Post number seventeen and a half, NBA Playoffs

Since my beloved Lakers are already enjoying summer vacation, the Playoffs only get half a post.

My prediciton for the Finals: Suns v. Heat.

Hey Shaq, congrats in advance.

I'm rooting for the Sonics and/or the Nuggets (Marcus Camby brought it earlier tonight in game one...)

OK. Back to work.

Post number seventeen, because I missed last week.

Since I didn't make an entry last week, I'm making two this week. File it under robbing Peter to pay Paul...(I've never known the literal origin of that saying...anybody out there know? My Grandma recently explained "A stitch in time saves nine." I'll have to ask her about this one.)

Stream of consciousness:

OpAdon is going well, apparently. My shirts aren't fitting the same as they used to, people are commenting on my shape in a positive way, and I'm almost ready to start tucking my shirt in again. Best of all, I noticed a big change in my ability to hit the ball at the driving range today. Muscle memory from the gym translates to muscle memory on the golf course. I hope. Tomorrow is a tournament, and I'm playing in a foursome with my old boss. It sounds kinkier than it is, believe me, but I'm nervous nonetheless...I'm really competitive, and don't want to play like the fool I'll be dressed like.

The CBS movie LOCUSTS is awesome. Incredibly cheesy, in a way that only TV movies can be.

KUNG FU HUSTLE is my favorite movie in theaters right now (although I haven't seen THE INTERPRETER yet). See it while you can.

On the nightstand, I'm rereading THE MOONSTONE, by Wilkie Collins. I loved it when I first read it in college, and found it while cleaning last week.

I'm supposed to be thinking about a presentation I have to make in 4 days in Wisconsin, and instead I am writing a banal, self-involved-catch-up blog entry.

Aren't you lucky?

Post number sixteen, Later Seder.

Last night I attended my first Seder, slightly abridged for the goyim like me who can’t read or speak Hebrew and find Manischewitz dangerously smooth. It was a beautiful ceremony, wrought with symbols and tradition. I’m not a particularly religious man, but I am a great sucker for symbols and tradition, so I was appropriately moved by the whole affair.

More than anything, though, it was nice to be around a family, welcomed into their familial idiosyncrasies for a night---the well-used Seder books, the yarmalukes from various bar mitzvahs and weddings, the frozen marshmallows covered in chocolate, and so on. It reminded me of my own family, far away and rarely visited, and our own holiday traditions. The Lonely Optimist was homesick.

As I was driving home---even abridged, the evening was almost four hours long---I felt a little tipsy and morose about my distant family. As I glumly sped down Wilshire Boulevard, I was consoled in taking stock of the network of friends of various stripe who all add up to make my surrogate family here in Los Angeles. By the time I got home, I felt warm and happy to crawl into bed---thankful for the family that raised me and for the stitched-together family that nourishes me in the city.

Thank you, Stone family, for taking me in and feeding me until my butons (and belt) were screaming. I’m proud to be an extended honorary part of your tribe. Thanks for reminding me how much I loved family traditions as a kid. But most of all, thanks for showing me that family is more than relative.

This week, I’m off to Wisconsin. The week after, back to New York. I ache to see a certain someone in Manhattan, like a kid a week and a half before Christmas aches to know what is in the presents under the tree…Be cool, boy.

Post number fifteen, The Lipstick Incident or Gore Vidal's Hairy Eyeball

Things I learned this week:

Bono is an incredible rock star.

Gore Vidal is a cranky old bastard.

Maybe I should rename this site to reflect my propensity for stating the obvious.

Let me explain, in the order in which events occurred...

On Wednesday night, I saw U2 in concert. The evening was a surreal experience---incredible seats, good friends, booze, celebrities (Quincy Jones) and semi-celebrities (David Hasselhoff), a promise of backstage passes that never materialized---all enveloped in an electrifying circus of a rock and roll show.

Most people at the show will most remember the moment in which the quintessential Los Angeles starlet with the oversized fake breasts alternatively chased and crawled toward Bono around the stage. For me, a different bit sticks in my mind.

At one point, Bono saw a woman near the stage putting on lipstick, and gestured to his lips and to her that he wanted some. As he stretched out over the crowd, straining to reach the lipstick the woman was eagerly holding up, other fans pelted him with a dozen other tubes of lipstick.

It struck me funny, that we get so carried away that we don’t realize that it probably isn’t really polite to hurl small objects at our rock idol. Cooler, though, was that Bono didn’t react at all to being hit with a dozen lipsticks---as if he is used to this happening all the time, which he probably is.

Best of all, he didn’t give up until he had the original lipstick he was after. To me, this is the definition of rock star. He knows exactly what he wants, and he’s going to get it while maintaining a supernatural cool unlike anything we mere mortals can imagine. This is why he’s the front man of the greatest band on the planet.

Thursday night was a tribute to Greta Garbo. I didn’t want to attend the reception beforehand, mainly because it had been a long, very social week already, and I was running perilously low on small-talk. At the last minute, Mike convinced me to show up.

Since I hadn’t planned on going, I hadn’t dressed in appropriately business attire. I didn’t look like a slob, either, but I was wearing sneakers with my dress shirt and pants. I only mention this because it may be the reason that Gore Vidal gave me the hairy eyeball.

Mr. Vidal was wearing a grey velveteen suit and walking with a beautiful cane, very chic, when I ran into him coming out of the men’s room. I was going in, he was coming out.

“Excuse me,” I said as I held the door for him. He half grunted in response as he gave me the once over somewhat disgustedly.

“It’s nice to see you, sir. I admire your work.”

He stopped, turned, and gave me a withering look that would have castrated Myron Breckinridge. Without saying a word to me, he put on a half-grin as he pushed into the crowd.

I didn’t expect him to chat, or speak at all. I wouldn’t have cared if he didn’t even nod. But did I deserve the hairy eyeball? I’ve heard from friends who’ve met him that he is an unpleasant, extremely pretentious man, but I’ve always held out hope that he’s actually just intensely private, weary from a life full of experiences, and maybe just a little bit insecure. Someone at the reception told me that he is in great physical pain these days, which has soured his mood.

Whatever the reason, he’s a cranky old bastard from whom I am thrilled to have received a dirty look.

But I'd rather be Bono.