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Lights Up

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Okay, St. Genesius, it’s up to you now. For the last week, I’ve been furiously praying to the one-time thespian who became a Christian martyr and the patron saint of actors, clowns, comedians, dancers, and musicians—along with lawyers, barristers, people with epilepsy, printers, stenographers, and victims of torture. That’s quite a roster, come to think of it, but right now I just need St. Genesius of Rome to please, please, pretty please with two tons of sugar on top, look down upon and bless my one-act play Mercy Road , which kicks off tomorrow for a three-show run at The Chain Theatre in Manhattan. As we got closer to the premiere, I became so twisted that I pounced onto Google, hammered out “patron saint of theater” in search of divine intervention, and learned about the Roman comedian who used to perform in plays that mocked Christianity. According to legend, Genesius had a rapid change of heart while performing before Emperor Diocletian. He had planned to thu...
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Knot Theory

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"We learn the rope of life by untying its knots." — Jean Toomer The name Evan traces its roots to an ancient Hebrew moniker meaning “God is gracious.” As a standalone Hebrew word, it translates to “rock” or “stone,” while it’s sometimes used as a shortened form of Greek names like Evander (“good man”) or Evangelos (“good messenger”). All those terms work for me, and they apply to a neighbor who came to my aid last week when I was seriously tangled up in blue. Evan walked into my life during my weekly visit to the laundromat. I was about halfway down my block when the drawstring on my laundry bag got caught in the wheels of my shopping cart, and everything came to a grinding halt. I looked down at the snarled mess gripping the axle of my cart. The cords of the laundry bag had a lo mein–level stranglehold on my ride, and I couldn’t move an inch. I have since learned that knots are among humanity’s oldest technologies, predating even the Stone Age. ...
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Curtain Call

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We interrupt this week’s blog post with some monstrous news: if you’re going to be in New York next month, please stop by the Chain Theatre. Back in May, I submitted my one-act play Mercy Road to Chain’s summer festival and promptly forgot all about it. I was certain it would go nowhere and I’d get another cordial rejection letter thanking me for participating while pointing me to the exit. But then this theater company on West 36th Street pulled a fast one on me. They said yes. Wait — what? That’s exactly what they did. Suddenly I was responsible for assembling a director and a cast, and I didn’t begin to know what to do next. I was sorely tempted to withdraw from the running, but my buddy Jerry — an actor who’s appeared in several Chain productions—talked me out of it. He offered to find the actors and direct the play as well, thus saving my keester. I’ve been promising for the longest time to get out of the comfort zone, and I certainly think this qualifies. We’...
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San Rocco

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One of the things I miss most about my brother Peter is his laugh. He would call me just about every day, and I loved getting him laughing with a joke or funny story. When it came to laughter, Peter did not hold back. I was thinking recently of one of my favorite Rodney Dangerfield jokes — one I know would’ve had him roaring. “My doctor told me I was crazy,” Rodney lamented. “I told him I wanted a second opinion. He says, ‘You’re ugly, too!’” We also traded war stories about our father, who could get mighty ornery with very little provocation. Today is Father’s Day, and tomorrow is Peter’s birthday, so it feels like a one‑two to the heart. Peter loved his daughter Kristin so much, and I know he was incredibly proud of her. He also loved animals, particularly dogs, and I recall how he once started crying when he told me about a movie where someone’s canine died. And Peter wanted absolutely nothing to do with A Dog’s Purpose, a 2017 film where a dog dies and is reincarnated...
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Cube Your Enthusiasm

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I was wheezing my way through a Stairmaster workout last week when I took a half‑century backward. Like most fitness clubs, my gym has music pouring out of the sound system nonstop. They keep it at a decent volume so you can enjoy the songs, but you can also tune out the tunes you don’t like. For years I worked out in the early morning, when the club played a solid hour of Frank Sinatra — probably to please me and my fellow dawn‑patrol geezers. Unfortunately, I made the mistake of mentioning how much I liked it to the staff, and it seemed like a short time later Old Blue Eyes went silent. The last time I heard Frank at my gym, the sound system abruptly cut him off midway through “You Make Me Feel So Young.” That made me feel so old. But my Stairmaster flashback concerns another Sinatra — his daughter Nancy — whose voice suddenly filled the gym in the midst of my stationary ascent. I strained to hear the lyrics over the clang of barbells, the gym chatter, the pounding ...
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Unlucky Number

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“ Hell is truth seen too late.”—Thomas Hobbes And then the dog showed up. I joined my sister and her friend on Saturday to see The Fear of 13, a play based on the life of Nick Yarris, who spent 22 years on Pennsylvania’s death row before becoming the state’s first death row inmate exonerated by DNA evidence. The play, written by Lindsey Ferrentino, is based on a 2015 British documentary film and stars Adrien Brody as Yarris and Tessa Thompson as a death row volunteer, both in their Broadway debuts. It was also one of the most exhilarating theatrical experiences I’ve had in years. I knew next to nothing about the play when we walked into the theater, and I’d never seen the film. But I was in tears by the time the lights came up. Brody is simply extraordinary as he takes us on the brutal journey of Yarris’ life — how this stupid young kid with a knack for stealing cars ended up convicted and sentenced to death for a 1981 kidnapping, rape, and murder. Director David Crome...
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Post Imperfect

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Skip the sneakers. That’s just one nugget of advice that comes up when you google “how to dress for a job interview.” Men are advised to wear polished leather dress shoes or oxfords to go with a navy, charcoal, or black suit with a light-colored button-down shirt, “along with a conservative, high-quality tie.” But you can’t wear kicks. Of course, I already knew that. I always put on my dress shoes when I meet with a prospective employer, no matter how laid back the company appears to be. And yet I did that very thing when I went to inquire about a reporting position at the Washington Post. Well, it wasn’t a real interview. This was a moment in yet another very weird dream of mine where I had gone to the 149-year-old publication in the nation’s capital and made a string of rookie interview mistakes that looked like a career suicide note. This wasn’t a full-blown nightmare where I wake up trembling and thanking God none of the horrifying events actually happened. No, this w...
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