"The Nerve"

I can't believe the nerve on this guy. Here I am interested in paying him money to record me and he has the audacity to put in an email to me "Here is what I ask you to bring on the day of recording: a good vibe, consistency, and sing in tune with the guitar."

Are you kidding me?

What am I paying you for?

Sing in tune with my guitar? Does he know who he's talking to? I'm Groundswell. I'm kinda a big fucking deal in some places. Namely, in my head. But seriously? Do you think Spears is asked to sing in tune? Do you think they ask Madonna to sing in tune? Paris Hilton doesn't even know singing in tune is an option.

Who the fuck is this guy?

I've been singing out of tune with my guitar for longer than he's been recording music.

I've forgotten more out of tune songs than he's ever heard.

The fucking nerve.

Some people have zero fucking tact when writing.

Luckily, in person, he's the man, and I'm convinced he's the man to record my demo. He digs the songs I've been writing, and even compared me, Groundswell, to the White Stripes - how everyone of their songs has a different vibe.

Egoboosters on now!

So, on this Friday, April 2, 2010 - Good Friday, the day marking the day they crucified Jesus - I will be crucifying my demons with six strings, a beautiful guitar and a handful of songs I've written in the past year.

Wish me luck.

"Classy, Pub Crawls, and Mustard Stains"

Oh, man, was I drunk. I had been drinking on this pub-crawl for ten hours. I hadn’t drank much in a month, but when going to support your buddy from high school’s business (StayClassy), and his business is the business of throwing charity events that the youngings will come out and support, and in this instance, by support, I mean drink their face off and raise money for charity, well, god dammit, I’m going to support charity even if that means someone or something having to support me at the end of the night. That was an incredible sentence to write. I hope it was good to read. I wonder if I started to write a sentence that never ended how long it would take me to write it. I’m going think about that one for a while.

Anyway. I was drunk.

My friend, Deets, revealed to me that she and my all-time crush from Mansfield used to argue over who was going to marry me back in the day. This one kind of hurt. Even through the fog of Miller Lite that enveloped my head and cushioned my heart. It’s hard to find out that your all-time crush had this argument and you had no idea about it and were too much of a pussy to ever pursue her because she was so beautiful, and you were so shy. On the other hand, it’s also flattering to know that someone as beautiful as they had a crush on you. Too bad I’m a giant pussy when it comes to girls. Rejection inhibits me. I’m working on that. The good news is that the divorce rate is up to 60% so there’s still a chance. I’m just kidding. She’s married and hopefully very happily.

Back in high school she was drop dead gorgeous. I was afraid to look at her in the eye for fear of turning into stone. She’d make me nervous and excited just by entering the room. And here I’m finding out twelve years later that it was a mutual feeling. Crazy. Life is crazy. The good news is that a few years ago I professed that I had a crush on her for some crazy long time. The bad news is she got engaged shortly thereafter. No real surprise there, but I was glad she knew.

So gorgeous.

I rolled into San Diego at 11AM. I was handed my first drink at 11:03AM, but Scot one of the founders of StayClassy. It was a mimosa.

The day was beautiful. The drive from Los Angeles had been a pleasant two hours. There were a lot of cute college interns there to hang out with. My buddy, Walsh, one of the three founders of StayClassy, is the man, outgoing, confident, nice as can be, and kicking some serious ass in life. It’s hard not to be thankful that you have friends like this. Friends who welcome you into their lives and show you off and introduce you to everybody like you’re family. That was how most of my day was. And I had a beer in my hand. Classy shit no doubt.

Eighty degrees out, sunny, not a cloud in the sky, and betties rolling around in all their California glory, the smell of the ocean drifting in on the warm breeze; it was a perfect day to be inside drinking. In all seriousness, there was some outside drinking going on as well. I even managed to get a sunburn on one half of my neck. Of all the ridiculous things I have done, this is up there with all of them.

Most of my day had been hanging with fellow Mansfieldian and California immigrant, Emus. Fresh off his bday on Thursday he was down for a pub-crawl. He showed up at the second bar with his game face on, and his drinking shoes tied tight, and we were off.

Emus and I bounced from bar to bar along Garnet Street with the other 400+ pub-crawlers clad in our white and yellow-trimmed shirts. It was great watching the bars transform into seas of yellow. Coldplay and Chris Martin would have been happy. They should have sponsored the crawl. That would have been some nice cross promotion.


We effortlessly moved through Pacific Beach bars, Miller Lite, the money in my wallet, and conversations with people. Sometimes it was me and Emus chilling, drinking, reminiscing, watching basketball. Sometimes it was me and Walsh chilling, drinking, reminiscing, watching basketball. Sometimes it was me and my Miller chilling, drinking, reminiscing, watching basketball. For five minutes it was me and Shannon, a cute girl from Sandwich, MA, with rocker shades and a rock star’s girlfriend’s hair, chilling, reminiscing, not watching basketball. Good times.

I met some mad cool people: Heather, Emily, Colette, Scot, Marshal, Mike, all of whom are associated with StayClassy and all of whom were nice as can be. It’s great that San Diego is only two hours south of Los Angeles.

My sobriety started to go downhill as the sun ran out towards the Pacific. Once it was down, my sobriety decided to not come back. I was drunk. This is of course all in hindsight. At the time, I was just chilling, reminiscing, watching basketball – with a beer in my hand.

Deets rolled in at 9PM. That’s when my memories start to get foggy – like I was underwater or something. It was great to see Deets again. A friend of my sister, Haley, Deets is a beautiful Indian girl with dark brown eyes. There is something about Indian eyes that I find so intriguing. It’s as if they know something you don’t and have the ability to look right through you. Paired up with the coconut brown skin and it’s a beautiful combo.

Deets is good people. Her family moved from Mansfield to Orange County a few years’ back and Deets followed them out here.

She really is as nice as they come.

The night ended with me and Emus back at his house cooking up some chicken sausage and peppers. They were good.

I woke up early the next morning with a mustard stain perfectly placed on my shirt right below the word “Classy.” It was anything but.

I hate being hung-over. I know that is an obvious statement, but that doesn’t make it any less true.

I’m not even the same person when I’m hung-over. Mentally I hate everything. I can’t look at magazines. I can’t handle the fire trucks racing by at 8:55AM. Fuck you San Diego. I can’t stand the show-offs running with their shirt off as I walk back to find my car. I can’t stand how my mouth is so dry that I have to pry it open with a crowbar. It’s a godsend that we can breathe out our noses; otherwise, I may have suffocated to death. I hate grocery stores that don’t sell individual waters. I hate seatbelts. I hate stupid drivers. I hate how songs / cds produced in the sixties and seventies are so much quieter than songs produced more recently and how they limit the shit out of newer cds to get increased volume so when you put a newer cd in after you were listening to the older cd the shock of the volume change goes straight through your head and leaves your ears hurting. I hate my belly fat (I always hate that). I hate losing sunglasses no matter how cheap they are. I hate the noise of the wind blowing through the windows when I’m driving. I hate the stale recycled air of the air conditioner when the windows are up. I hate traffic. I hate speeding. I hate sitting on my wallet. I hate life. I fucking hate drinking. And, I HATE being hung-over.

“It’s good to be fucking home,” I said out loud as I pulled around the corner onto my street. And then I realized it. This is home. I am home. I haven’t felt like that in, well, I can’t remember when. Probably sometime after we sold the house that I grew up in for the first twenty-three years of my life.

It was quite the revelation, and it was good to be home.

People in San Diego seemed to love to ask me which I liked better, San Diego or LA. I love LA. I like San Diego. For me, it’s all about energy. Los Angeles buzzes with energy. It’s like Manhattan. You know anything can happen here. San Diego is more like Brooklyn. It’s laid back. It’s mellow, but that energy isn’t there. People are in great fucking shape, but it doesn’t have the same pulse as LA. To each, their own, but that was and always will be my answer.

San Diego rocks, but it’s not my home. It is, however, one classy mother-fucking place - made even better by all my new friends.

Rock on,
Groundswell

"Man Up"

I was disappointed two Fridays ago. I was waiting for a package. A very important package it ‘twas. It was actually my thirtieth birthday present to myself. Technically, my biggest birthday present to myself was getting to LA for my thirtieth birthday. I did, however, feel entitled to get myself something special to mark both the move and the completion of the thirtieth rotation around the sun. This was special. The earth’s orbit is huge. To make it around once is a feat, to make it around thirty times is fucking awesome. I guess that’s why life gets better as you age – you realize it is no small feat surviving. If life was easy, everyone would do it, and do it well. Life, as both you and I know, is anything but easy.

Somewhere around the age of ten, when I lost an arm-wrestling match to a girl, Elissa, who I had a major crush on, I started to detest my birthday. I never felt like celebrating it. It’d tend to be just me and my family and some cold fucking weather. Big deal. I was born. Yea me! My mom probably deserved most of the credit. I was just along for the ride.

When I turned twenty that changed. On my twentieth birthday, I was released from the hospital. I had snapped. The Matt that existed for nineteen previous years was no longer. He died. He didn’t make it out. A new Matt had emerged from the ashes and this is the same voice that is writing the words you’ve been reading. This new Matt appreciated his birth. He understood the significance. The pain that he was born out of; the hurt; the loneliness; the isolation; the depression; the anxiety; the uncertainty. The constant questions of who the fuck am I and what the fuck am I doing here. I know I have a purpose, but how do I live up to it. Death and rebirth.

