LA Diary, Part 4 (Up In the Air)

Friday, Jan 15, 3:25PM
I’m on Larchmont street, which is kind of like Hillsboro Village in Nashville, if Hillsboro Village only had franchised coffee shops, and all of them were next door to each other. It might be the caffeine capital of the world. It might be the best.

No, it’s definitely the best, because I just saw The Red-Headed-Woman-From-Old School-ER. I want to ask her if she keeps up with Omar Epps. I want to tell her that I never watched the show after they killed his character. I want to tell her a great many things, but type this sentence instead.

Friday, Jan 15, 3:58PM
While playing guitar and singing in my friend’s apartment, I hear a strange noise. I stop playing and listen. I think I hear singing and faint drumming (like someone banging on a kitchen counter) somewhere below me, but I can’t be sure. Maybe it's someone next door watching Behind the Music.

Friday, Jan 15, 5:59PM
I’m due at the Hotel Cafe by 6:30, and I’m leaving from an apartment one mile from the venue. In theory, thirty-one minutes is enough time to travel one mile. In theory.

In actuality, I witness the type of traffic jam that can only be described as “foreign,” the kind of hardly-controlled chaos you see on the Travel Channel when the host visits Egypt. It’s enough to make a man crazy. It’s enough to make anyone forsake driving. It’s enough to make my gracious pilot swear like a longshoreman. Thankfully, it’s not enough to make me late.

The Hotel Cafe is a venue that has become nationally renowned in the past several years, due to the breakthrough of so many LA-based singer/songwriters (Cary Brothers, Joshua Radin, Sara Bareilles, etc.). At first, it was the venue of choice because it’s an extremely well-run and artist-friendly venue with amazing sound and a great, intimate vibe. Soon after, the Hotel Cafe started booking its own nationwide tours featuring its most prominent regulars, putting out compilations, and becoming a star in its own right.

With good reason.

The space is remarkable: low lighting, reds and browns, oak and brass, open sightlines. It's big enough to host a real party, but built for natural intimacy. It’s also achieved the highest status that any mid-sized venue can attain: it’s such a great environment, and has such a proven track record of talent booking, people just come regardless of who’s playing each night. There’s always a crowd.

These are my favorite places to play.

I’m on in one hour.

Friday, Jan 15, 8:52PM
To call the sound in this room “great” is to call Usain Bolt “quick.” It's no coincidence that my favorite venues are the venues with best sound; there is no overstating how much this matters to a performer onstage. Lots of venues can swing decent sound in the main room, but can't replicate it onstage. Blame it on bad acoustics, inexperienced sound guys, worse equipment, or anything else. But when the sound guy gets it, and the room has wonderful natural acoustics, an artist never wants to leave.

I never want to leave.

Eventually, I will. I did stop playing when I was supposed to. Although there was a point where I wondered what would happen if I refused to stop playing. Do they have security? Could I take them? Would the audience appreciate a singer/songwriter who finishes his set with an acoustic version of “Stairway to Heaven,” and a barfight?

But I’m not leaving just yet. I’m not leaving yet because Steve Reynolds is playing something that can best be described as “indescribably Celtic,” and “wholly gorgeous,” as his accompanying guitarist makes noises that come from somewhere and someplace far away. And now a bearded, hooded guy from the crowd jumps onstage and joins him on the next chorus, singing high harmony on a vocal mic that (of course) was ready for him, and now I’m thinking, “my God, that guy’s got some vocal power on some really high notes,” and now I’m realizing, “that’s Cary Brothers,” and now I’m not going anywhere, ever.

Friday, Jan 15, 10:17PM
I think I just signed a development deal with a German label. You're reading the new Hasselhoff.

Friday, January 15, 11:44PM
Riding bitch in a new best friend’s sedan, crammed in the back like high schoolers, Kelly Clarkson on blast. Sometime, someday, in the very near future, the jetlag and time difference and adrenaline and caffeine will all add up and I’ll collapse. My muscles will relax as if on tranquilizers, my eyes will lower like lead curtains, and I’ll dream for hours. I'll rest, eventually.

