Currently, we’re on the road to Matsuyama and leaving Osaka where we had two shows last night. I can’t say Osaka is my favorite city in Japan. It’s the second largest and second most concentrated (after Tokyo). There was an extraordinary amount of prostitutes (both male and female) on the street near the venue we played. I’m usually tickled by such things, but for some reason I wasn’t. There was a strange, subtle, intangible malaise that hovered over Osaka last night that dampened my experience of the city – that, along with an unforgivable amount of rain.

We arrived to Osaka from Kyoto, where we played a place called ‘Kenny’s’.
We met Kenny.
You should meet Kenny.

Kenny is a middle aged Japanese native who is positively obsessed with country music.
(It’s a bit unhealthy, actually- but because of the harmless nature of his obsession he has yet to be diagnosed by a doctor or prescribed medication.)

Walking into the club is like walking into a bar that was somewhere in the outskirts of Memphis, Tennessee circa 1979. The walls are littered with old Merle Haggard records, Willie Nelson movie posters (that’s right), signed George Strait paraphernalia, framed Johnny Cash lyrics, banjos, cattle horns, bullwhips and too many autographed headshots to mention. It also seemed like he imported the very distinct smell of a honky-tonk saloon across western America, over the Pacific ocean, and into the carpet and walls of his venue- which is really more of a shrine than a bar.

Kenny himself dressed the part, too. He stood tall for a Japanese man, taller than me even, and sported a white 10-gallon hat, a dusty black blazer that was older than I am, tinted gold-rimmed Elvis Presley-esque sunglasses and a cowboy boot medallion that was visible from outer space.
His daughter, Mari, opened up the show for us and he sat in with her. When she called him onstage he walked to the stage unhurried, gently rested on a stool with his guitar, and proceeded to give a long, long introduction in Japanese. I had no idea what he was saying and, moreover, I had no idea what to expect from his performance. His demeanor and grace and casual oddball persona certainly bit my curiosity and raised my expectations. What could this man possibly do to live up to the impression he has already made? I waited impatiently for his extended introduction to end…

Now, up until that point in my life, I had never actually heard a Japanese person sing WALK THE LINE before – let alone execute it with a suspiciously flawless southern accent and a meticulously emulated Johnny Cash boom– but if I had, there would be no way it could ever compare to Kenny’s epic, bullet-proof rendition of the classic song that lives and breathes in every American’s heart.

It.
was.
amazing.

Just as amazing, I would assume, as it would be to hear Johnny Cash speak fluent Japanese flippantly and effortlessly from the stage at Folsom prison.
Kenny, who speaks no conversational English AT ALL, and ostensibly doesn’t even know the meaning to the lyrics, executed the emotion and tone of the words perfectly, hauntingly and without reservation.
It was one of the greatest and most mysterious music lessons I have ever had.
It struck a strange and transformative chord upon my heartstrings.




Thanks for that, Kenny.
Johnny would’ve been proud.
A bit frightened, perhaps -- but proud nonetheless.


Earlier that day, prior to our arrival at Kenny’s, we had quite an eventful afternoon.
We took a train to the edge of the city, where the asphalt ends and the mountains begin, and followed the wooden signs pointing to ‘Monkey Mountain’- a place where monkeys roam free, a place that’s open to the public, and a place that would host one of the most traumatic experiences of my life.
(that is, traumatic experience’s that involve monkeys)

I read the sign.
EVERYONE read the sign.
You couldn’t miss it.
It was written in every language imaginable.

“ Welcome to Monkey Mountain.
 Please do not look the monkeys in the eyes.
 Please do not take pictures of the monkey’s along the path”


Listen, I’m gonna be honest here. This is what I was thinking:

“Free roaming monkeys?
Are you serious?”

I’m from Long Island, New York, which, if you didn’t know, is a place where there ain’t no free roaming monkey’s.
So that, in turn, means if I see a monkey, you can bet your button I’m going to take a picture of it and, not only that, I’m also going to get as close as humanly possible to it.

(side note: The only other time I saw a monkey in real life was when I was 5 years-old at Great adventure, when they would let you drive your car through a makeshift safari - another traumatic experience that involved elephant shit, an aggressive giraffe and permanent damage to our ’77 Coup De Ville)

Anyways.
Back to Monkey Mountain.

So, there I stood, on the path, camera out and pointing at the first monkey I saw.
Now, you’d think these primates would be avoiding human contact wherever possible, but to my surprise the little rascal was actually walking towards me!
And not only that, but he was looking at me in the eyes!
(I knew that because I, too, was looking at him in the eyes.)

I smiled.

He didn’t.

I held the camera still and kept thinking “Wow, this is gonna be some picture!”

But as he got closer and closer I realized that he wasn’t really interested in photography.

He was about 5 feet away and still moving when I snapped a quick picture- and that’s when the squealing began. Really, REALLY loud squealing. Ear-piercing squealing designed by Mother Nature to aggravate an enemy during a moment of distress and confusion. It was an animal’s final defense against a predator; a natural, unstoppable reflex rooted in fear and desperation.


When I was done squealing, and opened my eyes- the monkey was walking away.
When my adrenaline finally calmed and I no longer suffered from blinding anxiety and terror, I looked towards the faces of my friends and saw only their jaws dropped.

