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I’m the sorta’ guy who buys new undershirts instead of doing laundry. I’m the sorta’ guy who still expects to pay $30 for a pair of 501 jeans (and who hasn’t graduated to Diesel). And I’m the sorta’ guy who, when he realizes he’s going to a wedding in the morning with a freshly-pressed suit…

Chris steps towards the doors of the 1/9 at 50th Street and says, “Have a good trip.” And I say, deadly serious, “Where am I going again? Oh yeah, thanks.” We’ve just finished a matching set of beers and turkey burgers at Coffee Shop in Union Square. He invited me to a collegue’s film screening…

The sky is extraordinary tonight. I should be working on my memoir-in-progress, “33 1/3.” I should be working on my new song, “Big Rock Candy Mountain.” I should be paying bills, packing for my trip this weekend, or at least whittling down my Netflix queue. But I don’t have it tonight. I’m defeated. It’s barely…

If I’d written you a Daily Journal entry yesterday, you’d have sent me flowers. Or called me a psychopharmacologist. First of all, I was underslept. It doesn’t sound much like work, but I stayed up well through and after the Oscar telecast directing the efforts of my west coast colleagues. I nodded off well after…

February 25, 2005, was nothing short of miracuous. I woke well before my alarm at 6:35 from a series of dreams into which all of my life’s major players, excepting my parents, made prominent cameos. I saved them all: Erin from an ill-fated relationship, Sibby from an ill-fated lifestyle, and my brother from the clutches…

Um, hi. What the hell was I thinking? The way I reckon, I’ve spent exactly 30 of the last 60 nights sleeping in my own bed. In the last two weeks, I’ve been home exactly four nights. So WTF!?! Let’s throw a party! In my empty apartment! Making matters only slightly worse, I violated the…