But not yet. Every time of night feels young. There are new best friends to see, and music to blast. I’ve got plenty in the tank, and one more night.

Saturday, January 16, 8:27AM
If someone came into this room right now and demanded I swim five miles, or fight a tiger, or talk to Tom Brokaw, I think I could do it. I’ve had no coffee, and I’m wired. Is this what it’s like to be well-rested?

If so, I might move to LA.

I hear someone’s TV downstairs. I hear cars on North Rossmore like wave after wave. The city is moving, but slowly. Dogs abound. Strollers meet sidewalk. And I want to play another concert, right now, for anyone.

Saturday, January 16, 12:01PM
I keep seeing places I recognize from The Hills. I don’t know whether I should love this fact, or be ashamed of myself. In the spirit of compromise, I announce to the car every Hills-noteworthy sight I recognize, and explain with a zealot’s fervor why Laguna Beach was one of my favorite television series of all-time, and why I’ll always have residual love for its offspring.

Look, Milk!

For such a granola town, there sure are a lot of chicken-n-waffles and mac-and-cheese options around here. Even LA-ers love their comfort food. Everyone needs a hug.

Saturday, January 16, 1:08PM
Two older gentlemen downstairs ask me if I was the one singing yesterday. I say, "yes sir, did I disturb you?" "Oh no, we were playing along!"

So that was the Behind the Music at 3:58 yesterday: my new band of kitchenette-drumming Hungarians.

Rock!

Saturday, January 16, 2:14PM
I’m at the Arclight, about to see Up In the Air with a friend. Arclight, for those of you unaware (like me, four minutes ago) is like a movie theater on steroids. It’s not so much a fancy version of a normal movie theater; it’s like if Steven Spielberg made his home theater bigger, and open to the public. It almost feels like a cathedral to cinema, if cathedrals were shiny and sold gourmet popcorn. The staff here has all the warmth, hustle, and shared knowledge of museum employees. There are fourteen theaters, all huge, immaculate, sparsely populated, and filled with uberplush, royal blue reclining chairs. I’ve never seen armrests this big.

Of course, Hollywood’s a movie town. It stands to reason that they take their movie-going experience seriously. Nashville pays similar respect to its country music venues except those preserve history rather than honor modernity (replace "uberplush reclining chairs" with "prehistoric wooden benches").

Anyway, I'm excited. I can’t remember the last time I saw a movie in the theaters. When did Nell come out?

Saturday, Jan 16, 5:09PM
Up In the Air is somewhere between “really solid” and “completely awesome.” After one viewing, I’ll call it “borderline great.”

As my Brother mentioned, it’s slightly weird that this might win Best Picture, but Wonderboys was a relative afterthought upon its release. They occupy a similar stylistic space, explore some similar themes, and have a comparable scope.

The lesson, as always: Clooney’s still Clooney. And you’re not.

Of course, what’s really to be learned from Up In the Air is that I’m a woefully inefficient traveler. Pros pack with joyless, military precision. My suitcase looks like someone once packed it well, stuck a badger inside, and let it fight its way out.

And I always, ALWAYS forget my toothbrush. Nobody has bought more toothbrushes than I have.

Saturday, Jan 16, 8:11PM
I’m sitting at the gate at LAX. It's dark, and everything is quiet. Nothing is on TV, there is no musak. Everyone’s anticipating a dim, long flight against the earth’s pull, back to the right coast. Everyone looks asleep with their eyes open.

Then, they're jolted back to reality:

A crowd of recently landed travelers come down the concourse, and suddenly a yell comes from security. “Stop!” Three security officials immediately instruct the coming crowd to stop moving. One person literally scratches their nose and is reprimanded: “Stop moving.” Everyone stays still, frozen in confused horror. I have no idea what’s happening, but for some reason grip my guitar case like a weapon. Just as quickly, the same voice booms from the security checkpoint: “Okay!” Everyone moves again. People finish their sentence. A little dog barks from inside its carrying case. Something--and nothing--never happened.

