A Writer’s Diary Entries From Mid-June, 2001
Sunday, June 10, 2001
9:30 PM. It’s my last night in Los Angeles. Libby just said, “You got a compliment.” She told Lindsay that I’m leaving tomorrow morning, and Lindsay said, “He can’t leave – he’s family.”
I told Libby that she had two wonderful kids and that she and Grant made me feel like family here. This trip was the best week I’ve experienced in 2001.
Last night I again slept fine without Ambien, and even if I don’t sleep tonight, I don’t believe anything can make me feel bad about this trip.
This evening, Libby and Grant’s friends, Rich Campbell, a musician who used to be in Three Dog Night, and Glynnis Campbell, a romance novelist who’s up for a Romance Writers of America’s Best First Book award, came over for an early dinner with their teenage daughter Brynna (their son stayed home with a cold).
Grant made a salad, frittatas, and some pizza-like things I liked and had a little of. I liked Rich and Glynnis a lot; as Grant said, they have passion and are interesting people.
Rich just came back from doing a video at Sunrise Musical Theater with Dave Mason, with whom he’s been touring since last year. Rich said that things with the band are getting better because Dave is “clean” (drug-wise) and “acting normal.”
Glynnis’s historical romance novel, My Champion, the first of a projected trilogy, is set in medieval England and features what she called “a strong, independent woman.”
From listening to the Campbells, I learned something about the music business and the world of romance novels (as well as even more about the Los Angeles Unified School District).
This morning I went to Starbucks to get iced tea and read the Times Week in Review section, and to Pavilions, where I got Dad a Father’s Day card I mailed out with stamps I brought there.
I also bought oatmeal and grits to replace what I’d eaten here and also a few other items like a sweet potato for myself and Fresh Samantha’s carrot juice for the church picnic.
Then Wyatt and I accompanied Grant to get sandwiches at Togo’s and ice for sno-cones and some other stuff that we brought over to the church just as the services were ending.
It was reminiscent of last year’s picnic, though today Grant went around taking photos (ordinarily Grant doesn’t go to services: “To me, Jesus is up there with the Easter Bunny”) and Wyatt ran the sno-cone concession while Chelsea used some of the ice on her swollen, sprained knee.
I read more of the newspaper and was happy to leave early with Grant.
Taking my rental car to Calabasas, I got a too-short haircut at Fantastic Sam’s from a woman who clearly hated the Iranians who dominated the salon. “We’re caught in the crossfire,” she said, as the hair cutters on either side of us chatted in Farsi, which my hair cutter called “the ugliest language in the world.”
“Unlike you New Yorkers and us Americans,” my hair cutter said, “these Iranians aren’t comfortable except among themselves.”
She told me she used to cut Armand Hammer’s hair and raved about how nice he was, but she turned down his wastrel son’s marriage proposal.
I took my newly-shorn locks over to The Commons across the street, to Barnes & Noble, where I read the Business and Magazine sections of the Times. As usual, I’ve read everything but the Book Review, which I always get to last.
Back here, I lay down for an hour – evidently all that iced tea didn’t stop me from feeling sleepy – and I read and watched Wyatt play Backyard Baseball 2001 on the computer.
Earlier in the day I was worrying about all the stuff I have to do between the time I get to Phoenix tomorrow afternoon and leave for Chicago early on Thursday.
But I wrote some things down, and I stopped worrying about it for the rest of the day. Having company helped, as I didn’t have time to worry. Well, not really worry – just plan methodically, perhaps a bit obsessively.
When the kids went to bed at 9 PM, I put on HBO and watched Sex and the City.
Libby said I could come back whenever I wanted, “to think things out or just to get away.” what wonderful friends I have. I may never have been in a long-term relationship or sustained a life partnership – not yet anyway (hey, even at 50, things may change) – but I’ve had the greatest gift of friendship.
I really feel more comfortable here in Los Angeles than I do in Phoenix because here, I feel part of a community cold Libby and Grant’s family, Kevin, Kate and Mark, and even the Campbells, whom I just met tonight. If I stay in Phoenix, I need to get out and make friends other than Sat Darshan.
Monday, June 11, 2001
9 PM. I’m back in Arizona, at least for a couple of days. The thing that gets me is that it doesn’t feel like home.
Sitting in the back seat of Dad’s car as Jonathan drove us out of the airport, all I could think was: I’ve been in Los Angeles for only about four one-week trips, yet I feel more at home there than I do in ugly, hot Phoenix.
