September 22, 2014

Set about my business yesterday morning to discover I had a flat–a very flat– tire. Began to change it myself, and was doing well, except that I was finally defeated by unbudgeable lug nuts. Called AAA– twice– and the young man finally lumbered out and took up a lug wrench like the Cross of Saint Andrew and the deed was done. I was going to use the flat tire as an excuse to miss church and the two meetings I had immediately and simultaneously after, but decided, as I always do, against that sort of thing. The meeting I took–because it involved someone having cooked brunch for me— involved my producing a play that I produced (that is to say, paid for) the two years before. I would have done it this year without comment–as before, purely out of friendship–if finances were not very close, with the two houses and all, and a $6000 tax bill, and a sluggish market. Thus far I have sunk $10,000 into a project in which I really do not believe, and from which I have seen a return of not one penny. I am clearly a terrible businessman, and even the blow struck for art is softened by the fact that the play is an interesting novelty but not anything special and not destined to be the perennial cash cow my friends think it will be. I sit at the table and hear how it will win Obies for the actor and for me when it opens at Lincoln Center, and I think, “do we mean the same piece?” But, if the market turns or there is a windfall, I will do it again, doing unto others as Bruce and Jack did unto me.

Struggled through the rest of the day, Cantaria rehearsal fraught at the edges wither internecine conflict which, when explained, do not sound anywhere near that dire.