SJ Rozan

Maybe you’re right. But here’s a brief mention of my bit part in a story that’s both fascinating, and tragic on many levels.

Okay. These people are serious scum for doing this, and deeply serious micro-brains for doing it by email.

And ditto for these scummy guys, just replace “email” with “Facebook.” How stupid is it possible to be and still breathe?

Yes, that was me at BAM yesterday for the opening night of KING LEAR, starring Frank Langella. A friend scooped up last-minute tickets and invited me along. The good news: Langella is terrific. (My friend isn’t so sure, by the way; but I stand by that statement.) So are some of the other actors. Max Bennett is a standout as a particularly bitter Edmund, Chu Omambala makes Albany’s lines sound like sentences he just thought up, and Harry Melling plays the Fool without a net. The rest of the cast is close to that level, too; everyone is good. The bad news: the staging is silly. Everyone spends a lot of time just standing around. There’s little stage business, and with the exception of Langella and Bennett, no one who can draw the eye when they’re not in action. It’s a spare, abstract set, with level changes of a few inches and large vertical timbers at the back that move to suggest buildings or trees. The audience is asked to imagine the settings and that’s fine; but all of a sudden, in the big mad scene, it actually rains. All over the actors, who rampage through it getting soaked. It’s a muscular tour de force for them to act — and so well — in a deluge, but after imagining stairs, walls, furniture, and forests for two hours, I thought it was ridiculous and show-offy to dump gallons of actual water all over everything.

Disclaimer: this is not my favorite Shakespeare play. Seeing it or reading it, from the opening scene I want to slap Lear upside the head and ask what the hell he’s thinking.

Had a meeting on the east side today so took the shuttle from Times Square to Grand Central. As NYers know, this is a three-minute trip. As soon as the doors close a guy starts up: “Ladies and gentlemen, sorry to disturb your morning. I’m currently homeless…” He goes through the car with his paper cup. The woman opposite me laughs. I don’t know why until he’s down at the other end; then she starts, “Ladies and gentlemen, I’m currently homeless…” She waves her cup around, smiling ruefully, doesn’t even bother to get up. Just as we pull into Grand Central, a woman at the far end of the car starts to scream. A couple of people jump up; a guy says, “Don’t worry. I’ve seen her before. Nothing’s wrong, she just likes to scream. But don’t get close. She spits.” Train stops, doors open. Guy beside me turns to the woman beside him. “When we come back, let’s take the 7.”

I love New York.

(for you non-NYers: same route, different line)

Okay, you guys. A number of you resolved to finally get some writing done this year. To start that novel, or dust of the one that’s been in the drawer and see what can be made of it. Right? You know I’m right. You know who you are. And I’m here to help.

I’m teaching twice this year: first, a weekly workshop here in NYC, and second, in August in Assisi. Details, you say? Glad you asked.

The weekly workshop is at Crime Fiction Academy, at the Center for Fiction on E. 47th St. Besides me, you get master classes, an evening with agents and editors, a reading class, a place to write if you need it, and it’s all underwritten this semester so it’s more affordable than ever meaning YOU have no excuse! So jump on it if you’re nearby.

http://centerforfiction.org/forwriters/crimefiction/

If you’re not nearby, or you are but you’d rather be far away in a beautiful place, come to the Art Workshop International in Assisi. I’ll be there July 26 – Aug 8 teaching a fiction workshop. In this case, besides me you get room, board, and a gorgeous, quiet town with art around every corner.

http://www.artworkshopintl.com/

So? Let’s get to work!

Four waterfowl kinds,

Colored the same, in one flock.

Brant geese bark orders.

Iced-over boardwalk —

Dangerous. Ah, but at end:

Peregrine falcon!

Looking for horned owls

In silent wood, all we find

Are other birders.

Y’know, when I was a kid in the Bronx, we used to get big giant snowstorms. Snow up to your pipik, days off from school, dads didn’t go to work. We called them big giant snowstorms.

snow in the backyards

fire escape

snow blows on the river (high tide in a strong wind)

vine

grate

fire plugs

snow begins to melt

As usual, more on Flickr. Just click any of these. And I just want to say: it was COLD! My fingers still haven’t gotten over it. And tomorrow I’m going birdwatching. In the Bronx.

Twas the day after new year’s and all through the gym,

Not a locker was empty for her or for him.

The sneakers were laced up on ankles with strength

In hopes that the jogging would be long in length.

The members were lifting all snug on their benches

With visions of workouts that might make them menches.

My buddy in tee shirt and I in my shorts

Had just settled into some serious sports

When from the entry arose such a ruckus

You’d think Martians had come, from the planet to pluck us.

Away to the glass wall I flew in a hurry

To see through it to find out the source of the flurry.

The sunshine a-gleam on the glass canopy

Showed me the sight that I’d raced there to see:

A horde of new people, with new resolutions

Determined to join our New York institution.

Over-eating and -drinking the whole season through

They’d decided that now they would try something new:

To run, and pump iron, not sit at the telly

And slim down that round face and belly of jelly.

So they’d come to the Y. But without any doubt,

The front desk had run out of forms to fill out.

The manager stepped to the lobby and paled,

Fearing a riot, and all would be jailed.

Then from the office burst out with a bound

The athletic director — new forms had been found!

Everyone sat down with paper and pen

To fill out their info and then hand it in.

Then, processed and photoed, their first month’s dough spent,

Off to the weight room and treadmills they went,

And I heard them exclaim, ere they started to sweat,

“Happy new year to all, may it be the best yet!”

Been a helluva year, folks. Up/down, good/bad, serene/wild. I’m ready for a new start. For all of you who had a great 2013, may 2014 be even better. Those of you who had hard times this year, stay strong: here’s hoping 2014 will surprise us all with marvels, joys, and kindnesses we didn’t expect. Including the ones we offer each other.

I didn’t name it, the photographer did. But there’s a certain truth to his words. This is the crowd I went to Yunnan Province with. It was a Sierra Club trip, and we were damned if a little rain — sometimes, really cold rain — was going to keep us from our appointed rounds. Herein, us in Potatso Park, courtesy Kenny Yip’s time delay. My photos from this part of the trip are on the way.

If you have to ask which one I am, that must mean you missed the photos of my Mongolia trips and various other travels so you don’t recognize the orange raincoat.