My bride came into the city and we saw a play. We took our seats and chatted-up the two pretty, young girls sitting next to us. At one point, the girl sitting next to me and I locked eyes. That thing happened.

That thing.

The play started. Sitting just inches apart, I could feel the bright filaments.

At the play’s penultimate plot reveal, the audience gasped. She discreetly reached over and rested her hand on my arm. I don’t think it was premeditated. It was a genuine reaction to what was happening on stage. And that thing. I got woozy.

After the show, I gathered my stuff and *ran* out of the theater. I didn’t say goodnight. Things are going well for my bride and me. I don’t need that kind of noise in my life. And of all the noises that can haunt your waking hours, that’s a particularly loud one.

It never ends, does it? It can lie dormant for a long time but it’s never completely dead. It’s always there, waiting. Biology.

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The family dog—the one that has bit, snarled and lashed out at me for the past six years—has gone to that big dog pound in the sky. Or hell. Who knows? She was sitting on the sofa, rolled off onto the floor and couldn’t stand up. We rushed her to the vet. The doctor said it was likely a brain tumor, which might account for her aggression.

That was about a month ago. We recently got two cats. I’ve gone from being attacked and bloodied for no good reason to this:

They’re not bonded yet. Oliver wants to be best pals in the worse way but Alice isn’t having any of it. There’s some hissing and snarling, but she’s coming around.

He snuck up onto the chair while she was asleep just to be near her.

Not surprisingly, this little indiscretion work her up.

Boy, was she angry. You can’t just go up to a sleeping girl and sniff her lady parts and not expect to get smashed in the face when she wakes up. His clumsy attempts to connect remind me of your humble narrator in his formative years. Same suave elegance. Same success rate.

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The Chinese had a method of execution called Death by a Thousand Cuts that was banned in 1905. One cut won’t kill you. But 1,000 will, eventually. Bukowski has a great poem about how it’s not an atom bomb or a heart attack that kills a man, it’s a broken shoelace with no time left. The accumulation of small indignities until you finally crumble. Even Nietzsche spoke of slow death. The little things are starting to grind me to a pulp. Like this fool:

Or the woman on the rowing machine at the gym, rowing slowly with her left hand while texting feverishly with her right. Or an unwanted pheromone attack in a theater. I should ignore it all. I didn’t need that parking space or the rowing machine. I hate the rowing machine! Why do I give all the little nothings so much power over me?

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They are superior, photogenic animals.The light loves them.

Six years ago I published a book for Nick Hornby and Bruce Springsteen. There were 200 softcovers signed by Hornby and 26 hardcovers signed by both. I set the published price for the softcovers at $60 and the hardcovers at $225. A hardcover was sold yesterday at a literature auction in San Francisco. It’s the first time one has been offered on the open market since publication. It sold for $2,700.

In granting permission to reprint the copyrighted material, it was stipulated that all proceeds, labor and material had to be donated to charity. I ended up writing a check for close to $18,000 to Ambitious about Autism, a school for autistic children in London. The materials cost about another grand. The labor is incalculable.

This sale has opened a debate. My wife, mother-in-law and a few others feel the seller should send a donation to the charity. I think that’s baloney. The implication is that every time one of these books changes hands, a donation should be made. A contribution would be nice but I see the charitable donation as a one-time event. I feel no weight of obligation. Would you?

Here’s a post about the book. Scroll to the bottom for nice pics.

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Late commute back to New Jersey. 20-something-or-other shrew sitting next to me yammering to her boyfriend non-stop for forty minutes, spoiling my commuting bliss. Talking about nothing. She never took a breath or gave him a turn to speak. Who is this poor soul on the other end?

Foofy Bear. My Zen was harshed by Foofy Bear.

Guys: If your woman calls you Foofy Bear, run. Run as far and as fast as your feet and wallet will take you.

Girls: Don’t call your man Foofy Bear. It’s emasculating. Do you want an emasculated man?

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A new Broadway production of The Glass Menagerie was on my A-list for the spring season. It has an excellent pedigree. Sally Field plays Amanda Wingfield, the doppelgänger for Tennessee Williams’ demented mother. Directed by Sam Gold, another seasoned pro. I started to hear grumblings and disparaging remarks. I asked a pal the day after he saw it if it was worth my time + money. Here’s his unedited feedback for your amusement.

Glass Menagerie was every bit as awful as everyone says it is. Dreadful. Emotionally void. Modern dress. Virtually no set, except a kitchen table and a modern day phone. No Southern accents. And Laura is played by a disabled actress in a wheelchair whose face is somewhat paralyzed. Makes no sense in terms of the character and watching her get into and out of the chair is horrifying. She gets down on all fours and kind of backs in (with help). I was mortified.

Totally opposite of the beautiful play Williams wrote. Sam Gold, the director, who’s usually wonderful, should be embarrassed. However, the audience liked it and I bet the critics will gush. They wouldn’t dare criticize a disabled actor. Or such a minimal production.

The Gentleman Caller is excellent — what you can see of him, because his big scene with Laura is lit only by candles in a candelabra. And I liked Joe Mantello’s opening and closing monologues.

RT is 2:05 with NO intermission. For no discernible reason.

It’s, quite possibly, one of the worst things I’ve ever seen. I suggest you go, just to see how a classic play can be pulverized into meaningless trash.

IMHO, of course

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Guggenheim snowfall outside; Calder inside.

This blog is nine years old today.