--Tristan 

Burgers being what they are, I seldom make them at home, so when I do, I should like to do it right. Besides, alpha-lipoic acid, arguably the most important nutrient to ocular health, is most densely found in red meat. As my eye sight has been suffering somewhat since moving (and going on the Stress and Poverty Diet), I make it a point, every couple weeks, to take a healthy helping of something beef on "manager's special."

But back to the point, for the kind of richness that cannot be found in the traditional, backyard, hand grenade "burger," ground sirloin is the way to do it. Try it sometime without telling your cookout guests, and let the compliments wash in. (If you want any more tips [such as make sure the middle of your patty is at least as thin as the edges in order to avoid the pine cone/hand grenade shrinkage endured by so many American "barbeque"* hobbyists, and always, always butter and toast your buns] or to take exception with my ignorant self-righteousness, please don't hesitate to contact me at theprincesofhollywood@gmail.com.)

--As an aside, don't buy Yuengling (America's oldest brewery and one of my favorite cheap, American beers) in Tennessee. It's, evidently, all skunked. We thought we had bought a misbottled selection...but it turns out that the vast majority of Tennessee's Yuengling just tastes like crap. This is probably a result of extended shipment time from Pennsylvania and slow sales, because no one down here drinks it.

Anyway, what I'm trying to say is this: I just had a long day, and the only thing that cured it was half a pound of char-grilled chopped sirloin. Try it sometime. (You don't have to take as much as I did in order to observe the benefits.)

Happy eating,

HD

*"Barbeque" or "barbecue," the process of slow cooking meat in large quantities by means of indirect heat, often conveyed by smoke, is derived from "barabicu," in the language of the Carribean Tainu people, their name for the community-sized meals prepared by burying an assortment of meats and produce and building a fire atop the pile (not unlike a New England clam bake). This is not the same as "grilling," which is cooking by suspending food upon metal slats over an open fire, intended to expose the food directly to heat and flame. Probably you've never barbequed a burger--I never have. (I did buy a smoked burger once, in Dayton. It tasted like meatloaf.) I just wanted to set the record straight.

(Author's Note: At the time of publication, I have lived in Nashville, Tennessee for roughly six weeks; I make no pretense to "know Nashville."--After three and a half years in Boston, I would make no such claim about that city.-- The following are merely first impressions. Please forgive my mistaken interpretations, and feel free to disabuse me of them.)

The Nashville skyline consists of a small cluster of "skyscrapers," out of place and in competition with the surrounding hills, so that, often, one cannot see downtown from within the city. It looks rather like a snow-globe rendition of a city's downtown scaled up to life size. The view is dominated by the AT&T (formerly Bellsouth) Tower, also known as "the Batman building" and "Optimus Prime." The mean looking spires atop the AT&T building irresistibly attract the eye, especially at night,  illuminated in blue, and might discourage one from looking up at all.

After the surprisingly diminutive size of Nashville's skyline and the slightly uncomfortable confrontation of the AT&T Tower, one finds the cranes. Chances are that wherever you are in Nashville, you can see a crane. Online listings for condominiums that showcase the homes' views invariably feature the sight of a crane in the distance, probably building another set of condominiums or expanding a college's something-or-other facilities.

(Above: The view from Bernard Road, the walking route from my house to Belmont Boulevard, where we go for Thai food on the cheap from the International Market, or for egg biscuits and high-octane, counter-cultural coffee from Bongo Java. Far right is the AT&T Tower, left of which, if you look closely, are a pair of cranes. Far left is the William R. Snodgrass Tennessee Tower [no kidding], where one CANNOT obtain a new driver's license after moving from out of state.)

Below: From the corner of my block, a crane at Belmont University, expanding their something-or-other facility.)

The cranes, rising up among historic estates and landmarks, are ultimately a symbol of Nashville's sense of continual, almost haphazard, renovation. Neighborhoods are updated and developed suddenly and often without explanation or regard for urban planning or (apparently) zoning restriction, creating a bizarre patchwork of commercial, industrial, and socioeconomic swatches all immediately abutted and unclearly marked. Neighborhoods change, literally, from one side of the street to the other. In this way, one really cannot judge the character of an area of Nashville proper from the map. On the edge of historic Germantown, which measures roughly four blocks, square, Tristan and I went into a Kroger where, along with one store employee who gave us a knowing nod, we were literally the only white people. Dollar General has a store on Eighth Avenue South, among generations-old antique stores.  There is a large Jewish seminary and estate in the middle of rich-as-sin, Baptist, Belle Meade. We saw John Prine shopping at our local grocery store.

