phantomasianman

Taken from the website Sports Media Watch:

One of the most recognizable voices in NBA broadcasting is stepping away from the mic.

ESPN NBA analyst Bill Walton, plagued by back issues over the past two years, is retiring from broadcasting. Walton, who joined ESPN/ABC in '02 after a long tenure with NBC, had not appeared on ESPN since early last season.

Prior to the 2007-08 season, Walton was named the lead studio analyst for the NBA on ESPN and ABC. However, back problems in early 2008 kept him off the air until late in the NBA Finals -- when he appeared only as a guest analyst.

Walton returned for the early part of the 2008-09 season, making sporadic appearances.

Walton joined ESPN/ABC as the lead analyst for NBA coverage on both networks, working the 2003 NBA Finals alongside Brad Nessler and Tom Tolbert. After being demoted in '04, Walton returned as a studio analyst for the '05 NBA Finals on ABC.

With NBC, Walton primarily served as the #2 analyst alongside Steve 'Snapper' Jones and an assortment of play-by-play voices. Walton worked the 1995, 1996, 1997 and 2002 NBA Finals as a game analyst, and other NBA Finals as a studio analyst.

Walton, in a statement: "As I return after a grueling multi-year, life-threatening, life-changing ordeal with back problems, it is time to dedicate the rest of my life to service. ... Thanks everybody -- for everything."

I really just can't believe that Bill Walton is retiring. He is this generation's Howard Cosell, a great, distinctive and passionate voice for the great sport that is the NBA (of note, it's almost impossible to mention his name without automatically talking and sounding like the great Bill Walton). Sure, his analysis weren't the most accurate. But really, if you could predict the winner of every game, why bother playing? Hubie Brown may be the smartest and most articulate announcer in basketball, but if Hubie is the brain of the NBA, Bill Walton is the heart.

The man was unabashed in his enthusiasm of the game. When the play by play man accused him of "jumping on the Kobe Bryant bandwagon," Walton responded, in his distinctive baritone, "I DRIVE the bandwagon!!!"

One of my favorite Waltonisms occured during the playoffs. Someone mentioned resting up for the next game. Walton's response (I'm paraphrasing from memory). "This is the NBA! There's no TOMORROW! You play for TODAY!"

Walton probably reserved most of his enthusiasm for his lavish praise of Kareem Abdul Jabar. My friend Mike and I will often turn to each other and just say "SKY HOOOOOK." "No one scored like the great Kareem Abdul jaBAAAAR! JaBAAAAR dominated the paint like no man has dominated the paint!"

Quite frankly, there were times when he was more entertaining than the game. And I'm not just saying that because I'm a Knick fan.

And did I mention he was voted one of the fifty greatest players of all time?

As a writer and dramatist, one of the things I've learned is that it's not always about what is happening, but how you talk about the experience and articulate it for others to experience. I've long enjoyed food through Anthony Bourdain's books, and New York has never looked better than through the lens of Woody Allen, or more menacing than through Martin Scorcese. I've grown to love the NBA through the commentary of Bill Walton, and I may never enjoy it the same way now that that voice has been taken away.

So I'm sitting at home watching late night tv, because that's all I really do these days. And then I see a commercial with a rock band playing. And I realize it's a commercial for Target. And then I realize the band is Pearl Jam. Yeah. Haven't heard from those guys in a while. And I have two thoughts. The first is, hey, Eddie Vedder is starting to sound a lot like David Lee Roth. And my second thought is WHAT THE HELL IS PEARL JAM DOING A TARGET COMMERCIAL FOR??? Do they NEED the money? Come on! These guys were grunge before grunge became a label (and officially became obsolete). Back when grunge was about down and dirty attitude and music, and not a bunch of ass holes in flannel. And as years went by, these guys chugged along, making album after album, developing a cult following, and staying true to their music and true to their fans. This was the band that refused to make videos because they wanted to be judged for their music and not their image. And now they're doing a commercial for Target. Please tell me there is a good reason for this. I mean, what has this world come to? Is Coldplay what passes for cutting edge rock nowadays? Shit.

So, this is my state of mind last night. A month without cigarettes, meaning every mental issue and neurosis and insecurity I've had for the past six years is flying around free in my brain. And I spent most of the day at home, because I'm too damn broke to go into the city, trying to rewrite "Bound" before a possible reading in November. And there are some days where the writing is not happening. I could see all the problems with the play, but couldn't think of anything to solve it. I was also quite burnt out on the play. It was impossible for me to read the play from a fresh perspective - even years after the reading, I could only hear the lines spoken in the voices of past actors. And I couldn't tell if lines sounded stale or weak because they were, or because I was tired of them. I lay in bed, trying to sleep so I could go to a job I hate, thinking that I had spent all day working and accomplished nothing. And I felt like I didn't know the first thing about playwrighting. It sounds crazy and melodramatic, but keep in mind most writers are crazy and melodramatic, and we go through this a lot.

All those feelings of angst, however, got replaced a few minutes ago. Really quick, let me try to sum up. A friend of mine asked me to write the book for a musical he wanted to make. The musical would be about American Soldiers, preferably Iraq but he seemed open to changes and ideas from me. So I emailed a few people I knew who actually were veterans. Some didn't respond. Some responded but said something to the effect of "I'm no good at this." Then I remembered that Denis Demers was a Vietnam Vet. Denis is actually the father of the brother and sister due Joe and Beth Demers, who I've mentioned before in this journal. I've spent time with Joe and his wife Midge at some family events and get togethers, and remembered some of them briefly mentioning his time in Vietnam.

So I emailed Denis last night, not knowing if he would ever respond. And today, he sent one back. A huge email, festooned with little details about his time in the service. A story about sneaking off base in his free time to teach a little girl English (his son Joe had actually told me this story years ago, and it was another reason I wanted to email Denis). Anecdotes and snap shot memories of day to day life as a new GI in Vietnam. And, most mind blowing of all, Denis had kept a diary of his first month! Absolute gold. This was fatty tuna belly. Kobe beef. Filet mignon.

I also feel a tad honored and privileged. This was an important era of this man's life. And, from what I've read so far, it was also a painful time in his life. The fact that he would share it with me . . . well, I don't want to waste it. And I have a big fear that if I write this and it goes unproduced . . . to have one of my plays go unproduced is one thing, no one loses but me. But for someone's actual life story to go ignored would be heartbreaking for me.

Okay, don't jump ahead. Don't dwell on the worst case scenario like I always do. Just write.

So I finally quit smoking. And it had nothing to do with cancer, or lung disease or emphysema or any of the hundreds of other obvious reasons to quit a habit with no positives and a million negatives. It all came down to economics.

At my job they cut my hours to four days a week, and my already modest salary became even smaller. And my monthly credit card payments jumped upwards again, so that I now owe about 150 a month. I sat in my room, trying desperately to think of ways to make more money. Bu the job market has been unsympathetic, and I remain unqualified for anything except playwrighting, an occupation long on love and well being but short in paying the bills. I wondered how I would get by, and how low this boat could sink before it hit bottom.

Then it occurred to me in a flash. Quit smoking, and the money would come. I smoke a pack of cigarettes a day. Sometimes less. On a bad day more. On a drunken weekend I may go through two. A pack will cost me anywhere from 7.50 to 12 dollars. So let’s say it’s ten dollars a pack, a very realistic average. That’s ten dollars a day I would save if I don’t smoke. I decided right then and there, sitting in my bedroom at around two in the morning, that I would quit.

