La Vie En Robe

Into The Valley

Been wanting to write at length about my lovely road trip to Las Vegas last weekend to visit my pals Rich & Melanie, but the run-up to the SXSW festival has just been too all-consuming.
    So let's just hit the highlights, then: On the recommendation of my friend Neil, I eschewed the usual "15 Forever" route and drove through the Mojave National Preserve instead, which proved to be a both absolutely beautiful and profoundly head-clearing experience — on the way to Vegas and back, there were times when I wouldn't see another car for 30-45 minutes. Saw plenty of Joshua Trees, though, as well as a few decrepit old buildings and  the famous and mysterious "Shoe Tree" just to the south on National Trails Highway. Unfortunately, I totally overshot the turn-off for the Kelso Dune Field, home to the "singing" or "booming" sand dunes, which I really wanted to experience. Next time, then...
    My stay in Vegas was actually the most mellow I've ever had there, mostly because we stayed the fuck away from the Strip. We did, however, check out an art installation over at UNLV, where their friend David was (among other things) destroying old chairs using only the vibrations from an old organ; we also hit up an excellent Asian crawfish restaurant called Hot n' Juicy, and a relatively new (but pretty impressive) tiki bar called Frankie's. I wasn't that into their Navy Grog (though I did quite like the special mug I bought to go with it; they have eight custom mugs to choose from), but their Lapu-Lapu was truly outta this world...
    Oh yeah — Rich and I also spent much of a gorgeous Saturday afternoon hiking around the Valley of Fire, where the sand and rocks really are an eye-searing shade of red. Many of the formations are covered by ancient petroglyphs, some of which may be over a thousand years old. If you're ever in Vegas, I highly recommend prying yourself away from the slot machines for an afternoon and checking it out for yourself. At the very least, it will put your gambling losses in some degree of perspective...
    More to tell, but no time — I've gotta go bone up on the 40+ bands and artists I will be interviewing in Austin. I'll try to check in from Texas... in the meantime, happy St. Paddy's Day, everyone!

Taco Tuesday: Lucha Libre

In which Jay and I go to Mexico for some hot wrestling action, but find only tacos and the new albums by the Prodigy and Neko Case...

Memo to myself: If I ever buy a Lucha mask, buy one with a wider mouth hole...

From Hollywood to Raleighwood

(photo by Greg Barbera)

