Mt. Baldy...

This is what it looked like somewhere near the top, from my camera...

It took about an hour, starting around 9 in the AM to take Cahuenga Pass to Barham to Forest Glen to the 134 to the 210...to exit at Baseline to Padua to Mt Baldy Rd. to Mt. Baldy Village. I stopped off at the visitors center, ringing the bell over the door like a lunatic fucking bandit as I entered, as a room of children turned, as a park ranger's speech about coping with rattlesnake bites came to an immediate halt. I said something like trail maps and no less than three children pointed to the main desk. I swiped my guide and got out, not really in the mood to re-live whatever they were living in that moment or ever again.

From there, I parked at San Antonio Falls Road, packed up and started my climb. It was 70 degrees at the main entrance, starting at 5000 feet and across the way, the first thing I saw was a waterfall stampeding between two large masses of snow. It was alright. I spent the next 3-4 hours following the direction of the ski lifts, just hiking up and up. At the top of the lift, I climbed into one of the chairs and sat. There was no noise, no people. There were birds, maybe...and some bees, maybe...and then there was me. I set the chair into a rock and rested my head for a moment before falling into a short sleep. It was alright.

From there, to continue, I had to go a bit off trail, to this section of the mountain called "Devil's Backbone." It felt like the air was starting to thin and I could feel my temples pounding as I moved up and up, just telling myself to keep moving. A couple times, I tried to start an avalanche but the snow was too heavy.

Sometime between 2 and 3, I reached the summit, spent...maybe a little burned on the skin, a touch chapped in the lips. I hung out for a good little while, taking pictures...mostly gratuitously of myself. Once I got over serenity, I consulted my map and instantly decided I didn't want to take the same route back.


There are a couple of things you need to know about me before we proceed. First, I'm not a super strong map reader. I could be if I wanted to be, maybe, but the possibility of my being that will always fall victim to the second thing you need to know about me, that I am the world's #1 authority on behaving like an improvisational dipshit. What does this mean? Well, it means I was supposed to pick up the new trail somewhere to my East. Somewhere. I crossed through a couple mini snow valleys, thinking I would hit the path somewhere, that everything would work out fine because that's usually how things work for me. When I ran out of valleys and hit the edge of a rock cliff, I looked to a grade that seemed passable, and to a clear trail in the valley below. I think I was overcome with an initial abundance of pride, thinking I would be back in no time, that the descent would be a breeze, that someone should give me a Nobel Prize or something of the like so I started down.

I'm going to tell you a major key to descending a mountain, in case you don't already know...you can't really judge a drop by looking down on it.

Also, if you don't know what you're doing, maybe stay on the fucking path. Maybe they're there for a reason.

It took me about an hour to get down the first ridge. If you want me to fractionalize, I will...I was about 1/15th of the way down, just fucked. Have I made this abundantly clear yet? I started talking to the rocks, because they were so fickle. Most rocks were small and most steps caused them and about 30 of their ankle smashing friends to slide. So when I'd find a good one to grip, I'd say things like be strong my friend or take care of me now. Please don't think I'm kidding. There were at least two instances where I lost my footing and saved myself from a tumble with three fingers of an outstretched arm. Sometimes, I'd laugh it or the pain I'd recently suffered off, but most of the way, I was a little more panicked than I wanted to be, wondering what things were going to be like when the sun goes down.

Slowly, the grade began to mellow out...about two hours after I began. And by mellow, I mean if I lost grip and fell, I would fall 20 feet as opposed to 50. In the distance, I kept focusing my eyes on the path ahead...distantly ahead, using it as my only real form of comfort. The moment I believed myself to be making progress, I stepped over a rock that started to hiss. Yeah, no...I'll say that again. The motherfucking rock started to motherfucking hiss. Rattlesnakes. Apparently, this was their stomps, too. I told myself that it was too steep, that the one I crossed was an anomaly - that it must have been cast out from the flatter grounded rattlesnake communities, scorned even. That's what I told myself, maybe a thousand times in the next 10 minutes before settling my fear, self-affirming that if I got bit by a rattlesnake, I would fucking deal with whatever accompanied that and that that would be that...because that's exactly what I was on the mountain to do. The sun was beginning to fall and the temperature was falling and I was over and in the middle of everything I was out to chase.

Halfway down, once I had left the sporadic, large rocks behind, I started to ski. The rocks had settled into bunches that would cave and slide as I stepped and for maybe 10 feet at a time, with superb agility and grace (I obviously possess both), they could serve as transport. This is where I started to make up ground, turning single steps into tens of steps. Just as I was getting into a rythym, I heard rocks falling to my left, and in bunches. I looked over and saw a deer. But it wasn't a deer, it was a form of ram - it had horns on its head. I looked below me and saw 5 more. Then, to my right, there was another. Somehow, I had gotten in between a pack or family...and they were either studying or circling. I had heard stories of animals like this charging people like me and spent enough time in the African bush to know how the wild world works...I was way off path and if they thought I was threatening their young, I was going to be met with bad intentions on the side of that sliding hill. A new form of fear started to run through me. They weren't moving, just watching. I began picking up rocks and throwing them in their nearby - maybe as a demonstration of my might in hopes it might back them down. At this point, I'm not sure I was thinking things through. They didn't move. I calmed myself, decided that if I had to fight a fucking pack of rams on the side of that mountain on a Wednesday, then that's what I was going to have to do...because that's exactly what I was on the mountain to do. I back-tracked across, trying my best to demonstrate that I was suddenly and now backing down and by the time I had started my descent again, they were packed and moving off, watching me...actually, probably judging me. Fuckers.