To motivate myself, I did a few mental motivational tricks. One, I set aside an actual ten dollar bill every day I didn’t smoke. At first, a ten dollar bill didn’t seem like much. But after a few days, the benefits made themselves not only obvious but concrete. To motivate myself further, I broke down the numbers in terms that would make me, for lack of a better word, happy. After three days I could afford a nice meal at a moderately priced restaurant. After five days I could buy a ticket to a Broadway show at TKTS. After a week I could buy a nice shirt or other item of clothing in SoHo. Two weeks and I can buy a brand new pair of shoes or even a new watch. And the best part, all of this money is cash I did not have before. Or more accurately, cash that was going towards a bad habit that was leading me only to an earlier grave. The reality is that the money I save will go to none of those luxuries, at least not in the near future. But I can handle my credit card bills and phone bill and rent now without stressing about every last penny.

A few funny things happened as a result. When I told people what I was doing, the response was astounding. High fives. Congratulations. Pride. The most common reaction was “I’m so proud of you!” And of course Marcus, who responded “You should have quit a long time ago.” If I’d known how much love I would get as a result of quitting, maybe I would’ve done it a long time ago. The outpouring of support has been amazing. I got lots of heartfelt advice from people who had quit.

I was also struck by just how much smoking had been a part of my life. I did some more math. I smoked one pack a day. Breaking that down, I smoked twenty cigarettes a day. Twenty. How did I even find time in the day to smoke that much? How much damage was I doing to my body, exactly?

One of the bravest things I’ve done all year was walk into work without having a cigarette. Every day, for, what, five years, I would smoke one before walking into work. A hit of nicotine, to steel myself for a day that at best would be demeaning and infuriating. Something that would give me enough nerve to walk into a meaningless, menial job.

More than that, I find myself without an emotional crutch. Make that the only real emotional crutch I’ve had for seven or eight years. Bothered by an ex, smoke a cigarette. Feeling lonely, smoke. Stressed about money. Depressed because I’m not where I want to be in life. Just plain tired. A cigarette was always a quick fix emotionally. Nicotine is a fiendishly efficient drug. It goes straight to the brain and gives it a jolt of energy that you don’t get from coffee or energy drinks. Not just the nicotine, but the ritual of lighting up and puffing away for ten minutes has a way of focusing and relaxing you. It’s also a ten minute span of time where you are indulging yourself with a guilty pleasure, a little pocket of joy in a harrowing day. As Carolyne said so succinctly, the ritual relaxes you while the drug stimulates you.

Now I don’t have that. I have . . . well, everything in the world. In getting rid of a crutch, maybe I’ll finally learn to walk in this world. I’m going to have to learn to deal. A lot of issues have risen up recently and I have no quick emotional fix. But a lot of times, I found out that I didn’t need to. These issues were pointless. Frustration and anger, in some cases, has been a lot easier to manage and dismiss, because they were so trivial. There are other issues that won’t go away so easily, but smoking had never solved them. What started out as a quick way to save money has become something else. I’m going to have to learn to live life differently. What has been a boring summer has turned into maybe the most important of my life.

Yeah, I know what you're thinking. The guy who write a pages long tribute to Brad Delp (lead singer of Boston, for the 90 percent of you who don't know) doesn't write anything about the passing of the King of Pop.

Well, there are a couple of reasons for this. One, I hate writing something that has already been written by someone else. And everyone has written about him. And a lot of that writing is pretty good. Also, it's just too big. I couldn't do it justice.

Plus, he was such a big part of our lives, and our culture and music, that everyone's experience of Michael Jackson is just too personal. It would be presumptuous of me to speak for others experience of him.

My advice? Take out an MJ cd. Or cassette, or better yet vinyl. Listen to it. Dance to it even. I think it's what he would have wanted. It was what he lived for.

I've said many times that having an ex girlfriend as a friend can be an amazing thing to have in your life. There's one girl in particular . . . we can say anything we want to each other, be uncompromisingly honest with each other, and never feel insulted or insecure about what is being said. In fact, we both find strength and love for the words that are exchanged. We went through so much angst and rage and insults that ever since there's been nowhere else to go but up. And an ex girlfriend, especially a perceptive and intelligent one, can tell you things and see things that no one else can. It also helps that this particular woman has been happily married for some years, that I met and liked her husband, and any romantic tension is long gone.

I spent the bulk of this weekend with another ex girlfriend, someone I went out with briefly a few years ago. And what really sucked about the time we spent together is that I actually had a really good time. I was reminded of why I liked her in the first place. When things were going good, they were amazing. She has a unique ability to appreciate the world around her. We have a similar way of perceiving the world. Together, everyday mundane objects are suddenly beautiful. It rained during our walk up Fifth Avenue, and for a few minutes we just watched the pattern the rain made on the pavement, hypnotic and graceful, and unnoticed by just about everyone. People ran and scurried and ducked to get out of the rain, while we walked calmly the two of us under one umbrella.

When things between her and I were good, they were great. The kicker is, when they were bad it was horrid. I still clearly remember when we were officially dating, and it was only for a summer. We drove each other crazy. I annoyed the hell out of her. She made me feel self conscious, and both my self esteem and ability to enjoy life seemed to wither as we became more serious. My friends told me - afterwards - that I didn't seem to be the same person any more. Not fun to be around. Not cheerful and funny. Our breaking up and getting back together seemed to be a weekly event - and I am pretty sure that is not an exageration. One night I would be devastated from being dumped. One or two days later I would be elated because she wanted me back. The rapid ascents and descents were exhilirating and exhausting and ultimately self destructive for both of us. When she said, right before moving to another state, that it would've never worked out, I didn't want to believe her. But she was right. And I think she still might be.

We just spent the past two days hanging out. And there was no drama, good or bad. And we just had a really good, fun time together. We hung out in Bryant Park, then walked up Fifth. There was the aforementioned rain storm. Even the torrential downpour, which was heavy enough to send water streaming down into the subway stations, seemed more of an adventure than an annoyance. Then there was a few hours at the Whitney. Then a Korean restaurant. Later we went to Union Square, and found that a crowd had spontaneously burst into a Michael Jackson dance party tribute, jumping and moving as his greatest hits played out of some powerful portable speakers. Tonight was a rustic, artfully no frills French Bistro in the Lower East Side (whose only fault is they gave me regular coffee when I asked for decaf, which helps explain why I'm writing this at this hour). Life was good, and I was happy. And as soon as I felt happy I realized I owed it to this woman. She would be gone and with her this good mood I was enjoying.

It would be irresponsible and innacurate to say that we were ever in love. Hell, at times I didn't even think she liked me. But just because we weren't in love doesn't make our time together less special. There were moments tonight where I wondered if I felt more strongly about her than I realized. I really REALLY want to write something like "I thought I was in love, then realized that what I was feeling instead was a profound loneliness" but that is WAY too over the top and melodramatic for this situation! Save it for the stage, Dan, save it for the stage. (But, I do think there is in life a fine line between love and loneliness.)

I think the one memory that will really stick with me, is right after we left the Whitney. The rain storm had passed and the air was clear. And the sky was an amazing shade of . . . I don't know. A dusty, otherworldly orange, a light I had never seen before. The light made everything look unreal, ethereal. For a moment it felt as if Jenny and I stood in a different world, separated from our daily lives, from even the future and the past, in a light I now associate with equal parts melancholy and sweetness. The moment has passed, and my hope is that memory can preserve what time doesn't.

