There's an old saying in my family: "don't wish your life away." My great-great-aunt told my mom this every time she would say "I wish it was tomorrow" as a little girl. So, I received the same reprimand growing up; whenever I wanted something in the future now, I heard "don't wish your life away."

This is an inconvenient maxim for an impatient kid. Or impatient adult. Or any singer/songwriter.

I'm constantly wishing my life away. It's not that I don't agree with the idea behind it (I do). It's that wishing my life away is part of my job. I live in six month intervals, and part of each interval consists of planning the next. In many ways, I'm constantly spending the present thinking about the future. It's not impatience, or obsession (although I've got both in spades); it's simply part of the gig.

For example, I just spent three hours looking at a map and a calendar. I'm going to tour a little in the spring, and a lot in the summer. Touring (well) demands advance planning. Venues book at least 2 months ahead, and the further in advance you plan, the better your chances are. Additionally, you need to keep competing interests in mind:
--When are the big festivals (SXSW, Coachella, Bonaroo, Newport, etc.)?
--What other tours are passing through what parts of the country, and when (Warped, Lolapalooza, Lilith Fair, etc.)?
--When do college kids leave town?
--When do college kids get back?
--When are folks most likely to vacation?
--When can I start/wrap/spend my time best on the road?
--If I meet up with Lilith Fair what are the chances I can successfully follow Emmylou Harris for a week?

You get the picture. There are a million things to consider, and they're all way down the road. I'm not complaining: this is a part of the gig that I really enjoy. It plays into my OCD tendencies, my hyper-organizational habits, and my characteristic impatience. I love the future--it always sounds good to me--so I enjoy trying to shape it.

That's the upshot of wishing your life away as a musician: if you're Type A, there's always something else to plan (after the summer tour, when can I get in the studio for another album, would that interfere with CMJ, what would be an ideal time for another release, etc.). It's a wonderland of organizational exercises.

The downside is that time goes fast. Really fast. Before you know it, it's February 1st and you've charted out your year through Thanksgiving. When you're booking tours four months in advance and planning for another album as you're currently releasing one, two years can melt together in a hurry. So much of being a singer/songwriter is solitary (writing, traveling, rehearsing, map-staring, etc.); days can pass slowly. But the months--and years--go fast. Too fast.

Meanwhile, I'm still staring at this map and calendar, wishing my life away, and wondering where to go.

Where should I go?

I could go anywhere. When a tour is set, booked, and actually happening, it's obviously fun: there's nothing like being in a new city and new venue every night and sharing music with a fresh crowd. Running on empty, running behind, racing to venues, getting lost, taking highways, talking to locals, eating bad food--every day is its own uniquely memorable experience because it has to be. There's no way to spend a month on the road and not leave a part of yourself out there, and not bring a piece of everything else back home. That's the beauty of touring: you're always moving, and always moving somewhere else. If you're prone to looking ahead (as I am), it's perfect; you can be thrilled in the moment while anticipating the next one.

But the underrated joy is the one that comes now: staring at a blank map, a blank calendar, and knowing it could be anything. There is no logistical stress , no car trouble, no indigestion--just a perfect plan on paper, spread out before me like a road with no end. If the Dad from Calvin and Hobbes taught me anything (other than "being cold builds character" and "the sun sets in Flagstaff"), it's that the anticipation of something can be as good as the thing itself. That's the point: looking at a map and realizing you can go anywhere. It can be anything.

So, where should I go?

Where should I go?

If you've got a favorite venue in your town, let me know. If you know of any radio shows or podcasts or music blogs in your city, pass them along! Help me fill the calendar and write the perfect plan on paper. Help me live four months out. Help me wish my life away.

And if my great-great-aunt complains, tell her it's my job.

What do coffee beans, Wes Anderson, meta-blogging, scarves, and "sad bastard music" have in common? January's Mailbag!

Turns out all of you had plenty on your mind this month. So, as we reach winter's halfway point, I figured now's as good a time as ever to take some spring cleaning to Ye Ole Mailbag.

Let's get after these issues and more in the January's Mailbag.

(As always, these are questions from actual readers. If you'd like to send one in, just drop me a line! chris@chrismilam.com)

Hey Chris, you travel a bit. What are some of your favorite spots across the country? --Mark, Brooklyn
Great question. The good news is that I do get to travel to a lot of places. The bad news is that I usually don't get to spend much time in those places. So, while I'm there, I usually stay close to "home" and don't get as experimental as I'd like. If you ask me my favorite coffee houses, diners, and music venues, that's easy. If you want to know what Texas town has the rowdiest rodeo, or where to find great laser tag in the Midwest, I'm woefully unprepared.

So...

Favorite Coffee Shops/Cafes
Mudspot, New York
It's very near my place, it's cozy, the coffee's excellent, it's quiet enough during the week that you can read/work, it's loud enough (with their music playing and typical clientele) that you can socialize and not worry about people hearing your conversation. The real tipping point, however, is the music. They've seemingly hacked into my iTunes. Last time I went, I was there for 2 hours, and heard the entirety of Help, Rubber Soul, and Exile On Main Street. In terms of playing what I like/want to hear, they're batting an impossible 0.979 average. They've officially surpassed the previous mark held by the Greenhouse in Nashville, which played My Morning Jacket's Z and Pearl Jam's Yield back-to-back the first time I was there. Props to Greenhouse for picking slightly more obscure/rewarding albums; points deducted because both have one decidedly "awkward-to-hear-in-a-bar" song ("Into the Woods" and "Push Me/Pull Me").

