11:00pm: An Easter Fable
She made her way into this world on a cold and windy Easter Sunday 1899, in Papert, Armenia, and was named Ovsanna (Hosanna) to commemorate the holy day of her birth. She inherited a turbulent, turn-of-the-century Central Europe that exacted a heavy toll on a young life: the Turkish Government’s Armenian genocide of 1915 claimed much of her family, the Russian Revolution claimed her first husband and infant child, and she was raped by Russian soldiers. But she survived, and made her way to Bridgewater, Mass., where she met and married my grandfather. And because time and turbulence had erased the memory and records of the actual date of her birth, that celebration was held each year on Easter Sunday. (Now we have calculators and software, not to mention the U.S. Naval Observatory, which advises that Easter Sunday in 1899 fell on April 2.) She is a worthy subject of remembrance not because she was my grandmother (although certainly in addition to that), but because she was a member of a very rare club here on Earth Disco, a kind soul and gentle spirit who touched everyone who knew her with warmth and compassion. My favorite memory of “Mom” (as we and nearly everyone called her) is not about something she did or said. It is about how she affected the people who knew her, as evidenced by the following true incident involving a young boy and a New York City cop:

I grew up on Long Island, but spent every summer here in the city living with Mom in her Kips Bay apartment, the south tower on 30th and 2nd. There was another young kid living in the building, and because time has erased his name from my memory we shall suffice to call him Shorty. We used to play handball on the back wall of the Kips Bay Cinema (still there after all these years), and meet Mom in the playground where she would invariably be babysitting some neighbors’ children. She would give each of us a quarter, and we would sprint around the corner to the Grand Union to snap up flavored Dannon yogurts (at a quarter @), vying amid the spoon-stirring and the summer swelter to see who could make his last the longest. (Every day or two Mom would give me a dollar to run down and get myself four of those little bad-boys, so the ‘fridge was always well-stocked.)

Anyway, one day in Shorty asked me if we had any eggs.
“Eggs?” I said, wondering what the heck he was talking about.
“Yeah, eggs,” he said, stepping onto the elevator.
“What are we gonna do with eggs?” I asked, following him in as he pressed the button for the eighth floor, where Mom’s apartment was situated. He gawked at me like I was wearing a clown costume.
“Chuck ‘em off the roof!” he said, as though it should have been obvious.

Now the roof of Kips Bay is somewhere on the order of twenty-two stories, or more, and I can remember being pretty intimidated the first time Shorty brought me up there to hang over the retaining wall. But being a tree-climber from the Island it didn’t take too long for me to acclimate to the height, and before long I was dangling my legs over the edge, hanging onto the rebar that was left extruding from the concrete wall at the corner.

Well, so I grabbed a couple of eggs from our ‘fridge, and we stopped on the fourteenth floor and Shorty did the same, and when we got up to the roof Short Stuff leaned over the north wall, overlooking the downstairs lobby and the courtyard connecting to the North Tower. He let it go and we watched as Newton’s Law of Gravity (an historic figure also born on a holy day—Christmas of 1642 for those of you with a sense of history) escorted the thing down to the tile walkway that skirted the exterior of the lobby around the whole building.
“Whoa!” he cried.
“Lemme go,” I said, holding my egg over the edge and letting fly. But as we watched it drop we saw the front of a shoe walk into the picture from beneath the overhang in the lobby below, and then a cuff and a leg and the rest of the blue uniform as the cop walked toward the shattered egg that Shorty had dropped. We must have collectively gasped, because he was walking directly into the path of my egg, still on the way down, and it landed not a foot from his foot, splattering all over his leg. We jumped, but continued to watch as he looked up at us, pointing his nightstick.
“Don’t move!” he called up, and quickly disappeared into the lobby of the building.

Well, any self-respecting, egg-inspired, adolescent rooftop bombardier would sit right where the good officer had told him to sit. NOT! Hell, any city kid half worth his salt would have known he had plenty of time insinuate himself out of that particular jam before that particular cop could get to the roof. We could easily have disappeared onto one of the floors, gone into our apartments, or even pass him going down in a different elevator and run out the building as he was getting to the roof. He could have watched us run shaken his night stick some more.

Well, but I wasn’t a self-respecting, street-smart city kid, I was just a green kid from the Island, so when this NYPD cop shook his night stick at me and told me to stay put, I stayed put. It didn’t stop me from offering some wise cracks--nervous energy--to this cop I’d nearly creamed with a flying projectile at 22 stories, I mean he—or anyone else who may have wandered into the path of that thing—could have been seriously hurt. Ah, what's a 10 year old kid know.
“Hey, kid, you got a pretty smart mouth, you want a J.D. card?”
Hell, I didn’t know what that was.
“Sure, I’ll take one’a them,” I deadpanned. Real smartass at 10, don’t you know.
“Do you know what a J.D. card is?” the officer asked, trying to give me some room to back out of this mess, or either enough rope to hang myself.
“No,” I sheepishly admitted.
“Well, it’s a ‘Juvenile Delinquent’ card, and you don’t want one, now take my word on it,” he said. “Where do you live?” he wanted to know of each of us, and when I told him I was staying with my grandmother he said “Mrs. Peters, that sweet, kind woman who babysits in the playground!” Well, I had to admit that I was, indeed, the grandson of that sweet, kind woman. “You should be ashamed of yourself,” he said to me. “That woman is a saint, and she deserves better from you. Now you boys get down off here, and don’t let me catch you up here again.”

And that was it, he let us go. But about two weeks later I was walking into the building with Mom and my Aunt Jan and her dog Patch when we ran into the same cop, still walking his beat, and coming out of the lobby.
“Hello Mrs. Peters,” he said to Mom, and likewise greeted Aunt Jan and Patch, which he knew by name as well. My heart was racing when Mom began to introduce me to him, I knew for sure he was gonna tell her about my little egg toss.

