Mexican Dudes Rocking the F Train.

I took the subway up to our gig opening for DMB at MSG.

It soothes me to take the train up to an important big-league gig, rather than a car service or something. I did the same thing when we played Letterman.
It was humbling to see these guys playing Mexican folk tunes to bundled-up commuters; they’re playing the F train, I’m en route to Madison Square Garden. Buskers are the hardest-working people in show business. I’m almost superstititious about giving buskers money. I tried to play in a subway station when I first moved to New York, at age 18; I folded after 10 minutes, it was so hard.
MSG gig was good, too; we relaxed into the tunes, rather than trying to blast to the back of the hall. That’s the trick to playing these gigantic rooms. And we kept looking at each other, like, Isn’t this fucking amazing?!
I did a tune with DMB, a freestyle on “Jimi Thing.” I came up really early and had to wait for my turn on the mic as Butch and Leroi took long solos. I stood there trying to look like I was just cold-lamping, when in fact I felt like a big dork. I think my solo was OK, though more subdued than I would’ve liked. I did better when they invited me to do it again in New Hampshire, wilding out a little more, doing a little call-and-response-then-SCREAM thing with the audience.
Facing a sold out Madison Square Garden, incidentally, is FUCKING KOOL. The DMB dudes were so kind to invite me up there. The level of niceness in the DMB camp in general is really wonderful.

We Drove to Woodstock in the Snow.

That most venerable of hippie towns.

The gig was at a place called the Joyous Lake; it was a little rusty, as we haven’t played in a month, but better to be rusty in Woodstock than at Madison Square Garden.
Odds are good that one day I’ll be a well-to-do greying hippie, which means I may very well live in Woodstock. Great town. Great soup. Decent bagels. My old friend Kate Hyman, a genius A&R woman, now sits on the town council.

Attend the Tale.

Saw Sweeney Todd last night. What an incredible piece of music. And in this production, the cast are the orchestra, leading to the surreal question: Who the fuck knew Patti LuPone could play the tuba?
Then went to Otto, the Mario Batali joint, and ate ridiculously good cheese, and then their signature olive oil ice cream which is as delicious as it is baffling.

I Type to You from the Signature Theater on 42nd Street.

So it’s 3 am, all the actors–having been Polaroided and divided up among the playwrights–left hours ago, and we, the 6 writers on the 24 Hour Plays are busily typing. The directors show up at 7 am, the actors at 8:30 am. And the plays go up at 8 pm!
I just finished a draft, gonna print it out and have a look-see. I have so much coffee in me I may very well die.

The Ancient Land of No-Self-Esteem.

Sometimes when I’m feeling restless, I sit around searching for old friends on MySpace.

Old friends that I used to get high with all the time; people with whom I used to get fucked up with and exchange mean-spirited, passive-aggressive, cynical half-insults with; i.e., not actually friends at all.
I’m smart enough not to write to them. Maybe they’ve grown up/cleaned up/wised up in the same way I have. My limited experience getting back in touch with old fellow-travelers is that I get off the phone almost in tears, thinking, What the fuck did I ever see in this person? Who did I used to be that I could hang in such a vicious relationship with?
How I must have felt about myself. Fuck. I can barely remember.