Schnipper’s is a high end fast food restaurant located on 41st and Eighth Avenue, and it’s quickly becoming one of my favorite burger joints in the city (after Five Guys). Its faux trailer park kitsch and slightly too expensive for a burger and fries prices were a turn off, but I relented a few weeks ago. I went again last week with Ian, a great companion for my food adventures because of his capacity to eat and willingness to try almost anything I will try.

The place has high ceilings and is colored almost entirely in white, with high glass walls on two sides. It might sound antiseptic, but it actually works. Keep in mind where this place is. It always amazes me how much the city can change in just one block. On 42nd Street you have neon and tourists and electronic billboards and lots and lots and lots of tourists. Walk to Eighth, and you still have the crowds, but none of the color and bright lights. It’s just as crowded, but the people are twice as cranky. Everything looks grey and dirty, and there seems to be a permanent haze of exhaust and bad mood. In this context, the inside of Schnipper’s makes one feel isolated and protected from the depressed chaos outside.

The menu is located above the cash register, posted in big letters high up so you have to crane your neck to see it, creating an effect much like looking up in awe. I ordered a burger and Southern Sweet Tea. The tea was perfect, sweet, strong and . . . well that’s it. But really good.

Everything is made to order, and you are notified that your meal is ready by a remote buzzer which looks kind of like a taser, which emits a duck like buzz to summon you to the pick up counter (I know that sentence was a grammatical nightmare but I’m too tired to care).

Ian went to pick up his order. I kind of wondered what he ordered that cost him twenty bucks. He came back with sweet potato fries, a burger, and a hot dog. Oh, I’m sorry, did I say hot dog? What he got was something beyond that. Technically it’s called a green chili dog. A hot dog, topped with a layer of green chili peppers. And on top of that a viscous yellow/orange substance which I assume was cheese. Upon seeing it, I thought to myself that it was the most decadent, artery clogging, stomach destroying “Say good bye to weeks at the gym” food product I had ever seen. I then dashed over to the counter to order one, and came back with a sloppy dog – a hot dog topped with sloppy joe mix and more of that yellow liquid cheese.

How was the burger? All the things I look for were there. Fresh ingredients? Check. Layers of different texture (bread, lettuce, cheese, bacon, patty)? Check. Fresh beef? Sure. Add to that juice dripping from the burger onto the table as I ate, and you have a quality specimen of grilled meat product.

But man the hot dogs. In the spirit of friendship, Ian and I split our hot dogs in half so that we could both sample the sloppy dog and the green chili dog. So good. The green chili dog had a little too much vegetable-like product on it for my taste. But it packed a nice jalapeno kick, like little celebratory firecrackes exploding inside the mouth. The sloppy joe dog was what can best be described as disgustingly good. In between bites and various homo-erotic jokes involving wieners being put into one’s mouth, we were both . . . well not satiated. I was actually bent over in discomfort. Ian was glowing like a happy pregnant woman. I couldn’t move. Hell, I could barely look up from the floor. My stomach was distended and close to buckling from the pressure of a week’s worth of grease and fat. I felt so awful. And so happy.

Because I’d actually had a bad few days. No need to go into details, except it involved a combination of financial woes, love life, and general boredom. Like, not German movie with subtitles boredom. Not David Matthews post 90’s boredom. But a deep profound boredom, where I felt like I would never be excited again in my life, if I ever have. Led me to do something stupid things which worsened my financial situation. But, sitting with a good friend, in a place oddly peaceful despite what was happening a glass pane away, eating food that was basic yet treated with a great deal of reverence, all of that disappeared. When life gets too crazy, you can always go back to the basics: good friends and good food. Deep in the heart of manic, polluted craziness just a window pane away, I had found an oasis of contentment. And in my life, in this city, that’s saying a lot.

I don't sleep a lot. For me, on an average work day I go to bed at 2 and usually fall asleep by 3. My alarm goes off at 7:30 in the morning, after which I give myself a reprieve from the real world by hitting the snooze button a few times. But we all know that snooze sleep doesn't really count, so I guess I get on average four or five hours of sleep a day. Thus the caffeine addiction. And thus the moody disposition, which I guess is helpful in writing plays but not much else. I've never met a cheerful playwright. At least not one who was any good.

Anyway, on the rare occasion when I do get to sleep in (I won't tell you what time I get up because that would be too embarassing) my dreams tend to be very lucid. And because I get to wake up slowly, there are no thoughts like "oh shit! ten minutes to shower and catch the bus!" to drive the memories of the dream away. I had an interesting one this morning (or this afternoon, if you want to be nit picky about details). And I thought I would share it, as it's relatively PG-13 and doesn't involve any combination of cheerleaders, ex girlfriends or porn stars.

In the dream I'm in a very fancy, posh hotel. Only the hotel room I am in is my house. My parents show up, and it turns out that this is their house, and with their arrival I have to leave. And I decide to leave right away, as there is a lot of writing I have to do (already this is weird, I never rush off to write - I usually procrastinate till it gets too late, see opening paragraph). As I leave, my Dad - who in real life is seventy five percent bald, takes off a wig. Beneath which is revealed . . . exactly the same amount of hair as his wig, both of which are about seventy five percent bald. He explains, "If my wig was a full head of hair, people would know that it's not real."

Makes sense, when you're sleeping.

So I leave the hotel room which is also my old home, and I wander to work. Work would be Broders. And this being a dream, Borders is a suite in the same hotel. I say to a coworker (I think it's Nigel, he of the all black clothing who drinks from a wine glass at lunch - this is not from a dream but happens in reality) that I have to go back home to do some writing. And he explains that I can write at work. There is free internet, and complimentary beverage and snacks. I freak out in a good way, and decide to stay. Then in the break room, which I guess is the living room of the hotel, I see my supervisor Erich, sharing doughnuts with two people at a small table. These two people happen to be Patrick Swayze and the younger brother of Heath Ledger. Erich introduces Herr Swayze as, "the guy from Red Dawn, among others."

There are free doughnuts on the table, but most of them have been eaten. I grab the last remaining one, and . . .

I wake up.

But here's the weird part. My dream left me with a weird craving for doughnuts. Just about the closest thing you could call anything in my neighborhood is a Dunkin' Donuts, a place of mass market baked goods and a lack of spelling skills. I go over there, and order six. A dozen just seems like too many, especially since they're never as good the next day. As I pick out my six (it goes by fast) the woman in front of me says, "Are you buying six doughnuts? I have a coupon, by six get another six free."

And she just leaves the coupon with me, along with others who may need them further back in line. So I end up getting a dozen (or technically two packs of half a dozen) and a small coffee. Contemplate also buying a banana so I can tell myself that at least I'm trying to be healthy. Skip the banana, because if I'm just trying to impress myself it's too late for that.

I go home to my housemante Carolyne, tell her the story, and she says "I guess you have to thank Patrick Swayze." Or something. Someone out there is looking out for me. In really, really, really weird ways.

What to write about? It's been such a long time since I wrote here. My fear is firstly how fast time has flown by, as evidenced by how long it's been since I've written in this journal. And I also fear that many of you who have read my entries may have fallen off out of frustration.

Work on the musical has been chugging along. I think you can basically divide writers into two categories: the tortoise and the hare. Many are like the tortoise. They work at a steady pace, getting up often in the early hours of the morning, and systematically write five to ten pages every day until their work is complete. I envy them. I'm definitely in the category of the hare. We dash off with a lot of enthusiasm, working chaotically overnight and finishing maybe fifty to ninety pages in a week (I wrote the first eighty pages of the musical in that time). And then we . . . stop. For a day, a week, maybe even a month. See how that reflects in my livejournal? Then we get up and write again, finish another twenty pages in two days. And again we stop.