He hit me.
The little bastard hit me!
But, worse than that, he hit me lightly.
A tap, really.
On the back of the leg.
A quiet reprimand of sorts.
Something to say, “I know you read the sign, douchebag.”

He walked away slowly- leaving me without ever looking back, without a scrape, without a bruise, and without a trace of dignity or self-respect.

Johnny Cash would NOT have been proud.
Talk about a great adventure.
I felt like a boy named Sue.
I’m pretty sure my friends look at me differently now.
But I am planning on redeeming myself at the show tonight in Matsuyama-

Check back in a couple days and I’ll let you know how it goes.

for now......




















 

Silent Retreat – part 2

Well - here I am, alive and well and on a plane to Japan.
We’ve got about 10 hours of flight time left and I’m thinking about how exactly to write about my experience at the silent retreat.
Frankly, I’m having some difficulty.

Words are such wonderful little creatures, they truly are, but they don’t convey things perfectly.
They are signposts pointing towards a destination, but they are not the destination itself.
This makes them a bit wieldy when trying to describe something that is subtle and delicate.
It would be like trying to explain the geometric dimensions of a single blade of grass, or the exact weight of a single dandelion parachute in the wind.

Plus, on a more obvious level, trying to use words to describe the benefits of silence is, well, kinda funny. It’s like trying to start a fire using dirt and a gallon of spring water.

Anyways.

One thing I can speak to is just how easy it was to go without talking for days.
It was a bit abrupt at first, but I soon realized that all the words that come from our mouths start as thoughts in our head. It seems obvious, but when I got to actually see and think the words in my head, but not speak them, it became quite evident how unnecessary most of what we say is.  We speak impulsively, compulsively almost, but rarely is it consequential.

All day, every day, for 10 days, our schedule was the same:

430am - 630am    Meditation
630am – 8am       Breakfast/break
8am - 11am         Meditation
11am - 1pm         Lunch
1pm  -  5pm        Meditation
5pm – 6pm         Fruit/ tea break
6pm – 7pm         Meditation
7pm – 830pm     Discourse  (teacher discusses next days meditation exercise)
830pm – 9pm     Meditate
9pm – 430am      Sleep


After about 12 hours of this, I forgot I even had a cell phone, or an email account, or a car, or a wallet even. It was just me and my sweat pants and my t-shirt. That’s it.
If you’re thinking “wow, that sounds liberating”, you’d be right.
If you’re thinking “I wouldn’t be able to live without my phone  or  my email or  my car and especially without talking!” you’d be only partially right.

See, there is a part of you that identifies yourself with your phone, with your email, with your car, with your Ipod and laptop and lattes and career and relationships and your thoughts and your words and with your persona… and that part of you would NOT be able to live without those things-
But, strangely enough, if you take all those things away, you won’t die.
SO, who is left?
~

Unfortunately, to truly understand the answer to that question one needs to discover it for themselves, which is why I’m having trouble justifying recounting my experience at the retreat
…
I should have just written about Boner Camps.

: )

Sigh.

To keep it simple, I’ll say this:

Below all the chaos in you mind, there is peace.
Below all the clutter of your thoughts, there is space.
And below all the noise in your head, there is silence.

In that peace, in that space, and in that silence lies much more than I could have ever imagined.


Alright.
Gotta run...
A very pretty Korean stewardess is making her way up the aisle with my salmon teriyaki and chardonnay –  she doesn’t speak a lick of English, which will preclude us from speaking niceties to each other.

Thank god.


****keep an eye out in June for more blogging, from JAPAN!

Silent Retreat . . . . Part 1

I sit here on an extraordinarily hot Monday evening in Los angeles.
The walls were sweating when my friend called and told me that it hasn't been this hot in Hollywood in 95 years. I don't know who exactly is keeping track of such things, but I am grateful for their tenacity.

In two days it will be Wednesday. On Wednesday morning I will embark on what is called a Vipassana retreat. I took this snippet from some literature on the subject:

( Vipassana is a) non-sectarian technique that aims for the total eradication of mental impurities and the resultant highest happiness of full liberation. Healing, not merely the curing of diseases, but the essential healing of human suffering, is its purpose.

I know.
It's a mouthful.
And quite bold is its goal – to heal suffering. I can think of thousands of people who might have found this handy… Van Gogh, Kurt Cobain, Charlie Brown – just to name a few.

Now, I know what you're thinking. You're thinking, "by what means do these people expect to heal suffering and liberate one from the wild panicked compulsions of the mind? "
Good question.

To be honest, I haven't done what one might call 'extensive' research on the subject - but I do have a vague notion of what I'm in for. It looks like this:

For 10 days, one must abstain from:

- Talking

- alcohol

- drugs

- smoking

- cell phones

- computers

- intense physical workouts

- reading

- writing

- meat

- sexual release of any kind

I know, I know- I asked myself the same thing:
"If I can't have a conversation, have a drink, have a cigarette, text someone, check my email, listen to music, read, eat a ham sandwich or have sex with someone OR masturbate – what am I going to do for 10 days?"

It's a valid question.

the Answer:

Meditate.


For 10 hours a day.