I’m in Marc’s bedroom; even though he had the start of a cold, he left this afternoon for Vegas, with a stopover in Flagstaff tonight. Because I’m neurotically worried about getting sick, with Mom’s permission, I changed Marc’s sheets.
My car has been running roughly. Though Dad and Jonathan say it’s because Marc “put cheap gas” into the tank, I can’t imagine that’s the problem.
Well, let’s go back – in my mind at least – to Los Angeles, where I slept well. Lindsay had been icing her niece from Friday night’s injury all weekend, but it didn’t improve, so Libby took her to the doctor this morning while Grant took Wyatt to school.
I gave and got hugs from everyone, and I really felt bad about leaving. Oddly, this morning was the first time I had the house to myself.
After I worked out lightly, packed, took a shower in the kids’ bathroom and got dressed, I went out to Starbucks to get the Times and a little iced tea.
I filled up the Corolla’s gas tank at $1.99 a gallon for unleaded regular, and at Ralphs I bought a sweet potato, Craisins (cranberries, dried like raisins), and a frozen veggie mix that I ate when I got back home – I mean to Grant and Libby’s house.
Leaving at 10:40 AM, I took the 101 to the 134 and got off in Burbank, driving up Hollywood Way to return my rental car at Budget. At the airport an hour early, I read the paper and ate my sandwich and sweet potato.
The jet ride was uneventful, about an hour and ten minutes in the air, and I wasn’t really nervous. Dad and Jonathan were waiting for me when I arrived. My luggage came out early and we took the bus to the parking lot.
Back here, I felt out of place, but I had to deal with a mountain of mail. Some credit cards hadn’t been paid, and of course I had paid some before I ever got the bills. Figuring out which cards to pay off and which ones I want to travel with took a lot of time, as did writing checks and getting out the payments.
I was rejected for the ASU Legal Writing position and the FAU fiction writing job, but – and it pains me to admit this – I almost felt worse seeing a postcard for Matthew Iribarne’s reading trip, starting last night at KGB, for his new short story collection, Astronauts, published by Simon & Schuster to glowing reviews.
Matt is a wonderful guy, and I wish him well, but I know he’s just at the start of a brilliant career and already he’s achieved the status as a writer that I’ll never attain, so I can’t help feeling envious.
The Dairy Hollow stuff I got lists my dates, rather informally, as “8/1-8/30,” so I emailed Cheri to check if I’m supposed to be there in August or in September. I would rather go in September, but August will be okay. I can’t hang out in Teresa’s den all summer, after all.
I’d prefer to go to MacDowell or Djerassi, but no word from them about the waiting list yet. I feel like a high school grad who hasn’t got a college to go to in the fall.
Tuesday, June 12, 2001
3:30 PM. I have a headache and feel slightly burned out, tired and a bit nervous.
An hour ago I came home from the last appointment with Susan. At the end, she gave me her email address and said she loved “working with” me and we hugged.
Her son is getting married in September, so they’ll be in town until then. Susan says I am now “a lot, lot better” Then when I first came to see her in early November, on Election Day. I know I am.
The crucial mistake I made when my problems first started last fall was probably the doctor’s not upping my dose of Triavil 2/10, which had been working for me for years. Susan says I can reduce my present .25 milligrams morning, .25 milligrams night dosage of Klonopin in half if I’m feeling better at Ragdale.
Of course, today my big worry was getting stuck with the car, and although Dad wanted me to take his car to Tempe, I took the Prizm, which didn’t stall out. It just drives roughly and “misses” when I make a stop. Luckily, the drive was mostly freeway.
I actually accomplished everything on my “to do” list: I don’t need to buy a little TV because Mom found one that works okay; at the Apache Junction library, I found the little article about my Ragdale residency in the “Notable Neighbors” column of the Mesa/Apache Junction local section of the Arizona Republic; I got deposit-by-mail envelopes at Bank of America; and I started packing.
This morning the phone rang at 4:30 AM. It was Gianni, calling collect. He said – to make a long story short – that moving to Spain hadn’t worked out, and he was “out on the street” and “trying to get back to the States.”
So he asked me for $100, which I said I didn’t have, telling him about my impending bankruptcy. I was annoyed with his calling me for money and I also felt bad for him and sorry I couldn’t be of help.
