So Me And Durban Wrote A Book...

Or at least we're done with the first draft.

- It has a title.
- The title is not Durban and The Burn.
- It's 75,060 words.
- We're very pleased.
- It only took 4 months.
- We very much love ourselves.

Drag Me To Hell...

I remember the first time I saw Army Of Darkness on Pay Per View. I had a cable descrambler growing up as a child (or maybe I'm just making this up)...because clearly, I've never done anything morally objectionable in my life. Anyway, it was a movie and watching experience I'll never forget. Hilarious and scary and wild and it planted the seeds of my being able to say that this new one, Drag Me To Hell, is absolutely Sam Raimi, and it's really good for all the same reasons. Totally fun and nasty and scary and absurd.

I've always been a big fan of Alison Lohman - something about her always works for me. I'm watching this movie and the whole time, I'm in my seat and applauding because I know she's this beauty starlet, and that she's very talented, and I know that some of the shit Raimi was asking her to do would scare off and did scare off at least one other massively talented starlet in town. I remember when this one was coming together...and I remember being wickedly hyped for it. I also remember having this feeling that it was a huge diceroll. It was. Now that I'm through and I've seen it, I have to say it kicks. And Ms. Lohman dives head first and just crushes it. When you see it, you'll see that's not an easy thing to do. I met her at a party a ways back (drop!) and we're talking about the craziest shit Sam Raimi asked of her, knowing he was going back to his horror/gore roots and I'm admitting that I'm a savant/loser and she started talking in spurts about all these things and her mouth and I didn't get it at the time but now...now, I fucking get it. Gross. Amazing. It's a great flick and she elevates. See it. Take someone not pompous.

So I'm Not Okay With This...

And I'm not okay. I finished running yesterday and got into my car and drove home and went out to lunch and then to a barbeque. When I got home, I didn't take the time to think about everything that went down. I didn't think about and certainly didn't celebrate pushing my body into failure. I took calls and congratulations for my supposed accomplishments all day, and all day today -- every one of them telling me how I shouldn't be hard on myself, that I should celebrate a time so many would be extremely proud of. I replied over and over...that I was happy for what I'd done, that I did feel accomplished -- but it wasn't really true. Saying it over and over and appeasing and misleading must have dug something out of me because there's a definite demon inside me now, and I couldn't walk all day today and I just got out of a class that I didn't think I'd be able to teach because my body is in pain...and I felt an immediate need to address the poison that was happening inside of my body - or the awful possibility that I had inadvertently spit that poison into the faces of my 50 students. I was walking out alone, and I was spent and hurting...and felt like I was about to break down and almost did before I got my shit together or buried, one or the other.

I'm sitting here now and I can feel this tightening in my body...this tightening in my mind, this need to find and lock onto the weaknesses in my life so that I can destroy them. Maybe this is obsession, maybe not. I'm proud of the time I ran yesterday, sure, and the fight I put in...because I fucking bled myself out on that course, I did...but not enough. Something's missing. I can tell you what I am proud of...this reaction, what's happening to me right now, the parts of me that are holding onto the disappointment of 14 minutes. I can't handle that. Because this isn't just about running. Truth, it probably has nothing to do with running. It's about settling for 3:25 or saying fuck that...I'm better than that...and I'm not going to celebrate a fucking drop until I get exactly what I want. And maybe I'll never get that. Maybe 3:11 makes way for 3:05 makes way for 2:55 makes way for me grinding myself into the ground. Maybe...but I'm ready for that. I'm prepared for that.

So I'm going to San Francisco at the end of July because I've got a fight to pick on Sunday the 26th. Because I have to fix this. Because that's just who I am. That's just what I do.

How It Went Down...

It always happens at mile 20, always. My insides started twisting and a pain shot through my abs and sides, slowed me to a trot. By mile 21, I was grinding and my pace had slowed to something close to 9 minutes per. Over my shoulder, I could see a runner was passing me. In his hand, he was carrying a balloon labeled 3:10:00. He was the pace I had to keep up with to make my time and I told myself that this was the exact fight I set out to pick. I stayed with him for a half a mile before I started to fade...and then I became helpless. The distance between us grew and he slowly drifted away, like I was in a dream and fighting and pushing and pumping my legs but I wasn't moving.

At 23, my calves and hamstrings started to cramp and freeze and by then there was nothing I could do, like handfuls of others on the side of the road stretching and not moving and so close to the finish...helpless to the cave of their bodies. When it was all said and done, I came in at 3:25. I finished 370 out of 14139 runners. My 10k was 43:04, my half was 1:31:33, my 30k was 2:13:39...which means that everything was going exactly as planned until I hit the "guts" segment of the race, the last quarter. My pace went from 7 to 8 to 9 to 10 and I can tell you that it had a lot less to do with guts than I hoped it would.