So physically, I am thirty years old. My new mental birth has me at ten years old. Mental maturity I’m at about fifteen years old. Like I almost have girls figured out, but I still don’t really know what the hell to do when we say goodbye. I’d say that’s about fifteen years old.

I turned twenty-one in South Africa. I had spent the day on the beach with four of my new friends. At night, the fire was raging on Table Mountain. I turned twenty-two and twenty-three in Providence back at Brown with my college friends. I turned twenty-four in Providence as well. Twenty-five, I started my music company. Twenty-six was at a surprise party thrown in Boston by my then girlfriend. Twenty-seven I was with family in Grafton, MA. Twenty-eight, my “golden’ birthday (twenty-eight on the twenty-eight of the month) was celebrated as a new resident of New York City, playing a show live on stage. Twenty-nine was also in NYC, this time more low key. Thirty in Los Angeles.

On the previously mentioned Friday, I went to check the door to make sure my package wasn’t there, and I saw the note left by FedEx. They had attempted to drop the package off at 9:03AM. Are you kidding me? When has FedEx ever tried to drop a package off so early? I was shocked. My whole day had been planned around getting that package. I had a special place picked out to hang it up on the wall. And now I had nothing. I enjoyed the nice weather and looked for a job.

I made sure to take it easy on Friday night. I went to see a country music band in Playa Del Rey. A friend of my roommate’s band was playing. They were up from Austin. My friend Amal was in from NYC and joined us. It was a fun night, a dive bar, a cute girl turning twenty-one and giving me the “gaga” eyes. I said hello. The band was solid.

My alarm went off at 8:55AM. I was up and ready for FedEx this time. No getting by me. Like a kid waiting for Santa Claus, the anticipation was killing me. Then, all of a sudden, my stomach started to signal me that is was time to make room for another day of eating. When mother nature calls, it’s hard to argue. Death and rebirth.

I was reading the Brown Alumni Magazine. It was a beautiful sunny day. The birds were chirping. I was relaxed. All of a sudden a rumbling of an oversized engine disturbed the tranquility. I instinctively knew. FedEx. I peaked my head out the bathroom and saw the FedEx truck come whirling around the corner, the low frequency of the engine drowning out the birds. Fuck, we must live right next to the FedEx distribution plant. I was going to have to cut this bathroom visit short. I mean, I was pretty much done, but I had more to read and still had to clean up. Hustle. Bustle. Rustling of the belt, and I was at the door. Ready and waiting. One knock and the door flung open. Signature signed and the package was mine. Ahh. I love my birthday present to myself.

I took it out of the package and just looked at it. I put it on my bed. I put it on the floor. I put it on my desk. I bided my time. It was early still and I couldn’t rationalize waking my roommate to nail it to the wall. Soon enough I would, but not until 11AM I told myself. I mean if you’re not up at 11AM on Saturday you’re probably hung over, and then you’re going to be sleeping through everything.

When the time did come, I nailed my present to the wall like it was Jesus himself – fast and swift. Straight. Picturesque. Then I just admired it. I wanted to touch it, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. It was so pure that I couldn’t taint it with my fingers.

For the next few days, I just found myself mesmerized by it. I think no matter where I am – Heaven or Hell – I’ll look for at this and I’ll think about all the stories I could tell.

I’m looking at it right now. I’m still transfixed. It’s good to be thirty.

Saturday night was spent in Beverly Hills with an old friend and amazing guitarist, J. J is the man. I love him. We just chilled. He’s been in LA for a few months now. He lives with his girlfriend. He’s actually the guitarist who played the majority of lead guitar on “Head.” Some people aspire to be famous and be know by their first name: Madonna, Oprah, Barak. Others are so cool that their first name gets shortened to a letter – J.

I really am glad that J’s here in LA. It’s like having a family member here to hang with, and although he’s super busy, I’m optimistic that we will be able to connect musically again. Because, playing music with J is like having sex with a girl (or whomever you want). It’s hard to explain if you’re not a musician, but that is music at its highpoint – total uninhibited freedom.

On Sunday night, my friend Amal and I went out for some drinks. We stayed local and headed down to the beach for some dinner and drinks. When the karaoke was brought out, we knew it was time for us to change locations. We headed over to Abbot Kinney, a famous Venice locale. really a street with a bunch of shops, restaurants, stores, and bars. We went to a bar that my roommate had introduced me to, the “Other Room.” It is a dark bar. Candles. When alcohol’s thrown in, it’s most certainly a trap where you could wake up the next morning wondering how you got into a situation you might not otherwise have found yourself in if the lighting had been better. Luckily, this is not a story I have to relate.

Instead, I get to tell you a story about how I was advised to never get married and then shown exactly why. Here goes. (All names have been changed.)

Amal and I are drinking a glass of wine and talking. We’re both checking out the scene to see if there is anyone we want to talk to. No.

Then Amal is approached. A tall brunette in a long, flowing, formless dress asks Amal what time the bar closes. He guesses one or two. That is what I told him. That’s it. She’s in. She, Laura, turns out to be a very friendly, married lawyer. She’s waiting for her friends who are outside doing something. Shortly into the conversation, she reveals herself as a flirt. I’m intrigued. I love flirting. I find flirting to be harmless, and at it’s best, intellectually stimulation. Intellectual stimulation is hard to find these days.

Laura is definitely stimulating intellectually. A graduate of a top university in Canada, she’s now a defender of immigrant children who are underrepresented in the legal system. She’s also drinking Prosecco, a sparkling wine.

Her friends finally come in. There are three of them: Ashley, Elsa, and Sasha. Ashley is a tall blonde. She has a beautiful face, and I like her. She’s married. Shocking. Elsa and Sasha are there. I don’t have much more to say about them. They seem nice. They’re single and they’re unattractive. Shocking.

By the luck of the Irish, or because Amal is an amazing wingman, I find myself seated between Ashley and Laura. I’m thinking threesome. We’re talking marriage.

It turns out Laura is “happily” married. Been together with her husband for six years, but there is an undercurrent to what she’s saying. She definitely is thinking about cheating on him. He’s always out of town. She was previously a “slut.” A term she described herself as, but somehow she kept her numbers low, “ten.” I doubt it. I’ve heard that you should multiply a girl’s number by three to get the appropriate number. Thirty seems reasonable. I don’t care either way. I’m just talking, and I’m more attracted to Ashley.

As the night progresses, and Laura moves through more and more Prosecco, she gets more and more drunk. Shocking. As the inebriation gets deeper, she starts to tell me how cute I am, and implores me to not sit so close. I oblige and scoot over laughing. Soon, Laura moves herself across the table as to avoid temptation. I’m okay with this. I start talking to Ashley.

Ashley it turns out is in town from Switzerland visiting. Actually, she came for a weekend. That was three weeks ago. She hates Switzerland and the town where she reside. She loves her husband, but as she says, “Love solves nothing.” Spoken like a veteran of marriage. She’s been married for less than a year.

When it was time for her flight home, she just didn’t show up. I love the balls. She doesn’t want to go back. Her husband is planning to come out for two weeks and check out LA. He has a job interview lined up. Their road is not lit up by lights. They are making their way through this marriage with the lights off, and neither of them knows what to do. I try and empathize. I assure her that I’m not getting married anytime soon. I explain to her about my music and how I’m married to that presently, and my history of relationships that suffered because of my music. I’ve vowed to not make that mistake again. She’s impressed with the maturity. I empathize some more. We have a heart-to-heart because we both know that we’ll never see each other again.

After an unknown amount of time, maybe thirty minutes, Laura comes back and sits next to me. Flirtatious as ever, she’s glad to be back. We have a good time. We laugh we talk about marriage. We talk about infidelity. It turns out she has kissed a guy since she’s been married, but that doesn’t count these days.

Soon the conversation has turned for the ‘worst.’ She wants to make out with me. I can’t do this. I’m too sober and I know she’s just really drunk. I don’t want this on my conscious. Maybe if it was Ashley, but no. I don’t want this.

Laura is not going away easily. She tries to convince me to go to the bathroom with her. I tell her that’s not a good idea. She presses on. She tells me she wants to take me home and sleep with me. That I’m “too damn cute.” I tell her I’m flattered, but that’s not a good idea.

Then comes my favorite part. She tells me I have to “man up.”

“Are you questioning my manhood?” I ask.

She says, “Yes.”

I just start laughing. It has gotten to the point of ridiculousness. Never before have I been implored by a married woman to “man up” because I won’t have an affair with her. Never mind that fact that her three friends are right there and well aware of everything that is going on – their eyes are piercing. One false move and my Linus will be removed. Ridiculous.

It’s decided that it’s time for the to leave. Ashley gives me a kiss on the cheek. I tell her good luck with everything. She says the same.

Laura disappears into the night without saying goodbye. The last thing she did utter to me was “It’s your loss.”

Maybe it was. Maybe it wasn’t.

I woke up the next morning glad to be in my own bed. I think of Laura and I’m sure that when she wakes up she’ll be glad to be in her own bed too – without me.

