Housesitting...

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

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

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

Ah, Brotherhood...

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




Well, I do.

My Behavior...

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

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

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

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

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

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

Daria Werbowy...

Thank You, H&M Girl.

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



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

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

An Evening With Bear Grylls...

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



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

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



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



...

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

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

The Killers...

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

Brothers and sisters, those tunes are etched.

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

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

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

Please, just watch his hands.

Tom Tykwer...

Thanks Pal...

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

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

And not just because I’m a seasonal lover.

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

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

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

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

Celibacy.

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

Again…thanks pal.

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

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

No shots were fired.

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

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

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

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

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

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

I’m not an angry person.

The Announcement...

Caffeine Inspiration: The Announcement from Folly Films on Vimeo.

Coldplay...

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

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

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

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

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

The Fall...

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

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

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

What Happened to Frank Darabont...

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bat For Lashes...

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

LOST and the Ruling Minds of Bad Robot...

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

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

Nice night. Good party.

Isn’t that the worst-

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

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

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

Race you to the bottom of the drink.

Deal. Go.

…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And I’m mostly drug free!

…

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

Honestly, this changed my world…

The Dogs Of Santorini...

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

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

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

…

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

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

We were greatness, Team Greatness.

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

…

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

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

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

Team Greatness began to rally. We actually broke formation…

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

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

After all, this was a fucking Doberman.

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

My fear subsided.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

…

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

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

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

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

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

The Last Shadow Puppets...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



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

What is this life I’m living?

Indiana Jones and His Makers...

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

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

…

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

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

…

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

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

Fred Armisen...

Saturday night was the season finale of SNL. Sad.

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

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

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

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

Best ever opening monologue... Steve Martin musical.



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



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

...

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

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

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

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