Things like this do not happen to nerdy bagpipers, but then again it did, so I guess it does. I am here in Singapore on business. I am tired, just off the flight and standing in line to check in at my hotel. This woman whom I’ve never met hands me a guava juice and welcomes me to Singapore. I assume that she works here. “Thank you, “ says I. We discuss that this is my first time here and blah, blah, blah. She leads me to the desk where this lovely lady tells me that they are upgrading me to a suite. “Thank you, that’s lovely,” says I. I then think, “Ah a couch and a coffee table in addition to the bed, that’s nice.” I go up to my floor. It is the top floor. I put the plastic key into my door. It is the corner door. I open the door. I cannot see a bed. All I see is an exploding birds of paradise arrangement in my entryway. Slightly to my left is my living room with giant TV and fresh flowers and chocolates. To my right is my dining room with dining table for 8 with full kitchen and servant’s entrance. In between is my patio with gas BBQ and zen fountain. I start to shake. They have clearly mistaken me for Madonna. It is too much. I walk all the way through this palace with a balcony in every room to my bedroom. My bed is out of focus; it is miles away. There is another living room set-up and a desk as big as a small boat. My bed is a throne for some sort of lazy tyrant. In between finding this too much, I start to...

I just got my rejection letter from the Creative Writing MFA program at Hunter College in New York City. I guess I don’t have to tell you now that I applied. It is one of the best programs in the country and they will not be having me this fall. Their choice, not mine. I knew going in that they only take 12 people a year. That way if they were going to do a “Men and Women of Hunter College Creative Writing MFA” calendar there would be no squabbling. When I get rejected from things like this I go straight to – “Where did you ever think you could write? What a fool to think you could get into this program. You suck. In fact you make me sick.” Or a variation of this. I did it with the Warner Brothers Writer’s Program in Los Angeles years ago. (Thin letter, not thick letter. Now it is all on line. Fewer megabytes used for rejections: “Thank you for your interest, it was more than ours. Sorry.”) In advance of the result, I tried to prep for all scenarios. Getting accepted was easy: Open email, see they want me, go “Yay!!” But getting rejected I was working for the “You know they only take 12 people and 100s apply. Make sure you do not go do the shame spiral. Just accept that that is that and you have to find another avenue for your writing. It does NOT mean you are not a good writer. It does not mean that at all. ” I think this practice paid off mostly. It is funny, however, how a huge ego is always attached to low self-esteem. “I suck” meets “Really, you got 12 pieces that were better...

This winter in New York has sucked. It has been sunny and pleasant and people have been able to walk around in shorts and a sweatshirt. I feel all alone in my hatred of it. Shorts and a sweatshirt are what spring is for! How can one be excited about crocuses, whatever the hell they are, unless you have frozen your ass off for months beforehand? What is the joy in a tulip unless there has been ice and sleet blowing sideways first? Global warming is taking the anticipation out of life. We are going to all be on a beach in shorts year round. What fun is there in that? The thing I love about New York is that if you don’t like a season there is always another one coming along that may appeal to you more. Too humid for you? Autumn and leaves will relieve this. Too cold, then spring and summer will heat you up. This was all well thought out people! Now we have a winter that was just a cold spring. Or a Fall, Pt. 2. I feel ripped off. I walked out of the gym tonight and white stuff was falling on me. It was too big for dandruff (pray God!) and then I thought it was that fairy poop packing materials falling out of a building. It is February and my first thought was not SNOW! That is how bad this winter is. Frozen bits of water in a sort of word association weather game no longer makes me immediately think: snow. Sad. Once I realized it was bitter cold, I was improperly dressed and I could see the white stuff blowing across the street, I shed a tear hoping it would freeze on my face....

With the Oscars approaching and my hair receding, I reminisce. The Oscars are a must see event for me annually. It can be a special night with friends and food and comfy chairs, hoping to win the office Oscar pool. When you live in Los Angeles, as I did for years, you are “right there.” People watch this awards show all over the world and in Los Angeles we know we are only a vintage Armani’s full length away from the event. I always liked feeling as if I was part of it. I was a seat-filler at the Emmys once, but never hit the heights of becoming a seat-filler at the Oscars. Many years ago as an undergrad at UCLA, I hosted an Oscar viewing party in my apartment in West LA. After the show was over I said to my guests “Hey we are minutes from the Beverly Hilton where the Oscar party is!” There was a collective “So?” “Well let’s go and watch the stars come in. It will be a great memory, trust me.” Though I was entirely directionless personally and professionally in college, I knew it was important to rack up memories. I got my friend Laurette on my side by promising that she would see Jack Nicholson walk in. The others just followed. East on Wilshire Boulevard we went, got parked and stood behind the velvet cord to watch the stars make their way into the Grand Ballroom. It was exhilarating seeing major stars like Ginger Rogers and Daryl Hannah walk by all smiles and dyed feathers. Then the whole thing turned on me. I hated being behind that velvet cord. I wanted to be one of the people at the party. I was so talented at something;...

