Monday, July 25, 2011

Close, But No Cigar . . . Cigarette . . . Just a Puff of Yours?

I moved to Chicago to be close to the things I'd like to do next.  Well, I'm happy to report that I've succeeded.  I am indeed very close now to the things I'd like to do next.

Last night, I was backstage at the Neo-Futurarium, home of Too Much Light Makes the Baby Go Blind.

Today, I performed improvisation on the Cabaret Stage at iO, the premier home of improvisation in Chicago. 

Tonight, I donned a Barrel of Monkeys t-shirt of my own, was present at That's Weird, Grandma, and went out for drinks with the cast and much of the production staff. 

I'm so close in space and time to everything I want to be part of!

In Boston, there are United Way signs with pictures of young students raising their hands eagerly in class; captions below the pictures inquire, "Remember when volunteering was fun?"  Now that I've moved to Chicago, I can answer in the affirmative.  I'm hoping that the entire city of Chicago will adopt the same philosophy. 

See this man without a home?  Let's volunteer to build him one!  See how he is hungry?  Let's find him some volunteer pizza with volunteer vegetables!  See how he can't get from place to place or wash his clothes?  I'll volunteer to drive him and lend him a spicket!*

Because in approximately three months, I will be broke.

Now, come, come, darlings.  I'm not going to let that happen . . .

Everyone else is.   

Because there are too many damn people here competing for all of my success. 

So my new plan is this:

Since I can't get actual work with any of these companies (right now), I'm going to volunteer myself into a catatonic state.  Maybe if I nail down a volunteer opportunity at every major theater in town, I'll make myself so busy that I don't notice the nagging hunger pangs or bouts of delirium brought on by sleep deprivation.   When those persistent realities finally do catch up with me on a given day, I'll just gorge myself on leftovers from one opening night party or the other, then pass out on a stage.  (Hopefully a nice stage, like the Goodman, not a rotten one like the "cabaret."  You know what cabaret I'm talking about!)

Maybe you think that all sounds like a terrible plan, but trust me.  I'm a professional.  Or, at least, I'm geographically very close to some. 

* Don't worry, rest-of-the-country.  People here don't really wash their clothes in spickets.  At least, not in the winter.  

1 comment:

  1. Don't die, Mike. I'd be very sad and would have to revenge-kill the entire city of Chicago, apparently.