Dodgeball, Baby...

You remember the camaraderie of Fight Club, where you have this handful of outrageous cretins and they're spread all over the city of Los Angeles...

And they're waiters and paper pushers and whatever else people do to get by in life. That's all I kept thinking, looking around the gym...something along the lines of we could totally just take over.

I don't know what -- either the world or a 7-11, still working it out.

Camera Whore...

On Saturday, I spent all day learning how to safely take a class through Kettlebell training. Then my friend Mary wanted to make a video to post on her website. Then and I agreed. Then I posted it here.

It's Tuesday and I can hardly walk. When you tell people you are going to change their bodies in this town, it's like you become a prophet. In that fashion, Los Angeles has no equal. And this absolutely works.

Kettle Bells 101 with Reilly from Mary Rambin on Vimeo.

On This Sunday...

I'm good. I filled a class, fell asleep on the couch, walked...actually walked the neighborhood, played the I don't hear you and hustle away from some cop who was trying to give me a jaywalking ticket...game, made some interesting phone calls, played some dodgeball, had a great dinner, watched brilliant Sunshine, gonna finish The Road, gonna go to bed, gonna wake up in a few hours and start a whole day something new. And today worked for me today. Sunday.

The most profound thing I collected on this Sunday, the thing that's constantly hunting me...all around, all the time, the thing with which I'm in a constant battle, the thing that smashed me in the face today...made me smile, made me fucking snarl...was the pull down. Because I'm paranoid, I see and hear and feel it all around all the time...because I have an insecure superiority complex. Today, it hit...someone grabbing hold of an ankle and pleading, fighting, screaming you don't want to go up there. Don't!

Days like today, they remind me why I have so few, why I discriminate so much...why in my heart, I am such a necessary fucking bastard.

It was a brilliant day. Reach in this world and you know exactly what I'm talking about.

And mark me now because I'm marking myself. As I continue success, it'll be exactly because I never let it touch me. And thinking about that and knowing it's out there is plenty enough to keep me occupied and absolutely obscure. Today. On this Sunday.

Been Diggin' On This Hard...

We're All Capable Of Being Angels...

So I work at this really great restaurant in town, sensational actually. Personally, I patrol the 12 seats that make up the wine bar - mostly 3 days a week, for lunch...and occasionally nights when someone needs a cover. It's safe to say that the people I meet there and attend to are outstanding. They're all there to have a good time, to eat amazing food, sip great Italian wine and take in the always, always moving scene. Being the bartender, I rap endlessly with any who care to rap back. This past week, I had a return hit it off couple that I remembered from New Years Eve. I told them they were superstars at life - mostly because certain people just have an energy you feel free to engage. They were like that. It was good seeing them again.

So I was on the heels of getting back this raw studio coverage I've been rambling about - and had that lurking in my mind. They sat down after a bit of a wait and we started in, lyrics of life. Round two usually goes a little deeper and we crossed the point of conversation where you ask the bartender what he/she really wants to do with their life. I don't usually offer things very freely to the world (this site is the exception), but I told them, especially her, that I wrote...that maybe I wanted to travel professionally...or buy the gym in Camps Bay and live out my days in South Africa. She told me she was a writer, too. Then I went on to find out that her manager was essentially my manager -- essentially being that I'm a glorified hip-pocket and she...well, she pulls loot.

So she gives me her e-mail and I tell her I'm about to get ripped by this stranger and she tells me to reach out, probably because she could see it was exactly what I was going to need...probably because she saw in me, exact parts of her past self.

I got them brilliantly smashed, and fed them well. And they sang praises of the night. And sometimes, I really have great fun working behind that bar.

And then today, I reached out, saving names where applicable...

On Jan 21, 2009, at 11:40 AM, Reilly wrote:

I don't know, I guess I feel like if I find my place out here, it's got to be as a writer who makes concept through writing...instead of a concept guy who just gets re-written.

-------

THIS IS SO KEY. NEVER, EVER FORGET THIS. Paste it to your mirror if you have to. Somewhere along the way, you will need to remind yourself that this is who you are.

Comedy comes from character, concept comes from character -- anyone worth their salt will tell you that. Those who disagree are either misinformed or not that smart.

That said, we are writing screenplays, not novels, and in movies... love it or hate it... in movies, concept is what sells. So, you may need to play the game a little bit, in order to get IN the game... does that make sense? You don't want to pander to concept... but I think you do want to be able to speak the language. I think. (I reserve the right to amend that last notion. I am not one-hundred percent sure I believe it, or whether it is just some bogus notion that I have been told to believe. So, I'll be in touch about that.)

The ********** journey was a bit of odyssey for me. For brevity's sake, I'm gonna to try to boil it down for you. (I will elaborate in person some time.)

As previously discussed, I had written a few scripts that were pretty bad. Then, I wrote a script that was not so bad (but still not great.) It was a thriller inspired by an unsolved murder that happened years ago in my hometown that had always intrigued me. I built my own story and characters around the circumstances of that case. ****** signed me off that script. It did not sell. To pay my bills, I was working on various film productions at the time, assisting a director and then an actor, so as a result, I would tend to write in fits and starts. I would work on a movie, have some fun, live some life, put away some money and then take a month or two to do nothing but write. Then I would panic about money and go get another production job. I was terrified the entire time. As we discussed the other night at Mozza (ahem, I think we discussed this... details are fuzzy, thanks to your heavy pouring hand. BLESS YOU, BLESS YOU, BLESS YOU) Anyway, what I mean to say is that I come from a long line of left-brained types: lawyers and bankers and other people who wear neckties. No one in my family had ever made a living doing a creative endeavor, so I struggled with the notion. I still do at times.

Sometime around then, I wrote a script called ******. I loved it. It was a somewhat autobiographical tale about an experience I had with another writer who became my mentor and whom I still keep in touch with to this day. It was very sweet and wholesome and inspiring. The script did not sell or get set up anywhere, but it didn't matter. I knew it was good. I was proud to give it to people and more importantly -- I knew, on that script, that I had found "my voice." (The irony is that now when I read ******, I die inside a little bit, because it reads so earnest and eager and I have become far more cynical, but that's my own journey and a conversation for a different day.)

Incidentally, ****** was also the script that got me an agent. A GREAT agent. (When she left to become a producer a couple of years later, I was beyond bummed) and that agent got me a lot of meetings with fancy people around town. All of those people were very nice to me and none of them gave me any writing jobs. Which led me to write ******.

I said I was going to make this brief, didn't I? Haaaaa. Sucker.

Bottom line: I wrote ****** over the course of one summer when I was up for my first real, live studio gig and they couldn't decide whether to hire me. It dragged on for MONTHS. I was completely out of money and I was feeling very angry that nothing seemed to be going my way. All my friends were working far less hard and seeming much more happy... and I thought to myself, well, maybe this is it. Maybe this dream is just not gonna happen. Maybe I'll just have to move back to Philadelphia and work in a bank. And I was taking a hike in Griffith Park one day, contemplating doing just that when the title ****** popped into my head. That's it. Nothing more than that. Just a funny play on words that I thought to myself: "Huh, that's interesting. That would be a good title for a movie. What if there were a guy that *********************************" And that was that. That's as concept-y as I got. I clung to that notion (and title) and day by day, I built on it a little bit more. And pretty soon, I was off to the races. The thing sort of took on a life of its own.

