Hollywood...

You know that scene from Caddyshack where they're in Chevy Chase's place and he's pouring Perrier back into the bottle and pretending like he's opening a fresh one for the lady he's with and she says something like you have an uncashed check here for fifty thousand dollars and he says keep it...

Well I was at my dear friend's house tonight having a cup of tea because I'm getting fucking sick from breathing burned homes and was spending some QT before going to another friend's birthday dinner when I saw on the counter a residual check for 23 thousand dollars. I said something like seriously and he told me to look underneath. There was another one for 131. And I wanted to tell him he's like Ty Webb and that the connection is perfect and timely and smart and funny...but I feared he didn't know Caddyshack, and that I would have been wasting my breath.

Shame.

Genius...

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

Last night, I was out grabbing sushi and tall Asahis with a brilliant Los Angeles friend of mine. He's one of the world's one of a kinds and every time we get together, I'm better because of it.

So we sit down and he's heavy and hurting, and I find out he just issued a breakup. It's November and getting cold and I feel like these things are happening everywhere. That or just random bouts of sting - I've been seeing it a lot.

We talk, just trying to move through his stuff, trying to push it around to a place where it's not weighing, maybe for a night, this Monday night. And I tell him that I feel for him, and he knows I was in it not too long ago with my last girl - knowing my distance and perspective. And he knows that I know how raw it can get when I'm telling him things he already knows, that it was the right decision, that the badness isn't going to go away. It's going to take it's time and stick around until it decides not to, which could be a distant and unwelcome commitment. And as I'm saying all this, I had no idea...chemicals were aligning in my mind, setting up my coming night...

I was watching a clip from Danny Boyle's The Beach on HBO before I left to go out, so that's what the setting of my dream became. I was on this beach with friends, and it was beautiful and peaceful and we were spending the day hanging out, laying out in the sun and swimming and all of a sudden, some guy comes running up to me, out of breath, face flushed, scared. It was one of my best friends from high school and still. We called him "Scare." He told me she was coming. I said who. He said a name which I can not repeat, but it was my ex-girlfriend...my ex-girlfriend who I adored and still have nothing but love for but for whatever reasons, we are no longer speaking and I think she hates (prob not, but allow it here for operational purposes) me. Word on the island was that she was hunting me, that people had seen her carrying a Katana sword - that she was planning on dispatching me with it. Of course I looked to Scare, scared out of my mind because I knew how proficient she would be with said sword and said something like, well fuck Scare, get me a Katana sword.

I spent the next couple days watching over my back, feeling like I was on the run, feeling like I was being hunted. Somewhere in the stretch of days, I wandered onto this blindingly white sand beach and knew I had walked right into the setup of my mind's dramatic conclusion. Dream like mine for 27 years and you learn to pick out the tags. She appeared like a mist on the far side of the beach and began her supernatural approach. There was a Katana sword on her belt and I realized I was fucked...

That's when Scare came charging from the jungle with object in hand. When he got closer, I could see the glimmering steel in his hand. He had actually fetched me a Katana sword. I remember exactly grabbing hold of his head and kissing his cheek before proclaiming, "My squire!" Then he ran off and left me to die.

She was standing before me when she pulled her sword. And I looked at her, this girl I haven't seen in real life since late August. I remember thinking are we really going to do this...all I wanted to do was take her in, just to see her, just to say hello. Her eyes were so cold, just anger and I remember trying to smile to soften her, to get her to cave and tell me that everything, all of this had been a terrible misunderstanding, in life and in dreams. But she offered nothing. Quickly, I realized that I had no skill with a sword, so I decided to fake it by dishing a display of attempted wizardry. You know, where you just kind of thrash and twirl the thing around in the air and around your body with speed and grace but actual seizure. I thought at least it might lighten the mood.

Instead, she pulled her sword and came at me. I defended with speed and ignorance, I thought, but something immediately occurred. I was good, actually, instantly good. And then I realized that I wasn't just going to be able to defend myself, but that I was either going to kill or be killed.

Then I drew first blood, stabbing her in the shoulder...

