Post number fourteen, March Madness

You gotta love College Basketball, especially this time of year. The improbable come backs. The thrilling possibility of an upset in every game. Above all else, though, you have to love the pure, untarnished obvious love of the sport.

I just watched a documentary on HBO about the 1985 NCAA Championship, in which Villanova upset heavily favored Georgetown to win the championship...The odds were impossibly against them, and they won by shooting 79% from the field, missing only one(!) shot in the second half of the game. A bunch of no-name kids beat Patrick Ewing and the mighty Hoyas. As if this weren't high enough drama, the MVP of the game later copped to regularly playing while high on cocaine--though not during the championship game. (It WAS the 80s, I suppose.) Add an 80 year old man who'd been around Villanova for 50+ years, who died of Lou Gehrig's Disease a few months after watching the victory courtside, and you have a movie. Make it, someone, and I'll be first in line.

In the mean time, look for UNC v. Illinois in the National Championship game. I'd love to see Michigan State win it all, Cinderella-style. But if Illinois wins it all, I make money. I'm conflicted.

Eh. Go Illini! (Illini? What kind of lame nickname is that? I'll reserve judgment until April 5.)

Post number thirteen, Invincible.

Back in Los Angeles. 2781 miles from New York City.

It is good to be back in the city that has been home (for better and worse) for the last 14 years. It is hard to find my comfortable LA groove, though. Something has changed. I’m in love. Walking on air, butterflies in stomach, giggly love.

It has been a long while since I’ve felt anything even near this. I hesitate. Be careful. Pull away. Think of something quickly to sabotage things. I might get hurt. Say something mean. Do something cruel. But I can’t. The power is too great to deny, too intense to forget, too important to throw away.

This love feels different. Not based on power or money or a fake me that won’t hold up over time. I’ve come into it as an adult man, warts and all, a work in progress, my own eyes wide open for perhaps the first time.

Could it be that Love doesn’t have to be complicated? Could it be that it doesn’t have to be difficult to be real? Could it be this simple and honest?

Ockham’s Razor to the rescue again.

I wish I’d had another day in New York with Chris. But if I did, I’d greedily want another. And another. String enough of them together, and I’d be writing in regularly from there instead of here. Hmmm.

Until then, emboldened by this strange and wonderful new variation on my favorite feeling, I am Superman. I am invincible.

Time to write that novel.

Post number twelve, Parting is Such Sweet Sorrow.

New York. Mercer Hotel. March 19, 2005. 9:30PM.

My last night in New York City. For now. The night is young, but in less than twelve hours I'll be on my way back home to Los Angeles. It was an unforgettable week. Caught up with old friends, did productive work, ate great food, saw 2 terrific new shows (THE 25th ANNUAL PUTNAM COUNTY SPELLING BEE and ORSON'S SHADOW)...As great as all of these things are---and each one individually is more than great enough to justify the trip---nothing compares to the romance found here.

I heart Australian ice cream and hot chocolate on a cold March night.

I heart Orangina and ginger ale in a bathtub big enough for two.

I heart Quicktime movie trailers and Patrick Suskind's "Perfume".

I heart CVD.

I wish I could capture the way I feel right now, so I could breathe it in and feel warm next time I'm feeling blue.

Carpe diem.

See y'all back in SoCal.

Post number eleven, back in the Apple.

What is it about New York that makes my adreneline glands dump everything they have into my system? Crossing the bridge from JFK, I was exhausted from a long day of travel. Once the car's tires hit the island of Manhattan, I was electrified.

I love this city.

Post number ten, Oscars.

This was me on Oscar Sunday. Couldn't get my bow tie tied just right, so I changed shirts and wore a long tie with my tux. Saw a million stars and miscellaneous beautiful people. Beyonce was the best looking woman there---and who knew she could sing like that? Unlike last year, there are no juicy or even remotely interesting stories to pass on. What you saw on TV, I saw in person. Sorry. Next year, I'll do better.

Best speech: A tie between Jorge Drexler (Best Song) and Charlie Kaufman (Original Screenplay).

Worst speech: Hilary Swank. She's gorgeous and talented, but her speech was pretty heavy for an actress who has only really been in two remotely good films (and won an Oscar for each).

I can't believe it was a week ago.

Time flies.