Now This Is Just Becoming Bullysome...

Classic MacGruber...

Genius all over the place. Embarrassment of riches. I love this movie.

For Once George, I Actually Feel You...

Knocking George Lucas for fucking with Star Wars is on par with someone knocking Keanu Reeves' acting. I've always liked KR - brother held down a legit franchise. If you talk shit about Keanu, you're just an asshole riding on a wagon built by assholes. Refrain. Same thing holds true with George Lucas, though up until this point, I've had no defense for the guy. The creative choices he's made in updating his franchise have been nothing short of embarrassing. But then again, it's his franchise.

I fully expected to watch this clip, feel momentary disgust, and move swiftly on with my life. But that didn't happen. I actually...liked it. It gave me chills. Even after the thousand times I've seen Vader say nothing, after every line of this movie had been embedded into my childhood, this worked. I loved it. That's his fucking son, yo!!

Something To Love...

I watched every episode of Bored To Death, week to week, during the first season. When the second season came along, I think I was wandering internationally, so lately I've been playing catch up. Everything I'm typing here is really being done just so I can take up space, to provide a base to launch into a rant about Ted Danson - about how perfect he is in this thing, in every scene and sense of the word. Only in episode 3, but that's all I need. I think it's important to talk about things like greatness, especially when surrounded by a cast nearly as great.

When I Think About This, It's Quite Beautiful...

That there was a point in my life, not so long ago, absolutely and not for dramatic purposes, where I became convinced I was going to die before today, my 30th. The thought made me into everything I was, occupying obsession. Then it became something else, something literary, which will become something else, something literary, which will become something else, something literary. Right now I'm trying to think of a brilliant way to lead myself into saying something trite yet poignant like, "This is my life," but there I just said it, and exactly as I had hoped.

Soon, I'll meet the next one. Another thought, that is. I may have already.

And, We're On A Roll...

Cannot Stop...

Every time, so beyond any image they could put on screen. Just close your eyes.

Honestly, I Thought There Would Be More Kicking...

Genius...

Love This Town...

On Leaving A Part Of My Heart In CamSur...

Last year, almost to the day, I was getting evicted from my hotel in Naga City, Philippines. I had been there for about 2 weeks, training in a surprisingly great gym and out on the scorching roads and through the villages, living off oatmeal, almonds and boco. I was writing, constantly writing things that will afford me this lifestyle again, and soon. And, I was begging anyone, everyone to help me find a bike so that I could race in my first 70.3. It was an experience that stretched me deeply. It reached inside and showed me the depths of what a stranger I was, the depths of nothing working out the way I hoped it could before everything did. I’ll never forget it, any of it - the people, the smell, the hurt, the hope — and I’m not even talking about the race yet.

Eventually, two hours after the cut off for bike check, this mechanic Erik built me a bike in his alleyway shop in Naga City. I took a cab back to the complex, checked in, slept in a second hotel that deserves its own post, woke up, listened to the YouTube of Playing With Fire about 11 times before walking to the bus, before getting to the start line, racing on a bike with no shoes or pedal grip, blowing up on the run in 100 degree heat, drinking Cobra and stumbling across the line in a 5:29.

I’m seeing posts across the internet for this year’s version and I can feel something growing inside of me, some force asking why we’re not there again, to partake in another day that last year gave so, so much. It makes me sad not being there, and I never expected to feel that way. There’s something untouched and inspired about that part of the world, at the very least for a handful of moments, at least for me. Now, it’s something rooted inside, trying to drag me back. I have no doubt it will soon succeed.

This is my life. This is exactly how I want it to be.

Confession...

To chase greatness in any field, sacrifices must be made. Last week, much to the dismay of my holy brethren, I cut off my wings. They simply don’t understand my desire. I cannot expect them to.

Still Special...

Camp Volume...

Been a big week of training. I understand fully what an opportunity it is to race in the World Championships for the 70.3 and full Ironman distance this fall, in September and October, in Vegas and Kona, and am absolutely taking advantage of it. Anything less would be disrespectful to the world — that’s the way I see it. If I’ve been dropping the names Vegas and Kona a lot, and continue to, it means I still haven’t gotten over it. I don’t plan to anytime soon. They are beautiful, awaiting monsters and need to be treated as such.

The big week led to an even bigger weekend. Now, let me state as a disclaimer that my training is my own. I’m not big on coaches or theory - I went through a lifetime of it in my first life when I had the makings of a million dollar pitching arm, and felt it slowly and painfully fall apart. I read every book, trained every muscle, listened to every theory and came away from it all with this perception that nobody knows anything. Now, that doesn’t mean I don’t follow the pros, and people I admire, and their coaches, and that doesn’t mean I still don’t immerse myself with an open mind — I guess what I’m saying is that I self prescribe training based on what my head and body tell me I need. Vegas is about 40 days away, Kona is about 30 days after that. To me, that means the bulk of my Kona training needs to happen now - at least distance wise. Starting this weekend and for the next 2 weeks, I need to battle through some heavy volume work. This weekend, volume meant 100 miles on the brutally windy PCH on Saturday followed by 17 miles running through the city on Sunday. A TYR bungee swim came before the Saturday ride and I went hard teaching spin classes before and after the Sunday run. I feel good. Been spending a lot of time in compression pants lately to try and give something back, and I think I’m sold - or at least sold on the potential that something is helping take care of my body without having to think about it.

Next weekend I was going to peak out on distance before coming back down to get back into speed before Vegas. I was thinking 120 on the bike, extra 10 up, extra 10 back, but think I’m going to call in a compromise - because I believe when you decide to beat up a body to chase an endeavor such as this, you must also listen to inspiration when it comes. The picture above is a sand dune at or around Point Mugu on the PCH - it’s at about the 40 mile point from my door, and inspiration says I need to trade those extra 40 miles on the bike for a couple runs up and down the dune’s softest face. Because that sounds fair, and beautiful, and inspired. Then run my 21 on Sunday.

Oh, California. What a portrait you paint. Such a darling.

A man a plan a canal panama...

When I Start Thinking About How I Can Make Things Happen, they usually do. I’m starting to think about how much this will cost and who I can convince to sponsor me for 2012…or scrape it together. Or hope a certain movie is moving towards a certain production. Sounds a long ways away, Panama City - Panama. I ain’t talking Florida. But the non-stop is 600, and considering I paid 180 to rent a car, and another 150 on gas to get up and back from Vineman, it’s really not that much of a stretch. Plus, it’s South America (or practically), and will certainly serve to temporarily burn off my constant and aggressive need to commit wanderlust.