But he didn’t.

He reached down and shook my hand like he’d never laid eyes on me before. “Any grandson of Mrs. Peters must be a fine young man,” he said with a wink and a smile.
“Oh, he is,” Mom agreed, tousling my hair, and then he tipped his NYPD cap and said good-day to us and that was the end of it. He never said a peep.

Oh, and I never, even at that young age, thought for a second he did it for me. It was for Mom, because she was every bit of that sweet, kind woman, who exuded consideration and compassion for all people, alike, and he didn’t want to worry or trouble her over a kid who was just being a kid, and who would, hopefully, learn enough from such a fine woman to have half a shot at turning into a decent human being. Well, today is Easter Sunday, and Tuesday is April 2, so here's to a peaceful woman who suffered the hardships this world dished out with grace and dignity, and left us too soon for a more peaceful world in December of '66. Happy Birthday, Mom, we still miss you. Every Easter and every day.

9:27pm: Conference Realignment
[PILGRIM putts out at the 4th hole and waves his compadres over.]
PILGRIM: Just got a wire from my manager, fellas. Seems while he was busy bustin' out the css code for some kinda dumb-ass embossed image of me at the top of the hill there was all kindsa sh_t bustin' loose at the League office.
BARNES: League?
PILGRIM: Yes, Barnes, our Touch Football League, we play every weekend.
SLICE: Guess you missed your game this week, being here with us in Paradise, I mean?
PILGRIM: That's just it, we have a bye this weekend.
BARNES: Bye?
SLICE: Bye?
PILGRIM: Are you guys leaving?
BARNES: What's a bye?
PILGRIM: A bye, Barnes, is a week when we don't have a game scheduled--a week off.
BARNES: Well, you couldn't have played anyway, you're over here this week.
PILGRIM: Just so. But my manager is fiddling with his idiotic weblog while Rome's burning.
BARNES: Rome's?
SLICE: Yes, Barnes, I read about him, a smugass sports journalist whose confusion between quarterback and tight end once got him bounced off the stage quite unceremoniously.
BARNES: I didn't see that?
SLICE: Well, but you are blind, Barnes.
PILGRIM: Yes, but what I am talking about is that the League is holding a special session to iron out a proposed realignment.
SLICE: Realignment? Of the whoke league? Will that affect your team, Pilgrim?
PILGRIM: No way of telling; our division is the Northeast Conference. The division with all the unrest is in the Mideast Conference. I just got word the taco wars have begun, and one team has taken the other head coach hostage.
BARNES: Hostage?
SLICE: Well, they really just isolated him in the locker room so his team cannot prepare for the contest, but I don't see as they had much choice. This other team's fans were out there throwing $1 tacos at everybody.
BARNES: Well, but you can't blame him for the actions of his fans, can you, Pilgrim?
PILGRIM: Maybe not, Barnes, but there is a general concensus he could have done much more to stop the unnecessary salsa-shed. He never even denounced it.
SLICE: The fans must look to their head coaches for guidance.
PILGRIM: Just so. Plus they used up all the tacos and beer, now we'll have to eat cake.
BARNES: Oh, I hate when that happens.
SLICE: I have never known it to stop you, Barnes, from partaking.
PILGRIM: You mean between that and nothing...
SLICE: Yes Pilgrim, he certainly takes the cake.
PILGRIM: Ouch.
BARNES: Tell me, Pilgrim, why so much animosity between these teams?
PILGRIM: Well, no one really knows anymore, Barnes, it started so long ago. All we really know about it is that lace up their left cleats first, then their right, and the other teams lace up their right cleats first, and then the left.
SLICE: THAT is the basis of their discord?
PILGRIM: Well, I guess there's more to it than that, but not a whole lot more, they're just different than the other guys, and they have different beliefs.
SLICE: You would think it would take a lot more than that to cause this kind of of rancor and turbulence within the division?
PILGRIM: Oh no, it doesn't hardly take a sneeze before these guys will be throwing tacos across the locker rooms. Shame, too; they're always so busy fighting they no longer enjoy the game; it's not a playing field anymore, it's a battlefield.
BARNES: Well, it sounds like you did the right thing getting out of that place and joining us over here on your short sabbatical.
PILGRIM: Yes, it's been a nice little break from the rigors of reality.
SLICE: And too, with any luck they will resolve this thing before too long.
PILGRIM: Well, even if they do, it won't make any difference; baseball season opens on Monday...

-CURTAIN-

9:00pm: Don't Mess With My Holiday
One of my strictest rules is never to discuss politics or religion, and I never break this rule. Which is a good thing, since this weekend finds various religious groups celebrating Easter and Passover. Since I am areligious, the only holiday I will be celebrating this weekend is BYE, a traditional celebration observed only by strict practicioners of the Touch Football sect of Saturday Morning Scrubs (the Saints are in the Sunday league). It is a longstanding tradition, time-honored and revered, and represents the hallowed observance of the Bye week, which for the unconfirmed, uninitiated or uncaring means we get the week off, no game, no early to bed/early to rise; no meeting at Mo's at 9:15 a.m. for the shuttle-S.U.V. out to Randall's Island to run, jump, skid, slide, guffaw, flounder and flail in the mud and wind and cold. A Bye week, a week with no game, a day off, a day of rest, to reflect upon the bodily harm we will not incur this weekend. Bye is a true sportsman's holiday, and I will celebrate it with the vigor, respect, and tradition it deserves. But I am a little worried about the example the pros are setting out there for us amateurs.

