Cough Hack

Reason to not love NYC Number One:

I have absolutely no say in the matter of whether I choose to be a second hand smoker in this town.

Gotham's Gravity

"...For why should my liberty be determined by someone else’s conscience?" 1 Corinthians 10:29

The undeniably powerful tractor beam that is New York has embraced my broken spirit and brought more peace into my exhausted bones which Georgia has rung out of my already lifeless body.

That wasn't the plan.

I must have been hypnotized with the no place like "home" for the holidays propaganda bullshit that fills the air waves this time of year.

I fell for it.

Shaken into semi-consciousness, flying over the dazzling orange lights of the Empire State's iconic emblem last night, but fully came to on this crisp autumn morning, hand picking my orchard apples at a farmer's market, steps from my front door.

I realize why so many are attracted to and decidedly call New York their home.

It isn't physics. It's FREEDOM.

What is more important?

Seeking Peace and Contentment

"On a high and lofty mountain you have set your bed, and there you went up to offer sacrifice."Isaiah 57:7

"It is becoming abundantly clear. If I move to the country...I will never have time to write."

Could it be New York is less volatile?

Unnecessary Punishment

"For all have sinned and fall short of the glory of God," Romans 3:23

I've completely lost my motivation to write.

Not that I would expect anyone else to take notice of drivel vs. drive.

But for me, the fact is painfully evident.

One through the physical void of actually vomiting thoughts onto a screen.

And two, by the undeniable guilt that plagues me at day's end; that sends me into a fitful sleep, wrestling with the lack of productivity and the growing amount of books I know I will never read nor write.

My latest match transpired on the last shoot date of our most recent Law and Order Episode. In a sleepless fog, I sat at a round table with Treat Williams and JP our writer and discussed what moves us to move.

To write. To perform. To excel. To chase the dream.

And in one of the most candid conversations I have experienced in this facade filled business to date, was we all admitted the kick-starter was GUILT.

This guilt so all consuming, it shadowed the passionate joy of a goal met. A finished product.

Chastised. I thought....

My writing focus has narrowed.

My political interest has become anger.

My love affair with New York bi-polar.

My insane city life mundane.

And because of this tunnel vision, I've failed to find the extraordinary in my ridiculously inspired present existence. I've learned to complain.

I have in fact become a true New Yorker.

But without the Valium.

How does one become so terribly lost and how do I find my way back with the challah crumb trail?

From Both Sides Now...

The city is saying enough.

Daily News

New York Post

In Idiot Advertising News...

Shinola

But the king shall rejoice in God; all who swear by him shall exult, for the mouths of liars will be stopped." Psalm 63:11

Bullshitting. This is what I am discovering is the finely tuned skill for success in this business. A big heaping, polished pile of shit disguised with finesse, steeped in hot air blowing, under the table scheming, and lip service served with a smile you would second guess.

Let me be clear. Although it is all consuming and I witness people falling prey to the behavior on a daily basis, it is not what I will adopt.

I'd rather be a dim star who still smells sweet.

Nothing To See Here

New Yorker's never cease to amaze me.

Tonight a crowd gathered on the park's edge to witness an ill-fated rat die a painfully slow poisoned death.

I prayed a cab would pull up and squish it out of its misery.

And then I walked away with a pain in my heart.

Call Me Crazy

"For I am persuaded, that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor principalities, nor powers, nor things present, nor things to come, Nor height, nor depth, nor any other creature, shall be able to separate us from the love of God, which is in Christ Jesus our Lord. " Romans 8:38-39

Resting on the profound words of this gospel hymn and this glorious God filled day.

The love of God is greater far

Than tongue or pen can ever tell;
It goes beyond the highest star,
And reaches to the lowest hell;

The guilty pair, bowed down with care,
God gave His Son to win;
His erring child He reconciled,
And pardoned from his sin.

Oh love of God, how rich and pure!

How measureless and strong!
It shall forevermore endure—
The saints’ and angels’ song.