February 11th, 2012. Have a feeling I’ll be there, looking to win the motherfucker.

We Were Driving Together, Somewhere Near The Beginning...

And talking about this and she didn't understand, saying things like but why would you write there, and put words out there if you don't actually want people to read them. I said she was inaccurate, that I didn't care if people read them or not, that the last thing I ever wanted was to engage anyone or convey a reach out, or make anyone ever believe they could reach back. I explained that the act itself served a purpose, for me, to move me along, or to simply write about the things that mattered to me, or affected me. At some point she mentioned how disappointed she would be if I ever wrote anything about her here, how disappointing it would be that I couldn't just say it myself. I understood that. I only come here when there's nothing left to say.

Friday, I left her and there was a voice telling me to end it. Because it was comfortable, and good. Because it was really good. Because I could see no end in sight. Because I've trained and triggered myself to behave in such a manner to be capable of loving something one day and then walk away from it the next. I didn't love her. But I could have. I would have eventually. Maybe that's why I didn't listen to the voice - there was a part of me that was ready for that. Maybe. When knowing friends asked me about her, this Girl, I would tell them I thought we would go a distance, that the irrational darting madness that often occupies me was stifled, and clearly accepting of her. They would smile and pet my head or shoulder.

It's Tuesday now. I feel like I got what I wanted, and that it's not at all what I wanted. She called last night to hit the brakes, and I got out. She hit the brakes. I do this thing in rare, anticipatory moments when something of feeling is coming at me, where I stand to meet it, to witness the full force of it. Last night, there was a turn in the conversation that stood me on my feet, the morbid excitement of never knowing what's really coming until it comes. No matter how much grace or trained composure I presume to have over the situation, I know a great force will always take me apart, and that it will be ultimately cold-blooded and fucking remorseless. When the time comes, my say is an illusion, and I know this. That's why as I stood to meet it, fists balled, I knew I was getting ready for a hopeless showdown.

I hung up and couldn't sleep, naturally. Around 3 AM, in a haze, I turned over to check my phone to see she had written. The e-mail was short and very dramatic and at first glance, I was actually insulted by it, not angry, but insulted by the frailty of everything that had happened between us - that in the end, we were as fleeting as anything. I was convinced we weren't. This morning I see the letter as something different, more of a gift - someone taking the time to let me know, in words and tones tailored for me to understand, that I was good. Hopefully, that will be enough.

Bravo K-Swiss...

There Goes My Hero, Watch Him As He Goes...

There Are Good Things Happening In The World...

And good people behind them. The barrel scene...I almost fell out of my chair.

Race Week - Vineman 70.3/Racine 70.3…

This is a special one. Back in November of 2010, when I made the trip down to Cozumel for my first Ironman, my dad met me. Apparently, something happened to him there, because as I’m leaving on Friday to go to Sonoma for the Vineman 70.3, he’s going to be getting ready for his very own 70.3 in Racine, his first triathlon. He’s run a good handful of marathons - I have early, early memories of watching him run Lake County as a kid, probably about the age I was in this picture, when the seed for all of this was probably first planted.

I remember the bags of questions I was asking before my first, and all the nerves I felt going in. They probably sent me to the internet, looking for tips I could devour on how to survive and survive well out there. Now that I have some races under my belt, I thought it might be time to give a little back, in honor of my old man and all first time or contemplating triathletes, here’s my own personal walk through, based on experience, for your enjoyment or confusion…

1. The alarm goes off and it’s early and you’re wondering what you’ve gotten yourself into. That’s fear. If you don’t feel it, you should. If you still don’t, I don’t know who you think you are - you’re about to race a 70.3. Fear is good. Fear accompanies the bold, and it will help you through.

2. You’ll arrive at transition. You’ll top off tires and lay out your gear and likely start a nervous conversation about what’s about to go down with someone stationed next to you. This usually helps, though be careful who you engage. The triathlon community has its share of lunatics and you don’t want Tom from Sheboygan attached to your hip for the rest of the morning. Or maybe you do?

3. Stop being so judgmental. I promise you’re a lunatic to someone else.

4. The sun will be coming up and the next thing you know, the race will have started. You’ll know this because people will be kicking at you and climbing over you and tearing at your goggles and forcing you to swallow water. But you will have imagined all of these things to happen well before race day. So whether they happen, or not, you will be ready. You’ll find a rhythm eventually, and some space, and realize you’re doing it, actually doing it. Beautiful feelings ensue. Allow them to. Be strong from here on.

5. Appreciate the land when you get there. Your body will wobble and feel unsteady. Know this, prepare for it so whether it happens, or not, you will be ready. Note repetitive themes in my prose. Prepare.

6. Take calories as soon as possible. I’m not going to touch nutrition because you should know. Take in a constant, gentle flow of calories. If you don’t do this, your body will eventually think you’re trying to kill it and will make you miserable. If you eat right, nothing about your day should be miserable. If things get miserable, slow a little, eat a little more. Allow the body to balance and recover, then press on.

7. The second leg of the race covers a long distance. That’s why you brought a bike. Ride the thing. Stop being afraid of the course. You’ve trained. Enjoy and push. Watch for ejected bottles and debris on the road and especially at aid stations. Once you cross halfway, push a little harder. You’ll know if you can. You can. Start to see the run in your mind. Crave it. Look forward to it. You’ve been running your whole life.

8. Get off that bike and move your legs. Turn them over and over. They will be heavy and sore, but they’ll adjust. Handle your shit and keep moving. Realize all you have is pavement in front of you - no more wetsuits, or bikes, or transitions. Remember 13.1 miles is a long way, but at least it’s not 26.2. Let the thought of brevity be propelling. Finish, and finish well.

9. Learn to believe in magic.

Been Dealing With This All Day...

500 Days Of Summer is a very good movie. Special movie. I remember going to see it in the theater and leaving with the feeling that a train had run through me. Then I saw it again a couple days later. Same feeling happened. It came on last night and all I remembered was that I loved it, that I thought it was maybe the best movie that came out during its year, I think 09. So I watched, among other things, computer in lap. Then this scene started and I stopped everything I was doing...