Our reasons for this are myriad (am I using that word correctly?). Superficially, it is laziness. It is also the fickle nature of some of us creative types. We - or I should say "I" - get very excited about a project. Then our attention is diverted elsewhere, by, say, the NBA finals. Or work. Or a dust bunny gathering in the corner of the bedroom. What also inevitably happens is I look at what I wrote, as I did after first draft of the musical, and bury our hands and mourn our lack of talent, at how bad it is especially in comparison with how good we thought it was before we read it, and how good we think it should be as compared to the hundreds of plays and books that inspired us to write in the first place.

This is dangerous and misguided. As Ann Lamott, my new hero says, first drafts are supposed to suck. And so, armed with the knowledge that my angst was at the very least "normal," if yo ucan use that work in conjunction with anything a writer - much less a playwright - much less a playwright writing a musical after years of saying he hates musicals - I carried on in the hopes that there was more inspiration in my pen than was in my brain.

So there were brief flashes on inspiration followed by long periods of self doubt. Many moments where I thought about scrapping the project entirely and starting from scratch. Only that would mean throwing away the last six months of work (again, give or take long periods of inactivity). Sometimes I still feel like I should start from scratch. This often happens when I listen to Chris's music. It's so damn . . . good. Euphoric, harmonic, free flowing and slightly bittersweet. Actually, those words kind of reflect the nature of my own writing. Which is either a reflection of how I see things, or a sign that Chris and I really should work together.

The question now is, do I have doubts about the book because of my own insecurities (included amongst them worries about balding, being past my prime, being single at my age, the Knicks, etc.) or is it my gut telling me what I need to know? Those two voices often compete. The bad news is that my insecurities often win over my gun instinct. The good news is, if that is true, then I do have a decent book in hand for the musical. We'll see.

And I see now that I've written maybe two full pages here without intending to write that much. Without even know what I was going to write when I sat down. None of what you just read was planned. Maybe I should just do the smart thing, then, and do the same with my script. And I think I will . . .

Most people who have known me for more than a few years know that I'm a huge fan of the Figgs. right now I'm on vacation, house and dog sitting for my sister for a long weekend. I had decided for some reason not to see the Figgs play, even though the Knitting Factory is only about a fifteen minute walk from the apartment. I don't know why. Maybe because I got hit with a little bit of feeling down. Why down? Again, not sure. could be a weeks long bout of writer's block. Could be that by house sitting for my sister I'm reminded of what I don't have (beautiful home, happy marriage, a hundred cable tv channels).

Fortunately, literally just a few hours before the Figgs were set to play, Joe called me and convinced me to go. Well, actually I think his exact text was something like, "We might be interested in seeing the figgs play tonight." And after reading that text, I finally said, "Alright damn it Joe, you win! I'll go out! Twist my bloody arm, why dontcha?"

After changing clothes for the first time in forty eight hours, saying good bye to the dog, I walked over to the Knitting Factory. Again, while walking there I was in a bit of a funk. As I wandered over to the Knitting Factory, I kept feeling as if something major in my life is missing. I'm not talking about being a succesful playwright or being with a woman - I've learned that those things in themselves aren't enough. Something else is missing, and I don't know what. Kind of like Charlie Brown at the beginning of the Christmas episode.

So I get to the Knitting Factory. Joe had given me the number of some friends from Britain who were staying with him for a vacation in the States, and I had exchanged phone calls with someone named Kate. I told her to look for me, keeping an eye out for a tallish Asian man with glasses. She left a voice mail, telling me with a laugh to look for a shortish white woman. Very friendly voice, I could tell I would get along with her already.

I met her and her friend Jim. A woman, not quite as short as I would imagine, with pulled back dark hair and a dark dress which hugged her body nicely. We all fell into conversation nicely right away. I've always known that I would be good friends with a person if I'm funny right away. And when they are funny in return, then things are wonderful. Kate had quirky good lucks, a great sense of humor and a British accent (begin contemplating an awkward way of asking her out, which I will no doubt fumble badly).

Then the Figgs played. I just kept thinking throughout, thank God I decided to see them. Somewhere during the second song a man from the audience jumped on stage and threw a pile of singles into the air, showering the band with money. From the reactions of the band, I could tell he was not a part of the act. I should mention that the Figgs, even though they've never enjoyed major mainstream success, have a die hard core following. this could be attested by the front row of men who danced spastically by the stage, like a bunch of middle aged men who had discovered a youth that had passed them by, buried by years of nine to five work and adult concerns and stresses.

During the third or fourth song, someone shouted out, "YOU'RE MY SECOND FAVORITE BAND." High praise, I guess. this started a five minute banter session between band and audience. It was funny. It also halted the momentum of the show, but the interaction between band and audience was always a strength of the Figgs. And Mike Gent confessed that the dollar bills had thrown everyone off.

Kate and Jim seemed to enjoy the show, which was a relief. They especially enjoyed a number sung partly in French, "Je T'adore." After some unfamiliar new songs, and an overlong accoustic segment, I came alive when they played some of my favorites, lke "Simon Simone."

Kate leaned over to me at one point and said, "I think I like the bass players songs better." I don't know if I quite agreed, though his songs tend to be more melodic and ear friendly. But the fact that she could make this kind of insght meant she was paying attention, and was genuinely enjoying the show and not dancing for my benefit.

The set seemed to end early, as the band said good night and left the stage.

"I wonder if they'll do an encore," I said.

She said, "Of course they will. Who do they think they are?" (Contemplating buying a ring and proposing to her).

They came on for the encore. To bring the show to an end, Mike Gent and Pete Donelly came down off the stage and set up their mike in the middle of the audience, and jammed out to a rocking rendition of "Get Out," including a sprawling, hard hitting jam session. They followed up with one of my favorites, "Reaction."

As the band filed off the stage, inviting everyone to have a drink with them, Kate said to me, "They're impossible not to like!" (Wondering if she will agree to "Dylan" as a first name for our future son together).

We met Pete Donnelly afterwards, where he was selling Cd's. Kate bought a copy of Palais Royale, after consulting with Pete and myself. And I talked to him about the actual bar Palais, which we were both familiar with and which is the namesake of the album. We all shook hands, and Pete turned to me and said, "I know you. I've seen you before." And I was like, yeah, I used to see you all the time in Albany, and I see you guys whenever you're here. I was really flattered that the guy recognized me, testament to my love and loyalty of the band, and I hope he felt good that he had that kind of support (taking my imaginary wedding ring from Kate, giving it to bass player from the Figgs).

We met Joe at a bar afterwards, taking a cab to the St. Marks. I drunkenly gave a tour of Manhattan.

A really good night. And yeah, I was in a funk earlier. But the Figgs reaffrimed my belief in rock. Who needs therapy, when you can listen to a Les Paul cranked up to ten, played by guys with guts and conviction and rock instincts that are deeply ingrained into their bodies. I saw a great show, got a crush on a great girl (who will, alas, be leaving town this afternoon). I could have easily stayed home and wallowed in self pity, but instead I chose to go out and in the end felt good about life. Except for a brief moment when I almost threw up in my sister's plush apartment.

It's all about the opportunities you take. Going after the things in life that make you happy. Or that are truly important. And if you can find something that is important that also makes you happy, then life is just awesome. A fun time with my favorite band and my new dream girl. Life is good.