I don’t have much time to dwell on this as I have an interview set up with a temp agency that staffs the movie studios. I find that usually temp agencies are a great in when looking for employment. Full-time work is hard to find. Temp work tends to be much easier, especially when your resume is stacked like mine. I’ve been doing some crazy shit to stay afloat for the past few years. My Brown education has been used to the best of my ability while I pursue music. I’ve always enjoyed both the analytical and creative sides of my brain. I’m certainly glad that I still have these skills when looking for a job.

As it turns out, the temp agency has two positions but they’re both HR related and I don’t have that experience. Or so the recruiter thought. I then explain to her that while in NY I read twelve thousand plus resumes over a fourth month period for a hedge fund. She implores me to put that on my resume before I leave. I do. They send it over to the studio.

I get home and my phone rings. The studio is interested. They’ll be calling me in an hour. Ten minutes later, the studio is giving me a ten-minute phone interview.

I find out during lunch with Amal that the studio wants me. I’m excited, but the pay is dismal.

I have to think about it. Amal lends his thoughts.

While at lunch on the Venice boardwalk, the girl to our right catches our eye. It turns out she’s a cute, corn-fed girl from Kansas. She’s in town with a “friend” to see her sister who lives here. We chat on and off throughout the end of the meal. Very casual. She’s wide-eyed and looks star struck when she talks. It’s pretty awesome.

At one point, Amal leans over and asks if there are any good places to go out at night. She says she doesn’t know, but asks her sister. Her sister gives us some info, but we know most of it. Amal then decides it’s time to divulge some more information. He tells them that we are looking for a younger hangout, since the previous night was very much “cougar” centric. They laugh and understand.

We continue to eat our meals. I finish mine and Amal and I are talking. In the midst of our conversation, I notice that the girls’ “friend” who has had her back to us the whole time is actually more than a friend – she’s older – she’s their mother. The light goes off. I start to chuckle to myself thinking about Amal’s cougar comment.

A few minutes later the mother figure is off to the bathroom. Amal covers his mouth and leans in towards me and says, “I think that’s their mother.” I start laughing. I say, “I know. I figured it out a few minutes ago.”

Amal plays it cool because that is exactly what he is. A straight shooter from Texas, and Shehan’s brother (the UT alumnus from the road trip), Amal is at ease with people. He’s in sales. He works on deals worth millions of dollars for a large technology company. Saying that we had a “cougar” centric night in front of a mother is nothing he hasn’t dealt with before.

We later excuse ourselves. Tell the ladies to enjoy the trip and walk back into the beautiful eighty-degree weather. It’s a picture perfect day, and we’re in LA. Life is good.

I decide to take the job. I figure the pay is the one knock against it. The positives are many.

They want me to start the next day, Tuesday. I tell them I can’t. I have a meeting in the morning that is too important.

I wake up on Tuesday morning. It’s seven o’clock. I’m groggy. It’s early. I fire up my computer. I brush my teeth. I throw on a skull-cap to cover my bed head. I’m not showering. I’m supposed to be in the valley at 9:30AM. Traffic may be brutal. I’m supposed to leave early. I open up my Internet browser and click on yahoo. First thing I see is the headline “4.4 magnitude earthquake strikes southern California.” Downtown LA is pictured. I click on the link to find more details. It turns out at four o’clock in the morning, ten miles east of downtown Los Angeles there was a mild earthquake felt throughout the San Ferdinando valley all the way to Santa Monica and Venice. I slept through it. I’m a deep sleeper. I’ll find out when I get home that my roommate woke up during the quake. Exciting shit. Kind of. Well a little nerve wracking. The article points out that it may be a precursor for a larger even. I don’t like that line. Let’s hope not.

The traffic on the 405 is gentle. Nothing bad going North. South is a different beast. Luckily, I’m not heading south for a few hours.

I show up to the rendezvous early, but that’s okay. I’m the nobody at this meeting. I’m meeting up with a very talented engineer and producer who has won Grammy’s and worked on mixing Nirvana records. I’ve done pretty much nothing musically that compares. When he does show, it’s good to see him again. I had met him seven years prior when I was interning in LA with a small music company. He was recording a session. The music industry was just about to begin its collapse. I still remember it was the first time I ever had seen an iPod. Had only I known.

Our meeting is cordial. We catch up. We laugh. His business partner shows up because my producer contact forgot his credit card at home. His partner is a nice guy from South Carolina. They’ve got some great stories about driving cross-country, and how cocaine may or may not help you stay awake.

They inform me that I did not ‘drive cross-country,” but rather took a vacation across country. I find it hard to argue.

It turns out, that my producer contact is more interested in the business side of my resume than anything music related. He has some interesting ideas as to how to make money, and not too surprisingly, they don’t consider music in the sense anyone over ten years of age thinks about music. As he says, “Nobody’s making money in music. I mean nobody.” I’m intrigued by his ideas. Disappointed by the state of the music industry. It’s tough to watch your love die in front of you and not be able to do anything. I guess this is life teach me another lesson. All things die. Enjoy them while they last.

I was hoping to become a studio rat, but I can always do that at a later point. I leave the meeting with some homework assignments and optimism that maybe we can form a relationship that is symbiotic. We both make money. I help him out. He helps me out. I’m still working on my homework assignment.

The next day I’m up early. It’s time to drive to the movie studio lot. I’m ironing my shirt. I’m putting on a tie. It’s been a long time. There’s something soothing about ironing. It brings me back to being a kid when I’d be eating breakfast and I’d watch my mom or my dad iron a shirt while the kitchen was bustling with life. It’s funny how those things only exist in my mind – much of my life is spent by myself now. I’m three thousand miles from my family. We’re all older now. They all have their lives. I’m starting mine. The bustling kitchens are like the receding tide – they may come back sometime, but they won’t be the same. The surroundings will have changed. The players will be different. The feeling may be reminiscent. But who really knows. I know I like to iron.

It’s exciting to be at the studio. The people are really nice. I’m totally over dressed. At one point, one of the experienced members of the HR staff tells me, “Don’t ever wear a tie again.” I laugh, but can tell he’s serious. I’m glad. I don’t like wearing ties.

The work I’ll be doing isn’t the hardest thing I’ve ever done. I’m okay with that. It’ll keep me occupied. I’ll meet people. After four years of working from home, it’ll be nice to interact with people in person. The HR staff is all amazingly friendly and laid back. I like it.

Lunchtime is my favorite. There are a few bustling eateries with lots of cute girls running around. I can imagine that for full-time employees it’s a great place to meet people. I feel more like a fly on the wall. I’m observing everything while I eat my lunch.

I usually eat it with the other temp and the intern that I know. They’re both nice girls. We get along. We all come from vastly different backgrounds, but we’re all their learning.

I like when I’m done eating and I get to walk around the lot. It’s fun to see everyone doing his or her thing. The stages are more like airplane hangers. They’re huge. We’re not allowed to go on them, but we can walk by them. You can feel the history. The legends who were once there. On the tour that I was given, they talk about Marilyn Monroe changing in front of the windows and the tunnels JFK used to prowl on his way to meet her. I’ve heard stories like this before when I was in Washington, D.C. Seems like JFK spent a lot of time in tunnels.

I feel at home on the lot. I feel like I walk differently. I feel like I’m somebody there.

The studio may not know it. It turns out they spelt my name wrong. They spelled it “Mathew.” I think it’s funny. I am going to keep it when my assignment’s over so that when I am ‘somebody’ I can show people that. We all have to start somewhere.

I’ve started in the HR department on the Lott.

Oh shit, that's where my missing 't' is.

"You Know You're Getting Old When"

Twenty Signs You Are Getting Old:

1) You have to take a break during “Power Yoga” to catch your breath. A long break.
2) You’re sore two days later after “Power Yoga.” Actually, you're more sore the second day than you are the first day.
3) You take your license with you on long bike rides; if you die, at least you know they’ll be able to identify you.
4) You voluntarily get health insurance for fear of cancer, heart attack , or some other disease not known to plague “young people.” (Assuming you have no family history.)
5) You no longer intake drugs or alcohol because they make you “anxious” and / or “fat.”
6) When you bend down to pick something up it takes you longer than it should (i.e., you have the time to notice how long it takes you to pick it up).
7) You can’t bend at the knees to pick something up.
8) When you’re the last one of your age group still playing beer pong. (Classic case of being too old, but still young at heart.)
9) You don’t have to struggle to find grey hairs.
10) You notice the beginning of the deterioration of your senses (i.e., hearing and eyesight).
11) You are certain all new music sucks.
12) You’ve drawn a line in the sand regarding some form of technology that you will not partake in (e.g., “I will not text.”)
13) The phrase “settle down” is first uttered out of your mouth regarding your lifestyle.
14) You are no longer superficial.
15) You actually have a “retirement plan.” A solid plan. Not just a hypothetical “I’m going to make a shit-ton of money, and kick back and relax. Fuck it.”
16) You're diagnosed with IBS (Irritable Bowel Syndrome).
17) The first time you hear one of your favorite rock songs from your childhood on "Classic" Radio. I'm not talking the Beatles. I'm talking Nirvana.
18) You watch "American Idol" to find new "artists."
19) You truly believe "The best seat is on the coach."
20) You write a blog.