Please note that as we observe our annual celebration of Bye we will not be nailing anyone to a cross or detonating 40 lbs. of C4 worn about our personal torsos in an attempt to maim, mutilate, penalize, forfeit or otherwise invalidate the life expectancies or gridiron prowess of those players who do not likewise celebrate a Bye week. I figure everyone's entitled to their own beliefs; if they don't get a Bye then that's fine, more beer and $1 tacos (the longstanding, traditional Bye fare) for us. [Well, for my teammates, actually, who know that Red Bull is the strongest thing I've been drinking lately, and that one $1 taco is my limit, but I will consume said energy beverage and power pita with gusto, people, and without Byas, rankor, disfavor, or prejudice against any individual who does not likewise observe the traditional celebration of Bye.]

I do worry about the others out there, those who may not be celebrating a Bye this weekend; those who don't believe in Bye, who play football each and every weekend, and who can not or will not celebrate this restive holiday with the restive of us. I worry they may be lurking in the shadows, sulking in the corners of bars where we hold our Bye celebrations. Maybe they will they strap $1 tacos to their personal torsos, pour beer over their heads and converge upon us, catching us off-guard as we hoist our frothy mugs. Perhaps they will smother us with hugs, crushing $1 tacos to our personal bodies and soaking us with flat beer? It could happen, people, there are football fanatics out there. And the rest of the world is not exactly setting a sterling example, you will admit, but I never discuss politics or religion so you ain't heard this from me. All I can say is that we ought to learn to live and let live. Celebrate our traditions and let others celebrate theirs. If the rest of football feifdom doesn't suffer us our Byes then all the rules are gonna change, and all bets are off. No more touch football in that case...we'll be playing tackle the next time we meet. And then what, an all out war? Foodfight at the fifty-yard line? We'll be heaving $1 tacos across the field at each other before the coin toss and kickoff. Hey, it's all fun and games until somebody loses an eye. But with our luck it will be one of the refs, and in this league we need all the help we can get.

9:04am: Billy Wilder: His Films Are Unforgettable
There must be some good news out there today, but if so it's not being reported. Must be it's classified, and for all of my addiction to the NYTimes--call me crazy--I never touch the classifieds. And there's plenty of bad news, most of it happening in the middle east, and there are many outlets for a review of those events. But if you like films, and have ever seen a great one, chances are good it was written, produced and directed by Billy Wilder, who died Wednesday night at the age of 95. Here are two links that will recap this brilliant refugee's cinematic career, which spanned six decades, at his peak dominated the 40's, 50's and 60's, and earned Wilder 21 Oscar Nominations and 6 statuettes. He had a wry sense of social satire that served to create some of the most memorable films ever made.

His films include "Double Indemnity" (1944), "The Lost Weekend" (1945) (Best Picture, Best Director, Best Screenplay [co-authored with Charles Brackett]), "Sunset Boulevard" (1950) (Best Screenplay), "Ace In The Hole" (1951) [also known as "The Big Carnival" and a personal favorite of mine, starring Kirk Douglas as a newspaper reporter in a small town, exploiting the plight of a man trapped in a cave to create headlines], "Stalag 17" (1953) a masterpiece, "Sabrina" (1954), "The Seven Year Itch" (1955) including that classic shot of Marilyn above the subway grate!, "The Spirit of St. Louis" (1957), "Love In The Afternoon" (1957), "Witness for the Prosecution" (1957), "Some Like It Hot" (1959) perhaps his best, and one of the greatest comedies ever made, Jack Lemmon and Tony Curtis evading gangsters by masquerading as women traveling with an all-female band, "The Apartment" (1960) another masterpiece, (Best Picture, Best Director, Best Screenplay), "One, Two, Three" (1961), "Irma la Douce" (1966), "The Fortune Cookie" (1966), "Avanti!" (1972), "The Front Page" (1974) [a remake of the 1931 original and the 1940 "His Girl Friday"], and "Buddy Buddy" (1981), Wilder's last film.

Here is a more extensive Billy Wilder Filmography, as well as this very comprehensive obit in theNew York Times. He has left us a rich legacy in twenty-five installments, and we will watch them again and again.

