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.
Monday, July 25, 2011
Friday, July 15, 2011
Sing It
Friday, July 15.
A theater in Chicago, Illinois.
Just after midnight.
There's a buzz in this place. Something big is about to happen, something that's been anticipated for years. Surprisingly, there are empty seats. Nevertheless, the energy and enthusiasm of those present is tangible.
A young Brit is drunk. A young Californian looks terrified. An Australian sits between them, a big outback smile on her face. What could bring such a diverse group of people together at such a late hour? The answer is obvious if you're in the room.
Mr JM Manship is about to perform live improvisation for the first time in Chicago.
He hasn't set foot on the stage without a script for more than five years. Truth be told, he hasn't more than dabbled in improvisation for more than seven. But here he is, about to perform under the roof of an organization that birthed such geniuses as Bill Murray, Dan Akroyd, and Egon.
After several short scenes ("previews," one could call them), Manship takes the stage. His task: to perform a game of "Sing It" with a fellow iO student, a man he's never met before but with whom he is about to co-star in a short musical. The suggestion of "roommates" is given. The scene begins.
Almost immediately, the game's host instructs Manship and his fellow performer to, as the game's name implies, "sing." Manship, dominated by the larger, more aggressive player at first, sings nothing. Then, with a burst of drama, he locks into a theme. He finds his voice and, with pitch-perfect vocal agility, stands up to his fictional roommate, singing directly to the large man's face. They tango. They waltz. Finally, in an act of utter victory, Manship lays a fist into his adversary's chest, and the man falls to the floor. The song ends. The scene ends. The audience laughs and applauds.
The evening continues, and important and funny things happen, but there are no more games of "Sing It."
Less than an hour later, Manship and the other performers leave the theater. An Asian man, recognizing Manship from the stage no doubt, tells him, "Dude, I bet I can ride your bike faster than you." Manship declines the opportunity to find out and, an hour and a half later, he is asleep, his bike safely stashed in his living room.
The next day, the reviews are out:
"[Manship] shows us the man [the roommate in this game of "Sing It" has] been forced to become. It's a real performance, layered and even moving." -- Norman Wilner, NOW Toronto
"["Sing It"] balances physical action and emotional development, loud moments and quiet ones, and it's that balance that makes it such a satisfying and proper finish." -- Rob Thomas, Capital Times
"["Sing It"] ends . . . on a triumphant note. It is a memorable and moving conclusion that will leave you wishing for more." -- Bob Bloom, Journal and Courier
"As they say, all good things must come to an end. But in this instance, you can feel solace in knowing the [Manship] can belt out one heck of a final note." - Adam Tobias, Watertown Daily Times
"The definition of a classic." - Colin Covert, The Minneapolis Star Tribune
"When [Sing It] was over, a young boy sitting behind me said, 'That was great!' He was satisfied, and rightly so." -- David Denby, The New Yorker
"This is the way The Harry Potter saga was meant to end." -- Laremy Legel, Film.com
I don't really understand that last one.
People who have not yet begun to climb the fame ladder, hear this final note! The best compliments you regular folk can give us famous and soon-to-be-famous folk are still the simple ones. Which is why the review closest to my heart comes from a kind waitress, who told me as I left the theater:
"You were funny,"
then asked,
"You were in 'Sing It,' right?"
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Epilogue:
Friday, July 15, almost exactly twelve hours later. Mr JM Manship calls the Second City training center and schedules an audition for their conservatory. The audition: Friday, July 29, 2:00 pm. That's right. 'Sing It' was not the end. Two weeks and fourteen hours after the end of his now-legendary debut, Manship will pen the first words of another chapter.
A theater in Chicago, Illinois.
Just after midnight.
There's a buzz in this place. Something big is about to happen, something that's been anticipated for years. Surprisingly, there are empty seats. Nevertheless, the energy and enthusiasm of those present is tangible.
A young Brit is drunk. A young Californian looks terrified. An Australian sits between them, a big outback smile on her face. What could bring such a diverse group of people together at such a late hour? The answer is obvious if you're in the room.
Mr JM Manship is about to perform live improvisation for the first time in Chicago.