The shit thing about dreams is that they're not real. There's nothing concrete by which we can grab hold, nothing to take with us back to the real world. But the feelings that happen, they stay. They remain so when we wake, we wake with everything that came in the night. Today, I woke with acid, fucking acid and so here I am...

I stabbed her again, somewhere close to her heart and by then, she was bleeding out onto the sand and I was crying because all I wanted was peace. I wanted to sit on the beach and watch the sun and have words and laugh about this Katana duel, but that was a dream within a dream. I felt like I was rotting inside when she smiled, revealed her toying with me - just giving me hope of survival, maybe...or a gift of satisfaction, allowing my hurting her, knowing it would in turn, turn me inside out.

That's when she took me apart. She got through my defenses, stabbed me through my shoulder, my shoulder, my leg, hip, stomach, arm. She sliced my cheek, my hands, my forearms. I was finished, fell to my knees and she stood there, over me, having conquered me.

We looked to each other and I wanted to speak but couldn't. In the next blinding stroke of her sword, she twirled the blade in her hand and in the same instant, instead of finishing me off, she both cut off her own head and turned into a small wooden doll.

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

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

Dodgeball!

I have to believe things like this can only exist in Los Angeles.

So I was about to say it was a lazy Sunday, because the term is familiar and relatable, but it wasn't. There's just no room for anything like that in my universe - lazy. I woke up this morning around 8 without much of a hangover - mostly because I've disallowed myself to believe in such things - even though I certainly chased a combined bottle of red and rose with neat Jacks and Chimay Reds and rocky Goose into decent frames of the night.

I also don't much believe in drinking anymore, but when I do, well...

So I got up after a night of drunk sleeping, which is never really that good, and I wrote some lines...the most precious of the day being, "You're unbreakable. Bullets, blades, none stand a chance. My Superman. We're gonna make it because that's what you do. You don't know how to fail. (beat) But we need one more. It's gonna have to be your greatest yet."

Don't worry about context. It's perfect. After penning for a couple hours, I ran to my church so I could run 5 miles to sweat poison out before taking a yoga class that was literally so tough, it cooked my bones. Beautiful.

I ate lunch, threw on some bike shorts, some green striped tube socks and a Hawaiian T-shirt that I tragically pre-owned and headed across town to apartment Nelms Brothers. From there, we walked to this abandoned theater close to Hollywood and Vine. I was told there would be dodgeball.

At the door, reps from Nike (?) were there to collect waivers and give welcome. There was no fee. And there was this kid who looked like he was 17 and was asking for ID's. He was there to give out "drinking" wristbands, but when I told him I didn't bring ID, he said, "Oh well. Well, I guess you look like you're older than 21. Whatever."

We walked inside and I lost speech. Honestly, this place was Thunderdome meets Running Man meets Lord Of The Flies. And there were kegs of beer in back, and stacks of pizza, and blasting music and technological wizardry and the scrappiest bunch of LA scrappers you could imagine. This place was beyond imagination. Every inch of my body stood frozen in awe. Only this town. Only LA.

We made our way through the crowd and quickly found our team - The Magnums...as in Magnum P.I., as in Tom Selleck the womanizing, no nonsense 1980's Hawaiian crime stopper. Maybe for the first time in my life, I wished I had chest hair.

The organizers grouped 6 teams of 20 and set us off in a no holds barred, double elimination tourney...

Now, I have issues that I've potentially left unshared. Competition. Love it. I become insanity, twitchy, eyes and mind like razors. These dodgeballs are soft-esque. They're made to be safe, but the second I picked one up and felt it in my fingers, I instantly became aware of a fundamental truth that went back to my days of slinging baseballs - I was going to be quite capable of throwing them hard...like, dangerously hard. Like, hard to see hard. And I knew that if someone upset me in the least, OR at least through a theory of inevitability, the balls I was going to be throwing were going to be finding faces.

But that's dodgeball. Ladies and gentlemen, it's a fucking war out there.