10:57pm: No Money Down
[PILGRIM, SLICE and BARNES stroll along the third fairway when a cell phone disrupts the tranquility of the moment. All three rummage through their pockets, and PILGRIM finally retrieves the offending device at the bottom of his frisbee-golf bag. He hangs up without answering and returns the phone to his bag.]
SLICE: Closed for the weekend there, Pilgrim? What's up wit dat?
PILGRIM: Oh, yeah, wrong number...phone sex.
BARNES: Phone sex?
PILGRIM: Yes, Barnes; I get it all the time, I recite some random numbers into the phone and they talk to me like I'm the Mac-Daddy. Religious fanaticism and depraved commercial telemarketing: it's hard to figure you folks out, I'll give you that much in a shoe box.
BARNES: We're not exactly models of social behavior, here, Pilgrim.
SLICE: I would settle, Barnes, for social behavior.
[The phone rings again.]
SLICE: Better answer it, Pilgrim, it may be your tour guide calling with a new agenda.
PILGRIM: No doubt, Cahuna.
[He talks for several minutes before returning to his hosts.]
PILGRIM: Sheesh! That was a girl, too, and a wronger number than the last.
BARNES: How so?
PILGRIM: This girl I used to know, I worked with her for a couple of weeks three years ago, and helped her out of a jam I guess, let her crash at my crib for a while. Anyway, I see her from time to time, but she's back and forth to the home country, you know, and I haven't seen her in a year or so. Anyway, she stops into work last week, just before I sailed for Shangri-La, here, and says she's back in town, do I know of an apartment she can rent.
SLICE: "Apartment?"
BARNES: What's that?
PILGRIM: It's real estate, Barnes, you pays your money and takes your chances.
BARNES: Wha...?
PILGRIM: Forget it, Barnes, it's not important. Thing is, I don't know of any apartments, I can't help her, you know, and I can't put her up at my place again, I'm not very good with houseguests, anymore, Barnes. Set in my ways, you know, confirmed bachelor and bohemian squallor and the like...
SLICE: Go on...
PILGRIM: So that was her again, only this time she's calling from some landlord's office, seems she's found a peach of an apartment, her and her roommate, and all they need is someone to co-sign the lease, would I be willing?
BARNES: Co-sign?
PILGRIM: Some creative legal dovetailing, Barnes, the hazel-hatchery of the deal someone once called it. Means if they fly the coop or burn the place down I'm responsible for the rest of the rent owed from now until the cows come home, legal fees, locksmith, moving and storage, and flu shots. That kind of thing can really break the bank, Barnes. For someone like me it's in the 'No-Can-Do' category. Hell, I sold the farm just to buy my way here; I don't even have a ticket back if you need to know the truth.
SLICE: Well, the truth doesn't really apply around here, in case you haven't noticed, Pilgrim.
BARNES: Not that I ever heard of.
PILGRIM: Well, you may be right. But here's a truth for you: if they run a credit check on me or any of my several aliases, a/k/a's, or last known addresses they'll close up shop and run for the hills before they let me co-sign for a slice of moldy bread, no offense there, Slice-Man.
SLICE: None taken.
BARNES: But what will she do?
PILGRIM: Her? What she has always done, I guess: find some guy to move in with until the storm blows over or she gets a job or finds a better apartment or a better guy.
SLICE: Opportunism.
BARNES: Trechery.
PILGRIM: No boys, it's a little bit of both, we call it sex appeal, and it pretty much runs the works where I come from. Got one guy I know of elected and impeached, practically in the same breath.
BARNES: Sex appeal?
PILGRIM: Yes, Barnes, sex appeal. It may not be any safer than your fanaticism over here, but it's a hell of a lot more enjoyable.
BARNES: Where can I get me some sex appeal, Pilgrim?
SLICE: Be careful, Barnes, you cannot defend what you cannot see...
PILGRIM: See? Sex appeal? Oh, you cannot see it, Barnes.
BARNES: Of course not, I'm blind, remember?
PILGRIM: Yes, but it is not because you are blind, Barnes, it is because you are a sheep.
-CURTAIN-

10:10am: Write On
Just writing today, working on n1 and ss1, and reading some Camus (The Myth of Sisyphus) and the old standby NYTimes, with a short break to post new sports and music trivia questions on the Happy Hour Webisode.

There is more news of death and destruction in the middle east, suicide bombings and political discord. I sometimes envy Pilgrim and Barnes their respective naivete and blindness (why not, what the hell, they inherited them from me). But my personal credo (bartender's prerogative and self-preservation) is to avoid all discussion of politics and religion, so I will steer clear of these and leave them to the infernal blathering of Pilgrim and Co., when they next make their appearance in these pages.

There is sunshine and a nice temperature of 53 degrees here in Manhattan, so I will break for now and finish my few pushups and situps (physical counterparts to offset the mental calisthenics that dominate of the remainder of the day), and stretch and get outside for a nice run. As usual I will try to post a more thought-provoking supplemental entry later tonight when the day has had a chance to paint me with some aspect of its charm--or devilry--and these days one has no way of knowing until it comes to pass.

12:20am: 2X2s (...day)
I'm always a day or two late in getting to the Times, but here are two nice articles from Tuesday's Times, a book review from the Arts section and a tasty little tidbit from the Science Times.

First is Michiko Kakutani's review of Richard Flanagan's third novel, GOULD'S BOOK OF FISH (A Novel in 12 Fish). Flanagan's first two books, "Death of a River Guide" and "The Sound of One Hand Clapping" were well-received, both commercially and critically, and the opening line of Kakutani's review is tempting and provocative: "Gould's Book of Fish" is a novel about fish the way "Moby-Dick" is a novel about whales, or "Ulysses" is a novel about the events of a single day." Kakutani places this author, or at least this book, in lofty company. He writes great reviews, too, whether glowing or unfavorable, and this one is no exception so check it out if you've the time and inclination:A Reborn Criminal Distills Beauty From a Prison's Abominable Depths.

Next case: the Science Times, also Tuesday, and the following little morsel about a two relative states that Keats found indistinguishable in Ode on a Grecian Urn:

'Beauty is truth, truth beauty, -that is all
ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.'

Not so fast, whiplash breath, here's another spin on that age-old conundrum, exposed on a quaint little tour through Einstein's playpen (with a stop along the way at Dirac's estate). A little heady, but interesting, informative, and thoughtful; have a looksee:
The Most Seductive Equation in Science: Beauty Equals Truth.

Matter of fact I liked it so much I borrowed this month's Quote of the Month from the piece, a nice little thought from the genius of the ages, and you can see it on the sidebar to the right if you've got the notion.

12:29am: No Showers, No Laundry
It's been raining two days straight here in Manhattan, and more water than we've seen here in the city in some time. Meanwhile, Maine's as dry as Carrie Nation's liquor cabinet, narry a drop since before Prohibition, to read the papers, and sets me to thinking of J.U.M.P. I grew up in Maine, and still vacation there when I can. Late August is the best time, the days are hot but mosquito season's over, the nights are quite cool, and my good friend David has a camp on Crescent Lake up in Raymond, and he is most generous about lending it to me when it's available, as it was last August.