Remember the "Wonder Years?" Great show. And remember Winnie Cooper? She was pretty, and very adorable. The object of Fred Savage's affection. Well, the actress who played her is Winnie Cooper. She has played a few other roles since then, but she has since gained prominence as a mathematician and edcation advocate. Who knew? She came to our store today to sign her latest book, KISS MY MATH.

I thought it would be fun to get her autograph and meet her, but I also felt a little weird about it. I remember watching the show with my buddies. And I remember one of them saying, "Winnie's cute right now, but I bet when she grows up she's going to be really hot."

Oh my God.

When I saw her walk by me to the signing, I was really dumbfounded. I hate using this phrase because it's so banal, but it seems appropriate - she was smoking hot. I mean really. Her destinctive features have grown into angular cheek bones and large, expressive eyes. She wore a sexy purple dress and heels which stretched her feet into an almost 90 degree angle. She spoke enthusiastically and eagerly about the importance of math in education. The weird, and slightly creepy, thing about her is that her voice seems to have not changed since the tv show, she still sounded like a little girl.

I suddenly got nervous about meeting her. But my friends at work egged me on, motivated mostly by - I think - an opportunity to poke fun at my discomfort. So much so that I playfully punched one of the security guards, throwing him off balance so thta he almost knocked down a display her McKellars new book.

Darryl asked her if she would mind taking a few photos with the staff, and she said sure. She was all professional, oblinging willingly. I think she was a tad worn out, from a long line of signing. Her fans included a few educators, but I think by far the line was made up mostly of men in their mid thirties.

I shook her hand, and mumbled something like "thanks for doing this." She made eye contact with me, seeing me as one in a long line of uncomfortable infatuated fans. I was never so nervous with a woman. Then she posed next to me, even placeing her hand on the small of my back. Again, she was all professionalism and politeness, no doubt having done this many times since. As for myself, I was the model of awkwardness. I didn't want to put my arm around her lest I bring down the wrath of a restraining order or an article in tomorrow's New York Post. Someone cracked a joke right before the photo was taken, and I laughed, so that when the picture was taken I had a big, big, very goofy grin on my face. The picture was kind of cute. My hair looked aweful (I'm adjusting to a new hair cut, and can't get it to look right), but my hands are clasped demurely and nervously in front of me, as she stood next to me calmly. I looked much like a school girl taking her first picture for the school formal.

I felt a little weird, to be sure. But then again, someone else had brought her flowers, and saked her to sign the book as "Winnie Cooper." So at least I wasn't "that guy."

I do now have a crush on Danice Mckellar. And I fear that I will never be able to watch the Wonder Years again the same way.

It's been a weird month. July has turned into Ex Girlfriend month, with an unexpected visit from one girl, and a day with another. Both of them very pleasant times that made me a bit wistful for our severed relationships. And another old flame showed up unexpectedly. So my hormones have been a bit akimbo. And now Winnie Cooper, who for many was the figure head of unrequited love. Albeit a very innocent love from a time of life that seems more earnest and precious with each passing year. Maybe that's why I was meant to meet Winnie Cooper, now Danica Mckellar math expert and one time Stuff magazine pin up model. To show how lovely it can be to have affections for another person, and how nice things can seem when you look back.

And, as I write this, I am realizing that I sound exactly like Daniel Stern's voice over in "The Wonder Years."

***************I am writing this at close to three in the morning, so apologies for the rambling and bad grammar *****************



My friend Dave recently posited this query to me. In this age where we can talk instantly to someone as far away as India, where there is a Starbucks on every corner in every city in almost the world. In a world where McDonalds has replaced apple pie as the signature food item of America. Where is this heading, in terms of the art world in general, and theater specifically? Because as a writer, the rule is write what you know. But if what we all "know" is becoming more and more generic, if everyone is eating at the same restaurants and watching the same movies and listening to the same advice from Dr. Phil and getting the same "spiritual enlightenment" from the latest Oprah book of the month club selection - if our experiences are becoming more homogenous, then so to it follows will our writing and our theater.

The solution, the knight in white shining armor who will save us from this comfortable death may be found in Union Square by way of South America. Diqui James is the Artistic Director and creator and in general the brains behind FUERZABRUTA, now performing at the Daryl Roth Theatre in Union Square. Previously, he had come to fame with the DE LA GUARDA company, which performed a long running and critically acclaimed set of shows at the same theatre. I myself saw them about six times, maxing out my credit card but over stocking my senses with some of the most sensational and influential theater experiences I have ever had the pleasure to be a part of. I knew after watching DE LA GUARDA that I wanted to write for live theater and performance. Not movies, or television (although I would not be above whoring myself out to either medium, the money is really good - but only on occasion and I promise to feel really guilty about it afterwards). When you are in the midst of a truly great theatrical moment, there is a power and exhilaration that cannot be described in words and that outstrips anything you could ever feel from watching projections on a screen.

James founded Fuerzabruta after breaking away from De La Guarda. His goal is to have a company in which "creativity and experimentation are a priority." Lots of theatre companies do that, but the results are often pretentious and borderline unwatcheable. Witness Richard Foreman and his annual performances in the Lower East Side. Sure he's breaking new ground, but for what? I have yet to find anyone who has enjoyed a Richard Foreman production, let alone understood one. But people keep going year after year, one sold out performance after another, because maybe if this stuff makes no sense to us, it must be because he's that much of a genius. Whatever.

In the chef world, they have Thomas Keller and Ferran Adria, with his El Bulli Restaurant. Pioneers who have done things so over the edge and unexpected that the results are magical. And more importantly, good and enjoyable, even sublimely so. I keep reading Anthony Bourdain write about these geniuses, and always wondered where are the current pioneers in the theater world? Well, now I've found one of them.

There are three performances I've seen in my life which have permanently changed the way I looked at theater. One was a production of "Twelfth Night" while at Grad School. The other was "Metamorphosis" by Mary Zimmerman. And the third was "De La Guarda." After watching each of these productions, especially the later two, I knew that I would never write the same way again. I don't know how anyone can watch "De La Guarda" without being permanently changed in the way they see live theater.

When I heard it was closing, I rushed to see it as many times as I could. Imagine my sadness when I heard it closed. Imagine my excitement when I found out that a new company had formed, with a new production, and that they were going to be performing at the very same theater.

But then, disappointment. I saw an early preview performance of "Fuerzabruta." Halfway through, I was cranky and irritable and completely distracted. I didn't hate the show. But I didn't love it. And I was definitely disappointed.

But, it is a preview show. Things are supposed to go wrong. Performances aren't quite there. So today I decided to give the show another chance, encouraged the show's availability at TKTS.

You would have thought I saw two completely different shows. The changes from the last time I saw it were slight, but monumental in their effect. I was blown away, like I was back with "De La Guarda."

Maybe one thing which threw me during the previews is the lack of over the top kinetic performances, so spectacular in DLG but not as in your face in Fuerzabruta. But what I noticed this time is that in its place is a kind of symbolic lyricism. The show begins with a man, walking a treadmill, his sullen face giving expression to an oppressed, dull life of repetition, as evidenced by the chairs, beds, and sometimes people who pass him by only to fall off on the other side of the treadmill. Then suddenly brick walls approach him, which he breaks through. He keeps moving stoically, sometimes running. And then a gunshot, and he finally falls and stops. Only to get up again and repeat the same pattern.

