11 april 2000
talkshow

An incredibly surreal evening has escaped from beneath one of the most non-existent days of my life. As for the day, I spent it in bed, reading, writing, surfing, defying boredom in an attempt to justity my existence in the absence of formal employment. I wasted the entire afternoon sprawled buck naked on my bed, master of my domain, hoping I'd haven't a care in the world, and instead obsessing over my lack of a life. I really need to start working again. Soon. Very soon.

Last night the band travelled to Hollywood to tape a cable tv show. The setting was The Cat Club, a narrow room squeezed between the Whiskey and the Roxy on the Sunset Strip. Every tuesday night it is turned into a tv studio, with bright lights and multiple cameras. The host, Sammy Serious, sits at a desk a-la Conan O'Brien, with his female sidekick, a-la Andy Richter, in the chair next to him. It was kind of like a cross between The Tonight Show and Wayne's World. We were on last, following a forgettable acoustic band and a pretty darned good magician. While sitting at the bar waiting to go on, I reflected on an interview I read with Billy Joel, who complained that musicians were abused on talk shows. He said something like "They never ask actors to act when their on talk shows, why do musicians have to perform? Can't they just interview us like everyone else?" As for us, we were lucky enough to not have to perform. It was hard enough to squeeze the seven of us up there anyway. After waiting about an hour at the bar (I couldn't resist the Chopin vodka), we were finally called before the cameras.

Somehow I wound up seated directly in front, right next to the desk, on a low stool in front of Sammy's sidekick. The rest of the band was behind me and to the left. I was pretty buzzed at this point, so I curled my bare legs up in front of me, probably making my "costume" look even more ridiculous. Bright lights, music, the cameraman counted down, and we were on.

It was mostly a blur. The interview began on Angel, but the host seemed to take a liking to me because I was from New Jersey, and I got more and more vocal (and obnoxious) as the show went on. I nearly killed Angel when she reached forward and pulled my jacket half off, showing my bare chest to the cameras. Sammy asked me where in New Jersey I was from -- I replied with an Garden State Parkway exit number, but he persisted and I said it was a small town no-one's ever heard of, and he kept on persisting until I told him the name ... "I've never heard of that place," he said. "Now you have, and your audience has, and you've ruined the secret for everyone. The townsfolk will be coming after you." He looked rather startled.

To IceDog ... "So, how do you write your songs?"

I butt in again ... "Our mob backing holds a gun to his head until he comes up with something really really good. And it's working." Laughter from the band. A strange look from the host.

And it went on like that for a good ten minutes. They played a video of us at the Roxy. The bartender came up to me afterwards and told me he grew up two towns away from me in New Jersey. Small world, I guess.

Home now, and very tired. Hopefully I'll start working tomorrow. If not, lethargy may overwhelm me. What a strange thing my life is becoming...

one year ago: x-country ii: I'm alive, I'm airborne, and I'm feeling like I owe the world a favor because I was too selfish to give up my window seat.

two years ago: nothing meaningul: I'm sitting in a rocking chair in whatever passes for a nursing home in the year 2048, mumbling about how horny I am and still regretting how I lived 1997.

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