Talk about High Concept?


Struggling screenwriter (isn't that redundant?) passes the time writing fake letters to famous people in the guise of an eager and curious child.  The letters are pitch-perfect and the replies are touching, funny and revealing...you can read more at:  


http://boingboing.net/2010/03/10/little-billys-letter.html

A few examples for the link averse:

To : Robert Shapiro--One  of O.J. Simpson's "dream team"  defense lawyers

...and to the office of the Archdiocese of Los Angeles

and if you want to know how Shapiro and the Church replied...

follow link above.

 Chopin didn’t bother, he just identified them by genre and number.

Most other composers did likewise.  "Let's see, this is my fifth symphony and I wrote it in C-minor,  so I think I'll call it  "Symphony #5 in C-minor".

Occasionally, some descriptive word would get attached to a piece of music. That's why we have a "Moonlight" sonata-- but that isn't the actual "name" of the piece.

Classical composers sometimes wrote program music, created to evoke something actual or metaphorical— such as “Pictures at an Exhibition”  and  “Night on Bald Mountain” 

But that's the classical world --for fun in the way of Titling titillation...Punk and Country is where you'll find the real motherlode... but that would be too easy, so I'm gonna dig in my memory bank as well as look around the Jazz scene and other related neighborhoods...

I always thought the Miles Davis tune So What was a perfect title.  It perfectly suits the man who wrote it as well as the direct and straightforward simplicity of the tune itself.

Phil Woods wrote a tune entitled Huk2E --The only tune I know of that references the act of spitting.  A few more I like: 

This I Dig of You - Hank Mobley.  

And what if I don't? - Herbie Hancock

I heard you twice the first time- Branford Marsalis

Your goatee gets on my nerves (not to mention the moustache) - Milosc (Polish jazz group)

There's nothing smart about being stupid - Sonny Fortune

 Theme from ' The Theme From' --Herbie Mann

Charles Mingus  never missed a chance to brew his titles dark  and strong. (color-coded because double spacing option is being uncooperative)

All the Things You Could Be By Now If Sigmund Freud's Wife Was Your Mother; The Shoes of the Fisherman's Wife are Some Jive Ass Slippers; Don’t Be Afraid, the Clown’s Afraid Too.

Les McCann penned:

A little 3/4 for God & co. ;

Gone on and get that church;
Someone stole my Chitlins;

Vu Jade (the feeling of never having been there before);

Price you gotta pay to be free.

 Mother of Invention--Age 2

 A small sampling of Frank Zappa might include: 

What Kind of Girl do you Think We Are?

Sheik Yerbouti (Album Name)

Sexual Harassment in the Workplace 

In-a-Gadda-Stravinsky

Orrin Hatch on Skis

Winos Do No March

Variations on the Carlos Santana Secret Chord Progression (musicians must love that one)

We're Only in it for the Money

Why does it hurt when I Pee?

Don't eat the Yellow Snow

The always eclectic  George Clinton. 

Free your mind and your ass will follow;

There is nothing before me but thang;

If you don't like the effects, don't produce the cause.

 Mose Allison  wrote dozens of doozies:


Somebody Gonna Have to Move;
Your Mind is On Vacation (And Your Mouth is Working Overtime);
Your Molecular Structure;
The Getting Paid Waltz; 

Monsters of the Id;

You Can't Push People Around.

I'm a Cranky Old Yank in a Clanky Old Tank on the Streets of Yokohama With My Honolulu Mama Doin' Those Beat-o Beat-o Flat-on-my-Seat-o Hirohito Blues

 --- Hoagy Carmichael

and the Ozzie Nelson (yes, that Ozzie Nelson) classic - I'm Looking for a Guy Who Plays Alto and Baritone, Doubles on the Clarinet and Wears a Size 37 Suit

and to wrap it up...... here's Bonnie Raitt (in honor of my Sis Debby and Hubby Bill who're going to one of her upcoming concerts)  doin one of my favorite Mose Allison tunes...with Taj Mahal on Blues Harp...


Damn...they won't let me embed it!  Sorry bout that...but here's the link. 

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qABGqLfOiAw

Note:  Still trying to master the new Blogger tools...sorry for any formatting sloppiness, but try as I might, I can't seem to figure out how to correct.

Faulkner once observed that “work” is the only thing we can do (other than sleep) for any extended period of time. We can’t eat or drink or have sex for 8 hours straight (not that some people don’t try) but we can work.