I got back to the slide and the mountain was somewhat easing and I could see the path...or a path, but it was still so far away. And I don't know if it was the residue of adrenaline still in my guts or paranoia, but my mind moved to the sight I must have been, fireworks shooting off over my head as I rode an avalanche of rock down the face of that mountain. I began to think about the family of rams, and the ways of the world...and that if any hunting predator was after them, it certainly called an audible the moment it saw me. I searched the ground and picked up the two sharpest rocks I could find, decided I would walk with them, and that if I had to fight a fucking lion or something of the like up on that mountain...if I had to try and stab out its eyes before it ripped off my face, then that's what I was going to have to do...because -- yeah, we all get it.

Finally, the grounds began to flatten out. Finally, I stumbled onto something that resembled a beaten path, followed that for about a mile. Across a nearby stream, there was a green hut and outhouse. It was called something like camp Mt. San Antonio. On the other side of the hut, a true path began to take shape. It was somewhere around 630 and I started to jog, so happy to be somewhere someone else had maybe recently been, I couldn't contain myself. After about another mile, I saw a large and darting animal out of the corner of my eye and thought it was a wolf until I heard the ringing tags on its collar. It was a dog, and it ran up and I actually gave it a hug. Behind it, a man was trudging up the path, sweating and out of breath. There was so much love in my greeting, it knocked him off his feet. We had a quick conversation and I told him about the rams. He was either impressed or humoring, I don't know which. It didn't matter. I had found my way.

When the trees cleared and I got clear view of where I'd been, this is what I saw, the exact path that didn't seem that steep from the top...

I paused because I usually do when life calls for it, realized not for the first time in my life, that one day I am going to pay for the decisions I make. Just not today. I got back to my car and actually applauded, not caring if anyone was around to see or ask why I was clapping, or why my eyes looked like they were housing delirium. I drove into Mt. Baldy Village and stopped at the one restaurant in town. They were serving a special of "spaghetti" for 8.95. I took that without question and a beer. "Love Hurts" was playing on the stereo or jukebox and the locals were singing along and all I could do was try -- fucking try to take it all in, to let everything in a day stick to and become me.


...

I got back on the 210 around 8 and the roads were clear. I flew home, music so loud it numbed my speakers. I was dirty and hurt everywhere and the only thing that remained in my day was sleep. It felt like something...

Like I had taken a life shower. Maybe I had. It felt like I had borrowed time from another world. I absolutely did.

I Want To Go There...

I do this thing often where I grow restless with the world I'm living in and start to dream of wild and faraway places where I can seek and find expansion...because in my mind, these things can only happen in faraway places and exotic locales. Crazy, perception. Last week, I was talking to a friend who said he took a drive last week to this place called Mt. Baldy. He said something like, you know, the top of that mountain range where you can usually see snow if you look East from LA. He told me it wasn't that far and that it took 8 hours to hike and I told him to send me directions.

Last night, I was lying in bed, battling this flash fever and scary, painful glands...but was healthy everywhere else and felt fine. So naturally, I started to think of how long I have left before the poison spreads through me and whether I'll be healthy enough to bounce back and climb Mt. Baldy on an LA wednesday. I managed to test my strength with a run this morning...passed. I took a serious fucking yoga class before teaching...passed. The delirium seems to have faded. And I have a feeling I'll be strong, at least for tomorrow and that's all I can care about.

I need to be cleared right now, that's all I can think of...so that's where I'm going, there.

Sunday Funday...

I woke up this morning and turned my phone on, initially trying to wrap my mind around the fact that I flaked on a party I was going to go to last night...and flaked it hard. I sent some texts this morning out, out of apology, and understand why but can't tell it to anyone else, that I'm simply finding a hard time bringing myself to do anything these days unless it's done in the chase of profundity. That means creation...or expansion...or love and that's about it.

I ran off to teach a 9 AM class this morning before heading to the Melrose Place farmer's market. There, I bought a 3 park of strawberries, content enough...just happy to be enjoying my sunday neighborhood farmer's market before I tasted two stands down, the most incredible strawberries I had ever tasted in my life. They were large, they were dark, they were ripe, they were perfect. And you know what, I wouldn't let myself buy them...I think out of spite - yes, for myself - and because what person buys 6 fucking crates of strawberries in a single day. I thought for a moment, that the initially premature transaction might ruin that quarter hour of my life, but quickly realized I was being a dickhead before making my way home, living in the glory of what was a perfect Los Angeles sunday.

...

Next week, on Friday I believe, I'm moving apartments. See, I've been paying 1450 per month in rent for the last two years. Lately, after the change in jobs and severe reduction of working hours on the jobs I job, I came to the conclusion that I didn't want to afford that much anymore. Also, the economy is bad -- you heard it here first. I wrote a letter to the property management telling them these things and that at best, I could do 1250, but that that would be pushing it. I didn't hear back. So...I went to my landlady, who is a sweet crazy person and told her the same deal. She came back at me with something like "I'll get back to you." Then she did. Then I went in to talk to her and she told me I couldn't keep the apartment I was living in, but that they would move me to one of two rooms in the building for 1250 and that first month's rent would be on the house. Hard bargainer...

