his legacy. It was to be the most prestigous title an Emperor had bestowed upon an artist.

Luido had known since that first day that no man could stand against Oederon's talents...not even Rome's master sculptors. When the Emperor saw Luido in the audience, he summoned him forward. A recognition, for Luido had served as Rome's master sculptor when this current Emperor was just a boy. The Emperor spoke with an echo that rang through the royal courtyard...

"Great Luido, master servant of the Roman empire, you stand before us now with this fabled young boy. Word has traveled far of his divine talents. Of this boy named Oederon. I ask you now to speak in his favor, as his master. Tell me he is everything I have heard and there will be no trial. He will live here, amongst us until the day he no longer chooses, until he no longer sees it fit to document our travails. Speak your certainty and all this will be over."

Luido looked into Oederon's hungry eyes, certain, then looked back to the Emperor...

"I am not certain."

Oederon was sent off to complete his great trial, a sculpture that was to enter him into the forefront of Roman lore. But Oederon had lost his will. He felt betrayed by his master Luido. He was uncertain, weak. When the day had passed and the Emperor's royal advisors came to judge Oederon's work, he was nowhere to be found. He had left, alone, to wander distant lands.

Many years later, as Luido was on his deathbed, Oederon came to see his old master. Luido smiled, welcomed him, told him to sit. Oederon kissed Luido's forehead, spoke of his travels, the search of his destiny. The years had been difficult on both of them. Oederon's skin had hardened and stretched, a leathery glow. The color in his eyes had emptied. Luido's mind had grown forgetful, his thoughts had run senile. Oederon said goodbye, took Luido's hand, walked to the door when he turned back...

"Master, I have to know something. That day in Rome, when the Emperor asked for your blessing of me. He asked of my gifted hand. I never understood. All those days in the fields, all those days we had spent in the fields...if you didn't believe-

My son, I believed. The great Jupiter was alive in you.

Then why? Why? Why didn't you say so? Why did you leave me like that, why did you abandon me like that. It was my destiny, and you took it away from me. Why didn't you tell the Emperor?

Because my son, if it was your destiny, you wouldn't have listened to a word I said...you would have seized it for yourself."

Two assholes walk into a Seattle bar, another one takes their picture...

Sigur Ros, Durban...

I'm sitting here listening to the new Sigur Ros. Very good. I was kicking around the web, to the song "Ara batur" when I checked Durban's site. Something about the timing of the song, so right and wrong. So terrible and beautiful. Kinda crushing but life. Fucking life. Fucking life.

This is Durban's post:

Something In Her Way.

I thought it then, knew it when she disappeared. This bird I knew when I was in Amalfi. Jennifer. Don't know her last name, didn't think to care. All I remember, her face, something in her stare that bled me. It ripped through me. All I remember, being inside her, watching her shake, feeling her quiver. Those eyes. Those fucking eyes. I was electric. For 2 weeks, we paired. In cars, in alleys, in bedrooms we would never leave. She was electric.

I didn't know anything about the pills we took. I didn't know what had brought me to the Italian coast, but I was driving, fucked out of my mind and she was screaming at me and I couldn't hear a word of it. Nothing was processing. I was winding the coast in an old Alfa Romeo - topless - trying to hit a hundred miles an hour, screaming back I want to die I want to die I want to die. That much I remember. The cliffs were high. I wanted so desperately to miss a turn, drive through the guardrails and fly away with her. I wanted that to be it. I wanted to fucking end it and at every last second, I'd pull away - some guardian guiding my hand, pulling me back to the road. I think she was egging me on. She wanted me to do it. I wanted to do it. Something in the pills, something in them bringing out something in the two of us, something vicious and exquisite and we both knew...everything too much.