I was recently standing on the subway platform waiting for the 2, 3 to go to work. Normally I walk, but I deemed it too cold. My walking, or not walking, has nothing to do with what I want to write about, but I just want it to be known that I pride myself on walking to work, thus saving money and getting some exercise. I even think it helps me lose weight. It really does not. But I love to put on my headphones and look at all the people swimming downstream on 6th Avenue as I hide unseen behind these magic headphones and check them all out. Perhaps it is hiding that I want to write about so this fits. Back to the subway platform. There are always billboards to read on the subway platform. I hate most of them, but they always get me thinking. A new film starring Katherine Heigl got me thinking “Why?”  A poster for the Metropolitan Museum gets me thinking that I don’t go enough and this gets me thinking that life is slipping through my hands. Thank God the Met billboard does not depress me sufficiently to turn around and jump in front of the oncoming express train. After I think about “why oncoming and not incoming?” I am calm. But talk about a selfish act; suicide stops the subway running for hours. Recently I saw this billboard that was an ad for the Braun Cruzer, which is some intricate electric shaver that would let you write your name in your neck in hair I think. It had the five boroughs of New York City represented by five different ways to have facial hair. Manhattan was an effete “we stole everything from alls y’all” Wall Street handlebar mustache; Brooklyn was the goatee, of course. Staten...

I recently went on a coffee date with a guy who wrote to me from an on-line dating site.  I feel sometimes like I am still wearing a black dress over my last relationship and going to coffee is my way of showing the gods and myself that I am making an effort to “move on.”  He was nice. Not as tall as I like, but nice.  Intelligent.  Shaved head which is not my thing, but intelligent. Polite. Way too baggy clothes for my liking, but polite. It is just coffee, I keep telling myself. I have always confused a cup of coffee date with “Do I really want to spend the rest of my life with you?” And who made me the Mr. Blackwell of fashion and height and hair anyway? We had a really nice time and when he asked if I wanted to get together again I said yes without reservation.  I am working on being open and not absolute. He texted me on Thanksgiving to wish me a Happy Thanksgiving. That was really sweet.  I texted back and said I was stuck in Newark on my way to California.  He texted back: “Which gate?”  It turns out I was at 137 and he was at 132.  We would have our second date in the Newark Airport!  Alas by the time I saw his text he had boarded his plane to Atlanta and I was waiting for my burger and shake (Shhh: I’m on Weight Watchers.) CUT!! “Okay let’s do this again” says the director in my head. “He is going to text you and you are going to see the text right away this time.  And you are going to meet at Gate 135 and sparks will fly and clothes will...

I had never been to the Paris Theatre before. This is the classic art deco/art moderne theatre off 5th Avenue near Central Park and the Plaza Hotel where Marlene Dietrich cut the ribbon at the opening in front of the French ambassador.  It looks like the kind of place you would duck into to get out of the rain if you were in a B & W movie and weighed down with bags from nearby Bergdorf’s and having a wild affair with someone who liked subtitles over thread count. And here I was in this film palace with “Paris” woven repeatedly into its special-order carpeting introducing a special screening of The Iron Lady starring Meryl Streep. The house was packed with industry types. Meryl would be there for a Q & A afterwards. RightherewhereI’mstanding! Whatta night. The Paris Theatre, me and Meryl Streep. Mic in hand and backlit, I stood in front of allthosepeople and thanked them for coming, thanked The Weinstein Company, listed the actors in the film and told everyone to turn off their cell phones under threat of death. I got a laugh from something I said about coal miners (I like to be topical and thematic when I introduce films) and then I sat down to applause, the kind that Meryl would hear tenfold after the credits rolled. The film started and I had my first of many allaboutme thoughts: I forgot to tell them to stay for the Q & A with Meryl. Then: I forgot to tell them NO PHOTOGRAPHY. Into: Oh my God, I didn’t mention the professor from Columbia who would moderate the screening. Finally dismounting with: I am a FOOL and should never have been born. Meanwhile Margaret Thatcher had moved on from being a shopkeeper’s daughter and got elected to local...