I was born in New York City. I’ve lived and worked in New York City all my life. I’ve been a major success in New York City, I’ve been a colossal failure in New York City (sometimes in the same twenty four hour period). I’ve starred on Broadway in New York City, I’ve sat on a stoop for hours trying to decide if I should spend my last buck and a quarter on a coffee and buttered roll or a pack of cigarettes in New York City (the cigarettes won – that was a long time ago when a

Max went fast. There is a melancholy, unavoidable, that settles in middle age. I put that as a universal statement of fact, assuming that my contemporaries will all nod their heads in solemn agreement. Even Joel Osteen wakes up some days, looks in the mirror, sighs heavily from the weight of it all, and crawls back under the covers for the rest of the day – right? Maybe it’s just me. One of the things that happens, and there’s no getting around it: the longer you don’t die th