I crossed the line and my hips and shoulders hurt terribly, and my steps were swaying and I felt relief for being done, but I wasn't relieved. It was the opposite. Truth, I'm a maniac for self abuse, and the fact that I set out to get 3:11:00 and didn't, it cut me something awful. Then something else happened. I got hungry...and I couldn't walk but was immediately thinking of the next fight I could pick, the next city that could host my chase. I told myself I want to run the Boston Marathon in April, and I'm not the kind of person to be daunted by setback -- skin of a writer. And when someone is holding a running party somewhere in the world and I find myself not invited because I'm 14 minutes too slow...that doesn't sit pretty in me. Not one bit.

So sleep tonight, back tomorrow. This one's gonna take another step...or two or ten. I'm alright with that.

26.2 Coming...

I've been burning on nerves all weekend. Saturday, I was driving down Olympic, on my way to pick up bib "#706 - Burn" for the Los Angeles marathon and I could feel a turning in my stomach. Over my head, somewhere East of Vermont, a banner was tied on two ends and blowing in the wind. It read, "Mile 23." On my I-Pod, The Killers' "Dustland Fairytale" was just getting going and Brandon Flowers was saying something exactly like, "I saw the devil wrappin' up his hands, he's getting' ready for the showdown," and I thought that to be about right...my chase of 26.2 miles under 3:11:00.

I have a lap watch and GPS to track my minutes per mile. Too fast or too slow and I'm finished. I have 4 packs of Vanilla Bean "GU" that I plan on eating at rough points of 4, 11, 17 and 22 miles. On the road and in the middle of badness, they are fine dining and life saving. I've constructed a plan where I'm going to run the first 16 miles at an exact 7 minute pace. For every mile that's run at a flat 7, I'll have 17 seconds to slap onto the back end, protecting me from the inevitable crash. With 16 miles in the can, I'll switch to guts on the last 10.2, hoping to have a strong enough bank to get me in under 3:11:00 -- the qualifying time in my age bracket for the Boston Marathon.

I've been talking to people lately, mostly those who call me "Teach," and they all have this great and obvious confidence in my ability to do exactly what I set out to do. Allow me to salvage the suspense by admitting that there is nothing obvious about what's coming for me tomorrow. I've prepared. I've run and pushed and focused and committed and still, still have no real idea of my capability...after 27 years of life. No one does. No one should. Truth, I'm afraid...because I know that in a span of three hours tomorrow morning, I'll have an opportunity to re-define the way I see the world.

There's going to be a moment...I know, I've seen it in my sleep, where my mile times start to slow and my legs turn to iron and my body just stops. I'll feel helpless and no matter how much distance remains, it's going to be impossible. I can see it, and when it comes, I like to think I know how I'll behave...but I don't. No one does. No one should. I like to think that no matter the pain in my body, I own the capability of becoming all heart, all guts...capable of powering through, focusing on the simplest of motions, one step at a time. I like to believe all of these admirable things live in me, but I don't know. I have never chased something like this -- 7 words I hope to carry with me for the rest of my life. And along the way, if every now and again, I can fill this need to create and then hold steady a crumbling world...I think I might be alright.

Not just tomorrow, forever.

So They Think I'm A Prostitute...

I never thought myself to be the enigmatic vibe type. I feel like I'm working a lot of jobs these days, floating around town doing what I can to make a buck...and maybe I've said stuff like that out loud or give the impression that I'll do whatever it takes to get by. Maybe...

I still work in a restaurant, I think I've stated this before. But, I cut my shifts back to 3 lunches per week in an effort to be barely there...to go unnoticed in a sense, passing without trouble. Days are short and sweet and I go about my business and get out. I'm sort of the new guy amongst a tight group, all have been there for a long time -- at least longer than me. So there was some down time yesterday when one of the servers -- my confidant -- comes up to say he heard something about me that made him laugh...that 3 members of the staff were convinced, convinced that I spent my nights moonlighting as a hooker. They had proceeded to build a case of proof against me. I laughed, quickly realizing that the case was about to be laid out and then it was. He hit bullet points, one after the other that were both precisely hilarious and precisely true. Wait. Shit. They were actually onto something...I thought, and if something like accusatory court existed and I was placed on the stand, I realized I'd actually be in some trouble. I laughed with him but quickly checked myself...trying hard to not laugh so hard that I would create even more unnecessary suspicion. The points were so convincing, in fact, that I started to believe that maybe I was...or that maybe I should be doing exactly what they claimed I was doing. He walked away and I started to wonder if he was still wondering. Had I been convincing in the least in my dispute of their claims? Did I even care? Then suddenly, I got pissed off, insulted even. Who did these people think I was? Didn't they see me 3 days a week? Couldn't they formulate enough opinion on me to know that if I were hooking on the side, my quote would be high enough where I wouldn't be wasting 3 days a week slinging pizzas and Italian wines to locals. Honestly...

