Saturday, December 23, 2006


I've finally dug out of the snow just about enough to reach the keyboard and wow what I have missed.

Apparently while I was up to my ass in shovelling, pushing cars and snowshoeing my way to the store to stock up on DVD's because the mailman couldn't even get to the mailbox to drop off the Netflix, Chad over at Chokey Chicken (who apparently is related to that Post-Grad Nothing Girl, weird) laid a completely deserved smack down on Tony and his busblog.

Then we got Allen Iverson. Suck it.

Then I came up with a joke: A mormon and a jew walk into a bar. One of them orders a drink and gets the other one to pay for it. Ha! KILLS ME every time.

Then I drove down to the airport where everyone's stuck to try and scam on Chad's cute girl. Unfortunately there were a lot of cute girls there so I picked the first one I saw and offered her a car ride out, a hot meal and cozy bed. What girl stuck in the airport for two days can resist that kind of charm?

Oh, but back to chad and tony and the meaty part. Chad wrote a comment calling tony out about the recent state of the busblog. It's true that tony's writing doesn't make me dream anymore. It doesn't get my stomach to tingle or help me get through the day. But I understand that men change. One day you wake up and it's not a sorority girl or an L.A. magazine chaser next to you, it's a mormon and she's still half-clothed and somehow you're totally cool with that. Passion isn't always fleeting but it's constantly being redirected and reshaped. The passion in Tony's angst is now the passion in his work. And that's all well and good. But so much of our love for tony was fueled by his L.A.-style free-spirit angst and grew stronger when he never backed down, never apologized for feeling how he did.

But if the last six years have taught us anything thing it's that a man who stands up on a soapbox and speaks to the crowd and gets his power from the people always needs a little humility. Always needs to be willing to take some hits. Always needs to remember how he got there, why he's there, who put him there and why anyone would want to keep him there. A man with nothing telling you to fuck off is beautiful. A man with everything telling you to fuck off is painful. Tony, we love you. Your writing took you a long long way and we took you the rest. Keep up the amazing work at LAist. But still drop us a heads up. take some shit. Let us know you're still with us. That you're still listening. Because we are.


And would a photo essay kill you? Get some interns who will do it or something.

Wednesday, December 20, 2006

Dear Allen Iverson,
Welcome to Denver. Yes, it snows here. Driving in it takes a little PRACTICE. I am talking about PRACTICE.

Tuesday, December 19, 2006


Sometimes there's just no fighting the feeling of what has to be. sometime it's pulling over onto the side of the road because eyelids are too heavy and sleep just won't wait ten minutes longer. Ten damn minutes from the front door but it's no use to struggle. Sometimes it's singing that song over and over as loud as you can until your voice gives out. Singing just hoping you can be rid of the melody after you embrace and squeeze every bit of life left in it.

If it has to be it has to be. But the rest your have to fight for and fight against. I think if words could really describe facial expressions I could get you a little further inside here. If there was a symbol for big eyebrows squared off in concentration. If there was a way to sound out the look I gave a girl yesterday when she explained to me that she had made a big decision in her life by writing out a list of pros and cons and going from there. Am I the only one astounded that there are people who go through life that way? For those biggies the feeling usually comes. There's no use fighting it. There's just no fighting the feeling of what has to be. And the more you try to erase it the more it manages to reappear.

Thursday, December 07, 2006

There's something about feeling lost that always gets me coming back. It's a whole lead up of desperate moments, each one filled with it's own tiny gasp of panic and frustration, just a step away from defeat. But we all wade through it. We all get to the bottom of that feeling, tilt our heads back and look up. Sound familiar? You got problems. But we've got something in common.

What you do at the bottom is the defining moment. Will you self-destruct or will you wrap yourself in the empty? Wait, is it empty or am I really just talking about a blank slate? Lots of people like to pull out their pencils, draw that straight line and point you to your beginning and your end. And sure there's an end and a goal. But after bobbing up and down enough times the shape of a wave just makes more and more sense. We all keep crossing over that same axis until it becomes familiar. I'm watching the horizon for the line to approach as I climb and never fear an impact during that long, awkward arms-flailing fall back down.

Give it enough cycles and even the empty starts to have it's own completely sensical shape and form and feeling. But most importantly it has it's reason. Lying alone on the the floor in the dark used to be defeat. Now it's anticipation. Close my eyes, shut the lights and turn off all the senses until something completely new starts to emerge.

What's person is going to lock into this oddly-shaped space and guide me this time?
Someone with something new to teach you.

What is going to make sense?
Not much. It rarely does.