We stopped. We had smashed into a cliff. Blood was running through her hairline, running through her dark strands. Two days later, I would learn three of my ribs had cracked. The car was fucked. We fucked. Her blood and my pain, everything so sobering and clear. She told me then she loved me, the first and only time I had ever wanted to hear it in my life. We hitched a lift to Positano, got a room and stayed there, in bed, our hands and bodies twisted as the rain fell against our shutters and I thought that was it, our apologies and the end of me and anything I had ever thought I needed.

When I woke, she was gone. No note. All I had left was the dried blood on her pillow. Fuck her. Fuck her, all I could think - I would kill her if I ever found her again. Those words, those fucking words how dare she let slip. I would kill her. I'd take her back to Amalfi and show her my might, that it could be done, that I could put an end to everything - and be content, being with her...I'd tell her it was all for her - kiss her as we fell until the end found us. I thought of the things I'd say, the things I'd do to touch her again, to have her there again knowing I'd never let go. To tell her I'm never going to let go.

But I never saw her again. I knew I never would.

-- From my friend Romero, a friend of travels...that I received today --

"Durban. I love you man. Know that before everything. I'm sorry. Jenny's dead, found her this morning. It was her. Her. Nothing we could do. Nothing she left. I'm sorry. We all miss you. Come back soon. I'm so sorry."

...

I shot back through my pictures, my records of travel, certain I had something of the two of them. I remembered her. How could I forget. All I found was this, from Pompeii, likely just before Amalfi, fitting...

Even Then...

Simon Pegg and Nick Frost...

I'm trying to define the term "star struck," since in this town, it's a fascinating phenomena. It's happened to me a couple times, though the exact names, I'm too lazy to fetch. Yesterday, it happened again and made me wonder...

There were already a couple "names" in the restaurant when I came to work -- Woody Harrelson and Kristen Stewart. Mr. Harrelson has been around forever, from White Men Can't Jump to Indecent Proposal to Natural Born Killers to Semi-Pro, he's heavily accomplished. Kristen Stewart has been good from Panic Room and Into The Wild. Her new movie Twilight is supposed to be pretty cool, possibly a franchise. I hit their table with a smile and went about my business, nothing to it. It's not to say I didn't care, I did. I respect their success, but I respect it in the same manner I would respect a stock broker who can spin millions when the rest of the world eats lunch...nothing about me was struck.

Then the Shaun Of The Dead boys strolled in...



Without thinking, my face washed to giddy. We traded smiles and heys and I had to fight myself to not saddle up on Nick Frost's back. I was totally star struck and only after realized why. If you haven't seen Shaun Of The Dead or Hot Fuzz, I can say that you're deeply missing out. These are totally original and brilliant movies...heartfelt and hilarious, and I'm guessing are the product of a few friends sitting around, writing a script about what they love and what inspires them, then having the time of their lives going off and shooting it...



Maybe because they represent the ideal...either or any way, it's gonna take composure when that table comes.

Coldplay 7/15/08, The Forum, Inglewood CA...

I must admit, expectations fell somewhere short of stellar. I had earlier seen Muse play The Forum in beautiful Inglewood, California and left thinking the place had sapped their invincibility. When I heard Coldplay was coming to town, and that they were coming to the Forum, I grunted, knew I had little choice but to make the purchase. They're certainly on my list and I'd never seen them live.

I don't know how to lead into this, so I'm just gonna go...

The show was painfully good. Honestly, I think in spots, I ached because of it. Chris Martin is obnoxous and arrogant and amazing. The moment the lights went down, I couldn't fight away this feeling, going over and over in my mind that this was going to be a night I envy for the rest of my life. They were absolutely fucking brilliant. Absolutely. Every song reminded me of the titans they are. All I can think of now, all I know is this yearning to go back and live it again. They crushed the stage, played maybe 13 songs before pulling a rabbit...

Mr. Martin thanked the audience and took off running for what seemed to be an encore tease. But the band followed him through the crowd and up into section 8, to a stage that was really more like a wooden desk, where they hunched together, started in again.

This is what it looked like from my seats in section 7, not far off...