The first law of thermodynamics states that when work is done to a system, the system's energy state changes by the same amount of the work input. This equates work and energy. And energy is the ability that a physical system has in order to do work on other physical systems.

I don’t pretend to fully (or even partially) understand the exact science of it, but the idea that work and energy are synonymous appeals to me. It broadens the concept to embrace the idea that whenever we are expending energy, we are working –which includes sitting on our butts worrying, daydreaming, meditating, watching, listening—as well when we’re toiling, playing sports, games, music, tending our gardens etc. However, that’s not to say that all expenditures of energy are productive…but that’s another word and another subject entirely.

Tolstoy said, "One can live magnificently in this world if one knows how to work and how to love…"

and...

Freud is purported to have said that the goal of psychotherapy is to allow the patient to love and to work

The love part is pretty easy for most people to get, even if it’s understood only in a romantic or sexual sense. But the work part of it is a bit more subtle… and interesting, if only because it gets so much less attention than the former.

“If A equals success, then the formula is A equals X plus Y and Z, with X being work, Y play, and Z keeping your mouth shut.”
Albert Einstein




















Work like you don’t need the money, love like you’ve never been hurt and dance like nobody’s watching.
--Satchel Paige






“Work spares us from three evils: boredom, vice, and need”
Voltaire





The laziest man I ever met put popcorn in his pancakes so they would turn over by themselves.
--W.C Fields







But writing about work is too much like work…
so let’s just look at pictures—of people at work.

Look Carefully

Al Smith ran to the waltzing beat of The Sidewalks of New York.  Roosevelt had the snappy Happy Days Are Here Again. For Truman it was I'm Just Wild About Harry, and Kennedy beamed that Beacon Hill smile to High Hopes. 

Wikipedia has a fairly comprehensive list for many of the others going back to Andrew Jackson all the way through:  Mike Huckabee: More Than A Feeling by Boston (Tom Scholz of Boston asked Huckabee to stop using the song) 

The strangest choice in the bunch  is probably the one for Ross Perot. He chose Patsy Cline's Crazy in 1992

But what is Romney’s song?  All I can find online is that he's been torturing the ears of his followers at every rally and speech with the bland and faux Springsteenesque Kid Rock  Anthem Born Free.  

So, encouraged by the belief that the Romney campaign is still looking to Name that Tune for their man, I submit the following Gilbert and Sullivan inspired ditty for their consideration. 

"I believe in an America where millions of Americans believe in an America that's the America millions of Americans believe in.  That's the America I love.  

-Mitt Romney (January 2012)

( I am the very model of ) 
A Presidential Candidate 

I am the very model of a presidential candidate

can light up any room where loaded people pay ten Grand a plate

I know the Wall Street barons who like me are steeped in privilege

And guys who blithely sail on yachts made possible by funds that hedge

I come from rugged pioneers who founded their own settlement

Where folks worked hard and feared their god and beverages that might ferment

Where marriages gave men the choice, and women didn’t have a voice

I am the very man for whom America should now rejoice

The cynics say I change my views and pander, lie and obfuscate

But in The Prince Niccolò said "to rule you must equivocate"
The game that we call politics is one in which you must rely

upon the how and not the who or what or where or when or why.

I get up in the morning and I shave and dress conservative

To look the part of one who hopes to act as a preservative

of all that we among the flock, with class --and I mean Class A stock

require to stay rich while keeping congress in non-stop gridlock.

I know I said "I saw my father march with Martin Luther King"

And said a bunch of other stuff which didn't have the truth of ring

But sometimes I get all mixed up and words start coming out all strange

but vote for me and I'll make sure that that's something I will that change

To run the nation properly you must have grit and diligence

the kind that comes from ancestry with U.S. roots and permanence

Obama is a transient whose mom lived off the continent

His Dad I hear just disappeared and drank till all incompetent

  

I'm very good at shaking hands and kissing babies on the cheeks

I’ve learned the names of foreign lands and nearly all the Saudi Sheiks

I’m married to a loyal lass who stays at home to copulate--

With me --and ain't it big of me (bigamy?) as one hot hunky candidate. 

I speak my mind regardless of the facts or truths empirical

Pay no heed to my critics or when SNL’s satirical 

I always follow Mormon law, I stand before my faith in awe

Ask anyone who knows me, and they’ll tell you that I have no flaw.

My daddy said to me “Son if you dream of white house occupance...

