The day after the world changed

It is eerily quiet here in harlem. There are no cars on the streets. There are few ambulances. All of the bridges and tunnels have been closed. I went for a rollerblade in the park. It is sunny and mild. The sky is a clear blue. There is a feeling of great sadness everywhere. We still can see the smoke in the distance. Everybody will know someone who is dead. There is nothing to do but wait.

There was a dance festival this week at the Twin Towers base. In Ten days they were presenting ten world class dance companies. All for free. I had gone there several times already. After one concert I had a drink with a friend at the top. Afterwards we wandered around the plaza. The weather had been hot and crisp, perfect summer days. After the Ballet Trocadero I had sushi with friends there along the hudson. We looked out at the yachts and into the lives of the very rich.

Having worked at the World Trade Center many times I had never liked it. I used to call them the twin towers of world hatred and greed. But, the more I traveled the more I realized how special they were. Venice has it’s Riva degli Schiavoni. Paris it's Eiffel tower. Rome has Constantine's Arch . Here in New York we had these magnificent skyscrapers. The will it must have took to build something like that. All last week I was telling my friends. "You have to go there. This dance festival is really something special and the location is unbelievable. You turn your head up and you can barely see the top." The day before yesterday the weather turned stormy. That evenings show was canceled. I went down anyways. I don’t know why. I rode the A train downtown and stood there at the base. I looked up at them in the rain and thunder. Then I went home.

I used to be a food worker there years ago. We had to be there at seven thirty in the morning. The kitchen staff had to be there at six. Most of us were actors, dancers, musicians, painters, you know, the type of people who never have a serious job. People who didn't really fit in anywhere. Besides us, most of the people there that early in the morning were black and latino, maintenance workers, cleaning people and the like. In fact the whole building was filled with shitty jobs. And thusly filled with so-called "minorities" to do them. I know people who work there. Nobody close, but I can see their faces. They are people who were just trying to make enough money to live.

Just last year I was working at 1 WTC on the 89th floor. I quit that job because the boss was an asshole. He never showed up until ten. The rest of them, they had to be in by nine, they are most likely dead. They tell us not to be afraid. But we are afraid. They tell us not to be angry. But we are angry. They tell us that life must go on as if everything were normal. But it is not normal. Nothing is normal. The towers are gone. A great shadow remains. They have won something. The question is, what?

Gasping

I flew to berlin yesterday. I flew in the prettiest little jet you have ever seen. A really cute, curvy fat little plane. This happy little chubette soared above the clouds and into the sunshine. I had a short stop-over in Stockholm. Both Helsinki and Stockholm have very small, calm, clean, ultra-modern airports. People drink espressos and read the paper in stylish cafes of glass, metal, pressed wood and fabric. It is a big change from the grim filth of New York.

I went swimming at the olympic stadium before I left. There is a big sauna there. There was a sauna at the corner bar too. This is Finnland. Fathers come into the saunas with their daughters. Sometimes they are toddlers, sometimes they are as old as seven or eight. On Sundays especially, slippery little naked tow-heads are running around everywhere. The attendant in the men's changing room is a woman. Yesterday there were two twenty-something year old women in there with us nude men. They were leading a pack of about fifteen 5-6 year old boys. Nobody was raped, nobody was murdered, nobody was arrested.

The Nordic peoples have this gasping thing. Especially the women, but sometimes the men too. Instead of saying yeah, or uh-huh, or mmm, they gasp. For an American like me this was very disconcerting. I kept thinking I had, through mis-speaking, altered a word into something really offensive. I kept looking around to see if something bad was happening just over my shoulder.

I went on one last boat ride. Pia-lissa took me around to see the parks she has designed. They are building new cities all over Helsinki. It is so tiny that there was never really that much there. If almost anyone moves there they have to build a new building. Then we took a ferry out to suommolinna. a little island fortress in the mouth of the harbor. we sat on rocks, watching the big boats come in, reading the paper. then dinner in town. now i am back for a final week. here in berlin.

Delicious Herrings

I am in helsinki now, staying at my friend pia-lissa's apartment. i met her in paris two years ago. she is a tall curvy very sophisticated finn. too bad she is engaged to be married.

She is staying with her fiance and the only thing that keeps me from tearing apart her room to look for dirty underware to sniff is all the other pia-lissoids strutting around in the hot helsinki summer bake-off.

I have to make a definate plan to be here next midsummer, the solstice. that is high mating season for finns.

I had a nice little affair in with a doe-eyed russian from oddessa that i met in a salsa club in copenhagen and another with a museum guard/gym enthusiast i met at the palace in stockholm. but still no fish in helsiki. the danes call them 'delicious herrings'.

Attack

I have been appalled to read in the International press about a recent poll undertaken by the American media. This poll through the doubtless manipulation of data purports that the American public believes that 30 days is too long for a vacation.

thinly disguised as an attack on george bush this meritless besmirchment of the 'rene calvo philosophy' has not gone unnoticed.

wouldn't it be a nicer world if we all said 'no' to august? we have only one life. in that life we have perhaps 100 summers. how many of those are gone already? how many are left? a very finite number.

let the business men close the coffers. let the soldiers lay down their arms. let the children run naked on the seacoast. let us all breathe in the richness of life.

helsinki, finnland

Thunder Flies

I was covered with tiny black flies on my way into Ketteminde the other day. I had to stop my bike and dive into the near freezing ocean to rid myself of this creepy pests. The farmers call them thunder flies. They say that they are a sure sign of heavy weather. They were right. By morning it was pouring.

Later the sun came out. We drove to the south of Fyn (foonin) the middle island in the Dansk archipelago. There we visited a castle owned by some young lord. He needed the money so anybody could go. He has a picture of himself in full armor on top of a 1910 Harley. He is no historian. He had hundreds of vintage cars in his barn. There was a real moat. It wasnt too interesting. It was just another castle. He did have a maze in his garden that was truly baffling. We cheated to get out. There was a tower in the middle. People were yelling directions to their friends who were hopelessly lost in that green tangle. When I got up there I realised it wasnt high enough to give anybody any real perspective. Their instructions, which sounded so convincing while I was wandering below, were actually meaningless. So I started yelling random instructions. Keep turing left and you'll have it! The key is to make a left turn at the right place! Turn right when there are no turns left! Like rats, they obeyed the tune of the pipers.

The best thing is the beach. There is a museum here in Ketteminde called the Johannes Larsen Museet. There is a new wing that is ok. The best though is his house and studio. It is one of the most beautifully cozy houses I have ever been in. The walls are covered with paintings. Every stick of furniture, every book, every pot every pan every glass are like an interlocking piece in a picture of warm refinement. His studio, where the larger works are hung, has the most lovingly rendered portraits of this tiny fishing town. Nudes wander the beaches in the dazzle of an eternal summer sun glittering against the waves.

