Chris McCormack...

I feel full, bursting even. I’m ready to give. Last night, I drove down to Redondo to listen to Chris McCormack recount what it’s like to be the champ he is - maybe the greatest triathlete ever, fresh off his second (remarkable) Kona win. There was a moment I was scanning the crowd, thinking about what people there were going to take for themselves, away from him and the night. I started thinking about what I was going to take away…

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.

Dude...

In bed, lights out. New maniac headphones wrapping my head. I can remember a couple albums that have gotten treatment like this before. Wishing I could let it drag fresh forever.

Guess The Rip-Off...

There's a movie out today called Skyline, a supposed VFX "masterpiece" starring people I'm not even going to mention because their names might soil this holy ground. Actually, I don't even know the names. There was and still is a lot of shit being tossed around town because the guys who did work on the movie trailered below ran off once wrapped - or while they were working - and shot this movie Skyline in their apartment complex. The one out today looks B-Team at best, and I guarantee, no, GUARANTEE it is absolutely going to suck. It steams me because I don't respect artistic hacks, believe smoke on disputes like these usually lead to fire, and because the below trailer...well, it's blowing my fucking mind.

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.

Why I l Love This Town...

There are certain words I'm very careful with, as I try to not be a whore to that which either sounds profound or sounds like it's attempting profound. How confusing and coded - sort of my style - like burying the lead...also mine.

Tonight, Brandon Flowers is in town, playing his solo tour at the Wiltern. The word I've been holding back is hero. Brandon Flowers is one of my heroes. For that to happen, someone's behavior has to speak to me on a very special level. He's been speaking to me since he began speaking, so much that in my first novel, the two mains meet and befriend the actual Brandon Flowers on a romp to Sin City. Someday he'll read it and we'll have a drink and I'll say all this to him and he'll be like yeah I get you. Then he'll say it again and it'll be left at that - that two people from different worlds and breaths and beats can push art through wholly different venues and still share the same echo. I'm just saying. He came through the Troubador when I was in the Philippines and that left a mark on me, missing that.

But that's not all. I am also an avid runner who is now becoming an avid triathlete. One of the first glimpses I had into the sport, years ago, was through a man by the name of Chris McCormack - Macca. I remember watching the Kona Ironman on TV - usually broadcast in December - and watching his packaged profile, hearing his competitors speaking of him as this brutally tough, arrogant little Australian spitfire. I liked that immediately. I remember watching him win Kona some years ago, knowing I would never forget it. I remember checking up on him from time to time, understanding he was probably the best to ever compete in the sport. In October, when this year's version of the Kona Ironman happened, Macca struck again, somehow seemingly out of nowhere to win one of the most amazing races I had ever seen. Watch it in December, even if you have no idea what I'm talking about. Chris McCormack is my hero. Sometimes, I see him running in the neighborhood. Next time I do, I'm parking and chasing. On Monday, 5 days after Mr. Flowers, I'm going to see Macca speak in Redondo about his win in Kona. I'm going to see how he does business - how he speaks, moves, answers what will certainly be at least a dozen of the most non-sensical and lunatic questions a man could be asked. Los Angeles, I love you.

Gentlemen, keep it up.

No Better Sunday Double...

TNT is rolling them back to back -- something comforting about letting them play out on TV, something non-committal that works on me. Coming from Japan, everything Tokyo/Okinawa felt like there was a soft hand reaching inside of me and pulling and pulling, come back come back. It's not like these films flew under any radar. I've probably written about them countless times on here over the years - in some arenas the films are the finest to ever occur. I thought it the moment they hit, I still think it now. People who don't love Tarantino probably don't love them...but I still have to imagine or hope that they respect the force behind it all.

Today, I'm thinking something else, thinking about how Uma Thurman will be looked back upon. She's certainly Tarantino's girl, there's little doubt about that...but as time passes, new generations arrive and the two entities separate, I hope people remember her alone, as the savage queen who killed, killed, killed this role and made my Sunday this Sunday...on many Sundays to come.

This One Hurts...

I was at a joint last night on Sunset, having dinner with a buddy of mine before seeing RDJ and Galafanakis in Due Date. Same joint, remarkable joint, at this point in time, even on a world scale, I'm not sure another rivals it. Dinner was great, and the movie made me laugh. At some point, it was around 11 and I was chasing some dame and floating around, trying to find my way out but also back upstairs at the top bar, completely content with my evening before Elton John and the droves that go along with someone like him began to trickle in and speak of a night that made me regret not keeping my ear to the places I needed to keep my ear to...to find out he was playing a somewhat hushed show at the Hollywood Palladium. It still sort of hurts...a lot.

