Monday, August 29, 2005

My Favorite Summer Pictures

I Can't do a photo essay so you'll have to deal with this.


Beverly Hills. That's where I want to be. Livin' in Beverly Hills



Yes, he's as high as he looks



Night time is when I went on adventures with stunt doubles.


Sometimes this included some extreme ferris wheel riding


I waited patiently until the train came but the damn locamotive was in the back



No one told me that LA is foggy in June (and I refuse to say June Gloom)


I gave the K-Wak bikes a pep talk before the big show at Laguna Seca


"Honestly girls, who let the uggo in?"



When I was too lazy to drive anwhere I would haunt the streets of Westwood at night



The reporter's pit is on the red carpet too



SoCal girls think they're too cool for school



The pot of gold must be at the Motel 6 becasue that's where this rainbow ended

I might throw up....



How did I get such a sweet shot from the driver's seat at 90 MPH?



Guitar? Check. Surfboard? check. Coffee? check. TV? Check. Sometimes the CA mess had a mind of its own.




Thanks LA, I wouldn't have had it any other way.

Sunday, August 28, 2005

There was something in the water back in the year all of us were born. None of us really realized it for at least a decade but by that point is was so blatantly obvious that no one could ignore it. Our parents couldn't. Our teachers couldn't. The other kids couldn't. The cops couldn't. It's startling to think that we're still get recognized. We're still getting pointed at. And were still getting things that we secretly know we deserve.

and of course we're still laughing at each other. We're still pushing each other. We're still fighting each other. We're only kinda still calling each other. The HV boys. One of the HV boys went red, graduated Naval Academy and headed straight to Pensacola for flight school. Helicopters are his specialty and he's fearless. But of course the rest of us couldn't' simply let it slide. So another HV boy went to MIT and got a job with a big aeronautical engineering firm. What's he building for them? Unmanned helicopters. Bitch please.

I tried to go with the flow, fought it for a while and then turned around and bragged to all of my friends that while they were wasting away their youth behind a desk, I was out getting a company to pay my way to Europe to travel around and compete at a sport I loved. It was stressful but it was amazing and it was free and I never let them forget it.

It took only 4 months before I had to eat my words. Another HV boy had his way payed into a program that didn't just take him to Europe, it flew him to Japan, to china, to Eastern Europe, to Western Europe and even to Canada. And just when I thought the humiliation was over he turned around and became a staff member herding another group across the globe for another 4 months. All free.

Right now, of course, I'm gloating at the top after my summer in Los Angeles working for a magazine that most of you probably see at least once a week while you stand in line at the grocery store. Of course being the king of the hill is nerve racking. What could these kids possibly think of next? There's an HV boy out there who knows it's time to step it up but for now he is hiding and planning and scheming and fretting. I might have a few years but I'm going to have to come up with something huge. And I'm absolutely terrified.

Oh, and these are a few pictures I took on the road home from LA.

Saturday, August 27, 2005

I've been inside the stuffy Leonard H. Goldenson Theatre at the Academy Of Television Arts and Sciences in North Hollywood and really it doesn't surprise me that the people who hold a membership are the same who decided to snub the very best show on Television when the Emmy Nominations came out a while back.
Let me Tell you what sets certain shows apart from the rest:

They realize that it's fucking TV. That they can be as ridiculous as they want. That they can show you dreams and memories and they can bend reality and bend time and bend your understanding of the world.

They realize that I have to stare at ugly people every day and that TV is a place where I should really only have to look at really hot women. Not all of them have to have boob jobs and plastic surgery but they need to be beautiful.

They don't sugar coat anything. In fact, they have a knack at making life seem shittier than it actually might be.

They make you hate yourself for watching sometimes

They never make you feel preached to even when they're preaching to each other incessantly.

They're willing to turn everything in the show on it's head just for the fuck of it.

My Tivo will tell you that Rescue Me is the best show on TV. It will record it automatically, then send it via my wireless home network to my computer where I then get to burn it onto a DVD, take it to the sorority and make all the girls cry until their makeup runs down their faces and onto their Abercrombie T-shirts and custom-ass tailored jeans.

Oh, and as a side note does anyone else burst out laughing every time they see Jeff Jarvis emasculated by the giant picture of Pamela Anderson next to him on the Buzz Machine?