This reminds me: they’re incredibly thorough at LAX. Nobody thought twice about the contents of my guitar case in JFK, but Rose’s body bag got the full cavity search here. The woman even asked why I had a 9-volt battery.

“Because the guitar is electric-acoustic.”

“Why do you have three of them, then?”

“Because batteries die, and when they do, I love to replace them. I’m cruelly unsentimental about my batteries’ deaths.”

“Where are you going tonight?”

“On a plane. And that plane is going to New York.”

“And is New York home?”


I think about this question: Memphis has always been home. Sometimes Blacksburg, Virginia--the place I was born--feels like home. When I visit relatives in West Virginia, or North Carolina, or anywhere, I typically feel at home. New York is where I live, and what I love.

And then I realize that she’s not asking existentially; she’s asking because I could be taking the red-eye to New York for nefarious purposes, my undies chock full of bombs, my gig bag loaded with wildly explosive 9-volt batteries.

“New York is home.”

She zips up the gig bag. “You’re free to go.”

And then I realize: I’m headed home.

Saturday, Jan 16, Suspended In Time PM
The red-eye back to New York. I’m back in seat 22, which (again) is somehow positioned near the front of the plane. Now I’m couched between two American girls, rather than anchoring two Swolish girls. One of them smells like she went out with Lucille 3 last night. The other can best be described as “hippie chic.”

There’s a 34% chance as I type this that either of them could see it.

As a matter of fact, this whole plane smells like hippie. Which, I think, means “Bermuda grass, Indian food, and sadness.” Everyone's eyes are glossed over. Even the flight attendant mails in her pre-flight performance with a Deion-Sanders-playing-for-the-Redskins level of indifference.

It’s Saturday night, people! It’s the red eye from LA to NYC! There have to be at least three semi-famous people in first class! Maybe even the Red-Headed-Woman-From-Old-School-ER! Maybe she's splitting a split of bubbly with Omar Epps! We should be celebrating. We should be dancing in the aisles.

Somewhere behind me, a man snores.

This plane feels less like an airborne club and more like a DMV.

Sunday, Jan 17, Suspended In Time AM
The wireless on this plane is busted. The televisions on this plane are busted. There is so little to do that the woman across the aisle has taken up origami. She’s making what is either a flower, or a crown, or the biggest pick-a-color-pick-a-number game of all time. If it’s the third option, I want to sit next to her. I want to play that game. Anything is better than sleep.

I listen to the BS Report. I listen to Memphis Sports Live ("like it or not, the most influential sports talk radio show in Memphis"). I listen to the Thrills, hoping to hear some sun. It's either 10PM or 4AM, or anywhere in between. It's been night forever. The Thrills sing about Santa Cruz, and I'm somewhere over Ohio. I turn off the music and hear the recycled air hissing. In my mind, it's June; in my most recent memories, I'm in an endlessly bright place. But here and now, I'm flying over the night, and over the winter, and I can't get warm.

Sunday, Jan 17, 6:01AM
Back in the back of a big yellow taxi, heading home to the East Village. The sun hasn't peeked out on the horizon yet, but the sky's shifted to a navy blue. It's warm enough outside (38 degrees) that the driver has his window cracked. It feels sub-zero to me.

Just over a year ago, I was in a cab at sunrise. I was heading to JFK, back to Nashville. I knew I was moving from Nashville, and was deciding between New York or Los Angeles. I had just spent a weekend in New York, playing a record release party, seeing old friends, falling in love with a new place, and feeling homesick for a place I couldn't point to. The car wound its way through its desolate path to the airport, the sun broke the sky wide open, and I realized that New York wasn't a scary place at all, that it was a place I needed to see again, and soon. Several months later, I moved here.

Now, coming home from JFK at sunrise, after playing a record release party in a different city. I spent three days seeing old friends, loving a new place, living this snapshot of a life I very nearly chose, and feeling homesick for a place I can point to, like the red dot on the Delta "flight-tracker" monitor. Like the little circle in lower Manhattan on the cab's backseat screen, a tiny fixed place I'm always moving toward, however slowly. I've spent all night racing forward in time, against the earth's rotation. Half a world away, the sun and moon raced, chasing to meet me in some unknown tomorrow. And now I'm minutes from my little red dot, and the time has flown without me knowing. It is tomorrow. The earth still moves, despite me, and I'm finally tired.

