O, how we love thee, fair District of Columbia. You always treat us so much better than we deserve. As we rolled off the beltway this afternoon, half dead with jetlag and bumping audiobooks in our ridiculous blue SUV, the usual cloud of dread descended. We had only received confirmation of the show six days ago, and Jack and Nitzan were rightfully concerned that a venue deep in the Virginia suburbs, nestled in between a Safeway and a hardware store, probably wasn’t going to have too much of a built-in crowd.

But the kids came through, as always. And now we’re nestled into one of our many homes away from home, in Fairfax Station, and we’ll be in New York tomorrow. I have nothing to close this with beyond “thank you.”

In the last four days, I’ve managed to slice the living hell out of my hand and drop my phone in a toilet. I also got to thank Clive Davis and my mom from a stage in front of the Grammy committee. Misha and I have split bills with Bushwalla, Bob Schneider, Cary Brothers, Trevor Hall, and Leon Mobley, during which we came up on no fewer than eight free burritos and countless bottles of drink. My roommates and I accidentally climbed one of the Hollywood Hills for the sole purpose of having a beer.

It’s good to be back in LA.

I was feeling pretty cool about this picture until Misha told me about the guy in China who can jump over two cars parked side by side and then kick a board suspended 11 feet in the air.