"Keep Nashville Weird."

The geographical mishmash of Nashville, with its cockeyed intersections (the insult comes not from the fact that the roads are obviously old horse paths, originally connecting vast estates with the small urban center on the Cumberland, but from the fact that they have the gall to number these streets and issue them North/South/East/West demarcations, as if there were an overarching pattern) and businesses housed in former single family homes, reflects its generally confusing, hybrid attitudes of progress and tradition, deregulation and strict expectation. Judging by the bumper stickers and yard signs, Nashville was dead set on a presidential race between Ron Paul and Barrack Obama. White culture is striated from Old Money, to "new money, no taste," to Whole Foods, SUV driving liberals, to trying-too-hard subculturists, who ride their heavily modded bicycles to the artists' minidistricts, tattoo parlors and coffee shops, to the down-and-out poverty of the semi-rural American South (which is not unlike my native Appalachian Ohio).

Econopolitical contradictions come in all shapes and sizes. There is no Tennessee minimum wage or state income tax. However, entry level work pays significantly more than in Ohio, which just upped its minimum wage, and the sales tax in Nashville (applied to everything) is a staggering 9.25%. As a new resident of Tennessee, I am required to obtain a new driver's license within 30 days. However, I have not been able to satisfactorily demonstrate my residency in the month and a half since I moved here. Working in a wine shop, I have been alerted to policies of the Alcoholic Beverage Commission that evoke emotional, sometimes debilitating, responses from my deep-seeded compassionate rationalism.

(Below: In the Key West Lounge of The 1804 House, our kick-ass rental, doing some paperwork that unmistakably did not result in the issuance of a Tennessee driver license to me.)

Oh, and the music. The town is full of legendary musicians, folks who really understand and care about their art and who also make a living painting by number, so to speak, on creatively destitute pop-country tunes intended to dupe the masses and hopefully sell some cars or tortilla chips or whatever. So, if you're a singer or a "writer" or a player, you can definitely find your place in the industry. But if you consider yourself an artist in a sense that doesn't relate to commercial success, you can find a home among vastly talented and truly friendly people, too.

To sum it up, anything goes, here, as long as you're nice and aren't in violation of any apparently completely arbitrary laws or mores. Confusing, right? I know.

Nashville is weird. Not in terms of the collective sense of individual freedom and rejection of the status quo for which, say, Portland, Oregon is known. But it's definitely weird, all the same. I like it here. A lot.

HD

If you ever find yourself in Athens, Ohio, Harlan Dalzell of The Princes of Hollywood recommends the following:

Casa Nueva and Casa Cantina - (As recommended by the band Cake.) For libation and repast, this ought to be your first stop. Patently Athenian and worker-owned, with a focus on locally produced groceries, Casa Nueva serves frikkin' tasty and very affordable hippie-Mexican. (Don't be ruffled if you receive middling service--See above.) Also a vegetarian's haven, Casa offers nearly every dish in a meat-free rendition. (I hear the vegan parfait is first rate.) This is where The PofH take out-of-town musicians. I eat here at least weekly. Meanwhile, next door at the Cantina there is live music, pretty much nightly, exclusively Ohio-brewed goodies on tap (with a formidable bottled beer selection from all around this thirsty, spinning rock), 'Bodega' appetizers from the Casa Nueva menu, and the superlative liquor selection in town. Cheers. 6 W State St. 740-592-2016

O'Betty's Red Hot! - Hands-down the best hotdogs and hand-cut french fries in town. Vegetarian friendly, too. 15 W State St. 740-589-6111

Avalanche Pizza - (As seen on Food Network) A traditional delivery-style pizza joint with conventional and gourmet toppings, available whole-wheat crust, and a variety of sauces? Score! The three-pizza deals can't be beaten. 329 E State St. 740-594-GONG

Magic Video - Athens' independent movie rental choice for over 20 years. No, they don't have 60 copies of the new horror fiasco. And, yes, rentals really are only for one night, but Martha Laufman has made a business of getting movies that matter. Their selection rivals the best I've seen in major metropolitan independent movie stores. 20 W State St. 740-592-4544