Such was my trajectory this past weekend, when I took advantage of having three straight days off to do something I've been wanting to do for ages — visit my friends Gary, Greg and Erik in Raleigh, NC. Gary, I've known since my early days in LA; we met while both paying the bills on our way to something better by working at the Virgin Megastore in West Hollywood. Greg, I've known for about ten years now; back when he was the editor of NC's now-defunct Spectator, he tracked me down and sweet-talked me into writing reviews for his paper for a measly ten bucks a pop. Erik, well, I'd never actually met Erik before; we were introduced via MySpace by mutual friends, and realized we had a ton of stuff — musically and cosmically — in common. In fact, everyone who knew the both of us kept remarking about how much he reminded them of me, and vice-versa. All three of these dynamite gents now live in the Raleigh-Durham area, so I snagged a cheap plane ticket and dropped in on them.
    What transpired was about 55 hours of eating, drinking, jamming, intense conversations and general hilarity. Didn't do much sightseeing, unless you count a couple of resale shops and Slim's Downtown, but that was just fine with me; I was enjoying everyone's company too much to bother with the local museums or points of historical interest. Although Gary and Erik did take me to Clyde Cooper's, a BBQ institution in downtown Raleigh since 1938. The place boasts some mighty fine hush puppies and pork rinds (yes, I said pork rinds), but I confess that it didn't win me over to the cult of vinegar-based Carolina-style Q. Give me Arthur Bryant's in Kansas City, any day...
    Friday night was the more epic of the two evenings I spent there. First, Erik and I picked up Greg at some ale house in Durham near the new ballpark, whose name I can't remember; then we hit the Raleigh Times for some mighty fine burgers and Belgian beer; then on to Slim's in downtown Raleigh to meet up with Gary; and then on to an epic jam session with members of the T's, Gary's band, and the Static Minds, Erik's band, with Greg and I pitching in on guitar, bass and vocals when we had the chance. Can't remember everything we jammed on, though I know Neil Young's "Cinammon Girl," the Who's "Substitute" and "I Can't Explain," the Stooges' "Down in the Street" and the Rolling Stones' "When the Whip Comes Down" were all part of the equation. It had literally been six or seven years since I'd last plugged in a guitar and wailed with a full band, and it felt DAMN GOOD. How it sounded was probably another matter entirely...
    We were all pretty hurtin' the next day, but a greasy fry-up at Finch's put the four of us at least semi-right. Spent the late afternoon nodding off on Erik's couch while watching the University of North Carolina basketball game with Erik's lovely wife Robin, a massive hoops fan. (I figured that if you should read Homer's Odyssey while you're in Greece, you should definitely watch ACC basketball while you're in North Carolina.) Erik, Robin and I then fortified ourselves with some fine calzones at Moonlight Pizza before heading to the Landmark Tavern where Gary was tending bar. The place was positively crawling with post-frat douchebags, so we sat outside under the heatlamps and had fun counting the pairs of chinos that walked by. (I caught some good-natured shit from the locals for being the only person sitting outside who was actually wearing gloves — "You're not from around here, are you?") From there, it was on to an engagement party for the T's singer/guitarist Steven and his fiancée, where I met and rapped with a number of really cool people, ate some amazing home-cooked tacos, and almost coughed up a lung laughing as I watched Gary try to wrap up an uncooperative slice of apple pie for the road. Hopefully, he's remembered to retrieve it from his trunk by now...
    It was a whirwind trip, but a fantastic time; and while it felt great to get back to the desert (especially in its current warm and gorgeous state), it was easily the most fun I've had since this past Christmas in NYC. From what I saw, Raleigh definitely has a lot to recommend it — good food, cheap drinks, friendly people, fine ladies, easy acceptance of people with conceptual facial hair, etc. I miss my pals, I miss the constant yuks (most of which fell into the "you had ta be there" category) and I miss Erik and Robin's dog, Maeby, and theircat, Lola, constantly vying for my attention. Thanks for the good times, everyone; see ya during minor league baseball season, for sure!

New York's All Right If You Like Shanghai Noodles

And boy, do I ever — especially these ones from New Yeah Shanghai Deluxe in Chinatown, which my friend Shawn and I scored (along with some truly wonderful soup dumplings) on a brief meal break from an epic drunken Christmas Night karaoke session with some of his righteous pals Laura, Bryan and Michelle at Winnie's Bar across the street. 'twas not to be a silent night at all, as Shawn proved early on with an absolutely caterwauling rendition of Supertramp's "Logical Song," and it all went hilariously downhill from there. I still have a divot in my new Chelsea boots as the result of Shawn's bizarre boot-slapping boogie dance during our duet on Grand Funk Railroad's "We're An American Band". Many other rock and soul classics were similarly desecrated that evening. Still, I would maintain that my singing and vocal range actually improved after about seven or eight Tsing Taos; my ability to stand upright, not so much.

Anyway, 'twas an absolutely killer Xmas vay-cay in NYC. Saw family and friends, but also had some much-needed solo time, and I didn't do a damn lick of work while I was there. A perfect and positive end to a year best (or at least most diplomatically) described as "challenging," and I was really sorry to leave so soon. Some non-karaoke highlights, then:

Best Museum Exhibit: Ray Mortenson's photos of the burned-out South Bronx (circa late 70s/early 80s) at the Museum of the City of New York. Fucking stunning stuff; totally reminded me of the photos I'd seen of houses and neighborhoods destroyed by Hurricane Katrina — though of course this was a much different kind of disaster.