Here's the Merriam Webster definition of the word 'MEDITATE":

med·i·tate

1 : to engage in contemplation or reflection
2 : to engage in mental exercise (as concentration on one's breathing or repetition of a mantra) for the purpose of reaching a heightened level of spiritual awareness
3 : to focus one's thoughts on : reflect on or ponder over



I'd like to stop right here for a few disclaimers.

Firstly, I am from New York and was raised by two wonderful parents from Brooklyn who, in what I believe was the best spiritual resource available to them at the time, raised me in the Catholic Church.
I moved to California when I was 23 and guffawed at any talk of yoga, laughed in the face of what people called 'Spirituality', and snarled at any kind of belief system that involved the burning of Nag Champa.
I referred to it as 'California Voodoo' and swore off anyone who smelled remotely close to Patchouli.
If you would have asked me then if I thought I would ever take a 10 day Vipassana trip into the mountains to meditate I would have rudely suggested that you go choke on 3 ounces of wheat grass.

I'm not like that anymore.
(Actually, to be totally honest, I still hold true to the Patchouli rule.)

Anyway, what I'm saying is – back then, I would have read the opening paragraphs to this essay and as soon as I hit the word 'meditation' I would have rolled my eyes and stopped reading. Ignorant and closed minded, yes, but I would have. All I can say now to that 23 year-year-old, or to anyone reading this hesitantly for fear that I'm just another southern-California-hackey-sack-hippie-whose-mind-has-melted-from-the-sun- is this:

I just turned 33 years old and I can safely say that in the past few years the plates in my heart have shifted-and the soul's furniture has been rearranged. And the result of those changes has led me to an interest in the bigger picture, whatever the hell that is. So, I haven't drank the Kool-Aid, but I found out what it was spiked with and am making a few experimental cocktails of my own.


Alright.
End of disclaimers.


SO, where were we?
Right.
Meditation.
Synonymous with 'torture', really.
Sitting with my thoughts, My thoughts which include (but certainly aren't limited to): memories, hope, fear, sex, regret, anger, revenge, possible futures, possible pasts, possible sexual endeavors, possible escape routes, questions, answers, criticisms, sex, certainty, uncertainty, obligations, should of's, could of's, would of's, what if's, denial, desire, sex and pretty much anything else you can think of. Usually it's just a steady flow of either unnecessary jibber-jabber serving no purpose whatsoever, or a litany of undeserving criticisms and fears that, frankly, are just mean and unproductive. I often think that if I gave the voice in my head a mouth to speak from, and put that mouth on a face and that face on a head and then gave that head a neck to support it- that the neck would be attached to the body of a particular person that I would choose to spend very little time with.

But, alas, that person is with me all the time- and he seems to have become quite cozy inside of me.

So, off I go on Wednesday morning to North Fork, California to discover a new approach to dealing with my mind. Trust me, my mind thinks it's a terrible idea. I know this because of all the apprehensive thoughts I've been having about the trip.

I keep thinking that I'll NEVER be able to get up at 430am, and that the retreat supervisors are going to kick me out- that I will be the first student ejected from the course. What will I tell my friends? Maybe I can stay in a motel in Bakersfield for 10 days and just come home and lie to them? Not a bad idea….

Or, I keep thinking that I won't be able to sit still for that many hours in a day- and that I will go stir crazy from the wildness of my thoughts and flee from the meditation hall with atrophied legs screaming at the top of my lungs "Do you guys sell cigarettes here?!' as I abandon all my belongings in my bunk and race to my car to find the nearest bar.

Or, I keep thinking that 10 days without masturbating would be the longest I've gone without masturbating SINCE I STARTED MASTURBATING. And that if I successfully don't masturbate for 10 days, that I'll spend most of that time brandishing an angry erection through my sweat pants and, moreover, if ALL the men at the retreat abstain from masturbation for 10 days and suffer the same physical consequences as I do, I'll be living in one giant boner camp for 10 days.

Now THAT doesn't sound very peaceful at all.

But, once again, I realize that all of these fears are only tools the mind uses to try to discourage me from my goal: To find peace from my mind.
Now, why would my mind encourage me to do a thing like that?
IT wouldn't. Just like a girlfriend wouldn't encourage you to go to a singles bar. Instead she would say, 'Sure. Have Fun. Just remember, 33% of the population has herpes. Bye Bye."
Yikes.

So, I write to you now with plans to write again after the excursion is over.
Time will tell what will happen.
I can honestly say I am nervous, curious, and excited…
Stay tuned.

JB

I may have just said goodbye to my grandfather for the last time.
It was a strange thing to realize, in the moment.

He wasn't sick or on is deathbed or anything... quite the opposite, actually. We had just returned from the beach.

He's 83 years old.
I haven't seen him in 3 years.
He lives in Florida, near my mom, who I visited last weekend.
I NEVER go to Florida.
Actually, I should say I rarely go to Florida, for a myriad of reasons. Most of them being terribly insulting to the state of FLorida, but one reason being is that it's not a usual place to tour through - but the cruise gig i just played ended in Miami, so there I was.

Back to Grandpa.
Joe Levy.
Better known to me as 'Grandpa Joe' .
Grandpa JOe is, without a doubt, a wild, wild man who has led a very full life of which he's never been shy to talk about.

