I’ve never been to Puerto Rico, but I was born on the same day as Ricky Martin. We are both Capricorns. We are both twenty-three years old.*

When I was a kid, they would sing a song in church called “Whatsoever You Do in the Name of My Father,” which is apparently a quote from Jesus, but I always heard “Puerto Rico is the Name of My Father.” I used to try to puzzle out how Jesus could be Hispanic and Jewish at the same time and kept coming up with Juan Epstein from TV’s “Welcome Back, Kotter.”

Tonight is Russell’s second memorial service, this one at the theater where he worked, and excerpts will be read from the play he was working on when he died.

I used to think that that my unfinished novel would quite literally keep me alive. Last year, while on a death-defying plane trip in Costa Rica, I knew (against all evidence to the contrary, such as, you know, the plane falling out of the sky) I would survive because I still had writing to do. Oddly, I still have the exact same amount of writing to do, all progress having halted since that fateful day. Perhaps an unfinished novel is as much a guarantor of immortality as my fabled portrait in the cupboard (it remains to be seen whether exfoliation has something to contribute, as well), but an unfinished play apparently isn’t worth a hill of beans when it comes to warding off death.

* Only nine shopping days until my and Ricky Martin’s birthday!