He hasn't set foot on the stage without a script for more than five years. Truth be told, he hasn't more than dabbled in improvisation for more than seven. But here he is, about to perform under the roof of an organization that birthed such geniuses as Bill Murray, Dan Akroyd, and Egon.
After several short scenes ("previews," one could call them), Manship takes the stage. His task: to perform a game of "Sing It" with a fellow iO student, a man he's never met before but with whom he is about to co-star in a short musical. The suggestion of "roommates" is given. The scene begins.
Almost immediately, the game's host instructs Manship and his fellow performer to, as the game's name implies, "sing." Manship, dominated by the larger, more aggressive player at first, sings nothing. Then, with a burst of drama, he locks into a theme. He finds his voice and, with pitch-perfect vocal agility, stands up to his fictional roommate, singing directly to the large man's face. They tango. They waltz. Finally, in an act of utter victory, Manship lays a fist into his adversary's chest, and the man falls to the floor. The song ends. The scene ends. The audience laughs and applauds.
The evening continues, and important and funny things happen, but there are no more games of "Sing It."
Less than an hour later, Manship and the other performers leave the theater. An Asian man, recognizing Manship from the stage no doubt, tells him, "Dude, I bet I can ride your bike faster than you." Manship declines the opportunity to find out and, an hour and a half later, he is asleep, his bike safely stashed in his living room.
The next day, the reviews are out:
"[Manship] shows us the man [the roommate in this game of "Sing It" has] been forced to become. It's a real performance, layered and even moving." -- Norman Wilner, NOW Toronto
"["Sing It"] balances physical action and emotional development, loud moments and quiet ones, and it's that balance that makes it such a satisfying and proper finish." -- Rob Thomas, Capital Times
"["Sing It"] ends . . . on a triumphant note. It is a memorable and moving conclusion that will leave you wishing for more." -- Bob Bloom, Journal and Courier
"As they say, all good things must come to an end. But in this instance, you can feel solace in knowing the [Manship] can belt out one heck of a final note." - Adam Tobias, Watertown Daily Times
"The definition of a classic." - Colin Covert, The Minneapolis Star Tribune
"When [Sing It] was over, a young boy sitting behind me said, 'That was great!' He was satisfied, and rightly so." -- David Denby, The New Yorker
"This is the way The Harry Potter saga was meant to end." -- Laremy Legel, Film.com
I don't really understand that last one.
People who have not yet begun to climb the fame ladder, hear this final note! The best compliments you regular folk can give us famous and soon-to-be-famous folk are still the simple ones. Which is why the review closest to my heart comes from a kind waitress, who told me as I left the theater:
"You were funny,"
then asked,
"You were in 'Sing It,' right?"
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Epilogue:
Friday, July 15, almost exactly twelve hours later. Mr JM Manship calls the Second City training center and schedules an audition for their conservatory. The audition: Friday, July 29, 2:00 pm. That's right. 'Sing It' was not the end. Two weeks and fourteen hours after the end of his now-legendary debut, Manship will pen the first words of another chapter.
Wednesday, July 13, 2011
The Seventh Omen: The T Pays Off
Somebody tell the dot-coms that the dot-com bubble burst. Facebook, LinkedIn, Groupon. They're all going / trying to go public. Why, in this age of crazy markets and unpredictable economic turns? Easy. Now that I have a hit show, they want to be like me, and that desire has driven them to test even the deepest waters with no looking back.
. . .
By "like me," I mean "like google."
But wait! This is not pure facetiousness! Google and I are truly, intimately "linked-in." Less than two weeks ago, I was at google's home! How many people can say that?*
. . .
At least 72,000.
But wait! I'm also part of an elite social google-club. That's right. I, John Michael Manship, got a personal invitation to google + . . . right after T: An MBTA Musical blew up.
Try to tell me this is coincidence. Tell me that google, with all of their knowledge, has no idea about T: An MBTA Musical's twelve sold-out shows. (I know they know, because when I google "Does google know about T: An MBTA Musical's twelve sold-out shows," I get this.)
Omen #7, ladies and gentlemen! This train is going express to the top!
Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm off to have e-drinks with my co-writer, Melissa Carubia, who I'm sure got an invitation as well. And with google creators Larry Page and Sergey Brin. And Biz Stone. And Mark Zuckerberg.
Actually, Mark Zuckerberg probably won't be there. He's so "pre-T."
