I went out on Inauguration Day to the stripclub, thinking that maybe, just to celebrate the changing of the guard, I'd have myself a beer and a lapdance. But after paying ten dollars for the beer, and two dollars for the barmaid's tip, I didn't get the lapdance, even though I saw one dancer who caught my fancy.

It came down to this: strippers versus hamburgers. Money has been so tight, but I really felt like having a decent dinner for a change, and I couldn't see giving a girl twenty dollars for a four-minute dance. I realized I much preferred spending ten dollars on a juicy hamburger and French fries instead of the soup and bread I've been eating of late. And I figured I could keep the other ten dollars for my next day's expenses...

I read a good quote in the paper today. President Obama's chief of staff, Rahm Emanuel, said, "Never let a serious crisis go to waste."

I am definitely in the middle of a serious personal economic crisis. I have to dig into my IRA to make up the shortfall in my freelance income, which has dropped precipitously in the last four months. My IRA isn't very big, but it represents the effort of several years to save some money. Well, I guess the rainy day has come and I am going to have to use some of it.

Meanwhile, I battle my negativity to try to stay upbeat, so that I too, will not let this serious crisis go to waste. I hope that good will come of it, and that my life will be better once I get to the other side.

The other side of what? Looks like a swamp to me right now...

Today is the 80th anniversary of the first appearance of the character of Popeye in the comic pages. Just a little tidbit I came across today on Wikipedia, and I thought I'd share it...

My late father's favorite subject for doodling with a pencil was the head of Popeye. I can see him at the kitchen table, drawing the feisty mariner on the back of an envelope. I vaguely recall him telling me that he perfected his Popeye by making drawings of the sailor man on handmade advertising signs for the general store my grandparents had on Staten Island in the 1930s. Or it might have been for the textile buying office my grandfather later had in lower Manhattan.

In any case, my dad drew Popeye really well.

"I yam what I yam!"

I'll have a can of spinach to go.

Look how quickly the first half of this month has passed! It's a little eerie.

I've been engaged on a big project that has kept me from blogging here, but never think I'm gone for good. Sir Cranky lives on!

That amazing rescue of the plane in the Hudson yesterday--it's been in all the media--would be more inspiring for me to read about if it didn't take place a few scant blocks from where I live in midtown Manhattan. The distance between where the plane came down on the water and my dwelling is literally a blink of the eye in terms of the speed a plane travels. Whew. Well, you have to hand it to that pilot. That's a hero, no big headline type necessary. And the guy is 57 years old! Somehow, I feel pride in that. He is a gray-haired MAN, who's been through the mill of life.

Ah, things are never dull in New York. Expensive, yes, but not dull.

A friend of mine who spent eight years--I think it was eight years, I lost track--writing a book seems to have finally found someone to publish it. This gives me hope that perhaps I, too, will find a home for the novel I finished last year. So far, no nibbles. But another person's good fortune can lift the hopes of others.

By my nature, I am a pessimist. I very rarely feel hopeful about anything. It's funny, though, lately the few times I've felt at peace are when I'm making myself a little dinner in my uncluttered kitchen. Nothing fancy, just a meal of canned soup and a hunk of bread washed down with a little cheap wine, but it just makes me feel like things will be all right. Somebody once pointed out to me that in the fiction I've written over the years, people often seem to express their warmth for each other in scenes involving food preparation. I wasn't aware of this until I was told, but now of course I'm self-conscious about its symbolism in my life.

In this dire financial time for me, having lost a lot of freelance work which I have yet to be able to replace, a few of my friends have treated me to nice meals, and those convivial repasts have really nourished me on a number of levels.

But in the end, the struggle for bread (in all its symbolic connotations) must be won by me and me alone. Arghhh...

So, the end of another holiday season. The last night is always a bit of a drag. Back tomorrow morning to the freelance work I still have, and looking for the additional work I still need. I wish I felt more rested for this uphill struggle, but I really couldn't relax much during these holidays...

I saw Revolutionary Road today, the new Leonardo DiCaprio/Kate Winslet film. A sad drama of married life in 1955, it's based on a tremendous novel by the late Richard Yates. It's always been one of my favorite books because of its honest yet compassionate insight into characters, an insight brought to life in beautiful, evocative prose. It's about a couple who dream of themselves as something special, as potential bohemians and artists misplaced in a middle-class suburban life, but who fall far short of this in reality and have a difficult time adjusting to their ordinariness. I guess I've always been afraid that this might turn out to be the trajectory of my life, too, and that's why I've always been very affected by the book. It has always acted as a reality check for me. It makes me think, "Do I delude myself like these characters do?" The answer is, yes, very often. But of course, they didn't have this book to read as an occasional wakeup call, so maybe there's still hope for me.

Anyway, I've read Revolutionary Road twice, and picked it up again after watching the film. The movie is good and worth seeing, but the book is truly great although very grim. It's nice to see it in various editions now so that it can reach many more people. It was originally published in the early 1960s but was never a huge bestseller, more of a cult favorite over the years. Yates died in 1992. I cut out his New York Times obituary and kept it on my refrigerator with a magnet for fifteen years until the clipping yellowed and began to break apart, and then I put it in a notebook when I was doing my big apartment de-cluttering project this summer. But the magnitude of that housecleaning was such that I can't remember precisely where I put many things, and for now I've lost track of that clipping. But I still remember Yates' lined, bearded face peering out from the photo, like a Old Testament prophet fallen on hard times and finding himself reading a crystal ball in a carnival.

In retrospect, this has been the least relaxing holiday I've had in many years. Except for two or three gatherings with friends, especially a fun and delicious post-Christmas barbecue dinner at my editor/writer friends Mr. and Mrs. Stetson's house (with their son, Stetson Junior, too), I couldn't stop thinking about how in hell I'm going to make up what I've lost in potential freelance income due to recent cutbacks in the industry in which I work.

By necessity I have spent a lot of time by myself, thinking, exploring options and information.

I have to say that Turner Classic Movies has also been a balm. I force myself to quit worrying and enjoy a vintage film. Last week I caught Indiscreet with Cary Grant and Ingrid Bergman, a delightful comedy from 1958, and last night I watched The Tall T from 1957 with Randolph Scott, Richard Boone, Henry Silva (a great villain always), and Maureen O'Sullivan. I've got a few flicks recorded on the DVR also for future viewing.

Yes, cable tv is nice (I waited so many years to finally get it), but I'm still trying to maintain a balance between watching films, reading books, going on the Web, and work.

The stress makes my hands itch...literally.

Anyway, I had a few hours of relative peacefulness this afternoon, just reading and taking a couple of walks. These long holiday weekends are nice because the city quiets down somewhat. Somewhat...I don't like the noise and bustle as I used to. I love being in this crazy town when it's quiet, when the buildings and streets aren't crammed and jittery...

I liked that Randolph Scott western. He played such a clearly defined character, the stoic, moral, rough-and-ready cowboy. His ability to deal with situations was very nearly god-like--in The Tall T, he has to cope with three killers, and he does so with elan and skill and plain good timing; most admirably, he never denies his fear, just works around it. He's the type of man I aspire to be, hoping that in the clinch of danger I wouldn't instead show myself as the kind of weasely coward that The Tall T script provided for contrast to Scott's heroics. Anyway, it was a very good film, and Richard Boone was great as a cynical thief and killer. Some great dialogue between Boone and Scott. The movie has a great last line, too, very terse and Hemingwayesque and actually funny in its tight-lipped macho. The laughter releases the tension of the suspense built up during the climactic confrontations between Scott and his foes. So check out The Tall T the next time it's on TCM, and you'll see what I mean.