Sometimes, art speaks to you so perfectly. You can't always explain it to yourself, but you can try. I do. I used to leave at night in high school after I got my license, drive loops around the streets because I couldn't sit still in my home. This has never changed. There was a girl like no other, and I was in love with her beyond anything I would ever be in love with, 16 years old and convinced there was nothing worth seeing outside of my north shore Chicago town of 20,000. I had her and then lost her, because she scared the hell out of me, and was in the process of fighting with all of my might and life to get her back. We'd talk on the phone and see each other in the halls and in class and every minute to me was magic and to her...

Her house was just off McKinley. Sometimes I'd turn down her street and drive past just to feel it, the energy of something I couldn't and can't explain. I don't know exactly where we were in the world when the day came that I'm about to falsely describe, but I felt close to her, closer than ever, and to getting my chance again. I want to say there was snow on the streets, and ice, and cold, and snow falling from the sky, maybe even a fucking blizzard when I drove past her house to see his car, and parked, and felt myself shatter from the inside. I drove another lap, maybe 12 miles, maybe crying most of the way before I drove past again, then again, first to confirm, then to feel it over and over. In the following weeks, the laps remained the same. Many of the nights held the same outcome. Eventually, I stopped crying. Eventually, it only hurt morbidly.

There were others, a couple others, but I think this one is all hers. Only absolute truth can grab hold of something like that, and shake and straighten 12 years later, something so protected as my winters back there, in Lake Forest. Only truth.

What They Said...

Why Does This Make Me Root For Them To Lose??

Oh that's right, because it's classless. And gross. Go USA!

Speed...

I don’t like swimming. Or, it’s not that I don’t like swimming, but more getting up early to drive across town to a dingy pool, and paddling through my laps like a caged rat, swimming with assholes, assholes telling me how terrible my stroke is and that I should call them and pay them to fix it (Except Sergio, Sergio is a stud), showering in dingy locker rooms, taking hours out of my precious life to do something I grit my teeth and power through. I don’t like any of those things.

About a week ago, I was in bed and not sleeping and thinking about how I would design this contraption that would allow me to swim in place in my apartment pool. Then I looked it up and found TYR made one. Today, minutes ago, I tried it out for the first time. Perfect. You hook it up to anything outside of the pool, then to the belt around your waist, which is absolutely comfortable. Then, you get your ass kicked. Seriously, you absolutely get your ass kicked. Once you get away from the attachment, the elastic stretches and acts as a vicious current. It’s perfect for triathlon because it’s a power builder, no doubt about it, and though you can kick without obstruction, the arms have to motor. It’s violent, it’s tough, it’s just like open water swimming. I love it.

And of course, whenever I start to take myself too seriously, I think of this...

Are You Kidding??

Because It's Magic...

Let's Go Soft Core And Talk About The Rock...

Fitting that a little time has passed since last Sunday, a little time to not get too caught up in the race, a little time to take a step back, realize that all I have is a lewd near nude post race photo to lead into how it went down. Fitting that I’m watching the movie on TNT right now, at the end of a quiet, ass-kicked week.

I had a strong race. Feels good to say that after getting stomped in St. George. I had arbitrary aims to finish in the top 100 after finishing around 250 last year out of around 2000. Came in at 103 overall. Something like 250 in the swim, 40 in the bike and 110 in the run. Overall, I took 10 minutes off last year’s time, which is significant on a course so short. It’s been a year since I began running triathlon and feel like I’ve come some way. Also, I’m beginning to see low numbers in my age group, like 3rd in the bike. Low numbers are good for the heart, good for seeing myself places in the future, like stumbling onto an eventual podium or reaching the world 70.3’s in Vegas, something I need to someday crack.

If I’m beginning to learn anything, it’s to let go of the fear. Fear of going into a race, fear of breaking down, fear of failing. Running always used to be my strength. Now, there’s soon to be a changing of the guard…if there hasn’t already been one. My experience is eventually going to level my times, that’s what I’m hoping. I think the day I find success is the day I find harmony between the three, and my understanding that I can hammer the swim and not fail the bike, hammer the bike and not fail the run, then hammer the run. This was a shorter race, 2:33, so it’s easy to talk composure. Still, I can feel my head shifting. I’ve been to ugly places now, and back (CamSur, Cozumel, St. George), and will continue to go to ugly places (Kona in October). Maybe someday I’ll become quite fast. Maybe not. In the meantime, there’s a 70.3 about 6 hours north of me called Vineman a couple weeks into July. I’m going to see if I can hammer for about 4.5, see how things hold up, see if my chin is still up at the end. It will be. I’m ready to fall in love with the 70.3.

Genius!

Back To Alcatraz...

Sometime around May of 2010, I was standing in the general manager’s office of Equinox Westwood. I had just gone through the employee time trial for a shot at winning an entry in the prestigious Escape From Alcatraz Triathlon. My bike wasn’t calibrated exactly right, and my overall time slid below the national top 25 that would have gotten me into the race. I was begging this guy to understand what I was saying, that I was completely screwed by the computer (which was very true), and even rode the leg again on another bike to prove it. I was begging him to do the right thing, because I deserved it, because I needed it, because I was convinced that racing Alcatraz would somehow change my life. Somehow, I got in.

It’s May again and I’m about to go back to Alcatraz, the very thing that started it all. This year, to make damn certain there was no confusion on my invite, I somehow pulled in the Equinox National #1 time the night before the LA Marathon. That means a couple of things. First, after some TOUGH races, it was nice to see my name next to a number like that. Second, and far more important, it means that everyone I beat is hopefully saying something to themselves like I’m going to beat THAT fucker, especially the guy who lost by 1 second. I hope he’s pissed. I hope I can find him out there, shake his hand and then battle him. Honestly, all I’ve ever wanted to be in this world is THAT fucker, so it should be a fun, fast race. I need one. I’m really looking forward to it.

My whole life, I’ve been a somewhat high level athlete, but an athlete second. There has always been something else driving, something else incendiary inside. In the past, I’ve looked back on stretches of my life and deemed them not acceptable against the standards I’ve set before destroying my collected comfort by stepping into new worlds, usually about a dozen at a time, before returning, winding my clock, and starting anew. I mention this because Alcatraz has made me peek over my shoulder, wrap the year into a single box, and examine. It’s been a serious 12 months.

But I don't support indulgent satisfaction. Or falling off. Ever.

The Reason Arctic Monkeys Slam The Door On Book #1...

This Girl...