At the age of 83, he is married to his second wife, JOAnne, who is 20 years his junior (nice work, gramps!) -
They go out dancing every Thursday, Friday and Saturday night.
Jitterbug, Charleston, you name it, he knows it.
He doesn't drink much anymore, or smoke.

Apparently, he's somewhat of a catch at the nightclub.
He tells me all the young girls (average age about 50) come on strong.
Strong enough to piss off Joanne.
She makes snide comments to Joe as he tells me the story about the one girl who put her hand on his belly, inside his blazer, while they were disco dancing. He had to insure her that he was a married man.
This was last week.
She was 45.
Again, he's eighty-three.

The last time i saw him was a few years back- he gave me a watch that didn't work anymore, a silver watch with a silver band. A watch he got before the war and a watch he wore all through the war. He said i should get it fixed and wear it, but i never did.

He's told me stories about how poor he and his family were in the depression, and how they would all eat onion sandwiches for dinner.
He told me how him and his dad (my great grandpa Louis) were walking one afternoon in Brooklyn and that a New York Times cost 2 cents back then and that Great Grandpa Louis only had one penny- so grandpa Joe begged the penny from his dad and played a pinball machine with it and, in one shot, won 2 cents. Ta-dah! They then walked and bought the Times. Grandpa said he'd never forget that. That was in 1932.

He's told me about the time when he got back from WWII and landed in Long beach, California. Back then, when you were a soldier returning from the war, people would take you in if you needed, no matter where or what. He stayed everywhere, all things extended to him from the kindness of strangers.
He said he made his way to Hollywood and Vine and screamed out
"YO! ANYONE HERE FROM BROOKLYN!?"
And there was.
(There's  ALWAYS  someone from Brooklyn around in his stories)
He told me stories of harbor brothels and Phillipino tribes, and  Okinawan bars and dead soldiers.
He cries when he tells these stories.
It's really one of the most beautiful things to see.
An old man crying, mostly out of joy.

He's got a crooked pointer finger, too. A result of being shot in the war. Ever since we were little kids, he used to show it to me and my sister. It's on his right hand and if he points straight, it actually points to the right. It's shaped like an Allen Key.

When the war was officially over he was stranded in California for 6 weeks before they finally sent him home.
He once told me a story about when he finally returned home, to Brooklyn, to his wife Winnie (my mom's mom) - they were BROKE.
Really really broke.
One day Winnie got real sick, sick enough to need an operation, an appen..omy, and he didn't have the $300 to cover the cost.
He said he had no choice but to go downstairs to the local gas station with a mask and a tire iron and rob them of their money. He said the hard part was that he knew the guy working there, too. But it didn't matter, he said, because Winnie was sick and there was no other choice.

Here's the picture Winnie sent him when he was in the war:




On the back of it she wrote:
 " It's all yours, honey, and it's waiting for you to come and get it xxxx
All my love,
Winnie."

Winnie was a fiesty little broad.

As broke as they were after the war, they weren't broke forever. He eventually opened up a dry-cleaners in Sheepshead Bay, in Brooklyn. It was his very own business- which led him to eventually buy his very own car, and then to buy his very own house on Ralph Avenue. He told me he was the first member of his family to own a living room set.
A couch and a chair and a TV.

He owned the cleaners for many many years, through the divorce of Winnie, and through the meeting and marrying of Joanne. He sold the business eventually and moved to Florida.

I wish i had a current picture of him to post here. He's a good-lookin' old Jew. He's got a full head of hair, combed back smoothly and dyed a brownish-auburn (though, i think the auburn is unintentional and evident only due to dye-chemical miscalculation).


Here's another shot of him and Winnie:



Certifiable rock stars, they were.


Today, he's lanky and has a fabulously gigantic nose.
His nose is the size of some peoples faces.
His NOSE has a nose.
His nostrils are the size of grapes.
REALLY really big grapes.

And it looks perfect.
It does.
It must, really, considering all the ladies who fall over him on Thursday, Friday and Saturday nights.
Oh, poor Joanne.

So, we went to the beach last weekend.
After the beach my mother and I dropped him and Joanne off at their condominium in Delray. We took their lounge chairs out of the trunk of my mom's car and put them back in his car. Then I gave him a hug. He said we should come get dinner with them later - some of the best Chinese food buffet in Florida (the best crab legs he's ever had for $9.99, all-you-can-eat).
I thought about onion sandwiches, and wondered if he thought about them still.

My mother and I had plans for dinner, so we couldn't make the buffet. He said 'OK' and 'take care' and walked towards his door.  I started the car and was about to put it in reverse when he appeared again, knocking on the passenger window.
"I left something in the trunk" he said.
So I popped the trunk and stepped out of the car.
He was pulling a purple beach bag out slowly.
I closed the trunk down behind him and put my hand out to shake his and said "good to see you, Grandpa".
He reached out his hand with his crooked index finger and shook mine and said "Good to see you too, Jimbo. Get that watch fixed, will ya’?”

“I will Grandpa." I said.