The sun isn't up yet, but the sky's ready.

LA Diary, Part 3 (Past the Breakers)

Friday, Jan 15, 7:32AM
Usually I wake up to the sound of the University of Memphis State University Fighting Basketball Tigers’ fight song. Today, I’m waking up to waves. In my dream-state of semi-consciousness, I think they’re waves. They’re actually cars passing on Vine, but from my open window they sound like waves breaking on the beach.

It’s a great way to wake up.

There’s something in the air here. I can smell it right now, immediately after waking up, and remember it from my last trip. Los Angelonians might say, “yes, it’s smog.” But compared to other places (e.g., New York), the air feels fresh, clear, heightened somehow. Like the super-oxygen they pump into casinos to keep people awake and energized. If I lived here, I’d never wake up in a bad mood.

I’d also never get any work done.

Friday, Jan 15, 9:22AM:
I’m standing on a street that isn’t a street, in the middle of a neighborhood that isn’t a neighborhood. I’m walking around the Warner Brothers lot with my friend Ben, who works on the ABC sitcom, The Middle. Everything I see is real in the sense that it’s physically there, but unreal in the sense that it’s artificial.

On my left is the fountain from the opening credits of Friends. On my right is a “NYC block” of brownstones. Just ahead is Dennis the Menace’s house. He lives next door to the folks from Little House on the Prairie. Then, the Hechs’ from The Middle. Then, the house from American Beauty, which is also where Clark Griswald lived. It is an idyllic American residential block: the lawns are manicured, the houses freshly painted, the weather pristine. It is a perfect scene. It is a ghost town.

And now I’m on the set, watching everyone prepare for the day’s shooting. I kid you not: I’m standing under a ladder, and a black cat just walked in front of me. Horseshoe, anyone?

I’m briefly reunited with my first true love: driving. I’ve got Ben’s car for the day, and I’m back where I belong: behind the wheel of the great American automobile (if that’s a Saab), windows down, singing with bad FM radio, shamelessly judging the drivers around me. I might take the long way home. I might end up in Vegas. I might move into this car.

And just like that, I understand Jewel.

Friday, Jan 15, 1:13PM:
I need sunglasses.

Out past the breakers,
CM

LA Diary, Part 2 (Took My Chances On a Big Jet Plane)

Thursday, Jan 14, 9:37AM
Did New York sleep in? Was there a sporting event/weather catastrophe/Billy Joel concert I didn’t hear about? I made it from my apartment in the East Village to Gate 22 in JFK in 57 minutes. How is this possible? I caught the first cab I saw. There was--wait for it--almost no traffic between lower Manhattan and the airport. And Kennedy can only be described as “desolate” right now. I won’t lie to you, I feel like I’m Hancock. What’s happening here?

Meanwhile, I’ve got Todd English, his Bonfire, 16oz of Starbucks workjuice, MSNBC, and about 14 people at my gate to keep me company. I’m sitting still, but I’m inching toward Los Angeles. I can feel it getting closer.

(They’re showing clips of Haiti on the news right now, and everyone’s watching.)

I love airports. You know those people who loathe traveling, get stressed in airports, or wracked with anxiety when flying? I’m not one of those people. I’ve probably flown 34 times in my life, and I always act like a third grader when the plane takes off and I can see the toy houses and cars diminish below me. I love looking out the window and saying, “oh, there’s Georgia, or Idaho, or whatever,” and knowing it’ll be gone in twenty minutes. I judge the flight crew by their takeoffs and landings, and relish the moment when the plane first touches down and you actually realize how fast you’re going.

(The news shows footage from the Haitian presidential palace--the ruined opulence, the broken pillars--a 2-year old at the gate is crying.)

