Monday night late in the Big Smoke. One week down on Midnight Cowboy rehearsals. Thanks to an extraordinarily talented and game cast and an exceptional stage manager (Tom Jeffords, an American, hire him if you can), we are blocked. Moving slightly faster than the speed of light.

Moved into an actual apartment, out of the hotel.

Hotels...

What is it in a hotel that reduces a person to a body? Night after night, your individuality, your history, your personality is leached, reduced. You become a person who lives in a hotel. It defines your day and worst, controls your night. You sleep the shallow, empty sleep of a man who sleeps in a hotel.

Nice flat in Southwark for the next two weeks. Cats. Nancy. Real life.

Way out here in London, working mad on this show and yet thinking hard on New York. This whole League can happen, however, I can't do it. We can.

If you know me, then you need to help me do this, because you know it's a good idea.

If you don't know me, then you really need to help me, because it's help from unexpected sources that pushes things over the limit and makes the difficult easy and the impossible unstoppable.

And here's something else:

I just heard from my father that a great man has died. So rest in peace Robert A. Hetlage. I knew him from when I was a child, I knew him all my life. He lived long and he lived well, he died a devoted husband and a loved father and grandfather. He lived honorably. He was a true and complete friend to his friends. He was a man you could rely on to the end of the world.

A sad night for us. Rest in peace, Bob.