When I was 18 years old, I worked in Manhattan, near Columbus Circle, at the warehouse for Atlantic Records. I spent a lot of time rescuing faceless LP’s that were going to be incinerated, pulling original tapes from the vault, occasionally sniffing paint thinner and generally keeping a watchful eye on the place (ie. making sure it didn’t burn down).
It was New York City, and it was summertime. It was hot. Everyday. Unbearably hot, sometimes, which is where the paint thinner came in.
Anyway.
The point is that I worked there to earn money while still sniffing around the music world. I can’t say I learned a lot at that job, but I did score a lot of great records that I still listen to to this day (Ray Charles’ “ the Genius After hours” comes to mind, as well as “Ray Charles meets Lionel Hampton”. Incredible music, really.)

What I also got from that job was the means to scrape up a little money every week to save up for a cruise at the end of the summer. My best friend Chris and his parents were going on a cruise at the end of August and I though it would be a great I idea to spend $1500 to join them.
I was young. I was impressionable. Or, again,  maybe it was the paint thinner, but I came to discover that I made a big mistake.
The minute Chris and I got on board we knew we had a very long week ahead of us.
Cruises, generally, stop at a few islands over a few days. I forget where our boat stopped because we never got off. We were allowed to drink because we were at sea, so, being eighteen years old, bored, and surrounded by 80 –year-old's and two-thousand pounds of shrimp cocktail, we did just that. Drink.
The drinking helped block out the money we lost at the casino, the geriatric atmosphere that surrounded us, and the enormous mediocre buffet that not only included a suspicious amount of prunes, but colostomy bags in the desert racks.
It was brutal.
Chris and I left that cruise and agreed to never speak of it again.

That was the last cruise I experienced, until this one, the one I am on now-
the CAYAMO CRUISE.


Greetings from St. Thomas, my friends.

Let me assure you, all is well here at sea.

We’ve been here since Saturday, and it’s been nothing short of fabulous. Other acts on the boat include Lyle Lovett, The Indigo Girls,  Patti Griffin,  John Hiatt, and many many more. IT’s music all the time, everywhere, anywhere, scheduled or unscheduled, whether you like it or not,  and, thankfully, we like it.
There are a lot of talented people on the ship, and the folks that are listening are true appreciators of music. It’s somewhat of a dream. A dream with a suntan.

We played a great show on Sunday night, and have another one tonight.
There’s a party tomorrow afternoon on the island of Tortola for all the artists and I’m judging an open mic on Thursday. I snuck a little whiskey on board this afternoon and am headed to rehearse with a violin player who’s going to sit in with me and Professor Beeg tonight.
.
What I’m trying to say here, folks, is there’s been a lot of trouble so far, but still there’s a lot more trouble to stir up.

One amazing, apparently universal,  aspect of cruises is the food.
The food on this cruise is unlike my prior cruise experience because, well, it’s good-  and  also,  it’s not aimed to please old people. It is, however, the same as all cruises when it comes to sheer volume. The food is free, and available 24 hours a day.
I was so flabbergasted by the all the choices available to me that I decided to note them.
Below is a list of all the food that was available for LUNCH.
ON THE FIRST DAY.
There has been more.
It’s unbelievable.
I’ll leave you with this….
Check back in soon for another update!
And thanks for checking in….
X

Jb

FOOD on SATURDAY, FEBRUARY, 28th:


Caesar salad
Assorted cheese
Tuna salad
Chicken salad
Egg salad
Coleslaw
Potato assorted cold cuts
Bread
Potato chips
Burger
Turkey burger
Chicken breast
Bell pepper
Fried onion
Andouille sausage
Weisswurst sausagw
Bacon saus
Bratwurst
Knockwurst saurkraut
Hot dogs
Fries
Muffallata
Pita with veg and turkey
Wheat bread with roast beef
Bread
Sushi
Banana
Ice chilled banana soup
Pappadom
Aromatic basmati rice
Baigan bharta
Spinach and ricotta and artichoke calzo
Pepporoni pizza
Veg pizza
Cheese pizza
Pulled chicken with spinach
Broccoli mornay
Brown sauce?
Round of beef
Caesar salad
Fresh fruit
Pasta
Grilled eggplants and zuccini
Stir fry of singapore noodle
Wild mushroom and garlic rissotto
Buttered corn with onions
Ranch fries with cheddar
Baked tomato provencal
Glazed pork patties
Fried rice with egggplant
Sauteed tilapia
Crispy whole Chicken
Split pea soup
Ice berg lettuce
5 salad dressings
Grilled corvina
Mexican rice
Baked pasta
Homemade potato cubes (who's home?)
Chorizo sausage
Pulled pork shoulder
Braised fennel
Char sieu pork stir fry
Breaded auliflower
Oranges
Watermelon
Pears
Apples
Honeydew
Roasted veal slice studded
Sun dried tomato jus
Tomato and eggplant parm
Rajma masala
Aloo gobi masala
Tacos
Burritos
Saffron rice
Guacamole
Salsa
Butter
Bread
Plates.


x

So, the gig at MESSIAH college went swimmingly.
I slept late into the afternoon, thanks to those devious yet remarkably effective Costa-rican sleeping pills my dad gave me. (I will say, there were a curious amount of monkey's in my dreams last night. Monkey's and Latino woman. Go figure.)