Athena Cinema (Uptown) - Just got an afternoon to burn and can't wait for the new arthouse flick to make it to Magic Video? Hit the Athena Uptown. As I see it, this is one of the most productive ways Ohio University is spending money, these days. 20 S Court St. 740-592-5106

Donkey Coffee and Espresso - Fuel up. 17 1/2 W. Washington St. 740-594-7353

The Front Room Open Stage - Bruce Dalzell has been hosting this open stage--8:00 (almost) every Friday night--for years, and it is the standard by which the numerous others in town would be judged, if anyone really judged open mics. Go tell a joke or perform hip-hop with cello accompaniment or, better yet, do something I've never even considered. At least go say hi to Brucie and see who's playing in town these days--they all come through eventually. (Bruce also hosts numerous other open stages at Baker Center during the week. See the website for details. And, during the summer, you must go to the Athens Public Library on Monday nights for the Family Open Stage that he hosts with his wife, Gay. *This is on my list of "Happiest Places on Earth.")

Mistretta's Italian Market - Serious panini and daily deli specials, along with various Italian imports make this a sure bet and my regular sandwich fix. Also, they feature a specialized wine selection and reliable imported beer choices. I'm getting hungry just thinking about it. 9 N Shafer St. 740-594-4949

Seaman's Grocery - For in-town meat selection, you can't beat Seaman's. When The PofH smoke a pork shoulder, this is where we buy it. Also, their beige-colored plastic shopping bags are my favorite in Athens County. 305 W. Union St. 740-594-2238

Athens Farmers Market - Saturday (year-round) and Wednesday (April-November), 10:00 AM-1:00 PM. Do it. Parking lot of the University Mall, E State St.

Alvis Auto Repair - Car trouble? 186 Columbus Rd. 740-594-3222

Glasshouse Works - For readers inlcined toward horticulture or statuary, you have to check out the GHW, the world-famous mail-order greenhouse, two blocks from my childhood home in Stewart, Ohio. They have some amazing stuff, including regional artisanal offerings, such as rock sculpture, bird baths, etc. Church St., Stewart 740-662-2142

Passion Works Studio - "Passion Works Studio supports collaborations between artists with and without disabilities." Seriously good place. The PofH were honored to be included in the Passion Works Music Project Volume II. Look for it soon. (Our track is called "My Little Pancake Button.") 21 S. Campbell St. 740-592-6659

Not Doing "The Court Street Shuffle" - Although it is true that there are 23 liquor serving establishments on an easy walking route uptown, this in no way makes visiting each of them in one night--Athens' famous pub crawl--a good idea. Indeed, if this is your idea of a good time, you will likely find the rest of my advice on this page of little use.

The Athens Do-It-Yourself Shop - Tired of buying crappy beer from Anheuser-Busch? Me too! Let's make our own! This bloke will be happy to help us on our way. 6 Euclid Dr. 740-594-2349

The Bike Path - It is what it sounds like. As 'progressive' as Athens is, that whole cycling thing isn't really a big deal, but there is a lovely bike path if you want to get away and enjoy the Hocking River.

That should get you started. Please let me know if you have any questions.

Best,

HD 

It feels like a while since I've been here, probably because I haven't thought much about this page since we last played in Rochester, back in mid December.  I was completely suprised to wake up this morning and find that a month had passed since our last show, and it seemed appropriate to pay a little visit to the ole' PofH.com.

After the holidays came and went whizzing by, thankfully without much ado, I got back to figuring out just what the hell is going on in my life.  This had included, but had not been limited to, driving around Nashville looking for an apartment, writing charts and playing guitar for my friend Matt Mackey's new record, reading a great many books (Just a Couple of Days, Stumbling on Happiness, To Have and Have Not, What is the What, The Botany of Desire) and writing two new songs (both of which are, as of yet, untitled).  I've been trying to get a new page up for my own self-indulgent blogging purposed, "Have Guitar, Will Travel", but that has been slow to materialize.  I hope that it will be a endearing and engrossing read in the next few months.

Meanwhile, I've not been keeping warm (it frickin' freezing in Ohio right now), nor have I been staying sain.  I will get it together this week, grow myself a pair, tell folks what I really feel, and the get the hell out of dodge.  For now, though, I'm going to go make a cup of tea and sit on the couch.