I see Elton John the way I see Brandon Flowers in the sense that they both move me something incredible - and they're boys, brothers in arms...and I love that. But I'm sitting here trying to soften the blow, and listening to the roaring, singing crowd behind him in the video...and something about that makes everything better, knowing that Elton John wasn't exactly mine like he was for the generation ahead of me. I never would have forgotten the show, but maybe something about it would have felt borrowed...at least that's what I'm telling myself.

When Mr. Killer comes to the Wiltern next week, I'll just have to count on The One I Missed flying back between Louisiana and Oklahoma to duel heart and genius. Either way, I'll just have to survive. Or drive to Ontario, CA tomorrow. What the hell is Ontario, California?

I Have No Problem Obsessing...

Better keep this rolling…

While I still have enough cushion in my bank account to take a 600 dollar hit — yes, a 600 dollar hit — and sign up for next May’s St. George version of the Ironman.

This one works for me on multiple levels. First, I can get in a car and drive from Los Angeles to Utah. It’s self-sufficient. And have you ever driven through Utah? My, oh my. Also, the race has been given the distinction of being the toughest Ironman in the world (judged by an average finisher’s time of over 13 hours). Maybe most important - I don’t want this to stop at Cozumel - meaning I don’t want to treat Cozumel as my be all, end all. St. George is my insurance policy for Cozumel for Kona…just as every race until I make the qualifying time for Kona will likely also have an insurance policy because I want this bad and love the sport worse. That’s where I’m standing.

Today, a small weight has been released. Tomorrow, when I line up for another day of training, I’m going to see that true line, my first, waiting for me south of the border. I’ll feel for moments what electricity Cozumel has to give, and bottle it. I’ll work on my breath. I’ll wait for that gun to go before it goes, sending me off with every intention of taking with compassion and grace, everything I want from the world.

That’s where I’m standing.

Ready Or Not, Here They Come...

Fall is about adoration for me. I could go on and explain, but things are getting different these days, choosing to bottle and save, build myself into a secretive madness, trusting no one to guide my ship or even put their fucking hand on my wheel, not for one fucking second. That's what the game is doing to me and I love it. No, I adore it. But I didn't start this one out to be about me...

I adore the fall for its movies, their brains...their cool and ambition, and this one I'll tout about as highly as any. Colin Farrell moved to the top of my list after In Bruges. Keira Knightly after the first second I saw her on screen in anything. David Thewlis, Ray Winstone. One of the greatest television shows to ever come around, Pushing Daisies' heroine Anna Friel - and in her accent! I love Brits...I love their dames...one day I'll marry one.

Looking forward...

Halloween To Me...

Coming home from a rainy night trick or treating somewhere in my early teens - or whatever I was doing at that time in my life for Halloween, with a group of friends from junior high. Freezing. My parents making a fire, ordering Buffo's, picking it up, being heroes as we all sat around and warmed up and ate and watched this or something like it with Ackroyd or Sandler. Is it my wishful memory, or did SNL used to run its Halloween specials the night of? Maybe we rented it.

Oh Farley you were truly something...

Coming To A Troubador Near You This Thursday...

The Return Of Stefon!

How Far Away Is April Again?

10:00:00...

Is a number I'm starting to see a lot these days...in my sleep, in my head, on the faces of ninos and small animals. It's the number I think it's going to take to be allowed to compete at Kona next year. From what I understand, Cozumel is a slow and windy course. Last year, the last guy in my age group to make it through crossed with a 10:24. He's in Hawaii now, ready to go for this Sunday, the start of this year's Ironman World Championship. I want to be able to say that to myself a year from now...or to some friend when I can't make a sunday brunch - that I have to hop out of town to compete in the Ironman World Championships in Hawaii. Sure, I'm about that a little bit...though a whole lot less than one might think.

It's daunting, not just the 2.4 swim, 112 bike, 26.2 run (yes, miles), but fighting for something that other somewhat talented and hungry 25-29 year old men are going to be fighting for...treating every second like they matter because they all do. Of the hundreds that will be lined up in our age group, I'll worry about roughly 6 of them. They're the 6 who I can see now, every morning and afternoon, before I go to bed at night. They're pushing me every day to find my fights and bleed my miles, knowing that somewhere else on the globe, they're doing the same thing...all of us convinced that we're the ones entitled to this thing, one of the three tickets Cozumel can give to Kona.