You must pay heed to folks who live in houses stocked in opulence

Ideas and law and policy may be what makes democracy

But money talks and money wins--God Bless our great plutocracy.”

I’ve paid my dues in wingtip shoes in conference rooms in every state

I’ve wheeled and dealed and made a mint cause baby “I communicate”

I never lack for confidence, can straddle just 'bout any fence

My mojo is the Quid Pro Quo --and you thought it was temperance?

In Massachusetts I was known for innovative policies

My record shows successive blows to wasteful old bureaucracies

My Universal Healthcare law, the one I thought would never pass

Has now returned to haunt me as it bites me in my great big ass

My moment has arrived and now I’m ready for the final test

The GOP will soon choose me and then with Morman zeal n' zest

Just fill er up, dog’s in the crate, he’s on the roof— no need to wait

Here comes the very model of a presidential candidate.

The tireless techies at Blogspot (Google) have upgraded the Blogger toolkit and made it possible (once you get over the shock of arriving one day to discover that someone has changed your entire office without warning) to do all kinds of nifty new things like change fonts, colors, move and resize pictures, and a bunch of other things I haven't figured out yet.  And I had this post all ready to go last week, but decided to add pix since it's now easier (and better looking) than before.  

I wonder if all these new gizmos are going to inspire me, distract me, or make me a lazier writer.  Time will tell...

Working every day in the Times Square area in Manhattan...

...I’ve become generally oblivious to the garish cacophony that makes this the world epicenter for neon, (actually it's all digital now) noise, and non-stop Uber-urban stimulation—but I’m always sensitive to the brief moments of human interaction happening all around me like little one-act plays acted out by a cast of thousands in a multitude of colors, accents and flavors to produce a real world Big Apple Circus. And here’s some of em.


Deli/restaurant. Mid-afternoon.  Teenage girl (Caribbean? African? ) with older couple (parents?) at hot buffet counter. Apparently unfamiliar with our customs, all three are sampling the feast and taking nibbles of turkey, shrimp, beef stew, pasta etc. while the rest of the customers look on in surprise and mild horror. Employee finally comes to tell them that they can’t do this…but the three don't seem to be getting the message--seems they think they’re being chided for using the large serving tongs, utensils, and fingers-- rather than the proper implements—which they are now trying to ask the employee about providing for them. I leave before it’s all resolved, but the fact that they still don’t seem to understand the protocol makes them appear almost comically innocent and appealing. They weren’t taking big bites anyway…just enough to “get a taste.”


Trim, intense guy in jeans and tailored sports jacket wandering up the street looking dazed and confused. He’s obviously looking for a building address and failing to spot it.
As I get closer I realize that it’s Terence Stamp, the British Actor. I ask if I can help, he says he’s looking for The Brill Building (where I happen to do much of my own post-production work) and so I confidently point out to him that it’s across the street (in defiance of the address numbering system of odd and even numbers on opposite sides of the avenue) and he and I share a quick laugh about the “oddity” of this fact. He says thanks, and I say “ My pleasure Mr. Stamp”…and he bows to me as if to acknowledge my recognition while at the same time tacitly acknowledging the possible advantage his fame may have played in his “lucking” into a helpful passerby. But I would have helped him anyway…cause he really looked dazed and confused.



Lively group of 6-8 theater-goers coming out of the Show Wicked (in a theater that occupies the ground floors of the building I work in) all standing in the middle of the street looking up into the sky. I look up too. I don’t see anything. They’re laughing and pointing and joking around and pointing up to the sky over and over again as if they’re reading funny skywriting. Again I look up and see nothing. I have to know, so I ask them what they’re looking at—and gleefully they help me to focus my attention on a window of the hotel across the street. In the window is a woman with a camera…and in her birthday suit. They know her, and she’s taking pictures of them on the street and laughing with them—and enjoying the reaction that her nudity is having on her pals. I wave to her, she waves back—and I thank the group for solving the mystery for me.



Middle age couple. Can’t place Accent. Norway?
“ Can you how we go Rockefeller Center?”
“ Yes, two blocks, that way.”
“ Can taxi go ?”
“ It’s only two blocks, you can walk there in 3 minutes”.
“ But Taxi can go?”
“Sure.”
“ We get Taxi here?”
“Well, if you do, you’ll be going the wrong way and the cab will take you way out of your way to get there”
“Get where Taxi?”
“Well, you can get one on the next block over, but then you’ll be only one block away.”
“One block?”
Ahha. The problem is the word “block”. For the next minute or so I’m totally at a loss in trying to communicate the meaning of “Block”. I’m doing Charlie Chaplin imitations and pretending to look at my watch and snapping my fingers to indicate “ in short time”. I’m a total failure (and was never good at Charades) and they smile at me as if they had mistaken me for a sane person and slowly walk away from this manic New York weirdo.