The apartment I'm moving into is on the third floor, and it's exactly like the one I'm in except she told me it usually rents for more than mine. There's a ramp to a bedroom skylight I'm going to try and loft, plant a garden out on the roof - which I plan to now claim as my own. And as we're looking at it and moving through the space, she flips this switch, totally multi-perso on me where she's trying to sell it...this consummate lunatic saleswoman, telling me about the neighborhood and the views and how quiet the building is and our glorious rooftop pool and the "retro" mini-stove(fucking really?). I wanted to stop her, to tell her to shut the fuck up and probably should have...that I'd appreciate more if she just stayed real with me...but then I calmed down, remembered this was what she does and I thought not to take her moment away from her. Then I took the apartment.

...

I'm walking around on friday and there's something seriously, emotionally wrong with me. I felt like someone died, or that I was dying. I couldn't really speak above a whisper, and trying to awaken myself from the shit I was in would only make me sound awkward and inspire others to ask me who died. The entire day, I was apologizing for my behavior, stating over and over something like if I sat down and tried to figure it out, I'm sure I could, but that I didn't feel like it, that I didn't really want to try and explain anything.

I'm moving. That's all. On friday, I'm going to take all of my shit from apartment 121 and move it to an apartment somewhere in the 3's. And if you asked me, honestly, I could give a shit. It makes little real difference to me. Okay...truth, I'm excited to move upstairs, something new and exciting...even if it's in the same building. But you know what, there's something inside of me that doesn't see things that way, some kind of powerful, powerful minority...and it's been putting poison into my body ever since I dropped off that deposit. It's trying to tell me that we had some memorable times, here, in 121, that we've had good friends in this apartment, good fucks in this apartment, a good life in this apartment. It's telling me that we've had hearts lifted here, and torn here...that maybe we've dropped a lot of fucking tears and sounded a symphony of laughs and that things have been good...and that giving up 121 may put everything, the entirety of my life in jeopardy.

I am not this part of me, but it does live inside of me. When it speaks, it speaks with resonance. Still, I'm moving. Obviously.

But I'm not really cleaning up. And lightbulbs are going out all over, and I'm not changing them. I'm not going to paint over the walls, the dark and soothing slashes of red and blue. I'm just going to move on, because this doesn't mean anything...because none of this means anything. And here I am, stuck living with it, stuck living in the paranoia of having to unearth myself from a life that's swirling all around me. Poor fucking me. Poor fucking me, if only I could get over it...the it that wont let up until I move all of my stuff out and get settled somewhere new, until I can show it - whatever the fuck it is - that we have a home, that we have somewhere where we can be safe to live, to be untouched, to rule out eternity if we chose to. And I don't know how to explain it in any way other than that. I'd rather not.

Who Knows Ben Best or Jody Hill or Danny McBride or Chris Henchy or Adam McKay or Will Ferrell...

I'm hustling this script around town...episode 1 of season 2 of Eastbound And Down. Hammered it out over the weekend and it's legit, mostly because it's not that hard to ride on the coat-tails of success and or originality and or filthy, filthy writing. Or maybe it is, I don't know. Actually, that's what I banking on, exactly that it is...and that someone super involved is willing to listen to a 27 year old egomaniacal writer who thinks he can slaughter their shit.

Wow...

Coachella '09...

I was having a real hard time sleeping last night, laying my head down around the same time The Killers were coming on just a couple hours down the road. I don't know why I've never been and I didn't go last night, maybe something about the thousands upon thousands upon thousands of the human public all in one place at one time - and for long hours - and long, hot days - sadly, most of the time, there's something too elitist or non-functional in me that wont allow me to partake. But it still hurt. This year's lineup definitely did some damage - not like in years past, where I had no excuse to have not been in attendance. Maybe next year -- I think my stars are all going to align again and things will work out, but that's just preliminary speculation.

Instead, I stayed in yesterday, worked from sunrise until 10 PM. I don't think I left my apartment, finished the day 22 pages into my own Eastbound and Down. I'm hoping to finish it and polish it tonight, send it off in the morning or afternoon before work but I'm battling this mild bout of heat stroke right now because it was 95 and blazing outside today and I ran 20 miles in the sun after teaching spin and I don't feel so hot but there's no time for dilly dally, not when you aim to conquer.

Anyway, all this helps...and water...and my bed...the feeling of my stretching heart.

Off Day Wednesday...

It's becoming something of a personal holiday around here, hump day. This morning, I got up at 5 to work out before teaching before running before dropping 2000 words into the book before sleeping for a bit before finally starting in on the line, "Who is John Galt." I just put Atlas down, just to break ground for the first time ever, and now it's somewhere in the 3's and and I just ate a banana and looked outside and it feels like the day it just beginning.

Me and Durban just crossed 50,000 words. The plan was to have the first pass done by the time I run the marathon, May 25th, and I think we should make that mark with time to spare. Right now, it feels like once everything is said and done, the book will come in around 70,000 words. I think that should be right around 200 pages and that sounds about right...light, sprawling but concise.

I haven't spoken much to my representation lately. E-mails have been circling around town, and from agency heavyweights weighing in on the lowly state of the industry -- exactly why the true literary world held such an appeal to me. Things aren't good, obviously, but I'm very not daunted by any of it right now. Recently, this idea has been floating around my mind quite a bit...that within the next 6 months, an opportunity will present itself for me to go all in on something, something that fits...something I've been building towards every day since I moved to town. I don't know what started it - it's not exactly like I have this uber-confidence in the book we're writing, or that I think of it as a rescue. I think when we're done, it's going to be a magnificent and ultimately self-fulfilling piece of work...but I know dick about publishing and getting a true lit agent. I guess at the end of the day, all you have is what you put on paper - and maybe the simplicity of that is exactly what's giving me faith. But it's not just that...