There is nothing quite as clarifying to the mind than the iron-grip of FEAR saying: If you don't get a move on, you are going to be back in your hometown with nothing to show for yourself but a couple of good L.A. Stories. And that was enough to strike the fear of God in me and I got quiet. Like, REALLY REALLY quiet and I sat my ass down and I did not get up until I had a script that was funny and that would show all these people that weren't giving me jobs that YES, I can write comedy, okay? I'd never written anything that fast before -- I started on Memorial Day, finished it Labor Day. I handed it to ****** in mid-September and she sold it like gangbusters the first week of October. I doubt it will EVER happen that easily again. Something was happening during that time period and I had, if nothing else, the wisdom to get out of the way and let it happen.

I'd love to tell you it's all been wine and roses since then, but I'd be lying. However, that sale did bust open the doors for me. One of the most frustrating things about Hollywood for me is that people are sheep. No one will hire you until someone else has hired you. So, this made my life easier I guess, in certain ways. I had money in the bank and finally people knew my name. Unfortunately, they still haven't made the movie. So, that's my next big hurdle, getting something produced. But let's talk about all that later. For now, keep writing - and ignore the guy at *******. He gets paid to pass on things. If he knew how to do it better, he's be out there doing it.

Didn't intend for this to be so long! Hope it was remotely helpful????? Oh, and I'll get you a copy of ******* and hopefully you'll have a laugh.

---------------

Sometimes, I feel like I have to step back and appreciate. That night. This letter. All the shit that can be so trying - not just sitting in front of a computer for months on end squeezing yourself out onto a flickering monitor. It's the chase that'll get you...and when you take a hit, she nailed it, the chase becomes something much worse...

Fear.

What if?

Dwell in it long enough and you're claimed. So I guess all I have to say, minutes past midnight on a Wednesday night, knowing I'll be waking up in the 6's to get going again tomorrow morning, is that when the medicine comes along, whatever form it's in, you gotta grab it and hold it...

Thank you, thank you, thank you.

Le Return...

Post Adolescent Molestation And Its Ties To Getting Poor Studio Coverage on Kimberly And Valentine...

For two summers, the summers after my sophomore and junior year in college, I traveled half way across the country to live in a small town apartment in Thomasville, North Carolina. It was in the middle of nothing. Actually, the entire state of North Carolina is in the middle of nothing. Nevertheless, I spent two absolutely memorable summers playing baseball with man-children from across the country in the Coastal Plains collegiate summer league.

In my apartment building, there was this old, kind of lurking man who lived below me. He was tall, a lurcher, often odd-bodied and shirtless. Maybe that paints him stranger than he deserves...truth was, he was totally harmless. I suppose I came to know him fairly well. He'd come running out of his apartment as I would run off to practice or to the gym or to a game, always eager to chat. Every now and again, he'd come to watch me pitch. For someone that likes to live in something of a bubble for stretches of life lasting anywhere from one week to one year, I guess you could say he was, at times...a sleight burden.

Anyway, it was sometime during the summer after my junior year...

Right before I was leaving to get fixed my tattered and cracked elbow, he asked me to a goodbye dinner. And let me tell you...if the come around to this story wasn't such a dementedly perfect transition into part two/B/the conclusion of this post, I'd turn to fiction and speak of a brilliant and lonely man who in that last dinner, passed unto me in one magnificent sentence...the story of his life - a sentence that has since defined my every breath. I'd tell you how we've kept in touch over the years, every Sunday...say at 8 o'clock, something we both learned to live by, to count on. Then I'd tell you how last Sunday, he didn't call...didn't answer when I tried to call him. I'd tell you of a package that was delivered to my door with a note from the apartment manager in North Carolina, informing me that my great friend had passed - and that his last wish was that I received said package. Then I'd tell you about how I opened the package and found his old and worn baseball glove, priceless baseball cards from the 40's and 50's...from when he was a little boy - the last time he spoke of knowing pure joy...days at the ballpark with his father, his brothers. I'd cry and say something like I've been moved, I may never move back - and think it to be a powerful and poetic close to the post - thinking to myself, what a powerful and poetic closer I am...

But the truth is...it's, well...it's not fiction. It goes a little something like this...

We hit the early bird at this buffet place where all the senior citzies rolled. I think we talked about baseball, the wars he'd been in, his distant family or lack of...girlfriends of mine, mysteries of his. At some point, he said something strange, something that knocked me on my heels. He mentioned or asked about...and I need some ellipses here...either my loss of virginity or my taking of virginity. I think I gave him something, maybe out of admiration of his asking something so odd so casually, then told him to top off and togo the iced tea he was nursing...we were leaving.

On the way home, we made a park detour to look at some newly built youth baseball fields. We parked, got out, looked around...quick. When we got back in the car, he started talking about the military again. By then, I was kind of shut off, ready to fucking go, to get back on with my life. At some point, something about the whole ordeal had become an extreme chore. Something about it had turned odd...maybe because in my mind of minds, I had a feeling about what was coming. I heard it out the side of my ear, something about showering in the military and this joke they would play and then...

Then the old man grabbed my shit - this glancing swipe, reaching across the center console, straight into my crotch. I looked over to him, speechless and bewildered, not really knowing what to say. Mind you, when this happened, I was 30 pounds heavier than I am now, all power, probably hopped up on what would today be an entire regimen of banned and illegal substances. With a finger, I could have snapped the man...maybe that's why I didn't. I'm not really the passive type, but again, in my mind of minds...if that made his day - a man nearing the end of his days, then that's an after the fact gift I suppose I was willing to give. We drove away, moved on. Forgiven, odd, sad, whatever...

We were close to home, and I was probably talking about the pain in my arm when we stopped at a stop sign. He did it again. This time, there was no mistake. I kept my cool, told him to not do that again with whatever authority you use on a 75 year old man. He was like a fucking infant child reaching for the cookie jar. It was one of the most bizarre and world-humbling things I've ever been a part of.

He dropped me off and I went up to my apartment, locked the door, went to sleep and immediately dreamt of him kicking my door down, chloroform cloth in hand. That was the last time I saw him...a monster in my dreams.

Later, after I had woken up and composed, I made my 20 minute drive to the field. We had a short road trip that day, maybe to Gastonia, so we were taking vans. Once we were going, I think there were 11 of us in the van when I told our coach to turn down the radio - that I had a tale to tell. After two years on the team, aside from pitching, stories were my fame. I'd write fictional player bios on pitching charts during games I wasn't pitching. I'd often fill pages front and back, in my tiny cat scratch...just going on endlessly. When I catch up with players today, some of them tell me they still have their bios framed on their walls. It makes me happy. So anyway, when I had a story to tell, ears were given. All I knew, I had to get this out, had to put what happened out in the world for the world to consume. And I stretched it out and set it up, taking my time, telling with exact poetic justice, what would forever be known as the famed Reilly got molested by and old man story. And we laughed and I felt purged and took welcome shit for the next week before I left and put it all behind me...the good and odd...

