My Empty Words Were Growing Far Too Tiresome...

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

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

Arctic Monkeys...

Berlin On My Mind...

Adventureland...

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

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

This One Too...

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

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

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

Madison Reese Is Pissed!!!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Muse - The Resistance...

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

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

Things I Love On Sunday...

Bear Grylls...

Ellen Page...

The Life Aquatic...

Three Kings...

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

Chan Marshall...

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

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

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

There is no one for me to play with.

Thank You Lindsey Long...

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

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

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

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

Hemingway on Fitzgerald...

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

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

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

Time Bandits...

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

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

The Rat...

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

28th...

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

I've Got Something Of A Feeling...

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

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

I Don't Understand...

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

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

Le Dodge a Trois...

How I miss you so...

Arctic Monkeys...

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

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

Love this one...

Channeling Keanu...

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

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


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

70,446...

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

We Are The Dusk.

Fanboy...

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

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

Wow Clement, Wow Rockwell...

Excerpt #6 - Seville...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Excerpt #5 - Las Vegas...

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

My Mother...

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

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

How lucky can one guy be? Honestly.

Muse...

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

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

MGMT...

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

Madison Reese...

Every now and again, I get reader e-mail. This one turned my head for a handful of reasons, and since I'm a glutton for fodder, perhaps it's best we discuss it here...because I'm a firm believer that with smoke comes fire...because fires need to either be fed or extinguished. I'm not sure which I'm doing here. The only thing I'm taking out will be potentially identifiable characteristics. I haven't a clue who this...but someone might. So...

...

Your Blog...

So here is the thing….I have debated for months on whether to write you or not….you came into my world in the fall of 2008----I took you spinning class at equinox---no I wasn’t one of the ******* ** ***** * *** * ***** ** **** ******* *** ******* huffing and puffing and trying not to get ass sweat (sexy I know). I thought you were gay….dont be offended being a ******* girl I think most men in LA are gay…unless they tell me otherwise. You never noticed me. You never looked in my direction…but I took your class a couple more times listened to you guide us with your cosmic energy watched as you pushed the girls (and lets be honest most of the guys) with your charm and your playlist….heavy on Kings of Leon and Radiohead….I could tell you were a lover, a manipulator, and man with a story. It wasn’t until 5 months ago when I began reading your blog that I began to put your life together…extremely confident, somewhat talented, and the most passionate person I have ever known (seen/read/been aware of). I guess to say I know you would be wrong. I know the point of your blog is to put your thoughts out there I don’t know if its for peace of mind or the hopes that your true love will read it or someone in the industry namely Danny McBride (I asked BJ-his asst---he hasn’t heard anything about it) would stumble upon your yearning to write for EAD. You make me happy and angry all at once. You are so confident, almost cocky, we have mutual friends, I respect you for some, I question you for others. I admire your commitment to health (this shouldn’t mean much I mainly eat my feelings---mostly mcdonalds---and rarely exercising---it’s a form of self loathing). I think you are a great hustler in a town of hustlers---you have waited on me before----I was with * *********---a ****** *****----you barely looked at me---instead you told a story of baseball and Illinois---and made quips---you thought were charming----I thought were annoying. You have magnetism---and you know it. You are very self aware---and to be honest you are a great writer---I wonder if you have a small dick---I get that you have huge balls---but where are the faults??? You say all these women hit on you---I do not doubt it----but no self deprecating humor---no questioning---every time I read your blog I buy into the bullshit---ive read it in its entirety---I have a lot of a sleepless nights---im **********---ok to be honest ive never really been ********---living off of * ***** and hating every minute---we are beyond different---our problems are never the same---so I guess the reason I am writing is to find out----is it real??? Are you this person or are you projecting?? Have you had the successes with your specs and scripts or are you moonlighting as someone on the verge of success??? Do you believe in happily ever after??? I don’t know what answers I am looking for I don’t even know why I am writing ----just give me something---another letter will come again---when my thoughts are more clear----until then…..

Ps I used no punctuation and bad grammar to piss you off??? Did it work?? Do you get mad about stuff like that???

My name isnt madison reese----it isnt even close----im too much of a coward to reveal my identity---too scared you wont respond

pps this is by far the creepiest thing i have EVER done

Madison

...