Novel Cafe, Los Angeles
The whole Larchmont strip gets a nod here, but my single favorite spot in LA is the Novel Cafe. Just a great place to kill five hours--low-key, great menu, good people-watching, excellent service. If you're in no rush, they're in no rush. Very fond memories here from my last trip to LA.

Uncommon Ground, Chicago
UG also doubles as one of Chicago's coolest music venues, and one I hope to revisit soon. It's one of those places that just keeps going--room after room of local art, intimate tables, great service. Last time I was there, I had to park nearly a mile away and fought the Chicago winter winds all the way to the front door, hauling a guitar and box of merchandise. I kid you not: three waitresses immediately grabbed me, seated me by a fire, brought me multiple hot beverages, and offered me (somehow) extra scarves. It's one of the warmest places on earth.

Greyfriar's, Chattanooga
Centrally-located, good coffee, a mixed and decidedly weird crowd, and laissez-faire service. Sometimes, that's all you need in the Noog.

Best Steak
Mastro's, LA. My friend Jay ordered everything like he'd been a million times. I said, "you're not even looking at a menu, you've never been here before...what gives?" He just shook his head and plowed through a seafood tower. Later, in his car, I found a Frommers guide to Los Angeles under the passenger seat. I flipped to Mastro's entry, curious to see what Frommer had to say about the meal I'd just enjoyed. Turns out Frommer recommends literally every item Jay ordered. In other words, he ordered exclusively off the Frommers guide.

Also, the steak's awesome.

Best Mexican
El Palenque, Nashville. I can't vouch for anything on the menu except their chicken mole, because that's all I order, all I will order, and all I ever dream about.

Best BBQ
Central BBQ, Memphis. It really depends on what item you're craving, but if you told me I could only have one type of BBQ in the world right now, I'd get a full rack of wet ribs from Central and not think twice. Ask me again in an hour, though--I'm fickle.

Best Wings
DBo's, Memphis (the original on Kirby). Runner-up: Wing Stop in Ft. Payne, Alabama. Wing Stop is semi-franchised, but the Ft. Payne location is special: their cajun wings are totally different than the ones I've found elsewhere. Also, they're endorsed by Troy Aikman.

Miscelleni
Irish Pubs: I can't narrow this down, but I will say that an Irish pub owned and operated by actual Irish people is automatically 3000% better. In my experience, these are easier to find in NYC, Chicago, and (oddly) small towns in the South.

Happy Hour: Again, this is impossible to pick. Quick tangent: the best places to have a cheap drink with a friend are always--always, always--college towns in cold climates. I don't say this because I'm a college kid, or because I'm spending happy hour with college kids. I say this as an outside observer: there is no place on earth that sells cheaper beverages than a college bar in a quiet and primarily cold locale. Arizona State, Florida, and other warm-weather huge colleges top the "Party School" rankings every year, but from what I've seen, nobody is "partying" harder than a kid at, say, Virginia Tech. Why? Because February's brutal in Blacksburg, and you can buy a cask of moonshine for ten cents and a ball of yarn.

These are the things I feel you need to know.

(What am I missing? What are some of your favorite spots across the country? Hit up the comments and let me know!)

Hi Chris! Which is your absolute favourite movie, ever? --Helena, Sweden
Awesome question, and bonus points for the European spelling of "favorite." I've always preferred that spelling. In honor of Helena, Sweden, and worldly phonics, I'm using alternate spellings for words like "favourite" and "colour" for the duration of this answer.

I'll break this question down into sub-categories, then give a gun-to-my-head answer for all-time favourite.

Category 1: Best Movies I've Ever Seen
These are movies I love, own, watch often, recognize their influence, and admire greatly. For whatever reason, they don't resonate as deeply as another movie of their genre might.

Sometimes there's a gap between the "best" thing and your favourite thing: Michael Jordan was the best basketball player, but Magic Johnson was always my favourite; Sgt. Pepper or Revolver are likely the "better" Beatles records, but my favourite is Help. And so on...

The three best movies I've ever seen, in no particular order:
The Godfather
The Godfather II
Casablanca

These are also on the short list for all-time favourite. For the AFI snobs out there, I've never seen Citizen Kane, and have maybe seen 40 of the "Top 100." I do, however, OWN a copy of Baywatch: Hawaiian Wedding.

Favorite Dramas Since 1990:
American Beauty
Tombstone
Quiz Show
Pulp Fiction
Fargo
Good Will Hunting
The Dark Knight
The Departed
The Usual Suspects

Favorite Comedies (or, "Non-Dramas" if that's easier) Since 1990:
High Fidelity
Rushmore
Royal Tenenbaums
Love Actually
Almost Famous
Oceans 11 (remake)
Jerry Maguire
Swingers
***Anchorman (my favorite of the silly comedies like Old School, Superbad, etc.)

Favorite Dramas Pre-1990:
The Godfather
The Godfather II
Casablanca
Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid
Cool Hand Luke

Favorite Comedies (or, "Non-Dramas" if that's easier) Pre-1990:
The Apartment
The Graduate

Now, I'm 99% certain I have some unforgivable omissions. Still, glancing at my library, and off the top of my head, that's the list of semi-finalists. Now, the Finalists!

