To quote Jule Styne, and, thus, Ms. Babs Streisand (who has been gaining weight faster than the Goodyear Blimp before Super Bowl liftoff), "People, people who need people, are the luckiest people in the world..."

And so I am. Thank you, folks, for your expressions of concern (or relief, as the case may be with regards to my absence), but, in addition to being extremely fucking busy with work and social obligations (hanging out with four of the greatest ballerinos in the world, for example [though it's too bad Kobe Bryant wasn't there, as he was at the Bolshoi last summer, sitting next to my mother, despite the fact that his bitch wife nearly took my sweet face off with her fucking $3 mil. yellow diamond bauble], sipping champagne and downing fois gras with, er, the plastic-surgeried set, the latter not exactly my cup of Darjeeling), I began to contemplate this particular blogosphere in relation to moi.

By that I mean: If I cannot find any sites that captivate, intrigue, amuse, encourage inform or cause me to be empathetic - on any fucking level - and receive like-minded commentary on my verbiosity, what, then, is the fucking point?

In other words, I may go elsewhere for my bloggic edification, mental and otherwise.

Shall we take a vote? Who wants more of my blatherings, cutting comments (rude, nasty, incisive, hilarious, relevant/irrelevant or whatthefuckever), and emotional outbursts, which, perhaps, include a quasi-peek into my Mensa-lapsed brain, please raise their fucking hands?

Cuz life is fucking short and blogging (re other peoples' posts) can be, well, long, listless and loveless (at least from my point of view).

So, is it sayonara or see ya again soon, the lady, wooable to a fault, doth ask in all seriousness.

I shan't be silenced. (Although I missed a day - and a day without blogging is a day without, well, fucking blogging.) Had a late night: The West Coast premiere of a Mamet play (that he directed - always a an iffy proposition, I mean did Tennessee Williams direct his works, Edward Albee, Arthur Miller theirs? No, no and no). So there was that - and since it was in very unMamet-speak, i.e., flowery Victorian language, delivered at much too fast a clip, lines were being stepped on and Mary Steenburgen, who was celebrating her 53rd birthday, was, surprisingly, difficult to hear.

But I think what I fucking loved best about the play was that my mother's idol, Larry David, was sitting several rows in front of me, on the aisle, his lanky legs stretched out and his semi-bald pate slumping further down as the evening progressed. It is my mother's dying wish (though I don't expect her to croak anytime soon), to meet Mr. David, and I thought about dialing her number in Florida (even if the machine answered, which it probably would have, it being three hours later there), and, after handing the phone over to him, he would, in that neo-nasal Brooklynese twang, say, "Hello, Bernice."

Hallefuckinglujah, to paraphrase Handel, my mother would have to love me then.

Alas, it wasn't meant to be. But what the fuck do any of you care about this Hollywood shit, huh? Just thought I'd try and spice up your mundane little lives with some vicarious celebreschmoozing, cuz I don't have the physical or mental wherewithal to visit some of you personally and get all vitriolic in your fucking emoticonized faces.

Btw, Felicity Huffman looked awful - as if her Botox doctor injected her while suffering a hangover - carrying a cream-colored schmata that could have doubled as a summer body bag.

It's time to return to Verdi, cuz it's too fucking hot here - for fucking February - to deal with anything else. (Besides, through him I find a measure of redemption.)

Verdi lives, but why, unfortunately, must Oprah? Now she's gonna be on satellite radio. Who the fuck needs more of her at this point?

And now I'm outta here - on my way to the Police Academy (we'll see if my criminology degree comes in handy tonight).

Greetings, human shields. Oh, wait, that's from a two-plus year-old column I wrote for some rag of a paper here in the greater Los Angeles, uh, basin. (Remember Iraq?) In any case, most of you sniveling peeps would not venture to put yourselves in harm's way, much less foray into any fucking field requiring a notch above mediocrity, which was the lot of Mozart's rival, Salieri. (Like the majority have a clue here...no fucking way. Try listening to the boy genius' 41st - the "Jupiter," then call me.)

So how goes it today? Has the brunt of you calmed down from last night's tongue (albeit an electronic one) lashing. I doubt it, cuz your idiocies keep coming and coming (something Larry Flynt could relate to before he was gunned down by a pornphobic right-winger). To wit: One person, who commented on my alleged nastiness, was upset that I literarily flogged a 70-year old for scribbling bad poetry.
(And no: I am not 12, nor do I have Tourette's Syndrome.)

HELLO: I MEAN, HAVE ANY OF YOU THOUGHT THAT THE VEIL OF ANONYMITY PROBABLY MEANS NOBODY IS ACTUALLY WHO THEY FUCKING CLAIM THEY ARE?

Yeah, well. Think about it, ferfuckingchrissake; then go ahead and fucking block me.

As a writer, my imagination is my greatest asset (and the ability to be able to construct sentences that are not only highly readable, but sometimes enjoyable, informative and, well, incredibly unique), so stop and smell the cybercoffee and consider what's really going on here.

But, hey, I don't give a fuck. Back to moi: I was quite content to be in the company of brilliance this a.m. (not to mention loving the delicious, uber-flakinessness of warm croissants - the muffins were not the freshest - as well as some lovely canteloupe, honeydew and pineapple), listening to the likes of the renegade opera director, Peter Sellars, the singularly talented video artist, Bill Viola, and Esa-Pekka Salonen, the music director of the L.A. Phil. Sure, EP can be cold and well, very Finnish, but he has decidedly improved the horn section of our orchestra.

Unfortunately, after then doing a few errands, it was back to the mental grind. I'm dealing with the synaesthete, Michael Torke now (is anyone at all interested in improving their fucking minds), having spent yesterday on the transcendent Arvo Part (I don't know how to make an uumlot [sic], or I would hit that key.)