I wrote back saying this is the kind of thing I would do, writing someone like this. I'm the kind of guy who has dozens of unsent e-mails sitting in his outbox, addressed to guess who(s), never having any intention of sending them. So I get it, and the whole art of expression through words. I don't know why exactly, but I felt like this one needs to be taken on here. This is not creepy. Or, if it is...then I'm creepy too and fuck the world. I'm right, they're wrong.

I got this e-mail as I was leaving to drive to San Francisco on friday and it moved me through some self-reflection, which is essentially what this entire blog is. It's selfish and self stroking and now this letter is a part of that, because to be honest, it got me off...and I don't think that was the intention. Sure, there are some digs and it might make you wonder if, say, my confidence is compensation for having a small dick, but in full disclosure, it's an ego feeder. So thank you, sweet Madison. Now, this may be a one time thing and I'll be over it tomorrow, but if you write a blog in this world and people get invested...so much that they come at you...I think you owe them something. So, let's begin...

- Not Gay.
- Somewhat talented? Please.
- Peace of mind.
- My true love (word choice) will never have to read my blog.
- No agency is going to give a spec episode of EBD to Danny McBride, too much hustle too little money.
- Hustler? I could have fucked my way out of the service industry a long time ago. I work.
- I make quips behind the bars I work. I am charming. You probably weren't THAT annoyed. I know what I'm doing.
- I am very self aware, hyper sensitive. Sometimes, I have a hard time dealing because of it.
- No.
- My blog, so far, is essentially about my failure to be the two things in this world I desire to be - a lover and a writer. I've never put a term on that before, because that's not the kind of thing I do, but if I had to pick a term, what would it be more than self-deprecation?
- I've had "success" as a writer. You're writing me, aren't you? Truth, no...not really. After all, I still work in a restaurant and have made that pretty clear. People like me don't choose to work in a restaurant. In terms of EBD...all that stuff is either true or a large handful of industry people are conspiring to fuck with me. It's 30 pages, it's a great script. I can write. I played baseball. As you know, I have something of an ego. I know recreational drug abuse. Clearly, you know the show. Do the math.
- Did my last spec get love then get blasted in studio coverage? Yes. Did it get me signed? Yes. Am I on the verge of success? By world definition...I believe so. Could I be wrong? No.
- Happily ever after? I think you're asking about two lovers and I don't know that. If I died tomorrow and someone were writing my story, they could say I lived happily ever after. And I'm alone. Right now, I've everything I need. So yes.
- Bad grammar pisses me off. Spelling is worse.

Is this me? Am I this?

Yes.

Another 26.2...

And I'm on my way here, staying at a place in Union Square. On Sunday, I'm running the 5 AM marathon and haven't run seriously for about two weeks - doing 8 on each Saturday in hopes that my IT bands will somehow rebound and let me finish the entire run. This week, I met a chef who invited me to his Nob Hill restaurant so that he could cook for me. I also met a sensationally beautiful married woman who invited me to call her so that we could play adultery. I will certainly follow up on one of the two. Off to San Francisco.

Excerpt #4 - Amalfi...

Getting there. 29,000 words left to go and now things are getting tight. See, I recently wrote a new script that's been wildly received...or so I like to think, and it's now gotten me into some other trouble, the kind of trouble of stacking projects, good projects...projects that are now being welcomely demanded from me. I could only tell someone I was on sabbatical, off writing a book for so long before those someones start to get pissed off. Right now I'm enjoying this last stretch of the book, but cramming enjoyment because there's a lot of inspiration out there for me right now and I have to grab hold of it. As Team Burn recently wrote, "we're on a very good path right now...let's do the work and see how it turns out." There's lots of work, so much work...and I feel wealthy and overwhelmed by it and so anxious to take it on and mold it and shape it and eat it and fuck it. So onward but in the meantime, I just cleaned up on of Durban's opening passages and wanted to share it...because it's just...it's just.

I’m thinking about what she was thinking at the end, when she knew her end was coming…when it was close. She used to speak about slowing the world, this fantasy of paralyzing our time together so that nothing could touch or divide us. Control. I’m thinking about her end, the moments when her last pieces melted away. Maybe she succeeded, right then, and found that pause...sometime on or around her last breath. I often wonder if I crossed her mind. I wonder what she was thinking, if she thought of herself as the girl who left me behind – the only girl who ever had what it took to stand me on my feet and keep me there. I’m thinking of her crimson blood stretching across that perfect white floor and all I want to know, the only thing I want to know was whether or not she thought of me…because I’m selfish and because I’m a motherfucker and because I feel like I deserve to know. I’d give everything I have.

