Cut Me, Mick
Rock ‘n roll is like boxing.
This is not a terrifically original thesis, I realize. Aimee Mann has a whole concept album relating boxing to life, set to (duh) rock ‘n roll. The title, “The Forgotten Arm,” refers (as she told me in this 2002 interview), is derived from a boxing move in which one arm is used to hit the opponent, causing him to “forget” about the other arm, which is then used to deliver a harsher blow.
I have not taken up boxing, nor do I have a sucker punch in waiting for you, or anyone else. I do, however, have a rock show Wednesday night. You might recall my mentioning it, or you might have received an email reminding you about it. Yes, it’s that much ballyhooed CMJ showcase (8pm sharp!) at Alphabet Lounge (104 Avenue C at 7th Street). Anyway, preparing for said rock show, or any rock show, is a little bit like preparing for a boxing match. (Follow me on this one.)
I’ll be honest with you: I don’t play guitar, write songs, or rehearse with other musicians every day. I’d like to. For that matter, I’d like to play shows and do interviews and, while I’m at it, make movies and take long walks on the beach. But I don’t. And so, when, after a period of relative inactivity (in so much as performance is concerned; it has been nearly six months since my last full-band, non-living room performance — Buckeye notwithstanding), I come out of near retirement, I feel like R. Kelly (who himself utilized boxing imagery for his 2001 video, “The World’s Greatest”) or (brace yourself for this one), Rocky Balboa.
My team, that is, the guys in my corner (as it were), are fairly new. Chris Abad and I have been performing together since 2004 (that’s his excellent guitar work all over “Love & Other Indoor Games”). Drummer Ryan Vaughn, though, is a recent addition. Likewise bassist Jason Nichols. They’re excellent guys, no doubt. But when it comes to taking a razor to a swollen eye or smelling salts to a foggy noggin’ (more boxing references, people), well, we’re collectively untested.
And so it was tonight as we took our first, unsteady steps through rehearsal. The set is short, just thirty minutes. All CMJ sets are. Taken together and released on CD, my song choices might constitute a fine “Greatest Hits” EP, comprised of songs from “Heartland,” “Crash Site,” “Love,” plus a few covers thrown in for good measure. Our first run through “Harder To Believe,” though, was, well, rocky (not “Rocky,” but… you get the idea). For at least a half an hour or so, I was wondering whether we were going to train wreck on Wednesday night. I was mentally juggling my calendar to squeeze in another rehearsal. It wasn’t that we didn’t know our parts, we did. It was that we weren’t listening to each other. We were rushing. We didn’t sound like a band.
The momentum shifted, I think, when Chris — in his best Noel Gallagher accent — said, “Pick up the bass,” signalling the band to kick in on the second verse of “Go Let It Out.” Suddenly, bodies were swaying, heads were bobbing, and lighters were flickering all across Wembly Stadium. Suddenly, we were a band.
I can’t promise you a knock out punch Wednesday night. I’m not even sure we’ll win the fight. I can assure you, though, that Chris, Ryan, Jason and I will go the distance. And when the final bell sounds, and the ring clears, you will find us in our corner, arms stretched to the sky like champions.
Such Great Heights
The Dewars Lounge in Terminal C of the Southwest Florida Regional Airport is nearly empty. Ours is the last flight of the night. Over beers and sandwiches, I tell Abbi about the round of golf my brother, father and I played this morning.
“I tell myself two things before every shot,” I said. “Keep your head down, and get out of the way.”
The former is the residual ethos derived of an age-old bad habit. I went hitless for entire afternoons of high school baseball, throwing my head out of my swing instead of watching the bat strike the ball. Likewise golf. Though I rarely play (it’s been two years), and do so solely in an effort to garner quality time with my reveared elder male relatives (my father, my uncle), I have been known to top the ball, sending it bouncing just a few feet off the tee, whiff it completely.