But I have no job, no home of my own, and I’m living on borrowed money if not borrowed time. Why can’t his parents help him out, or someone besides me?
I know Gianni lived off Alejandro and other boyfriends in Florida and Maryland, but I’m not anyone’s sugar daddy and probably wouldn’t be even if I were a rich man, deedle didle deedle didle dum, which I’m not. Gianni always was a little flighty.
Teresa surprised me when she called by saying they’re going to put the Underhill Avenue house up for sale after “being floored” when brokers told her what price it would fetch. Now that they have a beach house in Fire Island, Teresa and Paul don’t really care about having the pool – which, as an attractive nuisance to neighborhood kids, “is a legal disaster waiting to happen.”
She and Paul put in a bid of $375,000 a Locust Valley house with a $410,000 asking price, and it was accepted. It’s off Bayville Road, near the beach. The house needs work, but it has everything that they need. Jade is moving out, and Pam is moving to Teresa’s grandmother’s old apartment on the top floor of her parents’ house on Conselyea Street.
I just hope it’s not a case of “Bartleby the Scrivener,” where they’re moving just to get rid of unwanted guests. Anyway, Teresa said not to worry, that they’ll find a place for me this summer.
I got a bit panicky because I haven’t been able to find my address book, but finally I remembered Ronna’s number (215-885-4095) and left a message. Most other people either don’t have unlisted numbers or I can contact via email.
I spoke to Sat Darshan, who just drove Gurujot to the airport to catch a flight to New Mexico for the 3HO summer solstice celebration, where she expects Yogi Bhajan to hire her for something.
Last week Gurujot and a boy in her class who lives around the corner went hiking at Squaw Peak on Sunday night both before and after they went to the movies.
By the time they were ready to leave for the night, their car got locked in the parking lot. Being teenagers, they figured they were okay and would just sleep in the car overnight; it didn’t occur to them to climb the fence and go to a nearby store and call their parents.
Frantic when they didn’t return home, the boy’s parents called the police. Groups of Sikh women searched for them until one found the kids after the gates opened at 5 AM.
I spoke to Libby, who said the doctors were alarmed by Lindsay’s knee problem. If the swelling and water on the knee don’t go down by next week, she will need an MRI and possibly surgery. Libby is praying that that doesn’t happen.
My lower back has been hurting me worse each day. The backpack, light as it is, probably doesn’t help, but hopefully the pain doesn’t get much worse. But at least it’s not preventing me from doing anything.
Last night I slept well, but only for six and a half hours; I was actually up when Gianni phoned. But on Thursday, I’ll need to get up at 4 AM to catch my 6:50 AM flight to O’Hare.
Cheri at Dairy Hollow said my dates are for September; the “8/1-8/30” was a typo. I think if I go there, I’ll have to fly to Tulsa because only prop jets fly into Northwest Arkansas Regional, and it will be a lot cheaper to go to Tulsa.
I don’t even know if my money will hold out, but I still have lots of available credit lines before I have to file for bankruptcy.
As I told Susan, my employment and financial problems are still unresolved, but I’m not going to bother her about that because she’s neither a career counselor, a financial advisor, a bankruptcy attorney nor an employment service.
Thursday, June 14, 2001
8 PM Central Daylight Time. I’m in the blue room of Ragdale House. I’d hoped to be in the air-conditioned Barnhouse again, as today’s heat index in Chicago was 100°, with the temperature at 90°.
But I’ve got two fans and open windows and a screen door that opens to a porch I share with another resident, so I should be okay. Of course, I have to play my radio very softly. I had thought I was doing that, but the person across from me, Gina, said she could hear it when I asked her. I guess I’ll need to put the shades down and close the terrace door if I want privacy. Tomorrow is supposed to be cooler.
It’s always hard to adjust to being at an artists’ colony, and right now I have that gassy feeling – not the kind I had yesterday, from anxiety, but the kind from altering my dietary habits.
When I got here, I discovered that somehow I had only bought two pair of socks, when I have so many, so I walked into town but neither Jewel Osco or Walgreens carried athletic socks, and I had to buy a bag of seven pair at The Bootery for $18 when I know I could get them at half that price at a discount store. Well, that’s the breaks.
I actually slept okay last night, just not long enough. I dreamed that I was going to have to get up at 4 AM before the alarm, only when I did get up, it was 3:20 AM. Of course, that’s 5:20 AM in this time zone, so I guess I had breakfast at 6 AM rather than at 4 AM.