If you fancy the band called Coldplay, I'll tell you few words could fairly paint the scene I'm explaining. In light of such things, allow my progression. See, because I must now speak of my company. Because failure to do so would go against everything I believe in...

I was with this girl, this lovely and totally scary thing. High praise. The band started in on a tame form of "Yellow." Believe, believe it was so good I sunk into the floor. In that moment, I speak with certainty, my moment was as good as anyone's around the world. These things I know. I remember turning to her saying something like come here before the first kiss. I remember pulling back, smiling, moving my eyes back to the band and saying something like my legs are shaking. I remember not knowing which culprit was the cause of my ailment, the band or the girl. I remember being alright with that.

Oh, my night. What a motherfucking night. What a motherfucking night. All I wanna do is listen to "Lovers in Japan" over and over. I can't stop, already missing this, every drop of it.

Sam Rockwell...

Since I'm still waiting on reads, while there's some down time, we're going to play a game. It's called "Fit This..."

Crouched behind a car and fighting to crack a tin pillbox, MARSHAL, evil Jesus in slum-chic, 37. The right sleeve of his bright white suit is saturated in blood.

In pain and fighting, he finally cracks the pillbox, viciously snorts a red powder. His eyes turn frenzied as he coughs.

He stands from cover. An antique 1800’s American Old West Marshal badge gleams from his lapel in the morning sun.



"You know what it means? The name. Bloodlines. History is fascinating, isn’t it? Please, I beg you indulge me. Mine is Marshal. It’s a throwback, homage to the Old West. It means I’m a lawman -- in the purest of forms. Long before droves and divisions of law enforcement polluted the justice system of this our great country. You know what I do with my little gang here?"

And just for good measure...

Headed For Something Special...

I'm more than a little concerned. See, I've sort of hit the point. Mind you, we're now going to talk about something relevant and concrete, my life and career. Quite a refreshing change, or perhaps not.

I've been working on this latest tale, Kimberly and Valentine for about 5 months now. There's a fairly detailed history of its process on these very pages, but to give a quick catch up, I shot through a 92 page version, gave it out for two pairs of eyes to read 14 weeks or so ago. Today, it comes in at 126...14 weeks to add what only looks to be a total of 34 pages. But that's how it works. Because 34 pages change every word, every tone, much work had to be done to get it right here, exactly where I want it to be.

So now it's done. Finished on this end. When it gets picked up and goes into development, it's going to be shaped again, but until that point, there's nothing I can do to it, nothing I should. It says exactly what I want it to say and I don't think I've ever been happier, never been more hopeful or excited about the possibilities of tomorrow, or two hours from now...two minutes. It's brilliant. I don't feel like it's my work anymore. Something schizophrenic has happened, as if I've completely removed myself from it, able to talk it up like I were a fan, a crazy and rabid fan toting someone else's work.

Which brings me to the title of this post, the thing that really scorches me about this whole process. This weekend, maybe next, a handful of people are going to take it home with them. They're going to read it, say holy shit in their minds, make a call, line up their cards so that it becomes a weekend read for execs of the major studios around town. Several of them are going to jump on it, say something like this is great, that the youth will really gravitate, that it could be a very defining for a generation. They'll say it's timely and commercial and sensational and different. They'll make offers on a Monday. It'll sell and I'll sit back for 5 minutes and say something like shit, took long enough.

But that's not even the exciting part. The exciting part is the possibility that I am totally wrong. There certainly is a 10 percent chance or greater that it's none of that. There's a possibility that no one wants to see a movie about two scorching hot, star crossed criminal lovers. There's a chance I have no idea how to weave words. And the thought of it all excites me nearly as much as success. Because after all I've been through, after all I've labored and suffered over, if Kimberly and Valentine fall flat on their faces, I'm likely headed for a breakdown of epic proportions.

And I imagine myself wandering through South America, befriending guerrilla warlords or heading back to Africa to live in the Eastern villages. Out of touch, out of sight. Brilliant. And the thought of it lights me up. And the thought of it make me feel alive.