There were four of us this year, our first annual J.U.M.P. festival (Just Us Men Please), nothing more than an overblown excuse for the four of us (Duncan, Rand, Ian and me--Mello couldn't make it Down East from San Jose this time) to get out to the wilderness with our fishin' rods and frisbee-golf discs. Every morning Ian and I would be up by 7 for a strong cup of Joe before manning the little outboard for a morning of fishing. We brought fly rods and spin-casters, changing as often as the wind, and motored to one side of the lake and then another, looking for the quiet pools where the hatch was landing and the bass and trout rising. We didn't catch much, and always released what we did catch, having neither the desire nor the inclination to disturb the delicate balance of nature any more than our being there had already accomplished. The pleasure is not in the catching but in the fishing, the quality time spent with good friends. Hell, just drifting along in the boat, tying a new fly onto my leader and shooting the breeze with Ian was worth the price of admission (which thanks to my good friend David was nill).

By the time Ian and I drifted back into camp it was 11:30 or noon and Duncan and Rand were up and about. Usually Dunc was out jogging on the dirt paths surrounding the lake, and we'd all meet back around noon for a shot and a beer, and the first of what was usually no less than 2 rounds of frisbee golf on the course Rand and I laid out our first afternoon there. We started out in front of the camp, the tall maple across the road was the first hole, a par 2 but makable in one. From there the next two holes were straight down the path, a telephone pole half-way down on the left, the large Oak at the very end of the path. Turn right from there and up the hill: a tree, a pole, a rock. What was it Thomas Wolfe wrote in the epigram to Look Homeward, Angel: "...a stone, a leaf, an unfound door; of a stone, a leaf, a door. And of all the forgotten faces...O lost, and by the wind grieved, ghost, come back again."

Well, I don't think he ever played a round in his life, but he could write better than anyone ever played frisbee-golf, so we won't judge him too harshly on that account. Anyway, the four of us would play a round; Duncan might drop out after the first nine, opting for the beach and the sun with a good book, a Walkman, and that odd little pipe of his. Rand and Ian and I would play until darkness gathered up our vision and sent us back to camp, unable any longer to sight our targets. At night we would shower and shave, and then barbeque some dinner or drive to Naples for fresh lobster and corn on the cob. Afterward, Jack and Cokes back at the camp, playing guitar and chess out on the porch, just kicking back and shooting the breeze. At some point one of us would carry a spin-caster out to one of the docks and that was the best time to catch a large-mouth bass, right off the docks after sundown.

Well, it was a small step for a man, a great J.U.M.P. for four friends. That was the last week of August; we all returned home on September 1st, Labor Day Weekend, and 10 days later the towers collapsed and the shine came off the apple. A stone, a leaf, a door...

I look forward to the second annual JUMPfest come late August, but only if they get some rain up there, to fill the wells and reservoirs, and jumpstart the showers and laundromats. Don't get me wrong, it's not that we need to take showers and wash our clothes when we're out for a week of camping and fishing, but after a vigorous round of frisbee-golf everyone else will want us to.

1:51am: Bohemia Redux On The Upper East Side
Long day, abrupt rebirth at 8am for another bout with the challangers: a bottomless pit of manuscripts which shall herewith remain nameless, but whose most promising contenders we may occasionally refer to as ss1, ss2 and n1, n2, etc., with a little fun avec Pilgrim and Co. tossed in between rounds (a welcome distraction if you happen to find yourself writing serious invectives through a glass darkly--an avocation which I strongly recommend to no one.)

Happy Hour at Mo's Caribbean as usual, a typical Monday Happy Hour--as Neil Young described "Don't Let It Get You Down" on 4 Way Street, "...starts off kind of slow and then fizzles out altogether." Actually it picked up nicely toward the end, but the true virtue of every Monday shift is the aparatif, a misnomer considering the JazzMonday shift in the Havana Room is longer than Happy Hour out at the front bar, but then a good snifter of cognac may last longer than the appetizer, entree, and dessert combined, if it is a good cognac. And a good cognac we do, indeed, have in the Havana Room on Monday nights: Doug White and the Juniper Record All-Stars. Now here is a tenor sax magician the likes of which you are not likely to hear any time soon. (If you live in New York I invite you to come sample his musical wizardry any Monday nite in the Havana Room. If not, you may order his cd's thru Juniper Records.)

And, we had a great crowd tonight, Karen brought Jules, Joanie, Leif and the gang; Marco brought a cadre of friends, family and walk-in business, Gary Wiatric stopped by to say hello after an absence of many moons (during which time his newborn -Ian- was busy teaching him to change diapers), and Denver transplant Andy found his way back to the Havana Room. Sasha sang (a special treat, always), and everybody had a great time, to be sure. So, a long shift, a short post, wide open down the middle of the field, a good throw, easy catch...touchdown.

Back tomorrow with more lowbrow hijinx.