Paz,

TK 

I was born in Syracuse, NY, and I've spend many, many hours booking it along the New York Turnpike I-90, but I've never once stopped in Rochester.  Turns out I was missing a thing or two.  Also the hometown of our sometimes drummer, the busiest many in Athens showbiz, Mark Hellenberg, Rochester was the site of our final gig of the year, at a delightful little club called High Fidelity, with our best bud Chris Trapper.  Rochester was bigger then I expected, and seemed like a pretty hip place: arts scene, good coffee, lots of girls; the kind of place I could get used to.  We even managed to find a superb little Tapas joint open at midnight on a Tuesday, still serving, and stuffed ourselves with delicious shellfish in spicy broth, grilled chorizo, baked empanadas, whisky, and sangria--and not a flat-screen television in sight, God bless 'em.

The show was a bit weird, though the crowd was wonderful, patient, and attentive.  This was our first show in a year without Scotty "The Mullet" Houchens, who, as you might have read, has left the band.  Joining us for this show was keyboard maestro, recording studio owner, and consummate professional, Bernie Nau.  While Bernie really tore it up, Harlan and I each flubbed songs that we've been playing for a least a year, if not two.  Meanwhile, two new songs made their debut, and went off without a hitch.  Chris seemed to catch the bug, too, as he made a few, very uncharacteristic mistakes.

This morning, Chris overslept, so we sallied forth without him to the aptly-Chris-dubbed "Coffee Mall" actually called Spot Coffee, which was housed inside a cavernous, tapestry adorned space, previously hosting a theater and a Chevy dealership.  Weird.  Great food though, and alright coffee. 

After Chris realized that he had overslept and need to book it to Pittsburg, we hit the road.  I got a called about mid-day to inform me that a hot water pipe had busted in my kitchen, and that my apartment had flooded.  Lucky, it was discovered before it spread to the office, which is the next room over, but as I sit here now, fans and de-humidfiers blasting, things are looking a bit rough.  The carpet had been pulled up, and the wood floor in my kitchen is a bit warped, and I haven't even begun to dig through my stuff to see what's been damaged, but there will be plenty of time for disappointment and frustration tomorrow.  Luckily, I'm moving in three weeks, so I guess I'll just use this as motivation for  starting to pack up my things and discard the things that I don't need, or those that have been damaged.  Ugh.

Well, my camera batteries died, so I didn't take any pictures this trip, but I've attached a little snapshot from my recent trip to Key Largo.  Maybe I'll take pictures of my rotting kitchen floor tomorrow.  Yea!

Hugs,

TK 

Dear Diary,

I feel like I've changed so much since I last wrote you; where do I begin?  I've got the old airport blues again, as I sit here in CMH (which now has airport-wide free wi-fi; welcome to the 21st Century!) reflecting on our recent trip to Boston, and more importantly, all that has happened in the last year.

It has come time to bid farewell to our brother-in-arms; our hard-livin', backseat-sleeping, mulleted keyboardist; the Kurt Russel to my Ryan Seacrest (sorry, inside joke).  Yes, that's right, Scotty "The Mullet" Houchens is leaving The Princes of Hollywood.  And he sure did go out on a bang.  Our final show together was this past weekend at The Brattle Theater in Cambridge, Massachessetts, with none other than our favorite songwriter of the commonwealth--and one dangerously handsome host with the most--Chris Trapper.  What a venue.  What a crowd.  What a show!

We really had a blast, and we always enjoy a stay in Boston, however brief.  In addition, staying with the Trappers is just the berries, and their home in the outskirts of Boston is trailing at a close second to Pete and Laurie's home in Fredericksburg, Virginia, as our appointed "Happiest Place on Earth".

We made a breif and frigid stop at Boston's North End for some coffee and cannolli on Saturday morning where the above picture was taken.  We almost never made it, as Harlan led us down precariously narrow, centuries-old alleyways which were orange cone-blocked once we reached the point where no legal exit was possible.  We ended up backtracking, at the a rapid pace, down one way streets--the wrong way.

I'm currently on my way to the Florida keys from some much-undeserved rest and relaxation.  My life really is pretty cool, huh?  I'm sure to catch up on my sand fishing, get a hot-lather shave, and challenge Hemingway's Ghost to a boxing match.  Let's see how much the old man's got left.

After I get back, we have another show or two with Chris Trapper before we round 'em up and move 'em out to Nashville.  I hope to see you all soon!