As we were walking up a dark set of stairs to enter the arena, I started to slip into this zone, Tina Turner, voice suddenly pitching high..."Two men enter. One Man leaves. Welcome to Thunderdome." And then I just kept repeating "Thunderdome" until this guy on the other team looked back and gave me this gift with his eyes -- I think he sincerely thought there was something wrong with me.

In the end, we got crushed, swept right out of the tourney. I took a couple of hard evasive falls - walked away with bruises to tend and pride to repair, but it was my first time out since grade school. It was to be expected. Our group of rag-taggers just didn't have the experience or leadership as some of the stronger teams. But we'll get better. I've now made a seasonal commitment to play at rotating venues around the greater Hollywood area.

But I did walk away with at least one gem. The last game we were playing, right before we got bumped...

We were down, it was something like 2 on 9 and we were fighting to stay alive. They were holding balls and zoning on me because the other last Magnum standing didn't have star-kissed genetics like your author. I was doing a decent job staying alive, blocking, moving. And every now and again, after their balls were thrown, I would get a chance to toss one. When this happens, the other team is helpless, really. I know I can lay it on thick sometimes, but we're talking clubbing babe seals.

So I pick their "guy" out of the batch and I make my approach and fling this thing, fucking fling it. And I think he saw it maybe for a split second and thought maybe it was heading for his gut when it just took off and then yep...this thing just blasted him in the face. Blasted. Him. In. The. Face.

Face shots aren't worth anything and I was soon knocked out by a Blitzkrieg of tosses, and we lost...but looking back, being able to tuck something like that in my back pocket on this Sunday in November...

There is no greater reward.

Danny Boyle...

I caught an early screening of this tonight...

Danny Boyle's latest, Slumdog Millionaire. There are a few directors in this town that I can point to and say, yeah like that. Mr. Boyle is certainly one of them, though he doesn't exactly work in this town. And it's safe to say that he's an artistic hero of mine. Most of the stuff he does speaks to me, absolutely. And he puts it on the table, no doubt, every time. I can't think of a greater compliment to give, in this business or any other.


And I was in the theater listening to his brilliant and spastic rants about India and shooting and cameras and anecdotes and then watched his blaze of a film. And standing on the street next to him, like I said, a hero of mine...maybe it reminded me of something. I don't know...maybe inspiration and why we do the things we do -- why I'm doing the things I'm doing. It was just a random Friday night, no expectations on Sunset in the heart of Hollywood...and I felt like a little kid, in this town, in my world. And it's a good feeling.

Now We're Startin' To Move...

Thursday...

I've been pissing away weight lately. Yeah, literally. Literally, in the morning I wake up startled by color and it reminds me of time I spent in Paris or Cinque Terre, not really eating or not eating as much as I should have been between the running and hiking and lugging and map reading. My visuals are poor taste, I know, but necessary. It reminds me of the marathons I ran in LA and Athens when the same thing happened...something along the lines of a sign, hint or notification - "you're right on track, buddy! Keep it up."

Every day, this something grows more bastardly to satisfy. Yesterday, I slipped to 198 and had no idea until the numbers flashed. And that's the source of my marveling, not seeing it coming until it hit, getting lost and caught in the push. And my skin is growing tight and my mind taut and lean. Every day, I pick fights, fucking fight and power through - with my work, heart. And though I am most certainly vain at times, this has nothing to do with vanity and everything to do with something else from which I long ago lost control. Every vein, every muscle, the million beads of sweat I evict, I'm not trying to do anything, this just is. Over the years as we learn to grow and live with ourselves, we learn of what we are...then learn to deal with what we are.

All I want to be is unstoppable. And I need that to be the notion from which I'm made and un-made.

Cat Power...

You ever get that...it's been raining, and the gutters are clogged and it's dark and the air is thick and the sky just hangs -- thunder so loud you think the world is dying, handfuls of the minutes make turns fucking trying -- somewhere in the 11's and my eyes are heavy, and I'm pushing and my arms are cold and I'm daunted and moved and endless -- can't put a feeling into words and then someone else does, and reminds you how it can be done...

Like that, somewhere in the 11's tonight.