It’s not so much the novelty of taking off in one place, reading a magazine, then landing in a different world (although that’s still a novelty to me); it’s that you don’t really see the trip happen. If you’re driving, you’re always sliding into your destination, and mentally tracking the journey; you watch the land pass until, eventually, you’re there. But flying skips the tedium of visual transition. Of course, I feel the same way about the subway. I still can’t believe that I can go underground, wait fifteen minutes, and come up in Spanish Harlem. It’s like really slow teleportation.

As much as I love flying, I love airports more. I fully recognize that this is not normal. I enjoy any place where there’s a set, finite, pre-determined amount of time that you’re there, especially if there’s not much to do. It makes me want to work, or think, on something I typically wouldn't. “Oh, I’ve got 40 minutes to kill...I’ll re-organize my photos while listening to Teenage Fanclub and watching the kid in front of me run around like a drunkard.”

Airports are awesome.

(On cue, they cut to a story of a kid who couldn’t bring his pet monkey to school. The 2-year old is laughing. People check their phones.)

But here’s the rub: the second my flight is delayed, and the length of time I’ll be at the airport isn’t set, finite, and pre-determined, I want nothing more than to leave and get home. Suddenly, I hate airports. I only like them as long as there’s a known expiration date--like dairy products, country music stars, and some relationships.

I remember flying home from Oxford one summer, getting to Charlotte at night, waiting for my plane to Little Rock, and realizing that I might be delayed overnight. The walkway that connects the gate to the plane wasn’t detaching. The problem wasn’t that we couldn’t board the plane, the problem was that the plane couldn’t leave the gate. I had been traveling for what seemed like 2 days. I was exhausted, freezing cold, homesick, bored stiff, and suddenly facing the prospect a 14-hour delay. Just when word started getting around the gate, the pilot emerged from one of those “Do Not Enter” doors with a crowbar. He disappeared down the Skywalk. He came back 8 minutes later, tossed the crowbar toward the desk like Bonds after hitting a homer, and said, “let’s go.”

And what I’m trying to tell you is this: I have never loved any stranger more in my life than I loved that pilot in that moment.

Meanwhile, I’m in an airport, typing to you. I’ve got a destination (California), an expiration date (1 hour), and the sun’s rising behind me. There are clear skies. The people at my gate are fixed to the television. The earth is always moving.

Thursday, Jan 14, 12:03PM
Unless it’s not. I’m stuck in NY. Some part of the plane’s nose was damaged when we pulled away from the gate. So, we’re essentially waiting on a new plane, or nose job.

Where is the Charlotte pilot when I need him???

In other news, I am awesome at:
--Eating barbeque
--Talking about pop music from the mid-90’s
--Watching football
--Jinxing my own flights

Ugh.

Thursday, Jan 14, Suspended In Time (PM)
Well, I’m on the plane, the plane took off, and now I’m somewhere east of the Mississippi. The plane got a successful nose job (auspicious start to an LA trip, I think), and now I’m typing on a tray table that may or may not give out at any moment.

There’s nothing to do on a plane besides sit, stare, listen to music, read, sleep, and watch people. I can’t sleep--ever, really--but especially on planes. I can’t read--ever, really--but especially on moving vehicles. So, I invite you to join me in my sitting/staring/listening to music/people-watching experience!

Let’s take a quick tour:

At 12 o’clock: The aisle. I’m in 22C, which is (weirdly) near the front. So I’m on the aisle. The plane is packed. I heard one guy, while boarding (the second time) say it’s “packed like a can of sardines.” I’ve heard this before, but never in my life seen a can of sardines. I’ll take his word for it.

The Sounds:
I’m listening to one of three playlists I made for this trip. They are:
1) "There." You guessed it: a playlist of music tailor-made for a trip to California, and the mix I’m listening to.
2) "Back." What I’ll listen to on the return to NY in the middle of the night, Saturday.
3) "California." A giant hodgepodge of my favorite California artists, songs about California, or anything else I’m into right now that fits the trip and/or season.

Right this second: Counting Crows, “Daylight Fading.”

The Sights:
An aisle, and a poorly curtained view of first class. Is that stewardess Marisa Miller? Are they serving duck?!? Capitalist pigs!