Hugs,

TK 

Having avoided buying anything from the Skybus flying giftshop touch artists (I speak only for myself, of course), we landed at Bob Hope Memorial Airport in Burbank, California, just before dusk on Wednesday. On the taxi ride, I was smitten by the palm trees and Spanish-style houses, which left me wishing I was wearing a wool suit and carrying a Browning. As if he heard my thoughts, Scott said, “The only thing that could make this trip better is if it was eighty years ago.”

To emphasize how not eighty years ago it was, I was also struck by the smog: the first day in Los Angeles I had the continual feeling of being on the edge of a subway platform as the train came roaring down the tunnel, blowing hot, caustic air into my bloodshot eyes. Not to be discouraged, by nightfall I had found my way to a $2 draught Anchor Steam on the sidewalk outside Urban Eats. All in all, we were off to a good start.

After our host and guide for the evening got off work, we headed to Hollywood, to Yamashiro, for dinner. Winding up an absurdly narrow alley, following obscure signs, we were hugely rewarded for the Chandlerianly harrowing experience when the valet took our car and left us with an overwhelming introduction to Los Angeles, a view of the city (from about half the elevation of the Griffith Observatory, for reference) that left Scotty dumb with amazement. Dinner, at reportedly Jen and Brad’s old haunt, was a top-ten meal, during which I put the hurt on the “Sushi Entrée – Adventurous” and laid to rest some longstanding rumours about me and “the sushi face.” Thank you, Yamashiro. And Aunt Beth and Uncle Steve. Thank you.

A cruise along the sunset strip, a stop at Ralph’s for provisions, and a quick view of the city from atop our host’s apartment building in Los Feliz, and we were stuffed, jet-lagged, and asphyxiated: ready for bed.

Thursday morning included a mad dash to the rental car office (our Elantra was swank, by the way) and my first experience driving in L.A., which, after coming of age, so to speak, in Boston and touring in NYC, really wasn’t that bad. Sorry, L.A.--you’ll have to try harder than that.

This was the end of our mad dashing for the day, however, as Tristan and I had to spend some time coaxing Scott and Drue out of bed. Over our breakfast peanut butter sandwiches (a touring staple), Scott was mightily offended when I asked him why he didn’t like to help document our travels with the pocket digital video camera. I’m still not sure why he hates it so strongly, nor why he responded so much as if I were his mother. Oh, well, soon enough we went around the corner for coffee and a Times, and I attempted to make up for my indiscretion by playing on Scott’s perpetual indigence as I offered to buy him coffee, a standby weapon against grumpiness.

("I just want you to understand how I feel..." Scott and Harlan making nice at PychoBabble, Los Feliz.) 

Then we scooted over to Diddy Riese bakery and got to enjoy a charming view of Hollywood and Beverly Hills en route. Diddy Riese, where you can get a sandwich made of two home-made cookies and a scoop of ice cream for $1.25(US) was amazing. Look for the related segment on PofH TV. And so, with our faces and hands sticky with ice cream and a bag of reinforcements for the drive, we set out for San Francisco.

Interstate five, which is supposed to be famously boring, I found fascinating. The rapid progression from big city to outskirt beach community to Cormac McCarthy-esque mountain range to wide-open, hazy desert/farmland was, I thought beautiful. I wouldn’t have minded a little more of the former in stead of the latter. And it wasn’t exactly a short drive, but I’ve done many things I enjoyed a great deal less. Perhaps it helped that the longest stretch of the drive was broken up by our very first stop at In-N-Out Burger. The food was delicious, even if I got a lot more “In” than “Out,” when they failed to make my order, and I was left standing in the middle of the store, holding my cup of ketchup, while patron after patron received his or her food and left. I forgive you In-N-Out burger.

(McBean Parkway: Evidently the homeland of Scotty's ancestors.) 

Around dark, my usually hawk/turtle-like navigational sense failed us (even though nobody told me where we were going—San Mateo, it turns out), when I missed our turn by several miles and found myself backtracking from Stockton. Oops. Even so, the San Mateo Bridge at night was beautiful, and we were very relieved to arrive at our accommodations for the evening, with Drue’s cousin. After a few moments’ catching-up and introduction, the boys and I repaired to the living room for some much-needed Wii.

Friday we drove into San Francisco proper, spent the first couple hours learning to cope with the city-wide ban on left turns, but eventually made it to North Beach and Caffe Trieste for some real deal continental breakfast, and then walked the Beatnik beat and drove up Telegraph Hill. At Coit Tower, I realized how much our trip would have benefited from a guide such as Dashiell Hammett or Mark Twain. Oh, well. We did all right on our own.