Finalists
The Graduate
High Fidelity
Royal Tenenbaums
American Beauty
Casablanca
The Apartment

Unsurprisingly, my favourites lean toward the less dramatic movies, and those with (relatively) happy endings. These are also the movies I find myself re-watching the most. I always find a new favourite line, a new favourite moment (now I'm just piling on the "favourites"), or identify with a new character in unexpected ways. They continue to surprise me, amaze me, and deeply resonate, no matter how many times I've seen them.

But there can only winner.

So, my gun-t0-the-head pick for All-Time Favourite is the same after heavy deliberation as it was when I first read the question:

The Pick:
Royal Tenenbaums

Everything--from its conception, writing, acting, directing, and execution--is so effortlessly brilliant that, ten years later, I still can't quite believe how good it is. In its easy perfection I can only compare it to a modern-day Shakespeare comedy. For me, it's operating at that level. Almost every moment is inspired, heartening, and vital. It's been hugely influential in terms of its directorial style and comic voice. It's always engaging, fresh, immediate, and occasionally breath-taking. I've written many times about Royal Tenenbaums, so I'll leave it at this: it's the closest thing to a perfect movie I've ever seen, and no movie resonates more with me personally.

(What's your all-time favourite movie? Or, "favorite," if you prefer.)

Chris, I'm about to flip the script on you! I'm about to give you a dose of your own medicine! You ready??? "You are going out tonight. You are going out to do whatever it is you would like to do for a fun night of festivity and frivolity. This can include anything from vandalizing mailboxes to playing lacrosse to finishing a jigsaw puzzle. You get to assemble your posse for the night. You can pick ANY FOUR MEN OR ANY FOUR WOMEN on the planet, friends, celebrities, athletes, etc. Who is in your entourage and why?" One of your own Fan of the Month questions turned against you! Boom! How does it feel?!? --Jason, Atlanta
I have tasted my own medicine, and it is bitter. Bitter indeed. Well-played, Jason.

In fact, I've gotten a few emails to this affect, asking me the same questions I ask each Fan of the Month. I picked Jason's, however, because it's my personal favorite.

Many Fan of the Month fans have selected friends, spouses, and family members. I understand their reasoning: they're nice people, they appreciate their loved ones, and want to have fun with the people they know best. On paper, this makes sense. On paper, I totally agree.

On paper, though, you wouldn't have the option of hanging out with Pele, or Queen Elizabeth, or Carrot Top. And that's why I'm not picking anyone I know for my posse: I can do that anyway. I can hang out with my family or friends in real life. Why would I do this in a fantasy-world answer?

This is me, taking the people I love the most totally for granted for the purposes of a ridiculous question.

A few ground rules for the selection:
1) I'm not picking any women for the posse. Here's why: if there are three guys and one girl at a table, what happens? Those three guys talk to that one girl. She's the topic of conversation, and she's the center of attention; she is, essentially, the party. This happens every time; it's normal behavior, and is frequently fun. But the goal here is to have the best possible time, right? So why not pick four guys that will attract all kinds of people (women, men, celebrities, athletes, politicians, despots, etc.) to us. It's an issue of keeping the focus outward rather than inward.

2) No other musicians of my general age and type. Again, the goal is to bring people into our party. I want to have limitless options; if I know what I bring to the table, why double up? Also, who likes hanging out with twenty-something musicians? Not me--they're the worst.

3) Again, diversity is key. If you pick three older famous actors, and one of them is George Clooney, you're signing up for trouble. Previously towering egos will be bruised as Clooney out-Clooneys them all night, and you'll end up with a sad posse and drowned sorrows.

4) Chemistry is key. You want different types of guys in the posse, but you also need to keep in mind how they would fictitiously get along. I bet Bill Russell is cool, and I bet Prince Harry is cool, but I doubt they'd have much to say to each other. These things matter.

5) Finally, "crazy" is fine, but "insane" is not. We want to have the best possible time; this means outlandish, unconventional behavior can be appropriate. Crimes against humanity, jail sentences, and life-altering trauma are buzzkills. If you can't bet your own life on this person's behavior, don't pick him. In other words, Lamar Odom is fine; Ron Artest is not.

(Also, can you tell by now that my posse's going to Vegas?)

With that in mind, here's my 4 (in no particular order):
1) Chad OchoCinco. For 8 million reasons, but here are a few:
a) If Twitter is any indication (and he's on it 24/7, so it would have to be), he never stops having fun. Ever.
b) If there was a Nobel prize for "talking trash," he would win it every year, then demand its name be changed to OchoCinco.
c) He brings the sports-world into our party (athlete friends, fans, etc.)
d) He never drinks, so we can travel safely.
e) He's hilarious.

2) John Slattery. Better known as "Roger Sterling" in Mad Men, I'm really basing this pick off the reputations of his characters (middle-aged booze-hounds and womanizers), and his episode commentaries with Jon Hamm, in which they're off-the-cuff, smart, incisively funny, and (possibly) drunk. He's automatically the posse's elder statesman, its unspoken leader, its most experienced member, and maybe its biggest cad. In my mind, he brings "Clooney-things" to the table without any of the Clooney-fuss.

3) Andre 3000. Because he's the coolest human alive today, period. I do worry that he's a bit of an X-factor (he might disappear an hour into the night, only to resurface in Norway), but whatever. He's Andre 3000. If he's in the room, there is no ceiling.

4) Jimmy Kimmel. Hear me out. I rarely watch Kimmel's show, and I can't call myself a Kimmel super-fan. But every great posse needs a mediator: someone who blends personalities, keeps everyone together, keeps conversation flowing, facilitates jokes, is up for anything, never takes things off the table, brings some things to the table, is funny but not showy, is likable but not "the star," and (above all) relishes that role. That, combined with Kimmel's reputation as one of Hollywood's nicest--and, subsequently, most popular and well-connected--stars makes him a natural choice. He is, essentially, the host of the evening.

