Today, I’m okay with just quoting this fucker, because this fucker, as much of a fucker as he was, touched the golden. ### #repost @__nitch ・・・ Charles Bukowski // "If it doesn't come bursting out of you in spite of everything, don't do it. Unless it comes unasked out of your heart and your mind and your mouth and your gut, don't do it. If you have to sit for hours staring at your computer screen or hunched over your typewriter searching for words, don't do it. If you're doing it for money or fame, don't do it. If you're doing it because you want women in your bed, don't do it. If you have to sit there and rewrite it again and again, don't do it. If it's hard work just thinking about doing it, don't do it. If you're trying to write like somebody else, forget about it. If you have to wait for it to roar out of you, then wait patiently. If it never does roar out of you, do something else. If you first have to read it to your wife or your girlfriend or your boyfriend or your parents or to anybody at all, you're not ready. Don't be like so many writers, don't be like so many thousands of people who call themselves writers, don't be dull and boring and pretentious, don't be consumed with self-love. The libraries of the world have yawned themselves to sleep over your kind. Don't add to that. Don't do it. Unless it comes out of your soul like a rocket, unless being still would drive you to madness or suicide or murder, don't do it. Unless the sun inside you is burning your gut, don't do it. When it is truly time, and if you have been chosen, it will do it by itself and it will keep on doing it until you die or it dies in you. There is no other way. And there never was."
It wouldn’t ever matter what you did, as long as you’d stay and concoct your little dishes of glee in me, for I catch you not just once every now and then but so often always is a direct sight of your beauty and that Bausch movement you have churned me in. I rue the day heaven comes because it has so come for me. This roiling wave that pulls with more force ever deeper finds me in your heart and within it all the oxygen I may need to live out this life. You are the van, the wheels, the motion with which we travel. We are made here in Venice no matter where we are. So, to our spray painted garden, our drum circle Sunday’s, and to our fierce little one with lemon faces and Dennis Hooper cackles raining onto us her topography of joy.
I’ll drink wine out of a glass from now on. I’ll get the glass from a flea market, one that’s rough to the touch and pink or blue like old cheap church windows. I’ll hold it at its base and snap my fingernail against its rim listening for its value, but there will be no value to hang in the air, and I’ll smile. It will be a glass like the ones on the dish rack at old man Wiebe’s house, next to the pealing Formica table, just above the faded sallow linoleum floor. It will have been touched by those people who work for a living, sweat through each day and by those waiting for husbands to come home. It will have been used by those having just finished the dishes seeing suddenly their rotund men across the room, in lazy chairs, looking back over their shoulders with eyes of sex and ghost sounds of four posted pine beds creaking wildly. It will be a glass muddy with a man’s hand just come off the tractor after plowing hundreds of acres of oat, lungs swirling with dust. This glass will be valuable only in that it is thoroughly American: accessible, tasteless. I will sip from this glass, grocery store wine, enduring headaches long before I close my eyes to sleep. I’ll fill my glass then raise it to those who touched it before, those rough hands of gentle people who blossom and wilt like wild flowers. Photo: @kathrynbrolin
Now she died. And my mother too. And my other mother a day passed (who I’ll write about later), the one who raised me and taught me that there is a dangerous simpleton and an easy feral artist jester that lives in here and here too. They taught me that it’s not too manly to represent an idea when that idea isn’t hurting so many, killed, dead, bleeding. They taught me how animals will hurt you back only when they are scared or feel trapped, unless they are insane. She taught me. She didn’t eat her own, she nourished instead the masses even when the masses told her to “SHUT UP! You’re not worth listening to.” We are all acting. Some imagine Clint Eastwood from the spaghetti westerns or John Wayne from “True Grit”, but once in a while, secretly, I see the grace, ma’am. Sometimes, Ma, just like you, I’ll stand for more than just being a leash of the ages on a front yard of tract housing on a street of blanched stupidity that kills its own. She’s the poet who reminded that the seeing see might even being be hoping hope reminding me. #riptinimorrison
@lucyhurtado_ drew this. She is my friend. Friends support friends. Kevin Fiege is my friend too, as well as @therussobrothers. They made two movies based on this @lucyhurtado_ drawing. It’s out on digital today. Go watch it in the middle of the night when everyone else is sleeping. I’m serious. 😈✊️ @nikkohurtado @marvelstudios
If there was a piece of art I ever aspired to, it was this: scuffed up, read and the razor’s edge of my imagination always on full power. I never had much interest in relying on reality so much. ✊️🎪 @rbemuseum