At Messiah, I met some fabulous people, made some totally inappropriate religious jokes, had a 45 minute theological discussion with a 20 year-old before the show, brought members of the Messiah College Choir onstage to sing "SING", and had a blast with the audience during the show.

GOd bless MEssiah college!

i left Grantham, Pennsylvania this morning, grabbed ANOTHER Five Guys burger (seriously) -  and headed south.

On the way to the next show, i met Stella.


This Is Stella.






Stella broke her arm 3 weeks ago when she slipped on some ice outside her music store in Easton, Maryland.

Her store is called Rabbit Hill Music.






IT's, basically, in the middle of nowhere.







 I passed it when i was on my way here last time I played in Easton, in November. I walked up to the door then, but it was closed. It didn't surprise me, considering how strange a location it was in (ie. the middle of nowhere). So, imagine my pleasant surprise when i passed it today and saw a CAR in the DRIVEWAY....
i walked in and found Stella.
She was lounging in a worn, mid-seventies blue Lazy-Boy recliner chair, half asleep.

She was woken not by the patter of my footsteps on the porch, or the punch of a my car door closing nearbye, but by the giant, dusty golden bell that the door hit when i opened it.

CLAAAAANG.

I casually greeted Stella and began perusing the shelves of Rabbit Hill Music. I was the only person in the store, besides Stella.
Frankly, I think i was the only person in the entire county, besides Stella.

I found some Bruce Springsteen cassette tapes, a marching band drum suspended from the ceiling, a piccolo for $140 and a remarkable collection of 8-track tapes




The store was no bigger than a room you keep old dreams in.
That's to say, everywhere was within earshot of Stella. I asked some friendly questions and Stella opened up. It was almost as if I was a traveling songwriter, passing through a small town, and Stella was a lonely old lady in the middle of nowhere, ready to share her long life story with a stranger who someday might write a song about it.

She talked about her son, now a part owner of Rabbit Hill Music, who plays guitar all around these parts. Her 25 years helping run the store, and about her husband, who passed away.
When I asked her if i could take a picture, she politely declined.
She remarked on how terrible she looked, particularly her hair.
She told me how tonight she had plans to go to dinner with her son and his friend, and that she gave herself a haircut (right before i came in), but messed it up because she's a righty, and her right arm is broken, so she had to give herself a haircut with her left hand and, because of that, she's unhappy with the outcome.

I said she looked pretty, and that she did a great  job, considering the circumstances. She cupped the back of her hair with her left hand and smiled shyly, making  the gesture of a 17 year-old girl, half-bashful, half-proud.
"Oh, yeah?" she said.
"Indeed." i said.
Then she smiled and I took the picture.

She apologized for not having strings to sell me. I said it was alright and thanked her for the picture. I said I'd see her next time i passed through town. She said she hoped so.

Now i'm at the venue in Easton, wondering what to blog about. Hopefully something will happen today.

Fingers crossed.

THe Last time i was in New York, My father came crouching over to me with 2 small, unpackaged and suspicious looking  pills in his hand. He said this: "Here, son, take these. For the road. I got them in Costa Rica. They're sleeping pills. MY friend Pascal got'em for me. THey're yours now. They really really work. But you gotta be careful because they are really strong. If you sleep for anything less that 9 hours then you'll feel tired all day. You have GOT to sleep 9 hours on them, or fuggetaboutit. Oh yeah, and don't worry if your nose starts bleedin', it's normal..."


That was about 2 months ago, the last time i was on the road.
NOw i'm on the road again,
I just took one of the pills.

the reason i tell you this is simple: if this blogs ends questionably, or hastily, or takes a dark turn or, worseover, i don't show up for the gig at MEssiah College tomorrow due to the fact that i had been eaten by some Costa- rican pharmeaceutical version of MAd cow Disease- well, then, at least you'll know why.

onward!

YES! Messiah College tomorrow.
YEs. MEssiah.
As in Jesus Harold Christ.
IT's a Christian school- so it shall be quite fun playing some devil music for the kids. IT reminds me of a gig we did in Glasgow in the basement of a church... The devil himself had attended that one. (Oh yeah, that's right, the devil lives in Scotland - wouldn't you if you wanted to have a good time?)

He had a VIP pass and everything for our show. He was ranting and raving about our show, and making songwriting suggestions (the nerve of this guy!) - but in the end, he didn't buy any merch. i didn't have a shirt to fit his tail or a hat to fit his horns. i have the same problem when jews wanna buy stuff too... (*footnote 1)

Anyway, the LAST time we played MEssiah it was  with Gary Jules and was a whole lotta fun, during the show AND after. These Christians are heavily armed with whatever they need to have a good time, ...Beautifully crafted flasks with Crucifix's on them, hand spun glass bongs with Holy water in them, and even the Crown-of-Thorns beer hats.
crazy.
IT shall be fun.

Right now i'm in my hotel room in Thurmont, MD.
I flew in from Long Beach Airport to Washington Dulles this evening. When i arrived at Washington Dulles i did what every carnivore would do when they get to Washington Dulles Airport:

Exit the plane.
Stop.
Locate FIVE GUYS Burgers and fries.
Order.
Pay.
Wait until food is cooked.
Shove food in face.

