Woke Up This Mor-nin'...

Back east, for maybe the last 10 years I lived there, I used to schlep (you don't get good Yiddish) out here) out to Joisy every Friday, to continue my guitar studies under the tutelage of my mentor, Rich Fusco. Beyond the hour or so lessons, it became an entire ritual for me. You could literally set your watch by the whole thing. Yellow line subway from Mid-town to Port Authority. Buy a discounted Daily News and Post OUTSIDE P.A., go in and buy a sleeve of fresh popcorn. From there I'd catch the 5:50 Community Coach out of gate 306. (I'd always try to look gnarly and angry so as to improve my chances of sitting alone). Next, it was a ride eerily similar to Tony Sopranos during the opening credits of the Sopranos, 'cept I was seeking higher musical knowledge, he was seeking power and good sausages. Out of the Lincoln Tunnel, with the panorama of all of Manhattan (first with the WTC, then without), through the rancid, chemical belly of North Jersey. From there, the Turnpike to 280, past Kearny, and sometimes, past the Satriales neighborhood if the traffic re-routed us. Then, just like Tony, I'd see the gradual presence of grass and greenery increase. The houses would get a little nicer. Next thing you know, I'm in Livingston, about one turn over from Caldwell, Tony's area. Rich and I would get our guitar on, and leave at 8:46 for South Orange, my original stomping grounds. I'd catch the 9:14 Midtown Direct. NJ Transit was remarkably good on time, so I'd get into Penn Station at 9:46. Walk a few blocks to the Yellow line, and I'd be walking through the door between 10:12 and 10:14 every week. I did this on average I'd say, 35 times a year for 10 years or so. Rinse and repeat.

So why, pray tell, am I rehashing my excercise in tedium for you all, ESPECIALLY when it's not even a CURRENT exercise in tedium? Well, first of all, obviously I am attempting to fortify my stronghold on the title of "World's Squarest Bad Ass Guitarist." But secondly, to ruminate on one of the more subtle aspects of picking up one's life and starting anew. See, I took great comfort in such a refined level of predictability. I loved that I could know that, every Friday at 7:05, I could be found in the same 7-11 in Livingston, buying the same cup of coffee. Or that I'd finish my Su Doku after the Lincoln Tunnel, but before we officially got on the Turnpike. It took YEARS to master that groove, and now I'm back at square one.

This isn't a knock against L.A. Just a reality of moving. I had certain aspects of my life down to a science, beyond just my Friday night junkets. Pick up my newspaper from the same stand every day. Have the short order cooks start fixing my order on sight. Sunday bagel from Ess-a-Bagel. Etc. It just feels wierd now, that's all. Naked, without an established order to my daily life. Some of you reading this are probably like, "Thank GOD he's out of that rut! Listen to that monotony!" Listen, life keeps things interesting whether I'm structured or not. In fact, it's BECAUSE life is never boring, that I cherish those few arenas where I CAN keep it simple.

So now, my life grooves aren't smooth yet. My record is warbly like an LP left out in the sun. You can still make out the song, but it's a little skewed.