The latter, though, is the sage advice of Shivas Irons, protagonist of Esalen founder Michael Murphy’s fictional, mystic memoire, “Golf In The Kingdom.” I don’t read alot of golf books; I’m a more into post-modern fiction (Douglas Coupland, Nick Hornby, Russel Banks), World War Two non-fiction (“D-Day,” “Band Of Brothers,” “Flag Of Our Fathers”), rock bios (Dylan’s “Chronicles,” Legs McNeil’s “Please Kill Me,” Greg Kot’s “Learning To Die”), and the occassional rock criticism (Chuck Klosterman, Lester Bangs). But when my father sends me golf books — mystic or not — I read ‘em.
After a particularly solid drive on the seventh hole (a 367 yard par four) of the Beachview Country Club course, my father paid me a high complimet.
“Nice hit,” he said.
“I tell myself two things before I hit the ball,” I said. “Keep your head down, and get out of the way.”
He smiled, then added one more nugget of Irons’ wisdom.
“And find your true center.”
I am loose lipped and emotional as I post-mortem the weekend of my father’s sixtieth birthday on Sanibel Island (click here for photos from the trip).
“It’s so weird,” I tell her. “I’m right on the edge of crying as I tell you you this. But it occurs to me just now that, for better or worse, my lot in life is to have a finely tuned sense of when I’m even a little bit off from my true center. It’s like a gyroscope, and I can tell when it’s just a speck off of its axis. I think that’s where all of the songs and writing and stuff comes from, but also the melancholy.”
“But it’s so hard to know when everything is centered,” she says.
“I dunno. For me, everything gets quiet. There are no voices in my head, no fear, or worry, or sadness, or anxiety. And I’m not looking backwards or forwards. I’m just,” I say, snapping my fingers, “right here. Right now.”
I take a sip of beer, and signal the bartender for our check.
“And then it’s gone.”
We settle up, shoulder our carry ons, and head for the gate.
‘Keep your head down, find your true center, and then get out of the way,’ I remind myself.
Everything is quiet in my head — no fear, worries, or sadness — as we lift off into the inky night with just one way to look: up.
It’s All Behind You
It’s a rare thing to witness someone you love do something you love to do, but better, and to more fanfare. Such was the case last night when my pals Casey Shea, Wes Verhoeve, and Jeff Jacobson — aka
In Between Days (Or, “Daysleeper”)
It’s a pre-flight ritual: LAX’s Expedia Lounge, washing down a Xanax with a tall Sam Adams and a sandwich, writing home.
I just got off the phone with Abbi, who I called back after a terse, vacant call from the Hertz shuttle bus.
“In the event this is our last conversation,” I said, “I want to be sure you remember me as enthusiastic and warm, and as having said that you’re the best part of my life.”
It is a wonderful life, despite how I might feel at the moment (sullen, stressed, sore). Plenty of people never leave their hometown. Plenty of people have soul killing jobs, and come home to sit on the couch and watch TV. Or worse. So (as I said to Abbi), cry me a river, right? Still, you asked (I mean, you clicked), so I’ll tell you: I feel off.
I’ve been whittling away at the 100+ emails I owed ya’ll after you so kindly introduced yourselves. Ana (from, ironically, L.A.) wrote, “I like reading your blog because it sounds like you’re in the in between stage: not as young as I am, no offense, and not as old as my parents.” ‘Yes!’ I thought, ‘I am in between, like, all the time!’
And that’s it, really, isn’t it? We’re always in between (or, as I told my cousin Andrew in 1993, and later titled my debut solo release, we’re always almost there). And that’s, I think, what’s going on right now: the waiting, the becoming, the gloaming. Between what? Becoming what? Executive Producer and Vice President? Boy and Man? Bachelor and Husband? Asleep and Awake? New York and L.A.? I don’t know, really. And that’s the trick. That’s the challenge.
Growing up, my mother used to say, “This is the most difficult transition I’ve ever gone through.” And I’d say, “You always say that, mom.” But now I get it! They’re all the most difficult transitions, because each one is more difficult than the one before. Each challenge is commeserate on one’s ability to withstand it.
It’s no fun to read about, I know. It’s less fun to live.
In an effort, then, to focus on the positive, let me share my three favorite random L.A. moments:
Monday morning, just moments after retrieving my rented Ford Taurus from valet, NPR’ Morning Edition reported that, after a $5.8 billion third quarter loss, Ford announced that it was dicontinuing … the Ford Taurus.