Lunch was at Fisherman’s wharf, by way of the sea lion spectacle. Scotty and Tristan lost out on the seafood stand gamble, but Drue and I cleaned up. I love San Francisco.

As midday turned to mid-afternoon, we meandered through the Presidio. Thumbs up. Way up.

("Mi piace il Presidio.")

Then we worked our way back through Golden Gate Park and Haight-Ashbury and parked in Chinatown. Postcards were purchased, and shortly after nightfall, the lovely Layne met us for dinner (although she and Tristan were stranded in traffic for nearly an hour attempting to park, when they were overtaken by a bicycle rally) at the Banana Hut Thai restaurant. Then, after a local brew (with live jazz) and a surprisingly difficult time finding our cars, all of us ready for bed, we headed to a bar in The Mission to see a high school friend dance the Balboa. Cool place; wish I hadn’t been so tired.

Back to bed in San Mateo, and we got up, not as early as we should have, made breakfast for Drue’s cousins, and bid farewell to greater San Francisco, not quite a week behind schedule.

Saturday, noon, we made tracks for California Route 1 at Half Moon Bay, now in a caravan led by Layne, and enjoyed a stupidly beautiful drive on a stupidly beautiful day, bound for Santa Cruz.

Santa Cruz was like a dream. Our hostel is now a favorite vacation spot of mine and likely a new tradition. We walked around downtown and got some excellent coffee (ask Tristan for details) and soft tacos, amidst absurdly wealthy and fashionably destitute locals. Then we walked from the hostel to West Cliff in search of the sunset and saw dozens of surfers beached in the sundown haze. We picked up dinner and breakfast at Trader Joe’s (much to our astonishment, “two-buck-Chuck” is actually $1.99 out there, rather than the four dollars we pay for it in the east, and they had $16 single malt scotch. Tristan and I nearly wept). Our evening in the hostel was delightful, opening the wine with a butter knife and sleeping soundly.

(Our absurdly lovely hostel cottage in Santa Cruz.)

(Tristan, Layne, Scott, Drue in Santa Cruz) 

Sunday morning was breakfast on the rocks at West Cliff and then back on the road…NOT! Layne locked her keys in the car moments before we were all to leave. Damn it, Layne. On the upside, the wrecker guy was very cool. (When I thanked him for coming so quickly, he demurely replied, through his enormous beard, “It’s all about circumstances. I didn’t do anything.”) Then we finally bid a tearful farewell to Layne, as she headed back to Redding and work and we continued south down Rte 1.

I really am incapable of describing the highway 1 coast and Big Sur. My previous attempts have only yielded such terms as “nut-shakingly awesome” and “the edge of the map.” Holy cow. It’s something everyone should see. I left a large part of myself on those cliffs.

(Tristan and Scott, faced with eternity, were finally forced to come to terms with their feelings for one another.)

(Words fail.) 

Presumably because of low blood sugar, everyone got a little testy around Big Sur. We stopped for overpriced burgers at Nepenthe, but that didn’t seem to help. The Henry Miller museum, on the other hand did a lot more to remind us how stupid we were being. And then on we drove, listening to the ‘40s XM station and stopping occasionally to pee on cliffs half a mile above the ocean.

We passed the Hearst Castle around dark and considered staying in San Luis Obispo, but decided eventually to muscle on to Santa Barbara, so that we could take our time the next day. This leg of the trip became slightly--to use the parlance of our times--retarded, as the overwhelming stench of rotten broccoli invaded the car from the fields nearby, and we took up a markedly redundant game of “Would You Rather…” Thanks, Drue.

We found Santa Barbara in the dead of night (It was probably 8:30 or so. Jet lag was a continual problem for us), and drove around for an hour, comparing prices on hotel and hostel spaces, cursing the yuppie shithole and counting the minutes until we were able to get back to our real trip. Then we happened to stop at the original Motel 6. What are the odds? As if to emphasize the brand’s philosophy, our room was particularly dreadful, measuring roughly 6’X4’, equipped with fiberglass bedclothes. On the upside, Scott and Tristan had another excuse to share a bed.