"The New Rules of Facebook Etiquette"

1) It is okay to comment on someone’s status update almost immediately. Done too quickly, however, and you may run the risk of being labeled a “Facebook Stalker.” Best to play it cool.
2) Facebook messages are meant to be treated like regular email. You must pretend that you are busy doing other things to look cool, especially when dealing with a member of the opposite sex. Courting is a dance. The closer you get to a “date” the longer you should take to respond. Best to play it ice cold.
3) It is frowned upon to become members of the opposite sex you don’t know just because they are cute. This does NOT mean you can’t do it, but don’t expect anything to come of it. If you want to pick them up, I suggest “MySpace.” That shit is skanky.
4) It is generally accepted practice for employers to look your shit up. They do not see any ethical / moral dilemma with this, especially when reviewing your application. Therefore, you should lock you account down so that it is not ‘public.’ If they’re going to look, you might as well hide it. Also, be aware of people you don’t know asking to be your friend. There are instances where employers have set up fake Facebook accounts to spy on their employees.
5) I would not recommend uploading another person’s photos as if they are your own. That is NOT cool, especially before the person who took the pictures has uploaded them. There is a thing called intellectual property, and it applies to Facebook as well.
6) It is more than fine to NOT accept family members or coworkerss as friends on Facebook, and no explanation is needed. Another great reason to hide your shit from public view.
7) Shameless self-promotion gets annoying on Facebook. Better to refrain, unless you’ve set up a “fan-based” page. Then, by all means, promote away.
8) It takes a certain type of person to be funny on Facebook. It’s best you do NOT try unless you KNOW you are that type of person.
9) If hiding from the government, for any purpose, NEVER give out any location information and DO NOT post photos on Facebook. Hell, you probably shouldn’t be on Facebook if that is the case.
10) Lastly, if you are a female, the more pictures you can put up of yourself and your friends in bikinis the better for the entire Facebook community.

"Ten Things I Have Learned in Ten Days of LA"

1) Will Smith is gay (like Tom Cruise).
2) “10 Things I Hate About You” is a remake of “Taming the Shrew.”
3) To keep the crease in a nice pressed pair of pants, put your left thumb in the first belt loop hole to the left of the zipper, and then with your right hand grab the first loop hole to the right of the zipper and bring them together. Voila. You now have it perfect.
4) Ninety-nine percent chance of an 8.0 earthquake in the next thirty years.
5) Earthquake insurance is $20 / month. Renters insurance is $12 / month for $15,000 in coverage. Obviously, a much larger chance of an earthquake than shit getting stolen or lost in a fire.
6) Medicinal Marijuana comes with a warning “This medicine may make you drowsy.” (I only observed this on a canister. I did not indulge.)
7) The music scene out here is pretty tight.
8) When your car insurance expires in Massachusetts, it is only a matter of time before they recall your plates.
9) Africanized bees are really here.
10) Generally speaking, being thirty is pretty sweet.

"Are You an Alcoholic Yet?"

Los Angeles is an interesting place to say the least.

I’ve been here for over a week and I’ve been sober for the entire time. This is kudos to myself. I needed to detox after two years in NYC. Not the healthiest living you can have over there in the big apple. It’s easy to get distracted by the local bars and unhealthy eateries.

LA is the opposite. Healthy living is easy. You’re constantly reminded of the beach and the beautiful weather. Here, in Venice, there is a big bike culture and it’s easy to cruise everywhere on your bike. I’m digging it. The only days I haven’t been on my bike are the rainy days, which there have been a few of those.

After Halearious left, I took some time settling in, getting the lay of the land.

My first weekend was spent sober and hanging out with friends, both new and old. Friday I hung out with a great cellist, Najeeb. We share a mutual friend, Jordan. They have been jamming together for a bit. Jordan plays the hand drum; Najeeb plays cello and sings. I’ve never seen a cellist sing and play before so that was cool. Najeeb’s songwriting is melodic and uplifting. It was fun to hear some new material.

Najeeb and I chilled in between playing songs. I played him some of my new material and song unabashedly for him - a big step in my development as a performer. Fuck it man. I’m thirty. If I don’t do it now, I never will. After four hours of getting to know each other, talking, playing our songs, we closed the night with a nice jam – a song I wrote forever ago that lends itself to jamming with new people. Solid.

Saturday was a drab day in LA persisted by gray and rain. Went to see Alice and Wonderland with my friend Mindy. A matinee show. The audience consisted of me, Minday, and a bunch of ‘tweens. It was pretty hilarious. The good news is that was zero chance of anyone blocking my view since the tallest person other than myself was 4’11”.

After the movie, I chilled alone passing the time waiting for night to descend on the city. Luckily, Jordan invited me to come to the Valley to hang at his place with him and his girlfriend, Alex. We chilled. They partied. I observed. Drinking nothing but water and having a good time at that. The night really took an escalation when it was revealed that Jordan was an owner of the Wii. Game on. I had never played it before, but I was down. Bowling. Tennis. Check. Check.

On the Wii, as in real life, I sucked at bowling. That’s okay. I have no intentions of ever being good at bowling and I am okay with this. There are few things I aspire not to be good at – bowling is one of them.

Tennis was a different story. After a slow start and a few losses, I found my kindred tennis spirit, in the avatar named “Al.” A chick with black hair and black sunglasses, Al, was the key to my success. Before you new it, I was running the table and beating everyone at the shindig. It was good to be back to athletic dominance. Whether virtual or real athleticism was not important.

A few hours of Jordan and I playing Mario Brothers and it was off to bed on the couch. Just like old times.

Walk up to soberness on Sunday and watched Jordan and Alex recover from the night before. They were more than adept. Coffee, breakfast, and showers and life was on.

Jordan and I jammed. I played some new jams for him, and he recognized what I have believed for the past year or so – I had found my voice as an artist and a songwriter. It was good news.

We all had lunch plans. Jordan and Alex were off to Santa Monica to meet with his sister and her husband. I was off to Pasadena to meet with the extended family – Calvin.

The drive from Van Nuys to Pasadena was a breeze. Calvin and I had set our rendezvous time for 1PM. Operation avoid traffic went flawlessly.

I pulled into Calvin’s at 12:55PM.

Calvin has a nice house on a picturesque Pasadena street. Overhung by trees and fresh air, most east coasters wouldn’t believe it exists. I am here to tell you that it does.

Calvin answered the door with his 7-month old black lab, Bee. B. Bea. I have no idea how to spell her name, but it sounds like “B.” You run with it.

B was crazy excited to see me. I think it had less to do with me, and more to do with her excitement to see somebody new, but I was flattered either way. I wish people got this excited to see me. Maybe I’d be less depressed all the time. If girls were that excited to see me, I’d certainly be less of a pussy when it came to the dating scene. But, oh well, that is not how life is.

Calvin was having printer problems and wanted to fix them before we departed for lunch. Laid back I was and down to watch. We walked back to his office, which was solid. Lined with a tremendous record collection, two computers, and a sixty-inch plasma TV, I had something to aspire to. The printer problem was nothing really of a problem. Two minutes or so later and we were gone.

We drove through the center of Pasadena on our way to find some healthy food. I told Calvin that to me healthy meant salad. He was directing the ship towards “saladom.”

We pulled into a nice Italian restaurant with a name I cannot remember. Calvin informed me that is was a mini-chain, but the food never disappointed and he had never had anything he didn’t like.

He ordered the Vegetarian omelet and I followed suit.

The next two or so hours were spent talking about colleges, Hollywood, life plans, reading scripts, and everything in between.

Calvin has worked in Hollywood since the seventies and has been reading scripts and making them better ever since. A graduate from Yale, Calvin came back home to California to teach, met a woman in the movie industry, married her, and then got himself into the industry.

He informed me of the ins-and-outs of Hollywood. Explained to me that I was behind the eight ball in terms of getting out here late, but that my maturity would help me in the long run. He described Hollywood as being a magnet for ivy league students and that I was bound to meet a beautiful, educated, ass-kicking woman in this industry. Hell, she might be the one trying me in a court case. Damn, I have a lot to look forward to.

My favorite part of the conversation was when Calvin was telling me about a friend of his who had worked in the movie industry for a while. We had been discussing the importance of networking, and Calvin asked me, “Are you an alcoholic yet?” I was floored. I loved the question. I told him not yet, and that I was doing my best to avoid becoming one. He could understand since we both come from families where alcohol is as present as Aunt Mary. However, it turns out that his friend in the movie industry actually met more celebrities and a-list personalities when he finally sobered up and joined “AA.” There were a handful of famous people in his AA group. Maybe I needed to rethink this sobriety thing. Maybe it was too early…

After lunch, we headed back to Calvin’s house. I had to drop him off and print out directions home. Once I had the directions in hand, we ended up spending probably another hour or two talking on the porch in his doorway. Irish goodbyes. This time we talked sports and music. Two things we both love. The time flew by. Before I knew it, it was 5:30PM and I was getting in the car. It was then I realized I had nowhere to watch the Oscars.

Bummer.

Life went on.

The drive home was sick. LA has a reputation for shitty traffic. I have done a good job avoiding it so far. When there isn't traffic, LA is a fun place to drive. The highways (freeways) are narrow and tight, and they twist and turn - you don't even have to drive fast and you feel like you're on a race track - helped by the fact that everyone around you is cruising by.