Absolutely...

In Catching Up With Team Burn...

Last week, we sat down, me and my guy, my rep, my back. We had spoken a little bit here and there since Kim and Val but at some point I said something like I'm going to go write a book with my boy Durban and he kind of just gave me some space...maybe because we had been though some shit, maybe because he knew it's what I was asking for. Then last week, we spoke and I told him I was almost done and ready to get back into the fight...our fight, the fight of conquering features. Meanwhile, I've been picking others all over town, every day every night every morning. I sent him the opening chapter, Paris, to read before we had dinner and a couple drinks at 3rd Stop last whenever. He read it, or at least enough of it to say something like, look...finish the fucking thing so that we can get back to business...it's good and it flies and I have someone lined up who will take it on...but finish it. I told this to Durban and of course he told me he had plenty of people, plenty of suitors who might take it on but that they would all resent him for being who he was, for all he had. He agreed Team Burn might be a good place to start, at least for the sake of loyalty.

Anyway, we parted after dinner with an agreement to meet sometime after the book was finished, before I started in on my next thing. That was the plan. Now I'm going to tell you why this game is so backbreaking. I'm going to tell you why I've so hardened, why I'm so cynical and fucking tortured. Start with my April 22nd post about the spec episode I wrote for Eastbound and Down. I wrote it in two days, hammered it out and sent it out to friends during the first draft of the book. Everyone loved it because it's near fucking perfect, and everyone gave it to their agents and passed it up and around. I have two cc'd e-mails from TV lit partners at two of the top agencies in town, proof that it was liked enough by successful enough people to put their necks out for me. I haven't heard much because the maddening fucking secret about this town is that no one reads anything, so everything you write just goes out and drifts into abyss - and that's if you're fucking good. Me and Team Burn were on the second beer and I told him I had submitted the Eastbound and Down to Disney and NBC, and told him that I was certain it would at least get me an interview. He glanced over it a little bit and tried to move off the topic and I told him I knew he hadn't read it. He admitted, and apologized, saying that there was nothing he could do with it, nothing he knew to do with it. It was 30 pages long and I told him I thought it was mild bullshit that he hadn't read it, because most importantly...he needed to know my capability of writing something other than drama and love and intensity. He said he would put it on his list and then we moved onto talking about this...

Last night, I was driving around town and something made me want to give him shit. I sent a text while I was waiting for Harry Potter that said something like, Hey Cinderella...how's Kenny Fucking Powers? I got a text back in a couple hours and he told me it was great, then to finish the book so we could get back to work. I laughed, thinking he hadn't read it, again...thinking whatever, forgivable, still my boy. Today, I was finishing a chapter about Rio around 6 when he sent me an e-mail asking about everyone who knew anything about the spec and at which agencies they were located. Then he called soon after and said something like, here I am thinking you're this very serious and love obsessed writer and you drop this on me...comic fucking genius...I printed it out and gave it to everyone I could to read today at the office and it held up...they loved it...they're quoting it...laughing out loud. Then he told me he had been running it around all day and that it was in the very least, going to draw some serious interest for a spec of the same tone, by a writer of my name. I told him I could write the next spec feature in 2 weeks once I had a clear slate, because I like to set myself up for self-destruction. We're meeting on Sunday so I can show him that when I do start this new one, it's going to deliver. I still have a book to finish, and right now that's all that matters...but you gotta respect fire when it gets lit under someone's ass who reads a couple thousand pages a week.

When the click happens, in whatever literary world it happens in, people are going to read about it and say something like, oh the timing. I'll know better. There are no Cinderellas.

Girl Talk...

Next friday, I'm leaving for San Francisco to run a marathon on a destroyed body. I have to wake up at 4 on Sunday to make my way to the line and honestly have no idea how I'm even going to finish. That's what it's going to be like. So I'm thinking this...that since I wont be sleeping Saturday night anyway, I'm gonna drive the 150 miles to Lake Tahoe to chase a show, to see this and get loose. If you only have 7 seconds, just watch 1:42-1:49...reason enough.

