Grounded, 5 A.M.

I’m writing you from Gate B-40 at the Pittsburgh International Airport. Why I’m layed over here en route to Ft. Meyers, Florida, is anyone’s guess. Only USAir will ever know.

I stayed up kinda’ late last night cleaning up “Handshake Drugs & The Social Registry”, the first installment of my memoir-in-progress, “33 1/3,” and hastily posting it to the site. You may recognize some of it from the liner notes of “Love & Other Indoor Games” (a record highly informed by the relationship in question). It’s a dozen or so pages I wrote last winter. My objective was to write about what I don’t blog about. My objective was for something of a tell-all. So, it’s a little raw.

I’m not entirely sure what motivated me to put it online last night. Stephanie’s recent (well-deserved) success definately inspired. She’s been working really hard on her writing, even though it looks like she’s all martinis and hot guys (that too), so I couldn’t be more excited for her. And she was sweet enough to IM me, “You’re next!” Which, at my age, I’m quite dubious about (but wouldn’t my father be proud). I appreciated the sentiment. I also figured that if I made it a bit more public, then maybe it will motivate to keep writing, and finish off my account of last year, my 33d year, which was a doozy.

So I woke up at 4 a.m. this morning, having neither packed, nor secured a vehicle to get from the Ft. Meyer’s airport to my aunt and uncle’s 30 miles south in Naples. In fact, I still don’t know how I’m getting to their place. Seems I’ve been racing around so much — New York to Sundance to New York to Los Angeles — that I failed to even rent a car. So when I finally had 30 seconds to look online yesterday, it was $1000 for a Hyundai for five days. Um, no thanks. Looks like it’s gonna’ be a long cab ride.

So once I get there, I’m pretty much doing nothing. Heather (who endorsed my posting of “Handshake” last night, but warned, “Don’t expose too much of yourself,” to which I replied, “Have you listened to my records?”) encouraged me to leave my guitar and ProTools at home. So other than “Rolling Stone,” “Entertainment Weekly,” “Premiere,” “Interview,” and “Esquire” (all of which have been sitting unread for weeks), plus Thomas Merton’s autobiography, “The Seven Story Mountain” (thanks, mom), well, looks like I’ll be sitting in the sand watching the sun track overhead. And swimming with the dolphins. Which ain’t bad, really. Ain’t bad at all.

Oh, P.S. If you’re a New Yorker, or aspire to be one for at least a weekend, I’m playing an honest-to-God solo show next Friday, February 25 (Alphabet Lounge on Avenue A & 7th Street). I can’t remember the last time I played in the city without the band. So if you’re into that sorta’ thing, please do come down.

P.P.S. I changed my mind. Walker’s joining me on drums, and Tony’s gonna’ play his upright bass. But we’re still dragging out some of my more obscure songs, plus one new one, plus a new cover. So it’ll be cool, and still well worth your effort.