On Monday, I was reminded that there are two kinds of people in this world: Those who believe there are two kinds of people and those who don’t. That is a quote I once heard, but I forget who said it. I believe the former. They can be cut on any number of lines – men and women, rich and poor, smart and stupid, handy and not handy. The last demarcation is the one I was reminded of on Monday.

I had bought a nice bike lock because I hauled my fucking bike all across the country and I had intentions of using it plenty, but harbored no intentions of having it stolen in Venice or anywhere else I went. I got the bike lock and directions out of my desk drawer and I headed to my garage to attach it to my bike. The directions seemed simple enough that I was confident that despite my Mahoney / Harrington heritage I would be able to do this with ease.

I was wrong.

Five minutes after a great start, I was heading back in with two shredded knuckles and blood rushing out quickly. What was I thinking? After minute four, I was thinking, “I should go to the store I got this at and have them attach it.”

After minute five, I was thinking, “Fucking A. Motherfucker. Stupid fucking useless directions. I could fucking shoot whoever wrote these fucking things. I hope I don’t have to get stitches again. I ain’t paying for those motherfucking things again. Ripoff. Why did I try to put this on myself? I know better. I hope I don’t faint. Act cool. Find a band-aid. Don’t look panicked. Fuck.”

It’s Tuesday now. My fingers are fine. My roommate hooked it up with some band-aids and Neosporin and I just came back from CVS with 200 band-aids and new Neosporin. I am prepared.

I also have set up an appointment to learn about my health insurance options tomorrow. I had wanted to do this even before I came to California. The finger incident, and the almost getting hit by a car while riding my bike on day two incident, and the pamphlet I woke up to on day two warning about Africanized bees only sealed the need for health insurance.

I can’t wait to get my epi-pen so I don’t end up like McCauley Culkin’s character in “My Girl.” Dead cause a bunch of stupid bees.

I had never really worried about bees on the east coast. I would just implore the Groundswell’s “run like a wild man in a zig-zag motion while holding my breath.” It had worked about 90% of the time when I encountered yellow jackets. A few painful times it didn’t work.

I had, however, forgotten that Africanized bees from South America had infiltrated California. Africanized bees? Are you serious? Bees that deal with lions, tigers, and bears on a regular business? Oh my. Not to mention cheetahs. I am old and not fast. Epi-pen here I come.

On another useless note, it took me four tries today to find the store where I dropped off my dry cleaning. I knew it was on Venice Blvd. I had been there on Thursday. Up Venice Blvd once, down it once, up it again, down it – oh there it is. Helped when I remember I had the slip and on the slip it had the address.

Thankfully, I had nothing else to do. I had already rode my bike and bought my band-aids.

The job search is going. I am looking. I have thrown out a net and told my friends to keep their eyes and ears open. They all complied.

Last night I had dinner with Ben and Dan from Mansfield. Both of who are Haley’s friends whom I have come to know and like. Ben is visiting for a few days from Mansfield. Dan lives here with his girlfriend, Melissa. The other guest at the party was a beautiful girl, model, actress, and music head. “Ca-ching.” My thoughts when I first saw her. Actually, I think my thoughts were more along the lines of “Damn, who does Ben know that I don’t?” He then introduced me. Ca-ching.

She is on the WB show, “The Lake.” Keep your eyes open. Maybe you’ll see her too.

They all enjoyed my story about the Real World. Never gets old.

I did have two glasses of wine, but that doesn’t count because it was to go with a delicious meal. I brought a sick Asian-influenced salad that I made. All organic. Practically orgasmic.

Was introduced to the documentary film, “Grizzly Man.” What the fuck? Seriously? Good for him. Kinda.

I had a good time with the four of them. Felt like home. No egos. Good conversation. Intelligence. A love of good food, wine, and music. Ca-ching.

A mad chill crew with whom I will hopefully be hanging with a bunch. We’re like practically neighbors.

(Hopefully hanging with those kids again tonight.)

Turns out I’m not the only thirty-plus year old who still enjoys a solid session on the swings. One day in the past week Chris and I rode our bikes down to the Santa Monica pier. Our turnaround point was a swing set where we had a good ten minutes swinging. I don’t know what it is, but I love swings. Once I get the momentum built up, and at the top of the arch, right before you go plunging towards the ground, I like to close my eyes – it’s a guaranteed way to lose your stomach. I love it.

(Almost as much as I loved the Asian girl who took my swing over. She was about to get her model session on.)

Found out from my new car and renter’s insurance provider that the California government predicts there is a 99% chance of an 8.0 magnitude earthquake for southern California in the next thirty years. Gulp. No ca-ching here. Let’s hope fore the 1%, or at least year thirty.

I don’t think either the beautiful girl or the Asian girl liked me. The weren't nearly as excited as B to see me. That's for sure.

-Groundswell

Road Trip (Part 11) - "Adopt a Highway"

There’s an art to road tripping. Or maybe, it’s just something special that happens along the road trip. A zone we’ll call it. In Africa, the zone is hit fairly often and pretty easily. Because, in Africa, the cities and towns are so spread out that you often find yourself alone. You, the car, your road trip mates all cruising along the pavement. Not much is said, music is usually playing on the radio, and everyone is lost in thought as they take in the scenery. On our road trip across the US, the majority of which was along 10W, this didn’t happen as often as I thought it would. It seemed that civilization was ever present.

There was one exception –Texas – more specifically, the drive along 10W from San Antonio to El Paso. This part of the drive was my favorite. We are talking about desolation. The eye can see to the north, to the south, to the west and to the east (in the rear view mirror) almost forever. The terrain is sparse and majestic. Along the road, you’ll pass through outcroppings of rocks that have been deformed over the ages, and towns are few and far between. It was the closest we got to an African road trip along the 4,000-mile journey and I loved it.

The weather couldn’t have been more perfect. Seventy degrees, sunny, a light breeze, and a few clouds here and there.

The speed limit varied between 75 and 80MPH. The great state of Texas had no intentions of getting in the way of this drive.

Gorgeous desolation.

If I had adopted this part of the 10, I would have named it “Desolation Way.”

There was even a point where we were so lost in the hypnotic road, or really, lost in our own thoughts, that we lost track of how much gas we had left in the tank. I wasn’t as nervous as Halearious was at first, but she was driving. I knew that when the gaslight comes on it means we have 2 gallons of gas left in the tank, which in normal circumstances would mean forty-plus miles left of driving capable. However, in this case, with the car packed to the brim and the bike on the bike rack attached to the trunk we were heavier than normal and our aerodynamics were affected. We were only getting fifteen miles to the gallon. I told Halearious that we’d have thirty or so miles to find a station. We’d be fine. I was sure of it. This road trip was blessed. The tarot card reader told us as much.

Ten miles. No gas station.

Twenty miles. No gas station.

Twenty-five miles. No gas station.

As the captain of the ship, I pretended like I wasn’t nervous. Got to keep up the morale.

Halearious was panicked. Nervously making jokes about how we were going to end up on the television show, “I Shouldn’t Be Alive,” – one of her favorites. With each passing mile, I was getting nervous. Thinking to myself, “Halearious has AAA, right?”

Twenty-six miles.

Twenty-seven miles.

A sign - Chevron station at exit 264. We’re a few miles away.

Twenty-eight miles.

Twenty-nine miles.

The gas level meter now pressed firmly against the pin. We’re close to running out.

Thirty miles.

Finally, exit 264, we pull into the gas station. I fill it up. I have a fourteen-gallon tank in my car. The total gas needed to fill the tank was 13.89 gallons, meaning we had 0.11 in the tank. Officially, Halearious could say she had been on a road trip.

Road trips are meant to have close calls. You’re supposed to push the limit of what you’re comfortable doing – literally. How long can you drive? How long can you sit cramped in a car? How fast can you drive? Where are you going to put the drugs when you cross the border into another country? Just kidding, but it’s a road trip. Live on the edge. Force yourself to grow. That’s what road trips are for. They’ll take you to places you’ve never been before, both literally and figuratively, and physically and mentally.

Road trips are more about the journey than the destination. Who cares about getting to Los Angeles? What matters is what you did and what you saw along the way. Road trips are just like life – it’s what happens along the way that will affect you the most and make you who you are. Keep your eyes on the destination and do what you have to do to get there, but remember and cherish as much of the journey as you can as you travel.

Rock on you crazy kids.

-Groundswell

Road Trip (Part Ten) - "The Edge of the World"

“In the city with no soul, I just saw a white buffalo. What happens from here, only God and the Devil know.” - ME

Halearious and Balls! departed on a plane today. Boston-bound they were. The road trip was over, and I was back to where I’m at home - alone. This time, however, I’m in Los Angeles – a land of big hopes and broken dreams.

The funny thing is that I have neither of these. I didn’t move out to Los Angeles to conquer the world or to attain fame. I didn’t move out to Los Angeles to obtain massive amounts of money or find a wife, marry her, and put her on the mantelpiece. I’m not here to buy an expensive car and show everybody that I’m a "somebody."