Unless he forgot to include bullet point #5 -- Pizzeria Mozza is the perfect cover...

Absolutely Hooked On This...

And things have been wound pretty tight lately. Lately, I've felt like I've had so much piling that I thought I was about to lose my shit. Everything has been so tight and weighing...and waiting for this marathon to come has been driving me fucking mad and I can't explain what waiting and stillness can do to a mind like mine. I've been feeling fat and slow and sluggish and had no reason to, maybe because I've been living in the fear of finishing anywhere north of 3:11:00. I've been living in the fear of the adrenaline and everything I don't want to talk about when next Monday arrives. That's where I'm at. It was 5 o'clock today and I had to sit myself down to breathe. And when I went out to walk, I had to force myself to consciously slow my always stomping pace to a half time leisurely stroll, finally accepting that I didn't need to have to have something to do tonight. I picked up dinner and sat down to watch this...

Charlie Boorman and Ewan McGregor's sequel to "Long Way Round" called "Long Way Down." It's a motorcycle trip from Scotland to Cape Town and most of the time, I stayed in bed and just watched it...all 4 hours of the first disc and it's okay because this is Sunday and all I am right now is envy but maybe I feel like I've let something go. Maybe I feel like everything is alright...like the rope found some slack because of these boys.

You Can Call Me Golden Boy, Some Do...

Today, I was asked by Equinox national to teach a class and walk and talk on a microphone for a charity called Best Buddies. Someone gave someone else 100,000 dollars and the first lady of California was there in the front row and one of the organizers tried to introduce me to her when I was helping another rider get situated on their bike and I gave Mrs. Arnold Schwartz this little chin flip like what's up when they were actually trying to organize a photo op. It was kind of awkward, I later thought when I really thought about it.

I took the class through a handful of songs, quickly realizing that none of the riders were into the kind of exercise suicide I teach in West Hollywood. When I walked out, I was met with some forms of praise, I think...I really have no idea anymore, am starting to feel like my perceptions are floating away from me or away from most of the world.

When someone came up to pay me, or mentioned my payment, they asked for an address where they could send the check, adding an unnecessary step to the equation and I felt like they were waiting for me to say something like oh no I could never accept payment...that having the opportunity to work for such a grand and worthy cause was payment enough. So I felt like a dick, but whatever...this is the machine, and you should have seen the machine in action today. No, I'm not talking about myself for once. When I talk about myself, I use words like Adonis or Gifted One or Golden Boy...

But you should already know that.

Girl, Girl, Girl...

I've been stuck on this crush lately. Stuck defined means that I went from curiosity to intrigue to the girl showing up in my dreams, affecting the way I wake up and feel in the morning. It's been getting to the point where I knew I was going to have to do something about it because things have been getting increasingly engaged between the two of us. And not doing anything about it would cause me to deal with an absurd personal weakness I'm not prepared to deal with at this moment. As previously stated...I don't know why I feel the need to overstate this, but I do...maybe to try and convince any and all (myself) of my composure in the face of things like this -- anyway, I know the game well enough to know when I'm being gamed. So, I had a crush...have a crush...that she started...that got crushed this morning when one of my friends told me about the boyfriend he was almost certain she still had. And he, the boyfriend, is a formidable one, and for me to say that means something. It meant that I was able to let it go, for the time being, under the ominous and gray skies of an early LA sunday morning. And letting it go...got me thinking.

I was having a conversation with a friend of mine about what it was that I was looking for -- about what in a girl and chase appealed to me right now. I told him I was after someone above me, someone with only a touch of time for me, someone who adored and respected me and at the same time, may or may not be off fucking someone else's prince in a faraway country. He said I was out of my mind and I told him I'd long ago given up on trying to abide by the ever changing definitions of world sanity. I told him that my desire for her potential indiscretions weren't due to a lack of self-respect. Actually, quite the contrary - I have a great deal of respect for myself. Maybe, instead, it has something to do with self-preservation...that's what I said. But I think in the end, all I'm interested in right now is honesty. That was me being honest, I said. I don't know if he believed me...or if anyone ever believes me anymore and I don't know exactly when that happened.

I came home, collected myself and left to run a fast 12 miles, the last prep for the 2 week away marathon that is gonna slaughter me and me it and when I finished, I got in bed and let those thoughts parade for a while. It was around 3 when I got to my desk and I just started this roll. Me and Durban recently crossed 65,000 words and the first pass is starting to see the potential of its own end, and everything I'm writing now is big and its putting a mirror in front of my face and forcing me to look and examine and somewhere around my passing 2,000 words for the day, this song came into my ears that I had never heard before the weekend, Miles Benjamin Anthony Robinson's called Buriedfed and it put a crack in me before taking something from me...some form of culmination of everything that's been loading and coming. I can't explain or maybe I just did.

