There was a really Pinterestpiring quote attached to this but I can’t find it. Hold on a second.
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.
There’s something really romantic going on here but I just can’t nail it down.
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 Pinterestensitive. 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
This is hard to watch but the character and wherewithal that comes from the tough love of communal support is the stuff I look back on with nothing but gratitude and awe. That’s what made me cry watching this video. That embarrassing, awful feeling that your less than and only with the support of your village you find that extra spark in yourself you might never have alone — that other side of a the wall that didn’t know existed. I’ve had people in my life that have done that for me and without them I might never have touched a potential laying secretly in wait. #stillonthatroad #zerbe#examplesofdiggingdowndeep#thereisbadandgoodinallofus#choice#makeadifferencePinterestomeoneslife
Sometimes it just feels better to use the steps. #fuckstatusquoPhoto by @kathrynbrolin
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
It’s that soundtrack that reminds me of my mother, I think. Those mornings I fed the horses when childhood was supposed to be piñatas and pinning the tail on the donkey, and I was, Pinteresttead, stacking phone books on the bench seat of the dark green Chevy so I could see over the steering wheel then rolling wire wrapped hay bales into the seven foot bed with the tail down. There was feeding the wolves chicken necks and the bobcats horse meat that we took out from the freezer the night before. There was Bud, the ranch-hand who was coerced into the lion cage by my mother (she was always good at that) and he was a tough guy, for real tough, and, yes, she laughed when the lion opened its mouth, as if it was a test, and slowly sunk his teeth through Bud’s jeans then into the flesh of his leg. We all froze, except my mother who continued laughing as if she was at a bar and had just heard a good shit-your-pants joke on her third or fourth drink. She loved Waylon Jennings and George Jones and as she sang along I always imagined a cow gasping for air or a drunk trying to communicate through tongue swollen thoughts. She was five foot three with the dirty halo of a mastodon. These are the balloons we never saw growing up. The faces would have scared me anyway. No, those wild animals were our play sets; the cages, our forts; and bedtime stories came from whoever was over: drink in one hand, cigarette almost to the filter in the other. #mothersday #talesoftempleton#ladyjane #missyou #rycooter#smokinginheaven
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. @narrativeprLiz 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 @versaceThank you for giving me @chrishemsworth suit cuz we the same size and he’s busy losing weight. I got pictures for later from the Pinterestide — the things I seen. Oh, and @marvelstudiosthanks 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, Pinteresttead 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
#repost @saltysandra ・・・ Once in a while you come across a video that just makes you cry with laughter and swell in smiles. Well, this is that shit for me, period. @larsulrich #alterego#punkliveseverywhere
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.
I was never able to post this before, for obvious reasons. But behind all the hate, all the misunderstandings, all the bruises, bumps, and ashes, there was this on my 50th birthday. So deep deep down, even from these guys and gals, everyone has a little purple love in them. #teamthanos Love my wife @kathrynbrolin @disneystudios@marvelstudios @disney@therussobrothers@robertdowneyjr #avengers ???? *** Epicly filmed by @jimmy_rich
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.