It will probably take me a while to sleep tonight, as it feels earlier to me than it really is. The sun is setting.
Dad got me to the airport with a lot of time to spare, and I managed to make the trip without any undue anxiety. The three-hour flight was kind of bumpy, and the movie (Proof of Life) sucked moose.
I shared a cab here with Virginia Chase Sutton, whom I didn’t recognize when I saw her on my flight. She lost 167 pounds: the first 65 from depression (like me, she’d been on Paxil and Serzone unsuccessfully, and she’s now taking Effexor and Xanax) and the rest from that stomach-stapling operation they call bariatric surgery. Virginia looks the same as she used to, but only in a vague way.
The only other person here I know from my last visit is Scott Eyerly, whose opera, House of the Seven Gables, finally premiered last fall.
Ten of the twelve residents arrived today, so there’s been a big turnover. I hugged Sylvia Brown, the only staff person I know who was here in 1997.
I don’t expect to bond with these people the way I did with that very special group last time, when I grew close to Theresa, Kerry, Matt, Carolyn and others, but everyone here seems nice.
There is no one I’m attracted to, which is probably a good thing; I actually was hoping there would be more really young artists, who always seem to have a lot of energy.
Beth, who’s in transit from grad school in Ithaca to life temping in New York City after her eight weeks here, seems lively and fun.
Susan, Ragdale’s new director and Anne, the new caretaker, sat with us at dinner, which was cooked by John. (I’m the only one here who prefers vegetarian fare, though I ate the chicken and pasta tonight.)
Of course, I’ll be leaving in 13 days, which isn’t much time. I’m not sure I’ll get any fiction writing done, and I’m not even sure I want to.
I’ll hook up my computer tomorrow to see if it’s working and play with the collection of stories I’ve got left over from the manuscript of what became the Silicon Valley Diet.
I’d forgotten what it was like to sweat like this. Despite the heat in Phoenix, I never felt I needed to change my clothes during the day, the way I did here today. But according to the extended forecast I checked on Yahoo, it should cool off a bit by tomorrow and over the weekend.
It will take me a while to adjust all my habits to Ragdale’s rules and rhythms, but I’ll be patient with myself.
Saturday, June 16, 2001
10 PM. I thought I would succumb to depression and anxiety yesterday, but I seem to be holding up fine for a guy whose computer won’t work, who’s in real pain from plantar fasciitis, and who doesn’t have much of a future, near as I can figure.
When I turned on my computer yesterday, all I got was a blank, dead screen and some dials lighting up. I made the mistake of telling the people in the office, and Lisa came over to see if she could figure it out or help, but she was mystified.
I finally told them I’d go to the CompUSA store in Highland Park, and if they ask, I’ll say that I got it fixed there, but I’ll really just wait till I get it back to Arizona.
At first, I felt deep despair, but I was not going to let this setback give me that sick feeling in the pit of my stomach that started my cycle of mental illness last summer and fall.
It’s only a computer, just as a car is only a car. If I had really been interested, I would have checked it out before I came here to see how it was working.
If I do any writing, I’ll use the Lake Forest Public Library’s computer or the one we can get online with in the conference room – or I will simply write in longhand, the way I’ve written this diary for 32 years and the way many of my stories started.
I don’t feel that I must do work here at Ragdale. If I don’t write anything new . . . well, then I’ll learn something about myself. But I think I still have stories to tell.
I was just talking to David, a writer who left Iowa for Brooklyn College’s MFA program and an apartment with his wife in Carroll Gardens, and to Nick, a Chicago-based artist who’s definitely gay. I told them telling a lot of stuff about my publicity antics, the law, and my family.
I’m a good storyteller, and I’ve taught long enough to tell when people are interested in what I’m saying. Maybe I need to perform rather than simply write down stuff.
Spalding Grayson? I’ve dreamed about that for years without ever articulating it, but I don’t know whether I can do it. We’ll see.
The lines from Browning’s corny “Rabbi Ben Ezra” come to mind, but in relation to me, myself and I: “Grow old along with me/The best is yet to be.” Whatever.
I reread the article on me from the Dictionary of Literary Biography that Tom and I wrote, to sort of convince myself that, yes, I have had a career as a writer. My books may be unknown, but they exist.