Death Cab...

I taught a class last night that ended on one of the great songs I know - maybe again cracking the top 10 - Death Cab's Transatlanticism. And this guy I had never met came up to me after class and asked me if I had been to the Hollywood Bowl on the 5th to see them close their encore to it. Like I said, I had never spoken to him and he seemed pretty reserved but something in the way I teach or behave made him comfortable enough to offer that seeing it that day made him cry - that it was easily the best thing he's ever seen. He told me and I got the chills then regretted so full heartedly that I missed it. Then he told me to find it on YouTube, because it was there...so I did. Here you go. Stick around for it...

Let Me Tell You Why I'm Single...

I was leaving a party tonight, on a Sunday with this girl who I had earlier traded numbers with. She liked me, maybe quite a bit, and went out of her way to make that known before things came to an end at the end of the night. I'm superficial. I liked her too. Remember Diddy's white party - she was there, hired to hang out. We said goodbye and went our separate ways and I told her I would call her or that we would hang out but I hadn't yet decided if it was truth, not whether I wanted to...only if it was truth. I remember thinking as I was walking away something like dear oh dear...my dear you have no idea. And I think all people who think they're difficult and complex like to say things like that in their mind. I certainly do. I was getting into my car when she drove by and asked me if I wanted to hear her favorite song. I smiled and got inside and we didn't listen long before she put her seat down and back and things began to happen. Not much, but things. She spoke some words between action and I smiled and laughed and thought it to be a perfect cap to the evening, listening to Radiohead and then some in some pretty girl's car. She was playing games I thought, very sweet but semi rehearsed and maybe calculated but I was okay with that because I was just there. There were moments between where we'd have short conversations and I don't remember what she was saying, only that I was thinking we were crossing the point I'd crossed with past girls and told them how messy and awful I am, warning them of how messy and awful I might turn out to be, immediately and always laying down jagged and holed roads. But I didn't, and felt like I was over that sort of behavior...actually felt growth in the moment of my realization. Instead, I just smiled...or laughed, and all I was thinking of was how maniacal I felt, knowing she must have been thinking of how sweet and cute I seemed to be. I wasn't interested in telling her I didn't much live for a tomorrow girl or any girl unless she spits acid and scares the shit from me - thus insinuating she did neither. But still...something had pulled me into that car. At some point, when the crossroads came, I gave her a shot at the crown, because Kings Road wasn't far and because for whatever reason, I felt so rarely inclined. I knew what was coming. She balked, as if the invitation were laced with such scandal. Then she surrounded the word tomorrow with a series of other unimportant words. I think I'm supposed to call her.

Team Burn Gave Me This Great Great Short To Watch After Drinks Last Night, This Is The Trailer...

They're Coming...

A couple months ago, I was honestly trying to line up life so that I could fly to Sydney for a night and see the Killers play the V festival. Tickets were cheap and I was going through something, I suppose, where everything about that idea made absolute sense. Of course I didn't go and the idea faded and I stayed in Los Angeles, maybe hoping that with patience, they would come to me. Now they are...Hollywood Bowl in September - and although I like to hit bands when they're fresh on tour for a new album, this might work out just as well - and maybe they'll go deep enough to pull something like Sweet Talk or Bourbon. Even though this video looks like a movie everyone made when they were in high school or college, including me...the song remains one of the 5 or 10 most moving in my life.

Actually, maybe listen and not watch. It's just too big. Password is KROQFAIRYTALE.

Pop Orgy From The Eye Of An iPhone...

I felt kind of raw looking back...the time right around Michael Jackson died and hearing stories of friends being out to clubs or parties and the whole night turning into a tribute to the king. I've been staying in, sticking to the work...and the reality that I've grown out of being a club kid - not that I ever really was. Anyway, last night I was on the floor of Don't Call Me Diddy's White Party and the sun was going down and the DJ started spinning Mike and this fever ran through the crowd. I looked over my shoulder, saw I was rubbing shoulders with the second coming and all I could think was that I hadn't missed a thing.

Excerpt #3 - Cape Town...

