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Were I an avid gawker.com contributor, I would have fired off word of my Sunday triple celebrity sighting: Howard Stern on the Upper West, Jay Thomas (‘Cheers’) in Chelsea, and — clincher here — Meg Ryan in Soho. I held the door for her exiting Once Upon a Tart. She said ‘Thank you.’ Sigh. Were…

I’m sitting on a dock in Tribeca, the Hudson River sloshing around below. Helicopters buzz overhead. Jets lumber slowly by en route to Laguardia. It is gray and hazy, about 65 degrees. It’s kind of a non-descript afternoon, the kind I might normally work right through without noticing, as are most of the 8 million…

I thought, ‘I can’t believe it’s Friday already.’ Then I realized that it’s not Friday. Better yet, I took Friday off. So I’m cleaning up my apartment, swilling Red Stripe, and filling you in on day two of the Tribeca Film Festival. I skipped the morning run (I’m granting myself one morning off a week…

Just in from my first Tribeca Film Festival screening, ‘This So Called… Disaster.’ It is a documentary following Nick Nolte, Sean Penn, and Woody Harrelson through rehearsals of writer/actor/director Sam Shepard’s ‘The Late John Moss,’ a play based largely on Shepard’s own life. It was terrific. The film is so loaded with paternal conflict, hard-drinking,…

The year was 1981. I was ten-years-old. I lived in Oak Park, Illinois, home of Frank Lloyd Wright, Ernest Hemingway, and original Tarzan Bruce Bennett. My parents had just seperated, soon to divorce. It was winter. It was cold. Windy City, white out, Great Lakes cold. I was in fifth grade. I tried out for…

It has been a partly-sunny (or was it partly-cloudy?) weekend of NPR, The New York Times, long runs in the park, and long walks through the city alone with quiet thoughts. And it has been a weekend of allergies: pasty, puffy, itchy eyes; a runny nose; pills, sprays and drops. Chris and I went running…