Thursday, August 25, 2005

I rarely have dreams when I sleep through the night. It's only on the days that I let myself sleep in past 8 AM, the days when I awake and drift back to sleep that the synapses try to play tricks on me. Two night ago I was sleeping with both my roommates. Did I mention the theme for this fall is Three's Company? I'm shacked up in a cozy little bungalow with two beautiful ladies. And there I was at 9:37 a.m. dreaming about giving to them both at the same time.

Then this morning it was the old girlfriend. It was the G2K. The one I wrote you fairy tales about. The kind that all the smart kids in the good classes know won't last forever. She was there somewhere in my frontal lobes with her ex/current boyfriend (I am the slash). They were playing raquetball. Smiling and laughing and flirting and having more fun than I've had in weeks. And I was looking at them from the walkway above the court. My dream self felt sick to his stomach. To see that smile on her face. The one that should be reserved for me. That's my smile. It's the one I created and now he's stolen it.

I woke up feeling just as sick as I had in the dream. Roommates stretched out in the backyard in bikinis under the sun no more than 15 feet outside my window. Clock showing 10 a.m. Their bikini bottoms showing me more than I should see. The computer showing me 10 new e-mails. The ipod showing low battery. The stomach showing to many beers. The feet showing why I need a lamisil prescription. Facebook showing that I haven't met anyone new since I've returned.

And all of it crescendoed at 3:30 in the afternoon. Half and hour into my second sitting at the back of the classroom where some dumb blonde is telling me how to bullshit the world in a class called Public Relations. I didn't need to be there. I didn't want to be there. Nothing for me to learn. I want to create something new. Not process someone else's shit. And if you want to know why a white boy from the suburbs who listens to sissy rock , who lives with two girls in that little yellow shack, who works in the kitchen of a sorority, who has been known to wear the occasional polo shirt deseves anyting more than a nod in passing you should have been there to see my face when I stood up, winked at the teacher when she asked if there was something wrong and sauntered all the way across the room to the door in the opposite corner. And I swear if anyone asks I did it because my blog told me to.

Dear anonymous commenter who told me that I am amazing,
Thank you. That means a lot. Especially because I think that The Truth Blog is one of the most underrated blogs on the internet. Don't' worry, we'll change that soon enough. But more importantly, if you really want to say thanks you will give me and give the world and give yourself 30 minutes a day in front of a keyboard telling me about what gets you off. Telling me about what gets you mad. Telling me about what makes you cry. Telling me about your life even if it might seem a little slow. Or maybe it's fast. But it's real and that's what I want to hear.

You will all be disappointed to hear that I will not be sleeping with any sorority girls this year. It was a decision I came to today while working in the kitchen. That my job there is a means to an end. That I want to surround myself with the right kind of people. With good people. With people who have their hearts in the right place. And after talking to all of the new faces I can guarantee you that none of the girls in that house do. And so it goes in this town. I assume stupidity and ignorance unless you can prove me wrong. Please go out and surround yourself with the right kind of people. I can only say from experience that too many hours and weeks and years have been wasted with idle minds. If the blogosphere teaches you nothing else it's that there are smart people out there and that they are everywhere and that they are all searching for something more. Something to get them through the day.

Also, I do not see any heat or fire in anyone's eyes at the present moment. So if you complimented me because of my sappy posts about a girl I was deeply and foolishly in love with a year ago then you're probably going to have to wait a while before I get infatuated enough again to reveal so much about my personal life to the world. And in this town girls who can take me away to places I've never been are hard to come by. They mostly just spring out of Abercrombie and Gap catalogues around here. And very few are searching for something more than what they have found. They're afraid to even wonder if something more is out there.

Right now my something more is called Tivo, which was my going away present form the national magazine worked for in Los Angeles all summer long It was repayment for hanging out with all those cock faced celebrities but unfortunately I need a phone line to set it up and both I and all my friends are so cellular dependent that none of us have a land line. I do know that as soon as I get the bitch fired up it will be quickly loaded with: Rescue Me on FX, Battlestar Galactica on SciFi, Laguna Beach and Real World on MTV, and Best Week Ever on VH1.