1:36am: The Acadamy Rewards
PILGRIM putts out at the eighth hole (a large maple at the top of a rise), sending a low, flat disc in a straight line toward the base of the tree, where it hits and drops.
PILGRIM: That's a three. [Scores his card, picks up his disc and wipes it off with the chamois cloth tied to his bag before sliding it in and extracting the driver.]
BARNES: Nice putt, Pilgrim.
PILGRIM: Yes, Barnes; Thank-you, Barnes. Nobody on the course tonight, might be we can play 36?
BARNES: Yeah, everyone's holed up in their living-rooms, mulling over the Oscars.
SLICE: No pun intended, Barnes?
BARNES: Wha...?
PILGRIM: Yo, Slice, what's the Oscars?
SLICE: The Acadamy Awards, grasshopper: Best Actor, Best Picture...
PILGRIM: Wha...?
BARNES: You know, the movies.
PILGRIM: Movies? Nah, never heard of it, what's it all about?
[He sets his bag down and approaches the tee, sizing up the 9th fairway, just a horse-and-buggy path between two rows of tall poplars. The hole is a large boulder to the side of the clubhouse, which itself is just a couple of rocks forming a circle and suitable for sitting.]
BARNES: Motion Pictures, Pilgrim, feature films, lights-cameras-action?
PILGRIM: I'm drawing a blank here, fellas.
SLICE: Well, suffice it to say that it is a creative medium, based mainly in Hollywood, and the Acadamy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences annually presents statuettes of their mascot (scary little guy named "Oscar") to those it deems the best in each of many categories.
BARNES: I haven't seen any of the pictures yet.
SLICE: Yes, Barnes, you are blind.
PILGRIM: But he can watch them...
BARNES: I'm glad Denzel won.
SLICE: He certainly is deserving.
PILGRIM: Are you suggesting there have been winners who were not as deserving as other contenders?
SLICE: That has never been known to happen, so far as I can recall...
BARNES: And Halle Berry, but I didn't see that movie.
SLICE: It seems the Acadamy has opened the doors to its tidy little club a bit wider this evening.
PILGRIM: Wha...?
BARNES: African-Americans, they never win Oscars, especially in the main categories. But they got a bunch tonight.
SLICE: Yes, Barnes, and it's about time, one would think.
PILGRIM: What's an African-American, the travelogue said it was all just human beings over here?
BARNES: Ahh, well, that's true, we are. But there are a lot of people out there who have rules about which kind of human this and which kind of human that. It's all very confusing.
SLICE: Yes, Barnes.
PILGRIM: Okay boys, point me toward Hollywood, must be I gotta get out there and collect me some of them little statues. Hey, am I African-American?
BARNES: I can't tell...
SLICE: Because he's blind, Pilgrim.
PILGRIM: Hell, then whyn't they just let him judge the Acadamy Rewards from now on?
SLICE: Might be you're onto something there, Pilgrim.
BARNES: Yea, but I don't wanna sit through fifty-million movies every year.
SLICE: Relax, Barnes, none of the voting members ever watch any of the films...
-CURTAIN-

12:27am: The Sentence Meter

A properly drafted sentence should contain a subject and predicate, be only as long as is reasonably required to convey an entire, self-contained thought to its reader in as concise a manner as possible, leaving little or no leeway for unwanted inferences or interpretations, and adhering to sound principles of grammer and composition.
[X] TRY AGAIN

A well-crafted sentence should have subject and predicate, be only as long as necessary to convey its entire message as concisely as possible, leaving minimal room for stray interpretations while maintaining proper stylistic parameters.
[X] TRY AGAIN

A good sentence should have a subject and verb, convey its full message concisely, without unintended references, and within proper guidelines.
[X] TRY AGAIN

A sentence should have subject and verb, convey an entire message concisely, no frills, no spills.
[X] TRY AGAIN

Actor, action, short and sweet. Wait, dammit...
[X] TRY AGAIN

Subject verb. Oh hell.....
[X] TRY AGAIN

Ahh, f__k this s__t!
[O] CONGRATULATIONS, YOU HAVE CONSTRUCTED A PROPER SENTENCE.

3:00pm: 'Nother Publication
Stopped to snitch the mail on the way to work this afternoon and found an acceptance letter from Prarie Winds Literary Journal, which will publish my short story "Knowledge and Illusion" in the 2002 issue, due out at the end of April. When the story is published I will reprint it on my Fiction Page (also linked on the sidebar) and you can either read it there or contact me for a copy of the journal.

1:41pm: A Socratic Primer

Dramatis Personae:
SLICE: A Local Clairvoyant;
BARNES: A Blind Sheep, with tabloid folded under one arm;
[ENTER PILGRIM: A Wandering Seeker]

SLICE: Look, over the horizon, comes now a gypsy seeking truth, or lotto jackpots.
BARNES: I can't, I'm blind, remember?
SLICE: Yes, Barnes, but look with your heart, Barnes, look with your soul.
BARNES: I think my soul needs glasses.
[PILGRIM draws near and stops, weight resting on his walking stick, his free hand cradling a frisbee-golf bag slung over one shoulder.]
PILGRIM: Mind if I play through?
SLICE: The steward was here, said something about a green's fee, you may want to lay low.
PILGRIM: Very well, then. I'm new to your cheerful little postage stamp of utopia, here, tell me, what news from the realm?
SLICE: Barnes, may we borrow your Daily?
BARNES: Sure, but don't ruin the creases, I haven't had a chance to look at it yet. [And delivers up the rag.]
SLICE: Hmm, says here there's no peace out there: airline hijackings, suicide bombings, rough neighborhood.
PILGRIM: But the brochure said you people have been coexisting here for thousands of years. I got a discount on the "Peace, Love & Understanding" package. Coupons, too.
BARNES: Coexisting, that is so. But peace, love & understanding? You might have missed the boat on that one, Pilgrim, better lemme have a look at that brochure.
BARNES: I do believe Elvis has left the building.
SLICE: Yes, Barnes.
PILGRIM: Tell me then, oh Wise One, if all of you have been sharing this tasty little nugget for so many thousands of years, what have you learned in all that time?
BARNES:

-CURTAIN-

1:07am: A Break In The Weather
You are walking alone through wind-driven rain, except that it is not raining and you are not alone. It is bright and warm, the sun's rays coaxing water from the pores at the base of your neck, you fumble with the top button of your collar though your gloves are a hindrance in working it free. But you needed the gloves, what choice had you, really, against the pouring rain, the battering wind? And alone, are you serious? You are pulled and jostled and joltled and pushed with every step along the crowded sidewalk, for you are not in Winnepeg, after all, but New York City, and not just the city but the very heart of it, the vital nerve center near the root of the molar, where morning neurons pour from the underground like a river of blood from a three-inch gash, staining the upholstery and buying up all the croutons.

Well, but you have not been to the vital nerve center at the heart of the city in more time than you could measure on the calender of the vernal equinox they they handed you when you passed through the gates at 79th and Fifth, your head lowered as though in an act of contrition, as if you did not speak English and add prices in your head in the line at the check-out counter.