...

Last night, I met up with Team Burn to go over some new ideas. The plan was to get something solid together so I could start working again on Monday. I need to start working again. The great and terrible thing about having Team Burn around is that he's like this pit bull, trained to choke, strangle and ultimately kill potentially great ideas the second they show any weakness. Actually, it's great. He reads everything, all the time...sees every path, every talent, every trick...and he might be nearly as obsessed with his side of the business as I am with mine. In the end, it makes it brutally fucking hard to get anything past him. He's exactly what I need...to save my now self from a potentially dangerous later self.

When we were both totally burned out and stopped to take a breath, I asked him about the coverage on Kim and Val. He got it off to one studio and I thought it would be coming back next week. It wasn't. He got it yesterday, on Friday...or maybe before. The first thing he said was something like you're tough, otherwise, I'd tell you I never got it back. It wasn't great. It wasn't good. Actually, I have no concrete idea what it was because I haven't seen it yet. When I do, I'll post the highlights, because depressing as it may be, I'm not going to run from it. Depressing as it may be, today, for the hangover, in the long run, it really doesn't change anything. Team Burn said that the things they picked on were things that he always picked on, choices that I lowered my head and powered through. I don't know what else is on there, but I can't wait to find out, even if it isn't good...especially if it isn't good. I've come to preach this thing through the people I train, through the lives I advise, through my own life that's under constant advisment...that pain and hurt and change and challenge are meant to be grabbed and consumed and owned and cherished. You wanna be built -- when the dark side leans on you, lean back. That's the beauty of the struggle...to force and allow ourselves to feel it all, to let it wash over us, to scald us, to re-make us.

When I recently told one of my friends and mentors (whose movies have grossed in the hundreds of millions of dollars) that I was getting coverage on a script, he told me to take it back. He told me that Steven Speilberg's coverage girl tore one of his greatest scripts to pieces, and then just kicked him around and around and around. And he was affected by it. He said something that is undeniably true, that studio readers are almost without exception exactly one thing...wannabe, bitter writers who will never be what they want to be and in turn, get off by ripping, literally ripping scripts apart. And I could see that. In a lot of cases, that's probably true. The world is all envy, I believe that. But I also believe in the other end, of a reader who loves to read scripts and goes to work every day hoping to find the next gem and to them, I disappointed. And now here I am, sitting in that...and what can I do about it but push on? Nothing.

Someone else is going to read it. Someone else is going to love it. Or not. And whatever happens, you just gotta keep going, you gotta keep playing. This is my game...and my absolute belief hasn't wavered.

I started thinking back to a meeting I took when I first started Kimberly and Valentine. It was with this industry monster and if I'm recalling what he said right now, chances are, I'm never going to forget it. He said exactly you'll succeed in this business when you have no heart left to break.

And I just love that, want to give all my love to that - knowing instead, no matter what comes, that if there's one thing I'll always be...it'll be all heart.

Beautiful, Beautiful...

Picking A Fight With Durban...

Lately, I've been talking with Durban, the possibility of a collaboration of sorts. He knows as well as I do, I've been circling wagons around the next project...

Three days ago, he sent me this e-mail. When it comes to Durban, there's no real need to paraphrase. He's always short and usually un-sweet. It said exactly, "Burn, you cunt. You need me. Let's roll."

I was thinking about writing something light and easy and funny after the weight of Kim and Val, something I could spit out and then sit back, allow my dancing words to woo. When Durban heard this, his reply, "Burn, if I could reach through this computer and fist-fuck your face. Stop running. We're the same."

I love that he uses a dash between fist and fuck.

He started kicking ideas and I'd kick back and he'd kick and I'd kick. Every time, every idea kept narrowing, coming back to the same place -- our world, as we know it...over, ended. Something about it always works for me, obviously always works for him. The end result of whatever comes of this will likely be the absolute opposite of what I thought my next step would be, but I'm on board, I'm gonna "roll."

I try not to think too long on logistics - between the benders he claims are over and the destructing women and the infinite travel itinerary. In the back of my mind, I know he's gonna be my polish - the yin to my yang, the sour to my sweet. We'll lay the groundwork...I'll write...he'll finish. And as phantom as he is, he always seems to be there when I need him. And I respect his words...even if he is absolutely the most ridiculous person I have ever known. Absolutely - and he'll read that last sentence and wear my words like a shiny new badge. Just don't ever ask him to admit it.

Fucking Durban...

The Let's See How Many Posts We Can Do In A Day Because It's Sunday And Everyone Knows We Struggle On Sundays #10...

Neil Patrick Harris crushed last night on SNL, the whole show was a destroyer. There's very little like waiting up and watching SNL...still...still one of the best shows on TV. Please watch this. Please try and tell me otherwise.

The Let's See How Many Posts We Can Do In A Day Because It's Sunday And Everyone Knows We Struggle On Sundays #9...

Sunday Melrose Place farmer's market. I can walk. There's always a chick playing sax and another selling fresh fish. I buy strawberries and flowers -- try to surround myself with life for the week ahead. It's divinity in the hood.

The Let's See How Many Posts We Can Do In A Day Because It's Sunday And Everyone Knows We Struggle On Sundays #8...

I was out to dinner with a girlfriend of mine the other night and she was playing with these bands on her wrist. I asked to see them, she showed me -- and instantly, I had this reaction...totally gripping, and I told her she had to get me some, that I had to have them. And I didn't know exactly for sure what the initial reason was...but I do now. I was drawn to them and their appearance. She said they were for women and I shrugged, said something like please. Two days later, she delivered...and now I'm rockin' em.

Because of this...

The Let's See How Many Posts We Can Do In A Day Because It's Sunday And Everyone Knows We Struggle On Sundays #7...

75 and perfectly sunny on a Sunday afternoon. Maybe 80. Perfectly acceptable. Note the extended wrist...we're going closer...

The Let's See How Many Posts We Can Do In A Day Because It's Sunday And Everyone Knows We Struggle On Sundays #6...

Sausalito turkey on wheat. Lettuce, tomato, dijon, avocado, pepper jack, double fruit, pickle on side, separate containers so the juice doesn't run into the bread. I don't even need to order it anymore. My people know. And they know about my family, and my jobs, and my love life, and my dreams and fears and aspirations. I don't know if that's funny or sad but I do know that it's against my grain so I embrace it, absolutely. 4 years and counting...

The Let's See How Many Posts We Can Do In A Day Because It's Sunday And Everyone Knows We Struggle On Sundays #5...

This the highlight of my day, turning out of the parking garage on Sundays to find they've opened up the bars on Alta Loma so I can just roll down the hill and not go up to Sunset before rolling down La Cienega. Sometimes, in my mind, I convince myself that they are doing this just for me or that they should be. They say it's the little things...

My entire life is little things.

The Let's See How Many Posts We Can Do In A Day Because It's Sunday And Everyone Knows We Struggle On Sundays #4...

Think about this...first class down, 40 were there. Second class at 4 is always full. That's 50. That's almost 100 people in a single day. And I have a microphone...and the things I say are becoming increasingly less about fitness and more about...well, stuff like you find here. And that's just in one day.