Let The Games Begin...

"Hypothetical" - Title of my reach out - sent to a Lit Department partner at a major management company who offered a look but is a virgin to my work...history-less.

XXXX,

So what if I've got a script that isn't just good but great...something with a new voice, timely, raw, sweet, disarming...

The kind of movie that creeps in as a June release and plays all summer.

That can be done cheap, with a 1 sheet that would lend beauty to billboards and define everyone involved, the kind of movie to launch two pretty young things into stardom.

The sort that in 15 years, shows up on AMC, because that's what it'll be...as a rescue for when the world comes home, searching channels, when all they want to do is watch something great for 2 hours and remember those feelings -- "The first time I saw this..."

What if...aside from all this love I have for myself, what if I'm right? What should I do, hypothetically speaking...if you have a minute. All I have are forgotten hip-pockets and no one's seen this...

Sincerely,

Reilly Winburn

John Durban...

So a year and change ago, I was sitting on the lawn beneath the Eiffel Tower, waiting for the lights to ignite. I had just arrived in Paris and was about to embark on 4 months of travel. I think I was reading "Fear and Loathing," had an open bottle of Bordeaux, a roll of Camembert and some fresh bread and this guy came stumbling towards me.

I say stumbling because I choose my words carefully, because he did seem to be stumbling...not from some form of intoxicant but rather a perma punch-drunk. In my mind, impressions gather quickly.

He sat down next to me, rather uncomfortably close, began to speak in a drawl that was English, but not exactly mine. I remember listening, watching as he took a pull of my wine without asking. He ripped off a hunk of my bread, used it to tear through my cheese until it was gone.

We watched as the Eiffel sparkled. At some point, he reached across himself to offer a hand. "John. Durban. John Durban." He said it exactly like that, breaking up words exactly like that. Immediately, I thought there was something wrong with him. There totally was. Still, something in his tone...too endearing to ignore.

He said he was working in London, was in Paris to meet some girl but it all went to shit. We got very drunk that night. At some point, we shook hands and parted ways. I don't quite remember.

Later, we made appointments to meet in Berlin, Amsterdam and Barcelona. All failed. When we met again, we met in Monaco. We hit the casino, got drunk...at some point shook hands and parted ways. I don't quite remember.

...

Tonight, I get an e-mail titled "John Durban." He does this with all of his e-mails, titling them with his name...as if to signal warning of his impending approach.

"You arrogant fucker. What's up I'm tired of reading your shit, tired of your not listening to anything I say so now you're gonna. Started a blog in honor of your limpness(you). Gonna show you how it's done. Tough shoes to follow - following a guy who changes his last name so "I'll be the only one. Reilly Winburn." You're such a bitch. Link me fucker. I'll link you."

...

So here's your link, Jonny. Top, to the right. May they jump at their own risk.

And So It Goes...

Pushing Daisies...

Hollywood Sunday...

I think I was at the bottom of my Blanche De Chambly, falling asleep in my bed at the condo as the Nelms boys were setting up the first shot of the short they were doing about guys and gals, dating and such. It was already past midnight.

We wrapped around 2:30. I saw them off soon after, found my way to bed by 3:30, dog wrapped around my legs, intent on keeping my stints of sleep on the short.

I showed up at work something around 9, decided again I need to stop working. I got off, got to the gym, burned off service rage before deciding again, I need to stop fucking working. Honestly.

I came home, showered, brought some Sancerre to a place up Beachwood, drank it, ate some cheese, caught up with an old Navigator.

I left, picked up a friend, headed to the wrap party of Sam Raimi's "Drag Me To Hell."

Remember my screen crushes. Met one. This one...


We had a moment. I left.

Drove around the La Brea's and Fairfax's of this town to Arcade Fire before swinging into Grand Lux...my Southwest salad.

Home.

Over my shoulder now, a full, full vouche, this...



I kinda dig this town.

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.