What we're lacking: muscle. We don't have the obligatory "guy who can take absolutely anyone in a fight in case there's trouble." Hopefully, we don't run into the cast of Jersey Shore.

Almost made the cut: Will Ferrell, Aziz Ansari, Rece Davis, Charles Barkley, Jon Hamm, Bill Simmons, Bill Clinton, Brad Pitt, Paul Rudd, Shaq, Alton from the Real World Las Vegas.

And, finally...

You posted Songs for February last year and said that you were ending with Songs for January this year. I call shenanigans--you can't quit the playlist! Give us at least a few NEW Songs for February this year, please. --Michelle, Austin
Deal.

In lieu of a full-fledged Monthly Playlist, here are ten good songs for February 2010, the darkest, deepest, dreariest 28 days of the year:

Wilco, "Sunken Treasure"
Every moment of this song feels weighed down by some intangible, immovable force. It's not the sound of someone giving up; it's the sound that comes next.

Bruce Springsteen, "Streets of Philadelphia"
Philadelphia connection aside, this is truly one of Bruce's best songs. Of all The Boss's songs that grapple with desperation, loneliness, heartache, and "night-time-wanderings," this one resonates the most with me.

Elliot Smith, "Everything Means Nothing To Me" By itself, one of Smith's prettiest melodies and most honest lyrics. Heard alongside "Everything Reminds Me of Her," it's heart-breaking.

Bob Dylan, "Make You Feel My Love"
The closest Old Bob gets to crooning. Some of Dylan's finest songs come from a place of ill-fated determination. Like in "Can You Please Crawl Out Your Window," "Lay, Lady, Lay," "Honey, Just Allow Me One More Chance," "Don't Think Twice, It's Alright," and so many others, you can hear a broken heart underneath the bravado.

R.E.M., "Tongue"
One of the weirdest on an album full of bizarre love-songs (Monster), it's also sweet, winning, gorgeous, and a sliver of sunlight in the grayest month.

Josh Ritter, "Best For the Best"
A remarkable, tight little lyric, but most fitting for its calm exterior hiding a well of bitterness. Noticing a trend?

Uncle Tupelo, "Black Eye"
Jeff Tweedy makes his second appearance as Uncle Tupelo's finger-picked ballad just feels like winter. Something about that dark, spare guitar tone feels inherently wintry to me.

Lucero, "Fistful of Tears"
Reverb-soaked keyboards can sound like February, too. Arguably their most bathetic song (and never a favorite of mine), it's still gorgeous, and season-appropriate.

Foo Fighters, "February Stars"
What's more amazing: this song itself, or the fact that I left it off last year's list?

The Killers, "Goodnight, Travel Well"
I remember reading a Radiohead interview where one of the members said he wished they could've re-done "Climbing Up the Walls." He felt, of everything on OK Computer, it was the one moment where they took the song to an extreme; they "over-did it." If "Climbing Up the Walls" overdoes "dark, scary, haunting, atmospheric tidal waves," then "Goodnight, Travel Well" re-defines "it." A powerful, frightening, and desperate monster of a song that you don't want to revisit. Just like February.

And there you have it! At least a Songs for February snack to enjoy. What are your Songs for February?

Until next time, Mailbaggers!

Goodnight, and travel well.
CM

Friday, Jan 15, 3:25PM
I’m on Larchmont street, which is kind of like Hillsboro Village in Nashville, if Hillsboro Village only had franchised coffee shops, and all of them were next door to each other. It might be the caffeine capital of the world. It might be the best.

No, it’s definitely the best, because I just saw The Red-Headed-Woman-From-Old School-ER. I want to ask her if she keeps up with Omar Epps. I want to tell her that I never watched the show after they killed his character. I want to tell her a great many things, but type this sentence instead.

Friday, Jan 15, 3:58PM
While playing guitar and singing in my friend’s apartment, I hear a strange noise. I stop playing and listen. I think I hear singing and faint drumming (like someone banging on a kitchen counter) somewhere below me, but I can’t be sure. Maybe it's someone next door watching Behind the Music.

Friday, Jan 15, 5:59PM
I’m due at the Hotel Cafe by 6:30, and I’m leaving from an apartment one mile from the venue. In theory, thirty-one minutes is enough time to travel one mile. In theory.

In actuality, I witness the type of traffic jam that can only be described as “foreign,” the kind of hardly-controlled chaos you see on the Travel Channel when the host visits Egypt. It’s enough to make a man crazy. It’s enough to make anyone forsake driving. It’s enough to make my gracious pilot swear like a longshoreman. Thankfully, it’s not enough to make me late.

The Hotel Cafe is a venue that has become nationally renowned in the past several years, due to the breakthrough of so many LA-based singer/songwriters (Cary Brothers, Joshua Radin, Sara Bareilles, etc.). At first, it was the venue of choice because it’s an extremely well-run and artist-friendly venue with amazing sound and a great, intimate vibe. Soon after, the Hotel Cafe started booking its own nationwide tours featuring its most prominent regulars, putting out compilations, and becoming a star in its own right.

With good reason.