Tuesday night, driving home from the office, NPR’s Fresh Air featured an interview with “Birth” author, Boston Globe journalist Tina Cassidy. I drove around Santa Monica looking at real estate and considering my anticipated fatherhood until the fascinating, informative interview concluded.
Tonight, sitting at a stoplight on the edge of LAX, a JAL 747 roared towards a landing less than fifty feet over my head.
All three favorite random moments occurred, appropriately for Los Angeles, in the car. The next, though, will occur in the air. It’ll go like this: I’ll tuck my bag into the overhead bin, sit down, pull my sunglasses over my eyes, put my earphones in my ear, and press play…
Five hours and three thousand miles later, I’ll be home. Almost home, anyway.
Interiors
I woke up at 5:14 this morning, then tossed and turned and worried until the alarm sounded at six.
Will this headache go away? Are these chest pains a harbinger? Will my knee heal? Will I finish the marathon? Am I doing too much? Will I get sick next week? What are the lyrics to “Go Let It Out” again? Is Tim Russert going to be cool? Am I prepared for that David Gale meeting? Am I going to work for MTV forever? Am I happy? Ooh, what’s that new pain in my side? I wonder how Sibby’s doing? Did I do the right thing with that descision? Is the West Coast team getting what it needs? Am I a good manager? I wonder how John remembers me? Are we going to land this project? Am I going to be here for The Big One? Am I going to marry her? Are we going to live happily ever after? Is this going to get any easier? Am I going to amount to anything?
Ten years of travel to Southern California have been all about the outdoors: biking Venice, hiking Runyon, running Topanga, swimming Zuma, Griffith Observatory, The Getty, and The Greek. With no thanks to my injury, my job, and my schedule, this trip, though, has been almost completely interior. With the exception of that which lies just beyond the window of my rental car, my hotel room, and my office (which, best as I can tell, is just beautiful), all I have seen this week is hermetically-sealed, thoroughly-considered interior design (click here to see what I mean).
Sure, my closet is bigger than my bedroom, I have two TVs, and French doors. And yeah, I can see the Pacific from my window, and the Hollywood Hills from my office.
But I just spent an hour on an elliptical machine. I just spent an hour going around and around and around, staring at the wall, running to stand still, getting nowhere fast.
Bittersweet Surrender
Though I deliver this post to you from the stark white, Midcentury interior of my Palm Springs Bungalow, where the sun is presiding over a crystal clear, 90° afternoon, I will tell you in no uncertain terms (with a reticence to sound like a malcontent) that it is all bittersweet (more sweet than bitter, but still).
My flight touched down at LAX at 10:00 PT Saturday morning. I was barreling eastward on The 10 in my maroon Ford Taurus (again, thanks Hertz) by 11:00. I pulled into the motel parking lot at 2:00. When neither Walter nor Davey answered in the office, I drove southeast along East Palm Canyon Drive drive in search of a bookstore. A local oldies station played Frank Sinatra, Sam Cooke, and Tommy Dorsey as I rolled leisurely past retirees casually driving their Cadillacs and Pontiacs along the edge of the mountains. I spotted a Borders at the River at Rancho Mirage, stepped inside to purchase Tim Russert’s book (on account of the fact that I’m interviewing him in three weeks), then headed back to The Bungalows.
Walter and Davey welcomed me back (you’ll recall that I spent a weekend here in February recording “The Desert Star”). Moments later, my masseuse arrived. After an hour-long massage in my living room — windows and doors thrown wide to the sound of the wind through the palms — I sat a while by the pool sipping an ice cold beer.
Why then, you ask, the bitter sweet? Count on me to find melancholy in the most astounding settings.
Once known as the “Playground of the Stars,” Palm Springs lies at the foot of one of Southern California’s most majestic mountain peaks, 10,834-foot-tall Mount San Jacinto, whose eastern flank abuts downtown. Spanish explorers found the Agua Caliente Band of Cahuilla Indians here in th 18th Century. The Cahuilla considered the hot spring a place of power and healing where nukatem (powerful beings) dwell and a source from which shamans obtained their power. Two hundred years later, Hollywood adopted these sacred waters as thier own. Clark Gable, Al Jolson, Greta Garbo, Cary Grant, Howard Hughes, Bob Hope, Elvis Presley, Lucille Ball, Sonny Bono and — of course — Frank Sinatra, all called this desert oasis 110 miles east of Los Angeles home.