Monday morning, I opened the door of my original Motel 6 room and was greeted by a shocking mountainscape in the back yard. Then, as I rounded the corner toward the office, I realized I could see the ocean, from the motel, and that we were less than a block away. I feared I had underestimated Santa Barbara.

Tristan and I drove for coffee and pastry while Scott and Drue continued their lifelong struggles with consciousness. We saw cliffside neighborhoods right out of Farewell, My Lovely and eventually found the Santa Barbara Roasting Company, where I got my favorite cup of brewed coffee the whole trip. Then we met up with Drue and Scotty on the beach, and took our breakfast watching dolphins in the shallows. Well played, Santa Barbara. (Sadly, we did not get to see Carpinteria, “World’s Safest Beach.”)

The commute back to L.A. was a piece of cake, and we got to feel very much as if we were on Keeping Up with the Kardashians in L.A. midday traffic. While on a roll, we went downtown, past city hall, around Dodgers Stadium (where I, perhaps, tediously explained to Scott the history of Chavez Ravine, which really is quite fascinating) and through Echo Park, all where I was able to fantasize about the likes of my favorite crime movies and stories, before we decided we needed more beach and headed to Santa Monica and Venice.

Moments after arriving on Venice Beach, which was disappointingly devoid of any people, much less sexy, naked people, Drue stepped on something very ouchy in the sand and contracted the Venice Beach Fever, which would plague her for some time to come. (Two days later, her foot was swollen to the ankle, and she complained of an actual fever by the time went to bed on the night of the sting.)

Fortunately for all our spirits, we were able to get some de-frikkin-licious Cuban food at Versailles (although it was later charged with substantial gastric disruptions for several of our party, and may have been responsible for some of the symptoms of Drue’s Venice Beach Fever). And our next last stop was Urth Café in Beverly Hills, where Tristan can tell you about his experience being nearly shot by a bodyguard attending a yellow Bugatti on the street, to meet an old Boston acquaintance of mine who now works in “the industry.” Scott, meanwhile, wandered around The Hills on foot, and we all hoped desperately that he would not be arrested or lost, kidnapped and sold into the sex trade. But he turned up, and we went to Amoeba Music on our way home.

That night, as I already mentioned, was a barrel of laughs (although, I maintain that there was nothing wrong with the food at Versaille—I ate from Drue’s and Tristan’s plates and suffered none of the same ailments), and I was up and dressed by 5:30 on Tuesday morning, for lack of anything better to do.

Then was my moment of truth, when we had to return the renal car to the agency three miles away from the airport, when they opened at 7:30, catch a cab, and board a plane which departed at 8:32. I had been struggling with anxiety over this point all week, imagining my intestinally distressed, tired, and emotionally unstable friends staring at me, who had booked the rental car, in the airport terminal, with no way home.

But everything went fine. We made it home, and have all thought of going back every day since.
-HD

Hello friends,

I realize that Harlan has promised you all lengthy blog entry here with details of our recent trek to California, complete with an array of photos reflecting the full resplendance of our travels, so I won't spoil the fun.  However, I did feel like checking in with some of the goings-on here at the HQ, so here we go.

Well, October was a great success, probably more so than any other Ocotber in the history of the universe.  We managed to come home from tour with sand in our shoes and money in the bank and we spent a week traipsing up and down the California coast.  What a time!  I've also decided to give up the idea of setting up a permanent address for the next six years, unless I make a boatload of money somewhere along the line.  I'd been considering buying a house in Nashville, but I realize I've too much nomading to do, and so I need to keep my overhead and my possesions to a minimum for the sake of logistics.  On this note, I very much intend to spend at least three months in Santa Cruz in the next few years, and probably in Los Angeles, too.  I never thought I'd be a Californian, but it looks as though I must happen.

Now that I'm back home, I'm trying to distract myself from reality by digging in on some projects.  First up, I've begun watching the footage we filmed on the recent tour, all twelve hours of it, in attempts to make notes on the good stuff.  Editing this into a few episodes for the web is going to be more of a challenge than I thought.  Also, I've begun setting up my studio again to start working on some new material, though I have very little other than vague ideas and melodies floating around in the old noggin'.

As you might have noticed on the news page, we've had a couple of cool things arise recently.  First, we are in the new issue of Performing Songwriter, which I've yet to check out, and we'll be opening for Chris Trapper at the Brattle Theater in Boston come December.  Whoopee!  Now if I can just make it to the new year...

Best,

Tris