The space is remarkable: low lighting, reds and browns, oak and brass, open sightlines. It's big enough to host a real party, but built for natural intimacy. It’s also achieved the highest status that any mid-sized venue can attain: it’s such a great environment, and has such a proven track record of talent booking, people just come regardless of who’s playing each night. There’s always a crowd.

These are my favorite places to play.

I’m on in one hour.

Friday, Jan 15, 8:52PM
To call the sound in this room “great” is to call Usain Bolt “quick.” It's no coincidence that my favorite venues are the venues with best sound; there is no overstating how much this matters to a performer onstage. Lots of venues can swing decent sound in the main room, but can't replicate it onstage. Blame it on bad acoustics, inexperienced sound guys, worse equipment, or anything else. But when the sound guy gets it, and the room has wonderful natural acoustics, an artist never wants to leave.

I never want to leave.

Eventually, I will. I did stop playing when I was supposed to. Although there was a point where I wondered what would happen if I refused to stop playing. Do they have security? Could I take them? Would the audience appreciate a singer/songwriter who finishes his set with an acoustic version of “Stairway to Heaven,” and a barfight?

But I’m not leaving just yet. I’m not leaving yet because Steve Reynolds is playing something that can best be described as “indescribably Celtic,” and “wholly gorgeous,” as his accompanying guitarist makes noises that come from somewhere and someplace far away. And now a bearded, hooded guy from the crowd jumps onstage and joins him on the next chorus, singing high harmony on a vocal mic that (of course) was ready for him, and now I’m thinking, “my God, that guy’s got some vocal power on some really high notes,” and now I’m realizing, “that’s Cary Brothers,” and now I’m not going anywhere, ever.

Friday, Jan 15, 10:17PM
I think I just signed a development deal with a German label. You're reading the new Hasselhoff.

Friday, January 15, 11:44PM
Riding bitch in a new best friend’s sedan, crammed in the back like high schoolers, Kelly Clarkson on blast. Sometime, someday, in the very near future, the jetlag and time difference and adrenaline and caffeine will all add up and I’ll collapse. My muscles will relax as if on tranquilizers, my eyes will lower like lead curtains, and I’ll dream for hours. I'll rest, eventually.

But not yet. Every time of night feels young. There are new best friends to see, and music to blast. I’ve got plenty in the tank, and one more night.

Saturday, January 16, 8:27AM
If someone came into this room right now and demanded I swim five miles, or fight a tiger, or talk to Tom Brokaw, I think I could do it. I’ve had no coffee, and I’m wired. Is this what it’s like to be well-rested?

If so, I might move to LA.

I hear someone’s TV downstairs. I hear cars on North Rossmore like wave after wave. The city is moving, but slowly. Dogs abound. Strollers meet sidewalk. And I want to play another concert, right now, for anyone.

Saturday, January 16, 12:01PM
I keep seeing places I recognize from The Hills. I don’t know whether I should love this fact, or be ashamed of myself. In the spirit of compromise, I announce to the car every Hills-noteworthy sight I recognize, and explain with a zealot’s fervor why Laguna Beach was one of my favorite television series of all-time, and why I’ll always have residual love for its offspring.

Look, Milk!

For such a granola town, there sure are a lot of chicken-n-waffles and mac-and-cheese options around here. Even LA-ers love their comfort food. Everyone needs a hug.

Saturday, January 16, 1:08PM
Two older gentlemen downstairs ask me if I was the one singing yesterday. I say, "yes sir, did I disturb you?" "Oh no, we were playing along!"

So that was the Behind the Music at 3:58 yesterday: my new band of kitchenette-drumming Hungarians.

Rock!

Saturday, January 16, 2:14PM
I’m at the Arclight, about to see Up In the Air with a friend. Arclight, for those of you unaware (like me, four minutes ago) is like a movie theater on steroids. It’s not so much a fancy version of a normal movie theater; it’s like if Steven Spielberg made his home theater bigger, and open to the public. It almost feels like a cathedral to cinema, if cathedrals were shiny and sold gourmet popcorn. The staff here has all the warmth, hustle, and shared knowledge of museum employees. There are fourteen theaters, all huge, immaculate, sparsely populated, and filled with uberplush, royal blue reclining chairs. I’ve never seen armrests this big.

Of course, Hollywood’s a movie town. It stands to reason that they take their movie-going experience seriously. Nashville pays similar respect to its country music venues except those preserve history rather than honor modernity (replace "uberplush reclining chairs" with "prehistoric wooden benches").

Anyway, I'm excited. I can’t remember the last time I saw a movie in the theaters. When did Nell come out?

Saturday, Jan 16, 5:09PM
Up In the Air is somewhere between “really solid” and “completely awesome.” After one viewing, I’ll call it “borderline great.”

As my Brother mentioned, it’s slightly weird that this might win Best Picture, but Wonderboys was a relative afterthought upon its release. They occupy a similar stylistic space, explore some similar themes, and have a comparable scope.

The lesson, as always: Clooney’s still Clooney. And you’re not.

Of course, what’s really to be learned from Up In the Air is that I’m a woefully inefficient traveler. Pros pack with joyless, military precision. My suitcase looks like someone once packed it well, stuck a badger inside, and let it fight its way out.

And I always, ALWAYS forget my toothbrush. Nobody has bought more toothbrushes than I have.

Saturday, Jan 16, 8:11PM
I’m sitting at the gate at LAX. It's dark, and everything is quiet. Nothing is on TV, there is no musak. Everyone’s anticipating a dim, long flight against the earth’s pull, back to the right coast. Everyone looks asleep with their eyes open.

