-- Thursday, March 23, 2000 --

10:59 p.m. All systems are getting back to normal around here. Sound check; watches synchronized; blindfolds all in place. Real life has come blasting back. And welcome.

The presentation went, I am told, very well. The fellows celebrated by going to Morton's afterward. Crab cakes. Morton's is a place of lore in this part of the world -- it is one of the original power sinks in the entire universe. Agents lunch there.

I've never been there. Am I bitter?

I vacuumed the house today, and I did all the laundry. The dishes. Scrubbed up the floors and even Windexed my mug warmer. My life is full. How could I be bitter?

Besides, one day I will get to go to Morton's, and I can promise you it will be after the tide has gone out and all the glittery people have flown to the next roost. I will only see remnants. The petrified driftwood of the industry, plasticized for posterity.

Sigh. I love crab cakes. I don't like crab -- at all -- but I really like crab cakes. It's all that breading, I suppose. The nice, succinct patties. I also like it when they drizzle an ochre tartar sauce over it in a fancy swirl.

I've been to Spago's and to Le Dome, with a fancy ^ over the o, in case your browser doesn't display it properly. At Spago's I saw Meg Tilly and Rita Moreno, and at Le Dome, there was Sally Kellerman and the white-haired guy from Mission Impossible. Mr. Phipps, maybe.

I don't really do lunch anymore.

I'm on the back-up team. The behind-the-scenes people. The crew in the back room. The ones who need to throw out the pizza boxes and catch up on their sleep. Once my part of the job is done, it's handed off to the front-room folk ... the ones who dress to the nines and high-five and power lunch.

I find it impossible to do both in the same decade. If you're going to be out in front, you have to dedicate precious time to serious grooming, and grooming is very demanding. It often involves abrasion, exfoliation, and extensive buffing and shopping.

I was out there for a while, and I felt very hollow and empty and little more than a polished shell. I longed to stay home and go deep. And so I did.

So I did.

After this asterisk interlude, I want to draw your attention to the nifty painting pictured above. I found it, of course, in one of the alleys, next to someone's trash.

It was once a three-dimensional seascape, and there are still a few tiny ducks and some built-up seaweed intact on the bottom of the picture. The lines you see are, in fact, sharp pointed nails, and if you're not careful, you can really cut yourself on them. I did.

I have big plans. I'm going to look for some sea gulls to jam back on the nails, and maybe a blimp or a helicopter with an advertising banner trailing behind. I could also add a para-sailer, which is what I think you call those people who pay to have somebody strap a set of sails to their body, tie them behind a sailboat, and then speed off into the ocean.

They achieve lift and takeoff, I suppose, based on the skill of the guy in the power boat. And when they want to stop? I've always wondered about that. A predetermined time? A hand signal?

Screaming?

Teamwork. You've got to respect it. If you're flying high and looking good, always remember that someone else is driving the boat.

Someone who may or may not have gotten enough sleep. Smile. And wave as you fly past on your way to the stars.