Life is so peacful here. As I raced home trying to beat the setting sun, I passed a blazing barley field. There are flowers everywhere.

Shooting monkies in a barrel

I am in Denmark right now. Denmark is a bunch of islands on the Baltic. Who knew? I am on the middle one called Ulan or something like that. I am staying in a farmhouse with the thatched roof and sheep and all that. We are surrounded by barley fields. During the day the farmers burn them.

There is a beach resort nearby called Ketteminde. Minde is a big word around here. It means memory. So this place is a kind of romantic recollection of Kette whoever he was. There are a lot of towns around here with minde for an ending. Oddly enough the most familiar danish expression in America is 'Husker Du', which means 'do you remember'.

The girls are friendly enough but they are mostly teenagers. Its a family resort. So no pussy here. I did have a nice affair in Copenhagen with a Russian woman I met at a Salsa club. I was the mambo king there (sadly enough). There was a horde of blondes there with hungry looks on their faces. It was like shooting monkies in a barrel.

Getting to Copenhagen was kind of a disaster. I got a ride with mitfahrtzentral. I drove with this old former-east german who looked like a Tolkien character. He worked at the Berlin Wasserbetrieb, This place is so obviously an old Nazi building. They had replaced the swastika which hung over the grim entrance with an upbeat eco-friendly symbol. when I asked him about it he said 'What?' I said you know the Nazionale Socialists, the NAZI party, HITLER. He gave me this blank look and said 'I dont know anything about that'.

When we were well on the way this guy told me, 'by the way, im not going to Copenhagen'. Now it was my turn to say 'What?' 'Yeah' he said and explained he was going to this little town in the north of Denmark where his sister had a beach house. Then in a grand display of generosity he offered to swing by the outer edges of Copenhagen and let me off in some one goat town. There he shook my hand and wished me luck.

The guy in the gas station in Bellerop tried to help me get some money so I could get on the train. He said to just buy some gum or something and he would give me as much cash back as i needed. this town was so far out of the world economic system that the machine didnt recognise master card. He told me to chance it on the train. If I see men in black shirts 'take off!'

Luckily they are still not going crasy with checking for tickets up here. I got into town dog tired and managed to find a hotel without too much problem.

So after a few days there I made my way out here, the middle of nowhere. I am just having some beach days and doing a lot of biking. The days are long and warm. There are barley fields everywhere. The water is ice cold. The danish tits are out. Life is good.

The Name Game

We sit in our cubicles. We face our monitors. We see no one and no one sees us, but we hear. Periodically we hear a smoke scarred voice over the intercom. It's a name. A name with no face, no history and no meaning. And so we invent meaning. These are the names and these are their stories.

Violet Swinton, midwestern American poetess circa 1980's. Noted progenitor of the "House Wife Rage" movement. Currently friend and trend analyst for the Hillary Clinton senate campaign.

Solvig Johnson, Olympic ski champion, suffered devastating injury during the 1972 pre-trials in Munich, went on to win gold, silver and three bronzes, imortalized by director Werner Herzog in his short film *Blood and Snow*, never walked again.

Linda Ciccarelli, Fifth and youngest Marx brother, Left the team in 1938 (during a bitter split) to pursue a Broadway theatrical career. Claimed the talkies were a *fad* and would ultimately degrade the act. Died, unknown, from liver faliure in 1983.

Seville Vazquez, little known surrealist juggler, Attended the Acacemy of Beauxs Arts in Paris along with contemporaries Luis Bunnel, Salvador Dali, and Garcia Lorca. Died in 1968, of smoke inhlation during a fire at the Chelsea Hotel in New York City
Nadi Hadir, failed assassin of Indira Ghandi at a 1978 political rally, was torn apart by the crowd within minutes, wrote several anti-religious polemics denouncing India's rigid caste system, subject of a small bronze sculpture in Moscow's Red Square.

Eric Dickman, 80's porn star, aka Eric Cockman, Dick Swainfold, Vlad Porkster and Heavy Juicyshlong, frequent actor in Russ Meyer features, killed when his Porche 900 roadster errupted in flames at a Las Vegas parking lot during a coke deal gone badDominic Viola, assistant conductor of the Boston Symphony Orchestra under Seji Ozawa, mimimalist composer, thrilled audiences and enraged critics during a Bartok festival in Budapest when a small pebble taken from his shoe *sang* for an uninterupted 9 hours.

Michael Roberts, highly decorated WWII naval officer, credited with planning the unexecuted Operation Shoestring, a brutal scorch and burn invasion of Greenland, suffered an anuerism on VJ Day during the formalities of the Japaneese unconditional surrender aboard the USS Missouri and was unable to afix his signature, a Universal bio pic, starring Tom Hanks is slated for December release, 2006

Ahmed Gh'rael, Born Richard Smith, obscure jazz drummer and small time drug dealer, In 1957 he converted to Islam while doing time in Joliet. Was tragically murdered in the prison laundry three weeks prior to his release.

Su Yung Chen, 14th century Manchurian philosipher, first among the ancients to propose that seemingly arbitrary and brutal acts of God were, although somewhat misguided, intended as benevolent, was repeatedly struck by lightning during her decent into insanity.

My Cellar

Last night I dreamed I was in Paris. Maybe because I was watching this movie "The Man in the Iron Mask" with Leonardo DiCaprio. I got it at the library for free (my lowest possible watching category). Stunk.

My dream, wasn't a story dream. It was more like a collection of images and objects. A nocturnal knick-knack shop. I was floating in the middle of it, this face, that cafe, The pool in the Latin quarter, The globe at La'Villette, and of course, Celeste, surrounded in her atelier by the giant nudes she had painted of herself. Paris.

I awoke snug, in my four-poster bed. I was warm. I was cosy. I was mildly aroused. Then a distant odor made its way to my nose. It all came flooding back into my consciousness. The basement. There was a very bad smell down there. I pulled my beloved down comforter up over my head.

I can verify that my basement has not been cleaned since the 1890s. I have made photographs in case there is ever a legal inquiry. I found farming implements down there. I found a horse's bridle. The ancient putrid detritus that filled the corners was over six inches deep. For decades rain had been seeping in through the back wall. Everything that wasn't rusting was rotting. At one point some zealot, in a deranged effort to contain that growing horror, had boarded up the windows. Now the breakdown of all matter could continue unabated.

And yet there was life down there.