Round 1...

Was a dead celeb birthday party for Katy Perry in H-Wood...


Where this semi-person got fresh with the Freddie Mercuried birthday girl...

Before he took his shit off and got fresh on the dancefloor. Brother could move...

And I spent the night drinking rum at Siren Studios, not remembering the last time I drank the stuff, and crushed for this girl who was a tasteless and seamless Jean Benet Ramsey. In real life, she claimed to be named after a country in the European Union and would most certainly amount to nothing but trouble if I ever did give chase...

But that's sorta what I do...even though I don't.

Oh, Fitness...

Saturday Night Through The Eye Of An IPhone...

Bitches Be Crazy...

I just got back from a Magnolia dinner and a night with a small fistful of my dearest friends in Los Angeles. One of them came toting a new girl who was in from out of town. Before I met her, he so affectionately dubbed her, "Stop Gap." Once I met her, she affectionately dubbed herself...I don't recall. Point is, she didn't mind either - was well aware of the situation at hand. Cool girl. I'll see her once more and then never again, but cool girl.

See, he just recently got out of a relationship. And by got, I mean...we'll get to that. By relationship, I mean he was in something pretty deep, heart on the line sort of business. For him, it was rare. For me, she was great and great for him. At a point, they hit this crossroads - both being performers, in the business of performing where they were going to be apart for a short period of time. It was going to be a test, no doubt, but they were solid, they were fierce, they were good.

It took a couple weeks before they weren't, and she broke up with him and crushed him and cut him down at the knees. And for him, when I tell you this is rare, believe that this is rare. Then 5 days later, on their 1 year anniversary, she gets married. After 5 days. On their one year anniversary. Married. Poor girl.

And now all I can do is listen, and try to hear and hope he's healing because man, that's vicious. But in the long run, in the grand scheme, I can tell you I'm not worried about my boy. Right now, maybe. Down the line, my worry is on her. Not a doubt in my mind.

I just got back from seeing Maroon 5 play a short set at the Hollywood Palladium. It was this great and sincere but at the same time, totally phoned in welcoming performance for the Breeder's Cup that's happening this weekend at Santa Anita. The drinks were free and when I walked down to the floor, I found myself standing about 3 rows from the stage. There wasn't much of a push.

And I dig Maroon 5. Sometimes, they even creep onto my playlists. Sometimes, I feel Adam Levine - our pens dance with the same bloody ink. So it was a decent LA Thursday and I'm home by midnight...

But I can't help this lingering feeling. From seeing my friend in the shape he's in (good, but still) to this very good band asking the crowd if they were awake...

Both deserve so much better. Sometimes, we all deserve so much better.

It's getting darker here earlier. When I left to go out tonight at 7, the skies were already black. And I don't know what happened to my sunlight. And I don't know how I missed the shift, but it's here.

Entourage...

You know that scene in every fight movie where someone's getting the shit kicked out of them and they're about to lose everything and their life is about to collapse and someone's in their corner, just about to throw in the towel? Well, that's what I feel Entourage has been this season. I see most of the episodes, but days have long passed since they were a necessary DVR/TIVO.

And I have to say, right up until the 26 minute point on tonight's episode (Gotta Look Up To Get Down), Entourage was putzin the fuck around. It's not that I'm saying it's a bad show and I'm not totally knocking it, obviously I'm still watching. But for a stretch, it had it man. And when something falls from such envied creative grace, how can you help but feel the void.

But anyway, anyway...usually when the guy in the movie who's getting his face smashed in is about to give up, something drastic happens. Some kind of epiphany of inspiration. Let me see if I can find...yep, this is remarkable (esp. 6:30-7:15)...


And that's my parallel tonight. Entourage's blindsided hook, from nowhere, this...

Sun setting...

Leavin on a jet plane...

Two roads diverge...

Magic. When it's due, I give. I was about to throw in the towel.

Nevermind. That Poor Nail...

Pushing Daisies...