I've been doing edits all morning and will be doing edits all day, and I was listening to Pandora and had one of those rare moments - hearing a song for the first time that's so good chills or weeps me. Devotchka's The Last Beat of My Heart, and either it or Durban's work or both was inspiring to me, and I thought it time to share again.


There’s a grotto at the Dunleen that I’m partial to and not many people know about. I told my new friend Susanna about it to get her in the pool, hyped it more to get her to swim beneath the pool’s waterfall, under a set of faux boulders and into what turned out to be more of a maintenance room than anything resembling my descriptions of a grotto. Clearly, I hadn’t been sober the last time I visited this place. Nevertheless, I now had her alone in a cave, away from the party, and her eyes were begging for me to do my sweet damage. Unlike X and most high form hallucinogens, the drug that had passed through my body didn’t just give me desire, but absolute need. I could feel our bodies pulling into one another, a fierce energy shooting about the enclosed space. When I take Ecstasy, fucking is hardly a byproduct and more of a contractual obligation I have with myself or with what Burn would call my stage two disingenuous nymphomania. Whatever I had taken, this was different. Fucking her was necessity. When all you have to do is pull two strings and have them standing naked, things go quick. We certainly did. This girl…she was cut from stone, every feature. This girl was going to be a star.

Once I was inside of her, it didn’t take long for her to come. And it wasn’t necessarily me. I can tell you that I have a great piece between my legs and that I’m enough of an athlete and sexual scholar to please the women I’m with. Also, I’m conveniently selfless…meaning that unless she comes, I can’t, as if my doing so alone would give her and the collective them a power I simply can’t release. She was gripping me hard and I was propping her back, holding her up with my hands, my biceps melting and shoulders cramping as she did this thing where her head fell back and her breath stopped before she let out this echoing and wailing cry…and with it, she shook from the inside out. It was beautiful, so incredible to be so close to her, to see her go. Then she fell into stillness, looked to me and kissed me before she leaned back, fell onto the cement and said something like fuck me sweetly, and so I did. In 60 minutes, she came seven times. I counted every one, every orgasm a precious and true performance. At some point, she looked to me and asked me if I was ready, if she could do anything to help me. I looked back, told her she was doing enough, that giving up even a moment of what I was in for an act so selfish was a risk I wasn’t willing to take. She smiled and kissed me. It was nice. She was unforgettable. I felt like a lover poet. I wanted to hold onto that.

And Then There Were...

Out Of Sight, But That's About It...

Someone recently asked me one of the most generic questions one can be asked...what is your greatest regret in life? And I thought about it and had to give the answer that I absolutely believe in. College, I never would have gone to college. I was sitting at home my junior year of high school on a bad night because I had done something bad in my life and because I'm a dramatic fool, I was 30-40% out the door, ready to drive off and leave town and start some sort of life, likely in California, because this state pulls to anyone growing up in the midwest. I should also make clear that what I'm saying has nothing to do with the home I was living in - it was as right a home as anyone could hope to live in - and everything to do with the world I was living in. And I told that person that I was judging based on what I would deem to be my own growth in the world, and that college sort of stalled that for me - of course that assumption only works if you take all the heart out of the scenario, and forget about the friends and girlfriends and battles and only look back on the academic world that so failed to inspire me. But I was cleaning out one of my online portfolios tonight and came across all the old stuff I made junior and senior year and I suppose some of the stuff when I first got to California. And I tried to think of what would have replaced those 4 years of my life - besides dropping out and taking off. And not just that, but everything these soon to be seen and ridiculous fuckers represent to me, still and I guess always. And maybe I'm doing the one thing I don't believe has much use in the world...the look back, but this was found in a stumble tonight, not in something I set out to do...and even though I do sometimes wish I would have went off looking for my life at 17 instead of 22, I see something like this and everything that goes with it and I feel bad for all I would have missed. But still...

This is the extended trailer for the first short I made in college. Link to the full version is on the YouTube page. Still can't believe that dance sequence was a one and done take. Clint Fucking Eastwood.

"This may be the best live performance I've ever seen, Yes Yes?"

Quoted from my brother, the only remaining Mozart I know, taken from this...

