Ten minutes after dropping my bags in my Hell’s Kitchen home, cold Saporo in hand, I collapsed on the hardwood floor, exhausted.
I am home from my mom’s in suburban Philadelphia. I am home for 72 hours before hitting the road again.
Last night’s Livingroom Tour stop was extra-special. My mom accompanied on piano me on “Hollywood Arms.” And I debuted “Christopher Street,” which I dedicated to my brother on his 35th birthday. Then I gave him a brand-new Washburn acoustic guitar. the audience, though slightly grayer than normal, did a bang-up job singing along to “Radio,” and was genuinely appreciative. As was — as am — I.
And so, after a shower and some jumping jacks (I kid), I’m heading downtown for dinner. In the morning I’ll head back to 1515 Broadway for a few days of MTV News action. Then it’s off to Springfield, OH, and so on.
I feel a little shredded. I’m taking echinacea now, in the hopes that it will ward off the inevitable illness. I feel a little bleary too, like jet lag or geographic disorientation (where am I again?). But mostly I feel lucky, and grateful, and eager to keep this streak going. After a good, long, sun-soaked break on a deserted tropical beach somewhere. Well, mostly deserted. Maybe a travel partner, my guitar, and a tall umbrella-topped drink would be in order.