In Berlin twelve years later. Not only is the Isro back in action, but I realize I never needed an agent after all! Like Dorothy, the Scarecrow, the Tin Man and the Lion, I learned that I had what I needed all along . . .  my Isro and a keyboard.




​Full Disclosure: I have an excellent agent for my nonfiction (Carol Mann of the Carol Mann Agency, New York City). But Carol doesn't handle plays.





Trying to amuse former Secretary of State George Shultz, before asking if I can call his agent. [Whereabouts of Isro: Unknown.]

Checking in with my agent. “Still nuthin,” he tells me. Then the operator says, “Five cents for the next five minutes, please.” She knows I don’t carry that kind of change.

I wish I still had this shirt.

Man with two childs, no guitar, huarachas, and Isro.
Explaining that if he doesn’t hear from his agent soon, his agent’s body is going to end up floating in that creek.

Did someone say 70s? 
[Though it appears I’m about to hit the local disco, in fact I just heard from my agent, who said “Still nuthin.”]

Man with child, guitar, and Isro (Jewish Afro).
[My daughter wants to know if I heard back from my agent.]

If I tried this, I’d be in physical therapy until 2022.

If I tried this now I’d be in traction until 2021.

My mother explains why I shouldn’t keep visiting the girl next door in my underwear, asking to play another game of “doctor.” Judging from the sullen look on my face, I had no intention of taking her advice.
.