I've professed my love for this show before. It's a love buoyed in depth. Sometimes, you find something out there that just speaks to you, and though on the surface, we may sometimes wish it were more profound than a TV show, truth is, to me, there is nothing more profound. It just works. And I can't explain it. So many things are simply best left unsaid.

On last night's ep ("Bad Habits"), there was a scene right at the end. And it came out of nowhere. And it cut me in half, and it poured me out. And giving a transcription of it or posting it here would give the nail we're hitting too much head. After all, I'm a twisted and bent kind a guy. But on the other hand, no mention of it would simply be an injustice...an injustice indeed.

This isn't THE scene (39:00 on the online episode if you're in the mood for a dig), but excellent on another level...



And, of course...Kristin Chenowith is my mind-wife.

Amy Adams...

I mean seriously...when an actress chokes me up in a trailer. In a trailer. Seriously?

Skills...

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

But hardly something new. Actually, It's been like this for some time, some kind of energizing thing surging. And, I get up at 5 on Mondays to teach, so the coming alarm does little to settle mind.

Last Sunday, we talked about the idea of One Sunday, of all that can change from Sunday to Sunday, of all that can come in a single week of this life. Maybe it suits me to step aside every once in a while, find something along the lines of a bigger picture...so the minutes don't just bleed into the hours into the days into the weeks, months, years...so I can see that things are moving, that the branches are sprouting leaves -- perhaps barbed, that could take blood if you let them - but on the other side, a side so soft and welcome, you could rest your head for sleep. At my very best, I find myself to be that sensational yin/yang that can only be seen with a stop, a breath...

Last Sunday, I think it's safe to say I was in a world of shit -- world of shit. Today, tonight...the footing is strong. My legs and mind are rocks, ready to drive and honor and conquer. One Sunday -- all that can come...all that can return.

And wouldn't you know or so soon I must've forgotten -- with strength comes humor, lightness of being. And let me be the first to say welcome fucking back.

...

So I was walking home from Melrose a couple days ago. I had passed Crescent Heights and was eyeing my Kings Road ahead when this Gypsy leapt from the entrance of a store I had never seen - as if it had sprung up overnight. I told her I didn't know there were gypsies in Los Angeles. She seemed offended and of course I felt bad for offending her. Because of this, I accepted her invitation to come inside and browse the store - which she claimed to be hers. For moments, the thought flashed in my mind - telepathy perhaps - my laying in a bathtub full of ice, my partially vital organs lifted and cut from my pale body. But I wasn't telepathic, only paranoid...so naturally, calm found me.

She closed the blinds, the door as I entered, as if to exactly control the light, to control my perception of everything inside that store. While she was doing it, I must admit, I was mesmerized. Astounded. It's only in hindsight that we can begin to find manipulation in the most mundane of actions. After all, she was a saleswoman - and a fucking gypsy. I should have known.

Inside, the store really was incredible. She had a magnificent collection of antique stained glass, hand carved gargoyles, potions, old baseball cards, pinball machines -- even a fucking replica of the game that turned a boy into Tom Hanks in Big. Honestly this place was amazing. And not just amazing, but LA amazing - the kind that'll cut through the most cynical asshole you'll find. It cut right through me -- not that I'm a cynical asshole.

And the Gypsy just sat back and watched me, watched as I wandered. Every now and again I would look up, thinking I might need permission to touch certain objects in the store - objects I thought to be precious beyond comprehension. And they may very well have been. She would simply nod and smile, willing me to do anything my heart desired, almost pleading with her eyes...go on, go on. Enjoy.

I had lost an hour in my wanderings, transported, missing appointments...when I pulled a curtain and moved into a back room. At this, the Gypsy leapt to her feet, either eager to stop or to explain...

There was a young and beautiful girl sitting over a smoldering cauldron. The Gypsy proudly introduced me to her daughter, Jolee, and spoke of her uncanny ability -- that of potion making. Potion making I said. The Gypsy answered potion making as if the response alone was fully sufficient. And Jolee smiled and it made me smile back, just putting eyes on this young girl. Her youth. Her innocence.