To which I returned, and now share:

Well picked and well played. And being a musician, I'm sure it's hitting on levels I can't even hear. That song has so many dimensions, literally it's like a fucking journey. What got me, though, was when the breakdown comes - and Ed O'Brien is just sitting on the stage - mouthing the words, looking a little toolsy. Then I kept watching to see him get upstaged by one of the Greenwoods bouncing around and singing to himself - going fucking nuts to a song he'd heard or performed 1000 times already, likely...like he's dying to be it or get in it before it gets sent out into the world. That's fire, or gravity...like it's so heavy it's pulling 'em down. That's what it takes to be one of the all time greats, that's what I'm thinking. We're talking 3-4 bands ever, are we not? And they could certainly make a case to land at the top, yes yes?

Excerpt #2 - Prague...

And if we're playing catch up, I continue to present to you John Durban. Getting closer to being able to drop the line, "buy the book," and with authenticity.


I woke up the morning of Christmas Eve on the hardwood floor of my Boscolo Carlo presidential, covered in cold, rank piss. There was a pounding noise shaking the room. I ditched my pants and opened the door to find the general manager standing with 2 brutes. He was holding a copy of my bill in his hand, telling me in shaky English that my card had been over-extended, that I was no longer welcome at their establishment. In Paris, or London, or anywhere in the states…anywhere but Eastern Europe, I could have made one call and been graciously accommodated. Problem with Prague, it was my first visit – no one knew of or gave a shit about who John Durban was. They didn’t know of my worldly status or of my worldly friends. To them, I was just a broke deadbeat who had recently pissed his pants.

I managed to negotiate 30 minutes for a shower and change of clothes, all the while trying to piece the pieces of the previous night into coherence. I’ve always found the shower to be an excellent avenue for thought and recollection, and right on cue, as those warm and resurrecting streams of water hit my face and ran over my scalp, everything came back. We were at Girl’s house the night before, somewhere just outside the city, having dinner with her family. They were serving Goulash of some sort – I think that’s what she called it in translation. I remember trying to eat it and my face being so numb from the cocaine – we had picked up an uncut key on the way over – that I couldn’t chew. I put a bite in my mouth and let it sit for what could have been either two minutes or two hours. Everyone was speaking Czech and fiercely arguing, I think insulted by my being there, some American boy who was fucking the life out of their overnight famous Czech princess, and I could see it in their eyes and feel it in their tones, not needing to speak their language to know what the conversation was all about. The family was well off, and they had found success through hard work and study and dedication. Her and I were the opposite epitome of that belief. This was a conservative family of doctors and lawyers and the thought of her jet setting, posing nude and shaking up with the John Durban’s of the world didn’t exactly ease their collective heart. In spite of my charm and devilishly good looks, there is a breed that sees through me, all of me…this was the breed. Looking back, I have no idea what we were doing there. The whole experience was grotesque. Maybe she wanted to smear her success in their faces, I don’t know. On several occasions, Girl’s father had to step between her and her two brothers because they were threatening physical harm to me or to her or to both of us, I don’t know. What I did know was that if they did touch her, or me, I was going to stab their eyes with my Goulash knife…not because I cared for her or because I felt the need to defend her, but more because I liked the idea of it, of chivalry, of masquerading as a guy who defends the honor of a girl whose name I should have known but didn’t.

How It Comes...

I didn't make it much of a secret that I had been training for the Los Angeles marathon, or that I fell short of the time I was going for, or that I signed up the night after to run another one in San Francisco on July 26th. I decided to take something of a new approach to my training. It goes something like this - run fucking faster.

