Sunday, August 24th to Monday, September 1st 

I had a dream last night that I had superpowers. At first I used my powers for good…

HAIR: THE AMERICAN TRIBAL LOVE-ROCK MUSICAL
Book and lyrics by GEROME RAGNI & JAMES RADO
Music by GALT MACDERMOT
Directed by DIANE PAULUS

With Ato Blankson-Wood, Steel Burkhardt, Jackie Burns, Allison Case, Lauren Elder, Allison Guinn, Christopher J. Hanke, Anthony Hollock, Kaitlin Kiyan, Andrew Kober, Megan Lawrence, Nicole Lewis, Caren Lyn Manuel, Patina Renea Miller, John Moauro, Darius Nichols, Brandon Pearson, Megan Reinking, Paris Remillard, Bryce Ryness, Saycon Sengbloh, Maya Sharpe, Kacie Sheik, Theo Stockman, Will Swenson, and Tommar Wilson.

CLEMENTINE AND THE CYBER DUCKS - a first reading/open rehearsal
Monday, August 18
8pm
The Abingdon Theater
312 36th St. (just west of 8th)
reading/performance followed by discussion and snacks.

Atlantic
New Group
Vineyard
Lincoln Center
Soho Rep

I wonder if small tragedies are like breaking down muscle tissue—and thus rebuilding it.

Or if the small tragedies are like autoimmunity—the more you experience something the more reactive your body becomes. The more it attacks itself.

♫ I had a dream last night that I was a physicist with a less than ethical approach to labeling and mixing beakers. And then Tim and I took a ride on a magical scrap of sand paper.

♫

One of our last nights in Italy. The writers venture into a Perugian discotheque.

We dance and Raquel slaps a tight-panted fellow for being fresh.

On the way back Filippo off-roads the van onto the tiny cobblestone streets of an Umbrian town where we stream into a church courtyard and quickly dance.

“Five more minutes adventure” he keeps telling us as we micro dance in increasingly less obvious locations. Loading and reloading as ubiquitous techno plays from the van radio.

We speed through a vineyard taking fig branches with us as we go to a field of hay wheels.

Up and onto we pile.

It seems that in walking one must either contend with insects or traffic. During my hike today, especially on incline, it was a constant battle for the air space around my face. I had to keep reminding myself that the woodland butterflies (as distinguished from those of tropical flavors—if I may for a moment liken butterflies to flavors of Starburst) do not want to fly into my eyes, and, given the opportunity, they may even go to lengths to avoid such a collision. The same cannot be said for the buzzing insect varieties that are attracted to the nose, mouth and ears and the sweat that lines each orificial lip.

Walking at lower altitudes presents the independent problems of traffic and a mean looking dog. The dog which, delightfully enough, picked me out of the group of after-dinner strollers to tale–long after I could continue to laugh nervously at the phenomenon but peeling off just before I could enter into a more vocal panic. I have not yet received a satisfying answer as to the existence of an Italian speed limit (or taken the initiative to research) but present or not, the drivers seem to take liberties both with rpms and the definition of road.

Walking in both varieties of countryside remains breathtaking, even while bating furiously and ducking opportunely.

I have taken to hiking.

I only fall on the downhill.

But the walking stick helps.