I was having meetings with Team Burn before me and Durban started writing, and we were fighting so hard, trying to come up with an idea and it was sucking the life from me - and it was sinking me into this mess, making me this mess where all I wanted to do was push everything away - because I wasn't inspired...as desperate a feeling as feeling exists in this world. Once the book struck, I dropped a note that I was going off the map for a little bit and that was that.

Sometime in the last week, the flood came. I think it was around the point where the book felt anchored, when the concrete hardened, that something opened inside of me. I took on another project, one that's all guts and hunch and if I talked to my reps, they'd say it's a complete waste of time, but sometimes, you gotta trust guts and hunch, write where the writing feels inspired, where the heroes names sound something exactly like Kenny Powers...

In the mornings, I usually knock out 1000 words and move to Eastbound and Down later at night, writing action lines like, "There's a mocha hooker unconscious at best in the corner of the room, tributaries of saliva and cocaine cascade her tits." I think I can hammer it out in a matter of days, something in the form of extra credit, to flex a muscle different from the one I'm using during the book's sprawling madness. Then, I got a great idea for a feature spec...great idea. Then, people I know started talking about monster shows and staffing and I feel like something is starting to circle and I can't explain it, all I can do is work through it, let this growth take hold of me, aim as high as aim goes or so I say.

...

But let's not make this all and only about work. What's worse than a writer who can't stop talking about writing...

There's also this girl. Sometimes, after I drop a period post-statements like that, I try and think of all the people who might be reading this, wanting me to be their, "so there's this guy." I'm awfully kind, tremendous arrogance aside, have been accused of being overly flirtatious before - disputing to my grave the difference between flirting and intention of fucking - but chances are if any of us are posturing our chances with someone in this world, that's all we're doing...posturing. I've found myself to be extremely forward when it comes to wanting someone.

That being said, I recently had this true crush dropped into my lap...and I fucking felt it, and you can't invent feelings like the true forms give. I'm very careful, though, and don't get carried away - also believe in composure above all things - and that the heart has the power to carry you away because that's what it does. But still, I want to talk about this girl...because that's what we do here, label posts "girl" and go off. Let me say this first, and say something above all things...you have to know about the context of this story, and that this girl has a stare that's pretty fucking rare. It's the kind of stare I'd equate to Siren Song (don't I use that often?), because when you're its benefactor, you have no choice but to fall in love. In the past, when I would get it from her, it'd last for about a half-hour and I'd laugh it off as a wonderful ride. That was the kind of pull she had on me, maybe because I deal in high caliber to begin with, maybe because I've faith enough to know I'm eventually going to grow into something in need of someone world-conquering. But that's for another day. Let me fill out your context by saying this...I live in Hollywood, in the midst of everything that means. Girls I speak of who have "rare" stares have likely already spread that stare to distant corners of the world - and I know there are men in corners of the world who have never recovered from this one's. That's dramatic. That's your context.

So I've been around the block, know the language. As far as I can remember, I've had this talent where I can pick a girl I've wanted to get with and make it happen. I've never found sport in it - and feel the need to qualify this, and that the talent I speak of is certainly used sparingly, but nonetheless, I GET THE GAME, do quite well in the game when I choose to play.

This thing has been happening lately between her and I...it's been extending my crushes. I consider myself a very strong person, but I also know I've got this quality that's very timid...will always initially come off as shy and quiet - and maybe that pegs me straight, who am I to be objective? But this thing that's been happening is very hard for me - the stare. Fuck, it's hard for everyone, and there's this unspoken dialogue that's happening that's starting to light me on fire. She holds...and holds, maybe because that's her talent. Maybe that's what works for her, gives her what she wants. I saw her twice very recently and it was the second pass that got me, as brief as passes come...a goodnight before she got on the escalator and then she held my eyes, forcing me to hold hers, and those stairs took her down and away until I couldn't take it...until I was the first to break glance. It was maddening - looks like that gift temporary insanity. I felt it. I'm just now coming down off it, just now cleaning myself of it - because no one holds like that. Sensational. I was out with a friend and confidant the other night and told her very generally (having nothing to do with this temp crush) that I was in no shape to take on anything that even bears resemblance to a figment of a relationship...that I simply can't. I told her I wasn't interested in anything like that, that I'm too busy, too self-involved and she told me if it came, I'd take it on, claiming she knew me.

This weekend, it's starting to warm up...and I feel like there's a stride approaching that's going to fall right into my steps. And everything I want or need or think I don't need but do...they're all going to fall into place in the next 6 months. I say that without hope or ego, honestly...and because of that, it's as good as truth.

When Did Chester Cheetah Turn Into Such A Crazy Motherfucker??

Blog Sex...

I've been asked to contribute to another blog on a regular basis, mostly on fitness and training. I've tried to convince them that my posts on the women of my world are far more interesting, but they're just not having it yet. Maybe if I started giving up names...no one seems to appreciate the beauty of semi-ambiguity. So, if you come here in the future and find posts that grab bits of relevance and actually hang onto them, know that it's because my words are likely sexing up space somewhere else on the Interweb, and I that have then re-posted them here...home.

Because I don't want you to miss anything.

...



Push, Sweet Push

A change of season is upon us and with it comes new opportunities to get active. If you're a runner suffering through months of frigid temps and cabin fever, or if the monotony of logging miles on your neighborhood treadmill has grown unbearable, or if you're simply looking for something new and life-changing to participate in, the time has come to go running.

