How did I become one of those people who never goes to see and hear live music? That's not who I am. It wasn't that long ago that going out 3-4 nights a week was the norm. I used to peruse the listings and map out my week accordingly. Older and stodgier but not dead yet, I had plans to go out a couple nights ago with my ex and heading out to a club seemed like a good way to hang out but have some external stimuli if the conversation well ran dry.

She got turned on to a singer/songwriter named Priscilla Ahn who had a gig at the Hotel Cafe in Hollywood, which I've always found reliable for live music. They recently rennovated and expanded the club and added parking, so it would be an easy place to hit. Wrong. Ms. Ahn's set time was 8 p.m. and somehow we freakishly got there at 8 p.m. and more bizarre, she started on time. But the line was out the door and around the club. Apparently, "label interest" in the headliner packed the place, and not only did we get in the waiting line, we had to maneuver to get out of the parking line.

Chatter was still awkward between us and in deciding where to go to get some food, we went to the Palms, hoping Thai Elvis would be performing and we could again circumvent having a dialog. (I realize we shouldn't have put ourselves in this uncomfortable situation in the first place.) Alas, no such Asian impersonator, but the pad thai and red curry were reliably delicious.

With the night still young and not wanting to extinguish the anguish, I drove us to the Lava Lounge in a strip mall near Hollywood High School. The last time I was there was the Fat Tuesday before last; the single hurricane lived up to its name and I tempered it with some sweet cream rose water ice cream from Mashti Malone's next door. This time, there would be no gardenesque refreshment, just garden-variety singer/songwriters who sounded like episodes of Sex & the City put to acoustic guitar or keyboard. But the ex had opened a tab for us (hey. I got dinner) and everyone at the door seemed excited about the band Script's first show. Relishing the opportunity to one day say, "I was there first," we stuck around. When they got on, I found four guys all looking like runner-ups for the Avenged Sevenfold try-outs or had stepped out of the pages of Alternative Press. Then they busted out some acoustic campfire session like Tesla doing an ode to Train or Third Eye Blind. We left.

Maybe it's not me. Maybe it's L.A. I'm leaving work a bit early today to hop a flight to New Orleans for my sixth straight Jazz Fest: Buckwheat Zydeco; Dirty Dozen Brass Band, the Ohio Players, and I really can't wait for Fats Domino (did you see that footage of him after being rescued by boat after Katrina?). "Feet don't fail me now, my feet can't fail me now." Laissez les bons temps rouler.

The following weekend I'll be in Austin, home of wall-to-wall clubs on 6th Street, and the party band Brave Combo (they won a Grammy for Best Polka Album) are playing the wedding I'm attending. So, when I say I need to "get out more," I guess I mean out of L.A.