Rob Schrab fidgets across from me in a large, sunken green chair in his living room, adjusting positions at least three times before he settles comfortably into the seat. He has, after all, quite a lot to be excited about: his recent Emmy win for “Outstanding Music and Lyrics,” which he co-wrote for the opening number at this year’s Academy Awards, a recurring directing and writing role on Comedy Central’s The Sarah Silverman Program, and the consummation of the long-anticipated comeback of Scud The Disposable Assassin: The Whole Shebang.

It is the middle of a beautiful Saturday, a couple of weeks before the hustle and bustle of open studios. I decide to take a tour with one of Santa Monica Art Studios’ two directors, Yossi Govrin. Stupidly, I almost miss my turn because I’m too distracted watching a plane land at the Santa Monica Airport. It’s an interesting place to find 22,000 square feet dedicated to the fine arts.

Whenever I find myself in a conversational lull–say, in an elevator, at a distant cousin’s wedding, or perhaps even admist the strum und drang of my chosen work environment–I bring up Lou Reed. He never fails me. People start finger popping, mumbling about walking on wild sides, or alternatively searching for a vein in their arm to puncture. The astute ones will make Laurie Anderson references, and others will try to pick apart Reed’s greater cultural impact. Sure, they’ll say, the Velvet Underground has attained deification, and rightfully so. But what about Reed’s solo work? Is “Sex With Your Parents (Motherfucker) Part II” really Guggenheim material?

Today was a good day. Susan didn’t go to work because she woke up with a sore throat. I love it when she stays home, especially if it’s cold and dark and rainy out, and the two of us are all cozy and warm inside. I also love it when she has a cold, I’m a little ashamed to say. It’s not that I wish her any harm, God forbid. I just like it when she has to stay home and take care of herself because I always help her do that.

I thought I was going to be late. I forgot to set my clock back before I
went to bed last night. Forgot to move the hour back before the leaves fell
from my dreams like the colored leaves that fall from trees. I rushed to work, driving,
trying to set the dashboard clock; my body hunched over the wheel, not paying
attention to the other side of the windshield. The car revved high
before I managed to change gears. This took my hand off the clock
and put my eyes onto the street.