Guy is there almost every day—except when it’s very cold or raining. Sits on a milk crate or some such—playing old beat up Fender Strat plugged into small Pignose amp.
He’s black, lean, early 50’s maybe and never sings, but talks to himself and mumbles as he plays. And what he plays are licks, vamps and riffs and only licks vamps and riffs—over and over and over again. Jimi Hendrix riffs. Classic soul and Motown riffs. Song intros, vamps from famous songs—but never the song itself. And it occurs to me that he’s on to something. He knows that most people just walk by and don’t stop to listen—so he’s gonna make sure that when they walk by, they’ll hear something catchy and familiar and hot. And it works! I watch people walk by and smile as they catch those two or three familiar bars of a Stevie or Smokey or Aretha tune—and they drop a dollar or loose change in his gig bag. I’ve never spoken to him, but we know each other by sight and I often give him a salute as I pass—and I think he knows that I’m on to his secret formula.



New York has it’s variation on the Rickshaw…and it seems there’re more and more of em every year. It’s a Pedi-cab and they’re ubiquitous in the area just after the Wednesday Matinee gets out. Most of the drivers are young (it’s hard work peddling those things all day in traffic) but they seem like a fraternal bunch and not as hard-boiled as one might assume. I had an appointment cross-town and couldn’t find a cab—so I flagged one of these guys down. I hop aboard and off we go. He says something that sounds like “ You Mike Katz?” The traffic is loud, and I ask him to repeat the question.
“ You like cats?”.
“ Oh, uh, yeah, cats are cool” I reply expecting to now hear a story about his fondness for felines…but Nooooo. Seems I didn’t really understand the question, because between 7th Ave and Lexington Ave I’m treated to a solo performance of a medley of songs from (what he announces is “the greatest and longest running show in Broadway history). You haven’t lived till you’ve been serenaded with:

“...if you touch me, you'll understand what happiness is...”

from an aspiring Broadway star peddling through the exhaust fumes and horn honkings on a mid-Manhattan mid-week afternoon.

Why shouldn't truth be stranger than fiction? Fiction, after all, has to make sense.
--Mark Twain

If it sounds like writing, I rewrite it.

--Elmore Leonard

Ellen asked me if I still had my copy of The Art of Fielding by Chad Harbach. This simple request cut me to the bone. How could she want to read it? I had already told her that I thought it was a terrible book. No actually, I think what I told her was that it was a pretentious, artless and absolutely terrible book. And whatever redeeming features it contained were more than offset by the inane, inaccurate and totally gratuitous references and associations to Melville and Moby Dick. I previously mentioned the book here and said that I would abide by the " if you have nothing nice to say, say nothing" motto, but I'm changing my mind...cause Ellen now says she wants to read it and by ignoring my warnings of the dangers ahead, she's reignited my urge to jump on a soapbox and vent.


I go to the bookshelves to pull it down for her and I don’t see it anywhere. Did I give it away? And if I did, why don’t I remember? And to whom would I give it? I certainly wouldn’t have recommended it to a friend.  I must have given it to someone else to whom the  hype and "buzz"  drowned out my personal advice. And I know many people (like Ellen) who would consider a big red stop sign from me to be the equivalent of a bright green light.  Such is my unearned reputation for chronic contrarianism.

Writing poorly is not one of the deadly sins, and I’m generally inclined to forgiveness—especially when I sense that the writer is sincere and doing his best --and I don’t consider literary cluelessness to be any more dangerous a threat to humanity than short order cooks without hair nets.
But perhaps in some way I actually do feel some sense of personal violation when I encounter works like the one in question (damn, I don’t even like having to type the words of the title) which make me feel compelled to say something on behalf of the dutiful (and more deserving) servants of the craft.  Now I know how Pat Metheny felt when he heard the Kenny G album that rudely insulted the music and memory of Louis Armstrong. You can see him on YouTube...he's so angry it looks like he's gonna burst a blood vessel.