I’m here for one reason and one reason only, because it’s where I’m supposed to be. Why I’m supposed to be here I’m not sure. Maybe it’s for music. Maybe it’s for film. Maybe it’s for words written on a white screen. Maybe it’s to live healthy. Maybe it’s to get back in shape.

I don’t really know, and I’m not too worried about it. For the first time in a long time, I’m at peace. I’m relaxed, and I feel like everything is in its right place. I wish Halearious and Balls! were still here. I wish I could call “time out” and keep everything just the way it was – perfect and fun – but that’s not how it works. All good things must come to an end, and all great things must be remembered forever – in photographs, in words, in stories told and told again, and in laughter lines etched around the eyes and mouth when we get old. This was a road trip that had a final destination, but never was meant to end. And, if I have anything to do with it, the road trip will last forever.

For me, the journey is just beginning.

While we were in the Grand Canyon, Halearious had lit a fire under my ass about finding an apartment. I knew she was right, but I was sure things were going to work out so I was a little less gung-ho. Regardless, I had been sending out emails setting up apartment showings for the first full day after we arrived, which turned out to be on Friday.

Having gotten in late Thursday night from Arizona, we awoke early for our apartment hunting duties. The majority of the apartments we were going to be looking at were around Venice.

When I closed my eyes and pictured my life in California, I saw the ocean. No need to fuck around then with the valley, or Hollywood, or any other bullshit. If I want the ocean, I go for Venice and / or Santa Monica. Bulls-eye. The rent is going to be higher, true, but just do it, because let us face it – the quality of life is going to be significantly higher. The tarot card reader had told me I was going places, and I was going places fast. I believe her. I’ll pay more for a higher quality of life (within limits of course).

It’s like eating organic. All of a sudden I can feel the groundswell of opinion in favor of eating organic and cutting out factory-farmed meat – pay more, get more, live longer. It’s a pretty simple equation. Hell, even Balls! could figure it out. (I jest Balls!.)

The first place I see is a mile from the beach. Quaint, cozy, homey, great light - I like this. The girl, Chris, I’d be living with seems chill, not crazy, and from the east coast - a definite plus. I don’t like fake and people from New York are anything but. It’s a good start. Chris is also in a period of transition. This is good. We’ll have a lot in common.

It’s downhill from there. Places are either nice and too expensive or priced nicely and too depressing.

I take the first place.

I’m not fucking around anymore. I came here with a plan. It may be written in pencil, but god-damn-it, it’s still a plan. I’ve been living on the road now for too long. It’s time to end the nomad chapter and find a place I can call home. Halearious agrees. I call and take the place.

We then cruise down Sunset Boulevard from West Hollywood to Santa Monica - my favorite drive in Los Angeles. Windows down, music on, eyes wide open, Halearious is taking in the sights. We cruise through the crowded streets of Hollywood and then we hit Beverly Hills.

“Halearious,” I ask, “can you feel it?” Asking her if she notices the immediate change in surroundings and zoning laws. She feels it.

We continue the cruise. All the while, Halearious is telling herself that she needs to make more money. And, she wants to see a famous person. I tell her to look to her left. I’m driving. She tells me she wants to meet a famous person that people know. I nod. Clarification duly noted.

We make it back to Palms just in time. We’re staying with Halearious’s college buddy Amanda J. Amanda J is amazing. She’s straight out of Worcester, MA (Wootown) and five years in Los Angeles hasn’t changed her. Well, she’s not drinking and not smoking weed, but this is a change for the better. Los Angeles hasn’t made her bitter; it hasn’t broken her spirit. In fact, it’s quite the opposite. I’ve never seen Amanda J so on top of her game. I’m excited. Los Angeles has worked for her. Maybe it can work for me.

Amanda J just got home from her morning shift at the restaurant. She’s ours for the rest of the night.

Well, technically, we’ll be sharing her with her boyfriend, Richie, but that’s okay because Riche is the man. He’s also from Wootown and is running shit in Los Angeles. He’s got a legit job for a video game developer and is about the nicest, most gracious person you could ever meet. He’s 6’4”, half white and half black. He dunks and loves “Punky Brewster.” By no means is he a cliché. He’ll make us laugh more in four days than anyone had hoped.

Amanda J and Richie have been kind enough to let, not only me and Halearious stay there, but also let Balls! stay there as well. Balls! flies in on Saturday morning from Boston. She was missing her best frond (friend in ra-tard Sarah Bareillis language) so she decided to come visit. She also knows a good time when she sees one and knows that all of us in Los Angeles is a “can’t miss” opportunity.

The early part of Friday afternoon is spent chilling in their apartment…chilling and relaxing playing some b-ball outside of school…oh wait. No. We weren’t playing b-ball. We were just chilling. (I just heard from two sources that Will Smith is legit gay. Like Tom Cruise gay. I didn’t see that one coming.)

We knew that at some point Friday night we were going to the Conga Room in downtown LA to hang out with Ron Artest and some other Lakers as Ron Artest was throwing a fundraiser for Haiti and also wanted to show off some rap skills. It turned out that one of my friends from High school had started a company, Stayclassy, and that company was kicking some serious ass around California and was organizing the party.

Contrary to what you may hear from my family, I don’t care about the Lakers. I was there for my buddy, Walsh. We were great friends and hadn’t hung out in too long. It was going to be a great time seeing him on the west coast, and I knew he’d be more than excited to have me on this side of the country.

Also in the mix, was my friend, MM. She was a born and bread Californian We had met in NYC through a mutual friend. She is a good spirit. Outgoing and super friendly, I knew she’d add a nice hue to the spectrum of the night. I was right.

MM rolled over to Amanda J’s place around 7PM.

She jumped right into the chill fest.

Somehow, however, the chill fest morphed into a time warp when Halearious pulled out the laptop and got onto Youtube. Because before you knew it, we were going down memory lane – listening to old girl groups like SWV, En Vogue, and a bunch of shit I didn’t know – kind of like a foggy memory lane.

To clarify, by we, I mean Halearious, Amanda J, and MM. Richie and I are drinking and Richie is playing video games.

We decide to roll to “Lakerville” around 11PM. We can’t be too early. I didn’t want to risk being thrown out for yelling at the Lakers.

There’s a line. Fuck. I hate lines. I know in this case it’s worth it, but I hate lines regardless.

We get into the Conga Room and the party is going nicely. Some unknown rappers are on the stage. There is a bar on the immediate left. You know where you can find us.

I go looking for my buddy. When I find him, he gives me a huge bear hug. One of us has been working out. One of us hasn’t. I’m in pain and out of breath. He introduces me to some of his friends and offers to buy me a drink. I tell him there’s no need. He’s already buying us all a shot. It’s good to have friends.

After we ingest the Jaeger-bombs, I go looking for the girls in order to bring them over to Walsh, but by the time I find them and bring them back Walsh has disappeared into the bathroom.

Shit. Now I have to pretend like I’m going to dance or something. What had happened. Luckily, nobody is in the mood to dance so we just chill and try and find out what’s going on at this place. Nobody we know is on stage, but the music is sounding tighter than expected. The drinks are uber expensive, but whatever, we’re having a good time.

Walsh comes back in the nick of time and saves us. Well at least me. Guys who are barley old enough to drink are pestering the girls.

MM grabs me and we evacuate to the patio. She wants to smoke. I’m happy to watch her. Halearious and Amanda J join us quickly as additional spectators.

They all inform me how important it is not to persist too long hitting on a girl if it’s obvious she’s not interested. I tell them I know this already. That was what I learned in my early twenties. Done and done.

We break.

Saturday is an exciting morning because Balls! flies in from Boston. Halearious and Amanda J go get her. Richie is cooking breakfast for when they come home. I’m doing nothing useful. Surprised I love LA?

We say our hellos when she arrives. We eat. The rest of the afternoon is spent relaxing. We’re all on their sectional couch and telling stories. Reliving times spent at Umass Amherst. I relate stories when applicable. It’s a seamless afternoon. Amanda J has to leave for work.

Our plan after she leaves is to reconnect with some of Halearious’s Mansfield friends. Dan is a relatively new resident of California, and like myself, has settled in Venice. Unlike me, he lives with his girlfriend, Melissa. She’s awesome. Halearious’s other friend, Mikey has traveled up to LA from San Diego. I guess Halearious getting out of Boston is big news for her friends. Mikey is mad chill. Real shy. Especially with the ladies. Reminds me of myself, really.

We all get together for a beer at Dan’s house. We play catch-up and then it’s off to the Canal Club for dinner. The canal club is mainly a sushi joint, but their appetizers are eclectic, and even have a Mexican influence. Halfway through the meal, we start to wonder whether our sushi chef is Japanese or Mexican. Doesn’t really matter. The food is really good either way, but we are wondering. We can’t really tell.

Reminds me of the Mexican restaurants in Brooklyn that are owned by Chinese people. Cuisine is fusing in ways I doubt anyone expected.

We get sushi and vegetable tacos. It’s all good. The beer isn’t tasting too good. I can’t drink beer tonight.

They convince me to get a Sake bomb. I’m reluctant, but we’ve begun the thirtieth b-day celebration. I can’t resist.

