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Years ago, when I was recording the first of two albums (“Almost Home” and “Love & Other Indoor Games”) at my pal Kevin Anthony’s Control One Studios, I began most sessions with a delicious, toasty Turkey Ranch Sub from Quiznos on 23d Street. Tonight, Chris and I are editing just a few blocks from there,…

I’m pretty sure I’m not a tortured artist, though I may be a masochist. Most readers flock to best sellers, pap like Joseph Hellerman, Dean Koontz, or Scott Turow. Nothing wrong with that; I enjoy a blockbuster page-turner like the guy in the next seat on the plane. My pap, though, is the rock bio.…

I’ve made two fairly boneheaded training mistakes in the last two weeks. Two weeks ago, I decided it would be fun to jog up then sprint down a mountain above Los Angeles just two hours before boarding the red eye to New York, and two days before the Brooklyn Half Marathon. And yesterday, I set…

I distinctly recall standing next to Abbi in Brooklyn, staring way down Flatbush Avenue towards downtown Manhattan. We were testing the waters together, trying to find a neighborhood in which to move. The process, though, was pushing some other buttons. “But it’s so far away!” I whined. Later, on the subway, I articulated what I…

Sometime just before I asked Abbi to marry me, I cracked open a fortune cookie that read, “Everything will soon come your way.” Not to gloat, but today felt that way. First, Jamie Leonhart and I made a date to sing “Killing The Blues” next weekend. Then, Chris Suchorsky’s Damnwells’ documentary, “Golden Days,” hit my…

I blame Jason Walsmith. It was last June. The 30th, to be precise. My wife, Abbi, and I had flown into Iowa City that morning, then streaked westward on I-80. My pal, Josh Davis, was performing on the Authentic Records’ stage at the Des Moines Arts Festival when we pulled up to Western Gateway Park.…