Tuesday, May 29, 2012


You know what I hate?  Chocolate.

You know what I love?  Honey.  All kinds of honey, but mainly organic honey. Wanna know why?

1) One word: satisfying!

2) It has antibiotic properties, which means it battles the streptococci that get caught between my toes. 

3) My mom's name is Bee.  And it's spelled just like that.

4) I used to eat big gopping globs of honey on my sausage biscuits.  The meat industry has since betrayed me, and I can no longer look into Jimmy Dean's eyes and say I trust him.  But honey?  You still have my heart.

5) There's a bee following George Clooney around, and I expect it means to sting him.  (My party will still be better.)

6) It lasts forever.  While the world goes bad, honey stays oh so sweet. 

7) Say this three times fast:  I own a solar power created aromatherapy beeswax candle.

8) Honey's so good, it's been this long since it's had to advertise.

9) A bee blows its nose, and you want to eat it?

10) Honey sponsors my musical, so you should stop in to Follow the Honey next to OBERON.  If you buy something, they just may have a surprise for you.

Hey, chocolate!  You're letting me down again.  Catch this train while it's still moving at a speed you can handle.

Wednesday, May 16, 2012

One Hour of Fame (Pop!)

There is a manufacturer in this city.  They manufacture something . . . (chew chew chew pop) . . . No.  I can't talk about it.  I've said too much already.

. . .

No.  On the other hand, I must go on.  I've come this far, and my "like"-rs are depending on me not to let them down.

So.  I went to this . . . place . . . today  . . . (chew chew chew) . . . and tried some  . . . (pop) . . . stuff.

. . .

Okay.  It's Wrigley.*  But don't tell anybody I told you that.  When I went in, they made me sign some papers that said I wouldn't say anything to anyone about what I was doing today.  So just pretend you don't know anything, okay?  Please?


Come to think of it, why don't you sign these papers here promising me you won't tell anybody what you read in this blog entry.  Whew.  Now I'm covered.

Anyway, I really can't tell you exactly what went on at Wrigley's place, but I will tell you that it was an awful lot like being Famous.  I gave several autographs.  Complete strangers wanted to hear what I thought.  People watched me through a one-way mirror, which I hear happens all the time with the paparazzi.  Then, after an hour, I got paid more cashola than I've made from Cambridge Street and T: An MBTA Musical combined!

(chew chew chew)

I'm also pretty sure I have a sex tape now.  Not that anyone will ever know about that.  Because nothing you've read on this blog today leaves this blog.  Right?  Right? 

(chew chew chew)


Oh, by the way.  The short list of things I've done that have earned me more cash than Cambridge Street and T combined would also include:

-  helping out a guy on craigslist

- selling CUTCO cutlery

- winning a hand in a game of penny poker

- finding a dime on the sidewalk

- letting some filmmakers borrow my car

Other than that, today was pretty special.  Pretty special indeed.

Don't.  Tell.  Anyone.

Pass it on.  

* I'm sorry, Wrigley.  They forced it out of me.

Thursday, May 10, 2012


"There is nothing to writing.  All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed." - Ernest Hemingway

Oh, Ernest!  You understand me!  Somebody understands me!  That is exactly what writing is like.  Especially today.  Today I am so lonely and broken and tired.  I mean, writing.  There is so much typing and thinking and imagining and putting pen to paper and living and absorbing and sometimes the computer comes unplugged while you're busy spewing out your genius and sometimes there are typos (oh, the typos!) and you must pay attention to grammar and punctuation and it just hurts.  It hurts so bad. 

So.  Bad.  

Do you know what would help?  If the world only understood!  Yes, I wish the rest of you got it, you reviewers and readers and "like"-rs.  You office workers and wall street workers and construction workers.  But no, you live such hollow, passionless lives.  The artist, only he is truly alive.  And among all artists, the writer lives the most.  I mean, he writes.  He puts his ideas into words.  Who else does that?