Best Walk: From Columbus Circle down to Union Square, on a bright and sunny Christmas Day. Totally avoided Times Square and all that idiocy, opting instead to cut over to a wonderfully deserted Park Avenue where, after stopping on 42nd St. to photographically indulge my continuing fascination with the Chrysler Building (which, along with the Woolworth Building, remains my favorite NYC skyscraper), I made a nostalgic pilgrimage to my Dad's old building at 222 Park Ave South. I still have very fond memories of sitting on the windowsill in his living room at 3 AM, watching drunken scenesters stagger out of Max's Kansas City, which was right across the street at the time. Seemed like the most romantic thing in the world to me at the time.

Best Stroll: A meandering, laugh-filled afternoon groove with my friend Michael through the West Village to Pier 45 on the Hudson River, where I got an amazing pre-sunset eyeful of the Jersey CIty skyline. Wow, who knew there was an actual city in Jersey City?

Best Beer Selection: The Hop Devil Grill in the East Village. The somewhat cheesy sports bar vibe was totally mitigated by a truly mouth-watering array of drafts and bottles from many lands. Actually, turns out they have a lounge next door which looked much more "chill," but Shawn wanted dinner so we drank at the grill.

Best Bar To Request "Holy Diver" In (Again): The Three of Cups Lounge. I made a conscious effort this trip to stray from my usual tram tracks (museums, restaurants, etc.) in search of new adventures and experience. But I couldn't say no to another trip to the Three of Cups — great tunes, cheap drinks, mellow vibe (in a metal kinda way), and the DJs will always play Dio's "Holy Diver" if you ask them nicely. Which my friend Carise did, much to my headbanging, horns-throwing delight and edification.

Best Dessert (Maybe Ever): The olive oil gelato at Otto Enoteca. Good god, y'all!

Best Overheard Conversational Snippet (Abilene Bar, Brooklyn): "The cowboy from the Village People's a good friend, actually."

Best Street Encounter: My last day in NYC, I was walking through the West Village with my Dad and his pal George, when I felt a hand on my shoulder. I turned to find a guy about ten years my senior, who exclaimed loudly in what sounded like a French accent, "Bob Dee-lahn! Bob Dee-lahn! The Seexties!" (I was dressed like this.) "You got the wrong guy, buddy," I smiled, replying in my best Dylanesque nasal rasp. Of course, it occured to me about two minutes later that "It ain't me, babe" would have been the superior response, but hey — we can't all be "the poet laureate of a generation."

Thanksgiving at the Beach

Lest some of you continue to doubt my sanity, enjoying the new Guns N' Roses wasn't the only thing I did on Thanksgiving Day. I also took a long, sun-drenched, Isley Brothers-blasting ride up the Pacific Coast Highway to Leo Carrillo Beach, where I hung out on the rocks for a couple of hours, watched the waves and the birds and the fishermen, took some photos, and gave thanks for the whole lotta things that I have to be thankful for. It was pretty righteous, and fairly cosmic.

Viva La France

Now that Barack Obama has been elected President, I figure we can finally call time on this country's idiotic anti-French bias, which brought such genius phrases as "Freedom Fries" and "Cheese-Eating Surrender Monkeys" into our early 21st Century lexicon. So it is with this renewed spirit of fraternité that my ShockHound buddy Jay and I decided to visit Paris for this week's episode of Taco Tuesday...

Shore Is Purdy

Kicked around the Santa Monica Pier and Beach yesterday.

The ocean air was sweet, and the cool sand felt nice on my bare feet.

Took a buncha pics, some of 'em came out good.

Home Again Home Again, Jiggity-Jig

Man, that week sure went by quickly.

I could've done with another week (at least) in NYC — too many pals I didn't get to see, didn't make it to Chinatown, didn't make it to any ballgames, didn't make it to any museums, didn't make it to any Broadway shows (okay, totally kidding about wanting to do the latter), but it was a fun and satisfying trip overall. Managed to effectively exorcise the ghosts of my earlier appendix ordeal; now, instead of associating Ocean Grove with mind-bending pains in my gut, I will instead associate it with being cooped up all day during a massive rainstorm in my Dad's tiny beach house with limited internet access. Which, as they say, is something of an improvement.