Leadership. #repost @__nitch ・・・ John F. Kennedy // "We meet in an hour of change and challenge, in a decade of hope and fear, in an age of both knowledge and ignorance. The greater our knowledge increases, the greater our ignorance unfolds... No man can fully grasp how far and how fast we have come, but condense, if you will, the 50,000 years of man's recorded history in a time span of but a half-century. Stated in these terms, we know very little about the first 40 years, except at the end of them advanced man had learned to use the skins of animals to cover them. Then about 10 years ago, under this standard, man emerged from his caves to construct other kinds of shelter. Only five years ago man learned to write and use a cart with wheels. Christianity began less than two years ago. The printing press came this year, and then less than two months ago, during this whole 50-year span of human history, the steam engine provided a new source of power. Newton explored the meaning of gravity. Last month electric lights and telephones and automobiles and airplanes became available. Only last week did we develop penicillin and television and nuclear power... This is a breathtaking pace, and such a pace cannot help but create new ills as it dispels old... So it is not surprising that some would have us stay where we are a little longer to rest, to wait... If this capsule history of our progress teaches us anything, it is that man, in his quest for knowledge and progress, is determined and cannot be deterred... But why, some say, the moon? Why choose this as our goal? And they may well ask why climb the highest mountain? Why, 35 years ago, fly the Atlantic? ... We choose to go to the moon. We choose to go to the moon in this decade and do the other things, not because they are easy, but because they are hard, because that goal will serve to organize and measure the best of our energies and skills, because that challenge is one that we are willing to accept, one we are unwilling to postpone... And, therefore, as we set sail we ask God's blessing on the most hazardous and dangerous and greatest adventure on which man has ever embarked." —
For Chris Cornell on his birthday, this photo, I’m not sure why, a home slightly blurred, older, thrown back onto a time we preferred, and the rain drops of your children, your wife, maybe tears, landed on this vision of you, this memory, mine, of simpler times, the old barn wood floors of our conversations, and the churning clouds of passing time, crying also, maybe, but expressing on this little village that are those that remember you, drenched in what was you, in memory, and what’s left, still crystalline, beautiful, but gone, and what is only in a whisper of a slight smile, remains. Miss you buddy. ✊️❤️❤️ JB
Cut to 2043: living on the ranch, still a full bottle vodka in the freezer for when neighbors come over, Preparation H wrappers in the trash, and someone telling me that I should’ve used a higher SPF when I was younger. My wife is beautiful but gags on certain foods now; it makes me look away and into the fireplace even though there’s no fire going. Coffee every morning is like syrup and I spend most of my time writing and fishing for large mouth bass. A call comes in about doing a parody of Thanos for whoever took over for Jimmy Fallon. I put the phone down without saying anything and turn up Waylon Jennings, who never seems to get old. Westlyn visits with her boyfriend and he refuses to do the dishes. We have a talk and he ends up doing the dishes. The horses get fed at sunset and the ground squirrels are still driving me crazy. The denim business thrived and Kathryn still designs with colored pencils in the little office that is lined with my mother’s cookbooks from 40 years ago. I look like somewhere between Tommy Lee Jones, W, and my own father. She looks like she’s wary of anyone outside the family. #ranchlife #northcountry
There it was again, that silence. He’d walked all day with his pockets full of syllables and letter shavings that he had gathered over the past couple of days. He’s been thinking a lot and the thoughts were loud. He’d whittled away fragments that never found cohesion, put them in his pockets to figure out later when the machine wasn’t running so hot. And now, that silence became him as he stopped at the cliff side, took all the jagged would be sentences out with his hands, and scattered them on the dusty ground where he crouched. It was early in the morning against a background of sea and sky and he could feel the panting of the seagulls flying overhead to the north but he didn’t strain to listen. To the West the onshore breeze was blowing hard enough to whip the rabbit ears of his inside out pockets but he didn’t feel it yet. Looking down at all those fragmented thoughts, he stopped himself from piecing together a coherent sentence, from structuring what the architecture of that breeze started to. No, he stood there with his head down focused on the potpourri of what might have before been an understanding. He watched it as if he was standing bedside at his grandfather’s hospice knowing that soon there wouldn’t be another word uttered from his pruned mouth. Silence but for these absurd brushstroke moments standing tall. He reached down, picked up a grunt or a moan, or it might have been ka or a tion. He felt the cool wind. He remembered the smoke of his mother’s Kool Kings being sucked out of the driver’s side window. He thought of his grandfather’s letter to him 6 days after he had died quietly beside him, opening it. Then he sat down on the dirt and kept shuffling the sounds until: “The child’s laughter shook in me so violently that I couldn’t help but laugh back. I put her on my shoulders, her holding intertwined hands across my forehead, and we walked to the ice cream store for some soft serve, half chocolate, half vanilla. Her mouth gnawed at my short hair from above as we walked... “ was as far as he got when he looked up, saw a seagull pass, heard a wave break below, felt it all, then went right back into it, word by infant word.