It little matters: there were more 60-degree days this winter than the whole of last summer. The ozone layer is gone, or never existed, and the world is going to implode one day in a spiraling gooseball of language and regret when the scaffolding gives out and we fall like a boulder from the back of unyielding Sisyphus, repulsed, in the final analysis, by the no-trade clause and a pitiful signing bonus.

11:00pm: W.B. Yeats-Gone But Not Forgotten

THE SONG OF WANDERING AENGUS

I WENT out to the hazel wood,
Because a fire was in my head,
And cut and peeled a hazel wand,
And hooked a berry to a thread;
And when white moths were on the wing,
And moth-like stars were flickering out,
I dropped the berry in a stream
And caught a little silver trout.

When I had laid it on the floor
I went to blow the fire a-flame,
But something rustled on the floor,
And someone called me by my name:
It had become a glimmering girl
With apple blossom in her hair
Who called me by my name and ran
And faded through the brightening air.

Though I am old with wandering
Through hollow lands and hilly lands,
I will find out where she has gone,
And kiss her lips and take her hands;
And walk among long dappled grass,
And pluck till time and times are done,
The silver apples of the moon,
The golden apples of the sun.

1897, William Butler Yeats
From The Wind Among The Reeds (1899)

When we were young and caught a glimpse of something secretive and magical. It revealed itself only momentarily, it was a fleeting glimpse, and then was gone; but how we remember, to the finest detail. How we loved it, and long for it still.

(And to that I was reminded of this great piece in an "Enterprise" episode this very night: a worthy enterprise indeed.)

1:20pm: One Feel-Good Story and One Real Bummer
Feel-Good Story: Having been a writer since before the computer age turned a page on the industrial revolution and space-jammed into the 22nd Century, I had completed five novels on manual typewriters and early model IBM computers (DOS-based, pre-Windows). Naturally, there was no means of editing this early work aside from re-entering all text into a new word program. But with the advent of scanners and OCR software, these texts could be scanned and converted: hurray for me and my five novels sitting at the bottom of my drawer! So, I bought a scanner last year (actually June of 2000), and got the only one with a 50-page document feeder (so I wouldn't have to sit there and feed every page of five 500-page novels into the thing one by one) a Visioneer 8650, and it worked like a charm, great scanner, people, and for only $250.

Then in January the ADF (Auto-Doc-Feeder) got sick, couldn't hold anything down, violent convulsions, and running a high fever. Hello tech-support: 5 emails later I get a phone number to call, your scanner is sick, call to replace. Come to find it's 5 months out of warranty, the repair cost exceeds the price of a new one, and I can't buy just a replacement ADF. WHA*!?

Well, so I wrote off a nice letter...but really, a NICE letter, just wanna let you know type of deal, nothing nasty, just feeling a little jobbed here.

Get this, I get a phone call a week later from Visioneer: "We'll go ahead and replace that for you."

There's a first time for everything! Thank-you Visioneer, you've won a true believer over in this corner.

One-Reel Bummer: What is it that gets into people? There's this real sweetheart of a girl I know, kind, gentle, intelligent, fun to be with. She's got a serious boyfriend, been together for years. If they have their ups and downs, what couple doesn't, right? But it's common knowledge she's not looking for any replacements, now or ever.

So along comes this heretofore nominally nice guy, who knows her through work, and at the first sign of trouble in paradise this guy is sending her flowers, coming to see her at work, and she's making it very clear to the guy that he's way off base with this, you know.

Well, he starts coming on a little too strong, and he's writing her letters and leaving his number. So she calls to just let him know that, hey, it's not that way, I'm sorry, you know. But now he's got her caller id, and he begins a campaign of demented, sick phone calls, nasty, threatening, totally delusional, like "how could you do this to me?" and, I mean, she knows him from across the hallway for chrissake!

Well, so she has to call the cops, there's a cease and desist issued and an order of protection, and the guys not allowed in the same state with her, etc., blah blah blah, but the point of it is what the f__k gets into people's heads? I mean, there is NO WAY this woman gave this guy any iota of a hint of a signal that there was anything there other than oh, hi, how are you today? And now she's subjected to this sh_t, and altering her whole routine, and diminishing the quiet enjoyment of her life because this idiot has deluded himself into thinking he's...what? Her what? She says hello to him across the hallway for chrissakes, where is he getting this from? Jesus, if you're that f__king sick then keep it to yourself and don't subject the rest of the world to your particular disorder of dementia.

And get a f__king life. Nuff said.

High Noon: "Relativity" published in River Oak Review
My short story "Relativity" was published this week in River Oak Review, Vol. 17, a special memorial issue dedicated to the victims of September 11 (River Oak Arts, Oak Park, Illinois).

"Relativity" is a coming of age story about a young boy and his dog (pathetic little thing with a tin can tied to his leg for some reason or other, you'll have to consult the text).

Also included is a special feature on writing in the wake of the Sept. 11 attacks. As a New York writer I was asked for my thoughts on this, and my contribution appears in the feature.

You can see the the issue, the story and the editorial piece at G.D.'s Fiction Page - "Relativity"and read them if you so desire. You will also find ordering information on the site, or can contact me for a copy. And from the Department of Redundancy Department, the same link appears on the Sidebar to the right, how tastey.