If you gazed heavenward, there was a forest of green-grey fungi, clinging to the ceiling looking like a still from a Mariner fly-by. Dancing in a feat of arial mastery, thousands of vicious red spiders had spun their webs. In an attempt to clear them I went to pick up an axe and the handle disintegrated in my hand. I was the last person to see it in its original form, and I was the first to see the mother creature, who had brooded inside, scurry off. Life festered underfoot too. In one corner was a pile of creosote panels. The top few crumbled, the bottom six had been turned into earth by a swarm of white worms.

We have rats up here which, when they perish, will leave behind larger skeletons then those displayed in the dinosaur wing of the Museum of Natural History. One of the buildings behind me is being cleaned out by the city. They are trying to get rid of these rats. Great black men, who can find no other employment, do the work. They play cards and fight and curse each other in my back yard thicket. Above them, numerous birds sing.

The other morning, I approached them. I stood around for awhile sizing them up. They can©ˆt be making much. Their shoes looked like they had been made in a Chinese prison. I pitched them an offer. "How'd you like to make a little side money?" I said. "$100 bucks to empty out my cellar." They sent the little squat one down to check it out. The one who never gets to sit at the table. The one with a sour face, always standing by the broken Ailanthus stump. I showed him the way. We came back and he told the big one the job was "ok". The big one wiped his mouth, wiped it on his greasy green shirt and squinted at his cards. "After I finish this hand we'll do it" he grunted, his impossible girth leaned back, straining the tiny, child's chair which bore his huge black ass.

They tore through that mess. They were rushing in an effort to beat out the foreman©ˆs return. So of course, something went wrong. Someone, somebody, must have banged into the live feed on the boiler. Water came pouring out the back and from every radiator up and down the house. I must have run those stairs a thousand times. Rescue Plumbing? They don©ˆt rescue people in Harlem. I called everyone I knew. Nobody, nobody, nobody could help. Finally I just had to start shutting things down. I turned every knob I could find in that jerry-rigged maze of pipe. As the water crested my shoes, it stopped.

After awhile the plumber showed up. He explained to me what was going on. I began to service the boiler regularly, emptying the rusted gunk that had built up inside the system for god knows how long. I had unboarded-up the windows, stopped the leaks and shoveled out bags and bags of rubble. I was starting to feel on top. Then the oilman came.

It was getting cold and I needed oil. The gage was on empty. I called the oilman. He figured that I had a 275 tank (everyone has a 275 tank) so I could take 200. He figured wrong. A big part of an oilmans job, it seems, is directing irate drivers around his truck. While he was busy doing this he missed the whistle. Gallons of oil flooded into my basement. Oil. Have you ever noticed that most detergents only promise to "fight" oil? they never say anything about winning.

For weeks, the house reeked of oil. If you stood still long enough, you could taste it.

Still, things are slowly shaping up. There's air down there now and when the sun is pointed right, light. The mold is dying. The stench of fuel has dissipated. I©ˆm still running around fixing radiators as they burble up brown goo, but you can hang out on the ground floor now, without having a fatal allergy attack.

For now, everything is ok.

Letter to Xenia

My Dearest Xenia:

Or should I say “The Fabulous Miss Xenia” as Stephan calls you (remember him? he was the one who let me stay in the “monks bunk”). I am not sure why he refers to you in this way. I guess you made a big impression on him. Stephan and I are in constant touch via E-mail. It’s a great way to keep up because it is totally effortless. No stamps, no post office, you just push a button and it returns itself to the person who sent it, like an electronic homing pigeon. now we are trying to rig our computers so that we can talk and see each other live. It is called C-U C-Me technology.

So your sister has arrived. You should get a big African tribal mask. Then if she has any boyfriends over that you don’t like, you can frighten them off in the morning.

Things have been Ok here. I don't have many plans for Christmas. I have a few invitations for New Years and that should be good. I am mainly working and trying to get my video project off the ground.

We experienced another set back this week. The guy I was negotiating with for the space turned out to be a total fraud. He was stringing me along hoping to get me to commit to producing his project. I am the king of getting people to work for free and I guess he figured that out. The thing is I only get people to work for free, for me. Me Me Me!!! When push came to shove he had no authority to lend out the space. I am now dealing with the person who is really in charge. Unfortunately we have to cancel the shoot until late January at the earliest. I also started hunting around for some other options and have had one good meeting so far.

I went to Massachusetts for Thanksgiving. My intention was to go to Chelmsford, the town where I grew up. I got a “knock knock” from my best friend in the forth grade a few weeks ago. We hadn't talked in over ten years. He found me on the internet and we started e-mailing each other and had made plans to meet up again this past weekend at our 20 year high school reunion. I took a bus up north, they have movies on the busses now, an excellent innovation. I stopped over in boston on the way and spent a night at a friends apartment. The next day I came down with a really bad case of the flu. I was so sick and weak and crazy that I couldn't go anywhere and had to cancel all my appointments. I didn't even make it to the reunion.
It was pretty much the worst Thanksgiving I ever had. A four and a half hour bus trip to nowhere... to a porcelain banquet table. Yes, it's just a little cough now, but one week ago this microscopic invader had me on my knees.

I did have some interesting fever induced delusions. I wrote some of them down.

1. My body is the crashed jet liner from "The Lord of The Flies" Each aching muscle is the complaining voice of a child passenger. The real torment begins when they started arguing with each other.

2. I have to get up. I have to escape. I Rene Calvo alone know the secret to the Kennedy assassination. There were 3 Lee Harvey Oswalds! How else can you explain the contradictory sightings prior to Dallas? The triangulation crossfire in Deely plaza? A small highly trained contingent from the legion of Oswalds being bred by ex-nazi scientist in Brazil. Why? Kennedy would have given the Israelis jet fighters. the Israelis would have bombed Cairo where an ancient order of Egyptian masons that funded Hitler are headquartered. They would stop at nothing to keep their cabal intact. even... poison. I can't move!!!

3. I am a toy. a plastic toy. but it's OK, it's good plastic.

These are the memories I will
treasure from the Thanksgiving
of “96”.* *Available on video cassette
Johannes was here for a visit in October. It’s always fun when he’s in town because he is like
a guy who has just gotten out of prison. He runs around calling people, going to parties, chasing girls and staying out all night. He was never home once before 3 am and he got up every day with me at nine. I bet he is still sleeping back in Germany. He bought tons of corny shit (and a few good tapes and CD’s). On my birthday I celebrated “Pesto Fete 96”. I took all the basil from my
garden and made a quadruple batch of Pesto. I invited over a few close friends and we drank wine, ate pesto and cake and talked until late.