All I'm saying...I'm just a baby at this. World, look the fuck out.

The Let's See How Many Posts We Can Do In A Day Because It's Sunday And Everyone Knows We Struggle On Sundays #3...

You ever find a band that's new to you...and then a song and it's like the greatest discovery in the world. This is going to carry me through the day, all day...into the rest of my life. I know that sounds overblown...but that's it, that's the feeling.

The Let's See How Many Posts We Can Do In A Day Because It's Sunday And Everyone Knows We Struggle On Sundays #2...

I always have this stack of books next to my bed. Sometimes, there's one, sometimes 5...sometimes it takes me a long time to get through them between whatever I'm working on. At some point over the past few months, I picked this up...


Wilde's Dorian Gray, and finally got through it last night. At some point, I was having deep conversations with two people in the same week...both told me I should read it. It's a story about obsession, youth, art, love -- sin...this beautifully written, morbid tale about a man and a magnificent painted portrait. When he sees himself in the portrait, he gives his soul to never age - to look as he does in the portrait forever - to have the portrait age instead. His wish comes true, only over time, the portrait begins to change, reflect his sins until it and he become something grotesque altogether.

~ People say sometimes that beauty is only superficial. That may be so. But at least it is not so superficial as Thought is. To me, beauty is the wonder of wonders. It is only shallow people who do not judge by appearances. The true mystery of the world is the visible, the the invisible... Yes, Mr. Gray, the gods have been good to you. But what the gods give they quickly take away. You have only a few years in which to live really, perfectly and fully. When your youth goes, your beauty will go with it, and then you will suddenly discover that there are no triumphs left for you, or have to content yourself with those mean triumphs that the memory of your past will make more bitter than defeats. Every month as it wanes brings you nearer to something dreadful. Time is jealous of you, and wars against your lilies and roses. You will become sallow, and hollow-cheeked, and dull-eyed. You will suffer horribly... Ah! Realize your youth while you have it. Don't squander the gold of your days, listening to the tedious, trying to improve the hopeless failure, or giving away your life to the ignorant, the common, and the vulgar. These are the sickly aims, the false ideals, of our age. Live! Live the wonderful life that is in you! Let nothing be lost upon you. Be always searching for new sensations. Be afraid of nothing...a new Hedonism ~

The Let's See How Many Posts We Can Do In A Day Because It's Sunday And Everyone Knows We Struggle On Sundays #1...

And I use this analogy in class a lot and I either people are shy or they don't get it but how could they not get it...

It's like when the vet comes to give your dog a shot and you think your dog is gonna absolutely freak out when this needle goes in and all you have to do is pet it, tell it how good it's being and it just lays there thinking it has such a good life, that it's being pet and being pet is the be all end all and it doesn't even notice or care about the needle going in and out and then it's over and you go throw a tennis ball and it chases it and then it's playtime or something of the like...

Anyway, the point is, I'm thinking -- attack fucking Sunday before it attacks me. Something like that. And so here we go...

Like He Said...

You ever get that...I was gonna say thing, but it's not really a thing. Let me preface with a statement...

I'm not an alcoholic.

Thank you. Actually, I've found myself moving away from alcohol consumption all together. Not to toot my own troubled horn, but start blacking out at 16, and by the time you hit 27, you're kinda over it. I'm kinda over it. For the most part...

Every now and again, I get this wandering desire. Everything about it reminds me of New York City. Something about being a stranger, playing the beer and shot game at 4-11 bars, alone, over the course of a night...magic does exist.

Last night, I had the same itch...but in Los Angeles. Here, things are a little different. There's a lot more walking. Here, it helps to pick up a flask for the steps between...that and an I-Pod...

So I was watching Goonies and line dancing with Jack and Stella before I stepped out. I knew where I was supposed to end up - at Guy's to meet a girlfriend of mine around 1230 - so she could...get this...set me up with a girlfriend of hers.

Ask the world to amuse you and it will...

In between, you could have spotted me winding the streets, head bobbing, hands dancing...slipping in and out of the shadows of random WeHo wells. Just wandering. It was dark and my steps sprung and in my mind, I could have been anywhere.

I made it to Guy's around 12. The door was nasty. Nasty. There was no pull left to pull, so I bit my lip and waited, knowing that letting my pride back me away from what was behind that door would have defeated my night. When I got inside, it was good. Find the right club in this town on the right night and let me tell you...the kids are out to play. And goodness, these kids are pretty. Goodness, this town is a factory.

So the girl...

Was something. And way too good to be set up. And she was kind of over the scene and a little salty like me, maybe a romantic...having little hope or faith in anything that is ever supposedly supposed to go down. And tough. And protected...so protected...so guarded. Word on the street and the weight she was carrying said that she very recently did some serious damage to another man's universe. And she kind of had it in her eyes, this look, like she needed to be taken to bed for a weekend...that that would be all she needed...

All she wanted.

CASA...

I just got back from downtown, from this restaurant named after the title of this post. The exec chef Kris and I used to work together back at Tower Bar on Sunset. It's where we met. He was a sous chef and I was the Expo and man, that man filled my head with food knowledge like I'd never knew existed. We hit it off right away. When I got back from sowing the oats (is that what they call it?) of my quarter life crisis, he made sure I was hired to hit tables at his first exec chef job at Blue Velvet. We had a great time, he made some great and bold and talented food and picked up a scorchingly good two and a half star review in the LA Times. Eventually I left...then he left and we both kept in touch through marriages and pig roasts and BBQ's...but in restaurant terms, we both went our separate ways. I went where the money was for a while, places where the food suffered...so below my snobbish foodie expectations that were heavily influenced by chefs like Kris. He's got it, man...fire, passion -- I've always had a great respect for him.

So anyway, he just opened up this new place downtown on Grand Street close to Pershing Square. It's Mexican, but throw down Mexican, like fucking amazing Mexican because he's the kind of guy that really isn't capable of much else. This great thing happens when you work in restaurants and your friends start getting their own kitchens and restaurants and you know people everywhere -- tasting menus. I showed up with three dear friends -- all of them worked at Blue Velvet at some point with Kris. Three of us work at Mozza and another at the Dining Room in Pasadena -- who was also recently a sommalier at Mozza.

So I guess we had clout because I felt the room tense when we showed up...as we sat down...as nearly everything on this giant menu was paraded out before us. Literally, everything. Oh baby...amazing. But they were so afraid of us. So afraid...

I started to think back to my days at Blue Velvet. Mind you, the place I work now is as good as it gets in this town. My bosses, essentially, are Nancy Silverton and Mario Batali -- royalty in the food kingdom. And Mozza is something as close to fable as restaurants get in this town. I remember back when I first started at Blue Velvet and Mozza was just opening up - and I had a table of 6, a table of the brass behind it. I was so scared, so scared I was being judged, watched, inspected, tested. I mean, in restaurants, they were titans...and I was wandering in their area of expertise. Later, I waited on Ms. Silverton and handfuls of other titans and then changed gigs and there were more titans and I switched gigs and now I'm at the top and if I told you the people I had at my bar just in the last day you'd think I was lying for dramatic affect. Eventually, you just get slick...