OPRAH MAGAZINE!!!! WTF?! With all the parading in this era of women, I am front and center watching the most incredible woman (toting our most incredible angel), having started from scratch with question marks and doubt sucker punching her left and right, build this childhood dream into a viable, well made, gorgeous dream come true. She’s the one who’s in downtown LA. She’s the one running the business. She’s the one using our home furniture to fill her store at cross creek’s @malibulumberyard. And she’s the one who has to right the wrongs, the mistakes, and keep morale up so as to keep the company expanding and serving. Her. Keep up the great work @kathrynbrolin I am blown away. ❤️❤️❤️❤️✊️ @midheavendenim @oprahmagazine
It usually starts by being away. The job comes and you’re saturated by the mystery of it. Then you get there and it’s pretty much the same: actors curious where they stand in the status of things, comparisons, lots of diversion humor, and a few witticisms during moments of discomfort. Then you start thinking about home after a couple of months: your block, the people who feed you with their sandpaper character and their jet black histories, and the culture that owns its misfits and rejoices its monuments of unadulterated personality. Venice Beach. The guy who used to juggle the tennis ball, the bowling ball and the chainsaw as I walked as an adolescent near the sidewalk cafe looking for a coffee handout, when some pervert who maybe wanted to take me home I’d hit on the cheekbone and ride my skateboard down toward the bike path jazzed up just enough to get me through the day. And the winter brings on the strangest light as you peer out toward the ocean as that grey-black wall invariably begins to consume you, everybody; it always feels like it just happens and everything is about to change. Everyone who lives here knows that ominous Bermuda cloud. Fucking Venice. We are the Lower East Side of what used to be New York and the worst of what Florida was. I will never leave here. Somewhere deep in the sewer that will always have original stamped on its back alley asshole, there’ll be for a buck an oily slice of pepperoni pizza and a medium coke, and then as you eat it some dude will ask you if you have some bud or a can of spray paint because he just got an idea. Then I know I’ll be home. That all of the other shit is just some Nobu fantasyland smut with a thin slice of jalapeño on its sushi and a roofie waiting patiently in some yuppy’s non-alcoholic beer.
“Boo!” “Stop it.” “Seriously, BOO!” “It’s not funny. You’re not funny.” “Boo!” “Stop it.” “BOO!” “I’m leaving.” “...boo..”
Ode: This is me, never cool but always in the room watching others as their interests flutter toward what might benefit in a snappy flasher digi or a paragrapher’s poopy allotment. This is them begging the muse but for a briar of black-smithed images to write out what might bring the praises that were but pointed fingers of ridicule just years before. This is you, the subject of my churning viscera as I look for my voice in your beauty, each thought hanging from your mysterious mouth in wait, stained with ruby and slightly shrunken with distain. And these are words that run in circles like Greek Olympians on ancient pottery splashed on in naked silhouettes searching for sex or competition. This is art, that pants like a raging female in labor and contracts with the man that whimpers to her paralyzed colors of support. This is today.
On sale soon: Jason Mamoa’s underwear line starting with the ‘Legend’ series. Have you ever wanted a little intimacy from Josh Brolin? Well, now you can have it! Get a pack of three for $20 or a pack of twenty for way more! Wear a new pair everyday as you read a newly posted post of his while he rests against your.... Anyway. Josh Brolin ‘Legend’ series this month by Aquaman himself: Jason Mamoa. John Stamos in stores next month. @prideofgypsies #Brolinsdickwear #womenssizestoo
To all the dads out there. There isn’t anything as good as being a parent. Nothing. There are no awards or accolades, no rewards to match, no joy or pain greater than that feeling of caring for your children, wanting the best for them that life has to offer and the hope that whatever baggage you bring to your parenting doesn’t detour the best of their natural trajectories but might help guide to move them forward through organic moments of inevitable doubt. Our children are symbolic mirrors and the betterment of who we aspire to be. Trevor, Eden & Westlyn: you are what makes a Daddy like me as glowingly proud as any parent could be. I love you equally, thoroughly, and completely. Thank you for choosing me. I am the better man for it. #fathersdayisagift 📷- @michaelmuller7
Me on the left, and you almost the same age on the right. Wow, we really are father and son! Happy Father’s Day, Pop. Thanks for setting the best example and visiting me on the set of Batman, when I wasn’t sure if I’d made the right decision. Even doing “Empire of the Sun” so young was a big question mark, but now, looking back, to work with Steven was the best education I could have gotten, so thanks for that. But most of all, I’m just grateful we look so much alike. I could’ve ended up looking like Mom’s side of the family. ❤️✊️ #waitwrongson