From there the show takes off, quite literally. The man falls asleep, and in his dream world, represented by a breath taking shimmering curtain which surrounds the entire audience, women suspended by wires fly above him, running against the walls of the theater. Two other figures, a man and a woman, perform another aerial act, defying gravity and shouting rebelliously.

And then there is the centerpiece of the entire production. A swimming pool made of clear plastic, suspended above the audience. Into it leap several women, who swim and splash and play. And as they frolic in the water, the pool is slowly lowered, till it is literally inches from your face. Imagine being able to reach up and touch a clear plastic surface as women swim and splash inches above your head. Then at one point, each of them stands up and falls onto pool, hitting with a loud thwacking sound as people below shrieked in the momentary fear that these swimmers would crash into them. As the pool lifted higher, the swimmers would actually jump up and then fall back onto the pool. With their taut and scantily clad bodies, the women were part burlesque show, part circus act, part dance company, merging together to form something more.

As a side note, the first time I saw this there was no music and no choreography to the swimming, which made a huge difference. It actually became boring. This time around, with the bittersweet music and the coordinated lighting, the act came to life. There was a lot more done which I can't bother to put into words because it won't get across the awesomeness of the spectacle. I will say that the last image was incredible. Lifted to the roof, all of the dancers clustered together in the middle and were silhouetted by a strobe light. Amazing.

From there the show goes back to the man on the treadmill again. Only now he is joined by some compatriots. And his last act of liberation is another in a series of thrilling spectacles.

I've gone on and on yet I've left out so much about the show. You just have to see it. Really. To all those people yearning for something fresh and exciting to happen to the theater world. To all those people who complained about how boring the current Broadway season is. And really, no offense people, but for all those who keep telling me how much they loved [Title of Show] - I mean really, Title of Show in a week has already become the most overrated Broadway institution since they built a Red Lobster there. Go see Fuerzabruta for something new and exciting. And if I had my way, you would see there the future of theater. And maybe, just maybe, shows like Fuerzabruta, and people like Diqui James, might save us all from the slow death of artistic homogenization.

My understanding is that despite the media deluge of new movies from Hollywood, and despite the dysfunctional infatuation/stalker mentality this country has with the film industry, America is actually second to India in its love of movie entertainment. Bollywood, in spite of its massive popularity in native India, has never been able to cross over to Western movie theaters, largely because cultural differences have created an incompatible aesthetic.

There is a Bollywood movie showing at Times Square, and it may do little to increase the popularity of the genre. Or it may move it forwards a lot. The movie is called "Love Story 2050." And I can not put into words how bizarrely bad, badly bizarre, or just plain bizarre and bad this movie is. The good news is that it's one of those films that falls into the category "so bad it's good." The bad news is that it's three hours long.

Luckily, knowing that it might be a bizarre experience I went with a small platoon of fellow smart ass geek nerds, and we sat in a theater that was almost empty. The few people who were there sat towards the back, far enough away that they couldn't hear our snickering and wise cracking above the "turn it up to 11" speakers that blasted out of the surround sound speakers.

The plot goes like this. A young man named Karan meets a beautiful woman named Sana in a meet cute I will not bother to recount; only that it involves mistaken identity and an extreme bike race. Karan falls in love with Sana, and while dodging cranky Australian wrestlers he pursues/stalks her (it's funny how in romantic movies, the line between pursuing someone and stalking someone gets very thin). He finally gets her to go on a date with him. They walk through a mall. Eat hot dogs. Then he bursts into a song number, complete with chorus line and a plethora of 80's style hip hop dance moves. The way these films tend to insert dance numbers, and that these numbers tend to seem dated, is one of the reasons Bollywood movies tend not to translate well. This might be a shame, because there is a very strange but very upbeat energy to all of them, I am sure. Not necessarily in Love Story 2050. It's too cheesy to be taken seriously, which we didn't, and we all had a good ethnocentric laugh at Karan's version of the robot and the moon walk.

Anyway, I digress . . .

Karan and Sana, after a few more song and dance numbers, fall in love. Slowly. I mean it takes about an hour and a half, because first she has to leave on a train to go home, and he has to find her . . . okay I'm not going to bore you with the details. It took a long time, but finally he finds her, meets her family, and they get ready to get married. Then, while sitting in a car, they both declare their love and say words to the effect of "I hope we live together forever."

Then she says, "I love you so much, and I want to kiss you, but first let me cross this busy intersection to get ice cream from across the street." And yes, wouldn't you know it, as she pursues her fatal craving for ice cream, she gets hit by a truck. But not before Frank yelled out, "she's going to be hit by a car!"

Sana goes flying, Karan cries, and everyone is in mourning because how could love go so terribly wrong. At this point the movie has been going on for about an hour and a half, and I think that this must be the ending.

But wait! Turns out Karan's Uncle can save the day. He has a time machine, and he can use it to save Sana's life! Did I mention this is a science fiction movie?

So they decide to use the Time Machine. The plan at first is to go back to right before she gets hit by a truck, and prevent her from crossing the street. BUT NO. Somehow, Karan thinks it would be better to go forwards in time fifty years, to meet Sana's reincarnation, make her fall in love with him again, and bring her back to 2008. Don't ask me to explain this because I don't get it. I couldn't have possibly tried to figure it out, given all the chaos my movie soda infused brain tried to absorb during the rest of the movie.

They all travel to the year 2050, to a futuristic city full of high tech buildings and flying cars and holograms. And good news for some, because it seems like homosexual men have taken over civilization, since everyone seems to be dressed as if they shopped at a futuristic, leather obsessed Chelsea of the future.

Karan does indeed meet Sana, with the help of a female android named "Q.T." QT . . . cutie . . get it? Think that's nauseating? Her computer chip is apparently called a "sec c." sec c. sexy. Get it? They are also helped by a two foot high, pink robotic teddy bear with a blue mohawk named "Boo." The running gag with Boo is that people keep kicking it in the ass, provoking responses such as "Boo's bummy hurts!"

Sana's future reincarnation is a Madonna-esque pop superstar named Zeisha. Or Ziesha, as her name is sometimes spelled on signs and in her concert stage which floats above the city. To win back the love of Sana/Zeisha/Ziesha, Karan must first buy a skin tight silver t-shirt, play in a game show, engage her in virtual Mortal Kombat. Then he has to show up at a futuristic club and do some more break dancing in another musical number (after which he doesn't talk to her but just runs off). And oh yeah, there is an evil overlord genius named Dr. Hoshi, who knows Karan's uncle and wants to steal the time machine. Which means that Karan must fight evil bad guys and killer robots. Good thing that in the future, Karan is suddenly an unstoppable martial arts expert, able to dispatch groups of villains with his bare hands. And he can dodge ray gun blasts by leaping from wall to wall inside the future buildings. And he has limited abilities of gravity defying. And he's an expert at riding a hover motorcycle, which he manages to acquire I'm not sure how. And he's also an amazing dancer, which he does every fifteen minutes or so. The dances are like the ones in the first half of the film, which by then felt like another life time ago, except that his background dancers are now all robots.

The first half of the movie, a normal if cornball romance, took an hour and a half. The second half of the movie, the science fiction time travel kung fu movie - you know how most Romantic comedies turn into science fiction time travel kung fu movies, right? - is another hour and a half.

Yup. The movie was three hours long. None of us knew that going in. We had eaten dinner beforehand, and when the movie was over I was hungry again. Erich was the one who talked us into going. When we left, I looked at Erich and yelled, "It's Eleven O'Clock!!"