And so I will try to state my case with a brief analysis of a single paragraph. I think it’s fairly representative of most of what you’ll (repeatedly) encounter in the work of which we speak--but will not name again.

I should stop drinking coffee too, he thought. He’d almost thought 'give up' coffee, but that was a misleading phrase. There seemed to be meaning in it, meaning that didn’t exist. When you gave something up, who or what did you give it up to? Giving something up implied that your sacrifice made sense, and Henry knew this was untrue. The days did not accumulate and turn into something better than days, no matter how well you used them. The days could not be used. He did not have a plan. He’d stopped playing baseball and eating beans and now he would stop drinking coffee. That was all.

Let’s start at the top with a hanging curve-- as he thought one thing and almost thought another. How does one almost think something? I’ve had thoughts that went unspoken, but I don’t think I’ve ever had a thought that went un-thought. This is either absurd or way too deep for me. Strike one.

There seemed to be meaning in it, meaning that didn’t exist.

Next pitch is a change up and it freezes him. First he almost thinks a thought  and now he almost discerns meaning that doesn’t exist. Really? But I’ll concede one point…there is no meaning here that I can discern either. Still, oh and two

When you gave something up, who or what did you give it up to? Giving something up implied that your sacrifice made sense, and Henry knew this was untrue.

Wow, a slider in the dirt, but he swings and he’s outta there --with a “giving up” of something that implies a sacrifice (why?) that makes sense that is untrue. Just give me the hemlock now. What’s the point here? Is he just having fun with semantics or is he trying to say something? I’m stumped. Harbach does this kind of thing all through the book in addition to his annoying habit of  blurring the lines between what he's thinking and what his characters are thinking.  The net result is that we never really get to know the characters because the author keeps getting in their way and we come to realize that he has no intention of giving them any kind of inner life that we can relate to. Instead we have to spend an inordinate amount of time listening to Harbach pondering imponderable nonsense. Ok, who's up next?

The days did not accumulate and turn into something better than days, no matter how well you used them.

And if days did accumulate and turn into something better than days, (assuming one used them well) what would that something better be?  Dribbler to the mound... and he's out.

He did not have a plan. He’d stopped playing baseball and eating beans and now he would stop drinking coffee. That was all.

That was all? Then why all that other stuff? I learned nothing from the entire paragraph except that he stopped playing ball, eating beans and drinking coffee. Everything else was just foggy minded filler. And after reading a hundred pages of this stuff, I realized that the author is so taken with the rhythm of his enigmatic “paradox inside a conundrum” Two Step that he doesn't even care if it has all the grace of a “No soap, radio” Cha Cha.  Game called on account of spectator indifference.

I recall hearing a story about Ethan Coen, who was in rehearsals with one of his plays, and the director came up with a gag that didn’t seem to work for anyone who saw it—and the director said it didn’t matter if anyone didn’t get it…that was what was so cool about it. And Coen said “If nobody gets it then what the fuck is it?”

 And now that I think about it some more, it really does almost equate to something worse than cooking without a hair net. Not caring sufficiently about one’s characters is unpardonable in a writer of fiction. It’s like a musician not caring about the melody —or an actor saying he doesn’t care about the person he’s portraying. Then what does he care about? Well, I guess that’s obvious, he cares about himself--and showing off his way (No Way) with juggling the elements of the novel--rather than simply writing a coherent story. Not for a moment while reading this book did I feel anything for any of the characters. They weren't human--they were abstract constructs used as vehicles for transporting the rusty parts of a flimsy fairy tale.  And when some of them just disappeared without warning or explanation, I didn’t miss them or even notice sometimes. And after 200 pages I gave up on them---because in essence, they ceased to matter.

Now maybe if this book hadn’t been so hyped and promoted for so many months I might be more forgiving, but it was-- and if you go to Amazon and check out the reader reviews you’ll find that I am not alone in my disdain for both the book and the ballyhoo surrounding it. It reeks of industry corruption and cynicism of the most transparent sort. John Irving, whom one may accuse of many literary faults-- but never neglect or disrespect for his characters, was one of the many literary lions heaping praise on this unlikely “modern classic” candidate . I can only assume that it’s just part of an industry game with money being made and spread around for the benefit of all participants and that I’m the one who’s naïve in thinking that there should be a line somewhere that needs to be drawn and never crossed. I’m hoping the whole thing is a giant hoax perpetrated by some savvy soul for the purpose of teaching us all a lesson a la The Emperors New Clothes…but sadly, I’m not optimistic.