I exist, and even if I’m shoveling dust as a way of making a living, nobody can take that away from me. God, do I sound like Timothy McVeigh invoking “Invictus” as he was executed on Monday?
By the way, do you have to kill 168 people to die relatively peacefully and humanely by lethal injection rather than suffer with cancer or another illness for months or years? Is euthanasia limited to mass murderers?
What’s the line from Cabaret: “When I go, I want to go like Elsie”? I want to go like McVeigh: a shot in the shoulder and in seconds, oblivion.
Today Gina asked me if then takes a comma after it. That struck me as an odd question for a writer to ask, but she’s a former Los Angeles TV reporter working on her first novel.
I think about Gina and Beth, both here working on first novels that may or may not get published, and I realized that I have nothing to apologize for.
Last night I ate even the fish for dinner and then talked over tea with Beth about Cornell’s MFA program and her life in Ithaca and San Francisco. She told me she was surprised at how bad her fellow students were – especially a couple of sexist Rush Limbaugh-type guys.
Last night I fell asleep around 10:30 PM but woke up at 1:30 AM and couldn’t get back to sleep, so I took an Ambien and slept till 6 AM.
After breakfast, I got back into bed, and then, after an hour, I did an impromptu 30-minute workout, concentrating of course on stretching my right calf and tight Achilles tendon.
My foot was a little better today, but walking is still quite painful, so I decided to rent a car. After I made several calls, a guy from an Enterprise outlet in North Chicago came here to pick me up.
Now I’ve got a new Dodge Neon for a week. It will cost me a fortune because I took all the insurance. (I have no car insurance now because the Prizm isn’t in my name.) But I’ve spent so much money I don’t have, can another $360 or so be any worse?
I enjoyed riding down here from North Chicago through some lovely suburban neighborhoods.
Back at the house, I called some of my credit cards to check on balances and address changes and discovered that a few of them have raised my credit limits again. And I have a credit balance on many of my cards.
At Jewel Osco (now owned by Albertsons), I discovered that they had crew socks for men at one-third the price I paid at The Bootery. I should have asked on Thursday. I also bought sweet potatoes, caffeine-free Diet Pepsi and other items like disposable razors.
Tired after lunch – a typical one of veggies and fat-free cheese sandwiches using those very thin Arnold whole wheat bread slices I’ve been unable to find out West – I lay down and began having dreams even though I wasn’t asleep.
While this was relaxing, it scared me a little as I worried I was becoming psychotic. So after I roused myself, I went to Burger King and had a caffeinated Diet Coke and read some of the New York Times for the past two days. Maybe I’m not reading the papers as carefully as I normally do but that’s probably a good thing.
I drove down to Highland Park’s fashionable shopping area, where there are two Starbucks a block apart, Saks, Anthropologie, Jamba Juice, etc. It’s so pretty here in Lake Forest and the nearby affluent suburbs.
Although Gina said the town looked to her like the one in The Truman Show, this area reminds me of the North Shore of Long Island: places like Locust Valley, Great Neck, Oyster Bay and Manhasset.
When I got back to Ragdale, I called Dad and wished him a happy Father’s Day tomorrow. I said I loved him very much and that it took me 50 years to see what a great father he was. Throughout this year, he was always there for me at every turn.
As weird as my family is, I’m also just as weird or weirder. I’d like to interview my parents on videotape before they die. When they’re no longer around, I’m sure I’ll feel lost for a while, as will my brothers. But I will always know that Mom and Dad came through for me when I needed them.
I was on my way to the conference room to email Teresa and Mark Savage – the next people I’ll be mooching off – when Nick asked me if I wanted to go out for dinner and “get to know other people here.”
Although I’d already eaten an Amy’s burrito I’d bought at the supermarket, I said yes and that I would drive and I’d meet him and whoever he could round up downstairs at Ragdale House at 6 PM. He came over only with David.
Alice Judson Ryerson Hayes was here at the time, showing around her second cousins, a couple from Spokane with two little boys whose great-grandfather used to spend summers here as a child.
David, Nick and I went to Hamdi’s, a Middle Eastern restaurant with a nicely sarcastic Palestinian owner. We could have walked there, as it was on Bank Lane just north of Deerpath. I had a bowl of lentil soup and enjoyed the company.
It was interesting to hear about their experiences in the art world and discuss how visual artists’ careers are both similar to and different from the careers of writers. Back at Ragdale, Nick confided to me that he’s cried every day since he got here and is sleeping terribly.