Today was a light day. I woke up and hit the road for two hard hours on the new Cervelo. The rain has stopped in Los Angeles, finally (one day and a half), and I was out in time to catch the morning glow before the sun came up. Everything felt right. From there, I dropped my bike off, changed shoes and hit the road again, one hour and fifteen on foot - some hills, mostly quick tempo, mostly with the intention of putting some break in my legs in preparation for friday - tomorrow. Everything felt right. Considering I could barely walk correctly 2 weeks ago because of my blown left calf, I have new and ultimate respect for this process. It's magic and it isn't. I've learned to love the pain of rolling my legs - because if I don't love it and don't do it, then my body has every right to rebel, and I deserve to have everything I work for and desire and dream of taken away.

So tomorrow...

I need to test a couple things - lot of body, mind, some new nutritional elements. For the last 2 weeks, I've been logging 5 hours of training per day for about 5 days a week. The longest singular interval has probably been about 4.5 hours. Tomorrow, I need to get past my body and into my head. So here's what we're going to do...

Wake up at 5:30, ride to Santa Monica and lap Santa Monica before putting a loving hurt on my 7-9 cycling class. When it's over, I'll lap San Vicente before riding home, before leaving my bike and changing my shoes sometime around 10, a 4.5 hour ride. Then, I'll hit the road, aiming for 18-20 miles on foot before running into Equinox on Sunset just before 1, leaving me 7 hours into the day. I'll be drained and pissed and sitting in front of my buddy Colin in a yoga class. He's going to ask me to do a lot of disciplined, difficult, obnoxious shit (amazing too), and I am going to handle it. When my body is destroyed and my mind is on the edge of oblivion, I am going to eat some salt tabs and take on whatever comes like an unstoppable bastard. 8.5 hours. I'll drag myself home, hopefully delusional, eat something, pull myself together enough to head back to the gym at 545 to teach what will likely be the worst spin class in the history of Equinox. 10 hours...

Onward.

Two Of The Best...

I was out to dinner with a friend last night, talking about the moment I begin to have ultimate respect for performers -- when they walk into SNL and just kill it. Dr. Timberlake did that a long time ago. Then he did it again, and again, and again. Jimmy Fallon is the best ever. This is magic...

Sponsored!

Because my game is true, or at least so I like to think...

When it comes to doing things in this world that I deem absolutely necessary, money is not a concern. Meaning...I will gladly trade the stress of debt to travel or train for something I need, like an Ironman, like this promise I have made to myself that says I'm going to make it to Kona, and that Kona will be just the beginning.

But I'd rather not be drowning. I'd rather not carry that stress - I'm carrying enough as is. Last week, I wrote a letter to a friend, laying out my plans for the 2010-2011 racing season. I asked for help. We met for lunch. I said something like I know the last thing your juggernaut needs is help in advertising, but that I would still earn everything you give. He said something like you're a good egg and I like to be able to help people chase their dreams. Then he said yes. I asked if he said yes. He confirmed. I have a sponsor.

This morning, I woke up at 5, ate breakfast, listened to my body, and went back to sleep. Yesterday, I was up at 5, waited for the sun to come up before hitting Sunset for 50 miles on the bike before running for 10 before classes at 515 and 715. My body is coming back together. I can feel myself getting stronger. The worst thing I could do is not have ultimate respect for sleep. Sometimes, discipline means taking the easy route - at least in this situation. Understand though, unless you're training for an Ironman, that excuse is not an option. Sorry.

There's an ease to this morning, as my workouts aren't going to start for about another hour - another 50 on the bike before 2 in the pool before the shoes come on for another 10. I've been saying this a lot in my classes, to ride my bender, that I am as hungry as anyone in this city. Set something huge. Chase something huge. See what happens.

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…

Finale...

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.

Ghibli & Kamakura...

I was blasting through the Japanese countryside today after a more leisurely stretch and I was seeing the greens roll beside the parks, full and moving...and I felt it all. I felt the country. Or more particularly, I felt the late summer Japanese weekend. I felt for them what these weekends meant for me back home, growing up or even recently...something rich, something that's quite difficult to put words to, something I believe you can only get out of a country once you've earned it. I'm beginning to believe I have.