To recap for my anonymous friend:
Write even if you don't want to
Surround yourself with people who will make you a rockstar and bring out the best in the world
Fall in love with a girl because she's amazing, not because she's there
Get a Tivo and record shows that people will make fun of you for
blogroll me as soon as you get your shit together

Wednesday, August 24, 2005


The question these kids keep asking me since returning from my California adventure is the most trite and useless question I can think of. "What is the coolest thin you did all summer?"

You really want to know? It was a couple hundred miles north of Los Angeles. Far away from Sunset Boulevard and the distractions and daemons. One weekend where I found myself lost in the hills outside Monterey, CA under the hot summer sun. It's the southern end of wine country and it's beautiful and it's secluded and for the most part it's quiet but for one weekend. This weekend The Laguna Seca Racetrack is a magical place because everything is so out of place. The twists and turns of flawless black pavement wrapped around the golden grasses of the rolling hillsides.

I've heard that at 150 miles per hour the world is completely clear. There's room for one thought and one thought only. I had woken at dawn on Saturday to drive 4 hours and stand close enough to the small men on the big bikes that maybe I could faintly make out what the one thought was. A whisper against the roar of engines loud enough to make you feel your larger organs rattle against your ribcage. Somehow I found myself on the roof of one of the racer's RV's watching the best of the best of the best with honors glide by effortlessly. Somehow Sunday rolled around and I found myself in the VIP area for the main event. It didn't matter. It was just me and the bikes. Michael Jordan on my left? Who cares. Brad Pitt on my right? Go back to Angie at home. I'm not phased at all. This was Moto GP. It was in my blood. It was in my soul. And if my entire summer had consisted of raking manure just for that one weekend of heaven on earth it would have been enough to keep this grin plastered to my face.

Tuesday, August 23, 2005

Hi blog.

Hi.

You know better than anyone that things never go the way you think they will.

I know.

Truth is that I don't think I ever recovered from the West Nile Virus last summer. I don't have the energy I used to. My brain has completely slowed down. I don't get restless when I do nothing. Everything seems dulled. I am The Stranger. I am existentialism. I am floating through a meaningless void of nothing.

You cant' tell them that.

Why? I went to LA and hung with movie stars and partied at all the exclusive clubs. I saw the grotto at the Playboy Mansion, I surfed the Malibu break and I had dinner with someone whose sex tape is on my computer. And still, it didn't change one god damn thing. I spent countless nights at home with my guitar dreaming of a life of music and I spent the rest of them watching producers and directors and stars snort lines off the glass-topped poolside tables. And it just rolled off.

Stop. Just stop.

I'm sorry. What do you want from me?

Haven't you learned anything? You're not here for you. You're here for them. You're their rockstar. And rockstars always keep rocking. When the curtain comes up. You don't stop. You don't flinch. You don't show any fear. If you break a string or you've got a cold or your head is pounding like the bass drum you don't give them so much as a sigh. You can't give them any sign that you're weak .It doesn't matter if you feed them shit. Pure shit. If you keep rocking, if you make them feel like they're experiencing something just a little bigger and a little greater than who they are, than where they are, than what they are, they'll love you for it. You can make people think that you're really kicking their ass. I mean, really kicking it harder then its ever been kicked. And really you're barely scraping by. It's all a trick of what's in their memory. In what they see. In how you make them feel. It's not about what you say. It's all about how you say it. Don't apologize. Don't' fucking apologize for anything.

They're here because they want you to do things for them that they can't do for themselves. To take them places that they can't go on their own. They want you to be a superhero. They NEED you to be a superhero. Just for a second. Just for 4 god damn minutes a day they need you to reach down and pull them up out of the drudgery and make it worth living. Even if it's not. Even if you've been to the top and you've seen it and it's not at all like the VH1 Specials and the reality TV shows. They need the hope. But most of all they need the rock. So shut the hell up. Shut the hell up and give it to them. Give it to them fast, give it to them slow and then just give it to them unrelentingly. And when you're done, go back to the sorority house where you're working again and do the same thing to the girls. And don't ever even think about apologizing for any of it.

Monday, August 15, 2005

Tomorrow I leave Los Angeles for good. As the miles roll by on the highway I'm hoping my inner-monologure is going to return. The distractions will fade. The noise will quiet. And I'll be able to tug at your heart strings once again. So soon. So soon I can taste it. Can you?