Running is beautiful in its simplicity. We set the body in motion and keep it in motion. Okay, so how do we do this? Well, we lift and drop one foot in front of the next. We also breathe. Eventually, we vary speed and distance. That's it. Like I said, it really is quite simple. Still, talk to most people and they'll avoid a run like it's the plague. Running is difficult on the mind and body and naturally, we tend to avoid the difficult, ignoring the simple notion that our greatest gains are found in the exact places we choose not to go. It's the one cardiovascular exercise that I have never heard associated with the body "peaking out." If you get into the habit of running a few days a week for a few months, you will lose weight, and you will feel stronger, and you will be a happier person. Someday, perhaps I'll put some depth into my physical and psychological claims, but tonight, let's remain on the task of breaking ground.

There is one constant that holds firm in every aspect of my training - from running a 5k to teaching a spin class to lifting weights to doing power yoga to training for the 26.2 miles of a marathon. In my mind, I've come to label it as The Push. In terms of running, it means a variety of things. It means that when you wake up in the morning and don't feel like going for a jog, The Push gets you out of bed, puts you on the road. It means that when you're out on the road and you've committed to running 5 miles, you don't pull up at 3 because 3 is "good enough". It means that if you're comfortable running a 9 minute mile, The Push lowers your pace to an 8:45, or an 8:30, or a 7:30 because it's possible, because when you commit to letting it kick in, the option of selling short simply fades away.

And if none of the above is clicking for you, if it's too much rhetoric, then just be superficial. Look better, be reminded what spring looks like, meet hot people doing it. Whatever it takes. Get out and go. After all, summer is coming.

Growing Up...

I was fresh in Los Angeles when I developed a semi-huge crush on this semi-huge starlet I knew from Equinox. At the time, we had been making small talk for a couple weeks - something reasonable people might refer to as rapport. Also, we shared a trainer who went out of his way to tell me she was single and that I should do something about it. I was young, owned my still invincible ego and had yet to understand that only creeps (guys or dolls) try to make pick-ups at the gym.

One day, I stopped her. I had scratched my info on an Equinox comment card (yeah, I know), handed it off and told her to give me a call sometime, that I'd love to talk. Of course, it didn't come out exactly that tight and/or succinct. I stumbled a bit, maybe a bunch. She spoke of a boyfriend and of their monogamy and I played the whole situation as if we were dishing words on weather. Her practice of letting down potential suitors was sharp, and she operated her practice with grace to spare. Sometime in the next week, after I had spent a week in my head, I deemed the original encounter to be an uncomfortable disaster. The next time we passed, we made quick eyes and she gifted me a floating smile. Instead of reciprocating, my eyes shot off her course, as if a person could even be capable of missing an offering so kind. Because of my move, we passed that day without exchange, would continue to pass without exchange...

About a year later, when I was standing in line at Whole Foods, I saw her on the cover of a bridal magazine. She was set to marry the boyfriend. A year after that, I ran into her at my Gelson's. It was late at night and we were shopping for the same thing, both of us knowing exactly who the other person was, exactly where the other person was. At this point, we had been strangers for some time, had passed several times around town, each time having to deal with ignoring each other and the exponentially growing awkwardness that I had created -- all because of my look-off.

I can laugh about all of this because it's in my past, because that's what I do to measure or come to terms with my growth or the illusion of my growth. Sometime in the last year or so, she must've moved into the neighborhood because she's always around, always where I happen to be. Recently, her face has been on billboards all over town, that floating smile hyping a movie she was helping to open. Over the weekend, that billboarded movie had the biggest April opening ever.

There's a great word called omnipresence. I've always had a lot of respect for it, for its sound and formation. It means something is everywhere at all times. Lately the beautiful reminder of my distant and childish behavior has been exactly that, omnipresent. There's another word called inescapable. It's much less respected, I think, because everyone knows exactly what it means. In this context, they're equally powerful. Sometimes, I opt to believe that my long ago indiscretions are exactly that, long ago, as if time and distance offer automatic voids on any person or subject of my choosing. Anyone who's honest with themselves knows that's not honest. I began to think that maybe I hadn't come as far from my past as I opted to believe. Sometimes, certain holes, insignificant as they may be, feel too deep to dig out of.

Yesterday, I saw her at Gelson's. I was walking out and she was walking in. I said hello. She smiled, said it back. You know what it takes to erase 4 years of awkward passes? That. Imagine.

Le Dodge A Trois...

On Sundays, I play dodgeball...and this is my team. I know that confession sounds like I'm trying to get over an addiction, but truth, if I had a calendar and was in the business of circling it, I would have circled my last 8 Sundays. That's when Le Dodge A Trois laces up against Los Angeles' finest and fiercest dodgeballers. The first time I went out to play, I thought I was in for a lazy Sunday afternoon romp and found myself in the middle of one of the most competitive and satisfying shit storms I've been in since my days of toeing pitching rubber. Honest. And I get to throw things at people and no one can get hurt - even from a face shot. Amazing. Today was the league final four and unfortunately, we got bounced one game before making it to the finals. Usually, after the game, everyone heads to a bar down the street (our league sponsor), but today, I was too beat. This morning, I woke up at 6 to run a UCLA 5k (5th, 18:40, if you're counting) before I ran off to teach a spin class. So those were two reasons I didn't go to the bar, not counting that I can't eat much pizza or drink beer because I have to get faster. I want to drop weight and chase perfection and this is the process. On Sundays, we make a play, always, to shoot for exhaustion so that we can actually sleep. Tonight, we think we're close.