Every weekend, when you were kids, we’d crawl outta bed with a great anticipation. It didn’t matter if it was already a melting 100 degree summer day or a dog bowl freezing uneven 25, your spring chicken spark as you rolled out from under the blankets was always apparent on those days. Saturday was our Hoover’s Beef Palace day and we’d throw our boots on, our carhartts, eyes still swollen with sleep, maybe toss a Bass Pro Shop hat on, hop in the truck, and watch the ground squirrels scurry frenetically as we rolled down the driveway never sure whether the direction chosen would be their last. About halfway there we’d start salivating at the thought of Mark’s buttered up french toast next to the two fried eggs, next to the dollop of extra butter we didn’t need, next to the rye toast and well done hash browns. We’d sit at the counter while those thick-armed country women would carry 10 pound plates of Paso gold from the kitchen to the tables strewn with kids you just saw at school yesterday, grandparents who all had dirty bandaids wrapped around at least two of their calloused fingers, while we lapped up every last morsel of our order. Cowboy hats at Hoover’s were customary and worn without a thought. After breakfast we’d walk out the back door and across the dirt parking to the auction house to sit in those wood splintered fold down seats and watch two and three weight livestock be ushered in while the man at the microphone would rattle off sale words at mach speeds. One cowboy would barely raise his hand, then another would, then another until: “Sold!”. The woman next to him would write something down in her booklet and a whole new cluster of cows would emerge. We’d just sit there and watch. You’d always have a slight look of anxiety on your faces because you thought if you raised your hands, even in a thoughtless moment of scratching your nose, or maybe stretching the rest of the sleep outta your arms, we’d be driving back home with a bunch of little cows in our truck. At least that’s what you thought. And I wasn’t about to tell you any different. #templetonlife
She walks with a slow waddle, wears slightly red rimmed glasses, and her light reddish hairline is more like George Carlin’s was than Omar Sharif’s. She’s excited because they are getting her a piece of cake and an espresso with a water chaser. She’ll carry it to her seat with a small shuffling, while a young woman, maybe still in University, copious tattoos covering her baby white skin, orders pistachio ice cream for take away behind her. At her seat I can hear the tink of each bite she takes, and I imagine how it must feel in her mouth; how it might shock her taste buds, this gift to herself; And later, as she’s walking away, how she’ll wish she had bought two pieces instead of just one. But, for now, there’s still half a piece to go and she still has more money in her purse just in case. I take a photo of myself with her in the background. She looks right into the camera, then when I put it down she starts cackling. She knows what I did, or what I tried to do, and she finds my dilettante moves cute. You sometimes imagine what you would be if you were born in a different era, another country, to different parents, like a game you play with your friends or by yourself as you walk down a Hungarian Street on your day off without much to do. Today, I’m sure of it now, no matter how much I dreamt of it before, I’ll never be a spy. I can watch, but they’ll always know I’m there.
I want everyone to be aware that all the proceeds from what I bring in from the last of the @JBKBactivewear #cableswole shirts sold and whatever they pay for me to show my face and snap my fingers or sign a few things or shake a few fans hands in gratitide for y’all caring so much about these films at Ace Comic Con Seattle on JUNE 28-30 will go to @ebmrf and @uvsc_org in honor of @trucker_boy_dukes and the recently passed warrior @tavintuff for the research and fight against cancer (with an emphasis on leukemia) and Epidermolysis Bullosa (EB — a rare, and very painful skin disorder). And in honor of your Mama @elijah_a.b. SO PLEASE COME! You will be doing a GREAT SERVICE to those less fortunate than us but who, like those superheroes we love, fought (and fight) with super human might. Thank you very very much. Link in Bio. #chrisevans @zoesaldana @renner4real @doncheadle @taron.egerton @leeepfrog @itsmebayley @charlottewwe @liliangarcia #snapagainstcancer #snapagainsteb
My prayers and condolences to Tavin’s Mama and Papa and Ohana in general. ❤️❤️❤️🙏🙏🙏 #repost @trucker_boy_dukes ・・・ Please pray for the Davin and Tami as they go through this time😔 WE LOVE YOU TAVIN!!! It is with heavy hearts that we lost a great warrior!!! But heaven gained the strongest person I know. We lost Tavin last night around 11pm after a 2 year flight with leukemia. He fought hard for over 2 years and did it with a smile everytime. We are so proud of him and blessed that we had 10 wonderful years with him. We wish that he was still here, but we know that he's with the Lord and completely healed with no pain or cancer. We will miss him every single day. We are so proud to call him our son. We would like to thank everyone for their prayers. We felt all your prayers from all over the world. We like to thank the Dr's, nurses and staff at Kapiolani Medical Center for always taking good care of Tavin. Also Maui Memorial Medical Center for taking good care of Tavin during his short stay and also Hospice Maui for taking care of Tavin and our family during his last night. Thank you to all the family and friends who came to visit Tavin while he was in the hospital and Hospice. We love you Tavin and it's not a goodbye, but see you later! Mommy and Daddy loves you so much. #tavintuff