I remained that day until they closed and thanked them for their hospitality, welcomed them to the neighborhood and told them I would return the next day - that I would be making purchases! Many purchases! They both nodded, and Jolee promised that upon my return, she would have something special for me, something beyond comprehension. Incredible, she said. I was dazzled. I set off for home, barely able to contain myself. I mean, think about the possibilities -- a store like this? And not just in my town but in my neighborhood? Amazing. Fucking amazing. Fucking amazing!

That night was like falling asleep on Christmas Eve as a child. I couldn't. There was something so magical about this shop - I was in awe of it. Couldn't wait, couldn't wait, couldn't wait to return...

They didn't open until 5:15, she said, and said that they closed before 6, so I cleared my schedule and made sure I was there at exactly 5:15. Jolee was there to peek her head through the glass door. She unhinged the first lock, the second, the third. Three locks? Believe me, at this point, it only fed my excitement, which was already at near fatal levels. Jolee told me that her mother was feeling ill, that I couldn't come inside, but that she had made a promise and that if there was one thing in the world she believed, it was that promises were to always be kept. She told me to reach out my hand and close my eyes. I did. When I felt something fall into my grasp, she whispered, "open them." I looked into my palm, saw this tiny little vial - like a department store perfume sampler. I looked to Jolee but she was already speaking...

"It's my newest potion. My greatest work yet. Mommy doesn't like it, but Mommy doesn't know. Mommy is sick."
"What's it called?"
"Drahma."
"Drahma? You mean drama?"
"No! No!! No!!!"
"Okay. I'm sorry. What's it do? How do I use it?"
"What's your name again?"
"Burn. You can call me Burn. People do"
"You're not very smart, are you, Burn?"
"I...don't know. Wait, are you serious? Can you just tell me how it works?"

Then, in what seemed to occur in the same instant, Jolee rolled her eyes, stormed inside, slammed the door, closed the blinds and cut the lights. And I was left standing outside, vial in my hand...

"Wait. Are you serious?"

Nothing. I walked home. I was put off, maybe quite a bit less than I should have been. Truth was, fascination still had Me.i was distracted by this Drahma in my hand, the Drahma this girl had created. It was my fascination, utterly and totally.

I got home and set the vial on my glass table, unsure what my first move would be. I paced and pondered, tried to let my mind explore the entire realm of possibility that was now settling in this vial that stood before me.

Slowly, I approached, decided I would put it through a series of sensory tests. I unscrewed the cap, slowly lifted the vial to my nose, letting its vapors flood over and into me. Immediately, I gagged and choked, dry heaving after a smell that could only, only be described as shit vomit orgy on steroids. It was awful. Just awful, easily the worst thing I had ever smelled in my life. Immediately, I put the cap back on, sat, settled, pondered again...

I tried tasting it...quickly vomited.
I tried rubbing it on my skin...broke out in hives.
I tried snorting it...blacked out.
I tried free-basing it...didn't have the right lighter.
I tried giving it to my neighbor...she tried to kick me in the dick.

I went to bed that night thinking nothing but what the fucks. None of this made any sense. Why the hell was Jolee making this Drahma? And why was she giving it to me? What the hell good could this manufactured Drahma do for anyone? I had to know.

So I returned the next day, 5:15 to be precise. I brought what was left of the Drahma and began knocking on the door. At first, I was delicate, but soon, I needed answers. I wanted to give the Drahma back, more than anything. When I realized this, my knocks grew loud and commanding. That's when she came, the Gypsy woman. She opened the door and peeked her head outside, asked me what I was doing knocking so loud. I reminded her who I was, that I had just been in a couple days prior, that I had a magnificent time, a magical time. I told her that I returned yesterday to see her, but that Jolee wouldn't let me inside. I showed her the vial of Drahma when her eyes flashed...

"Drahma? My word. She promised."
"What? What's my word? What's wrong?"
"The last town -- we ran -- we had to run -- she, Jolee, her gifts -- the curse..."
"I don't understand. Please, just tell me what you're talking about? Why is Jolee making Drahma?"
"No one knows. No one. Only Jolee. You can't come back here. Please. Just leave us alone."

