Logreport Team -- scroll down and check the photo back from my previous work-life. Those were the good old days:

I went back to the loft party hoping to see my friends, but the guys had already left (off for a nip at Grassroots, which I heard was a total fiasco involving bike malfunction and angry thuggish Jamaicans) and so I went with Melissa and a whole crowd to "the Bulgarian bar." I thought it was a joke, but no: down on Broadway and Canal is a Bulgarian establishment full of pumping dance music, strange and wonderful people, and large eastern-european beers. I think the people from the square party were in and out: too crowded, too stinky, too fucking weird. I stayed and spent my $20 on more beer, tasted a lot better than Bud, I'll tell you that much. Have vague recollections of bike trouble on the way home at around 5am -- plus the wounds to prove that the problem was the chain. The sky was light as I was going to bed.

That used to be my life.

Backed up, like a man. I feel fragile, raw, needy; like one of the people who can't hack it and end up moving back in with their parents.

In spite of this malase, things are looking up. I can pay the rent; I can find meaning in existence; I can get work done and get my theater booked in the world. Somewhere in the dirty and gritty there's a little seed of honest feeling. Needs protection and water, but maybe this softness, this ability to love can grow. Silly meloncholy guy I am, twirling away in this humid little room, feeling like an adolescent, wondering where the wildwoods woman to sooth my soul is right now.

Those used to be my worries.

Things have changed, but those used to be the days.