This weekend marks the fifth anniversary of my idiot blog. If I’m being painfully candid (and what else can I be with a group of complete strangers?) I have to admit that I don’t have the healthiest relationship with my blog. Nuttycow, one of my original readers who has hung in with me all these years (I hope you don’t mind my quoting, dear) recently said in her comment section:

I tend not to worry about people’s thoughts on my blog. I write for me, when I need to, about things that I need to get off my chest. If people enjoy reading it, all the better. Don’t worry about what other people think—write what you want!

Are you kidding me?! I wish I was HALF as evolved as she is. The fact is, I burn too many brain synapsis obsessing over stats, page hits, comments and the like. I perform comparative analyses until I’m nauseous. Daisyfae, another original from Day One, has taken me to task offline on more than one occasion for this pointless and unhealthy exercise. But since my pathology is here to stay, I’ve decided to consider it part of my boyish charm.

My blog hasn’t always been such a great friend to me. It’s gotten me into trouble a few times. Anytime I’m in crisis mode, I shut down with the intention of never posting again. But three or four weeks will pass by and I’ll start formulating paragraphs in my head while on the subway. I’ll take a photo and ask myself, “What are you going to do with that? You’re not going to post it to your blog, are you?” And then I do.

Despite all that angst, do you know what? I love doing this. It’s important to me. Once in a great while I’ll cough-up a paragraph that’s so well-constructed and so beautifully articulates my point, that I’ll stare at my fingertips in amazement. How does it happen? I have no formal eduction beyond a diploma from a below-average high school. It’s a magic trick. And if you’ll pardon my saying so, I think some of my photos have genuine artistic merit. I live for those fleeting sparks. And if someone takes the time to post a comment? Or actually writes to me offline? That’s as good as my day will get. Where does this yearning for attention come from? Is it simply a part of the human condition or is it more complex than that? It’s a conundrum.

This blog has afforded me a few meet-ups. They’re great. If you get the chance, do it. Having New York City at my disposal helps. I love showing off this big, dirty, stupid, old town. It still feels like home to me, even after a decade of being unbearably banished.

So thank you for your attention. It means more to me than you can imagine. [He takes a bow and doffs his derby.]

Your ‘umble author + sprog

I was taking pictures of our neighbor’s beautiful white cat, Smudge, when, for absolutely NO REASON WHATSOEVER, Skippy walked into the frame and BIT HER IN THE EYE. It was an hilarious unprovoked attack. I could not stop laughing. Cats are the best.

On Friday nights, 11-Year Old Daughter and I watch that old 1960’s chestnut I Dream of Jeannie. It’s great! In Friday night’s episode, Tony went on a date. Jeannie got jealous and turned his date into a chimp. Oh, my God, we laughed! On Saturday nights we watch Batman. Last night, they did that bit where they’re climbing up the side of a building and a celebrity pops out of a window. This time, it was Jerry Lewis. I had to explain who he was. Man, I’m going to miss these evenings. I’ve got maybe another two years, max, and she’s not going to want to sit around with her old man on a Friday or Saturday night watching reruns of sitcoms from 45 years ago.

Recently 6-Year Old Daughter asked, “Dad, how come all the guys who play basketball on TV have brown skin?” I was stunned. I didn’t have an answer. I guess she’s right, but I wasn’t going to step on that third rail.

I recently posted some photos of Central Park after a snowstorm. I always limit the number of pics I post because I don’t want to turn my posts into a giant file dump. I wanted to post one more because I love the composition of this one so much. It’s hard to believe it’s the center of NYC!

In the interest of fairness and full disclosure I give you the following. I call it “Deck of Playing Cards in a Pile of Vomit Under an Ad for the Time Square New Years Eve Ball on 8th Avenue.”

I’m just trying to keep it real. Look…this is still New York City. Sometimes I think I wax a little too pastoral about this place.

British ex-Pat Emma [Who inexplicably left London for Baltimore. Baltimore. ?!?] invited me to enter her Spectacular Easter Limerick Competition. It’s no joke. The prize is a smooth, creamy, deluxe chocolate egg from Hotel Chocolat. I’m posting my entries here. If I don’t win the damn egg, at least I’ll have gotten a blog post out of it.