Again with the fascination. It's all I can think of this week or all that's reaching me. Completely surprised and then not at all. Jealous of NYC for a night. Then, go listen to 1-12 of Actor.

Fascinating...

Dear SNL...

Fallon made cameo last week in the extraordinary live action Ambiguously Gay Duo. So clearly, this is in the playbook. You don't have to say anything, but please, please tell me you're rehearsing Barry Gibb right now with JT back in the saddle for the season finale. You don't have to say anything, but please. It would make my week.

Why You're Playing College Baseball At Radford And High Point...

It's Not What You Think!

It's About Time Someone Put Charlie Day In An Actual Movie...

Might Be Here...

I'm Finished...

There's a large chunk of this video that's cut out. I bitch a bit about the course, about not being able to breathe, the wind, the heat. Then I go on to talk about how Kona is going to be my last full Ironman. I ended up taking all of that out. It all seems so trivial now, even as I was saying it. There was a distinct point somewhere in that run, where I was more defeated than I have ever been in my life, more broken than I have ever been, where it felt like something fell from me, like I let something go that would have otherwise tormented me for breaking down, for not being stronger, for not finishing higher. It's not here. Wasn't this morning, or last night. I don't think it will ever be here again. If that's true, then what I'm taking away from St. George is so big, it's nearly unspeakable. I've been gone for 3 days and it feels like months. Sometimes people ask me why I do what I do - any race, but in this case, a 2.4/112/26.2. Because without bullshit, a single day shows me exactly who I am. Because I cried a little bit for every person I saw finish that race, because I knew.

Here We Go, Almost...

3:27 in the AM and I've got my boy BF here, nearly running on repeat. Things are looking good. The world is outside, and waiting. The day is waiting. I feel like there's a dame outside my door, waiting to take my hand and show me everything that's anything. I'm going to make her wait for another hour because I'm primadonna, but also because when I walk out that door, the gloves have to come fucking off. And I need to breathe just a little bit longer.

So Utah...

It sort of feels like there's nothing here in St. George, and that it goes on forever. Tonight, I was driving part of the course after the sun had set and everything was glowing. Then, I just started screaming. That's what it's like here. I'm going to try and find that tomorrow, and the day after tomorrow, and then I'll go back to California, and remember how simple my life really is, knowing all I'm ever after is something that makes me scream.

Fuck Week...

NPR is streaming Okkervil River's new album. This is the second time I've made it through today. Love them, not yet sure if it's better than really good. There's all this shit on my desktop, motorcycle insurance and appointments and academic articles I write because I'm a false fucking whore. Tomorrow morning, I have to go into the DMV, then I have to run, have to sit in the sun, have to let my skin strengthen and burn and grow confident under this suddenly scorching California. I got a call today from someone trying to make my man-u into a movie, who told me about some big swinger in some faraway city who is afraid of my truth, afraid to take my hand, afraid I will break her bones. No, she won't even look into my eyes and it's making me fire, and it's making something recently dormant inside of me agitate. The seams aren't splitting like they used to, instead resilient, expanding and stretching as I breathe weighted, obscene, absurd breath. Everything about this feels so fucking absurd. Everything about me, this week. Hopefully not next. Thursday, I'm driving to Utah. Saturday, I'm running the Ironman and I feel flat, controlled. I feel strong, like I can see him, the Devil, looking at me, hands already tight in white tape. His clout is fading. I'm going to take him by the throat and pin him against the ground, drool and spit rage all over his face. I'll tell him these things, speak my peace then let him up, before I ask him to take my hand and show me what's next and where to wander and where to not fear the fall. He is my friend, sometimes my mentor, often misunderstood as vile. Only when he returns do I realize how much I've missed, the depth of my responsibility. Someone's hand is on my face, holding it, a girl. I'm not dismantling her for trying. There is no desire. There's a ring on my finger that won't come off. It means more to me than anything. It has to always. The streets are too many, my remaining steps too few.

Tarsem...

If you haven't seen The Fall, go out and see it. For me, one of the most affecting movies I've seen in a long time. That's why when the trailer for the director's next comes out, I jump on it, because this guy is a one of a kind talent.

And I see the images and the movement that's recognizable Tarsem, and then see it tied to 300, which is an understandable marketing angle, and I see name actors, and then I see the lead who is going to be the next Superman...appear strained, and I begin to wonder if the finer work is behind us. Of course, my ability lately to peg trailers has been less than keen. So I'll remain hopeful. If ever there was a movie for a midnight show, this is it. Still, I couldn't drop "genius" as the title to this post, and we all know how much I like to do that.

Genius...

Can we talk about how amazing it is to be able to grab clips from shows on Hulu, like Chris Pratt on Parks and Recreation, who I've been saying to myself for some time is a comic genius, and physically gifted, and drop it here. Love that. Love this show, everything about it. The cast is so good, it makes me tired even thinking of a way to describe it, so I'm not going to. But this dude just kills me...

Holy Shit They Just Let Me Into Kona!

That’s exactly what it felt like when I read the e-mail after class, me as Chuck and running up and down the street in Santa Monica, looking for someone who would understand exactly what it meant - to be allowed to race in Kona - to get ripped by the course I’ve seen rip through contenders as far back as I can remember, sitting on a couch and watching the race unfold on some calm, lazy December day, helplessly crying and crying because I couldn’t take it, because I was so inspired by it - the sight of bodies crumbling and failing and enduring, utter destruction and triumph of the human spirit. It was always so beautiful to me. Now I’m going there, to participate in it. It’s breaking me now, just typing this…

I think it’s important to say this on paper — even though I’m not going to Kona on a qualification (though I’m not ruling that out in St. George May 9th), at some point in the last year, I went to bed thinking that only in my wildest dreams would I be able to compete in both Boston and Kona in the same year, THIS year. Only in my wildest dreams. And now here we ar

For The Heart...

I Have A Feeling This Is Going To Change Things...

Heroic...

Chris Lilley, We've Missed You...

If you trust me, which you should, then you need to know Summer Heights High was a mostly unseen phenomenon. If you saw Summer Heights High, then this is just good to see. There's also an 8 minute teaser floating around here, but in this case, we'll stick to brevity.

This Really Needs To Be Everywhere...

Holy. Fucking. Shit. Yes...

Oh Man, Do I Heart Keira Knightley...

Not much else to say about that. Bravo Chanel, once again. I want to buy your scent, and drink it.

I'm Fairly Skeptical Of Buzz...

