South Orange, NJ

Previously, my only experience with NJ was rather pleasant. Taking the train from Penn Station out to a friend’s house, where she lives with rabbits. The rabbits eat everything below two feet, and are adorable. My friend Namir is from Jersey. I like Namir. Seems like a great place. The automatic disgust from any New Yorker at the mention of the home of the Boss seemed a little unnecessary.

I understand, now.

Popping my head out of our hotel for about ten minutes was enough education: a Ruby Tuesday’s, a derelict diner, a giant mall, several identical hotels in a row, and storage containers. Storage containers of various kinds and sizes. Storage containers in motion, or in stillness, in a variety of depressing colors. Storage containers and the machinery to deal with them, as far as the eye dare wander.

So I holed up all day in the hotel. I’ve learned a lot about the fine art of turning a hotel room into a personal gym: chair for the dips, dresser for the situps, chair again for the incline pushups, space between the beds for streching and leg lifts, etc. In my personal gym, I spent all day hammering out a mix for the cast and crew, eating crackers with honey butter and cheese. Some true playlist discipline, after the old manner of the mixtape.

The show was in a theatre sharing a lobby with a movie theater. Wild idea. My rabbit-toting friend came out to the show, and after some pizza, she drove me home in her tiny red sportscar, on the lap of her boyfriend. A turnpike, an industrial megaplex, one hopelessly overmatched gps system and nine hundred missed exits later, his legs were numb and my neck was an elbow, but we got there.

Next up, Purchase, NY. Final stop.