There must have been notes peppered all through the computer...manager, sommalier, Mozza, be afraid, VIP, fuck this up and you're all fucking dead. I found myself constantly trying to play the "cool guy who tried so hard to convince his waitress and the floor managers and bussers and whoever else was around that we don't give a shit and that we were just there to kick it and eat like kings or idiots." I don't know why I quoted that. It all made me stop for a second and realize that I've been in this for...well it's been a few years now and I know my shit and in spite of my contrary claims, maybe I was kinda judging...and maybe deep down I have turned into such a fucking foodie and service snob that I can't help it.

Anyway, the whole experience made me look back and smile and you know me...sucker for shit like that.

The food was amazing. Like I said, we had everything and then some. And the place is gonna blow up - you should see it, nestled in downtown under the buildings and stars. Come summer, me and daytime drunks are gonna hang on the front patio, talk about how downtown is trying so hard to be amazing -- and that finally, finally, maybe it actually is.

We threw down a monster tip for our gal, who was great and sweet and genuine and in this game or any other, honestly, what more can you ask? We staggered out around midnight and I wasn't really thinking anything. Then I kinda wanted to see if ice skating would have me in Pershing Square, alone. Then I kinda wanted to go home so I did. And I drove back on Olympic and yeah...I wasn't thinking anything...and I think I just held onto that.

Great night.

Wow...

Starting To Feel This Shake...

That's more of a float, where my feet lift from the ground. Then comes mind and its desire to take me away. For a thousand reasons, it's not surprising...arrival in January, in the cold, in the infancy of 2009. Right now, it's this feeling of a constant Sunday...and from my eyes, in this moment, nothing moves. I think most people never feel what I'm talking about. And for the majority who do, their feeling comes later. Right around the time when the tragic resolutionary mask starts to peel away.

And that's not a dig. Actually, with the tone, maybe it is. Believing in resolutions is like believing in God. I have an opinion...and it's hard like the bricks in my head - but above everything, I absolutely respect the paths we all take...even when my heart doesn't. No one can be shown the way. Gotta see it...

So I say whatever it takes! And yes, with exclamation. That's what I always self-remind, that's what my mind always tells me when I'm looking out onto the entirety of the world. It's how I deal.

But this...this Los Angeles...this today...

When I feel like I'm breathing through stagnant or recycled air...and when the beats turn to stretches turn to whatever it is that's longer than a stretch, I start to lose a little bit of my shit and dream of taking off to find another place to ditch to. It's not escaping. It's not running. It just is...because the only thing left for me to crave in this world is growth. Someday, if I ever calm the fuck down, maybe I'll look back and smile...try to swim through the deconstruction of my former self. Until then, this is what I got. This is what's got me.

...

So I'm sitting here, at a table across from the world. And it (the world) is wearing a cut T and a gay ass trucker hat that I thought was cool at some point, too...like ten years ago. Okay, maybe 5...which I guess could justify a comeback, maybe...if you really owned your shit -- but anyway...

Anyway, it's looking at me -- the world, mind you -- with this smug tone, maybe because it's mocking me, saying..."really, tell me, how exactly are you going to take me on...all of me. I'm just dying to know."

My answer is too big to respond, too delicate, and I'm sitting here thinking the world looks kinda like a sleaze, wondering if it'll even get what I have to say, all I have to say, then if everything is is just a front for something much wiser and all-knowing and suddenly I want to say everything at once, a thousand words in a minute and in that instant, I realize, actually...I don't need to say anything...

As long as I know.

So I let my eyes speak, say it all...and in them, I tell it -- either I will or I wont and it was nice meeting you and it was nice sitting with you but I'm going to go and you should really look into picking up a new look, cause brother...sister, whatever the hell you are -- it's spent.

...

I've got this nagging problem. I think all along, I've been meant to have it. Simple comfort will never be good enough...

So, as part of my ever evolving self-medication, I'm going reach for fires that burn -- knowing they'll do just that...for little reason but to get exactly that. I'm sure there's a word for this behavior...a word someone invented, long ago that describes, in terms, everything I'm feeling, have felt. And I know there are plenty of people out there, flocks ready and waiting, with their labelers in hand, ready to slap foreheads and stamp wrists and categorize and clean up and fit everything and everyone exactly in their place...

And that's great...and I'm happy for them.

But for the momentarily ill-conceived and selectively malcontent, I say, with all my grace...

Chew on my elbow.

Best Of 2008...

January 22, 2008
Heath Ledger...

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.

February 03, 2008
Vampire Weekend, Coronet and the Things That Bide My Time...

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.

March 04, 2008
Just now coming up for air...

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.

May 19, 2008
Then September...

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.

June 09, 2008
Thanks Pal...

Her confession, her word…

Celibacy.

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

July 06, 2008
John Durban...

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.

July 16, 2008
Coldplay 7/15/08, The Forum, Inglewood CA...

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.

August 28, 2008
Thursday Evening...

We had a lunch today that began with a heavy kiss and ended with her gift-giving and a heavy goodbye. She drove away and I didn't watch -- some kind of conquering perception of mind -- my illusion of strength disallowed it. I opened the gate and had to stop. I felt light, like something was pouring from the soles in my feet, bleeding out into the concrete -- this force vacating my body, instantly replaced by another force, something heavy and daunting, a familiar thing to me. It was my Conquer, coming back, rushing through me, trained to not let a moment of weakness or hurt find me. And all it could say, push, push, push, we don't have time for this - there's too much, too much, too much. I can't help but listen. I want to listen. I have no choice. This is what I do. This is my life.

October 12, 2008
We Certainly Don't Sleep On Sunday Nights, That's For Sure...

She thought me to be her cure -- a fresh and sweet faced Adonis (don't be put off, I self-deem this often). She thought I would do her no wrong on this night - and she'd wake up in the morning and feel safe and comfortable and exercised and she'd start to think of the next step - what it might be with this new boy...

And of course I know this - all of this or at least something in the realm of it to be true. And when I weigh things out and decide I don't want a mess, I start in with something that sounds like, "Look, I'm not that good. I would be tonight. Great. Probably the best you've had - but after that..."

November 11, 2008
Sushi and Breakups and Ex-Girlfriends and Their Katana Swords and Desire to Hunt Down and End the Lives of Ex-Boyfriends...

The tide crept up and tried to sweep what was left of her out to sea. I grabbed her head and body. Scare came running again from the woods, looked at me...carved and bloody. I looked to him and handed him the wooden doll and said something like I probably shouldn't keep this and then ran into the ocean. And I felt the salt water rushing in and through me, and under the water I opened my eyes and watched as my wounds closed and healed.

When I came up for air, I couldn't help but admire the landscape, the world painted before me and the thought of it without people who at certain times in our world mean the world to us. I turned over onto my back and closed my eyes and floated, let the tide carry me away.

December 18, 2008
Lindsey Long...

