The Dirty Jerz

So I'm sitting in a hotel in Saddle River, New Jersey, right now, my wet hair up in a towel and dog tired after a red-eye to Newark from LAX, with a brisk layover in Chicago yesterday evening-melding-into-this-morning. It feels good to be back in Jersey, and it's neat because I'm out here on business (my first business trip in a long time, pretty kickass!).

The sky is tinted yellow with smog and it's nice and muggy, just like I remember those Jersey and Connecticut summers to be! I recall afternoons getting sweaty rollerblading around New Haven and up and down Grand and Marin streets in Jersey City. I recall afternoons moseying around Canal Street and roasting on the PATH or NYC Subway. Sigh!

It feels good to be back out here, feels like I never left. I feel myself settling back into the soul of a melancholy, hardened, cut-to-the-chase East Coaster.

Friday night I opened up the open mic at the Unurban with a 30-minute set of six faltering songs. I was nervous to begin with, as I had never played a 30-minute set in front of people who were actually paying attention to me (I've busked before, but that's a little different).

In addition to my horrible case of the stage shakes, I had cut my fingernails too short so I was forced to use a thin teardrop pick - and I'm not used to picks at all. Bummer. Although I received plenty of compliments afterwards, I was disappointed with the recording on the CD that they made for me. The crowd, though, was surprisingly a lot more young and femeil than it had been the week before. Maybe it had something to do with the holiday weekend.

Saturday morning I surfed Countyline again, then picked up my old roommate from New York, TC, from Burbank. On my way to the airport, I got lost and ran out of gas. Great thinking, Punky! I ended up on some buttfuck exit off of the 134 before Buena Vista with my car in neutral, pushing my car up the shoulder to get it out of traffic.

Luckily, a guy driving an old Caddy-style car stopped and offered to push my car to the nearest Chevron station on Pass Street. Of course, I saved myself the hour-long wait for Triple A and took him up on the offer. Without power, braking and steering take quite a lot of effort. What a sight we must have been on the road!

TC and I ended up spending the rest of the weekend doing touristy things, like talking to a photo crew at Melrose Place, gawking at the Chinese Theater and the Kodak Theater (I had no clue that this is where the Grammys are held) on Hollywood Boulevard and taking pictures of each other holding up fake Grammys for "Best Lover" and, my favorite, "Best Person".

We dined on Florida grouper, lamb, delicious pomegranate martinis and a sumptuous souffle while dropping some serious coin at Spago. We took a million pictures with countless Lamborghinis and Rolls's in Beverly Hills, and drank nasty-ass organic tea at 208 Rodeo.

Saturday night, we chatted with drunk guys from Boston at Renee's, and on Sunday, I donned my spiked leather bracelet and studded belt and we blitzed through the Rainbow, the Whisky, and the Viper Room. We ended the night at the Saddle Ranch, where we both rode the mechanical bull, and my groin still hurts. Both bull operators were from Texas!

On Memorial Day, strolled the Promenade and then made our way to the Santa Monica pier, where we munched churros and chatted with Elian the Argentinian reggae guitarist. The beach was decorated with hundreds of white crosses and the occasional Muslim crescent. TC, who is "Grecian," as George Bush would call her, commented on the congested "situation of American beaches" as she snapped a picture of the throngs of people dribbling onto the shore.

Afterwards, we met parrots and didgeridoo players at the Venice boardwalk, danced to the giant beachside drum circle, browsed the hippie shops, and checked out the graffiti walls. We ended up inhaling the best goddamned touristy-beachfront fish tacos at the Venice Beach Bistro, before heading to the airport for my midnight flight to Newark.