Johannes and I went roller-blading in
central park a lot. There were some rainy days but they never lasted. It was nice skating in the fall. The park is empty and the road is clear. You can really zoom along. The air was a little cool so you didn’t get over heated. Johannes also helped me fix my skates. Now they’re like rockets. I still go to the park now when it’s sunny. But it’s impossible to find
anyone who wants to go along.

During Johannes visit Halloween came and went. We attended two parties also went to the Greenwich Village Parade. I made my own costume. Here in America they used to put pictures of lost children on the side of milk cartons. They had headlines like “if you see this child call 1800-MISSING”. I designed a big milk carton on my computer and pasted it to poster board. Then I cut a hole where the face of the child went, so that when I put it over my head, my face showed. I got great reactions. I got so bold that I jumped over the police barricade and joined the parade. I would go from policeman to policeman looking lost, making a little play. People were laughing like crazy.

I have been working the last two weeks in a new place, Merrill Lynch, a big financial corporation. The graphics are really boring. We call it the “Name Badge Institute of America”, since most of the time we get stuck making name badges. There are however 3 good things about this job. 1. They have huge windows facing New York Harbor and there is a beautiful sunset behind the Statue of Liberty every day. 2. They have a really great cafeteria, with international cuisine and low low prices. 3. The people there are pretty nice and they all love me and want me to work here forever.

Why do they love me?

I worked here for a week over a year ago. There was this woman, Michelle, who was complaining all the time about how boring her job was and how her life was in a rut. Well, it happened to be leap day. That extra day you get during leap year. (We call it Sadie Hawkins Day) On this day you’re supposed to do something out of the ordinary. So I asked her “What would you do, if you could do anything”? She replied that she would like to be an apprentice at Milton Glaser’s studio. So I said that didn’t sound so hard. I picked up the phone and dialed information and got the number. Then I called and asked to speak to the studio manager. When the manager got on I handed the phone to her and said, “Go ahead, ask”. Her face had turned bright red and she could barely speak but she managed to make an appointment. A year goes by and when I return to this job I’m like some kind of local hero. I’m the guy who changed Michelle’s life. Everyone I meet there says “Oh, so you’re René, we’ve heard all about you!”. They look at me hopefully, tell me their problems, like maybe I have some magical power to change their boring lives.
The good thing is that I can do no wrong (within reason, I suppose murder is out). I come in late every day. I’m lazy. I talk on the phone and still they don’t fire me. So I guess I have to hang out here for a while.
anyways. I guess it serves my purposes for now. I spend a lot of time here working on scripts and making phone calls and using the facilities to make brochure type stuff. I hope all is well with you and you are healthy and happy. Anytime you want to visit New York give me a call. I think you would love this city, especially the dance scene. I’ll give you a call so we can work out the fax thing.

Love René XXXOOO

Letter to Jutta

Hey

Thank you for the tour of Germany 96 postcards. I have a little expo on my wall. All famous sites. Here is the latest.

On the way back to New York the plane from PIA, Pakistani International Airlines, hit turbulance caused by hurricane Hortense. So I gripped my seat (some uncontrollable instinct believing that would save me) and breathed like an expectantant mother. In. Out. If I had grown up in another era, I might of prayed. Instead, I remember to breath.

It’s not that I am afraid of flying. People always say in wonder “You’re afraid to fly?!” I’m not. Flying is actually quite nice. What I am afraid of is the sound of shredding metal as Saudi surface to air missles tear into the helpless belly of a commercial airliner. What I am afraid of is a suspicious package of chocolates exploding beneath my seat and sending me screaming into the stratosphere. What I am afraid of is that the complicated machinery beneath me will choke on some misplaced metal fragment like a chicken bone, convulsing in the air as it tailspins into the frozen artic waters. That’s what I am afraid of. Flying? No, the flying part is nice.

I am making lentil soup now. The aroma fills my apartment and drifts up the stair well. It is full of fresh herbs from my garden. Fresh Oregano, Thyme, and Rosemary. I have enough Basil to make a couple of gallons of Pesto. The summer was wet here in New York and when I returned home my garden was approching rain forest status. When I go out back to weed or water people yell from nearby windows. “You have a beautiful garden”. It’s really a good feeling to plant stuff and see it grow. Even if my little Rosemary is a tiny being compared with the huge hedges we saw in the south of France. This is New York, where anything that suvives is considered a miracle.

I have been working for a phamacutical advertising company. It is in a big sky scraper in mid town. There are no windows where I work and the air is processed by huge machines that think humans require refrigeration, like meat. On the sunniest day you have to wear a sweater. The people there have yellow skin from working long hours under florescent lights. But the cash is good and soon I will escape.

There are a two different galleries here in New York with shows of the art work of people who claim to have been abducted by aliens. I visited them in the pouring rain today. What can I say? Cool.

I turn on the TV and am amazed. There is absolutely nothing on. This is supposed to be a form of entertainment? Education!? The good thing is that it inspires me to work on my indie-sitcom! Yes it’s unheard of, it’s new, it’s completely insane. My show is to be called, Pefectly Frank. It features a completely unredeemable working class lout, Frank O’Brien. He will be played in drag by my good friend Rita Ashdale. The show will also feature a demented laugh track. I want to take the genre of sit-com (situation comedy) and smash it into a thousand pieces.

I hope all is well with you and that school is O.K.. Take care.

Love
René
XXXXX OOOOOO

Letter to Jutta

Hey!

New Years Day, 1996. Happy New Year. Hope all your dreams come true.

I was at a party last night, and I had gotten there a little late. Wait a minute, let me back up. Last night I went to a party at Damien’s. He’s the Artistic Director of the theater where I am in residence. His wife made this pretty spectacular spread. I left there to go to another friends party in a loft in SoHo on 26th street. I got there, it’s a big place, and it was jammed. But it turns out that they were charging $15 to get in. I thought that was incredibly cheap thing to do. Especially not to warn people. So I left and went to another party which was on 57th street above Times Square. I started walking towards “The Deuce”, I thought I could just skirt around the crowd. I had no idea how big the crowd that gathers around time square is. In the news they usually only show this one shot of it, about a solid square block. What you are seeing is only the tip of the iceberg. That mob extended for five or six blocks in every direction. I had to walk four blocks out of my way to get around it. I almost got trapped and swept away in it twice. It was like a scene from “Day Of The Locust” Car horns blasting, bottles smashing, people vomiting. I reached my destination which was the Righa Royale. I had to convince the police to let me through. The party was on the 52nd floor. To the south it looked down upon the swarming mob, to the north was Central Park. I asked for a glass of champagne and the bartender told me it was all gone. All they had left was Frexinet Cordon Negro. I grunted. A guy next to me said “It’s not so bad.” I replied “I’ve had better champagne at wedding receptions in Lowell.”
His eye’s lit up. “Lowell? Why did you say Lowell?’
“I’m from Chelmsford.”
“I’m from Lawrence. Do you know Guido, I mean, John Parent or any of the Parents.”
“Chris Parent is one of my best friends.”
So there I am. New Years eve on the 52nd floor of the Rhiga Royale and the first person I meet, knows my best friend from grade school. It’s a big city, but it’s a small town.