I'm watching Jurassic Park 3 and I don't think I ever saw it, how awful it is just watching the images go by to the soundtrack in my headphones - trying to check out last night's SNL band, Phoenix, trying to get a full read on them...

Who shot this fucking movie?

I'm waiting for the videos to upload to Vimeo on today's game because one of my sweethearts, Mary, was there to blog about it. I'm waiting to embed them because I think you should see. And I'm reading a book called All My Friends Are Going To Be Strangers because one of my friends told me I must read it because I told him I was writing a book. So far, he's nailed it - perfect prescription for an aspiring and insecure literary titan. Tomorrow, I have to get out another thousand or so words before I have to run because 3.1 miles today, although briskly paced, don't quite equal the 20 miles I was supposed to trot. I wonder if my shoes are broken in yet. I wonder if I'm done with blisters. I wonder how my Monday is going to turn out. It's 9:48 and I feel like that should be early, and I'm wondering where I should be right now.

My Behavior II...

I was at a bar last night and it got me thinking about something because something always does, because I'm extraordinarily in my own head, because I feel self reflection is the key to growth -- or that's what I tell myself because that's what suits me. If you pay attention, you probably know this is something I commonly do - shape the world to suit my needs, to make myself its ultimate benefactor. Yeah, I know...either self righteous or totally insane...but that's the line I aim to toe.

So anyway, anyway, anyway...

I'm at a bar and this girl is hawking me all night, because I'm a specimen or for whatever reasons people hawk other people, fill in your own shit. I write a lot about girl plural and the pursuit of good things that sometimes associate with them because the entire process defines fascination to me. This has all been said before. For the last month or so, in so many words, I've been absolutely out of the game - and I do this often, all the time, actually...because catch this theme as I make it obvious...it also suits me. Why? Well, because at this point in my life, I'm going to dish hurt to everyone and I'm going to dish it quickly. So I certainly tell people to tell people not to chase me. I certainly do that. And in the rare, rare case that I do actually meet a game changer, and they change my game, I know that in the end, I'll lose. They'll cut my legs out. Why? Because I think let them...because ultimately, I think that's exactly what I want. Because I look at myself and I hear what you don't hear and I can say because I know, I am incapable of anything but these absolutes, these extremes. Because it's destructive, unrealistic, temporary. Because it keeps me clean.

Anyway, she does this thing that screams no game lotta confidence where I can't escape, no matter where I go in the bar, no matter how many new conversations or slip aways I conjure. It was remarkable, actually. And by remarkable, I mean fucking annoying but ultimately adorable because in my re-telling, I'm aiming for mildly harsh instead of honest. Because honesty is scary. After a while, she gets the nerve to ask for my number, evidently not keen to the fact that I was blatantly not asking for hers. I gave it away because I admired something in the whole process, and I wanted to give that to her, a trophy for all that hard work. Finally free, I made it over to a couple of my boys. Among them were a couple of strangers also -- the impending key to my roundabout tale of self-reflection...

People who know me know that I'm sweet and composed, that I'm solid...a kind and gentle guy. People who really, really know me know that I'm a confused, disheveled, crude and arrogant dickbag. And I think once you know that, this whole thing that's me...it works. So I'm approaching this group I just mentioned, and my eyes are wide and I blow a monster exhale out of my lips to signify my escape -- because I'm a fucking child -- and I say exactly, "Wow she's really swinging for the fences, huh?" Then I'm introduced to two people I've never met and without hearing their name I say exactly, "That's the first thing you ever heard me say. Wow. I'd stay and apologize and lie about how grateful and appreciative I am of the affection I receive in this world and I'd try to convince you that I'm not some arrogant dickbag but I don't want to compound lies with poison and bullshit. Anyway, I've got to go to the little boys room."

...

I'm losing the ability to vocally communicate to the world. In my mind, before any words vacate my body, I feel like I'm forming prose, all the time forming prose, and I have to speak like a hurricane to keep up, to stay on pace, to not fall behind, to satisfy the judges that live inside here, checking my moment to moment. I'm ranting to myself often, silently or out loud, long ago dismissing the need to have someone there in front of me...to bounce with...and that can't be helping. I lose myself often, sometimes feel like I'm trading one form of communication for another, that to find growth here - words on pages - the world has to deem my speech incoherent. If that's how it's gonna go down then that's how it's gonna go down.

I'm alright with that. I am tightening...

Where The Wild Things Are...

So anyone who has had a childhood or had a child, or grandchild in the last 50 years - everyone - has to be at least a little curious about the release of the forever in the works, "Where The Wild Things Are" movie. If you don't spend your life obsessing and living in and around the Hollywood community, you probably don't know that whispers have been on the downturn for some time now. I can tell you that Spike Jones is a genius and he directed it...and that he wrote the script with Dave Eggers, who is absolutely a genius. The cast is genius and everything about this movie seemed to have everything in line to be a monster - and I guarantee it will be, no matter what the first word is. But, but, but...if you're obsessive like me, you know they've been making this movie FOREVER...and that they've been re-shooting...and spending tons and tons of money...and with all that baggage comes the likely behind door battles...which undoubtedly lead to compromise. So maybe you can feel I've got a little cynical on my tongue, but that doesn't mean I'm not rooting for it. That doesn't mean I'm not a little crazy for it.