Is there a version of you I don’t like? We joke. We poke at each other. We remember Costa Rican dirt roads, bandanas over our mouths, lungs fighting the heavy dust, and back in the windowless house, geckos clicking while we made love in the open kitchen. We remember younger more debaucherous times when we knew we wouldn’t make it, knew we were too far along our own roads of wildness, our self-serving jungle, egos flailing, but we were in love, in lust, and we all know that never works, at least that’s what the experts say. We were in Greece, in Mexico, on FaceTime and on TV. We’ve been dark and yet fighting to see each other once more, just before sleep, because the scent of you reminded me of the south of France and the first hint of sun. We’ve been in awe and we’ve been hurt. We’ve felt alone even while we looked at each other and we‘ve also felt that nobody else in the world existed or was more beautiful than the sunrise of your face close to mine. We’ve drunkenly yelled toward the moon and soberly listened at the womb that held our child, waiting expectantly: the unveiling of a revelation, the showtime of a never grander entrance. And that laughter she imparts has never found love more exciting. You and me, Lady. I thank my luckiest star. That one that landed in me like the faint whisper of a child’s first breath. The one that someone threw at me that I never saw coming. @kathrynbrolin #jbkbstucktogether #beanintheoven 🍀Photo by @jenniferstenglein
It‘s on a wall somewhere; someone probably bought it years ago at a flea market. You took that photo of me from a car with your friend, another monsoon of a woman, then gave it to me as a gift and I let it go in a rage; I threw it in the garbage bin out back. The next day it was gone. A shaman mural. A symbol of unadulterated sensuality. What made me think of it though — back then, when we ended up in that dilapidated motel room dead in the fire of day, all turquoise green and hot headed orange, when I leaned back, naked, in that yellowed plastic bath tub against a left over razor, slid down, and it took a bacon-thick slice off my right shoulder. I didn’t feel the sting right away, but I saw in the water the swirl of a cloudy red, a blood dance. I had a horrible album of ee cummings reading “i six non-lectures” playing that kept conjuring a vision of Richard Attenborough reading to a blow up doll about animals, knowing, no matter how hard he tried, that she would never really hear him. It just sounded too formal and lonely. And you sat next to me in that tub, on the toilet, with your brow furrowed, looking down toward my feet. That was the staple look back then of an artist in the making, that era when the desert wind was a perpetual furnace that heated our over active literalness and ignorance. And as tortured as we were, later is always a sadder story. We lived, for sure, but there was no way of knowing I would outlast you. There was no way of knowing. That look you gave me from the toilet was a mourning; it was thinking you knew I would live a short life, a tragic life, when it turned out that it was you who would. We had our time though, you and me, in wayward motel rooms and on long Harley Davidson pulls melting in that age old desert heat, avoiding anxious coyotes along the road, and passing red tailed hawks on fence posts at 90 miles per hour in the sexy blur of a brushstroke.
My heart and condolences to those South Korean and Hungarian families affected by the boat disaster in Budapest, Hungary. 🙏
Home is in my imagination. But, in the interim, feet grounded and crushing smaller pebbles underneath, I choose the Central Coast for its railroad tracks and Feed and Grains. I like a steak from AJ Spurs, and forty-five white tail deer at sunset with Chris Stapleton on the radio, the sunroof open, and my wife’s sweet face taking the slight wind head on. I like hearing the frenetic yelping of coyotes at night, even with the inevitable ambush that always makes me cringe and brings up a rage. But, most of all, when I’m not riding that magic carpet of my paint swathed childish imagination I like standing on the edge of the pond, quiet, a Big 5 cheapie fishing pole in my clunky, thick hands, waiting for a nudge, that tease of a reminder that there are still alive those so many hidden gems just a reach or two away. —— Photo by @kathrynbrolin
I am the direct descendant of two who signed the Declaration of Independence: Reed & Ross. There is pride in that, that connection to something new and independent. Our country that might live in humility and pride and looks out for all men, women and children. That country that takes care of each other and basks in the communal poking fun that actually bonds people, and brings them closer together with laughter. We look back and hope that we grow, that we care more deeply, that we simply...evolve. That we tell a greater truth and that we, with each lesson, cast selfishness and denial further from our habit. An America to be proud of. An America that honors each and every citizen that puts themselves in harms way so that we may thrive with everything at our disposal to do so. To give us choice to do the right thing. To do the right thing. Thank you to all veterans, and especially, today to those who passed in service to further the freedom of choice.
