Tracy Letts won the Pulitzer Prize in Drama for “August: Osage County.” Hell, yes. It’s an insane, entertaining three hour ride. As soon as it ended, I wanted the cast to go back to the beginning and do it all over again. The Pulitzer committee also created a “Special Music Citation” for Bob Dylan. Isn’t the Pulitzer a writing prize? Primarily for journalism? Way to dilute your award, fellas. Perhaps next year they’ll create a special Reality TV Citation.

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After many, many weeks of painstaking research and due diligence, I finally bought a new laptop last night. I was primarily concerned with portability. Companies who manufacture six pound laptops have a lot of nerve calling them “portable.” Try walking nine blocks up and two Avenues over with that in your bag! Perhaps I need more upper body strength. Anyway, I selected the lightest laptop that HP makes. I was driving to the train this morning and on the 1010 WINS business report, they announced that HP is introducing a 9”, 2.5 pound ULTRA portable laptop today. I almost drove off a bridge. Hey you! Universe! Stop fucking with me, okay?!

I was given the following medical report from 6 year-old daughter:

“Doree had to go to the eye doctor and she said they put drops in her eyes that steamed like hot lava.”

OH, MY GOD! What kind of animal would do that to a child?! That’s what happened to the Nazi’s in “Raiders of the Lost Ark” who looked at the Ark of Covenant once it was opened. Their eyes melted. I’m going to report him to the AMA. That cruel bastard.

I walked into the Park Avenue Armory on Saturday afternoon for the ABAA Bookfair and I could have sworn I heard angelic voices singing from on high. Were my feet even touching the ground? I don’t recall. Without exaggerating, I could have easily dropped $30K. The fattest morsel there was as a signed first edition of “Wait Until Spring, Bandini” by John Fante for $8,500. There were also a few primo Graham Greene first editions and an inscribed copy of “The Curtains are Waving” by Bukowski for a measly $3,500. It is SO worth that much! Walking in a bookfair is no different than walking in a casino. Money becomes an abstract and something that’s not really measurable. If $100 fell out of your wallet, you’d be pretty upset, but if you dropped $100 at a craps table in 7 minutes, you’d simply go to the bar, get a quick bloody mary and try again later. Same thing with the bookfair. Is $3,500 really all that much to spend on a book? Not if its got a great contemporary inscription!

Here’s the dirty little secret that the rare book world doesn’t want out: a first edition of “On The Road” by Kerouac is probably the least rare rare book there is. If it’s so scarce, why do I see about a dozen copies at every bookfair I attend? And people pay THOUDANDS for that book! There’s not doubt about it; people are lemmings.

Unfortunately, I walked out of the Armory empty handed. I’m buying a laptop and that’s just too much to spend in such a short amount of time. When the hell did I become so responsible? Not too long ago, I would have made a few clandestine purchases and snuck them onto my bookshelves before Mrs. Wife knew what hit her. Take my word for it, it’s easy to do. I hope this trend stops immediately. I am a disappointment to myself. I miss my deviousness

What a day. I met Miss H. before the bookfair at a little coffee joint on 2nd Ave. and 68th St. She was boning up for her finals and needed the distraction that only a charmer like me can provide. After the fair I took a stroll. There were blue skies over Park Avenue and the sunshine poured down onto my bookless, happy ass. I walked about a dozen or so blocks down Park and looked into the windows of the mega-wealthy to steal decorating ideas. I’ve surmised that wealth is not necessarily an accurate barometer for good taste.

Take a look at this priceless photo of El Presidente surrounded by his fellow world leaders at the Nato conference in Bucharest. This is a man with no friends. I almost feel bad for him. B is convinced that he’s back to drinking. I can tell you that if I’m at a party and I’m being ignored by everyone, my first impulse is to quickly find a lubricant, so he might be right about that.

I saw a show last night. “The Conversation” at the 29th St. Rep. This is off-off Broadway at its offest. A climb up a noisy flight of stairs to a low ceiling uncomfortable cracker box theater located in the fur district. The 29th St. Rep has a proud tradition of producing aggressive, sometimes violent, plays. A few years ago I saw a show there that was a series of vignettes that were based on a book of short stories by Charles Bukowski. That show was quite enjoyable but this one was a fish and could use a trim.

It’s a stage adaptation of the 1974 Francis Ford Coppola movie starring Gene Hackman about a professional wiretapper. It’s a great premise with some great Hitchcockian twists at the end but, Lord, it was long. It wasn’t the actors fault. They were all fine. One girl took off her clothes and that’s always a big treat for me. [I’m always shocked to see nudity in a play. It wakes your ass up, that’s for sure! Last year I saw the Royal Shakespeare Company’s production of King Lear and in it, Sir Ian McKellen showed everybody his package. I almost wretched.] Towards the end of the first act, someone in the audience fell asleep and started to snore. That’s never a good sign. The same thing happened to me about a month ago when I saw a show at The Public. It’s so embarrassing! It was pretty dull stuff, but it still beat the hell out of a night in front of the TV.

Beforehand I ate at the Molly Wee on 30th St. and 8th Ave. It is operated and patronized by Irish ex-pats. What a beautiful accent! I had a big bowl of Irish lamb stew that was so delicious I had a dream about it last night. I had a big tumbler of Dewar’s as well and CB told me enviable stories about his trip to Tokyo.

It’s a different crowd on NJ Transit at that hour of the night. Instead of the slow-shuffling-dead-end-job-shoot-me-now-commuting zombies, the train is overrun with drunken animals carrying bags of fast food that stink up my car.

Speaking of…A friend of mine insisted that I try the Angus burger at McDonald’s so I had one for lunch at that filthy McD’s on 42nd and Lex. It was meat-a-licious, despite the fact that the restaurant smelled like mop bucket slop. About an hour later I felt like I ate an entire heard of cattle. At this point, most people would throw in the towel and say, “I’ll never eat one of those again!” but not me. I’m no quitter! Line ‘em up, baby. Urp. My poor colon.