I don't remember the fight we were having, but we were having one - maybe one of our best of all time. There was so much anger in that car. I don't remember what it was about, we didn't fight that often -- both too rational, I think. I think one of us always knew at least slightly, when we were wrong. But one thing I do remember was this need to roll the window down. And when I did, the wind outside - which was also blowing at what had to be something close to 50 mph - would just tear through the inside of the car and cover the music, adding this extra insane factor to the already swamped equation. I wanted it down, she wanted it up. And maybe because we were already fighting, and pissed, we both stood our ground while the world was literally falling apart all around us. So damn scary, everywhere. All she wanted was to take some of that away, and I understood, but the way she was telling me -- no chance. It stayed down, mostly because I'm capable of being a bastard asshole. When things cooled and I became more scared than I wanted to handle for purposes of spite, I rolled the window up and said maybe one of the stupidest things I've ever said in my life, something like you obviously don't know how to go on a road trip. And I don't mean stupid like piss her off stupid. I mean stupid, like if you could wrap up the most childish, most power stripping, dumbest thing anyone has ever said, ever, in any situation...this could compete.

Because You Can't Take Pictures Of The Stars...

How Many M's Are There in Hmmm...

I just finished making this playlist called "drive." It's a couple hours long and I have others and if needed, together they'll suffice. See, tonight, Mulholland just isn't going to be enough. I need something else, something a little more filling. Gas is cheap and I'm not really worried that my tomorrow starts at 6am. Sometimes, I just need...something. And I can't always put a finger to what that something is...so I just take off, let the world and the air and the music and my thinking sort through one another until the last of the bunch finally backs off or stands down.

I think the problem is that I need to get back to work, back to the pen and I can't for the life of me figure which direction to dive. I think the problem is that I think too much - that I have some sort of hyper-spastic mind and pattern of thought, this great and overwhelming desire to crush and conquer all things profound. Or maybe my problem is contradiction -- a need for the profound to crush and conquer me.

Yesterday, I told one of my friends I wanted to look like a cartoon - with every inch of my body sliced and carved, somewhere near perfection. Egg whites and fruit and EVOO and green shakes and steaming vegetables. Adonis squared, that's my aim. And I have no real reason to be, aside from living in this town. Aside from my obsession (that word again) with immortality. Aside from the small weighing fact that my mind has evolved into believing, with total infallibility, that discipline equals strength. Sometimes, I worry I'm moving into an inaccessible direction, not for myself but for...

I can't worry about such things at this time. Tomorrow, who knows...

I'm taking off for a bit, few hours maybe...to see what's out there. It feels good to be back in Los Angeles. It's like a new blood moves me here, this town...this fucking town. When I find a close that closes me down...better believe it to be some fucking mystical shit...

It. He. This. All is...

Ben Button...

So I'm back in LA and I caught a mid-day screening of Benjamin Button at the Dome. I've been all bent up lately, knowing awards time is soon approaching. And the source of my bend has been this notion that all we'd have to root for come time to hand out golden statues would be a handful of misconnecting, quasi-disappointments. So far, that's been the field. No one's really excited about anything. Slumdog was good. Everything else has kinda gone limp - and I've yet to run across someone who would argue otherwise.

So back to the subject at hand, Ben Button. I guess there's not a lot I can say...or maybe I'm choosing not to say much. Movies come along every weekend, hopefuls that span the globe, pieced by our great living storytellers. If you see enough, you learn to spot the flags -- you notice familiarities where so many tread or share similar gravel. Everything is somewhat derivative...somewhat, and that's fine. Today, I had this nagging and welcome thought...new roads, new feelings. Something different about this one. Something settling about this one - taking my bend away - a worthy best pic.

And it felt like a weight was lifted. Really. And I floated on my walk back to the parking garage. And I kept on thinking, because it's what I do...ceaselessly -- I don't mind so much where the rest of the nominations go, so long as the Academy grows up -- or down, allows a sidestep, spends two of their noms on the most deserved but usually all too ignorable big money faction. Now if that happens, maybe then we'll be alright...

Certainly Merry...

Givin' Chase on Facebook...

Last week, I made a play on a social networking site -- asked out this girl. It's something that I wasn't necessarily proud of, doing it online...and began the subject of the message with "So I Know This Is Weak..." before rolling into whatever it was that I rolled into.

We met at a party maybe ten days ago...long after she first grabbed my eye. There, we rapped...and rapped, and part of her won something in me.

I didn't have her number. That was my first justification. My second...we're on this similar schedule where I only see her once a week, in passing. The third was that with the holidays and our respective holiday jet-setting on the horizon, it was going to be a long time before I would have the opportunity to state my intentions. 2 weeks, maybe more. And in 2 weeks, who knows what kind of person I'll be, or what kind of person I'll feel for. Since I have no patience, and since I have have to come to accept with growing alarm, belief that my time here will either expire prematurely or that every day should be treated as if, I opted for action.

The thing about me...I don't often chase. Gotta be inspired. And I don't know what it takes, but it takes something rare. Obviously, I think I'm fairly hot shit, usually won't even consider going to bat with someone unless they're playing somewhere in the vicinity of the same ballpark.

I don't remember the exact day I sent the message, but there was a gap in her responding. And I started to think things like, wow...maybe not interested. I got to dance with the possibility of denial - which is a healthy thing, someone dealing a blow to this ego every now and again.

...

I was at a bar on Friday night and one of my girls started dangling this line -- she had someone she was going to set me up with. I don't know the rhyme or reason, but in LA, someone is always trying to set me up with someone. And I've turned kind of raw about it. I don't like the idea of people thinking they know me well enough to pair me. Actually, I find it insulting, which I know probably sounds ridiculous...but that's who I am. These days, when someone tells me they have a girl for me, I ask them if they know my resume. Then I go into this rant, questioning if they know the girls I've dated...questioning if they think "the potential" could stack up...questioning if they're prepared to insult the honor of the women of my past. If they haven't given up by the third bullet point, I just keep rolling until they cave. Everyone caves. I could roll 30 deep if I had to.

Anyway, this time, I diffused the set up by claiming I was starting a chase. When I offered that I had done it on Facebook, the entire bar turned on me, like I was some gutless nothing - because that's how the world has been trained to behave. Trained. Fucking mutts. My first response was to get defensive, eyes scanning the accusers. I started to laugh them off, one by one, considering my sources. I let them all tell me how it should have been done, how I should have approached, how I should have chased this girl...because clearly, I'm an amateur. Clearly, I need the advice. Clearly, the block is something I've never been round. Clearly, clearly, clearly.

...

By the time I heard back from the gal, we were both leaving for our respective holiday homes. We agreed on the possibilty of a new year's rendesvous and that was that. And maybe someday, we'll see what's what. And whether it's on Facebook or in person or with a singing choir by my side, what fucking difference does it make? It's about getting someone in front of you. And then, it's about sinking or swimming. In the beginning and middle and end, honestly, it's all a game. Thankfully, I've got game to spare.

Though I tend to not give myself much of a chance these days...due to my constantly growing status as a flight risk -- in life and in the pursuit of love -- I can't help but pay a touch of homage to anyone who has the power to shake my mind...

Lady, for the moment, you got me. I'll give that.

Del Preston...