Even more skeptical of free buzz, but this makes me feel like I'm in the presence of real deal, and I like that. Click to get, take you away. Yeah, that's a Beach House sample. Yeah, style.

Time To Pick A Fight...

Hey bro, how's it going? You cool? Cool. November 28th, yeah that was your day and that day wasn't so long ago, was it? Let me just come out and say something before I say a lot of other things, that we are all proud of what you did that day, your first Ironman. Congratulations. If that's what you want to hear, you can fucking have it. Take it, put it in your pocket, pull it out any time you need to jerk off by celebrating your own mediocrity. You'll never fool me. And seriously, if victory like that is victory you want to hang onto, please just dig a grave and put yourself in it. Stop distracting the world from the alarmingly short supply of genuine, inspired effort.

I am going to destroy you in every sense of the word. There's a race coming up in May, in St. George, Utah, another full Ironman. You're not running it anymore, I am. You were so afraid. You trained afraid, swam afraid, biked afraid, ran afraid. You were an embarrassment. You didn't understand what I fully do, that it's better to fall apart than fail to compete. I will die before I become you again. That's a promise.

You are the skin I've pulled off and left behind. Someday, and soon, you and all your shed friends will be sitting at a bar and you'll be pointing at me, telling them you used to be me, that I wouldn't be what I am without you. That'll be your story and I'll be charging on, always charging on. Tomorrow when those sheets are lifted, something new and brutal and beautiful begins.

Also, fuck you.

I Feel Like This Next One Is Going To Be Special...

Doesn't come out until May 3rd, but they're releasing tracks in what seems to be a steady stream. The album will probably at the very least be streaming by mid-April. They're coming by the Palladium soon after that. Hopefully then the summer rush will start, and everyone will start to creep from the woodwork, and nights will be made that I'll want to write about here, because that's all any of this is really ever about anyway.

You Know What They Say...

Just because you can make a movie doesn't mean you should. And by they, I mean I. That's what I'm saying...

So It Begins...

Race week. First of 2011, ending with the Los Angeles Marathon this sunday. Not trying to sound worldly, or maybe I am, but after running races in Indonesia (Oly Tri), Philippines (70.3), Thailand (Tribe to Tribe Marathon) and Mexico (Ironman) over the course of the last year, it’s going to be pretty nice to line up for a home town race, even nicer to eat somewhere local after, relax and sleep at home after that. I’m already getting fired up, like all that comfort post race means I have to chase something uber brutal during because I don’t have to get on a plane right after…or sleep with cockroaches…or share the backseat of a winding bus in 100 degree heat for 5 hours with 5 Thai teens, no water, willing away vomit and dehydration and coma the entire time.

I love this city. Love almost everything about it. Even our promos are damn amazing. What other city in the world would you see a promo like this.?.?.?

Super 8...

Abrams and Spielberg. I don't think there is anything better than that. Also, seeing this makes me envy children. Nothing makes me envy children. June.

Voice...

Zach G...

You Know That Thing That Happens When You Wake Up In The Morning, Pick Up Your Phone To Read An Unrecognized E-Mail...

And it breaks you down and makes you cry, actually shed tears because it brings you back to a place and moment and behavior you left far behind, under distant circumstances and states of heart and spirit...that makes you feel like you have to be better, always, because the moments you spend at your absolute worst will come back and face you, always, and from those moments, the only thing returned to you is undeserved love, making you hurt and hurt bad? I didn't either.

Hi i am karu from akurala sri lanka

friend the story you have uploaded to the you tube is very interesting and you have presented it well with great videos that you have recorded.
It was a great pleasure to me to have a chapter in your story about me and the tour I did for you specially about our small village's beautiful beach,that you were attracted.
And when the family members saw that they were so happy.And when they saw your picture they identified as the USA friend who wrote stories on a small yellow book sitting on the red chair of our home.I will mail you again dear.

Genius...

My Boy Derrick Rose...

Surprised to find myself watching NBA basketball on a thursday night. Maybe because I'm a Chicago boy, and the Bulls are playing LeDoucheBron James and his Miami Heat at home. I've come to admire Derrick Rose so much. So much. Brother is all guts, all grit, wickedly talented, humble, proud, tenacious. You ever read a book and feel like you're getting better as a person just by being exposed to it? I feel like that watching Derrick Rose - not just the way he plays, but also how he behaves. You ever been out drinking all night, like 25 drinks, the next morning finding your clothes covered in shit, body in bruises, eye split open from some Marine breaking your head on the sidewalk before experiencing the feeling of having to drink a beer or shot to stop your thoughts on wanting to die right then and there? I feel like that watching LeBron James.

Am I unfounded? Start this next one at 2:15. Watch the parade of clowns end on two Chicago boys, Rose and Dwayne Wade. Pure class. I'm trying to not be the guy who says Bird, Jordan and Barkley would have never put up with shit like we see today...but Bird, Jordan and Barkley would have never put up with shit like we see today. The world would not have. There's a whole generation coming where men in positions that used to hold reins are children. They will not go far.

Thom Yorke, We Fucking Love You...

Lia Ices...

Yeah yeah just what I need - another sickly beautiful songbird to fall in love with. Just what I need...and a director who approaches her pre-shoot saying something like, "Yeah, so people are going to resent you out of the gate because you're talented and beautiful, so what I'm going to do is hide you in blurs, and behind branches and leaves, and get so abstract when the song drops that they literally won't know who you are...you know, so that your music, your beautiful music can actually stand a chance." My quotes, not actual. On repeat...

The Process of Genius...

New Radiohead Out Saturday...

No single, no tracklist, just coming soon to a website near you. Style.

Stefon, You Will Always Have A Home Here...

It's Hard To Be The Queen Of Things...

Because people are going to expect so, so much all the time. And when that happens, they'll hear a good single off a big album and say things like, I remember that sound back when it was called Express Yourself, unless that's an obvious nod on her part, which at this point I wouldn't really understand anyway. Still good. Kinda feel it. But okay, when you say things like, "This is going to be the new gay anthem," which is sort of like going "H.A.M," which we already talked about, and try to control people's reactions in a world growing increasingly more into a fuck the machine, machine...good luck. Really, good luck.

The Los Angeles Zoo...

Every now and then, I'd find some kids to talk to about something, because I'm a ranter, and because otherwise no one would have been there to hear all of the wildly hilarious and witty and intellectual observations I would make about the animals. It wouldn't take long before a supervisor, or employee, or parent would approach, take a child or children by the hand, and lead them away. Then they would look back, over their shoulder, eyes on me.