So in addition to this amazing desert environment (if you’re having a tough time imagining the place, Joshua Tree National Park is 30 miles miles northeast; picture U2 album art), you’ve got this town of liesure comprisd of angular, Tomorrowland-esque futurism from the 40s and 50s. The Desert Star Bungalow, for example, were built in 1954. The rooms are open and sunny, and furnished with modern designs from Eames, Nelson, and Bertoia. In a word, uber-cool.
So, why the long face?
I’ve been tp Palm Springs at least a dozen times in as many years. I wrote a magazine article on National Park Service internship in 1995. I recorded the “Happy, Not Happy EP” here in 1996 (don’t look for it; it’s out of print). I mixed “Crash Site” here in 2001. I spent numerous weekends here with the woman who came to inspired much of “Almost Home.” This year alone I’ve visited twice. Why? Simple: the silence, and the sun. I love the sound of the birds, and the rush of the palms. And I love a cool dip in the pool. But the thing is, I’m not much to sit around reading magazines. I like to hike. I like to run. I can do neither.
I woke around 7:30 this morning, and decided today was the day. My running shoes felt funny; it’s been so long since I’ve worn them. Still, I was excited, if tentative. My first few footfalls were pain free. ‘I’ve recovered!’ I thought. By the end of the street, though, I knew better. Though the pain in my knee was diminished, it hurt. I ran a block more, then stopped, exasperated. I heard voices in my head: Abbi’s, my mom, dad, and doctors, everyone telling me, “Take it easy. Don’t overdo it. Trust your body.”
Not being able to run probably doesn’t count for much here in this paradise. It’s probably some sort of message, one I’m too deaf or too stubburn to get. If you figure it out for me, I’ll be by the pool.
In A Cab Headed Uptown
I’m in a cab headed uptown, just southeast of Chrysler Building (my favorite New York City skyscraper, hands-down).
I’m tapping this missive into my Blackberry while listening to The Changes’ “When I Wake.” The song is genius. The chorus makes me immediately happy: all synths, upbeat drums, and the catchiest melody since Madness’ “Our House.” My ipod playlist is called “Up with People,” which is kinda funny.
Passing through First Avenue tunnel, the one with yellow lights below the UN. Puked in back of cab here one summer years and years ago after lots and lots of gin and tonics. Haven’t had one since.
Was out with colleagues tonight, which is rare. UK correspondent Tim Cash is in town, so had a small dinner at Cajun place on 6th and First in his honor. Fun time, sweet guy. My colleagues are bright and know their stuff. Sometimes I feel dumb around them in so much that I know neither rock and hip hop facts nor industry gossip. Sometimes I wonder what I’m good for, what I know. I’m so spread out, so multi-disciplline: dot com exec, singer/songwriter, blogger, documentary filmmaker. What do they say? Jack of all trades, master of none?
A little nauseous now from all the bumps. And beer. And jambalaya.
About to enter Central Park transverse. Wish I were running in the morning.
Transverse now. Almost home.
Fare is $12.70, $14.00 with tip.
Hope there’s mochi in the freezer.
G’night.
If You Wanna’ Kiss The Sky You Better Learn How To Kneel (On Your Knees Boy)
I’ve had an ice pack on my right knee for so long that cold is beginning to feel hot.
So, the doc said it’s quadriceps tendonitis. In fact, both docs said so: Dr. Woo (who was the first doctor available at Manhattan Orthopedic & Sports Medicine), and my go to guy, Iron Man Triathlete Dr. Mark Klion. On a scale of one to ten, we agree that the injury is a two. In terms of timing, though, it’s an eight.
Quadriceps tendonitis is an inflamation in the connective tissue between one’s quadricep muscle (the huge muscle in the front of your lef) and the patella, or kneecap.
The New York City Marathon is seventeen days away.
Their advice: three Advil three times a day, ice 4-5 times a day, and plenty of rest…
Seventeen days before the New York City Marathon.