10:15pm: Staying Home & Drinking Not
Went out at 8pm to bartend my JamSunday in the Havana Room--live blues every
Sunday nite, folks--thinking I might get half a notion and have something mildly
interesting to post when I returned. Back so soon? Alas, I was short-shifted
when the band--a good group of guys called "Ten Ton Truck"--was a no-show,
no-call, no-message, no-good for-nothing on this particular night, but hey, it
got me out of the apartment for a couple of hours and come to find there's real
air flyin' around out there, who would've known?
Anyway, the real news this night is I've decided not to go to JazzFest this year
for the first time in 5 years, an annual ritual that animates my Springtime, the
chance to hang for a week with my best pals, and the best friends anyone in the
world could have: Mello, Duncan and Rand, and I hope everyone out there has at
least one friend one-tenth as true as these friends have been to me. But when I
swapped one bar for the other (the jurisprudential for the libational) I
forfeited the financial rewards attendant upon that honorable (when practiced
ethically) if rather restrictive lifestyle. Since then I have had less
wherewithall for the pleasant diversions I used to enjoy: 3 squares a day, for
instance--good thing the metabolism slows with age--just kidding. But seriously,
a week in New Orleans with a pipe full of MaryJane and a belly full of
Who-Hit-John just doesn't happen the way it did when we were solvent (that's
drain-cleaner, people). But, hey, I've still got my teeth. On the other hand
I've been very lucky, and kept this bartending gig the past 10 years and
running, thanks to my good friends Mike and Mitch, who tolerate my
idiosyncracies and have always found a place for me--usually behind the bar I'm
happy to report. Anyway, I've been scraping by on nickels and dimes for ten
years, now, and don't have any complaints--somehow there's always enough to
scrape together for that annual rite of Spring called JazzFest.
But perspectives change, and the events of September 11--and the time that has
intervened--have changed my perspective, purpose, and pleasure, and probably in
that order. On the one hand, business is down considerably here on the upper
east side, where many of its residents no longer reside. My perspective has been
reduced accordingly. And I am guided, now, less by my pleasure and more by my
regrets, all of them, and they are many. So it would be nice to fly down to
N'arlens for the greatest show on earth, The New Orleans Jazz and Heritage
Festival, it would be better than nice, it would be uplifting and rebuilding, as
it always has been. Hell, for once I booked the room in June just to make sure
I'd have some digs in the Quarter. But that was then, and life was different.
Since then we have come to learn what is possible in this life, and some things
just don't matter as much anymore.
This year I will be staying home and drinking not. My friends will remain my
friends, and we will meet at JazzFest again, to be sure. But this year is a time
for rethinking everything. I am a writer, and writers must write as that is our
work. So here I will be come the first week in May, rethinking everything I
thought I had thought, and doing the work that remains to be done.

High Noon: Locking The Doors & Boarding Up The Windows
Woke early this morning and continued troubleshooting installation of this
blogger software, Movable Type, which, if you're a programmer, is probably
P.O.C. (Piece 'O Cake), while if you are a self-taught web designer--read:
moi--it is like trying to thread a needle wearing oven mitts and a blindfold.
Met the boys at Mo's for a 10:15 It's On! football game on Randall's Island,
which we won 13-6 after being down at halftime 6-0. Real character builder, I
might add, and evens our record at 3-3, putting us back in the playoff hunt for
the first time since we won the season opener. Anyway, Rod-Man drove us back to
the city and we did encounter some early east-side traffic, but I'd requested
the early game specifically to get us back before the madness began, and it
worked pretty much to specifications. The boys made plans to shower and meet at
Mo's, and when they asked me what I was doing I told them the same thing I tell
them on the other 3 "Staying Home & Drinking Not" days of the year, which are
(chronologically) The Puerto Rican Day Parade, Halloween, and New Year's Eve.
Now, don't get me wrong, I've nothing against Ireland or the Irish, nor Puerto
Rico or Puerto Ricans (my 2nd wife was Puerto Rican), nor Witches and Goblins
(if they care), nor New Years--whether outgoing or incoming--I've enjoyed a
bunch of them through the years and hope to continue in that tradition. But the
spectacles that accompany these celebrations, especially here in New York City,
can be quite boisterous, to say the least. In the past 23 years I have myself
partaken in many of these celebrations. I have watched the paraders from the
balcony of my penthouse suite (when I had the need for a penthouse suite, which,
happily, I no longer do) assembling down on 45th Street, tuning their tubas and
twirling their batons, and sometimes jumping up and down in place if the weather
was uncooperative. I have walked along the sidewalk while New York's Bravest and
Finest marched proudly up Fifth Avenue, and drank with them in the bars, and
served them in my own when a bartender I became.
Compared with St. Patty's Day, the Puerto Rican Day Parade is a relatively new
tradition, but I can remember back in the late '80s when I did not even know
what it was, and was laying in Central Park and practicing Tae Kwon Do on a
secluded hillside that gradually became crowded with revellers who watched me,
politely, while they celebrated their heritage. I have watched the great parade
in the village on All Hallow's Eve, and enjoyed the costumes and the pretense
and the unbridled spirit of the moment.
But I have also grown weary of the struggles that, more and more, seem attendant
upon these great traditions. I have been caught amidst bareknuckled
prizefighters dressed in green, and read in the Times about young boys beating
another youth to death during the parade. I have had eggs tossed at me from
rooftops and passing cars on Halloween, seen on the six o'clock news videos of
the base and inhuman abuse of girls and women in central park by the few rotten
apples that are inevitable in any barrel as big as this apple, and have been set
upon and swung at by drunk or drugged New Year's revellers who wanted too much
or too soon or too near or too now. I have raised my voice in objection; I have
raised my fists.
I still enjoy the great traditions that these occasions celebrate, I simply
avoid the celebrations. Rather, on these four days only, I sit at home, lock the
doors and board up the windows, content in my memories of celebrations past, and
comforted by the relative safety that can be derived from taking one step back
from the front of the stage, stepping behind the curtain, and finding a crevice
behind the pipes and fixtures, a cozy perch from which to observe the bedlam
that I am no longer missing.