We played Tobacco Road in Hell's Kitchen the other night and might be able to get a gig there, which is pretty cool. Meanwhile I could do nothing but go, "Oh, my god, we're in Hell's Kitchen!!!! That's where Sleepers takes place. This is a real Hell's Kitchen bar! I want to run out and find that book again right now!!!!" Because, you know, with me, I can have the real bar right in front of me and it just makes me want to book more.

Oh, and with current New York law, it's illegal to smoke at Tobacco Road. This cracked me up for some time.

Seeing and talking to Jayson again is great. He's much more open now. We talk for hours, long after rob has gone to bed, about our undying love for journalism despite our alternate career choices, about old teachers. He signed his book contract this week and was inundated with phone calls, and then there were articles in Variety, the Post, etc the next day. I forget sometimes the noteriety of our host

But despite his pariah status, his apartment suggests irreverance, sarcasm, mixed with a concerted desire for self-betterment. I open a magazine and a bookmark falls out that reads: "Every exit is an entry somewhere. - Tom Stoppard." As if posted by a proud parent like their child's A paper, Jayson has placed, under a Care Bear magnet on his refrigerator, a recent clean drug test. I am amused when, flipping through his coffee table books I happen upon a truly arresting photo book from controversial, congressionally condemned artist Andres Cerrano with the post-scandal inscription: "To Jayson, from one good guy to another. AC."

Today he cracked me up. I rounded a corner in Strand, a labrynthine book store that boasts 8 miles of books, to find Jayson, all five-foot-one of him, still atop a gray milk crate he'd used to pull a book from an upper rough-wood shelf, reading a volume about the New York Times and framed in the doorway of the little room under its red directory sign: JOURNALISM.

New rule, the third Heather rule of the trip by my count (rule one, established pre-departure, was no hot dogs. Rule 2, established after a very unpleasant morning-after in Phillie, was no mushroom cheeseburgers):

ALWAYS carry a camera.

Sept. 13th, 2003.

"After rob goes to bed INDEED!!!" I lie awake for hours, waiting for Heather's return. The cool weather of fall has arrived, making New York beautiful like Baltimore after a rain. Heather's a creature of exceeding warmth and I lie huddled under flannel sheets, shivering, waiting for her return.

Today we wandered out to see a movie. Something out of a distant past, almost. We're trying to be so careful about money, but Jayson dragged us out for lunch, a movie - and just to see the town. He's an excellent guide, and we saw vegan cookies and steam vents and toy stores and book stores. I finally saw the new Oz series by McFarlane! Soo pleased. The Lion's awesome! (removable entrails!)

Anywho, we went and saw the Order, which would make a great Episode I for some strange and distorted superhero series - but lacked a certain something as a movie in it's own right. But it had all the important elements for a good flick: distorted Catholic imagery, a cult, good voices, a hot art chick lead, blood and paint, and a pretty unexpected twist. Great idea, it just sort of floundered in it's realization. In the same vein, I told Jayson to go check out Hyperion by Dan Simmons. Catholics and blood, man. All I need.

So - the return to the apartment. We sauteed ourselves up some lime shrimp, and made ourselves some couscous, and this, combined with English Muffins, made for an admirable feast. All made from the raiding of Jayson's refrigerator (which I think I can't spell...)