This's dad in Soviet Union early '85. Secret Bar Mitzvahs. Blinds drawn.
The gray bearded man was a particularly famous Jew dissident and had just returned from Siberia.
I came around ~9 months after this trip. Empty suburban home right now watching heavy winds crisp up
all the freshly fallen snow.

we've been hanging out every sunday night with football

Morning Anger:

Nothing worse than a broken yoke in the morning-particularly in the face of a professional hangover.The swearing that accompanies this moment will, some day, booster the anxiety of my Sunday morning household. Silent kids as Dad apologizes and restores order. How I'll smell to them.
Also: carmelize an entire onion. The smells, process, and product save my life. Neatly packaging the leftovers tickles
my faggy, ocd kitchen needs. One of my favorite products:

I'd gladly volunteer my celebrity to sponser this plastic. 'I like to use 'em and clean 'em and use 'em agin'!'
'Going to Acapulco' Bob Dylan & the Band.
The excitement I have for 'Days of Heaven' sitting in Netflix red on top
of my TV waiting to be my favorite movie of awl time.
Other morning advice: a gorgeous luke warm glass of NYC tap, and a B- Complex vitamin!

I-95 and Metro North brings us Mark and Marsha for a quick sunday morning hit, after Elliot Strom's 60th birthday bash:





The back end of the middle-aged 'hold-it-right-there' Canon Powershot stick up. I'll cry if I focus too much on
my father's bemused glory in the Guggenheim lobby, as he looks at the book I had just ravenously pitched to him.


Giorgio de Chirico's ballet costimes, Alexei Jawlensky.
I'm sensitive to undergrad-experimental-lesbian chick paintings.
Kandinsky blows.
also, i think I dated this Courmes painting: