We had a big-ass wind storm and it took down a huge pine tree in the neighbor’s yard. Here’s the view from our side.


It just happened to fall in the right direction (meaning, away from us). It wiped out his fence and fell against the garage. It’s currently resting along the length of his driveway.


The Daughters had to climb on and examine the damage. They thought it was “cool.” It wouldn’t have been so cool if it had fallen in the opposite direction. In that case, it would have crashed right into our dining room.


A branch raked a big hole into the wall of his garage. The gash looks like the hull of the Titanic, post iceberg.


The backstory is that less than six days prior to this, a construction company finished putting new siding on our house. It cost many x $1,000 and it really made me wonder about the science of chance and probability. All this tree had to do was fall in a different direction and we’d have had a major calamity on our hands.

Manly men doing mainly manly things

Last season I saw Lombardi, a play about legendary Green Bay Packers football coach Vince Lombardi. It was pretty great stuff but both Mrs. Wife and I couldn’t imagine who, other than myself, would be interested in both football and plays.

Well, Lombardi is an unexpected hit. The fact that the Packers won the Super Bowl was an unforeseen bit of good fortune. This might have encouraged the Producing Powers That Be because I just saw another drama that drips testosterone. This time, they’re mounting a production that doesn’t include any female characters! At least Lombardi’s wife was major role.


That Championship Season is still in previews and has not been reviewed yet, so I don’t know what I should think.

Just kidding. It was pretty great stuff. A championship-winning basketball team reunites and every one of them is living a deeply flawed life—especially the coach, who is supposed to be their moral compass and mentor. Anti-champions. There’s copious amounts of drinking—an amount that stretches credibility.

Keefer Sutherland plays against type as a milk toast junior high school principal. I’m not a huge Chris Noth fan—he tends to be kind of flat—but he showed some real fire. Stand-up comedian Jim Gaffigan embodies the soft victim. (Although, he couldn’t come up with real tears when the script called for it. I hate fake crying on stage. Amateur!) Brian Cox is a British national treasure. He’s never bad in anything. [He pulls off an authentic American accent. The next night, I saw him in the movie Red where he dons a convincing Russian accent. What a champ!]

Jason Patrick is also stellar. The added dimension is that this play was written by his father, Jason Miller. Imagine being on the big stage speaking dialogue that your father wrote. It’s a thrill that not many will experience. It’s a shame his dad isn’t alive to see it.

Trivia factoid: Sutherland and Patrick are reunited from the vampire film The Lost Boys, which my brother cleverly rechristened The Lost Boy Models.

Red hot MoMA: A photo essay

Were you expecting something salacious? Well you can forget it. This time.

Nothing will drive you stir crazy quicker than a three-day weekend in the middle of a cold, dark February. If you don’t get the hell out of the house you’ll be driven mad and you might start picking off your family.

I dragged everyone into the Museum of Modern Art for the afternoon. The Daughters are still too young to have any real appreciation for what they’re seeing—to them, there’s no difference between what they see at MoMA and a poster they’d see in a restaurant—but I’m trying to plant little seeds of corruption. Plus, I get in free with my corporate ID. A real value, since admission is up to $20 bucks per adult!

There’s a big, BIG Abstract Expressionist exhibit running through April 25th. I’m not a huge Abstract Expressionist fan, but it’s as important a gathering of these works as you’ll ever see under one roof in your lifetime, so it’s worth a visit.

The first thing I did was hit ’em with an uppercut—Marcel Duchamp’s readymade sculpture Bicycle Wheel. I tried to explain how anything can be art and that it’s all very subjective and in the eye of the beholder, etc., etc. Then I started to bore myself, had mercy on them, and kept my mouth shut.


There’s a long room with a Monet water lilies triptych along one wall. The museum cleverly set a bench in front of it so people could sit and zone out. It really does calm your nerves and makes you yearn for a mug of warm milk and honey.


“Mommy, is that woman drowning?”
“Because Brad broke her heart.”


I was standing off to the side and overheard 9-Year Old Daughter explain to 4-Year Old Daughter that the artist put the canvas on the floor and dribbled paint all over it. Muuhahaha! My work is almost complete.


There’s a room full of Mark Rothko’s work. I like him a lot. He has one painting that he did over and over and over again, but it’s a good painting! (Kind of like the Rolling Stones, who have been reworking that one song for decades.) I heard a story once that some of Rothko’s works are done on untreated canvases and are simply fading away and cannot be saved. Can anyone confirm that?


The museum is an exhausting experience. Even *I* get wiped out after a while! But I choose to think of this as their commentary on these goddamn Ad Reinhardt monochrome paintings. ZZZzzzzzzzzzzzz.


The most beautiful work of art is, of course, the city itself. I think the MoMA architects knew that and created these windows that look like picture frames.


New York City’s BEST doctor referral service

Foot pain?



Would you like to know where to get the best treatment for these and a host of other maladies? Just hop on the uptown IRT subway to 42nd street.


I find the snoring ad particularly effective. It can kill you! is so melodramatic.

The subways are a chocked-full of useful information. Get healthier. Forge ahead in your career or start a new one. Find a divorce attorney. Do any of you ex-New Yorkers remember Dr. Zizmor? A local icon. “You can have beautiful, clear skin!”

* * *

Just look at this poor bastard.


I took this in the theater the other night. It’s the Worst. Comb-over. Ever. He worked that pathetic little thing over and over, getting it in just the right spot.

I don’t think women have any idea how much some men suffer for their hair loss. Mine is prematurely graying, but I don’t care if it turns purple. As long as it doesn’t fall out. If it did, I’d embrace it and go bald.

Of course, I went to law school and took a law degree
And counseled all my clients to plead insanity
Then worked in hair replacement, swindling the bald
Where very few are chosen and fewer still are called

Then on to Monte Carlo to play chemin de fer
I threw away the fortune I made transplanting hair
I put my last few francs down on a prostitute
Who took me up to her room to perform the flag salute

Mr. Bad Example
Warren Zevon

Man, I’ll never write that well. Not many will.