Took a long walk through Central Park yesterday on my way down to the West Village to meet my friend Michael at the great Bar Pitti. It's our tradition; nearly every time I've visited Manhattan since 1996, we've made time to meet up there for some divine pasta and wine. Last night's penne all'arogosto (i.e., "with lobster") may have been the best thing I've ever eaten there, and that's truly saying something.

Once I made it to the south end of the Park, I started down Broadway, only to realize that I would wind up walking through the heinous Times Square if I continued on my due south trajectory. Cut over to 6th Avenue instead, and was pleasantly surprised to run into a festive street fair that stretched from north of Radio City Music Hall all the way down to Bryant Park. Most of the stalls were filled with crappy t-shirts and folk art, but there were a number of kabob and sausage stands (see above pic) sending smoky, meaty deliciousness wafting through the air, and it was just fun to see so many people strolling along 6th Ave. For more of my NYC and NJ shots, check out my FlickR set here.

The trip back today was fairly grueling; I shelled out $39 for extra leg-room seats, only to wind up jammed between the window and a Roger Clemens-like dude whose shoulders were about as broad as two seats combined. During my layover in Chicago, I was greatly amused to overhear a conversation between 90s dullard-rock band Tonic (who are apparently, much to my surprise, still in business) and one of their former road crew members; they had run into each other in the gate area. Pleasantries were exchanged, along with vague offers of work in the coming year — but once the roadie dude bid them adieu, one of the Tonic guys emphatically stated that it would "be a cold day in hell" before said roadie would work for the band again. Seems that this band member had given this roadie a guitar as an end-of-tour-gift, only to see the guy turn around and sell it on eBay. Nice manners...

Oh, speaking of manners — can we have a fucking moratorium on gratuitously thanking passing military personnel for their "service"? When I was on the O'Hare moving walkway, there was a Navy dude in full sailor whites in front of me. A middle-aged white guy on the walkway next to us (who was accompanied by a son about the same age as the sailor) boomed out, "Thank you for your service, young man," as we passed. The sailor barely even nodded in response. Look, if you want to really show your appreciation for the sacrifices that these people make, offer to buy them lunch, or (better yet) fight to keep John McCain and the rest of the Republicans from slashing veterans' benefits any further than they already have. Sure, you may mean well, but it just comes off as self-serving — like, "Look at me! I'm patriotic!" It takes about as much effort and thought as putting a fucking yellow ribbon magnet on the back of your car, and is about as impressive...

But anyway, I digress. It's good to be home again with Carole and the cats (though that little weiner Shadow has been hiding from me since I got back), and it was a real fucking treat to get home in time to watch Carlos Zambrano throw the first Cubs no-hitter since Milt Pappas back in '72. Congrats, Big Z! You totally rule! Thanks for ending my week off in a thrilling fashion. And an even bigger thanks to the family, friends and co-workers I did get to see in NYC, who lifted my spirits and truly warmed my soul with their love, laughs and hospitality. Y'all totally rule, as well.

More from the Shore

Well, more rain, to be exact. Except for this morning, when I took the above pic of the Ocean Grove Pier, it's rained all fucking day. So much for chilling out at the beach; my seersucker shorts won't be of much use, either. Which means I'll probably be heading back to NYC on the early side tomorrow.

So in the absence of anything interesting to relate today, I'll add the category that I forgot from yesterday.

Best celebrity sighting: Lou Reed.

Tuesday night, I was enjoying dinner with my Dad and his pal George at an excellent little Greek joint in the Village called Gus's Place when I spied Mr. White Light/White Heat from the window. At first, it looked like he was just passing by; but then he took a seat at one of the outdoor tables. I mentioned him to my dining companions, and they suggested that I send him a drink. "Nah, he wouldn't go for that," I said. "He's got a rep for being kind of an unpleasant person." At which point, either my Dad or George suggested that I send over a creme brulee — which, the more I thought about it, seemed like a really "punk" thing to do, in the sense of it being completely absurd and totally inappropriate. But ultimately, I chickened out.