Lindsey Long...

In case you haven't noticed, I have this thing where I write about my ex-girlfriends. Sometimes conquests. I've always been inspired by love and that inspiration often arrives me here.

I should have snapped a fresh pic. She was as usual a super stunner last night, but I didn't. You'll just have to take my word that I had an excellent sushi/sake/asahi tour with an old one last night, a many times previously mentioned one called Lindsey Long...

She's got a lot of ink in these pages. We chased each other around Africa for a little while, so there's a depth there I can only mention and not explain. Me and Lindsey usually try to hook up every once in a while, touch base on life and love and all that good shit when we aren't crossing enough paths. This time around, at a little sushi bar off Sunset, we settled into theme holidays and got down with it.

I have two things working in my favor that makes this relationship soar in places where other ex-couples seem to fail. First, I'm not the slamming door type. I believe if you find depth with someone, and if you fall for them and you go through all the shit and beauty we all go through in a committed relationship, it's so regressive to throw that away because of a break up - it's just not how I work. I respect people who behave in the opposite manner, I have to...I have...I'm just saying...

Secondly...and this is usually where it kicks...I believe, steadfastly, at this point in my life, that if a relationship doesn't work, it's never going to. Or more importantly, just because we can sand down a square peg and fit it into a circular hole, that doesn't mean we should.

Lucky for me, LL is in the same place, and has a darling lover to boot -- so we're left with this great thing -- Super Friends. I cherish her for that. Recently, I started putting her down as my emergency contact. Huge!

And aside from all her wisdom and the ears she lends, I got something great out of the night, always get something great out of her that I don't get from many places. Humility. And I think so many of us avoid our ex-flames because they're a reminder of how we've failed...or we feel betrayed for all that we shared, or gave up. To me, I think this is the exact reason to run back...she checks me when I need it - she'll always be there to check me and I'll always be there to check her.

When we were done, we locked onto each other for a moment in the parking lot, professed our mutual appreciation for the other's existence and pulled off in separate directions...

I was rolling down Crescent Heights, close to home when I realized this drunk had snuck up on me and I started thinking back to this time we rented a car in Johennesburg. We were driving it up to Kruger National Park to get fucking wild and had something like a 5 hour drive along this notorious South African logging route.

Thinking back, I'm sure it wasn't exactly like this, but it was something like this...

The speed limit was like 165 - in kilometers per hour. Still, when you start seeing any speedometer go into the mid-100's, you better believe your heart starts fucking moving. Also, the lanes in the road seemed selectively painted, everything blending together, and narrow. And every driver in the country drives with a fucking death wish. It's insane, just weaving and honking and zipping.

Also, the road was peppered with these log carrying semis that would back up single lane traffic for football fields at a time. When an opening came, passing the semis was like playing fucking Frogger. Excuse my profanity - I'm getting worked up just thinking back to it. And then the kicker...so these logs, these massive trees that were cut and being carried by the semis...every 20 or so kilometers, on the side of the road, a single one would just be sitting there, hanging out. So add to the equation, this little bit of fun that every now and again, a giant fucking tree would fall off the fucking semi and wander and bounce itself around in the fucking road while you're cruising in the one fucking fiftys on your way to one of the world's great wildlife parks.

Africa, baby. Africa.

So there was already enough going on. Plenty. And I don't remember the fight we were having, but we were having one - maybe one of our best of all time. There was so much anger in that car. I don't remember what it was about, we didn't fight that often -- both too rational, I think. I think one of us always knew at least slightly, when we were wrong. But one thing I do remember was this need to roll the window down. And when I did, the wind outside - which was also blowing at what had to be something close to 50 mph - would just tear through the inside of the car and cover the music, adding this extra insane factor to the already swamped equation. I wanted it down, she wanted it up. And maybe because we were already fighting, and pissed, we both stood our ground while the world was literally falling apart all around us. So damn scary, everywhere. All she wanted was to take some of that away, and I understood, but the way she was telling me -- no chance. It stayed down, mostly because I'm capable of being a bastard asshole. When things cooled and I became more scared than I wanted to handle for purposes of spite, I rolled the window up and said maybe one of the stupidest things I've ever said in my life, something like you obviously don't know how to go on a road trip. And I don't mean stupid like piss her off stupid. I mean stupid, like if you could wrap up the most childish, most power stripping, dumbest thing anyone has ever said, ever, in any situation...this could compete.

I don't remember what she said back...probably nothing. I think in that moment, in that fight, we both knew...I was finished. It still makes me laugh. And driving down Crescent Heights, I couldn't stop, wanted to call her up, talk about it...

But I didn't. Instead, I'm here, writing about this great girl, and my great memories. And I think of how grateful I am to have people who move me like that. That and because I've got these brilliant pictures of her in the world, just brilliant...

Orlando Bloom and iPhones...

Last night, I had a dream I was in a Cameron Crowe movie. It was this huge ensemble and the scene we were shooting was in the middle of this tent - set up for some sort of religious gathering. And there were about 8 of us on stage, and thousands of extras and I was sitting next to Orlando Bloom and Cameron Crowe comes up to us and tells us to go off book - like off script, just to go. We start rolling and Orlando starts speaking in tongues, just kind of humming and blowing his lips and then he stops and I guess at that point I was supposed to go so I did and it wasn't really working. By the third take, all I was thinking to myself was, really, this is all he's gonna give me? That and that I was going to get fired. Fucking Orlando Bloom.

I woke up this morning, feeling like I do when I dream of my crushes and it was a good start to the morning, a totally fun night in dreamland...being in a movie and not writing it...

Uh oh.

...

One of my spin class students and friends approached me last week with this offer. See, good people look out for me. She said that her friend was the casting director for a new iPhone commercial. She said I'd be perfect and made me promise to meet with the casting director, go on camera, do my thing...

I walked into the waiting room today and started to have this panic. Other people were waiting, there to do exactly what I was there to do. It was a casting, a fucking casting, the thing I've avoided like plague ever since I landed out here. I don't know what it is, something about me is incapable of doing it. I think it's this supremacy complex -- cattle calls go against everything I believe in...at least about myself. It's like I walk into a room and my eyes just move and it's such a competition and all my mind is saying -- I'm better than all of you -- and it's nasty and it's ugly and I don't like to think those thoughts, put myself in those situations. Hence, writer. But since I just finished a script, I've got room...

She stared rolling and I went off, just this rant, and I can rant like nobody's business and I can charm and all that good stuff that I'm sure people in the business of casting look for. And it was fine and it was fun and she closed the camera and said it was brilliant in this nice British accent and told me the video was going to the powers that be and I left...

And I started thinking...

I'm pretty enough and far too articulate not to be going out once a week, for something. I've been to 2 castings in my life, got one and was paid 10,300 for a day's worth of work. Why not, that's all I'm saying...

The Plan...

Last night, I had a little heart to heart with Team Winburn about Kim and Val's path to introduction. I turned it in last week, this piece of work that I believe to be beyond solid. Actually, I'm using restraint on adjectives here so I don't sound delusional, which I am...but I can sling words, so my delusion is at least partially justified at this point.