When it comes to the bill, Mikey brings his “A-game” and pays more than is due. This is what I’m used to on my bday dinner. At college, this is how we treated our friends. I have to guilt Halearious and Balls! into paying more than they’re due. Actually, I think I throw in for Halearious since she is nearing the end of her funds. No big deal. Pay it forward, I say.

We walk across the street to James Beach. A bar that has been featured in “Curb Your Enthusiasm” and maybe even “I Love You, Man.” I’m given the lowdown on it: it’s a great place to go cougar hunting. Within five minutes, I can see what they mean.

We stay for a drink (treated by Halearious and Balls!) and then it’s on to West Hollywood to celebrate for my birthday.

When I had visited LA a few years ago, there was a certain bar that I loved. It was called “Winston’s.” It was awesome. Well known, but they had no marquee above it. It was like a secret that only cool people knew about. I knew about it because a cool friend brought me there, and he was basically a local. When we went there we had a blast. I had never talked to so many cute girls in my life. They came up and talked to me. It was amazing. I’ll never forget it.

I figured I was turning thirty, and thought maybe lightning would strike twice. It didn’t.

We paid a ridiculously high amount for the cab. Turns out W. Hollywood isn’t close to Venice at all. The total paid was $50. When we get out there is a sign above the door. It says, “Winston’s.” I know we’re fucked. “Oh well,” I think, “We’ll have a good time no matter where we are.” We have to talk our way in – lots of parties or some BS. Halearious tells them that she and Balls! are small so don’t count for much. The “Door Asshole” likes this, and lets us in. The place is dead. I know it’ll fill up; it always does, but c’mon, make me look cool or something. We just paid $50 to get here.

People start to roll in just in time. We’re a few drinks deep and chatting it up. My friend Jordan rolls in. He’s an old friend I met in South Africa, and spent a year there with. Been a while since I’ve seen him last, and I think it was at Winston’s. It’s great to see him. I introduce him to Halearious who he’s never met. They exchange pleasantries. He hits the bar. Before he goes he asks me, “How drunk do you want to get? Really drunk or just kinda drunk?” It’s good to have friends that know you well. I say, “Kinda drunk.” He buys only himself a drink. I like this.

We settle into Winston’s. It’s not as cool as it once was. The girls aren’t as cute and aren’t as numerous. Jordan informs me that Winston’s is past its heyday. I tell him I figured when I saw the sign. He laughs and agrees.

Shortly thereafter, Halearious rolls up and says to Jordan “So, I hear you’re a douche bag with the ladies.” I’m floored. I can’t believe it. I immediately say “It wasn’t me.” Jordan knows better. “It was either you or Simon, because you’re the only two along the trip who knows me.” Maybe it was me. I had told Halearious how I was disappointed that Jordan had cheated on one of his ex-girlfriends – one of whom I was particularly fond of, and thought was going to be “it” for Jordan. But you see, I had told Halearious this in secrecy and never thought she would say something like this to him. I forgot that Halearious had recently been screwed over by a douche bag and is still in the healing process – even a year later. Time heals all wounds; it’s just that some take longer to heal. Halearious is still healing.

I found out later that that was the old Jordan. He is now in a steady relationship with a former girlfriend whom he has now gained some perspective on, and realizes that he had it great and wants it again. He is really dedicated. I’ve never seen him like this. I’m happy for him.

He’s still a great wingman though, and is shortly chatting up some ladies for me to talk to. As soon as they hear it’s my thirtieth b-day they’re game to celebrate with us. We’re dancing and chatting it up. I think they know I’m a relic or something and are happy to hang out with us for the night.

I’m definitely kind of drunk when one of the girls asks me to take a picture of them. I happily oblige. It’s a new camera. Has a touch screen for taking pictures. I don’t like this. I take three horrible pictures. The last two of which the flash doesn’t even work. On the fourth try, the camera pops out of my hand, hits the ground, bounces off the ground, and when it finally comes to rest, someone steps on it. I’m grabbing it as fast as possible. I’m thinking I broke it and will be buying her a new camera for a birthday present to myself. I give her the camera back and play it off like it’s no big deal. She says she wants to take a picture of me and her two friends. We all know it’s a check to see how bad I fucked it up. I hold my breath. She pressed down the button. I wait for a flash. Wait for it. Wait for it. Wait for it. Flash. Hell yeah. I’m off the hook. Picture taken. God does love me. I’m sure of it. One of the girls whispers to me, “You’re breathing a little easier now.” I couldn’t agree more, and we’re laughing.

At 1:13AM, I make my exit from the dance fest. I’m kinda drunk, but not too drunk. The girls pick me up for the cab ride home. At around midnight, they had snuck off with their friends for some food. Turns out we didn’t eat enough at the Canal Club.

Fifty dollars later we’re back in Venice. Halearious has been drinking responsibly. She’s going to drive us home.

It’s at this point that I get the drunk munchies. All those empty vodka and soda calories are working.

I tell Halearious. We look for a place that is open as we drive down Venice Blvd. I see yellow lights and the place looks alive. It’s Fatburger. I’ve heard about this from Amanda J and Richie. They’ve got a sick mother fucking turkey-burger. We’re pulling in and I’m stoked.

I order. I wait drunkenly. I’m in amazement of the menu. You can order burgers as if they’re French fries – they come in sizes. I got a medium (5 ounces). It goes up to an XXL, which is in 24 ounces. Seriously? Shit. No wonder America is so fat.

I get my burger and head to the car. It is everything that Amanda J and Ritchie had describe. I’m in heaven. Even Halearious knows this. She recounts it the next day to Amanda J and Ritchie.

We park and hike it home. Street parking is totally full. We have to park a few blocks away. Amanda J awakes and lets us in. We hit the rack.

Sunday morning comes early for me. I’m up earlier than either Halearious or Balls! is happy with, but I can’t help it. The loft where I’m sleeping has got to be a hundred degrees or some shit. I’m in a full sweat. I’m hung-over and sweating. I need to brush my teeth and move some shit around. I need water. I’m up and making noise.

Soon, Richie and Amada J are up. They’re sober and bright-eyed and bushy tailed. Richie is off to buy some coffee. Balls! is off to Amanda’s bed. It’s dark in there. Turns out Balls! had been up for 24 straight hours with the flight and all the previous night. She still hasn’t recovered.

Coffee arrives. I’m working through the hangover. Balls! is working through the jet lag. Halearious is working through Youtube movies.

I’m thirty. We’re all working through this together.

We’ve got a sick day of bike riding and hiking planned. God has given us a gift: it’s wrapped in a 70-degree, smog free, picture perfect day.

Balls! is up. Coffee is down. We’re all changed and ready to go. I’m in shorts above the knees, and a hooded sweatshirt. Anyone who will call, text, or read facebook will know this.

It’s February 28th.

Thirty years ago I was born on a freezing cold day. I’ve heard the story 29 times. They day my mom walked out of the hospital the weather was so cold that the vase shattered in her hands. Can you imagine what my poor conscious must have thought? Nine months of a nice cozy womb. Some crazy birth process. Something stuck up my nose, my chord that was the key to my survival was cut, a piece of skin attached to a very sensitive area cut off, and worst of all - I’m carried out into freezing fucking biting cold weather. Welcome to life. “What the fuck,” must’ve been in my conscious very early. It’s a godsend that we can’t remember this. I’m sure if we could that I would have blocked it out early.

I have had one previous birthday celebrated with summer-like conditions. It was when I turned twenty-one in Cape Town, South Africa. It was an amazing birthday. Celebrated with new friends, a bathtub full of bear, all the while, Table Mountain was ablaze. We could see this from our sick Victorian house where we’d be staying from the next sixth months. As we braai’d (South African for BBQ’d), we were listening to the Grateful Dead’s “Fire on the Mountain.” That was a sick birthday. I felt special that day.

It would turn out that my thirtieth, and second celebrated birthday in summer-like conditions would be pretty sick too. But this time, it would be more mellow and no drinking involved. I was okay with that.

We started out on bikes in an orderly fashion. The bike that I had trekked 4,000 miles attached to the back of my car had new air in the tires and was ready to go. We were in single line formation heading down Overland St. and on our way towards the bike path that would lead us along the Los Angeles river (debate whether it’s an actual river, or just a runoff path) to the beach in Marina Del Ray, and then north towards Venice and Santa Monica. Richie and I have serious road bikes that allow us to race ahead. The ladies are cruising. Richie and I stop periodically allowing the girls to catch up and then race ahead once again. Beautiful day.

You can tell we’re getting closer to the beach as the wind picks up and the seagulls become more ubiquitous. Before you know it, four of five miles into the bike ride, Marina Del Ray’s harbor is on our right and the water is near.

Richie and I pull over and wait for the girls. When they arrive five minutes later, Halearious is so dehydrated that’s all we can talk about. She’s on the verge of asking a stranger for water. We convince her to get back on her bike and we’ll go get some. It’s a short ride away.

We back track it a bit towards Marina Del Ray’s center and grab Halearious some water. As we wait, there is a salsa show being played. I love the Latin culture that is ever present in California.

We re-hydrate and we’re off towards Venice Beach and lunch. I’m getting inundated with texts and phone calls along the way. I’m talking to people as we ride, and telling them about the outfit. Since all calls are coming from the colder East coast, where it’s overcast and cold, they’re loving it – or hating it – but still, I’m loving it.