We'd had a few glasses of wine by this point, and when my Dad asked me, "Where's the Loo?" I thought he said, "Where's Lou?" I pointed outside. "Oh yeah," said my Dad. "Maybe I should just go over and pee on him. He'd like that, right?"

Oh, how we laughed. Two generations of Epstein men, workin' blue as usual. Later on, Lou got up, and we realized he'd been dining with Laurie Anderson. Good thing my Dad didn't follow through; cultured gent that he is, he would have been mortified to piss on someone in front of Laurie Anderson.

Greetings from Asbury Park, NJ

Ah, the salty ocean breezes. The sandy dunes. The splintery boardwalk...

Arrived at my Dad's weekend pad in Ocean Grove, NJ this afternoon, which is just a few minute walk down the aforementioned boardwalk to Bruce Springsteen's old stomping grounds. Yes, I loaded up several favorite Bruce bootlegs (all Darkness-era and earlier) onto my iPod, just for the occasion. Yes, I am a dork.

Anyway, it's good to get here and really start relaxing after three fun but fairly intense days in NYC. As usual, too busy seeing my wonderful Noo Yawk friends to do much sightseeing, etc., though I did do something I'd never done before in my life — take a nap in Central Park. On Monday afternoon, after a fairly disappointing lunch at Asian soup noodle/dim sum joint Ollie's on the Upper West Side (I thought "stewed beef" meant soft, Pho-like strips of meat, not fist-sized beef stew cubes. What kind of maniac would think to pair them with delicate noodles?), I was walking through the Park near the Natural History Museum. It was an absolutely gorgeous day, upper 70s, sunny, gentle breezes caressing my cheek, the whole deal. I came upon a big stone outcropping about 10-15 feet high, thought it looked like a nice place to bask in the sun and read a magazine, so I climbed to the top and sat down. Here's the view from my rock:

After about 15 minutes of basking, I stretched out on my back, and felt the warmth of the rock soothing away all the pent-up tension from the last few weeks. It felt like I was communing with the real Manhattan Island, a piece of the earth that existed before skyscrapers, subways or even humans arrived. And then I drifted off to sleep.

I awoke about an hour later, wallet and person intact, and profoundly relaxed and happy in a way that I hadn't felt in, well, I can't remember how long. Which kind of set the tone for the rest of the trip, at least the happiness part.

Best Meal So Far: Very nearly a tie between the spaghetti limone I scarfed Monday night at Lil' Frankie's, and the house pasta at Cacio e Pepe, though the latter wins 'cuz the homemade pasta — which is tossed with pecorino romano and black pepper — is brought to your table in a GIANT HOLLOWED OUT ROMANO CHEESE.

Best Sandwich So Far: The Meatloaf sandwich (pictured above) at 'Wichcraft, which some of my old Revolver droogies turned me on to. Not quite as good as the meatloaf sandwiches I make when Carole makes her brown-sugar-and-ketchup=basted 'loaf, but damn fine nonetheless. And the size is perfect — just big enough to fill you up, but not so massive that you want to fall asleep at your desk afterwards.

Most mediocre meal, best location: Clam strips and fries, shared with my dad on an Asbury Park boardwalk bench overlooking the ocean. I could have eaten deep-fried rubber bands and still been smiling.

Best exchange with a DJ, possibly ever: Last night at the dingy (but very comfortable) little dive bar underneath Three of Cups, the DJ was rocking my world with a mix that included the Stooges, Humble Pie, Iron Maiden, Motorhead and early Metallica. Usually, when you make a request to a bar or club DJ, they shoot you a look like you just pissed in their beer, and say something dismissive like, "I'll look, but I'm not sure I have it." This guy, though, when I asked if he had any Dio, his eyes lit up. "Dio? Fuck yeah!" Asked if he perchance might favor us with some "Holy Diver" action, he said, "Fuck Yeah! HOLY DIVER!!!" And then, the very next song, he played it. While rocking out to the wee Mr. Dio, I looked across the room and caught the DJ's eye; he was rocking out, too, mouthing the lyrics ("You've been down too long in the midnight sea!") with even greater theatricality than I was. This, in a nutshell, is why I love metal.

More to come...