It's not just because someone ponied up coin enough for the right to blend what looks to be wondrous footage with one of the 3 greatest songs ever created, Arcade Fire's "Wake Up." It's not just because I'm being bought by that...because that exact thing worries me as much as it gives me hope.

Please enjoy. I did. I am...

Stud...

Fine Music and Marathoning...

I want the soundtrack of my life set to Beirut's The Gulag Orkestar because right now, that feels about right, because of what I'm sitting in and thinking of and sifting through on my off-day Friday leading into my off-day Saturday leading into my off-day Sunday. That calm and beautiful roll and the carnival fucking moaning. That feels about right.

I think I'm done apologizing to myself for how I spend my weekends, for the directions I'm clearly not subconsciously aligning myself. This weekend, I have 22 miles to run. Next weekend, I have 31. The following weeks go something like 23, 31, 22, 32...and I'm recently coming to terms with the fact that I have to make time in under 3:11 because otherwise, I'll think of myself as a failure and have to live with that, setting mind to something and falling short -- and in my home of one, that's a dangerous game to play, and the thought of falling short makes me nauseous and it makes me sweat...thinking about having to deal with myself in mornings or on Sunday nights...holy shit, Sunday nights. Don't need that.

I tried to go out a couple nights this week. And by that, I mean I did make it out - not like I stopped at the door and turned back to come inside, afraid of the outside world. What I am saying is that I put my hat on, always put my hat on and more often than not, come home with nothing but collection, hardly roused...and I'm worried the people I spend time with think of me as fading, distancing...and I don't mean to be. There is acid, fucking acid in my blood - here, on the trail, in the push I'm always chasing. And I don't know if other people have that acid, but I'm looking and failing and every day, the deeper I get, the more it becomes all and only mine. And I'm done apologizing for that. Not that I ever was, I'm just done. Done.

Because I'm going out to leave bars early to walk home, to raise my headphones and move in the black, to dance steps as I walk, to feel like I'm re-aligning myself after drifting off course. It's Friday morning and I'm trying to figure out exactly what that means...

Julia Roberts...

There's a good looking movie coming out this weekend called Duplicity. It's a Clive Owen/Julia Roberts piece directed by Michael Clayton's Tony Gilroy. I was just reading some reviews and it's certainly now reading like a winner, too. But that's not what struck me. I saw this above picture and that's what did it -- a right hook from Julia Roberts, after all this time, after swooning us all for what...the last 20 years, to actually own the capability to be re-discovered now, at 41, after taking the time to get a family off the ground...

What a woman. What a darling. And she makes me feel like such a child, such a little boy. And I'm always alright with that. And when I'm moved, I speak...proud that when my era of film comes and goes - I'll be able to look back, hang my hat on a woman like that.

GrabBag and GaGa...

Durban just sent me his last post on the third city we shared pages. I wrote the last leg and we brought it in at a little under 10,000 words and I think we both feel pretty good about it. He's living in London for the next month, said in the message that he's spending his time, "laying low and keeping it real." We're moving in a good direction and both seem to be having this problem where we have such an abundance to say and sometimes, I feel like these chapters are a bit sprawling but in the best of ways. I think the most difficult part of writing a book is all you have to store and keep internal. And on top of that, the build is ceaseless. Thousands upon thousands upon thousands of words...and every one selected with care.

Everything else I've written has always been at least something of a smash and grab...and whether it's shit or great, that mattered but never really mattered to me. All that mattered, ever, was the feeling of getting it out and off. Sure, we all want to find fame and fortune in the artistic work we do, but hopefully, that's not why we do it. The reason you'll often find me here is that it's instant gratification. If I didn't have it, this forum, I'd gnaw through my arm.

I told you earlier what this book is all about...me and Durban jerking ourselves and each other off for 200 some pages. That's it, so when he sent me the last stretch, the passage that's about to follow came highlighted. If you ever want to learn something about yourself or if you're the type of person that's into self exploration/worship, find a friend with whom you've shared privileged time and then write a book about that time. You'll have no choice but to dish on each other and yourselves. The following is what he just gave me. I thought of it as something eye opening...still rough draft, mind you. I think he'd be upset if I didn't mention that...such a rook writer, Durban...

"Burn isn't much of a conversationalist. Sometimes, when we're going into social situations, I see this look on his face where I know he's prepping himself to deal with people, as if he has to change his persona to handle the masses he'll never otherwise be able to relate to. Sometimes, he strikes me as having a very schizophrenic personality and I've told him on several occasions it's something he should get checked out. Of course, my advice never moves him. Don't ever get Burn started on industries of psychological therapy and behavioral meds. For an often apathetic and drifting motherfucker, he turns into exactly that, a mother fucker...spitting, rabid and vile. Actually, the contradiction is quite remarkable. You need to know that when he gets uncomfortable, he goes internal...and his mouth shuts like a rusted bear trap, which, in turn, means the weight of being holed up and hiding out in a tin shanty with a ferocious and suspicious and protective mother of two becomes entirely my burden to carry. You need to know that."

...

I've been all over YouTube today stalking Lady Gaga. This was what I came across, exactly what I was looking for -- footage from last night's LA show because YouTube today is sensational like that...

She played at the Wiltern and I never thought much about making the trip since it's not exactly my style. Don't get me wrong, I think her music is phenominal -- some of the best hooks and drops I've ever heard...and I've been playing her songs in my classes and in my headphones for a long while now. She works and then some, but I always...and ignorantly thought of her as a manufactured pop princess and never really wanted to get real deep with her because nothing about that ever moves me. I always knew she was young...22, and owned vicious and beautiful self confidence and I dug on that because I always dig on that. Then, I started reading...and everything about her read like the life of a musical prodigy -- and she was hanging her influences on Bowie and Mercury and I was watching clips from last night's show like the one above...and then I watched what's now about to follow for you and I realized I'm forever sold. Remember here what we do with genius? Yeah...