Actually, it wasn't like that at all.

Honestly, it was a half dozen single moms having an afternoon with their young children, their young children following me, eyes on me, stalking me, minds of the moms saying, yeah...I wish he was your daddy too. More like that.

Speaking Of...

First images of Walter Salles' On The Road have been circling today. First glance, something about this just doesn't feel right. Maybe because about a week ago, we were talking about actual Kerouac writing actual Brando to make this movie. Now, 50 years later, here it comes with Garrett Hedlund and Sam Riley as Dean and Sal. And yeah, that's Kristen Stewart in on another "let's go looking for the faded relevance of an old classic, but today." Is it strange to anyone else that the people most profoundly affected by this book are either dead or disconnected from this generation's actors? This is an objective stance, mind you, because I like Kristen Stewart, and Garrett Hedlund, and Sam Riley, and Walter Salles, whose Motorcycle Diaries is incredibly precursor to this...so it all makes sense. Everything makes sense...but it doesn't feel quite right. I took On The Road for what it was when I read it, a visit. It's sitting on my shelf, and I would have no problem visiting it again. This isn't my rebellion against something. It's not that. To be quite honest, of course I'm going to see this movie. But something here feels abused...

Two Great Movies...

Missed these until now, as they were summer circles, I think, and in the summer, I was in places they could not make it to. It's been a movie week this week. Also pretty big on the Joaquin Phoenix - I'm Still Here. But these are both high Netflix 4 stars, very high. It's good to see truth again in movies, and back to back. Nothing like good indie. Nothing like bad indie. This stuff is excellent times 2.

Harvey Keith...

When I worked at Mozza, there was a guy who used to come and sit at the far end of the bar, by the wall. He liked me because I "got it," because wine for him was always "on the arm," and because I refused his tips (Not trying to sound generous, just trying to not sound like I was pulling a scam). He taught me a lot about life, mostly his, and always kept things moving. Since I left, we meet up for a bite every couple of weeks. Sometimes tough company, he is absolutely unique, and rare, and the kind of company that can not be replicated. He told me this video was online. The director is a fucking moron, I can not say this enough, because I could not think it enough as I was watching. Don't let him distract you from the gems, because there are plenty. There are plenty.

Genius...

Courtesy of spin.com
If you could buy stock in bands, you'd want to invest heavily in Yeah Yeah Yeahs options right now. Immediately after this Sunday's Super Bowl, Fox will air a new episode of its monolithic high-school melodrama "Glee". On the episode, the "Glee" kids will sing Michael Jackson's "Thriller"-- the first Michael Jackson song ever performed on the show, as Spinner reports. And for whatever reason, the show's makers have mashed the song up with the YYYs' similarly macabre jam "Heads Will Roll".

So, to recap: One of the biggest shows on TV, in its post-Super Bowl episode, has included one of the most iconic hit songs ever, and they've decided to mix it up with a relatively under-the-radar 2009 YYYs song. It's a good day to be Karen O. That iTunes sales bump should be huge.

Reverence...

First Thing I Ever Directed...

Or at least the super extended trailer/entire first movie minus the blistering writing and set to blistering George Michael. It was making a couple rounds on Facebook today and I needed a new post and here we are. Back in college. Illinois baseball team as actors. Thought I would have won my Oscar by now. Haven't yet.

My Head Just Exploded...

Best cold open in the history and future of cold opens. My heart is full now.

Usually Very Reluctant...

About new comedy central shows that seem to come out of nowhere. People trying to be funny can be an ugly, uncomfortable thing. This one's got a chance. Because fuck Tom Rinaldi, that's why.

Onion SportsDome

Coachella 2011...

Digesting magic. A lot of people like to take this stance about crowds and how they hate people and how they couldn't handle a desert music festival. I know because I used to be one of them. They're missing out. The place is literal magic. I'm taking some time to digest this, because it's a lot to digest. Thought Coldplay was going to headline one of the days - hoped they would bump KOL to second billing, but that didn't happen. I can only go Friday and Saturday this year because I'm leaving to run the Boston marathon that monday...so it hurts a great fucking deal that I have to leave without seeing Kanye. But I have this feeling he's going to cancel or pull some crazy shit anyway. Watch.

I'll be hanging onto something else, driving home Saturday night, past midnight in the desert, Animal Collective and Arcade Fire ringing through me still, wind blasting through my windows, singing to stay awake. That'll be something.

At This Point...

I'm so fucking manic, pouring every minute into a truly hopeful endeavor. It's dark here in this apartment and I've been sitting here forever. It's getting darker. The better the work, the more it takes out. So clearly, I'm destroyed. Reading and re-reading out loud to myself so often, I find I'm talking to myself when I step away, also often. My eyes are heavy, reaching for and through the screen. The feeling people like to attribute to the heart is nervous and afraid. I am fucking my computer. Constantly. Sometimes making love. It takes a lot out. Sigur Ros finish and iTunes moves onto Silversun Pickups, onto the video for Lazy Eye, which I again fall in love with...

Miss that. I think I need to turn some lights on. Find out what helps.

What A Shame...

Now we're just starting to sound like haters, which I hate more than anything. Please, someone besides me inspire me soon. I really don't care what that sounds like.

Not That There's A Problem Here, But...

In my experience, when you're about to go hard as a motherfucker, you don't talk about it.

Can Everyone Please...

Calm down about The King's Speech. Please. Honestly. I mean, good movie and what's not to love about the cast...but I feel like the only thing I really took away from it was that this guy...

Is the male Dame Judy Dench...

Can We Please Do Something Fresh...

And stop the week long celebration of ourself? I guess so. I guess you can only ring your own bell SO much. Though, I still haven't found that much satisfaction yet. But John has been listening. We're on the verge of doing something really special. I can feel it. I can feel it coming. He's just got to bring us in.

Anyway, Jim Carrey last night. Excellent, bigger than the room Jim Carrey. So he walks into the writers room at some point and drops a piece of paper on the table and says something like, so this is what I want to do for my monologue - propose to some woman before settling on a man before talking about wearing condoms in rivers of blood and the end of the world before talking about consummating my gay marriage backstage before getting on with the show. Everyone signs off and Carrey walks out happy and the room looks to one another like, was he serious. Dark as fuck monologue, right? No way written by the staff, right? The kind of thing only Carrey can walk in and get away with, right? Brilliant show, just brilliant. And I have to really tip it to Lorne for this new batch of players too - really fucking talented. I am happy.