Then, they're jolted back to reality:

A crowd of recently landed travelers come down the concourse, and suddenly a yell comes from security. “Stop!” Three security officials immediately instruct the coming crowd to stop moving. One person literally scratches their nose and is reprimanded: “Stop moving.” Everyone stays still, frozen in confused horror. I have no idea what’s happening, but for some reason grip my guitar case like a weapon. Just as quickly, the same voice booms from the security checkpoint: “Okay!” Everyone moves again. People finish their sentence. A little dog barks from inside its carrying case. Something--and nothing--never happened.

This reminds me: they’re incredibly thorough at LAX. Nobody thought twice about the contents of my guitar case in JFK, but Rose’s body bag got the full cavity search here. The woman even asked why I had a 9-volt battery.

“Because the guitar is electric-acoustic.”

“Why do you have three of them, then?”

“Because batteries die, and when they do, I love to replace them. I’m cruelly unsentimental about my batteries’ deaths.”

“Where are you going tonight?”

“On a plane. And that plane is going to New York.”

“And is New York home?”


I think about this question: Memphis has always been home. Sometimes Blacksburg, Virginia--the place I was born--feels like home. When I visit relatives in West Virginia, or North Carolina, or anywhere, I typically feel at home. New York is where I live, and what I love.

And then I realize that she’s not asking existentially; she’s asking because I could be taking the red-eye to New York for nefarious purposes, my undies chock full of bombs, my gig bag loaded with wildly explosive 9-volt batteries.

“New York is home.”

She zips up the gig bag. “You’re free to go.”

And then I realize: I’m headed home.

Saturday, Jan 16, Suspended In Time PM
The red-eye back to New York. I’m back in seat 22, which (again) is somehow positioned near the front of the plane. Now I’m couched between two American girls, rather than anchoring two Swolish girls. One of them smells like she went out with Lucille 3 last night. The other can best be described as “hippie chic.”

There’s a 34% chance as I type this that either of them could see it.

As a matter of fact, this whole plane smells like hippie. Which, I think, means “Bermuda grass, Indian food, and sadness.” Everyone's eyes are glossed over. Even the flight attendant mails in her pre-flight performance with a Deion-Sanders-playing-for-the-Redskins level of indifference.

It’s Saturday night, people! It’s the red eye from LA to NYC! There have to be at least three semi-famous people in first class! Maybe even the Red-Headed-Woman-From-Old-School-ER! Maybe she's splitting a split of bubbly with Omar Epps! We should be celebrating. We should be dancing in the aisles.

Somewhere behind me, a man snores.

This plane feels less like an airborne club and more like a DMV.

Sunday, Jan 17, Suspended In Time AM
The wireless on this plane is busted. The televisions on this plane are busted. There is so little to do that the woman across the aisle has taken up origami. She’s making what is either a flower, or a crown, or the biggest pick-a-color-pick-a-number game of all time. If it’s the third option, I want to sit next to her. I want to play that game. Anything is better than sleep.

I listen to the BS Report. I listen to Memphis Sports Live ("like it or not, the most influential sports talk radio show in Memphis"). I listen to the Thrills, hoping to hear some sun. It's either 10PM or 4AM, or anywhere in between. It's been night forever. The Thrills sing about Santa Cruz, and I'm somewhere over Ohio. I turn off the music and hear the recycled air hissing. In my mind, it's June; in my most recent memories, I'm in an endlessly bright place. But here and now, I'm flying over the night, and over the winter, and I can't get warm.

Sunday, Jan 17, 6:01AM
Back in the back of a big yellow taxi, heading home to the East Village. The sun hasn't peeked out on the horizon yet, but the sky's shifted to a navy blue. It's warm enough outside (38 degrees) that the driver has his window cracked. It feels sub-zero to me.

Just over a year ago, I was in a cab at sunrise. I was heading to JFK, back to Nashville. I knew I was moving from Nashville, and was deciding between New York or Los Angeles. I had just spent a weekend in New York, playing a record release party, seeing old friends, falling in love with a new place, and feeling homesick for a place I couldn't point to. The car wound its way through its desolate path to the airport, the sun broke the sky wide open, and I realized that New York wasn't a scary place at all, that it was a place I needed to see again, and soon. Several months later, I moved here.

Now, coming home from JFK at sunrise, after playing a record release party in a different city. I spent three days seeing old friends, loving a new place, living this snapshot of a life I very nearly chose, and feeling homesick for a place I can point to, like the red dot on the Delta "flight-tracker" monitor. Like the little circle in lower Manhattan on the cab's backseat screen, a tiny fixed place I'm always moving toward, however slowly. I've spent all night racing forward in time, against the earth's rotation. Half a world away, the sun and moon raced, chasing to meet me in some unknown tomorrow. And now I'm minutes from my little red dot, and the time has flown without me knowing. It is tomorrow. The earth still moves, despite me, and I'm finally tired.

The sun isn't up yet, but the sky's ready.

Friday, Jan 15, 7:32AM
Usually I wake up to the sound of the University of Memphis State University Fighting Basketball Tigers’ fight song. Today, I’m waking up to waves. In my dream-state of semi-consciousness, I think they’re waves. They’re actually cars passing on Vine, but from my open window they sound like waves breaking on the beach.

It’s a great way to wake up.

There’s something in the air here. I can smell it right now, immediately after waking up, and remember it from my last trip. Los Angelonians might say, “yes, it’s smog.” But compared to other places (e.g., New York), the air feels fresh, clear, heightened somehow. Like the super-oxygen they pump into casinos to keep people awake and energized. If I lived here, I’d never wake up in a bad mood.