The air from afar reads thicker, that America, remembering spray painted symbols of anarchy in our youth by young punks, angst risen in rage, while we pierced and painted our hair, sometimes shaved our heads to match our Michelangelean faces. Our creative nectar was feeding that seed, that densely germinating pit inside us, that would come out in our music, our lyrics, or a closed fist hard in the face. We played video games, pockets bulbous with silver, bloodless hand on lever, focused on high scores while spitting expletives of remnant Big Macs on the screen. We were wild but innocent. Now, with my angel pointing up at that same childish-anarchy symbol our America has changed and is careful and scared and tiptoes while we, wife and child, walk cobblestones, the way it’s been for centuries, thinned and more naked with distance. We stroll, talk with old Hungarian women, watch men whose looks could murder smile with such warmth because you know they’ve survived. They know the real meaning of loss. America: we are victims of nothing but ourselves. We are our own ambush. This is a democracy on wheels acting out dirty vaudevillian scenarios while we whine and we whine and we whine. Come together. Sooner than later. The poem can be drained of all humanity. Nothing’s invincible.
First look of me as Gurney Halleck in “Dune”. Never worked so hard to specify a look. The sandals are a Villeneuve bleed over. #discipline #wecallthisthesweeper #bigtime Hair by @sachaquarles
When did George and I meet? Wow. I don’t know. It was a long time ago. I feel like we spend so much time together it’s a blur when it all actually started. Our Dad’s knew each other a bit, so it goes way back. Recently, we’ve been working a lot but he did come to visit me in Hungary recently. This is a photo Kathryn took of he and I on Andrássy Avenue. We had just gone to Big Fish restaurant and he did something funny, I don’t remember what it was, but I was trying to keep a straight face here because he’s always going at it, taking the piss, you know? Actually, I was kind of tired of it at this point, the kid was crying and it was hot and he wanted to stop by the Nespresso shop and I’m like “Why?!”, and I thought he was being funny but, I don’t know, man, you actually want to go?! He’s my friend and all but the fucking coffee thing is really starting to get to me. I mean he’s fucking EVERYWHERE, you know? We’re all trying to make our mark. I get it. But give a little something for the others. I almost had a frozen dinner thing going but it didn’t go through. I think that thing would have been huge. But it’s hard to sell frozen dinners in a fucking suit. Like, maybe the meat guy’s apron but not a Dolce full blown suit, you know? Hard to look like a sex symbol in an apron. You get it. Look, I love him. He came to see me, but fuck. I don’t really want to talk about it anymore.
Paul Thomas Anderson and Bigfoot. It is said that Bigfoot is a hairy, upright-walking, ape-like creature that dwells in the wildernesses of the San Fernando valley. Depictions often portray Bigfoot as a missing link between humans and human ancestors or other great apes. I disagree. Bigfoot is also said to have played a crazy hippie in a car commercial but in real life head busted unwiped hippies, taking their ‘stash’ and, eventually, after committed, wrote his grandmother a long letter addressing it to The White House even though she had been deceased for 16 years apologizing for being so aggressive and insensitive. Bigfoot is survived by Paul Thomas Anderson and his small, three legged chihuahua ‘pippy’. #inherentvice #bigfoot #pta #lsd #nba #ptsd
This (below) is part of what I wrote for Chris’s funeral, part of what I spoke. Two years later I revisit that moment I wrote it remembering, understanding, that with time things will morph and my perception change. But it still feels like it was yesterday though. I’ve accepted it, sure, but we’re still talking, curious about the vicissitudes of this life. We were — on the phone, or eye to eye — always in awe and curious about the whys: it’s ticks and snakes, it’s color and atom bomb mercuriality. Its quiet. Its quiet. —- ::: “Everywhere I look, I think I see Chris walking toward me: tall, a long mane of lion curls, a slight smile under either a beard or a pencil thin mustache. Every time I look at my phone and it says Christopher and I think it’s all been a dream, something imagined, that you create subconsciously so that it can never be realized. Every time I think of Chris, it’s like he’s in front of me, telling me what he’s been doing: his kids, Vicky, a fair they went to, or how much fun he had when we all went karting, a song he’s mining the magic out of. This is the thing that never goes away, the impact someone has on you. It will ebb and flow with time in its intensity, but it will always be there until someone is doing it about you.” :: I miss you, buddy. I miss you deeply. ❤️❤️❤️
Jagger Jones (16) and my buddy, Don Prudhomme (78) finish the NORRA Mexican 1000 off road race. I grew up with Don (“The Snake”) at the drag races and with Rick Mears on the Indy tracks. It’s where I spent the majority of my childhood when I wasn’t in Paso at the ranch. The sudden blast of an engine, the smell of motor oil, and the adrenaline of watching anyone go 200+mph. In my blood. And Don, who texts me videos of motorcycle trips out through the middle of the desert and pictures of his daughter Donna at the head of a drag strip, represents what living to the fullest extent on each fiber that life has to offer. He reminds me that you don’t have to make an event of everything — but that living a loud, colorful life, interiorly or exteriorly, is the only way to go. #donthesnakeprudhomme @j6gger