After that, I went to a Sunday night cocktail party that was serving Haribos. I didn't know anyone, really. I never know anyone, really - and no one else did either and it was a surprisingly good time, watching everyone lean on charm and wit and alcohol to make things work. I had a couple of drinks and some good and memorable conversation and met some good people, and walking out with a late showing friend of mine, I started to hear something I think I knew was coming, something I knew I would have to handle delicately and with some form of ultimate love...ultimate love being the preparation of everything I've seen and felt and been dealt in life. She told me she'd been spinning before gifting to me what she described as this great admiration. She was this beautiful and sweet and kind girl and she was looking particularly stunning on this Sunday evening on a sidewalk in Hancock Park and I told her I could feel her, that I'd been her before and that I'll be there for her because I do adore her in many ways, but that I couldn't stop the spin, that I was incapable of being the things she wanted me to be. Incapable because I'm never the things people want me to be, never the things people think of me to be. We said goodnight and as I was turning, I kept asking myself over and over whether I gave to her hurt or hope and I couldn't figure out which was better to give.

I walked down the street alone with two red roses in my hand, the gift I was given, and I think I thought of the world and my place in it and whether it's dysfunction or clarity that rules my steps and which of the two I was going to be rooting for for the rest of my life.

Sunday.

Happy Mom's Day, Everyone...

Hey! You! Guys!...

If I wasn't sure about why I moved into Los Angeles some four years ago, I think I'd be able to pin down motive on nights like tonight, like when I decide to find myself at the midnight show of The Goonies on the corner of Beverly and Fairfax. When the place you're living does everything in its power to cater to whatever is kicking around in your guts...I think that's what they call home.

Blog Sex 2...

Running builds character. If you're a runner, you know this. If you're not a runner, you've likely spent far too much time contemplating how the act itself isn't right for you or your body. I get it, I absolutely do. In fact, I've spent most of my life doing the same thing, everyone does...and I'm about to run my 3rd marathon. Like all of the finer things in life, the act of running, to most people, makes little sense.

Today, we're going to stop talking and set you off on one of my favorite workouts that will, I promise, build character. In 21 days, I'm running the LA Marathon with an aim of finishing under 3:11:00. If I can manage to stay below that time, I'll qualify for Boston. So...all this work, just to run another marathon? I know. We've already discussed how non-sensical this is, just let it go.

To get faster and stronger, I knew I would have to design a route that constantly tested and pushed both aspects of my training. I went to Google maps and plotted the distance of a home-centric Los Angeles lap: Melrose to La Cienega to Santa Monica to Crescent Heights - 2.19 miles. I knew the route was graded. It meant that no matter which direction I was moving, I would always have an up-hill and I would always have a down-hill. This is important. Monotony has its place out there on the road, just not in this workout. The first time I ran the route, maybe 10 weeks ago, I ran four laps around 15:20 per lap. Keep your times. Recently, my good laps have been reading in the 13:50's...usually occurring on the last lap of the run. Every week for the past 10 weeks, as I crossed the finish and watched my times shrink (our aim), I felt strength. I felt like I was growing. That's why I'm here, telling you to try it. If you commit, really commit to getting under the surface of this run, it becomes something bigger than getting in shape.

Here's the recipe...

- Pick a smart route that's graded and Google it. Make a strong but realistic choice on your distance. You can always add later. If you live in the city, pick a route where a stoplight wont stop you, where you can always turn in and cut over without sacrificing time or distance. Obviously, a square route is optimal.

- Start strong. First lap should be your second fastest. Wind yourself slightly, it's okay. Overshoot, it's okay. Second two laps should be maintaining. Last lap is your anchor - your fastest lap.

- Attack the hills. Don't fall behind on the climbs - they're there to be nasty, let them be. Don't coast running down hill - push that speed. If we're always trying to better our time, these two legs of each lap are key.

- Run with grace. Do everything in life with grace, obviously...but especially here. This workout is designed to push your heart and mind. There's a ticking clock on your shoulder. Let it push you harder than you would otherwise want to push.

- Be relentless. The body is going to give you a thousand reasons to quit...and the harder things get, the more intelligent and rational these reasons become. Don't listen. Power through. This is good for you. This will save you. Listen to me instead, think about everything your body was telling you AFTER you finish.

That's it. It doesn't matter if your laps are quarter miles or 10's. It doesn't matter if you're sprinting or walking...as long as you're making strong choices. If you don't know what that means, eventually you will...or keep reading and maybe I'll cover that next time. But for now, dive in. Find yourself a battle out there...

Accept it, love it, tell me about it.

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??