The Gypsy woman closed the door in my face, locked every bolt in that door. I slowly backed away, turned, mind-spinning, trying to let it go, this chance encounter with a gypsy woman and her mysterious daughter on Melrose. When I turned the corner onto Kings Road, a screeching voice brought me to a halt, stopped me in my tracks...

"Burn, Burn! Wait!!!"

It was Jolee. She was running after me, frantic -- something in her hand. When she reached me, I kneeled.

"Burn. I have it! I have more for you. And it's better, stronger."
"What, Jolee, Drahma?"
"Of course, Burn. Isn't that what you came for? Isn't that what you want?"
"...I...I don't know what I came for Jolee, but...I don't want your Drahma."
"Just take it Burn. Take my Drahma. I've been working so hard on it."
"But I took it yesterday. And it's awful, everything about it. I don't know why you're making it-"
"No, no Burn. This is different. This is better. You must take it."
"I don't think I want it, Jolee. Can't you give it to someone else?"
"No. I chose you. I've made all this Drahma just for you! Just add water, Burn. Water."

And with that, she placed it in my hand, kissed my cheek and ran back inside. I put the Drahma in my pocket and walked home, distrusting of this beautiful and sweet little girl. I was ashamed -- ashamed until I got home. A fool for curiosity, I placed the vial beneath my dripping faucet and let the water hit. That instant, a plume of vapor burst from the tiny vial and shot into my eyes. I went blind. My cheeks went numb. My ears failed -- I couldn't hear a thing. All I could feel - a stream of tears pouring off the tip of my chin, as if whatever dam holds crying had broke. It was the single oddest and most frightening experience I had ever been through. I felt my way through the apartment and crawled into bed, remained there until I fell asleep. In the morning, when I woke, everything had gone back to normal. Everything but that fucking smell. And of course it was worse than ever, but at that point, once I could see again, everything was an afterthought.

I took a shower and got dressed, collected what was left of Jolee's Drahma and set out, on foot, to the Gypsy's store on Melrose. When I got there, the windows were boarded...

The building had been condemned or something of the sort. But I knew they were there. I knew they were inside, squatting, figuring their next move. My mind started racing...back to the day I first walked into the store. The magnificence, the fucking magnificence of this place. It made me smile, thinking back...trying my best to see past the cruel and cold barriers that were now stretching across what was once such a welcoming storefront.

I pulled a letter from my jacket pocket, a letter I had prepared before I had left my apartment. I unfolded it and began to read...

"I'm sorry we came to here. I'm so sorry. I don't know what happened. I walked past this shop that first day and I was a fool. And I thought of you guys and me being this great partnership. I thought we would be such great friends. I mean, you had the coolest shit. I totally dug your shit. I know that this was your shop and that I was just a guest in that shop, and that I would always have to deal with whatever you dealt me..."

But then I stopped, suddenly uninspired by the words I had so recently written - words from the heart, soft - because I believed they were words they weren't capable of understanding -- that there was a tenderness in them they couldn't spot - that given a chance, they would walk all over my vulnerability and mistake it for acquired strength. And I didn't want to give that to them. I couldn't. So I ripped up the letter and looked through the only sliver of exposed window that remained. And I swore I saw eyes...

"I know you're in there. You're fucking gypsies, you obviously know the ins and outs of LA's squatting laws - though, I doubt that qualifies in a commercial zone. I don't really know who you are or what you're doing. I really only knew you for one fine day and I guess I'm here now to speak my peace, because...I guess because I care, because I can see through the boards on the front of your building and windows and...gutters? And there's beauty in there, there is. But you have got to stop making Drahma. Can't you see, what it's doing? Can't you see what it'll do? Sure, it's exciting to create and you think creation is a gift worth giving, but when you give it out, all it causes is pain in other people. And you're trading excitement for pain and it isn't right and it isn't fair. Not for you, not for them. You have to see this. I came here to make peace. And...I know that you're in there...I can see cauldron smoke coming out the hole in the roof - which really isn't safe and probably means you're doing exactly what I wish you weren't. But I guess that's neither here nor there anymore, for me. I'm standing here now -- to make this right or to say goodbye or to...and you're just going to leave me here, standing -- while all these assholes walk by, wondering why I'm talking to a building on the corner of Melrose and Kings...and you're going to do me like that? Really? Really? Shame..."