I’d also never get any work done.

Friday, Jan 15, 9:22AM:
I’m standing on a street that isn’t a street, in the middle of a neighborhood that isn’t a neighborhood. I’m walking around the Warner Brothers lot with my friend Ben, who works on the ABC sitcom, The Middle. Everything I see is real in the sense that it’s physically there, but unreal in the sense that it’s artificial.

On my left is the fountain from the opening credits of Friends. On my right is a “NYC block” of brownstones. Just ahead is Dennis the Menace’s house. He lives next door to the folks from Little House on the Prairie. Then, the Hechs’ from The Middle. Then, the house from American Beauty, which is also where Clark Griswald lived. It is an idyllic American residential block: the lawns are manicured, the houses freshly painted, the weather pristine. It is a perfect scene. It is a ghost town.

And now I’m on the set, watching everyone prepare for the day’s shooting. I kid you not: I’m standing under a ladder, and a black cat just walked in front of me. Horseshoe, anyone?

I’m briefly reunited with my first true love: driving. I’ve got Ben’s car for the day, and I’m back where I belong: behind the wheel of the great American automobile (if that’s a Saab), windows down, singing with bad FM radio, shamelessly judging the drivers around me. I might take the long way home. I might end up in Vegas. I might move into this car.

And just like that, I understand Jewel.

Friday, Jan 15, 1:13PM:
I need sunglasses.

Out past the breakers,
CM

Thursday, Jan 14, 9:37AM
Did New York sleep in? Was there a sporting event/weather catastrophe/Billy Joel concert I didn’t hear about? I made it from my apartment in the East Village to Gate 22 in JFK in 57 minutes. How is this possible? I caught the first cab I saw. There was--wait for it--almost no traffic between lower Manhattan and the airport. And Kennedy can only be described as “desolate” right now. I won’t lie to you, I feel like I’m Hancock. What’s happening here?

Meanwhile, I’ve got Todd English, his Bonfire, 16oz of Starbucks workjuice, MSNBC, and about 14 people at my gate to keep me company. I’m sitting still, but I’m inching toward Los Angeles. I can feel it getting closer.

(They’re showing clips of Haiti on the news right now, and everyone’s watching.)

I love airports. You know those people who loathe traveling, get stressed in airports, or wracked with anxiety when flying? I’m not one of those people. I’ve probably flown 34 times in my life, and I always act like a third grader when the plane takes off and I can see the toy houses and cars diminish below me. I love looking out the window and saying, “oh, there’s Georgia, or Idaho, or whatever,” and knowing it’ll be gone in twenty minutes. I judge the flight crew by their takeoffs and landings, and relish the moment when the plane first touches down and you actually realize how fast you’re going.

(The news shows footage from the Haitian presidential palace--the ruined opulence, the broken pillars--a 2-year old at the gate is crying.)

It’s not so much the novelty of taking off in one place, reading a magazine, then landing in a different world (although that’s still a novelty to me); it’s that you don’t really see the trip happen. If you’re driving, you’re always sliding into your destination, and mentally tracking the journey; you watch the land pass until, eventually, you’re there. But flying skips the tedium of visual transition. Of course, I feel the same way about the subway. I still can’t believe that I can go underground, wait fifteen minutes, and come up in Spanish Harlem. It’s like really slow teleportation.

As much as I love flying, I love airports more. I fully recognize that this is not normal. I enjoy any place where there’s a set, finite, pre-determined amount of time that you’re there, especially if there’s not much to do. It makes me want to work, or think, on something I typically wouldn't. “Oh, I’ve got 40 minutes to kill...I’ll re-organize my photos while listening to Teenage Fanclub and watching the kid in front of me run around like a drunkard.”

Airports are awesome.

(On cue, they cut to a story of a kid who couldn’t bring his pet monkey to school. The 2-year old is laughing. People check their phones.)

But here’s the rub: the second my flight is delayed, and the length of time I’ll be at the airport isn’t set, finite, and pre-determined, I want nothing more than to leave and get home. Suddenly, I hate airports. I only like them as long as there’s a known expiration date--like dairy products, country music stars, and some relationships.

I remember flying home from Oxford one summer, getting to Charlotte at night, waiting for my plane to Little Rock, and realizing that I might be delayed overnight. The walkway that connects the gate to the plane wasn’t detaching. The problem wasn’t that we couldn’t board the plane, the problem was that the plane couldn’t leave the gate. I had been traveling for what seemed like 2 days. I was exhausted, freezing cold, homesick, bored stiff, and suddenly facing the prospect a 14-hour delay. Just when word started getting around the gate, the pilot emerged from one of those “Do Not Enter” doors with a crowbar. He disappeared down the Skywalk. He came back 8 minutes later, tossed the crowbar toward the desk like Bonds after hitting a homer, and said, “let’s go.”

And what I’m trying to tell you is this: I have never loved any stranger more in my life than I loved that pilot in that moment.

Meanwhile, I’m in an airport, typing to you. I’ve got a destination (California), an expiration date (1 hour), and the sun’s rising behind me. There are clear skies. The people at my gate are fixed to the television. The earth is always moving.

Thursday, Jan 14, 12:03PM
Unless it’s not. I’m stuck in NY. Some part of the plane’s nose was damaged when we pulled away from the gate. So, we’re essentially waiting on a new plane, or nose job.