Best Of 2010 Part 4 - Videos...

Samui Superfight
May 31, 2010


Mt Rinjani
June 25, 2010


Bangkok
July 1, 2010


Akurala & Beyond
July 16, 2010


New Delhi
July 25, 2010


Agra & Jaipur
July 29, 2010


Jodhpur & Jaislamer
August 1, 2010


Macau
August 7, 2010


Ironman 70.3 Philippines
August 22, 2010


Himeji
September 7, 2010


OsakaKyotoTokyo
Septemer 7, 2010


Ironman Cozumel
November 29, 2010

Best Of 2010 Part 3...

September 07, 2010
Himeji...

There's this thing I've grown accustomed to over the last 4 months, something I dub travel sickness. It's not exactly a sickness per se, but it's this feeling of moving on...something new approaching, a new country and new adventure on the horizon and spending the last hours and minutes somewhere about to be left behind. I find I see countries as people - all the people I've met and the things I've witnessed and felt as a collective. I also despise goodbyes because everyone else always gets so fucking worked up. So fucking worked up and that makes me kind of sick.

Today, I was riding the JR back from Shibuya, around two, and I actually fell asleep on a Japanese businessman's shoulder. It was probably only for a second but still...fucking still. I am a literal bastion of grace - shit like that does not happen to me. I was so fucking tired I had to force myself to stand, to ride the wave of that whipping train in hopes that it would somehow sharpen me. I came home and I slept. I took a shower. I feel better now but won't sleep tonight. Tomorrow, this thing ends...or really just begins depending on your angle of approach. Me, I'm looking at it from somewhere in between the two extremes...but closer to the latter. Much closer to the latter.

I want to feel the sun set in my home town again. I want Los Angeles, want her like a faithful, shore-lorn sailor. That's what I am. That's what I'm thinking right now.

September 22, 2010
An Open Letter To My Body...

Darling,

Welcome home, welcome home. I am going to speak openly because I know that’s what you both respect and deserve. I understand more than you know. There are blisters and splits on your knuckles, in your palms and on your feet. Your toenails are black – 2 of them. Your left calf is miserable and you haven’t been able to run right since the sixth day of Tokyo. You have traveled the globe, bled across it for the past 4 months. You have been bleeding forever. I know. I understand. You deserve rest, a break, solace. I know. I know. That’s sort of why I’m here. We need to talk…

In the Philippines, something new happened. 70.3 happened, a half Ironman. We stayed in that sun, near 100 degrees and battled for longer than we’ve ever battled before. When it was over, I wanted more. When it was over, I wanted to get out there the next day and do it again, again and again. Fight more. Bleed more. Grow more. Give more. Suffer more. So did you. Don’t forget, I know you too.

Now we’re back in California. Now we’re done slamming our feet across Asia. There’s beautiful and easy access to everything we could ever desire. The rabid dogs are gone…the heat…the kidnapping eyes…broken pedaled and rusted bikes from the 1970’s…posters of Andre Agassi when he had long hair. It’s all gone now. Everything we need is here. Everything we did and everything we saw over these last 4 months has raised us up. I want to draw on it, use it to pick a fight – the biggest one of them all. I want to see what we’re made of, need to see what we’re made of. Both of us.

In 9 weeks, we’re flying to Cozumel. In 9 weeks, on a Sunday, we’re going to wake up to become Ironmen. And I understand what you’re thinking, what you always think for the sake of self-preservation, that Cozumel should be enough. It should. But it’s not. You understand me too. Certainly you saw coming what’s now coming…

Next October, there is a race that happens on an island called Kona, in a state called Hawaii. It may be the world’s toughest. Titans travel from far and wide to line up self-destruction. Don’t play dumb – the Kona fire has been burning for a while now. To get to there, something special needs to happen. There is no disputing that. If what I am about to say seems disregarding, I can offer no apology. You need to ditch this nagging pain and allow me to deliver us. You need to allow my fight every day for the next 7 weeks, and you need to allow it harder than you have ever allowed it before. You need to allow me to break us harder than we’ve ever broken and then come out the next day and break again. You need to simply let go and survive. Be honest with me. Believe me when I say I’ll listen to you, and that I will take care of us. Understand that I aim to chase a beauty beyond capable description, and that great sacrifices must be made. Understand.

To get into Kona, the rules are simple. We have to line up in Cozumel and then finish first, second or third in the men’s 25-29 age group. We don’t stand a chance unless we stand together. I committed long ago. You did too, you just won't admit it. Please consider this - my beg, my plea. Know that I both love you and despise your hesitation, that I am doing this for both of us. Be wicked now, rest is for the defeated…

November 11, 2010
What Do We Call These Again?

Listening to The Night Last Night over and over. Rolling. Told someone today I was starting to feel crazy again - not for sake of credit or to give explanation but to mark myself, for myself, a little for them. I'll call it a seed. Separate - I was out to lunch with one of my down home girls this afternoon. She's going through some shit so I'm going through some shit because she's my down home girl. I'm telling myself I'm helping her, always telling myself I'm helping even though I believe myself to be the disconnect, that people listen to me and humor me and my thoughts on their lives and their troubles and either walk away from the conversation saying something like, fuck well at least I'm not that OR well at least he thinks he's helping. At some point, her shit actually did become my shit because the world is fucking small and because my long ago but wrecking-ball-ex happens to be inescapable, not that I'm trying to...escape...anything...anymore. 10 minutes after mentioning her name, far onto something else, I felt wrong, or off, brought it back, deemed it her, thought of certain people holding certain powers over me because of their movements across the world and my hard cock. I decide I have a problem letting go of people that I loved - decided a long, long time ago. Crossing over means I can never cross back. Or retract. No matter how vile or regrettable things get. I decide the only way to not feel thrown when speaking her name is to fuck her again, just once and well. I debate on how to make this happen while thinking back, sitting in front of down home, also a former lover, to a day I told her I loved her then left her, flew to New York, fucked another former like the one now who haunts me to protect myself from down home before she became down home from hurting me like New York had once done but over and over and over. Right now, I'm thinking about how either of them forgave me for that. Did they? Did I just push? I'm thinking of New York. Stuck with that all these years like I was with her? No. Not like me. She'll make excuses. For me, holding me up, better than me. I'll never forget those words from Munich -- I could hear you, on the phone when you went into the other fucking room, talking to her...I shipped your things away because I couldn't have them near me or in my apartment anymore. I feel sick. Sick. -- My absolution came with a hard price. Fucking vicious. I was a monster. That wasn't so long ago. What am I now? Sitting here writing about this girl I have to fuck for peace, thinking about whether or not she reads here anymore, how blown my cover would be if she did, and if she didn't, how destructive it would be after the fact, how plotted, how monstrous still.