So I got off work today and went into the gym to get a lift in before a fast 4.2 miles out on the road. These days, I roam the gym with absolute ADD, going from machine to machine in random but calculated and crushing sets. I'm never sure how long I'm going to be there, or exactly what I'm going to do. When I finish, I finish...and today, finishing meant it was time to run Sunset through Beverly Hills and back. The first stretch is a little bit of up and down, running through the mess of Sunset Plaza and the last bits of West Sunset. Then, things calm when you cross into Beverly Hills and there's this straight shot from Doheny to Whittier - the pass where Sunset winds and takes you to UCLA. I was coming over the hill, ready to kill my 3.2 mile loop to Whittier and back when I saw a runner on the opposite side of the street. He was about 20 yards ahead of me, just as I was starting my kick and I was thinking in my head - because these are the things I think - alright fucker, let's roll. I overtook him, just beating my feet against the pavement until I had to run around a car and lost my pace. He took the lead again before I overtook him and thought that to be the end of it. His body was torn up, but he had a little too much muscle to be that fast or committed to being anything but that - a good body. I thought. Cars started honking behind me and I thought nothing of it. It didn't take long before I heard this huffing coming up from behind me. This dude had Froggered Sunset to chase me down and all he said as he ran up to my side - crazy pace man, people don't run like this in Los Angeles. I laughed, immediately measured him - he meant business. I was moving and he chased me down from the opposite side of the street with composed breath. It didn't take long for him to give his name - Nathan - and for me to admit that I was training for San Francisco - and for me to get him to spill that he ran Miami in 3:01 and had a personal best of 1:17 in the half. Over the course of the first half mile, we agreed to extend my run to 6 miles, to the loop he was planning on running - and we agreed without words, because I could feel he was a competitive fucker just like me - that we were just going to slaughter it. I had felt awful all over before we started the run, sore in my hips and back and calves but I tucked it in my back pocket the second we started our kick together. I like to think we were flying down Sunset...because we were, and I don't know the exact pace, but could feel some of the miles passing in the low 6's, and we were introducing our lives and talking the whole way.

The loop came and went, and we made it back to Sunset and crossed Doheny and from there, on the home stretch, the pace quickened. He was ahead of me and started to fly. All I had to do was follow, chase a rabbit and he was trying to pull away. I could feel my legs thumping as they flexed and extended...and I was just floating along and we were racing through Sunset Plaza, on the home stretch, two motherfucking colts galloping past the digs of men who despised and envied our strength, past the whistles of women who wanted to take us to bed. He was 5 paces ahead and the world slowed for me, and I tried to think back to a time I was ever chasing someone else, trying to catch someone else. I couldn't recall and it was an amazing feeling, getting beat.

I got home tonight after we traded info, got a text that said - "I could see us breaking barriers. Crush your 16 in Palm Springs. Let's set up for some quality miles next week."

My return - "Funny. One more set and all we do is pass each other. You'll be hearing from me."

Excerpt #1 - Paris

Writing a book can be an occupying task. Me and Durban ran through the first swing and are now in the process of drafting - which falls mostly on my shoulders...but that was the deal. Stick to strengths. Anyway, I have little clue what to even try to do with this thing once we're done, and I've found that to be something of a comfort..to just focus on the work and not on a theory of hope that's doomed me in the past. So anyway, this is going to be long and arduous in all the best of ways, and I don't believe in self promotion totally (see entire blog to refute this statement)...but what I do believe in is promoting Durban and his work because I think he's a lunatic genius and because our work is going to be housed together and under the same roof - thus indirectly promoting my own work at the same time. As we get through these second drafts, I'm going to start posting pieces...some sort of prelude to the entirety, if you will, starting now, with Monsieur Durban...

His eyes lit so bright when she called. I’ll never forget it. I ordered a drink, followed him out into the hallway, keeping my distance, out of sight. Poor kid, I thought, no one deserves what he was about to go through. Personally, I’m a man who finds beauty in life’s less finer things, believe there’s nothing so beautiful as a broken heart. As much as it pained me to watch the suffering of my newfound friend, there would have been nothing in the world worthy of prying my eyes from him. I watched, and I sipped my drink and I waited and felt the imminent rush of destruction approaching.

There was a point in the conversation where he turned to face me perfectly, just as his world began to change, and he held steady, and I was able to see everything in his face, the moment of it all, the moment she so bravely told him. I was so proud of her, watching him unfold, knowing how few would be either willing or able to give him freedom like that. That fucking whore. She would never find someone one tenth of him. That lunatic cunt. I wanted to kiss her and rip out her throat. I wanted to fuck her and saw her in half. I watched as a seam opened along the front and center of Burn’s body and I waited and watched as if the whole of his insides were going to spill out onto the floor. They didn’t. He covered his brow with a hand and began to walk in circles, rushed and moving and I knew in that moment my actions had cauterized a bond between us. He was now my responsibility. Whatever fate he sought for the rest of his life, I would have no choice but to adopt it as my own…and I was willing and ready for that.

The Day I Finished...

My horoscope in the Chicago Tribune said exactly...

"If you're going to write a story about your adventures, give it a good ending. Have the hero emerge enormously successful."