In years past, when training was growing tedious, or I didn’t feel up to the race, I would wish a small injury on myself. I may have even said something similar to Abbigail recently during a particularly unpleasant long run.
I don’t wish for an injury anymore. I just wish I could run.
Imagine that you’ve spent, say, ten hours a week practicing something, and a bunch of the time in between preparing for it and worrying about it. And then… And then you injur yourself goofing around with a three-year-old (a delightful three-year-old, but still).
It is impossible not to consider the symbolic meaning in all of this. I’ve never been so focussed on training, nor ever been so in tune with my body (I’ve been to six doctors in fifteen days). So why me? And why now? Did I need some sort of humbling? Did I need a greater challenge? Is it some cosmic message that I need to slow down?
I haven’t run since Sunday’s Staten Island Half Marathon, and already I feel like a lard ass.
Ok, enough whining. Here’s what I’m going to do.
I’m going to ride my bike in the morning. I’m going to keep up with the ice and the Advil. I’m going to keep up with the stretching, and resting. On Sunday morning (I leave for L.A. on Saturday, by the way), I’m going to go for a short run in Palm Springs. I’m going to take it easy, and see how it goes. Then ice, and rest, and ice some more.
On Sunday, November 5, I’m going to run the New York City Marathon. And when I’ve crossed the finish line, and put my metal around my kneck, and wrapped myself in mylar, I’m going to find Ethan in the crowd, walk to the playground, and goof around on the tallest, longest, fastest slide I can find.
It’s alright, it’s alright, it’s all right.
Let’s Sing Songs (To Spite The Devil)
I have a long standing policy of not stepping foot inside a venue until I’m booked to step onto said venue’s stage. With CBGB, this proved a wise policy.
Founded in 1973, CBGB (aka Country Bluegrass Blues and Other Music for Uplifting Gormandizers) became the much-celebrated birthplace of punk. The Ramones, Patti Smith, Television, Blondie and Talking Heads laid a foundation for a decidedly American version of loud, fast, and out of control. Gritty, grimy, and heavily distorted, the sound (and the style) made nearly every band that followed — from REM to Green Day to U2 — possible.
More than that, CBGB was shorthand for New York City Rock. Passing through New York? Gotta’ play CBs. The list of those who did is staggeringly diverse: AC/DC, B-52′s, Bad Religion, Crowded House, Dave Matthews, Guns N’ Roses, Jeff Buckley, Joan Jett, Korn, Pearl Jam, The Police, Sonic Youth, Sould Asylum, They Might Be Giants…
And me.
I performed at CBs three times: June 16, 1998; October 6, 1998; and March 20, 2002 (click here to watch an MTV News segment about the latter).
I don’t remember much of my performances, except that they were extra-awesome, and under-attended (kidding, about the former, anyway). At the time, I was intent on rocking. I played electric guitar, and sometimes wore pleather pants and fingernail polish. It wasn’t pretty.
But I remember the place, and the reverence and reticence I felt before passing through the threshold. This was, after all, hallowed ground. And while many mediocre matinee bands had stood on that stage, so had Joey Ramone, David Byrne, Debby Harry, and even my hero, Michael Stipe.
I remember the low ceiling over the stage, and fireproofing hanging from the rafters. I remember warm beer, dumpster-diving furniture, and urinals caked with grime. I remember struggling to fill the long, narrow room with noise. And I remember slapping a Benjamin Wagner sticker on the men’s room wall, before slipping out the door without getting paid (again).
But I also remember feeling as though I’d accomplished something. I remember thinking that, for all the years of legend that preceded it, and for all the years I’d read about the place in Rolling Stone, I’d finally done something fairly unique, like climbing Kilimanjaro or visiting Machu Picchu. For better or worse, anticlimax or not, I was one in a million — or, by my calculation, one in 225,000 (thirty years of five bands a night with four guys per band). Whatever the math, and however little luster remained on the place, no one can take that away.
In the wee hours of the morning, of course, CBGBs shuttered its doors for the last time. Hilly lost his lease, and is moving to (where else) Las Vegas.
“It’s a symptom of the empty new prosperity of our city,” Patti Smith told told The Times.