November 16, 2010
Chris McCormack...

Macca is a true champ, made and then built and built. Off the course, he’s nothing but love, nothing but giving, nothing but heart. On it, when that gun fires, if you’re out there to take what he believes is rightfully his, he becomes something else…the kind of guy who would rip out your throat and then drag you to your children, make you watch as he force-fed it to them. Anything to win — because it’s what he sacrifices for, because it’s what he wakes up day after day to suffer and bleed for, because he knows that giving anything less than everything would be disrespectful to himself and the gift of a life. Because he is a true champ.

I am ready to race. I am full. I stole so much. Macca, you’re my hero. I’ll be chasing you forever, mate.

November 20, 2010
At Least My Apartment Is Clean...

There's an SNL marathon and that feels right. Anne Hathaway is on tonight. Saw her last night in Love And Other Drugs. Her body is very good naked and moaning. Good actress. Big eyes. I'm a mess because it's cold and raining and the world is hanging and the race I'm leaving for on Tuesday is a far, far distance away. I won't be better, not really until after it's over and I'm back here, another night thinking about how comforting Saturday Night Live is - how often I write about it, where exactly that all came from and why. Last night I went out thinking someone was going to find their way to my bed, and so I cleaned this place. I thought I was going to find someone to move gently through or not, to exact my poetry upon...or realize my mistake before falling far, far short. The lines in the cleaned carpet have dispersed, but I know they were there, and not too long ago, and for what reason. At some point, I was drifting through a bar, not because I'm telling myself okay time to drift, but because it's all I know how to do, because I'm never a calculated lost, only lost. At some point I was talking to a guy, a good friend actually, who spent the majority of the conversation telling me how terrible it was that people his whole life were trying to dictate his sexuality - before he tried to tell me I could never know mine unless I left myself open - to things - to him - to the possibility of him, essentially - before he became static, despised blind deaf selfish and incredible - before the depressing downgrade began to kick in and I was drifting again, constantly drifting. At some point I was talking to a girl about music, a pretty girl and finely equipped and lovable who was asking me if she could come back to my bed and see my clean carpets and dishes and bathroom, asking me if I would want to have my way with her before I was acting thick, like it went over my head or that I didn't hear it quite right before minutes later she offered herself again, along with her pretty friend, as a pair, seriously, as if to up the ante, before I talked about a friend I had to catch up with across the room before leaving, and that I would be back, always back. Steps away I could feel their rejection, their soon to begin accusations of my homosexuality, as often happens because I don't put my dick in things for the sake of, to battle themselves down, their confusion and potential hurt because I ridiculously give everyone credit of the sensitivity I suffer while dealing with the weight of my lately hopeless pursuits, the potential that they may for a long time be hopeless pursuits, which at this point isn't as heavy as it is expected.

November 29, 2010
The Ironman...

I don't know what I'm feeling right now - tired, broken-hearted, defeated, victorious. It's a mix of a lot of things. I came to the island with a finish time of 10 hours burned into my head, with the grand goal of making it to Kona on my first try. Last year, same race, my age group, 10:30 would have done it. I was on the second lap of my bike, on pace for a 5:15 split, not willing myself that I was okay and strong and steady, but actually okay and strong and steady. I could see my transition into the run ahead, sure I could hold a 3:30 and get invited to Hawaii for the race of all races.

There was a noise coming from my bike, the chain grinding against the frame. I looked down to see that my cranks were somehow coming loose, knowing it was a progressive thing, wondering if I could make it through the last lap without something falling off. 5 miles into the 3rd lap, because of the friction, my chain began to slip to the smaller wheel. I hopped off twice to fix it but the same thing kept happening. It was only another 5 miles before I found a service station, got things tight and back to business. All things considered, I still managed a strong third lap, though I did lose 17 minutes off my pace. Still, I don't think it broke me in any way. I knew the 3:30 marathon could still bring me in around 10:20.

First four miles of the run, I felt good, like I was shot out and on my feet and moving around a 730. By six, I felt as sick as I've ever felt, threw up, felt better, got back into an 8 minute pace, determined to hold steady the rest of the way. Slowly, it started to slip. But something else began to occur to me. The run was broken up into 3 eight mile loops, so I could see everyone running ahead of me - there were a few. Hundred. I thought about it only briefly at the time because brutal pain is an attention seeker, and just kept moving my feet until mile 21, when I knew that if I was going to come in under 11 hours, I would have to chop 2 minutes off my per mile pace and make no stops. Like a ship desperately fleeing attackers in the movies on an open sea, I threw overboard all the flasks and pills and shit I had left in my pockets and tossed my bottle to the side of the road. I took a deep breath. The Killers' "Human" started playing on someone's loud speaker. I laughed. Then, I suffered like I've never suffered in my life before I came in at 10:59:20. That was beautiful.

Later last night, I read the qualifying times for men 25-29 was 9 hours flat. 90 minutes faster than last year, same course. I still don't know how to explain that. It made me feel humbled, and naive, in absolute awe for the strength that was out on the course. And sitting here right now, body in pieces, I feel thunderstruck. At times, hours earlier, I could see myself placing in my division...and in reality, I was getting obliterated, fucking destroyed. That's really something to deal with - I'll never forget it. Today, I've been asking myself how I'm not buried by all of this...or how I can possibly be thinking of all the new ideas I have for training, to shave me down, to toughen me up, to quicken my step. It's all I can think about. And I'm not trying to put a bow on this post. I'm not amateur. I am incredibly happy and proud of what happened yesterday but also somewhat humiliated, and devastated, and that's what I'm locking onto - because I have somehow trained my body to lock onto and love and obsess in the things that make me stronger in this world, that keep me in a constant state of evolution...even if the result of those things appear to destroy me. Right now my body is saying rest up, enjoy December, have some cocktails and let those endless other dreams flourish.

Then...come January, come hungry.