This is BEFORE you go and claim your bags.
yes, that's right. STRAIGHT to the BURGER JOINT off the plane.it's a brilliant burger , not fast foodie, just delicious...
i recommend the Jalapeno Cheeseburger.
YOu can't go wrong.





So, I eat the burger, hit the baggage claim, rent the car then hit the road. NOw I'm in the Hotel room.
I unpacked my bag and slowly came to realize that, after going through my suitcase, i brought no pants with me for the trip.
NO pants at all.
none.
nothing.
zilch.
no pants.
at all.
I brought CD's  and Merch Tee's and house keys and vest's for suits and new brown boots and laptops and flip -flops and eyedrops and dress socks and workout sneakers and ipod speakers and ointment for hives and butterfly knives and back-up zip drives and ...

...and no pants.

so, i made the phone call.
Not a phone call I've ever had to make before.
i called my bestest friend and asked if she could mail me my pants. If she could break into my apartment, find the pants and fed-ex them to a hotel in Florida.
NOw, tell me, what's more ridiculous, the fact that i asked? or the fact that she said 'yes'?

I've never had pants mailed to me at a hotel before. And i guess the best plan i've come up with so far is to walk around pant-less until i get to Miami, on Saturday, then, walk into the hotel and ask if there's a package for me. Then open it and put my pants on. And then check-in.

Man, i think these pills are really starting to get to me....

I'll see y'all in 9 hours.
xoxoxoxozzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

jb

(*footnote: i'm half jewish and half christian which, in some wierd way, allows me to say whatever i want about each of those fine belief systems : )

i eat a lot.
not only because i like good food, i do, but because i also get bored sometimes, especially when i'm driving, and food is a great activity to do when you are bored of driving.
My guitar player Kenny has a road rule: Never buy food where you buy gas.
pretty straight ahead and simple, though, easier said then done.

i've been guilty of eating junk food at gas stations before, especially below the Mason-Dixon line, where they sell fabulous bar-b-q and fried chicken at the deli/mart of almost EVERY gas station. yummy.

Oh, and FLying-J has remarkable peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.
seriously.
Funny thing, too, is that when you buy a PB&J, it comes wrapped in cellophane and in 3 halves. Not ONE sandwich cut 3 ways, but one and a Half sandwiches.
Wierd, i know, but perfectly understandable. You think just ONE peanut butter and jelly sandwich is gonna fill up a hungry american truck driver?
get real, dude.

it's funny to think that the number of sandwiches that the Flying-J sandwich maker had to prepare HAS to be divisible by 3 or else there will be retail chaos. I've always imagined the sandwich-maker with a giant vat of peanut butter, a tub of jelly, 3 loaves of bread and a calculator.

Occasionally, when on the road, one get's lucky and get's off the main highway and into a small mountain town and chooses the right restaurant and discovers some homemade goodies.

Today was that day.

Welcome to Manning's Cafe in Oakridge, Oregon.


The waitress told us that the specials were up on the white board, and that the pie specials were up on the black board.
'Pie Specials?' i said, with a scooby-doo type melody.

i love pie.

scratch that.

i love homemade pie.

I like it when my friends make pie.
My mom makes the best apple pie on earth.
i've even been made a peach pie from a fan in Baltimore that was positively delicious.

In LA, i go to Dupars which has some pretty good F'ing pie, i must say.
Whether it be gooseberry or blackberry or raspberry or boysenberry (which is a hybrid of blackberry and raspberry) or huckleberry. And i usually have a glass of milk with it.
maybe, if i'm feeling feisty, some whipped cream too.

I have a thing for pie.

needless to say when our extraordinarily unattractive waitress told us that there was fresh pie ready, i licked my chops and asked what kind.

she called back to the woman behind the counter and asked "what's that you said's coming out 'the oven?"
the lady from behind the counter retorted slowly "Marrionberry".

The Waitress turned to me and said "Looks like we've got fresh, homemade marrionberry pie"

Fresh. Homemade. Marrionberry. PIe.

HO.
ly.
Shit.

i wet myself.

MArrionberry Pie?

MARRIONBERRY PIE?

WHAT THE FUCK IS MARRIONBERRY PIE?!?!?!?!

AND HOW MUCH OF IT CAN I BUY FROM YOU!!!??

Also, do you have a towel for my pants?

She went on to explain that Marrionberry pie is an Oregonian hybrid, combining boysenberry and blackberry.
These people are like scientists with their berries.
It's BRILLIANT for fat pie-devouring connoisseurs like myself.

I ordered a slice and she asked if i wanted it warmed up with vanilla ice-cream.
I shot her a stiff glare.
Was this woman working hand in hand with the devil? or with heavenly angels?
it was tough to tell.

I asked her to warm it up, but hold the ice-cream.
See, when i try a pie for the first time i like it bare; i like it raw, naked, lonely, and vulnerable. How god intended. I don't want any superfluous details to distract me from the essence of the marrionberry.

Minutes later she came over with a bowl of marrionberry pie.
NOT a plate. A bowl.