And the thought of going down to Orange County next week in a fully-stocked limo - ending up partying with the four greatest ballerinos in tights today - is looking more irresistible all the time. In the interim, Maya Angelou rules and...farewell and fuck you!

P.S. This being February, the night-blooming jasmine is exceedingly heady - and heavenly - its scent sweetly wafting up to my pathetic soul, er, balcony, crying out for a semblance of love as Anthony Minghella's heart-wrenchingly beautiful, "The English Patient" unfolds in the background. Yeah, babies.

I want, from the bottom of my desperately aching heart, to thank all of my loyal fans and readers, especially those neo-literate types who are posting such positive comments, the plethora of bad grammar, even worse spelling and virtually snooze-worthy content, notwithstanding, and encourage you to keep those cards and letters the fuck coming.

Cuz, where, after all, would I be, without you, er, Neanderthalian cyberdarlings?

But, puhleeze, I beseech you, cool it with the fucking emoticons, ferfuckingchrissake.

So I must be doing something right to arouse such unmitigated wrath. Ooh, I get hot thinking about it. But hey - that's what happens when I've been tied to the computer all weekend (instead of to the buckster), churning out thousands of high-brow words on subjects the brunt of you would, no doubt, be unable to grasp, much less give a fuck about.

Tomorrow morning it's back to Disney Hall, bright and early, in order to schmooze with a pack of poorly-dressed ink-stained wretches and partake of a gratis breakfast in the name of being privvy to what's coming in the 06-07 season for the Los Angeles Philharmonic. (It's still hard for me to fathom this incessantly furious passing of time - it being 06 althefuckready.)

My shoulder hurts (it's bursitis, actually, which originated as a result of my having been a professional musician in a past life) and I need/want a drink to go along with the Tchaikovsky waltz featured in the less than mediocre rendering of Tolstoy. That's right, I'm watching a bad update of "Anna Karenina." Nothing can come close to Garbo's elegiac portrayal - or even the brilliant balletic version as presented by Boris Eifman of St. Petersburg. (When, dear god, will I journey to the hallowed land of my roots [yeah, I'm Russian-German, so there], as long as it is for the White Nights Festival.)

And speaking of Ruskies, I am definitely considering a tete a tete with a certain terpsichore who shall remain nameless but will soon be gracing a Southland stage. He doesn't have to defect like in days of yore, but I certainly wouldn't object to his passing through a cozy Beverly Hills boudoir, where Rachmaninoff will be personally played for his, er, ears alone. Or perhaps Prokofiev. Who, I iterate, the fuck knows...at this point.

Time's up (I allow myself X amount of minutes on this thing), and now it's come to the point at which I go for more wine...and salade nicoise. One more thing: I weep buckets on hearing Mahler's 'Adagietto,' not to mention that I have also been found near prostrate in the presence of Barber's 'Adagio for Strings,' depending on the conductor (Bernstein, for example), that is. Ah, yes, then, this is decidedly the flesh of a mere mortal, ferfuckingsure. And one, who, btw, is a rabid "Columbo" fan. Peter fucking Falk, whom I greeted warmly several months ago at the opening of "Cat On a Hot Tin Roof," with a bravura John Goodman as Big Daddy, is my kinda guy. (This must be a bit 'o the old cabin fever talking.)

No, I am not going to any fucking Superbowl party or watching the fucking game. (One of the last parties of this ilk I attended I was elbow to elbow with the deposed Governor, Gray Davis, though this was long before he began ruling our little burg.) I loathe and detest the sport, in spite of the fact that I come from a footall town in which Daddy knew the owner of the team and had a box over the years (cuz the notion of huddling under blankets in the fucking freezing weather was even less appealing - not that I did fucking either - boxed or braved watching). My only connection with the sport at this point is Jerry Rice, who acquits himself elegantly and with such modest determination on that folly of a show, "Dancing With the Stars," which I am forced to watch by dint of my career. Oh, and I also met Jim Brown backstage at the Hollywood Bowl last summer (you know - the time I was verbally cavorting with the great Jeremy Irons), and was duly suprised to see him a few weeks ago at the feeble remounting of the Robert Wilson production of "Butterfly." Mr. Brown was dressed, as is his wont, in kelly green djalaba-like robes and fez (though I'm sure that is not the correct haberdashery term), and seems to be enjoying some cultural indulgences at this stage of his life, as his acting career never really took off. And while I'm on the subject of large black men (in stature and otherwise), I might as well to confess to having been a neighbor of OJ's when he and the white chick lived two doors down from me in Laguna Beach. I can say, with some authority, that he definitely treated his two chows better than he treated her (or moi, for that matter, but that is such another story).

Don't know why I'm wrestling with the Mexican Baroque - and only 800 words, to boot - but I'm sure it's fine and I should move on to Minimalism. I relish my time spent at home, actually, and haven't even finished reading the papers yet this a.m.

Such a fucking life, ferfuckingsure. (Oh, again re the subject of large black dudes - one of Sydney Poitier's daughters is in my yoga class - she's over six feet tall and he's huge in talent and integrity. Talk about a fucking class act. And actor. Mr. P. also used to attend the opera, but, alas, I haven't seen him in a while.)

Time for lentil soup. Yummy! (And fuck you who have qualms with my use of exclamation points!)

Enough with the lentil soup. Bring on the greens (and the greenbacks).

An aside: I'd go on a steak and prunes diet, too, if I could look like Grace Kelly in her prime. Jesusfuckingchrist...an editor has been emailing me all weekend re something. IS THERE NO FUCKING REST FOR THE WICKED!

Yeah, as soon as I put this to bed, which is imminent, ferfuckingsure.