And she’s right. When I first visited The Bowery in the early 90s, there was still a whiff of danger in the air. By the time I performed there, the streetlights had new bulbs, and cute little Irish bars were popping up all over. Now there’s a smoked glass condo overhead, and a Whole Foods across the street.
More important than the neighborhood, or the institution, though, is the venue’s legacy. Lenny Kaye told The New York Times, “When I go into a rock club in Helsinki or London or Des Moines, it feels like CBGB to me there.”
I played my first rock show at The Lost Horizon in Syracuse, New York. It was a cavernous, filthy space with black paint and band stickers on the walls. When I played CBs ten years later, I gathered that The Lost was a ruse. Likewise The Reverb in Iowa Falls, Sokol Underground in Omaha, Nebraska, and a thousand other poorly lit stages.
And so it is, CBGBs — like The Continental, The Bottom Line, Fez, and Luna Lounge before it — is closed. Smith, for one, refuses to mourne.
“Kids’ll find some other club,” she said. “They’ll find a place that nobody wants, and one guy who believes in [them], and just do [their] thing. Anybody can do that, anywhere in the world, any time.”
Rollin’ And Tumblin’
Moments after Abbi snapped a staggeringly adorable photo of Ethan and me, I was crumpled into the fetal position at the bottom of a slide.
Yesterday afternoon — a beautiful, clear, crisp fall day — Abbi and I met Chris, Jen, Ethan and Edward at Hippo Playground in Riverside Park. Initially, Ethan was suitably distracted by the monkey bars. Soon enough, though, his attention turned to the slide. And Abbi. He was beside himself with joy, so much so it was practically fanaticism. He was laughing and screaming, running up and down the ladder with Abbi like it was their last day on earth.
Abbi’s no dummy. She knew I wanted in on the fun.
“Do you want to slide with Uncle Benjamin?”
Ethan stopped in his tracks and began clapping.
“Uncle Benjamin! Uncle Benjamin! Uncle Benjamin!
I would toss myself from the top of the monkey bars for that sort of enthusiasm. Which is practically what happend.
We slid down the slide together a few times, whooping and hollering, then chased each other up the ladder and did it all over again. He played like he was pushing me, I played like I was falling. Which is, apparently, how I slammed my knee cap into the side of the slide.
One eye witness, who was snapping photos at the time, retells it thusly:
You were at the top of slide playing with Ethan and attempting to do slide tricks like turning over on your stomach as you slid down. The rubber of your sneaker got caught, and your leg — from your knee to your foot — got jammed, width-wise, between the sides. You banged you knee against the side, tore a couple of layers of skin off, and came to a stop. Then you flopped off the slide onto the ground.
Adding insult to injury (or, as it were, injury to injury), the metallic sides of the slide where rippled where it flattened out for a landing. That — and the soles of my sneakers, and the impossible geometry of a long leg in a short space — is what brought me to my painful stop.
It felt like someone had slammed a hammer into my knee cap. But Ethan was right there, and I didn’t want to freak him out, so I popped right up, and tried to walk it off. But I knew I was messed up. I knew my marathon was in jeapordy. I spent the balance of the day icing me knee in front of the TV.
This morning was the Staten Island Half Marathon. All week long I joked that it was no big deal. “We’re gonna go out and party,” I said, “Then run the half.”
Ha, ha.
I knew I was in trouble within just a few steps of the start. The pain was extreme, shooting up the center of my knee cap and trhough my quad. I stiffened my leg, pretecting my knee from impact. By mile three I was dragging my right leg behind me like a dead appendage. By mile seven, the sole of my sneaker was scrapping on the pavement. My left leg was doing all the work. My right was full of tension, exacerbating my already irritated IT band.
Abbi, to her credit, kept encouraging me to walk it in. But I refused. As long as I started, I was going to finish.
At mile eleven I told Abbi, “Yunno what? I don’t even feel it anymore.”
Adrenaline.
Nearly twelve hours and three ice packs later, I feel it. I think I’ll make it, but the marathon’s still in doubt. We’ll see. Meantime, I’ll take those playgrounds more seriously. They’re career enders.
Still, I love The Kid, and I’d do it again. Well… maybe.