As Rod Serling once said about his own passion for writing:

"I didn't embrace it.  I succumbed to it."  

This is the truth of all artists.  We live lives of pure pain  until we are finally overcome, at which point we succumb to the horror of earning a portion of our living off of our intellectual property.  (As if any idea could ever truly belong to anyone.)  We finally, reluctantly embrace the Herculean responsibility of stacking letters into comprehensible ideas and posting them on the internet or wrapping them in paper.

From that day forward, we are doomed. 

Here is a final quotation.

"Steppenwolf, you must learn to laugh." 

Yes, Hermann Hesse.  Perhaps that is the answer.  But with this terrible curse I endure, how will I ever learn to do that

Woe is me.  Woe is me.  This hairshirt I wear, it stinks of alpaca.

. . .

PS Buy my book.

Wednesday, May 9, 2012

Give me $18. Come to My Party.

Have you seen this excrement?

You have now if you hadn't before.*

So Clooney's having a party, eh?  In LA, eh?  And if I give Barack Obama $5 or more, I'm entered for a chance to be his guest at that party, eh?

Really, Clooney?  A chance?  Is that all you have to offer these days?  Well, George, I have news for you. I'm having my own party.  In Boston.  All the way across the country from you.  And we take all comers. 

That's right.  Anyone who gives me money is definitely invited to my party.  They are 100% on the VIP list.  And I'm starting the rumor right now in more italics  that Barack Obama will be at my party, too!!!!

Do I know this for sure?  Well, no.  But I hope he'll come, and that should be enough to make any dream come true.  Right?   It worked for Barack.  

Fine, cynic.  Is hope not enough for you?  Try this empirical evidence on for size:

1) I live in Chicago now, Barack's home town.

2) A copy of The Audacity of Hope is on my bookshelf.

3) Barack has a habit of popping up everywhere these days, so why not at my party?

4) If I'm right, and you don't show up to my party, boy will you have egg on your face.

Space is limited.  Here's the invite:


FRIDAY, JUNE 8, 2012
10:30 pm

* By the way, that's not my address anymore.  LEAVE ME ALONE!

Friday, May 4, 2012


This morning at 8:30 AM CST, I showed up at the Montrose Brown Line (That's a public transit locale, for ye non-Chicagoan "like"-rs).  I met some fellow actors and soon-to-be-famous people for what I thought would be a regular ole 1776 gig -- you know, an hour-long performance in an overpacked cafetori-gym, given to over 100 disinterested fifth graders who, after the show, would just want to know how we "memorized all those words." 

How foolish of me not to recognize the magic and adventure that each dawning day provides.  When I piled into the usual old blue cargo van with those usual actors expecting the usual routine . . . I was instead whisked away to a castle.  An enchanted castle.  And no, this is not some piece-of-shit children's amusement facility!  This was a REAL CASTLE.  There were turrets and torches on the walls.  There were fine curtains.  There was even a princess with a piano and a dragon with a trumpet.  

Don't believe me?  Well, here I am getting my wig fixed before we performed.  Notice that I am in a castle.  You can tell because there are grey walls and a noodle hat on sale for only $8.00. 

Did I say "noodle hat?"  I meant broadsword.

In any case, you can also see that on May 8, 1776, four colonies on the big board were in favor of American independence.  This is historically accurate.  The Second Continental Congress had a big board. 

After the performance, the queen of the castle let me spin the birthday wheel. 

Did I say "spin the birthday wheel?"  I meant "participate in a jousting competition."

Then they gave me a free slice of pizza!

You know, now I've got myself thinking.  What kind of castle has noodle hats?  And pizza?

Wait a minute.

I don't think it was a real castle after all.  I think it was an Italian castle*!  What a disappointment.  I'm glad I didn't stay and play the arcade games.

Did I say "play the arcade games?"  I meant "redeem my tickets at the prize counter."

. . .


* Everybody knows that Italian castles are super disappointing and not considered by most history experts to be "real."