...

I was out at a bar on Friday night. Could have been Wednesday. These two girls came up to me -- happens often because I don't often chase and women sense these things, usually get very forward because I'm forward and they think I'm gaming them when that's really just me and they try to game back but really just end up fighting and failing to keep pace. Disinterest feeds power, and that's why I'm powerful - because unless you find me in rare pursuit, that's exactly and all I am.

It means that when someone tries to pick me up so that I pick them up when I'm out and minding my own shit, they had better at least be an LA 8. Superficiality is fair game on a pick up, no doubt about it. Anything below 8 gets 28 seconds before I scoot off with poor excuse.

So anyway, these girls were alright. The talker was a 7+1 for charisma. Her friend was a low level 8. They were fine...

Now, these conversations all tend to lead to one of the girls asking what kind of guy I am - usually the one who wants me to take her home and show her what's what. On this night, that's what the 8 was after. I could tell she had probably just been through a breakup, something that did her vicious and when I walked in, she thought me to be her cure -- a fresh and sweet faced Adonis (don't be put off, I self-deem this often). She thought I would do her no wrong on this night - and she'd wake up in the morning and feel safe and comfortable and exercised and she'd start to think of the next step - what it might be with this new boy...

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

And of course she smiles, thinks this is my pick up, only wants it more but by that point, I've had enough...

"No. Look, I have a coldness in me. And I can tell. I look at you and you're something. And I'm sure if we left here and went wherever we went, we'd do some things and certainly have a story to tell. But I know when I see it - my type - and you don't look like you inspire fiction."

Of course, she didn't understand this, maybe thought I was crazy and maybe that was the point. And so she returned to her girlfriend and likely told her I was a fag, because she was mistakenly hurt, because what guy wouldn't take her home.

And I returned to the company I made appointment to meet, and we had another drink or two, and I said my goodbyes. On the way out, I saw her posted up by the door, warmed again by the drinks she must have had - eyes with hopes that my drinks had done the same. I passed her with a smile, soft, all-heart...

"I'm sorry, you couldn't handle me. Don't feel bad, I can barely handle myself."

Oh, So Classic...

Honestly, I Have to Wonder What They Think of Me...

I just sent an e-mail to Team Winburn (my management), because I've been working all morning. Went something and only like...

"Got it. Fucking got it. Fucking got it. We battle soon..."

And I can't stop howling and pacing and moving. And I have so much fight in me, I have to get out. I have to find Sunset Plaza Drive and charge up her until I either faint or turn faint of heart.

So much. Found me again or I found it. Either way, how could I care.

This is the moment.

Nick and Norah...

Last night, I caught something close to the midnight show. And let me start by saying a few things. Like that I love Michael Cera, and that Kat Dennings was refreshing. And that this movie also uses pop-in cameos by cast members of SNL that I DVR and watch every week because I'm a huge, steaming fan of the show. Andy Samberg and Seth Meyers. And that it has all this great music throughout and it's like all these components are there to make this sweet little movie about two kids chasing music and falling in love in New York. And then...it just fucking sucks. It's like someone forgot they were making a movie - like the movie was just a vehicle for the music - and I don't, DO NOT walk out of movies. This one brought me closer than any I ever remember.

If you've seen it and want to battle me on this one, don't. The gum? Seriously? How did that shit make it out of a first draft? Despicable, like blowing a cannonball through the hull of an already sinking ship.

I absolutely wanted to love Nick and Norah. Going in, I thought it would be exactly my style - before I found out it wasn't. But the kicker came towards the end, when Michael Cera was driving his Yugo, alone, through the streets of New York - and Modest Mouse came on...Little Motel. And I thought to myself...you didn't earn that -- didn't even come close. I'm taking it back. I'm taking them all back.