It’s possible to exist in ethno/religious social isolation in New York but you have to work really hard and live in very cloistered communities to do it. Most of us like our diversity. If we didn’t, we could save a lot of money by moving. Which is why the current wave of Anti-Muslim hate get nothing from me but “Bronx cheer.”

Art as a public expression of family dysfunction can go in a number of directions:  righteous indignation, raunchy rebellion, and weepy martyrdom are among these. Occasionally, someone actually transcends shock value and does something noteworthy.

I went to see “My Dad is Crazier Than Your Dad” last Friday for opening night of the NYC Fringe Festival. It’s a scientific-ish exploration of evidence cataloging the bizarre and increasingly cruel behavior of the performer/writer Katharine Heller‘s father. The stories can sting but are presented in such a way that  audience members leave invigorated from Katharine’s courage and hilarious candor.

Full disclosure: Katharine and I became best friends in high school. I know her well enough to know that she is brilliant. I’ve been more than proud of the dedication to her craft that she shows in everything she does. But I’ve never been prouder than I am of her for this show, her first one-woman endeavor and an open, honest window into the sometimes twisted but always intriguing canvas where she was created.

Katharine and I became friends when we were 14 which was, well, more than a little while ago.  We rode next to each other on a bus to attend a march for reproductive health. We both had single moms, were theater geeks on the Speech and Debate team at Bronx Science, had the same goofy sense of humor, cared about women’s rights, and had issues about our dads. Her father cut off communication with her several years before we met. Mine abandoned me and my mother when I was barely a toddler, and loomed over my childhood like a phantom antagonist.

Katharine has pulled off brilliant storytelling and impressive theatrical execution but, moreover, she makes damaged innocence and loss seem powerfully absurd. She delivers inspiration for each of us to disarm pain in our background and enjoy the comedy.

Here are the official showtimes. For tickets, click here and choose the date you’d like to attend.

Friday 8/13 at 7:00 pm
Saturday 8/14 at 12:00 pm
Friday 8/20 at 6:15 pm
Wednesday 8/25 at 4:15 pm
Friday 8/27 at 9:00pm

Dixon Place Theater 161A Chrystie Street (Rivington and Delancey Streets)

I’m proud to say that the information exchange we created for people wanting to volunteer skills and services to help support rebuilding Haiti (from wherever they are) is still very much alive and active. There are constantly new posts and offers on the website from around the world – and the twitter feed broke 13,000 …followers yesterday with over a hundred new followers since then! Thanks, everybody.

I first found out about it nearly a decade ago, when I met Kemba Smith at a criminal justice conference and heard her recount the story of her own shackled childbirth. The whole idea of such a thing seems incredibly cruel, not to mention absurd. What is the fear — that an incarcerated woman in labor is bound to go all “Kill Bill” on someone any second… mercilessly taking out the hospital room staff and karate chopping her way to freedom? It makes about as much sense as passing the newborn through a metal detector before entering the nursery.

Tonya Williams of SPARK Reproductive Justice Now has spent two years researching the treatment of pregnant incarcerated women in the state of Georgia. Not so shockingly, it ain’t a pleasant story. Dignity, anyone? She wrote an article about this issue a few months ago. And now, after decisions in Washington state and Arkansas found that the practice violates civil rights and a major class action suit pending in Illinois, NPR has also picked up story.

Turns out that the World Cup finalists are also the two prettiest teams (as determined by this survey from a dating site for Beautiful People only. They would know.) We’re all winners! Especially when they swap shirts.

Some of the African players should have ranked much higher (ahem, Ghana, hello?) but this is entertaining nonetheless. Christiano Ronaldo is probably more peeved about losing this contest to Spain than the actual World Cup (Spain’s Torres, apparently, out-hotted him).

Who wouldn’t be a psychosomatic bundle of stress with so many physical threats, especially those of the itty-bitty-hard-to-spot variety? A few short months back at home and I am already obsessive about hand sanitizer and the lurking presence of bed bugs.

My three years in Atlanta were clearly a sanitized bubble. I’m starting to understand why my mom (not a native New Yorker) used to wash all the clothes we wore on the subway train with disinfectant.

Atlanta was a great adventure. It required me to drive, which was no small feat. As I explained to a friend once, growing up in New York, I thought that driving was an occupational choice, not a requirement to buy a loaf of bread. Thanks, Atlanta, for making me a more “normal” car-friendly American.

I’ll likely have some musings about the experience and maybe wax a little nostalgic about the things I enjoyed during my stay in Atlanta.

But it’s great to be back in the Rotten Apple. Where everything is great except the lack of central air conditioning.

Unlike print, you can’t edit a social media-based web site until it is perfect. Since much of it’s evolution depends on how users behave and what types of content they share, you have to accept more of a role of jazz composer than orchestra conductor.

I have been looking for creative analogies to explain the differences to clients and colleagues.

Here’s what I have come up with so far (thoughts and suggestions are welcome):

• think of web as organic, as opposed to genetically modified: unpredictable and raw instead of manipulated for uniformity
• improv comedy versus sitcom comedy
• raising a child versus raising a houseplant (in terms of flexibility and hopefully not necessarily maintenance)

Ray Liotta was on television last night. I thought to myself, dang, I would love to see him cast as Rod Blagojevich (a man, who along with John Edwards, proves that maintaining the hairstyle of an 80s teen movie heartthrob can only bring a lifetime of scandal and disappointment). Apparently, I am not alone in secretly wishing for such a made-for-tv masterpiece.

I haven’t yet decided who I would love to see cast as John Edwards.