New York City is my country house

I like cities. I live in a big one, San Francisco. Not as big as New York City, where I used to live, but still quite the urban metropolis. I worship New York City; it feels like the center of the universe, because, well it pretty much is. It is inspiration overload on every single level, and that's a big turn on. It also has some quality of life drawbacks, especially if you aren't rich. One artistic street vender down in SoHo told me once to judge a city by the ratio of how much energy you give to live in it, and how much it returns. She said NYC is 50(give)/50(receive). I agreed. With the inspiration overload and career potential of NYC also comes the freezing winters, brutal summers, overstuffed subways, insane rents, and a jail-like lifestyle- it's nearly impossible to escape the concrete jungle unless you're rich with a second house in the country and a car and to get there. I've now relocated to San Francisco where the ratio feels more like 30(give)/70(receive). I've had to sacrifice some of the inspiration, but in return I spend my weekends swimming in the ocean, driving to wine country, enjoying the temperate weather, and looking at trees outside my bedroom window (as photo shows). I return to the Big Apple for extended visits many times a year to balance the inspiration equation and I've come to think of New York City as my country house to escape to when I need a break.

My friends are clowns

 

I met this clown at a dinner party a few nights ago and now we're best friends, or maybe we're stalkers of each other, or maybe it's a "bromance" as another friend offered up. He's a performer, and very impressively, to me at least, the lead clown in the current touring production of Cirque Du Soleil's Kooza. Over a decade ago I auditioned for the lead clown position of Cirque's show Quidam. I was in over my head and fighting the good fight, but was hilariously to others, and tragically to me, excused in the third round because I had too much scatological humor in my act. "Poop humor is too base and has no place in Cirque," I was told by the Frenchman in charge. So at the dinner party I clicked instantly with this guy, Ron Campbell. Thirty seconds after our initial handshake we were yapping to each other in foreign accents, clowning with the waiter, performing physical improv by the Naan oven (we were at an Indian restaurant), and just carrying on like we'd known each other for decades. We'd just toasted to a new friendship filled with non-stop slapstick adventure when he announced he was leaving with Cirque in five days to Japan for sixteen months. Suddenly, broken-hearted, I threw my glass of chai against the wall and hollered, "Damn it all, I've lost my dear friend to the CIRCUS!!!!"

Gussied Up

On New Year's Eve, I soldiered out through the Brooklyn blizzard to attend the Bootlegger's Ball at an old church converted into a 1920's Prohibition Speakeasy. My date was this gorgeous flapper, and if I play my lucky cards right, she'll be my date every night. Now, the great thing about her, and well, everybody at the Ball, was that she dressed up. I like a girl or a pal or a gang who'll dress fancy, put on a costume, get gussied up. Half the reason I had a career as an actor is that I had an excuse to put on costumes for a living. Halloween was every day as a thespian. But this Ball was a rare event, because well, like I said, everyone came in bootlegger gear, both fancy class and working class- one fella had overalls, a black eye and his hair nicely slicked. It could have been the set for Boardwalk Empire complete with jug band, sideshow acts, an Absinthe bar, and a thousand good looking extras who walked out of a time machine from another era.