Day In The Life

8 a.m. Alarm clock. I’m not hungover, so off to a grand start! Hurrah, I love that I laid out my clothes last night. Temps in the 20s today, but with a long-sleeve long-john shirt, I’ll be fine in my silly western-patterned blue shirt, selected for a fun, fab evening out.

9 a.m. Two slices of toasted raisin bread and off to the R train to read yesterday’s “Wall Street Journal,” since last night, after two distinct happy hour meets, I had too much to drink to care. Or focus. Unfortunately, I left my gloves at work yesterday, and the only ones I can find now are—huh?—both right-handed.

10 a.m. Positioned in my cube with coffee, easily on time. Check 89 work e-mails, most of which are junk (as opposed to spam, typically more interesting). Check Yahoo! e-mail. Big note from beloved Donna. Looks juicy, so print out for cig break later in the day. To work: Begin editing Radio & Records columns.

Noon: Fredly arrives at the Billboard office from L.A., whom I just had the pleasure of seeing at New Years. He was flown in to interview Paul McCartney this morning for a dedicated channel on Sirius XM promoting the peepaw’s new album. As much as I believe the Beatles are historically overrated, nice to hear that McC is reportedly attentive and charming.

1 p.m. I walk Fred to have lunch at local diner Silver Spurs, gambol back to the office elevator—and realize how absurd it is that I am so paranoid about editing duties that I can’t spare 30 minutes to smack down a meal with one of my most beloved friends, whom I see three or four times a year. Show up at Fred’s table and pronounce, “Fuck it.” Indulge in eggs and grits—oh, my god, am I in heaven—with a side o’fries. Right decision.

1:05 p.m. Okay, lying… a few minutes later. Intense editing ensues. Work like rocket fuel. Dedicated, possessed by my task and driven to make habitually careless “writers” sound like they know what they’re doing. I reflect upon the following: “Reader's Digest says managers should expect 80% of their work to be done by 20% of their staff. Also expect 90% of your headaches to come from 10% of the staff.” Boy, that’s absolute truth. I am certainly an effective workhorse, capable of delivering like a blow torch. But the second part is where I’m really going here: Writer complaints consistently come from the biggest offenders of journalistic integrity.

6:30 p.m. Cold out there, but a hot night is ahead! The Script, awarded the World Music Award as best-selling Irish/Scottish Act of 2008 (referred to in an earlier entry here) are making their New York debut tonight at Lower East Side dive club Mercury Lounge. Fred is my plus-one, and pal Alex is in tow with his buddy Dan. We’re told the place is gonna be packed, so we get there early.

7 p.m. Cab delivers us, easy entry via fab Epic Records contact… and we're given drink tickets… most appreciated. Most important. Gin and soda, please.

8 p.m. The Script performs. 30 minutes of bliss. These guys are so going to make it happen here. Lead Danny O'Donoghue is wearing very tight black jeans. Talent has never been hurt by sex appeal. Mercury Lounge is a small club, but these guys fill it to capacity—publicist tells us that 400 responded. I look around and folks are singing along (tix were also sold, in addition to requisite industry invites), before the group has gained any radio traction. Wondrous to experience from the ground level.

8:40 p.m. Sure enough, a crisp 30-minute set, including a couple surefire hits, led by “The Man Who Can’t Be Moved.”

8:45 p.m. We’re invited to the band’s after-part event at The Dark Bar around the corner. Within 15 minutes the group arrives. We approach, introduce, ask for the requisite Billboard photo—and the guys actually seem flattered and know what the hell Billboard is. Nice. I say to lead Danny, "Godammit, you're really pretty." He huffs (I'm gonna say that's one step below a full sincere laugh). My god, this guy is 6’3”, so as I embrace him in the pic, I look just plain fat. This will require creative editing if it is ever to appear in print.

10 p.m. Done. We all say goodbyes. I call Ayhan, saying I'm coming home as I stand outside of the renowned Katz Deli… hmm… I might could stand a sammich… decide to walk in, and, well, I’ll be damned, there’s Fred, Alex and Dan! So I end up ordering a chicken salad sam… and as I’m standing in line—okay, here’s a New York moment to behold—I look to my right… familiar face… “Hello, sir,” I say… and guess what? With camera is in my pocket. I pull it out and kindly ask, “Mr. Glover, might we?” insinuating one of those heinous point-at-ourselves-and-shoot pics. And Danny Glover smiles broadly and says, “Oh, sure.” Natch, in resulting photo, my face looks like a basketball. But how NYC to randomly end up in a damn deli in such a sitch? Shit.

11 p.m. Subway not kind. Ride took 45 minutes, but I was undaunted. Read today’s Wall Street Journal and realized that that kind of depressive material is always best with alcohol inside.

2:57 a.m. Shut up Chuck and go to bed... I had such a great day and night and sure appreciate the good fortune I have for times like these.