Received your letter. I can only imagine what you are going through and it pains me to know how you must be suffering. From what you describe there is no solution. If you throw him out you will feel like you let down someone you care about, when they needed you most. If you let him stay he will start to drag you down with him. So there you have it. Two bad choices and all you can do is pick the lesser one. If you were here I would wrap my arms around you and give you a big hug. Then I would cover your face with a hundred little kisses, stroke your hair and tell you that everything is going to be all right.

December 7th.
New York city is buried in one of the worst snow storms in decades. There are no cars outside, just swirling snow, thunder and lightning. We go to the movies and see La’America. The next day the city is so peaceful. All traffic is banned, except emergency vehicles. People are walking around in the middle of the streets, smiling at everyone. It feels like you are in a picture postcard from the turn of the century. Every now and then a fire truck comes roaring down the avenues bright red against the virgin snow.

Thinking of you often.

Much Love.

Letter to Jutta

Hey

Well I can’t help thinking of you. They are doing a three hour retrospective on the music of Serge Gainsbourgh on WFMU 91.1. It is filled with all kinds of wonderful historical facts. Such as... Je Tem Mon on Plus was the first song to be officially banned by the Vatican and... he made a film called “Cannabis” in 1969 that featured a very young Gérard Depardieu. I wonder what the pope thought about “Lemon Incest”?

We have been having pretty good weather. I had a little slow period at the end of November — early December and managed to get in some Rollerblading in Central Park. My friend Steve and I, our favorite thing to do is to do a couple of loops (20 km) then get burritos and go to the $2 movies. The $2 dollar movies is this big brand new movie complex they built under a new skyscraper in mid-town. The problem is, is that nobody went there. The building itself is almost half empty. So, to attract people they lowered the admission to $2 and started showing movies that were 6 months to 1 year old. I have found that the price has a huge impact on the enjoyment of a film. Case in point. Waterworld, for $8 I would have thought this movie was a big stinking piece of sharks turd, but for $2 we laughed at it all the way through, made fun of all the actors, the script, the sets and had a great time.

Claudia comes to visit next week. It’s more of an official visit as she will be working. I am currently working at BBDO, they do the advertising for Pepsi. So, let’s see if I am up to the Pepsi Challenge.

The film goes well. But more slowly than I hoped. I am still working on the script with the actors.

I will also be doing another serial theater piece in January. I finally gave in to everyone and agreed to do it. I have a great writing staff so that is a big part of the incentive. It will be called SPYS and feature spy stories set in locations around the world.

This is great news about the grant. I would love it, if you came to New York, especially for six months. I’m wishing you extra-double-special good luck. Also if you can send me a copy of TV-Dinner on video. I can have it dubbed here.

I am including a piece of real New York City craziness. There is this young guy who goes on the subway, proclaiming the stuff in this document. He looks like a clean-cut all-American type. He wears a utility belt with screwdrivers and plyers and things. He sells this newsletter for 25¢ to “help support his cause”. If you want to make a contribution too, his address is included at the end.

Love
XXXOOO

Letter to Jutta

Hey there!

Greetings from New York. Hope all is fine with you. Italy sounds amazing (even if it is filled with churches). I called Nicholas Roeg and he told me he based the character of the demon in Don’t Look Now on a little German girl he met during pre-production in Wurzberg. Her name? JUTTA OSTHUES! Coincidence? You decide! I have always wanted to go to Italy. All I have to do is meet some nice Italians here in New York so I can arrange an inexpensive tour. After Italy and Spain, I can start working on the orient.

Johannes is here and he helped me celebrate my birthday. We went to an superb French restaurant only 3 blocks from where I live. The cuisine was as good as it is in Paris. Can you believe it? Here in the East Village! Afterwards we went to the First Street Cafe. It is this tiny little club where I like to hang out. Its no bigger than Johannes’s Frankfurt apartment. We love it because the owner has a bigger place (Baby Jakes) that he believes is the real money maker. So he hardly cares about First Street at all and let’s it go to hell. The waiters never come and you can sit there all day with one cup of mint tea. At night, there is always a wonderful Folk singer or Jazz band or something playing for free. On my birthday night there was a Jazz band with a guitarist from Osaka. He sat at our table in between sets and we got to hear first hand about the music scene in Japan. They had the tiniest little DAT machine I had ever seen. The tape was as big as half a matchbook and could record sixty minutes of music.

Work is the same. I am finally getting some checks. My goal is to make it to December, reload my bank account, then ease off into part time. Sitting at the computer makes my arm and back hurt. I only can seem to get to Yoga classes three or four times a week. I really miss doing it every day. I thought after all the vacation I had I wouldn’t mind going back to work. Not true! The less you work the more you don’t want to work. I am sure you are discovering this also. Let’s travel. We have a tent. All we need is some bread and a little cheese.

I am helping a friend produce The Doll Cycle at Workhouse. I am overseeing all aspects of the production and doing some graphics, along with set dressing, staffing, publicity etc. It is a four part serialization of “The Valley of The Dolls” by Jacqueline Suzanne. We have an amazing cast of downtown all-stars (including me as one of the singing and dancing Gaucheros). The response has been overwhelming. We have a seventy seat theatre and had over 110 reservations for opening night. The second part was sold out by the following Monday. The Village Voice comes this week and I will send you the review. I am very proud of this production as the writer worked with me on Ailanthus for two years and credits me with his education in this style of working.

I have my first rehearsal for the film this Saturday. We have had several delays but now it is finally coming together.

Can you believe it? I got a call to go in and audition for Central Park West. It is one of those big cruddy TV shows I hate. But... the money is unbelievable. They got my name from a friend of mine who works in production. I don’t think I was what they were looking for. In fact. They hated me. But I was well prepared ( I got the script the day before) and did my best. Who knows. At some point they may need a singing Gauchero.

Exhibit A
Went to see the opening of The Flower of My Secret at the New York Film Festival. Almodovar, Rossy de Palma and Marissa Paredes were there. We sat right in front and afterwards they invited the audience to stay and ask questions. It was inspiring to hear how he works and learn that we share similar beliefs about how a piece can be created.

Exhibit B
Excellent exhibit in SoHo.

Exhibit C
The card I created for The Doll Cycle.