How hard will it be?
Hard enough to make your eyebrows scrunch up when you're solving a problem

Where will I land when I open my eyes?

Hopefully still on the floor, in the dark, on your back. Just pray you land around the same time you left. It's surprisingly easy to accidentally slip out of this empty and into one you thought you'd left behind.

Tuesday, December 05, 2006

Tonight's unauthorized guest blogger: John Mayer. I talk about being a rockstar. Figuratively of course. But by some strange mistake of luck meeting talent meeting rediculously big hands and turning the inside out he actually did it. I'll keep shouting him out. Why? He gets it. That motherfuker. At least I beat him to Corinne Bailey Rae

I can't really explain what happens when, as an artist, you get that message from the inside that says "time to make another one." One day you're sitting around, living off the fat of the land, and then as if from out of nowhere, it taps you on the shoulder. The slate goes shiny and clean. Those colors come back - it all starts as colors - then moods, then settings, then sounds, then words. And churning beneath that the entire time is the doubt; doubt that you'll find the rhyme, doubt that you'll ever connect that verse with that chorus, doubt that you have anything left to say that matters.

I live for that streetfight, though. The knock-down drag-out anything-goes battle between what you have in your hands and what you *think* you might possibly have in your mind but have no proof of. But when you win, man... look out. There's nothing better.

Why go back at it so soon? Because I suck at everything else and I hate being reminded of it.

If you think we writers do what we do for anything else than patching up voids, you're mistaken. It's all void putty. Take away the guitars and the songs, and my life story becomes completely unremarkable. I'm not getting down on myself, I'm getting up on the gift... I'm not much without it, and I'm blessed to have it.

So I'm getting back in line for another round of musical code cracking, a cell phone voice mailbox full of my own scattered melodic ideas, and sheets of paper in every pants pocket scribbled with words I swore were cool at the time.

Tuesday afternoon I lay down the first idea... because a man can't get a solid groove on putting out records every two years.

Go Get yourself some.



Sunday, December 03, 2006

NaBloPoMo: The Roundup

30 days came and went, quickly at some points and painfully slow at others. I missed writing over the weekend for about 30 seconds between the lunch and dinner double shifts but all in all I'm glad to be done. The pressure and pace of writing creatively each night without enough time to get a thought from beginning to end really just bogged me down. And, though I made nearly 34 comments on blogs over those 30 days, I think that this blog only got 12 really puts the nail in that coffin. Though posts from November 2006 now make up nearly ten percent of my total posts I think it makes up much less of this place's heart and substance.

Maybe my head was just in the wrong place in November. Maybe my heart was. Maybe it was both. But I can see a rhythm starting to form that I like a lot better. November is always a transitioning. The skin pales and the heartbeat increases to keep everything warm. Things get a little fuzzy but then they settle in and everything begins to work in time.

Yesterday I had an in-depth discussion about IM and the way plenty of us have managed to wrap our lives around it and become something a little different. I finally decided that I'm going to try to backtrack a little. Try to weave my way into relationships without the Internet buffer. No IMing new girlfriends, new friends, family. No texts. Try to dam the flow from my heart to my fingertips and get it up and out my mouth instead. Try to get the empty words to fill with a little meaning.

But as for you, well, full disclosure. You might even be able to catch me now on AIM: Thetruthblogger. One step forward, two steps back.

Friday, December 01, 2006

NaBloPoMo day 3o! I made it. I swear part two of the long anticipated story that began with part one earlier this month was slated for today but I forgot two key things.

1. Thirty days has September, April, June and November.

2. The mormon girl worked with me tonight.

You'll be happy to know that part two has a title. "From Stockholm to my home: buses, trains planes and The Game" and that it's not going to be lost.

All I want to leave you with tonight is something simple. I've seen that letting people into my heart is a journey. More so for myself than for them. Each time I lead them down the winding staircase deeper into that place I have face everyone who has tread there before. Demons are made up of the past and when I want to make something meaningful I have to stand and fight them. The first few doorways are easy to walk through because the memories aren't painful. They aren't that connected. Smiles and touching and simple things. But from here on out it gets rough. Everyone has their dragons to slay and mine are old loves and sitting along the waterfront and lying in the snow and watching the last flicker of the candle warm while the rain falls outside. Before I can go forward I have to go back. So tonight it's Maine and soon I'll head to NYC and CT and Sow covered mountains and the streets of L.A.

We're all made up of what we've done and who we've loved. And before we can build on it was have to face it.

See you NaBloPoMo. It's been swell and you know I'll be around.