The omens so far:
1. My Zeitgeist Stage check
2. I Burned My Face
3. A Book
4. I'm on National Television!
5. I'm an inspiration to the young!
6. Prophecy!
7.The T Pays Off
8. ??
9. ??
10. ??
11. ??
12. ??
13. probably a giant check
. . .
By "like me," I mean "like google."
But wait! This is not pure facetiousness! Google and I are truly, intimately "linked-in." Less than two weeks ago, I was at google's home! How many people can say that?*
. . .
At least 72,000.
But wait! I'm also part of an elite social google-club. That's right. I, John Michael Manship, got a personal invitation to google + . . . right after T: An MBTA Musical blew up.
Try to tell me this is coincidence. Tell me that google, with all of their knowledge, has no idea about T: An MBTA Musical's twelve sold-out shows. (I know they know, because when I google "Does google know about T: An MBTA Musical's twelve sold-out shows," I get this.)
Omen #7, ladies and gentlemen! This train is going express to the top!
Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm off to have e-drinks with my co-writer, Melissa Carubia, who I'm sure got an invitation as well. And with google creators Larry Page and Sergey Brin. And Biz Stone. And Mark Zuckerberg.
Actually, Mark Zuckerberg probably won't be there. He's so "pre-T."
The omens so far:
1. My Zeitgeist Stage check
2. I Burned My Face
3. A Book
4. I'm on National Television!
5. I'm an inspiration to the young!
6. Prophecy!
7.The T Pays Off
8. ??
9. ??
10. ??
11. ??
12. ??
13. probably a giant check
Tuesday, July 5, 2011
An Open Apology to My Fellow Mature Theatergoers
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Monday, July 4, 2011
Dear Chicago:
Dear Chicago:
What can I say? I'm overwhelmed. You've made my first full day here as a resident a spectacular event, something I will not soon forget. I expected a marvelous reception, but I didn't expect this.
All day, people have been celebrating my arrival in the streets. And they're everywhere. It's as if the whole city took the day off from work in my honor. One woman wished me a "happy fourth" as I came out of the grocery store. How she knew that this is the fourth city in which I have chosen to reside, I do not know. But I imagine she also had something to do with the coordinated fireworks all over this place that are still raging as I write this sentence.
Chicago, it's too much. Really, it's too much. You found me on the beautiful moonlit beach, and your people exploded things in my honor. You found me in the park, and your people exploded things in my honor. Even as I walked down the streets, people were throwing firecrackers at my feet.
You sent a rock star and a poet to entertain me and drive me from place to place. You sent me a roommate to sing to me while he showered. You sent a con artist to try to swindle me on a bench.
It's. Just. Too. Much.
Keep it coming.
Dear Boston:
You've made a valiant effort by sending your people to embrace my work, but you're too late. Chicago has embraced me harder.
Dear the rest of you cities in the world:
Get cracking! It's me time!
Dear Chicago:
I just wanted to write you one more time. I think you're cute. See you in the morning, and goodnight. Kisses!
What can I say? I'm overwhelmed. You've made my first full day here as a resident a spectacular event, something I will not soon forget. I expected a marvelous reception, but I didn't expect this.
All day, people have been celebrating my arrival in the streets. And they're everywhere. It's as if the whole city took the day off from work in my honor. One woman wished me a "happy fourth" as I came out of the grocery store. How she knew that this is the fourth city in which I have chosen to reside, I do not know. But I imagine she also had something to do with the coordinated fireworks all over this place that are still raging as I write this sentence.
Chicago, it's too much. Really, it's too much. You found me on the beautiful moonlit beach, and your people exploded things in my honor. You found me in the park, and your people exploded things in my honor. Even as I walked down the streets, people were throwing firecrackers at my feet.
You sent a rock star and a poet to entertain me and drive me from place to place. You sent me a roommate to sing to me while he showered. You sent a con artist to try to swindle me on a bench.
It's. Just. Too. Much.
Keep it coming.
Dear Boston:
You've made a valiant effort by sending your people to embrace my work, but you're too late. Chicago has embraced me harder.
Dear the rest of you cities in the world:
Get cracking! It's me time!
Dear Chicago:
I just wanted to write you one more time. I think you're cute. See you in the morning, and goodnight. Kisses!