Thinking of you. Loving you. Inspired by you. Appreciating you. It’s Mother’s Day and you are the one living person I have on this planet I can proudly call Mom. I’m so glad we’ve found our niche. It means the world. And your care for Westlyn (who is such a personality now, it’s hilarious) is palpable. We are having a ball here. Europe is just a more sensual existing. It’s a people place, not a status place. It’s been a wonderful time. Love you today and everyday. Happy Mother’s Day. Thank you for treating me like a son. xoxoxox Josh ——— #repost @barbrastreisand ・・・ Thank you for the wonderful Mother’s Day note honey. From my younger son... Josh ❤️
“Sometimes the king is a woman”. Happy Mother’s Day, my love. You know all the words but today I trip. I am in awe of you. Thank you for treating our daughter like a king, and my kids like angels. I love you. #HappyMothersDay #everydayismothersday #Reign @kathrynbrolin Street Art by @misskk_budapest
On the set of Sicario, er, wait. No, I think it was another film. #thebeginning #thecollectorandthepurpledude #offedhimtoo #beniciodeltoro #teamthanos
My wife is a designer, a creative, and a businesswoman force. She started a company on her own accord, continues to own 100% of it so the decisions she makes, the intuition she has, she can follow without virus. Then, freed, she reaches out, collaborates, humbles herself daily with the belief that everyone has nectar, everyone has a genius in their stride. The respect I have for her is on a massive scale. She’s never once asked me to promote her, never once asked me to exploit her. And if I do, I usually ask her if it’s okay. And she does it as a mother. She purées sweet potatoes and orders only the best fabrics from Italy. She drives downtown just as the sun is coming up to make sure the measurements of her garments are as she dictated. And every person I’ve met whom she works with glows at the mention of her name. To be with a woman who moves you, who you wake up with and a nervousness, a giddiness, accompanies your first sight of her — I billow, woman. I billow because it’s all in who you are that I find where smiles in me are born. @midheavendenim @kathrynbrolin
Yo, just want to shout out to #metgala2019 and my peeps who all made it happen. @narrativepr Liz Mahoney and @samanthamcmillen_stylist @kimverbeck and all my hot af really really famous people friends: @mileycyrus (keeping mine in my mouth!) @jaredleto (you can carry my head anytime, brah) @kendalljenner (you gotta stop widdat wild smack talk back talk hack talk sister gimme lipstick comon’) and @versace Thank you for giving me @chrishemsworth suit cuz we the same size and he’s busy losing weight. I got pictures for later from the inside — the things I seen. Oh, and @marvelstudios thanks for the gauntlet loan out for the night. You people have been straight up tight af. Out. Purple. 😈✊️ ・・ #bitchbestraightupwinning #infinityhoes #onehundredandfirstTIMEmag #fortheswagbag #teamthanos 💥 @bosslogic
And on Sunday I’m walking in the rain, the cold, to get breakfast for my wife. It’s raining too hard so there’s no use in pulling all of us out into it. I end up at a Hungarian joint about a mile away. It’s small and in a no-tourist ridden area. I had bought an umbrella at a pharmacy nearby and it still allows small patters to hit the front of my thin coat with a slight wind. But there’s an ambiance out here that I like so I order fast, ask how long, then walk through the labyrinth of ole Budapest, a mix of hundred year old architecture whispering a sadness from their soot covered stone and a latter almost modern seventies style that almost looks like an attempt as opposed to an era. Some of the old have chunks taken out of them, bites taken from bombs I imagine, the teeth marks of war. And I find out later that’s indeed what it was, not just my flexing romance. WW2 and The Freedom Fighters of the 1956 Hungarian Revolution. I have a small angel waiting for me a half mile away, and I billow with a new love for what I have. Can you imagine me, instead of with breakfast, running back to them with some desperate weight of fear and survival? I expand and contract on my walk back imagining the worst and realizing the best arriving to an innocent smile from tummy time the floor, and an arched cobra happy to see her Papa. My wife comes around from another room, takes the bag of omelets, in Jonas’s basketball PJ bottoms and pecks me on the lips, and with a sad whisper of her own says thank you, you. — Photo by @kathrynbrolin
With your hand resting on that fabric I felt myself melt further into our lives. Waking up lost in another city, I find again and again the railway of our nomadic wandering, our soaring gypsy clan, and you keep smiling as if you’ve been here before, maybe in coach and buggy, maybe as a royalty of homelessness. Why it is that every time I look to you do your eyes squintly smile as if you know already something we can’t teach you, something you’ll reveal later when words become you? Your eyes lock into mine, into hers, diving through the pupil and deeply into a place I’ve rarely been. You have us by the hand, tiny. We woke up this morning realizing it’s not us who has mastered anything. We looked at you and you were already there.