Where is the Charlotte pilot when I need him???

In other news, I am awesome at:
--Eating barbeque
--Talking about pop music from the mid-90’s
--Watching football
--Jinxing my own flights

Ugh.

Thursday, Jan 14, Suspended In Time (PM)
Well, I’m on the plane, the plane took off, and now I’m somewhere east of the Mississippi. The plane got a successful nose job (auspicious start to an LA trip, I think), and now I’m typing on a tray table that may or may not give out at any moment.

There’s nothing to do on a plane besides sit, stare, listen to music, read, sleep, and watch people. I can’t sleep--ever, really--but especially on planes. I can’t read--ever, really--but especially on moving vehicles. So, I invite you to join me in my sitting/staring/listening to music/people-watching experience!

Let’s take a quick tour:

At 12 o’clock: The aisle. I’m in 22C, which is (weirdly) near the front. So I’m on the aisle. The plane is packed. I heard one guy, while boarding (the second time) say it’s “packed like a can of sardines.” I’ve heard this before, but never in my life seen a can of sardines. I’ll take his word for it.

The Sounds:
I’m listening to one of three playlists I made for this trip. They are:
1) "There." You guessed it: a playlist of music tailor-made for a trip to California, and the mix I’m listening to.
2) "Back." What I’ll listen to on the return to NY in the middle of the night, Saturday.
3) "California." A giant hodgepodge of my favorite California artists, songs about California, or anything else I’m into right now that fits the trip and/or season.

Right this second: Counting Crows, “Daylight Fading.”

The Sights:
An aisle, and a poorly curtained view of first class. Is that stewardess Marisa Miller? Are they serving duck?!? Capitalist pigs!

The Smells:
A Wendy’s salad. If you had asked me three hours ago what a salad from Wendy’s smells like, I would’ve told you that I’ve never had a salad from Wendy’s, and wouldn't know where to begin. And yet, here I am, in 22C, engulfed by the smell that I know to be a Wendy’s salad. Where did it come from, how did it get here, and why has it consumed this plane? I have no idea. Maybe it has something to do with sardines.

1 o’clock: An elderly woman two rows up and across the aisle. She has a veritable graveyard of empty booze bottles on her tray table (I count four). Did I mention we’ve been on this plane for 35 minutes? She can’t weigh 95 pounds. She drinks and looks like Lucille Bluth, if Lucille Bluth was 85 and wore Mr. T jewelry. Lucille 3 is the best.

2 o’clock: Nothing crazy, just middle-aged man falling asleep while reading the New Yorker. If I wanted to see that, I’d visit my parents.

3 o’clock: A woman who cannot wait to get rid of her empty cup. Does she think it just became toxic waste? Why is discarding her cup so urgent? Is she Jack Bauer? Is there something I need to know? A weather catastrophe? A Billy Joel concert?

4 o’clock: A row of 20-something men asleep. Why is everyone asleep? Maybe Jackie Bauer smells a gas leak.

5 o’clock and 6 o’clock: More aisle. I envy the people in the rows behind me. They have their windows open, they’re fully conscious--it seems like Studio 54 compared to my section.

7 o’clock: A woman eating a Wendy’s salad.

8 o’clock: A woman. That’s all. She’s just there.

9 o’clock: The two girls (I’d guess twenty-three) sitting beside me. They have accents and speak to each other in a different language. If I had to guess, their accents sound Eastern European, but their language sounds Nordic. The lesson, as always: I don’t know anything.

They’re enthusiastic about three things:

1) US Weekly (did you know that Tiger wasn’t the first...all men have ALWAYS been cheaters!).

2) Something called the Vampire Chronicles, which they’ve spent money to watch. I know nothing about the Vampire Chronicles, other than that Cash-from-Friday-Night-Lights is in it, and I’m guessing it’s related to Twilight. I can’t remember a wider gap between something’s popularity and how much I know about it. Even Harry Potter, which was huge, and which I never actively tried to engage, crawled into my life somehow. I had to read the first book in a class; I knew enough lovable, self-identifying nerds in Nashville whose idea of good clean fun was inviting people over and watching an HP movie (God bless them). So, without trying, I know Harry Potter. And I don’t dislike Harry Potter. But I’ve got NOTHING on Twilight. I know that there’s a werewolf, and a vampire, and the whole thing is vaguely emo. That’s it. Help? Wait, don’t help. Wait, help. Oh, I don’t know anymore.

3) Legroom. And they presently don’t have any, because...

10 o’clock: ...two women leaned their chairs back. The Swolish (Swedish-Polish-I-can’t-tell) girls are tall, and have no legroom. I feel bad for them. Can we all just collectively decide not to lean our chairs back on airplanes? It makes the Leaner’s life maybe 1.5% more comfortable, and makes the Leanee’s life 3,000% less comfortable. Let’s call a moratorium on reclining airplane chairs. Let’s get utilitarian with it.

11:59 o’clock: My TV screen, which does not feature the Vampire Chronicles.

And now Lucille 3 orders another round. And now my monitor tells me we’re three hours from Los Angeles. And now Tom Petty’s “Love Is a Long Road” is in my ear.

He ain’t kidding.

Thursday, Jan 14, 6:17PM (local time)
I solved my lifelong dilemma of not-enough-hours-in-the-day: keep moving west.

3,500 miles later, I'm camped out in Hollywood, about to get some dinner, and I see this:

Right back where I started.

Lights, camera, action. Goodnight, LA.

Check back tomorrow for more updates!