We decide it’s time to eat, and as we pull in along the beach towards a few restaurants, a guy tells us to come in and have a beer – the US and Canada have gone into overtime for the gold medal. I had totally forgotten they were playing. I do watch as we eat, but they lose – they only part of the day that disappoints. The food is good and the bathroom line is long. I take my time in the bathroom working it all out, and when I come out the next guy in line says, “Is it snowing in there?” A thinly veiled reference to cocaine, also known as snow, blow, powder, etc. I play along as if I had been doing blow in the bathroom. “Oh, hell yeah,” I retort. He laughs and walks into the bathroom. Halearious is right after him in line and says, “You sure took your time in there.” I respond, “Activia,” singing the theme song for the bowel-helping yogurt. She looks at me in disgust. I laugh and walk away.

Back on the bikes.

When we do finally make it to the bike path along the beach I think we’re in Venice. We pull off. It’s time for Halearious to meet the Pacific during the day. We did stop in Santa Monica at the beach our first night in California. We took 10W all the way to the beach. She saw the ocean from afar, and then we headed to Amanda J’s house. She wastes no time today. Shoes are off, followed by her socks, and she walks into the water. We watch from a safe distance – about a hundred feet back. I imagine the introduction goes as follows:

Halearious: Hi. I’m Haylee Hone-knee. I have gi-knee.

Pacific Ocean: Yo. I’m chill.

Halearious is still four years old in my head.

Balls! is quick to follow. Amanda J is next. Richie and I hang back and chill, watching the girls interact. They walk in the water, do kart wheels, pose for pictures as I photograph. I head down next. It’s time to get my feet wet. I’ve been in the Pacific before so it’s just a re-acquaintance. We’ve both changed, but we’re both still fundamentally the same. The Pacific is calling me. “C’mon Groundswell. Get in the water. You’re thirty. It’s your birthday. Make it special. I’m billions of years old. Everyday is special.” I hold off. Tempted, but practical. It’s time to get back on our bikes.

We head north towards Venice. Pull off at a sunglass stand. Halearious needs new cheap sunglasses. None found. I take some cool pictures of her shopping. All the pictures are focused on her reflection in the ten-foot wide mirror along the boardwalk.

Minutes later, we’re back on the bikes and taking in the scenes. The medicinal marijuana houses are a sight to be seen. Come on in. Let us check you out. Get a card. Bam. Done and done. We just roll by.

We see tons of fellow bikers, roller bladders, and the legendary Sunday drum circle on Venice beach. All the while, the earth is spinning about itself and the sun is heading further west as we head further east.

There is this place along Venice Beach where roller skaters congregate and dance. It’s not like a nightclub dance where people get drunk and dance. It’s like choreographed dances to music. I can’t believe it. We watch it in amazement. I’m not sure what to think. I still haven’t processed it entirely. To each their own, I guess – just not our cup of tea.

We reach Santa Monica with about 45 minutes of sunset left. We set up shop there. Halearious’s ass is sore from her uncomfortable bike seat. Richie offers to hike it back to the house and get the car so we don’t have to ride home. We’re okay with this as long as he’s back in time for the sunset. He will be.

We just hang out on the grass, watching people enjoy the beach and the bike path. We’re having a serious photo session with each other and with strangers as the watch the sunset.

We get some great shots.

I couldn’t be more relaxed as the sun nestles itself along the Pacific Ocean. I’m thirty years old. I’ve finished thirty years traveling on earth around the sun. This is one of the trillionth-plus sunsets that have happened. I love it for what it is – beautiful, amazing, calming. I have no trouble finding meaning in meaningless.

Richie gets back in time for the sunset with Amanda J’s Pathfinder. As we begin to pack the car, we realize there is no way all five bikes are going to fit in the back with all five passengers. I volunteer to ride back. Richie does as well.

We begin our cruise. It’s getting dark. In California, you need to have bike lights on your bike if you intend to ride at night. I don’t. This is the first I’ve ever heard of the news. We make a go for it. I feel like a kid again riding around the neighborhood at night. It’s as if mom has called us home and the siblings sent Ritchie and I to find out what she wants. A great delay tactic, but it was always dinner or time to come home. We knew. We also knew that we wanted to stay out later.

We make it home with no major incidents. Ritchie’s chain falls of twice, but no big deal. We’re not pulled over.

It was a great day.

We all shower and grab something quick to eat. Richie comes out of the shower wearing a blue corn mask. I guess it’s a weekly ritual that he swears by. We’re all intrigued and are down to try. One by one Halearious, Kristin, and Amanda J shower, and put on a mud mask. I was the last to shower. When I open the door from the bathroom, I see a brown face running at me and screaming and jumping in excitement. It’s Haley and she says I can’t come out yet. They’re surprising me. Three minutes later, in just my towel, they’re singing me “Happy Birthday” and presenting me with a cake lit up with candles. I’m very appreciative and surprised. I didn’t see cake in my future.

Next up: a movie on their projector and some popcorn. The movie selected is “The Box.” It is terrible. There seems to be a Scientology aspect to it. Cameron Diaz is horrible with her overdone southern accent. It’s just bad. It’s like a Stanley Kubrick film gone wrong. No thanks. We go to bed.

Monday. It’s good to not wake up hung-over. I’m excited. I realize I have no reason to drink for a long time. Sobriety for a good long while. I just want to be healthy and today is a great day to start.

We start the day like most in California. Lazily. We get motivated for a drive to Malibu along the Pacific Coast Highway (PCH). We just have to be back by 4PM so that Amanda J can get to work in time.

The drive is nice and relaxing. The houses and the money that is in Los Angeles blow us all away. Halearious is still on her quest to see someone famous.

We get hungry. Hit up “Neptune’s Net” for some good seafood. Most of it is fried, but it’s all good.

After lunch we walk across the PCH to check some of the surfers. We just relax and watch the waves roll in.

We drive back to Amanda J’s. Relaxed. It’s been another good day.

Amada goes off to work and we move my stuff into my new apartment. It’s nice to have a new home with a cool roommate and only a mile from the beach. My life is starting to take shape. I’ve been on the road too long. I just want some of my own space again.

The girls do most of the moving as I get caught in conversation with my roommate and our neighbor, a very nice woman from Canada.

Back at Amanda J’s we get ready for dinner. The plan is to have some Japanese food and then head to Amanda J’s work for a drink.

It is accomplished nearly flawlessly. I’m driving because I’m not drinking. Halearious, Balls!, and Richie are drinking and catching a nice buzz. It’s fun to watch. We get to Amanda J’s work just in time before close. There are some cute girl customers and workers. I like this place.

While there, it turns into trivia night between us. Starts out with us asking Halearious and Balls! sports trivia and then morphs into shows we watched as kids growing up. This is when we learn Ritchie is a huge “Punky Brewster” fan. It turns out Halearious is pretty good at trivia. They go at it. I watch. I can’t remember any of this shit. Not sure how they can either.

We head back home and call it an early night. Halearious and Balls! are flying back the next day. We’ll get up and chill, hit In ‘N Out one last time and drop them off.

This is exactly what happens.

As Halearious and I say goodbye to each other, we can’t believe that the road trip is over. So much has happened, so much has been said, so much has been eaten, drank, shit out, so much has been laughed at, so much has been seen, over 4,000 miles have been driven, and here we are in the blink of an eye at LAX saying goodbye. We both know it’s not goodbye forever. It’s just goodbye to the road trip.

Balls! and Halearious walk into the airport. Amanda J and I get back into the car.

This is now home. I had been picturing this since before I left: The drive back when Halearious was on her way back east and I was here for good.

I don’t get sad until I leave Amanda J’s with the rest of my stuff and head to my new apartment. Now it’s for real. I’m on my on now.

If you’ve ever moved away from home, you know the feeling – that loneliness that settles into your chest. I’ve been here before – when I went to Paraguay when I was seventeen; when I went to South Africa in college – I know that I need to keep myself busy and it will all work itself out.

I begin by unpacking and moving in, and then I’m off for a bike ride, and then to the grocery store, and then I head to Abbot Kinney for a music show that I was invited to by a girl singer / songwriter I briefly met in New York. (You’ve got to love facebook.)

I watch her perform and dig her songs. She’s got an angelic voice that at points borders on operatic. She wins over the large crowd that is here for the headliner – White Buffalo.

Based on the size of the crowd, and general attractiveness of the ladies, I decide to stay for White Buffalo, and I’m glad I did.

White Buffalo is the stage name of a guy named Jake. A drummer and bassists join him on stage. They play rocking country and roots music. It’s exactly where I am musically. I’m surprised to find it so effortlessly in Los Angeles.

White Buffalo is tall – probably 6’4”- heavyset, long hair and a substantial beard. He reminds me of Jeff Bridges in “Crazy Heart,” but younger. He’s got a great stage presence, passionate, and humorous between songs.

His voice reminded me of Eddie Vedder combined with Richie Havens when he gets passionate. I’m very impressed. I stay around until midnight before it’s time for me to walk home and go to bed.

I know this isn’t the last time I’ll see White Buffalo.

Hell, I live in the city with no soul and I’ve seen a White Buffalo. When it comes, you should know you've hit the edge of the world.

- Groundswell