Was going to post an Emperor's New Clothes pic here...but prefer this one. It's the huge (30'x8') Maxfield Parrish mural that he created for the King Cole Bar at The St. Regis Hotel. (Stuffy old money joint that I was dragged to once for business) Story has it-- there was an unwritten competition among illustrators of the day to see who could sneak A Fart into one of their public works. Supposedly Parrish won this contest with this Old King Cole mural. Not only is the king smiling a secret smile but check out the reactions of his flanking knights. More detailed views below... Click on em to enlarge.

In Memoriam


Went to a memorial "celebration" on Sunday. Mother of dear friend Dan (who I've known for 30 years by virtue of the fortunate fact that he is one of Ellen's oldest and dearest friends) died recently and family and friends gathered together to share, reminisce and pay tribute.  Three generations were represented in an afternoon filled with profoundly eloquent expressions of love, meaning and memory. I only met Dan's mother a few times, and only briefly, but it was instantly apparent to me that she was a wonderful and remarkable woman. And Sunday confirmed my intuition as I heard one friend and family member after another recall in vivid detail the courageous and soulful journey that was her life. From a childhood in Italy through many years of struggle during the war, taking refuge from the Nazis in a convent, protecting and sheltering others, clandestinely working for the resistance and ultimately surviving to come to America to start a new life in an entirely new world. I know the afternoon meant a great deal to all who knew her well and loved her--and I am grateful to them for an afternoon in which they also gave me the gift of getting to know her as well. Such memorials are wonderful things.


---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Levon Helm. 


Someone said he was the only drummer who could make you cry. He was all heart and soul and never played or sang a note that wasn't filled to overflowing with both. A friend of mine played with him at one of his Midnight Ramble shows in Woodstock last year and said it was the highlight of his musical life. His book "This Wheel's on Fire" is a great read if you're a Band fan. He was the restless son of poor Arkansas cotton farmers and found joy in music at a very young age --then hopped on the mystery train of rhythm and blues and kept on riding it to the end. Rest in Peace.

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Will came home Friday.  We fed him a mountain of Chinese Food and breathed a few sighs of relief as he showed signs of returning to full strength.   Hoping he finds some comic uses of this latest adventure cause otherwise it's yet just another reason to stick to atheism. 

For the curious. That arrow is pointing to a collapsed lung. But not Will's. His is considerably less collapsed (approx 25%) and therefore less dire of a circumstance. All they're doing for him at the hospital now is giving him oxygen and Percocet--so hopefully when all he needs is the Percocet, they'll let him go.

If they don't, we'll organize a group to picket outside on the street with "Free Willie" placards.

My son Will had a Primary Spontaneous Pneumothorax (Lung Collapse)--again.

First one was four years ago in his right lung, this one is in the other. So far, it appears this one is less severe and won’t require any invasive procedures and he’ll heal up fine with just a little rest. Will recognized the symptoms pretty quickly this time and after waking up with chest and back pain lost little time in calling an ambulance and checking into the Emergency Room at his local hospital. Smart move and glad he's not more like his stubborn and stoic Dad. Once there he called me --and then Ellen and I got there a few hours later.

Big hospital (NY Methodist) in the heart of Park Slope and the biggest Emergency Room I’ve ever seen. When I got there I tracked down the doctor who had attended to him when he arrived and got her assurance that a Pulmonary specialist would be coming to see us shortly. Two hours later we’re still waiting. And I can’t find the first doctor anymore. It's a busy place, and for some of the evening it’s really jumping with a couple of cases that appear to be matters of life and death—so I remain patient. But after another hour—my patience runs out and I make something of a nuisance of myself. And it seems to work because soon after baring my fangs at the front desk and interrupting doctor #1 in the middle of a consultation with another doctor –we get some attention. As Ellen said: “squeaky wheel…” and she’s right, but it’s never fun to have to act like an entitled A-hole when all you want is at least some information—even if it’s to tell you how much longer you’re going to have to wait. Luckily, Will was doing ok, except for an hour or so when the pain was severe enough to warrant some Percocet so he could at least wait more comfortably. And he still had his sense of humor—when Doctor asked about any history of chest injuries, Will rattled off list of minor scrapes and bruises and then added: “…Oh, and a broken heart.”

Anyway, so far, so good. Hoping to hear more good news today and hoping he’ll be released. TBD.