The thing is, I haven't even scratched the surface of describing this movie. There is more, so much more, that made this movie bizarre and awful and unbearable yet guiltily funny. Because as ghastly as "Love Story 2050" is, it is also an amazing guilty pleasure. I just don't know if I can sit through another of Karan's love monologues to Zeisha/Ziesha/Sana, which almost quite literally go like this:

"I love you Sana. I really love you. I'm not lying to you. I am telling you the truth. And the truth is that I love you. You, Sana. You are the one that I love. And I am not lying. I am telling the truth. The truth is I love you. If I were lying I would say I don't love you, but I'm not, and I do love you."

And his catch phrase, "I don't need luck, I have love."

And my personal favorite. Remember when she died getting an ice cream cone? Later on, he says to his reincarnated pop star love, "I want to go back in time to share a second ice cream with you." Not only did I laugh out loud at that line, but someone else in the audience laughed in appreciation of my laugh.

This movie is terrible. And yet I want everyone to see it. Because as bad as it is, I never had so much fun talking about how bad it was with my fellow sufferers. I don't know, it made us all feel good and we had a good time, and isn't that what movies are all about? No? Well, maybe then I can find a time machine and transport back to stop my past self from ever seeing it. Or go into the future when it becomes a huge cult hit.

I think it might actually be possible to write too fast. Inspired by Chris's music, and revitalized as a writer, I was writing at an incredibly fast clip. I wrote about fifty pages or more in just about five days, which for me is pretty fast.

And then about a week after I began I hit a wall. No writing of any significance has happened since then. I have been rewriting and reworking what I already have (which sometimes can be more fun and more productive, as rewriting is when the play develops depth and substance). But after finishing the first half so quickly, the second is coming along very slowly.

There are some possible reasons for this. Julia Cameron talks about tapping out the well - sometimes we write so much that we exhaust some ambiguous source of creativity that we carry, and we need to give ourselves time to let it refill. This especially happens when one hasn't written in a while.

Secondly, I think I just burnt myself out. Keep in mind that I would start writing at around midnight or later, and write until 2 in the morning. I think at a certain point my brain said, "screw it, I'm tired."

The third is the most practical reason, which is I ran out of songs. Chris played a bunch of his stuff for me, and writing has basically consisted of connecting one song to another with narrative. This project has been a lot different for me, because with this play I'm really writing material that is in service of someone else's work. Which is exciting, because I'm using someone else's genius and hard work as a spring board, rather than pulling ideas out of the vacuum.

At a party this weekend, Chris was there, and as often happens when there is a piano and a party handy, he started playing his music. I was flattered when he announced each song by saying, "This is a number from a musical called SBT, which is being written right now . . . " It's good to know that he's serious about this and has taken the work to heart.

And then he said "This is a number called 'Break My Heart,' which will be somewhere in the second act." And I just stood there with my drink and thought, "Really? What?" So, I have another song to work off of now. Got some work to do. Just wish I could get some quality sleep . . .

It's finally getting warmer in the city. Enough so that the Starbucks on 47th Street set up outdoor seating, so I could sit and sip an overpriced, under prepared cafe drink and think about the writing project I'm currently working on.

It's called "Subways Bus Stops Taxi Cabs," which I thought was too long for a title, but it's starting to grow on me. The idea belongs to Chris, my writing partner. He's a fantastically gifted songwriter, introduced to me through Dave, who asked me to write the book for a musical for him.

The fact that I am actually writing a musical seems hilarious, especially to people who knew me and my taste ten years ago.

I think the idea for the musical really found its feet on Friday. I went over to the apartment where Chris was housesitting, the very tony part of Manhattan around Yorke Avenue. How nice is the place? There are no subway stations - everyone takes a cab or drives. But he had a few people over including myself, and we spent the night drinking wine, and once in a while Chris would play a song on his keyboard and a bunch of people would sing either one of his songs or a pop song or some 80's sitcom theme songs. I ended up crashing at his place. Got up and two in the afternoon, and Chris got up around 4:30. After we went to a diner and he introduced me to the fatty cholesterol laden joy that is the Irish Breakfast, we went back to the apartment. And for the rest of the day we traded story ideas. He would play songs, I would figure out where they could go in the story. He gave me things he wanted to be in the book (for those who don't know, the word "book" refers to the story and spoken lines in a musical, as opposed to anything that is sung). Some of his songs really inspired me. I truly love his music, and want to write the platform for his music.

So I think beginning last monday, I've been averaging about five to ten pages a night. All written between the hours of midnight and one thirty am. I get home from work or whatever I'm doing in the city, relax for a bit, then sit at my desk. If I'm feeling inspired, the fatigue goes away easily. But as the late night writing sessions have accumulated, that's getting harder and harder.

I am happy that I've managed to write so much in such a short time. I am worried about a few things. Is what I have in keeping with what Chris wants (this is his musical first and foremost, and I knew that coming in and have no problem with that)? And is it . . . well, good. Well, let me be more accurate. I have problems that the dialogue right now is too pedestrian. And the play lacks the theatrical lyricism that I like to have.

Also, Chris wanted several characters. I have some, and I think they are colorful and interesting. There were some character ideas he had in mind, that I had no idea what I was going to do with. Now I have a feel for them, and I'm excited to see what will happen to these fictional people. But I have no idea what their stories are. The only solution is to write.

The one big hurdle right now, is that my imagination is running a bit dry. Julia Cameron warns about this. Sometimes after a heavy, intense spurt of writing, the "well" of ideas dries up, and you need to step away for it to refill itself. After a burst of creativity, I find myself mentally tired.

But I want this thing written NOW. Chris and I both want to mount this show TOMORROW.

So write some more I will. It's the only thing I've ever been good at. It's the only thing I've ever loved doing. And the exciting thing about writing, what I really love about it, is that I have no idea what inspiration will come tomorrow, or even the next hour.

Keep you all posted on my progress.

One neighborhood I have not spent enough time in is the Upper West Side, particularly the area between 70th Street and 88th Street, between Central Park and . . . oh, say around Columbus Avenue. There's lots of great things to do, including the Museum of Natural History, the Planetarium, Central Park. There are some amazing apartment buildings to admire and envy. They also just built a new Magnolia Bakery on I think 69th and Columbus - the cupcakes are way over rated, but the banana pudding makes the trip worth it.

And if you go to Columbus Avenue and wander up and down 80th to 86th Street, there is a row of lots of different, cute, slightly expensive restaurants. There is the scandalously named but otherwise innocent "Pinch and Smack." They seel pizza by the inch and macaroni - get it? I wonder what their sexual harassment training sessions are like. "Here at Pinch and Smack, we do not tolerate sexually lewd or offensive behavior. When people hear pinch and smack, they should think professionalism."

There is also Jackson Hole, maybe the best burger you can get in the city. The burgers are ginormous, yet somehow not heavy. Almost light, if you are speaking in relative terms. You won't find the same variety, nor will you find the crazy and quirky atmosphere as as Paul's on St. Marks, but the consistency is much better. And you won't find the same charming but still palpable griminess of Paul's either.

Tonight I hung out with Dave, who if nothing else is the man who dragged me enough out of my depression to get me back into writing again. We went to a restaurant called Madeline May. mostly because our friend Chris - who I can now call "my composer" - worked there. The food was really . . . what's the word? . . . good. I had the seared fish dish, I forgot the exact French name except that it was spelled like "manure" and meant the fish was coated in flour and seared. Served over "dirty rice," which consisted of rice, sausage, pecans and chicken liver. For the dessert there were lots of good things, but what really blew me away was what they called the "Brown Cow." A gourmet root beer float,served in high end root beer. Anyone who reads this knows that root beer is one of my favorite things in the world. Too bad my gastro-intestinal system was in no condition to handle it that night. Next time.