The Smells:
A Wendy’s salad. If you had asked me three hours ago what a salad from Wendy’s smells like, I would’ve told you that I’ve never had a salad from Wendy’s, and wouldn't know where to begin. And yet, here I am, in 22C, engulfed by the smell that I know to be a Wendy’s salad. Where did it come from, how did it get here, and why has it consumed this plane? I have no idea. Maybe it has something to do with sardines.

1 o’clock: An elderly woman two rows up and across the aisle. She has a veritable graveyard of empty booze bottles on her tray table (I count four). Did I mention we’ve been on this plane for 35 minutes? She can’t weigh 95 pounds. She drinks and looks like Lucille Bluth, if Lucille Bluth was 85 and wore Mr. T jewelry. Lucille 3 is the best.

2 o’clock: Nothing crazy, just middle-aged man falling asleep while reading the New Yorker. If I wanted to see that, I’d visit my parents.

3 o’clock: A woman who cannot wait to get rid of her empty cup. Does she think it just became toxic waste? Why is discarding her cup so urgent? Is she Jack Bauer? Is there something I need to know? A weather catastrophe? A Billy Joel concert?

4 o’clock: A row of 20-something men asleep. Why is everyone asleep? Maybe Jackie Bauer smells a gas leak.

5 o’clock and 6 o’clock: More aisle. I envy the people in the rows behind me. They have their windows open, they’re fully conscious--it seems like Studio 54 compared to my section.

7 o’clock: A woman eating a Wendy’s salad.

8 o’clock: A woman. That’s all. She’s just there.

9 o’clock: The two girls (I’d guess twenty-three) sitting beside me. They have accents and speak to each other in a different language. If I had to guess, their accents sound Eastern European, but their language sounds Nordic. The lesson, as always: I don’t know anything.

They’re enthusiastic about three things:

1) US Weekly (did you know that Tiger wasn’t the first...all men have ALWAYS been cheaters!).

2) Something called the Vampire Chronicles, which they’ve spent money to watch. I know nothing about the Vampire Chronicles, other than that Cash-from-Friday-Night-Lights is in it, and I’m guessing it’s related to Twilight. I can’t remember a wider gap between something’s popularity and how much I know about it. Even Harry Potter, which was huge, and which I never actively tried to engage, crawled into my life somehow. I had to read the first book in a class; I knew enough lovable, self-identifying nerds in Nashville whose idea of good clean fun was inviting people over and watching an HP movie (God bless them). So, without trying, I know Harry Potter. And I don’t dislike Harry Potter. But I’ve got NOTHING on Twilight. I know that there’s a werewolf, and a vampire, and the whole thing is vaguely emo. That’s it. Help? Wait, don’t help. Wait, help. Oh, I don’t know anymore.

3) Legroom. And they presently don’t have any, because...

10 o’clock: ...two women leaned their chairs back. The Swolish (Swedish-Polish-I-can’t-tell) girls are tall, and have no legroom. I feel bad for them. Can we all just collectively decide not to lean our chairs back on airplanes? It makes the Leaner’s life maybe 1.5% more comfortable, and makes the Leanee’s life 3,000% less comfortable. Let’s call a moratorium on reclining airplane chairs. Let’s get utilitarian with it.

11:59 o’clock: My TV screen, which does not feature the Vampire Chronicles.

And now Lucille 3 orders another round. And now my monitor tells me we’re three hours from Los Angeles. And now Tom Petty’s “Love Is a Long Road” is in my ear.

He ain’t kidding.

Thursday, Jan 14, 6:17PM (local time)
I solved my lifelong dilemma of not-enough-hours-in-the-day: keep moving west.

3,500 miles later, I'm camped out in Hollywood, about to get some dinner, and I see this:

Right back where I started.

Lights, camera, action. Goodnight, LA.

Check back tomorrow for more updates!

