Dermatologist did a biopsy on some potentially cancerous shit growning on the back of my leg. It was nothing. I had no concerns that it would be anything but figured it couldn’t hurt to see, and to get some more blemishes zapped off. He does the removal differently than my PCP. The PCP freezes them off. The derm plucks them with needles. It hurts more that way. He marvelled at how well the removed thing was healing. I am a healthy guy.

The derm is in 200 Central Park South. I used to fantasize about living there, just because it seemed distinctive and at a great location. I met someone whose friends lived there. She said the building was actually kind of a dump.

Now I have only one dying fantasy about living in 207 East 61st Street. 207 and 61 were my magic numbers from grade school through college, and for the first few years I lived here. When I did a radio interview for a Kiwi station I had them send the cassette copy to 207 East 61st. After being returned to New Zealand the tape eventually made its way to me. The envelope remains unopened.

I feel strange today. I slept way too long, this after getting up around 9am the day before. CBS called again, unexpectedly. I didn’t feel like talking so I said to call back tomorrow. I was sitting at a table in the public space at the Onassis Cultural Center. He said he wanted to do a pre-interview interview, which sounds good to me since I don’t know exactly what the real interviewer wants to talk about. The interview is at 8:30 in the fucking morning. But I’m not complaining about that like I did with the HuffPo because, you know, it’s CBS. It’s  not a low-level blog buried deep in the bowels of that otherwise estimable news outlet.

Then again you never know what kind of return you’ll get from television.

I am looking forward to getting one particular picture in front of a larger audience, to determine if it is real or doctored. A payphone in the middle of the Nicasio Reservoir in California — in the water, being used by a kayaker. It looks real but you just don’t know without informed corroboration. Too bad the photographer ignored my inquiries about this. I also hope to talk about PRAY, and maybe get some informed feedback from the masses about that woman. And if I can get a few digs in about APOLOGY that will be cool, but I might want to avoid that subject. The theme I’m trying to build on is that of payphones as focal points of obsession.

…

I was walking along in midtown today when I heard somebody yell my name. I turned to see the dude. I didn’t recognize him, so I turned back and kept walking. I heard my name again. I turned back. He was definitely yelling after me. He seemed normal enough, slightly unkempt looking but probably a corporate, smoking a cigarette outside an office building. I approached him. He smiled. I had no recognition whatsoever but was willing to make it possible. He said something like “We used to smoke at Parlay’s.” I smiled and said “I have no idea what that means.” In my mind I shuffled through my deck of cards with faces and names, people I knew for a week, for a beer, for a year. This dude just does not register. We shook hands, at which point I thought I might be walking into a serial killer’s trap. Hah. He asked “You’re not Art?” I said “Oh, I see. My name’s Mark. That was what I thought you were saying.” He was profusely apologetic, adding that if I were Art then I would have lost about 50 pounds, but that otherwise I was the spitting image of this person. It was an amusing encounter. If Art had been named Steve I would probably have ignored this person altogether. Nice to know there is a fat version of me walking around somewhere.

Someone last night said that I reminded them of someone, but they couldn’t decide who. I suggested Trey Anastasio and/or Eric Clapton. Anastasio and I were doppelgangers when I had more facial hair. The Clapton resemblance is only evident in a few photos of him. He changed his look a lot.

I feel like my soul is about to explode.