I hope you are great, that school is great, that Berlin is great and that all things are great, and that soon, very soon I will see you here in New York.

Love.

Letter to Jutta

Hey!

How are you? So... Here's highlights of my life.

After we said good-by I went to the Deutches Theater. I got there right at 7:00. The performance was beginning. I don't know, maybe because I was late or because I didn't speak German or because I said I was from New York they just ushered me right in with out paying. I had a decent seat in the balcony, but of course during intermission I moved to an empty seat in the front row, center (My favorite). The performance was almost 4 hours long. I stuck with it. Visually it was good, especially the costumes. Afterwards, a midnight ride to Huffeland Str.

The next day, as I was riding to Frankfurt, thinking about the trip, I planned out my last two days in my mind. As soon as I got to Frankfurt I would go to Kannonenstemple and have my final Bratwurst and Affelwoi festival. That night there was to be a party at O&M, we would also go to "The Blue Bar" I'm sure, perhaps see Birgette and Andy. Johannes and I would have time to talk. The next day I'd take a bike ride along the Miens. Then we'd go to the airport, have a tea and then New York. As I was picturing this I heard one of the other riders say something about the date. To my horror, I realized that my fight was that afternoon at 2:50 and not the next day as I had thought. It was 11:00 and still 300 Km to go. We roared to Frankfurt, arriving at 1:45. I ran to Cranach Strasse. When I got there I called the airport and found out that the flight had been delayed 2 hours. Thank god for PIA. Johannes came right home and we grabbed a cab to the airport. We had time for a quick tea, but soon I had to board the plane. I left never having a chance to really feel the ending.

When I arrived in New York I had been traveling for the past 23 hours. I opened the door to my apartment and the Beer Garden out back was filled with screaming, drunken idiots. Upstairs, they were blasting the stereo. More Frat-boy punk. I began to seriously wonder whether I wanted to live in this town.

I sleep. Time goes by.

I go to the beach. We still have summer here. I worked on perfecting my body surfing technique. I'm lifted high by the waves, shot through a tunnel of water and thrown onto the hot,wet sand. Is this what it's like to be born?

I had tons of job offers when I got back. A good thing. I'm working at Grey Entertainment. They do the ads, marquees, programs, etc. for Broadway and Off-Broadway. We got an advance copy of the Sunday Times Fall Preview a few days before it's release. I am amazed by the incredible scope and sheer volume of Art and Culture here. And The Times doesn't even begin to cover the avant-garde. There's no such thing as a "must see" show in New York. Everything, everyone has scores of rivals.

We produced a favorite band of mine at Work House (where I am artist in residence). Little Jack Melody from Denton Texas. They are a strange contemporary blend of Sinatra and Kurt Weil. The artistic director of Work House, Damien Grey, LJM's leader, Steve Carter and I are discussing working on a musical together. I would do the book. I'm thinking a musical version of The Stepford Wives, with a little of Metropolis and The Bachaee thrown in.

The film goes on. I am still working on the screen play. I am set to do a reading, early October and begin shooting shortly afterwards. Everyone I mention it to is excited about it and eager to participate.

Still doing Yoga at dawn. Well... most of the time.

I think often of our trip. Every time I tell someone about it, I get to relive pieces of it. I have of late been very conscious of the passing of time. I often feel I can visualize it's structure. Moments strung together like beads of light, each moment stretching off into a dim infinity. I try to be as present as I can in each moment, to see as much of it's periphery as possible. I think of lying outside at night and looking up at the stars and remembering thinking "Oh that's enough, it's time to sleep". As if that were possible. As if there was ever enough time to look at the stars.

Miss you.
Love

A book like poisen

This Book is like poison". Johannes had warned. But it was too late I had
already taken it.

I was set up so nicely in Berlin. Nobody can beat the German girls. I had
already met Michi, a very tall and very slender Korean girl with brown skin
and long black hair. She had broken up with her boyfriend two months
before and was busy trying to line up the next one. It was summer and
she was very horny and in Berlin you don't get much of a chance. Winter
comes in just a moment. When she started talking to me in the cafe she
already had a project in mind that would fit nicely into her schedule if I
was interested. We had a very nice few days, with lots of candles and
baths and home cooked meals.

Then there was Annabelle. A curvy Bavarian blonde who seemed to have
leapt off the packaging of some beer company. Strangely enough, she
doesn't drink it. She is so friendly everybody loves her.

Every week the German government gives the unemployed a big
fish.Annabelle makes the dinner and all her friends bring the wine. I
stayed to help with the dishes.

We went to the dacha and swimming in the Wiesnsee. At the Tiefensee,
Annabelle swam all the way across and back with Johannes and I. Actually
I had to struggle to keep up with them. I ate the rabbit and Annabelle had
roast brat kartoffeln (roasted potatoes) which she loves. She
loves every kind of thing you can make with potato. You should see her
eyes light up. Just say "kartofelen poofin mit apfelmus sauce".

On our way to Documenta 11 I read out loud a German children's poem
called "Max and Moritz." It is about these two demented evil german boys
and the horrid jokes they play on mostly old helpless people. Annabelle
found it at the bottom of a sale bin in a used bookstore on Moll Strasse.
She thought I might like it.

On our way back it was too dark to read so we listened to "On the Road"
or "This book." as Johannes calls it. The next day he asked me if I was
going to Spain. I said yes. "Why not just stay in Berlin?" He asked me. "I
can imagine she has very good genes." He just shook his head. "This Book,
its like a poison."

But then, I would have never met Tunte and Shatzie.

Besides Annabelle and I wrote and then we met again in Barcelona. We
stayed for a week in the Barrio Gotic, a neighborhood with streets so
narrow you can reach across and touch the neighbors balcony. We had a
tiny room and an aloe plant. We bought a big chunk of gooey hash on the
street. We saw all of Gaudi. We made whole fish from the market
with rosemary we had gathered in Park Guell and Garlic so fresh it had
the juicy texture of an apple. And we learned to play Patanque.

I had always wanted to learn this game that old men in short sleeves and
berets play in the park. I didn't think we would get an invitation. We made
a project of buying a nice set and getting the rules. The rule book was
incomprehensible. There was so much "PROHIBIDO" that we couldn't
discern the rules of play. We made up are own and waited. Eventually the
old men took the bait. What spanish gentleman could refuse this pretty
blonde Berliner? She was so sweet, especially when she said things like.
"Ohh 15, did I win again?

All of Spain and I think perhaps much of Germany knows that I only won
one game and that it was close.