Part of my reason for not getting the root beer float (damn, I want one now) was that I sampled a unique feature of Maddy May, which was the selection of Rum cures. Basically, I guess in the south they brew and distill and mix rum for various ailments. There are about twenty on the menu. The first one I had purportedly removed negative attitudes and increased focus. Kind of screams out my name, doesn't it? And yeah, it worked. I did feel less negative, although drinking often does that. Sometimes. Anyway, I liked it so much I had a second after dinner, although this experience wasn't so pleasant. The waiter recomended the "Sat E" or something like that. It was supposed to induce wellness, and was the most medicinal of all the rum cures. I have had enough Chinese Herbal cures forced down my throat and other orifices of my body, to know that medicinal does not equal pleasant. So I should have known better. The drink consists of rum mixed with I think cinammon and bay leaves and some other ingredients, the last of which was clove. Yes, clove. You know those nasty cigarettes that the goth kids and bohemians like to smoke? What do you have to thank for that acrid sweet smell that feels like it can peal off paint? Yup, clove oil. So noxious you're not supposed to inhale it. "Hey, doctor, my cigarettes aren't dangerous enough. What can I add?" "Why Timmy, just soak it in some clove oil, and you're sure to be coughing up blood in no time, like the other cool kids."

The drink burned, and not a pleasant zen burn that you get from wasabi or horse radish. Or the adrenaline rush burn of chili. No, it was a "holy shit, what the hell did I just drink" kind of burn. I don't recomend it, but then again I haven't gotten a cold or fever like half the people I know in the city. So who knows, maybe it does work. I did get a heavy buzz, though, which is never wrong.

Anyway, Madeliene May - yes I know I keep spelling it differently, I forget how and it's late and I have clove infused rum in my system - is recomended. A little expensive. I've learned that whenever you walk into a restaurant, a good way to calculate your bill is take the price of the entree and double it, which takes into account tax and tip and dessert and drinks. My bill was even bigger because I treated Dave. We had a bet going. Whoever gets lucky first, the other person buys. And, well, I owed him dinner. Which I think is the first time sex led to dinner and not the other way around.

Wow, I haven't posted in a while. To the people who read this regularly, I'm sorry. I've just been, first of all, too tired to write recently. And what energy I have to write, has been taken up by three writing projects. I'm almost done with a short film that Rene will be directing. And I was tinkering with Requiem in Blue, and sent it to two theatre companies - one rejected me already, but what the hell it was in Jersey, who wants to do Theatre there? The other expressed interest after Dave aka Producer Extraordinaire in training talked to the assistant literary manager about me.

My third project is a musical I am working on. Yeah, you heard me right. I am working on a musical. I think about ten years ago I declared that I hated musicals, to a theater department full of other people who hated musicals. But over the years I've softened and grown to . . . well, grudgingly admire them. And then I heardthe music to Spring Awakening, and saw Cabaret . . . and finally Dave introduced me to this phenomenal composer named Chris, and as they say one thing led to another. Only most of the time when one says "one thing led to another," it is followed by "we ended up having sex," or "now we're married." In my case, I followed "one thing led to another" with "working on a musical." Ah, it seems that is what my life is meant for.

In other interesting news, I once dated this girl for literally less than two weeks. I met her through her sister, who was going out with my cousin Francis. She and Francis got married and just had a baby, which means I am now in the very odd and slightly uncomfortable position of being related to one of my ex's. Awkward.

So I’m sitting at home, dead tired because I got no sleep the night before, trying to watch the ncaa championship. And I’m not enjoying it at all. Because for the first time, my uncle’s condition really sets in. I mean, I was aware of it, and sad, but tonight it really hit me emotionally. And of all things, it was because I made spaghetti for dinner, and I flashbacked to a time when he made spaghetti for me and my sister one new years eve. And that gets me going. Not breaking down and crying, just unable to enjoy anything. Because I’m thinking, anything that makes me enjoy myself, what’s the point when tragedy can hit. And how will I deal with my uncle passing away if it happens? I realize that I am totally unprepared for death, even though I’ve dealt with it before, but I don’t know if I can anymore, and I know I will have to.

Like I said, I’m not enjoying the game, so I change channels, and as luck would have it, there’s a documentary on PBS about Groucho Marx, someone whom I’ve always admired. And it’s talking about his life and all its ups and downs and all his achievements and not so great aspects of his life. And then at the end of the documentary, obviously, it talks about his death. And how people remembered him. And how towards the end he felt loved.

And this is going to sound mawkish or trite, but somehow living through this life on condensed form, through to the end, helped me somehow. I just suddenly saw death not as something tragic, but natural. It is a logical conclusion. One we don’t want to face, but a logical conclusion that is part of our lives. And once I accepted that – and I don’t know how Groucho Marx’s bio made this sink in – it’s . . . I don’t want to say better, I don’t want to say there’s anything good about someone passing away. I don’t know how to describe this, but I’m in a better place dealing with it. Maybe it was the fact that I saw that Groucho’s life meant something, not because he was famous but just because it was a life lived, and that because people remembered it and because he touched other people . . . I don’t know I’m having a hard time articulating this, partly because I’m not sure what I’m feeling.

I don’t know. I’ve still got a lot to learn. Right now, I just don’t know.

All I do know is that at one of the lower points of my life, Groucho Marx still made it possible for me to laugh.

So I got a call today, and my Mom is flying out to Taiwan on sunday to be with my uncle and family. It turns out things aren't so good after all. He is still in a coma, and there was so much damage to his heart that he will need a transplant. The kicker is that his body is too weak to undergo such a traumatic operation. So things don't look so good.

My mom was surprisingly calm on the phone. She called because, so she said, she wanted to tell me that I should rethink visiting home next week as we had discussed, as she will be gone till May. That's kind of typical for my Mom. I think when she really wants to vent, she talks to my sister.

Anyway, I'm worried for her. Mostly for her safety. And then for her emotional well being. And of course I'm worried about my uncle. My life is kind turned upside down right now. I feel like one tiny hammer could shatter my entire world. Minor frustrations are maginified, important things seem futile, and the day to day seems pointless. I don't mean that in a morbid way, just a "why do I care" kind of way. Not sure why I am reacting emotionally this way. The simple answer is the thought of mortality has made things seem unimportant. Or more likely, I'm emotionall and spiritually drained, and don't have the strength for much.

I'm sorry for the downer entry, but I needed to vent. And it's really hard to vent to the people I know in person - I don't want to bring people down and make them self conscious, don't want to burden them with having to try and make me feel better, though at the same time I'm appreciative. Aren't I complicated? Yeah.

Just a quick update, my Uncle is doing much better. Things weren't as bad as predicted. There are no signs of any brain damage. Doctors are however keeping him unconscious till he is strong enough to be awake and interact with people - not exactly sure how that works, but I have to take their word for it.

But thanks to everyone for their well wishes and thoughts and prayers. It was a stressful twenty four hours. I don't know if working helped or hindered - it kept my mind off of things and distracted, but at the same time it was hard to focus, and I felt like I was somehow doing something wrong by living life normally.

Well, really tired. Just worked an over night shift that last over thirteen hours. Peace and love.