There once was a prophet named Christ.
On a cross he was soon sacrificed.
Will he come back
From being whacked
As a man or a poltergeist?

And in case that wasn’t offensive enough:

Hung on a cross by decree,
Romans pounded the nails in with glee.
Well, that really sucks.
I loaned him five bucks!
First resurrect, then repay me.

Happy Easter, Christian soldiers.

“That’s all you got. You got love and you got death. Death will find you…it’s up to you to find love. That’s where most people fall down at. Death got room for everybody. Love pick and choose. Now, most people won’t admit that. That’s cause love cost. Love got a price to it. Everybody don’t want to pay. They put it on credit. Time it come due, they got it on credit somewhere else. That’s what I learned all these years.”

August Wilson
Two Trains Running

Perhaps it’s because I heard those lines spoken by an accomplished actor who embraced the role. Simply reading them might not have the same impact. August Wilson was a fucking genius. He wrote a 10-play cycle, one for each decade of the 20th century, all centered on the black experience and all taking place in the same Pittsburgh neighborhood. And every one of them is great literature. Man, I’ll never write that well. It’s depressing. And I don’t mean metaphorically.

I’m a big Anglophile. Having been born in Cleveland instead of London is the greatest injustice inflicted against my person. And while my feelings towards the Royal Family can best be described as indifferent, I was put off by author Hiliary Mantel’s bizarre attack on the Duchess of Cambridge. Mantel is a brilliant writer, there’s no doubt. Her two books on Henry VIII are masterpieces that deserved all those awards. I can’t wait for the concluding volume of the trilogy. But calling Kate Middleton a “…shop-window mannequin with a plastic smile whose only role in life is to breed” is low class. I wonder what’s at the heart of Mantel’s loathing? Let’s explore a theory I have.

“…a jointed doll on which certain rags are hung…with no personality of her own, entirely defined by what she wore.”

You wanna play rough cupcake? Who’s dressing you? A rep from the Longshoreman’s Union?

Methinks Ms. Mantel is consumed with envy. Spend year after year writing about the Royals and eventually you’d probably want to be one. I’d sell my rotting soul for the kind of success she enjoys. She should be happy instead of tense.

Why the Academy didn’t ask me to vote: The rest of the lot.

Beasts of the Southern Wild. Didn’t see it. I have no idea what it’s about. Scary poster.

Les Misérables. I am reluctant to say anything negative. Their efforts were so sincere. Poor Anne Hathaway cut all of her beautiful hair off for the cause. She should get an anti-vanity award for that alone. But, I’m sorry. I never saw the musical and was unaware of how relentlessly dreary the plot is. And I couldn’t UNDERSTAND a word they were singing. It’s unintelligible. That’s been a reoccurring problem for me. I’ve always found lyrics difficult to decipher. It’s why for many years I thought Jimmy Hendrix was singing “Scuse’ me while I kiss this guy.”

Life of Pi. Loved it. I’ve heard some people grumbling about the ending but I completely bought into it. Unfortunately, about midway through, the 3D glasses started to feel like a giant hand clamped onto my face and the discomfort took me out of the story. I have to wear glasses in a theater, which means I had to put the 3D glasses over my regular glasses. What a pain! No more 3D movies for me.

Silver Lining Playbook. I don’t understand the supporting actor nominations for De Niro and Jackie Weaver. They were fine performances but nothing special. It was a little upsetting watching De Niro cry because he wasn’t a good daddy. Travis Bickle crying? Jake LaMotta crying? Bullshit. But Jennifer Lawrence and Bradley Cooper are accomplished, great actors with chemistry to spare. They’re the new Tracey/Hepburn. The new Bogie/Bacall. They should be forced at gunpoint to make more movies together. Loved it. Best Picture. Cooper is going to do a revival of The Elephant Man on Broadway. I can’t wait. Do you suppose they can get Lawrence to play Mrs. Kendal?

10,000 thank-yous to the lovely and eminently readable Madam Weebles for the generous invitation to be her first guest blogger. A much greater honor than she could possibly imagine. And, no, that’s not one of my witty sarcasms.