I got a message from Tunte to "Watch out". He said that Daniella was
very disappointed that my girlfriend had shown up. I had already caught
the vibe. That makes two hotels in a row where the landlord wanted to
jump me. Daniella's friends have helped her turn her rooms into an art
installation. There are so many little doors with strange metal clasps and
every sight is designed like the perfect movie set. Much of the inspiration
comes from Cosima. She is a sculptor and you can see it in her muscular
but very feminine body. She is older an italian beauty with thick black hair
and a classic latina face. When she can she gives me these piercing looks
that make me shudder. I think she is the dangerous one.

Annabelle is oblivious to all of this. She is so nice. There are so many
beauties in Barcelona and they are so skillful with it. They lie naked on the
beaches here during the day and then squeeze themselves into
unimaginably sexy outfits for the evenings. It is hard to imagine why
chaos doesn't break out. She took me to a club last night where the
women all had their phazers set on kill. I had to ask her if we could leave. I
tried to explain to her the next morning why I felt uncomfortable. She
told me that she didn't´t even notice these other girls. Why should she?
There are always so many nice men looking at her.

Annabelle left for the airport yesterday. I begin my slow journey
tomorrow. First the night train to Malaga, then the plane to Berlin, a day
there and then New York. But first one last night in Barcelona.

Letter to Chris

It's been awhile since I've heard from you so I thought I'd drop you a line and check in. Kali must be turning more and more into a little person, what's she like. I would think that if Inger is the confessor she would take another tack. Does Inger do the confessing for everybody? (I guess that would make her the tattler) How do they get along. How is the Belgian winter?

I went home for Christmas and did a quick hit. I went in Christmas eve and was gone by Christmas day. I spent most of the time at Danny's with his in—laws. We had the usual completely fake celebration at my mothers house. I didn't see any of the old gang. I think they put this holiday at the end of the year when the sun is disappearing and the weather is getting bleaker because they figure it can't get any worse so they might as well get it over with now.

Dawn Clements came down to New York in January. She had an opening at the Drawing Center in SoHo. Most of her family came down also. So I saw the entire clan, except for Steven. It was pretty successful for her and in the 3 weeks the show was up she sold two pieces.

Dianne wrote me a letter and says she is living in Belmont with her new boyfriend and taking drawing classes.

I havn't heard a thing from Scott but there is a child pornography case pending in federal appeals court with a frighteningly familiar modus operandi.

Most recently I was in Florida for a week. A friend of mine Jim, was playing violin in the Sarasota Opera. They rented a little house for him, which he had to share with another musician, Dan, a bass player. They had a living room with a big couch and you know what that means. Cheap vacation! The first day it rained. So, I saw an Opera. The Barber Of Seville. It was O.K. but the conductor was lousy. The musicians didn't even follow him because they knew he was giving them the wrong cues, so they just came in when they were supposed to. We hung out at the house and watched T.V. There are a lot of tangerine trees on the dead end where the house is. The air was very pungent with the smell. In the mornings I was able to pick them fresh and make juice for breakfast. At the end of the street there is a gator pond. But I never saw any, despite frequent visits. I saw ducks though. What I really wanted to see was a huge pair of jaws rise up out of the green slime and snap up a bird before it had a chance to unfurl it's wings. No such luck.

More rain the second day, and cold. Now I was starting to get depressed. I hung out on the couch flipping channels. Finally I got motivated. What the hell. I had a car. I had cash. The world was mine. I went to the front desk and started checking out the millions of brochures that gather like swallows in motel lobbies. Excellent. The Salvadore Dali museum in St. Petersburg. It features “The worlds largest collection of Dalis on display”. Hey, it's America, big is good. So I was on the road again. Jim is like a demagnetized compass when it comes to directions so I got instructions from Dan (a master mechanic and general car freak) before we left. That allowed Jim the pleasure of cranking the one casette I had brought "Led Zeppelin Box #1" while mouthing the lyrics and performing on air guitar.

The museum contained much beauty. There were several enormous pieces on the far wall including the magnificent Columbus Discovering America. The collection spans his entire career and includes many masterpieces.

The next day the sun came out. Florida's flat tropical landscape and brightly painted horizontal architecture is at it's best when flooded with abundant sunshine. I drove out to Siesta Key for the afternoon, lugging my guitar to the shore. The sand down here is a warm white powder. The ocean, a sapphire pool. Let me tell you about the latest in beach—ware “The Thong”, (made strictly illegal by the withered retirement majority). The babe density in this region is about six to one (mostly southern college girls), with the fitness craze, now into it's second decade, paying off huge dividends. A nymph walks by. Her lithe brown body swaggering with the confidence only a sola—flex can give. She flashes you a smile as luminescent as pearls. As she passes, her naked bum, glistening with mysterious tanning oils, floats by, her cheeks dimpling and swelling to an ancient rhythm. She gives you one last backward glance to make sure you are mesmerized by her tribal call. I played my guitar, singing to the sirens. A Zep Head came by and gave me a beer saying if I wanted any more to come back to the red cooler, “over where by the cop is standing”.

Day four started out a little cloudy so I hit the road in my red Geo Storm. A good looking but painfully unremarkable car, (zero pick—up). I tooled on out to Myakka State park. 45 square miles of Floridian wilderness. I saw a crock as big as a canoe drifting in the river (still no savagery, except I did see a heron swallow a frog whole, he took his time too). Dozens of hawks circled overhead and armadillos dug the earth everywhere. I talked to people from Canada and Germany. Walked out into the middle of the plain and generally enjoyed the clean fragrant air and sunshine. On the way back I passed a carnival and went to one of those all you can eat catfish and fried okra things.

The night before we heard some music by John Sierre while we were cruising around. It was written for a production called “Aniara”, that is by this famous swedish poet who's name I forget. It is about this ship that gets set adrift in space. They were doing a mixed media presentation of the piece at the Bishop Planetarium which is nearby in Bradenton. I went out there and really enjoyed it. Unfortunately the audience was small. Afterwards I went up to the roof to look out the telescope. The guy who ran it was nice and we were joking around, like when he would turn on the motor to rotate the observatory I would say “Rotate the pod please Hal”. We quizzed each other on sci-fi trivia with questions like; Where were the Robinsons going before the evil Dr. Smith sabotaged them? and What was the message that Patrica McNeil had to deliver to the robot in “The Day The Earth Stood Still”?

Day five. I took Jim to Thoroughbred Music to buy a guitar. They had a huge selection and we played just about every axe on the rack. What do you think of the fender signature series. Are they worth the 1000+ price? I was thinking of splurging and getting something like that and a Mesa Boogie amp. Let me know. I'm willing to spend about 2 grand total on everything including picks. Later I was at Bare Bum Beach again. I met some girls from The University of West Virginia. They wanted to hear Hotel California but I couldn't remember the words. So I sang them some other stuff. I played paddle ball with Holly, long, full, tangled chestnut hair, black eyes, brown skin. A physical therapy major and tennis hobbyist. We got some good volleys going. When they left we made plans to meet later at Cha Cha Coconuts to hear a Reaggae band.