It was purple-ish.
the marrionberry juices were surrounding the berries and the crust like a mote.
It was warm.
the crust was soft on the inside and flaky on the outside.
It smelled of an angel fragrance that would make Sara Lee cry herself to sleep.
I gently lifted my fork and penetrated the precious skin of our little pie.
i strategized the amounts of berry, juice and crust into the perfect commingling.
A good pie, upon tasting, should remind your mouth of kisses from your favorite kisser.

I brought it to my lips.
I inhaled slowly.
I softly brought my teeth down, slowly, feeling the berries breaking their juices off into my mouth.
I exhaled.

i smiled.

it was a marrionberry masterpiece.
A Masterrionberrypiece.

Chester Greenwood was born in 1858.
He dropped out of grammar school in 1868 and then, in 1873; at the age of fifteen, he invented the earmuffs.
He made an American fortune selling them to US soldiers during World War I.
They have a parade for him every year in Farmington, Maine, his hometown, where all the local police cruisers in the parade are decorated as giant earmuffs.
Maine's legislation declared December 21st as 'Chester Greenwood Day'.
On day's like today, we might want to consider it a national holiday.

It's November in New York.
The wind has teeth.
it rushes between the buildings and barks through the alleys and charges across the crosswalks and tears through my jacket and bites to the bone.
The brick buildings stand stubbornly in defiance like blisters, or middle fingers.
It shouldn't be this cold without snow. It just seems unfair.

Still, New York and New Yorkers wear all of it effortlessly.
They successfully make suffering look sexy.
It's mesmerizing.
Meanwhile, I bought a dirty-water hot dog from an Eskimo on St. Marks,
the scarf industry is positively booming, and I'm pretty sure I saw a polar bear in a cossack on the F train.

Autumn in New York,
Someone should write a song about it.

The last few shows have been quite fun-
i played a japanese themed ballroom in New York City on Friday and a Mexican Restaurant/venue in Teaneck, New Jersey on Saturday. At the latter, the paramedics had to come and carry someone out on a stretcher. Seriously. i'm still not sure what happened, but it happened right before i went on stage. maybe it was sheer anticipation that made him pass out cold?
maybe.
i think it was the chimichangas.

thou shalt not eat mexican in Teaneck.
noted.

An old friend of mine came to that show. She lives and has lived in New Jersey since she was born. She has bartended at more than 40 jersey nightclubs, she speaks with a jersey accent, works at a hair salon, she smokes Newport regulars, has never owned a car she hasn't crashed, and is one of my favorite people on earth.

After the show, she invited me to a 'reunion party' for the staff of the bar she used to work at.The party would be in the V.i.P section of a club called BLISS in CLifton, New Jersey.

BLISS.
In Clifton, new jersey.
I had a feeling the name might be misleading.

I definitely should have said no, which is precisely why i said yes.

We drove to CLifton.
I was a bit excited because i hadn't been to a nightclub like this since i lived in Long Island (which, for all intents and purposes, is the bastard cousin of New Jersey).
I hated them then, but i thought that maybe if i exercised a little sense of humor, a little less adolescent judgment and the wisdom i like to think i've acquired since my teenage years, then maybe this time might be different.


Sometimes it truly astonishes me how wrong i can be.


I think that it's mostly the music that bothered me. But not even the TYPE of music; i mean, c'mon, it's a dance club; of COURSE they're playing dance music, it's to be expected.
But the sheer VOLUME of the music was truly amazing.
and by that, i mean i was AMAZED by how loud it was. I think they make it that loud so that people can't think to themselves or ask one another "what the hell am i doing at Bliss in Clifton, NEw Jersey?"
Most of the people weren't even dancing. They weren't even talking because it would be impossible to hear. They were just standing there, staring at each other blankly with Red Bull cans glued to their faces as they slowly, systematically went deaf. I couldn't think of anything more stupid.
I walked over to the DJ and asked him if he thought the music was kind of loud.
I said "hey man, sounds great. Don't you think it's kinda loud?"
he looked at me like i was trying to teach a cat how to swim.
i felt old.
Or sane, i'm not sure which.

Right then the DJ reached across the booth and pulled on a little rope that was hanging there-
for a second i thought the floor would drop out from under me and i would be violently removed from the dance floor.
instead, a giant fog horn blew.
It blew louder than the music, and people cheered.
WOOOOOOOOO!
Smoke came out from under the bar.
The party had started, i guess.

I walked across the thickened sea of Drakkar Noir and found my friend.
I exercised my usual tactic when i'm in a situation that i no longer want to be in:
i tactically and jovially annoy the shit out of whoever can get me out of there.
It usually takes about 5 minutes to successfully get myself out of any place using this method, and this time was no different.
I insisted that i needed pharmaceutical drugs if i was going to stay another minute. She scoffed. I told her that i would go shake my ass on the dance floor until somebody hit me. She dared me. I threatened to pee in the plotted plant of the VIP room. She laughed. Finally, I said that i was going to get very drunk and throw up all over her car on the way back to New York.
That broke her.

As she grabbed her coat and said goodbye to her friends, i inquired with the bartender about pills. No luck. We walked out of the club into the night, across the street and against the crippling wind. We were dead smack in the middle of a Bruce Springsteen song.

She pulled the hood of her jacket over her head, reached into her pocket for a Newport and spoke from the side of her mouth:
"You better not fucking blog about this"