My foot still hurts badly, but at least now I have wheels for this week, and more importantly, I feel I’m among friends. It’s now 10:30 PM, but I don’t feel sleepy.
Tuesday, June 19, 2001
2:30 PM. Last night I slept well and my foot was feeling a little better today. I was just able to take a short walk through Ragdale’s shaded woods to the 
open prairie. A cool breeze was blowing from the tall grasses, and it was very calming.
I’ve opened the door to my room to get some more ventilation. I’m doing laundry – my clothes are in the dryer – and I just scraped my kneecap and probably bruised it as well, on the metal of my worktable – so I’ve moved over to the bed to continue writing this.
I think I may have lost the filling or chipped a tooth while eating my vegetables at lunch. Oh well, I’ll watch to see if it hurts and how much.
At age fifty, there’s no point in denying that my body is starting to decay. Even if I dieted more strictly, I’ll never look as good as I did when I was thirty or even forty – much less ever get to the point when I was in my twenties and had an unlined face and a smooth (if somewhat chubby) body.
Part of the struggle I felt this year is dealing with that slow decline of the body, and to a lesser degree, the decline of my brain. Other friends – Tom Whalen, Mark Bernstein, Mark Savage –seem to have handled aging more easily than I.
I’m not aging gracefully and I’m very conscious of being fifty. I mention my age all the time, as if that’s an outward manifestation of how I’ve accepted it. Dad was a poor role model. He’s always lied about his age.
My tooth is now starting to throb – or am I just imagining it? It almost feels like the same filling that came out last fall, but the dentist in Mesa filled that one.
During my first time at MacDowell, I saw a dentist for the pain of what turned out to be bruxism, and maybe, having decreased my morning dosage to an eighth of a milligram of Klonopin, I’m experiencing my tension in new ways.
I’ll probably go to that 4:45 PM yoga class being offered for residents, though I’m wary of any exercises that may exacerbate my body’s weak spots.
I guess I do feel guilty about not writing anything here – but maybe I am telling myself that I need to move on and do something else.
Should I consider a career as a public school teacher? I know how horrible that life can be, but it offers security, given the current teacher shortage. While salaries for teachers are terribly low, at least they’re not as bad off as adjuncts.
I’m not sure I understand why I feel I can’t do anything with my law degree. Shouldn’t I put it to use? It hasn’t been that many years since my job as a staff attorney at CGR.
Anyway, to mercifully change the subject, I went out to the Starbucks in the shopping center where Beth took me to Kinko’s the other night, and I again had a venti passion iced tea and read most of the New York Times.
Afterwards, I roamed the aisles of Target and went to Wendy’s again, and then to the Lake Forest Public Library, where Virginia was having trouble getting and sending stuff to the English 102 students taking her online class at Phoenix College. The library’s Netscape browser is slow and pokey, and the computer here in Ragdale is much faster and more up-to-date.
I’ve got to call John Domini and Erica Bernstein before the reading at Quimby’s.
This morning I filed by phone for Florida unemployment benefits; later, a check for $550 was issued and will be mailed tomorrow. I’ll have to ask Mom to send it to me at Teresa’s.
Also, nearly all the bill payments I made before I left Arizona cleared my checking account yesterday.
*
9 PM. Along with Scott, David, Nick and Gerry, I went to the yoga class taught by a grey-haired, chubby woman, Carole. At first, I was tense because I could feel my tooth aching, but now I think I was imagining most of the pain.
Anyway, mostly we concentrated on breathing, which was a good reminder for me of what I’ve learned in the past year, and what should be fairly easy stretches. But I wanted to make sure I didn’t injure myself; I still get back pain and didn’t want to reinjure my foot, so I was a bit hesitant.
Still, the 75-minute session was relaxing. I wore shorts and a t-shirt, but by late afternoon, the weather had changed and it cooled off considerably. I put on long pants and even a jacket at times.
We had a great dinner, and then I watched TV alone for a little while. (Carlos and I are the only ones here who watch TV.) Then I chatted with Carlos and Beth as she made sweet potatoes.
Eileen Favorite told me she actually knew Baumbach and Spielberg when she was in the Brooklyn College MFA program for one year, when she was 23 in the mid-1980s. She didn’t like the program at Brooklyn, and she got her MFA only last year from the School of the Art Institute here, where they were more sympathetic to the kind of fiction she writes.