I went to the Opera that night and saw a production of Simon Bocanegra. The artistic director, Victor Delorenza, conducted. The sets and costumes were still a little cheezy and the acting a little hammy but the orchestra sounded great. They filled the hall to the brim with a booming sound.

After I went to Cha Cha's to look for the UWV'ers. I noticed this woman at the bar who kept looking over at me. She had one of those great wide mouths with full lips, auburn hair, big doe—like blue eyes and freckles spattered across her nose. She was giving me —the smile. I said hi, my name's René and she said "Oh, you ahre franch?" Her name was Anne—Laure. She was from Paris. She smelled incredible. She introduced me to her cousin Stephanie, another Parisian and her friend Monica, a big Norwegian girl. They kept buying me beers and we laughed and laughed. Monica and Anne—Laure worked at the Epcot center which, the way they described it, is like working in a concentration camp run by born again Christians. We went to another club when Cha Cha's closed and danced until three in the morning.

The next day Jim and I met Stephanie, Anne—Laure and Monica at their hotel and went to a town park beach. It was more secluded than Bare Bum and had more flora and fauna. There are Pelicans and Herons who have figured out what a fishing pole is, so whenever you see someone fishing you always see at least one of those birds just hanging out, watching. We looked for seashells and played paddle ball, swam. These girls were great. They requested Bob Dylan songs. They knew who Salvadore Dali was and could talk intelligently about art and they looked excellent in bikinis. A winning combination. We had to leave so I could take Jim to visit his cousin. That night the girls came over for dinner. I made fetticini al carbonara, and everyone cleaned their plates. Jim and Dan tried to play the blues but Dan didn't have a clue. But the girls clapped anyways. They liked it best when I sang and Jim accompanied. Anne—Laure kept saying “You are too good. You should do this for a living.” Then we had coffee and played some more while Monica videotaped us. We all exchanged addresses and kissed good-by as they drove off to Orlando.

After they left Jim and I drove out to the beach for one last walk around. I caught a flight back to New York early the next morning.

So, now I'm back in New York and even though it's supposed to be spring we are getting pummeled by snow. I am doing freelance computer work which is OK., the pay is really good so I can take time and travel. My partner and I, J.P., have developed five scripts now between us. We are calling ourselves Demi—monde films. We have a meeting in Washington D.C. tomorrow. Circle films is interested in two of our scripts. We have also attached some talent to one project. A very well respected and pretty well known actor here in the U.S., named Ray Aranha. He was featured in John Sayles' City of Hope. He loves one of our projects and his agent has sent us a letter of commitment to help with financing. Beyond that all is well. Hope things are good with you. Drop me a line.

Best.


René.

Letter to Chris

Hey.

It's been a long time since I wrote, hasn't it? Well, it's not because I don't think of you. I do. It's just because I'm lazy and busy and all that sort of stuff.

I still plan to come in the late spring so hopefully we'll see each other soon. I was broke in November so I rented my apartment out to these Christmas tree sales people (At a profit). Most of them were from Sweden. In fact there were two "Babes" staying at my place. They are from Helsingborg. So I promised I would try to visit them also.

I worked most of the holidays doing catering to make extra cash If you work on x-mass etc. you can get $25 an hour cash, plus tip. So I worked a lot in December to get ahead. Now I am taking most of January to catch up on my writing. I am also performing with Maxine Moremon. An underground New York Choreographer.

The week between Christmas and New years I went home to Chelmsford and also spent time with friends in Boston.

While in Chelmsford I hooked up with Dawn Clements. As someone else in their thirties and still struggling, there was a strong feeling of solidarity. I guess we both wonder some times if we should quit and join the system. But then we look at our parents. I don't think either of us can imagine working for Raytheon or some kind of similar thing. So we realized that we were very lucky. We are doing exactly what we want to be doing.

Working with Maxine has been a blast. We've performed at a few places now. She got some kind of award at our last thing at B.A.C.A.. So now she gets a "Shared Concert" there in the fall and an honorarium. I didn't think I'd be dancing again but, here I am.

The movie is also going pretty well. I got an investment of $2,000. to cover some of our expenses. Legal, scripts, phone, etc. perhaps we might also make a trailer. We are working now with John Thomas the Cinematographer from "Metropolitan" perhaps you've heard about it? It did well here in New York and is now being distributed nationally by New Line Cinema. Anyways that's what is going on there.

Beyond that. I am working with a performance group called madness. Once a month we do a show at the West Beth Theatre Centre in the West Village. So far west it's almost in the river. We do vingettes, silly songs and that sort of stuff. I think I'm going to do "I found a Job" next week. So that'll be it's New York debut. I also do all their graphics. Surprised?

I have gotten a few really good jobs doing computer graphics the last few months and that keeps me solvent and gives me time to persue my other interests. Which as you know are many.

The guy I was working for was pretty cool. He was so nervous about this presentation (it's for the president of CITIBANK) that towards the end he just stood there looking over my shoulder. Finally I said "I'm not making you nervous typing under your shoulder like this am I?" He laughed and like an expectant father stayed in the hall pacing back and forth until I called him in. It's great going in just for one week on a high pressure project. It's like you're the cavalry. You work late every night, they buy you dinner and lunch. And of course every click of the mouse amazes them. I made 1100 in one week. So now I can just do lame jobs and work on whatever.

By the way, I have the rest of the money I owe you and will be sending it along in about two weeks. I guess I'll send you a bank check. I hope that will be allright.

Enclosed is also the info on silly but for real dog suits. The prices have gone up about 10% since the printing of this. I am sorry to add that they have just come up with their own snow suit. I didn't mention yours because I know they would have become wierd. If any wierder is possible. It is made of Gortex and has little boots. I think they plan on selling it for under thirty. Also of interest I think is their whole sizing system.

The war is the biggest thing here. It's on every channel and a lot of people are really into it. Pop phycologists are calling it CNN-itus. Perhaps you should make little dog infantry suits with gas masks and different ranks? Sorry, I am so disgusted I can only try to laugh at it now. But Bush started it with the biggest joke of all. I'm sure you heard him say that we are fighting for the liberation of Kuwait. I wonder what the Emir's eighty wives thought of that line? I'm not sure I get the freedom of speech connection either.

Give my love to Marcelene and the little boogers. Hope all is well. Please write me and I promise to be better about responding.

As always.

René.