So, now that we're done, he did this great thing where he switched to business, all business, realistic business. There were reasons he wasn't doing cartwheels. There were reasons I wasn't expecting him to do cartwheels. See, this one's tricky...

In the world of sending out a spec, going out with someone's first is a tricky thing too. It's an introduction to the world, a play to get into the game. And sometimes, you only get one shot at it, so you have to be careful what you deal out and when. The biggest problem with Kimberly and Valentine is their universal accessibility. What does that mean? Well, I'll tell you...

It means that if you fall in love with them. IF they're not too salty. AND you're on board with their sweet but extremist, tongue twisting tendencies, introducing a poet antagonist on page 13 who chops off hands and snorts cocaine cut by the blood of his victims...then I may lose you.

It means that if you're on board for the first 31 pages, right up until their famed Cheyenne robbery and marriage and then I stop, flash back to their first star crossed night and you can only dig a linear narrative, then I may lose you.

It means that if you're on board when these sugar dipped youths are forced into killing, it may be a touch too much when Kimberly dangles a gun to her head with this whole, you die, I die kinda thing...I may lose you there.

And truth is, there are a hundred parts like that, and monologues...lots of monologues. And buckets of style. This script would set a studio checklist on fire for reasons why it would never work. I know that. Maybe I just like to think or believe that the great movies, the great scripts will always do that.

And he convinced me, maybe because he's just not sure, maybe because going super wide was never going to be a real possibility for this one, but this is one that we're gonna need to hustle. It's too refined. And I don't have a problem with that. At the end of the day, as brilliant as I believe this story and script to be, I'm very realistic about it. And I absolutely believe that there is someone in this town that is going to flip for it. We just have to dig for them.

So right now, the town is on lockdown. Everyone is leaving until January 5th or somewhere in the ballpark of. I recently gave it out to my small fan base, fanned it across town through alleys and into companies and producers and directors. And now I'll wait forever.

But what my guy can do, and what he's going to do that I've never really had access to, is getting coverage. Unbiased, thoroughly objective coverage through agencies and studios. This means your script goes into a stack of scripts. Everyone goes in the stack. From Diablo Cody to David Benioff. And you're judged on skill, on viability, execution. And then you get a report, written by someone who reads for a living, by someone who sees everything, and you see where you stand. Obviously, coverage isn't everything, but I'm sure it's quite rare for a script to get stank coverage and stand any chance at succeeding. We're both so deeply connected to this story and these characters, it's time to see where it stands.

He had this great closing line that I like to keep in mind. He said that at the end of the day, what we have here is a good script, absolutely...and it was a world created out of thin air, and so few people can do that. For now, my job is done. And whether we sell it now or in 5 years, when I have some absurd quote, that's something, certainly something.

Onward now. I need to write something for Ricky Gervais...

SNL 12/13/08

The Ironman...

Got home from sweating my brains out at the gym to find this from the couch this morning. And there's this seed inside me, something connecting that I can't explain, this shit makes me weep like nothing else. And my breath shallows, and I'm watching it breathing out and in and out and in so fucking fast, like this quickening. They suffer so bad, and it's so beautiful. I think you either get it or you don't.

I cried a dozen separate times during the broadcast...because I'm so soft, obviously. Uncontrollable.

And I've been saying this since I started running marathons, but before I go, me and the Ironman, we're gonna tango, tango good.

I Saw The Devil Wrapping Up His Hands, He's Gettin' Ready For The Showdown...

Decompression...

A couple days ago, 2 to be exact, I parted ways with the children. The same children I've been going on about for some 8 odd months now. Kim and Val. They're finished this time, with a hard period after finished. The feeling now, in my personal camp after the re-write is that if I can't communicate what I'm trying to communicate about love and life and the choices we make in between and the consequences of those choices in 8 solid months, then this one isn't going to be the one that goes. Of course, add to that the quip that for every rule made in this town, there are dozens others to refute it, like some of the greatest films to ever be made taking years in the development pipeline, sometimes all you're left with is a giant creative clusterfuck. Of course, this one isn't quite in the pipeline yet. Yet.

So I turned it in on Tuesday, after something like a 28 hour home stretch binge. And before the 28 hours, there were literally thousands before it. Probably in the low thousands, but still, that's a lot of days, a lot of hours, a lot of minutes. On Wednesday, I woke up with nothing to do. I wasn't working. I wasn't going to the gym until 7, so I started lurking around my apartment, immediately decided to clean. And we're not just talking a random straighten/Fantastic/vaccum job. It meant first picking up the 9, count 'em 9 empty gallons of Crystal Geyser surrounding my computer. It meant dusting the coves and corners I haven't touched in months, years. It meant straightening clothes. It meant going out and buying vitamins, changing wireless plans, updating my calendar, shuffling bank accounts, making phone calls I've been putting off, making plans I've been putting off, and reaching out, actually reaching out. When I sit back and look at the day, it's staggering, this feeling, actually putting my feet back on the ground. Obsession can do that. If there's anything I've recently come to accept about myself, it's exactly that, I'm highly obsessive. Not the development, or the realization, just the full realization.

Today, I go to work, dinner afterwards. Tomorrow, I have a dinner. Saturday two parties. Sunday two more. Monday dinner. Tuesday Dinner, Thursday dinner. And between that, I'm teaching and learning to dance, really dance. Then I go back home for the holidays. And my immediate future is thoroughly booked. And that's good. And I'm going to take this time and let it sink, the work I've done, the direction I'm headed. And sometime at the beginning of January, things are going to slow, and some new obsession is going to take over, and we'll start in again. Because this is the cycle, likely for the rest of my life.

I don't really have any expectations, I think I've already burned through them all. Hell, I've been toting this thing since March, and it got some decent reviews in June, and I got signed in late August and now it's December and it's nothing like March and only a fragment of what it was in August. It buries its past, no doubt about it. And it buries anything I've done in the past, no doubt about it. And now it's out to a few of my insiders, and hopefully will be championed by my management, and hopefully it brings adventure to this life of mine.

I used to have this thing, this thing where I would finish a script and I was working 5-6 nights a week waiting tables and really grinding it out every day of my life. And when I would finish a script, I would think of its limitless possibilities and of how it could rescue me from the life I was living. I'd think of how it could transport me into some entirely new stratosphere of life. And that was a lot of pressure to lay down - hopes that something so fickle could be so saving. I don't envy the parts of my past that behaved that way. I think it's all part of the process, growing up in both realms...life and art.

Any number of things are about to happen. Either the team behind me loves it and they take it out and the town goes nuts for it and it gets bought and made and makes international stars out of everyone involved, or they tell me I wasted my time, and theirs, and that that be all-end all trip I'm constantly threatening -- touring the globe, becoming a soldier of fortune -- they'll tell me there's no time like the present. I don't know. The only thing I know, the only thing I can control is that I told my story, and it's shaped, and buffed and it's out. And now it's going to get read. And this is the important part...my happiness no longer hinges on how the world consumes my creative endeavors. And I'm not just saying that to say it. Maybe that's just the next step in the journey of self-obsession. I don't know when it happened, but it did, this shift, and it's welcome to stay.