LA Diary, Part 1 (Manifest Destiny)

Wednesday, Jan 13, 5:09PM
As I write this, it is 36 degrees outside my window in Manhattan. It's sunny (kind of) and quiet (sort of) and cold (relatively). Everything relative is relative. This time tomorrow (if Wunderground has ever been right), I'll be sitting outside in 72 degrees of glory. There won't be a cloud--or the trace of a cloud, or the memory of a cloud--in the sky. It won't be January, it'll be May; I won't be Winter Chris (wearing the parka my grandma got me for Christmas in 1993), I'll be Spring Chris (muscle shirts, people). How am I doing this? Did I realize my dream of actually, finally, making the sun revolve around me?

Nay! I'm going to California.

Los Angeles, California: that sprawling, gonzo mirage at land's end. It's the star-crossed battle line of an unreal American dream. It's the place where a billion little stars line up and plunge themselves at Manifest Destiny like Custer at Little Big Horn.

I'm going to LA tomorrow. I leave JFK at 11AM and land at LAX at 2:33PM, traveling backward to move forward. On Friday I'm playing the record release party for my new album--Up--at the Hotel Cafe. On Saturday night, I red-eye back to New York. Any--and everything--in between is up for grabs, due for negotiation, and (probably) left to fate.

But what do I know about Los Angeles?

We all know the stereotypes: LA is often maligned for its synthetic veneer, its narcissism, its bloated and masturbatory entertainment industry, its "fakeness." In New York, the line is that everyone in LA is inauthentic, an opportunist, depraved, and (probably) dumb. New York is where art is created; Los Angeles is where entertainment happens. Right or wrong, that's the prevailing perception.

I know that I spent a summer in Northridge when I was 8. I know I've been back a few times since. I've probably spent 3 months, cumulative, in the greater LA area. I know I have friends and colleagues in LA; most have been there for some time, and many love it. I know that I considered moving to LA before settling on New York. I know that Los Angeles is glossy, hazy, hallucinogenic, gorgeous trapdoor chock full of the eccentric, the superficial, the desperate, the starry-eyed, and the thin-skinned. And I know this:

I love LA. That's why I love LA.

I love LA. I love all of it: the predominant Hispanic influence, its absurd show business, its culture of fake nonchalance, the undeniable beauty, its dangerous charms. I love it so much I couldn't have moved there; I would've ended up like Ulysses, emerging from Circe's hedonist island to realize a year--or ten--had passed.

I can't wait to get back.

That's why I'm keeping a running diary of the entire weekend--from my flight tomorrow morning to the red-eye Saturday night, and everything in between. I'll post here regularly, and give you updates, pictures, and (hopefully) video from the show.

In the meantime, I need to do two very important things:
1) Pack.
2) Load up the iPod with Manifest Destiny-appropriate songs.

So here's my question: what are your favorite songs about California? They can be songs that have "California" or a city in the title, are about them, or by a Californian artist. I need to stock up!

Just glancing at my iTunes, here are the definites with "California" or something-about-LA in the title:
Phantom Planet, "California" (cliche for a reason)
Led Zeppelin, "Going to California" (perfect for a reason)
Atherton, "California" (I watched Laguna Beach for a reason...okay, like 350,000 reasons)
Wilco & Billy Bragg, "California Stars"
Lucero, "California"
Kings of Leon, "California Waiting"
R.E.M., "I Remember California"
Tupac, "California Love"
Stereophonics, "Plastic California"
Red Hot Chili Peppers, "Californication"
Ryan Adams, "Goodnight, Hollywood Boulevard"
The Thrills, "Hollywood Kids"
Counting Crows, "Goodnight LA"

Strangely, no Beach Boys on that list. But there will be Beach Boys. Oh, yes, there will be Beach Boys.

So, let me know what I should bring with me. I'm heading to the edge of the world, and I've got a guitar, and I've got some music, and I've got nothing--and everything--else. I'm gonna join those billion tragic, surging stars and make my stand.

"We all know Custer died at the Battle of Little Big Horn," says the blowhard novelist Eli Cash in the Royal Tenenbaums, "but what this book presupposes is...maybe he didn't?"

Maybe it didn't.

Never let them tell you that they're all the same,
CM