When hoary time shall pass away,

And earthly thrones and kingdoms fall,
When men who here refuse to pray,
On rocks and hills and mountains call,

God’s love so sure, shall still endure,
All measureless and strong;
Redeeming grace to Adam’s race—
The saints’ and angels’ song.

Could we with ink the ocean fill,
And were the skies of parchment made,
Were every stalk on earth a quill,
And every man a scribe by trade;

To write the love of God above
Would drain the ocean dry;
Nor could the scroll contain the whole,
Though stretched from sky to sky.

Composed by Frederick Lehman in 1917 rooted in an old Jewish Poem written in the eleventh century. The last verse, italicized was penciled on the wall of a narrow room in an insane asylum by a man said to have been demented. The profound lines were discovered when they laid him in his coffin. The general opinion was that this inmate had written the epic in moments of sanity.

Hallelujah, Hallelujah, Hallelujah

Get Thee to A Nunnery

Flute: O wall, full often hast thou heard my moans- William Shakespeare

Will you hold my pole? (Sound department)

Do you like thin or thick sausage with your peppers? (Catering)

Bend down and move your mark..uh a little to the left. (Camera)

Oh man, if I was your husband? (Teamsters)

Hey babe, sexy mama, honey, sweetie.... (All Departments)

Slurs, innuendos, oogling, lewd jokes, sexual gestures are everyday vernacular on a television set and wildly accepted, ignored, recanted, or returned.

And if it makes you uncomfortable, either speak up, man up, don't engage, nip it in the bud and move on.

But to defame character, dredge the past, cry wolf. or seek 15 minutes of fame like Ms. Sensitive, Karen Kraushaar and her comrades are in accusing GOP hopeful Herman Cain is just plain unsympathetic.

And for you confused feminists out there cursing my name, I post this Truth for

your viewing PLEASURE.

On Top of Spaghetti

I'm turning into a meatball.

And not a lean, lightly breaded baked kind, but the full fat juicy type, rolled with veal sauteed in hot olive oil, served with greasy sauce on top of gooey cheesy buttered roll.

This visual transformation is happening gradually like a slow home cooked meal simmering with a huge helping of burning love.

Now, eating three catered meals (secret ingredient, oil) a day, plus a myriad of snacks equaling enough food to make up the entire caloric count of two chubby kids is a ridiculous perk. One that saves me an obscene amount of money. Especially in a city where deviled eggs have become the next it food and run you a trendy $20 bill.

And there's more...

In addition to exercising that excessive perk of working 65 hour weeks and wolfing my rising body weight in food, I also took advantage of flexing the minor muscle tone I have left and visited our friendly on set casting office, introduced myself, explained my experienced reporter's bckground, and asked if I could play one on T.V.

I hope it pays in exponential dividends like my food consumption...

Sing, Sing, Sing, Sing-Along

Special Victims Unit

My latest face off with Eastern Medicine's version of stress management.

It won.

Life Cycles From A Cynic

"And I applied my heart to know wisdom and to know madness and folly. I perceived that this also is but a striving after wind." Ecclesiastes 1:17

I know I've crossed over the line of youthful and accepting to old and intolerant when I am freshed dressed blown dry and head to the streets before sunrise and there are smatterings of obliterated bodies resembling zombies left over from Hallows Eve stinking of over imbibing and bummed cigarettes at my front door and I turn up my collar along with my pointed nose with disapproval.

I know I've down right had it when a bloody Tin Man approaches me on a dark corner and asks if I would join him for just one drink, while diving in front of me to grab a slice of cold crust at my feet.

But the defeating and evident truth that I've been beat is when I find myself on the Uptown 6 train heading to work at 5 AM surrounded by makeshift costumes warmed over and bloodshot eyes of laughing revelers that outnumber me fun to none.

And I bury my nose in the Post and let the tinge of homesickness wash over my oh so grown and responsible tired body.

Am I too young to say that youth is a disease from which we all recover? ~Dorothy Fulheim