What I love about being on a plane is that it’s limited. There are limitations: of how far you can walk, how erect you can stand in the bathroom, how much water they’ll actually let you drink, how far your seat will go back and, most of all, watch what there is to watch on the entertainment center. It throws me back to living on the ranch as a kid and we only got three channels; the days before VCRs; and when “Charlie and the Chocolate Factory” (actually, Willy Wonka) was on once a year. One year, with great anticipation, so much so that I’m sure I farted or let a little pee dribble at some point, Charlie was due to start at 8pm that night. We had a sideboard TV with a record player in it. I had Disco Duck on that turntable, scratched and warped from the heat of Paso Robles outside. And the TV’s turn dial that took man strength to turn. I remember that well as a stocky little kid; it was even hard for me to turn. So Charlie’s intro credits came on and the family was all half circle congregated around the tube, my brother and I smiling ear to ear, my parents happy that we were good and engaged for at least two hours and all of a sudden...all of a fucking sudden...snow...and that blizzard sound of death: kssssshhhhhhhh!!! “NOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!”. This can’t be happening!!!! Once a year, that’s it. All that waiting. It wasn’t just a week like when Fonzi jumped over the shark and it froze when he was mid-jump (TO BE CONTUNUED) and you spent every second of the next week until part two of the finale talking and wondering and mathematically equating what was going to happen, whether he’d make it or not. I learned nothing at school during those interims. But this was a fucking murder. This was abuse. Yet it’s a great memory. So I’m on the plane, limited, reminded as I watch a BBC Special on the genius Billy Connolly, my baby and wife asleep in the bucket next to me, that happy as all get up is still attainable.
This film moved me and I watch it once every couple of years to be, once again, deeply moved. It’s the sensitivity, the rawness, the innocence, the honorable, the parenting, the absurd, the abused, the misinterpreted, the coming of age, and the misinterpretation of cool. Then there’s so much more. In your youth there are stories that resonate and this was a big one for me along with “Do the Right Thing”, “Dog Day Afternoon”, “East of Eden”, “Leolo”, “Star Wars”, “ET”. Stories that shape you and moved you so deeply you didn’t want to tell anyone. Not until later. Not until you became an adult and you finally passed cool and you remember excitement like a first love. — Rest In Peace, John Singleton. You moved me, man. Thank you. 🙏 @johnsingleton #seizetheday #boyzinthehood
Dreaming. And one day she gets older, grows up, gets engaged on the very ranch she was raised on. Dreaming. Eyes closed. In her grandmother’s dress. She’s gone, grandma. And the little girl fills it, a legacy, and dreams. And one day she grows, finding herself adventuring through the labyrinth of this circus. She gets it, the big joke. Pain has come and gone and those adolescent demons that scratch at your psyche scurry away. Survived. She dreams. Eyes closed. And one day wakes up. Singing. —- I can’t tell you how you move me. Happy Birthday, my OG, my little Nani. I burn with love for you. My wee girl. My ranch toughie. You create wonderful things in this world. Beauty. Heart. A laugh. I have your tattoos all over me, but only you and I will ever be able to see them. Thank you. xox Da ❤️❤️✊️ @edenbrolin #birthdaygirl #daslittlegirl
Painting with @ladygaga behind the set of Sin City 2. Robert @rodriguez and I, since Grindhouse, everytime we work together and then some, have paintings going, and we run between each take and splash some more color on. Gaga was there for a scene and she painted a portrait of herself — one of the best any of us had come up with. I love this shot because it’s all presentation put aside, and your just left with raw expression in the middle of the night, semi-naked, swathed in acrylics, unskilled and raw. Photos by @kathrynbrolin — #georgeyepes
I just like to thank @dior for our collaboration for my new cologne: Bat Shit. It is a campaign based on class, refinement, with a hint of a dark alley barroom brawl. Not sure why they demanded the dude in the background for the photo shoot but, hey, you’re the boss! Bat Shit by Josh Brolin. Bat Shit: it brings out mostly the best in you. #actorsmells #moneyinabottle #onlyinJapan #ppprrrttt