Let's Stay On Music...

Because I'm starting to feel that pull. I think it has something to do with daylight savings and the light staying around longer than usual - and the world waking up again - and this this idea of elevated happiness for 7 months until time comes calling for the world to tuck itself away...and I always follow suit, maybe because I'm a creature of habit, maybe because I've yet to fully figure myself out.

Anyway, all of this leads us back into Muse...who released Black Holes And Revelations a few years ago. You can certainly dig through my posts and find me writing up all their glory over and repeatedly on here...

Countless mentions on shows or nights spent chasing them on YouTube, or proclaiming to any willing ears, the title Rock God upon Matt Bellamy - because when it comes to them, maybe more than anything else in this artistic world, I am a fanboy and have no problem saying that. And when I watch the videos of Wembley in '07, I feel like I'd give a year of my life to have been there. That's where I'm at.

So tonight, I was fishing around a little bit, because it's time. It's time to give me something new to root for in life. Time for a new album. I respect the fact that they take exactly that...time, usually a couple years between releases and usually tour like monsters before, during and after dropping an album...but like I said, again, for the 5th and 6th time, it's time.

So this was nice...

"I'd say we're about halfway there. We're creating a lot of material now and a lot of it's going off in all sorts of directions... Over the next couple of months I think we're gonna have to start narrowing it down and start saying, 'Right, what are we going to do here?' Because at the moment we're just enjoying totally exploring everything that we've got to offer really, but I think it's going very well... We've got to finish the album first, but I'd hope that we're on for a tour later in the year sometime... Probably autumn time or something like that I should think we'll be back on the road."

It'll be October. Good date to chase music around the world...somewhere that trades winter for summer. Yeah.

Because We Speak Of These Things Here...

This is what it looked like from the outside of Walt Disney Concert Hall. I wont use words. That diamond is the moon, as if the camera couldn't handle its grandeur next to the silver and alien building.

This is what it looked like watching M83 on the inside, playing with the LA Philharmonic. I went on a man date, taking one of my dearest because he's solid and then some and because I've recently decided to get off romance. So that's where I was at, out on a Saturday night, drifting downtown and fully sober because of the things I knew I was going to put my body through today...Sunday. They executed the evening as something of a tag team. Anthony Gonzalez came out and did three songs all by himself, just computers and synthesizers and foot pedals and the sound inside of this place is like nothing I had ever heard...just echoing, like you can feel the music swimming into your ears and running laps around your brain. No drugs...honestly. When he got going and he was moving and just playing with his little machines, it was hypnotic and beautiful and transcendent and all the other words I'm leaving out because I'm already being redundant.

"Dream Pop" is the best genre I've ever heard to describe what they're doing. It really is remarkable.

After Gonzalez exited, part of the Philharmonic came on to play some compilation that Gonzalez and the conductor had chosen. And it was chill and it was quiet and it was dainty and beautiful and you can tell where I'm going with this or maybe you can't...

After the intermission, the orchestra came back on and played an 11 minute concierto -- I have no idea if that's the right word, am obviously too lazy to M-W or wiki it...and again, it was all the things I had previously mentioned. Finally, they came together, and the rest of the band came out to play divine "Moonchild" and then the band left, then they returned...and they kept going for a few songs and all I could think, all I was waiting for was for someone to blow the fucking roof off Disney. Because they were absolutely capable -- all the pieces were in place. Fuck, I heard it for the first three songs of the night. I wanted it so bad I was ready to scream it...and I immediately realized the mistake, looking around the stage, counting the 80 members of the Philharmonic plucking their strings and blowing their horns and I looked to the band of three and their technology and all their machines and call me new fashioned, but M83's incredibility is that so few can sound like such an army...and when you actually bring in an army to support them, it's defeating and hold-backing.

Now wait -- It was very good. I don't want to give the wrong impression because only a fool could find absence of beauty in the things I saw last night. I mean, honestly...a musical experience...

But it could have been so much better. In that tiny concert hall, with the sounds that were bouncing off those walls...and with the magic in those machines at Gonzalez' fingertips...I think it could have been the best I've ever seen. That was the potential that's stuck in my mind, and it's just dangling there, here, right fucking here. What does that mean? Well...

It was like a really good dry hand job. I'll take it and tell you it was really good...but in the future, we aim for progression.

Where does that leave me? I'll tell you exactly...

It's Sunday night and I can't move my body and I just finished the most genius dinner I've eaten in a long time -- PBJ burritos side egg whites and I'm thirsty and restless obviously because it's Sunday and all I can think...what drugs can I sell, how can I prostitute this rockin' body, how can I pander my literature into enough cash to pay for a puddle jump to Sydney to see them play the V on March 28th with The Killers? That's it...and it's gonna consume me because that's what happens, to me, in my life.

JJ Abrams...

I feel like this is going to be a big year for the movies, start to finish. 2008 had some bright spots and then found itself fluttering a bit. I've had my eye on this one for a while, because everything Mr. Abrams does turns to solid gold. And because ever since seeing Chris Pine in Smokin' Aces, I've been itching to see someone throw something really, really heavy on his back. Well, here we go, and I'm definitely not a Star Trek guy per se...but I've already watched this like 10 times.