Thursday, June 30, 2011
I Am (f)amous Now
In case the title of this post threw you, and you are fretting for the future of this blog, don't worry. Fame doesn't happen overnight. Scientifically speaking, it happens in thirteen steps, and I've only uncovered six of them. I purposefully used the "little f" famous instead of the "big F" Famous in the title of this post, because I have not yet reached my goal of worldwide notoriety. I have, however, conquered one city.
The wonderful thing about being a writer (/actor) is that you can do it from afar. You don't have to mingle with pretentious directors and foul-smelling actors. (Don't get me started on technicians.) You just type words into computers and people say them on a stage. It's a wonderful non-living.
That being the case, as I lounge in Southern California, my words, two dozen highly talented and underappreciated artists, and the press corps are doing my work for me. Check it out:
The Boston Herald
The Boston Phoenix
The Boston Metro
Boston.com / The Boston Globe
The show was also mentioned on WBUR and on Fox 25 today. Those channels haven't entered the inter-age at the appropriate pace, so I can't provide a link.
What am I to do with this newfound (little f) fame? The answer is simple: exploit it at all costs!
There must be some way that, after staying completely uninvolved for months, I can sweep in at the last minute and steal the spotlight from dozens of people who have worked harder than I have to make me look good, thereby turning (f)ame into (F)ame! Right? (Please, no one in the show read this.)
I have a few ideas.
1) I could catch a last-minute flight back to Boston, then leap on stage at the very end of the show, juggle bowling balls with my buttocks, and bow.
Except that it's already almost 7:00 in Boston. I'll never make it, and my time machine is broken.
2) I could skype my way in and introduce myself to roves of applauding fans and potential "like"-ers.
Except that those rascals who are actually performing the show will do everything they can to thwart my stealing their spotlight, so they probably won't want to help me out by setting up a laptop on their end.
3) I could start internet rumors that I'm not actually in Southern California, and that I'm going to be playing the role of Charlie tonight.
Which I just did.
4) I could hire a pilot to fly by with a banner reminding everyone just who half-wrote this show and who is therefore solely responsible for everything funny, poignant, or sexy that happens in it.
Except that I am not yet Famous.
5) I could miss the boat on being in Boston today and settle for turning (f)ame to (F)ame the long way.
This idea is the most ridiculous of the five ideas, but I'm going to have to give it a shot. After all, I'm sure there's some precedent for a years-long process that began in Boston (perhaps with "giving it a shot") and spread through the world. Maybe something involving T?
It's not worth trying to think of one right now. I have a time machine to repair.
The wonderful thing about being a writer (/actor) is that you can do it from afar. You don't have to mingle with pretentious directors and foul-smelling actors. (Don't get me started on technicians.) You just type words into computers and people say them on a stage. It's a wonderful non-living.
That being the case, as I lounge in Southern California, my words, two dozen highly talented and underappreciated artists, and the press corps are doing my work for me. Check it out:
The Boston Herald
The Boston Phoenix
The Boston Metro
Boston.com / The Boston Globe
The show was also mentioned on WBUR and on Fox 25 today. Those channels haven't entered the inter-age at the appropriate pace, so I can't provide a link.
What am I to do with this newfound (little f) fame? The answer is simple: exploit it at all costs!
There must be some way that, after staying completely uninvolved for months, I can sweep in at the last minute and steal the spotlight from dozens of people who have worked harder than I have to make me look good, thereby turning (f)ame into (F)ame! Right? (Please, no one in the show read this.)
I have a few ideas.
1) I could catch a last-minute flight back to Boston, then leap on stage at the very end of the show, juggle bowling balls with my buttocks, and bow.
Except that it's already almost 7:00 in Boston. I'll never make it, and my time machine is broken.
2) I could skype my way in and introduce myself to roves of applauding fans and potential "like"-ers.
Except that those rascals who are actually performing the show will do everything they can to thwart my stealing their spotlight, so they probably won't want to help me out by setting up a laptop on their end.
3) I could start internet rumors that I'm not actually in Southern California, and that I'm going to be playing the role of Charlie tonight.
Which I just did.
4) I could hire a pilot to fly by with a banner reminding everyone just who half-wrote this show and who is therefore solely responsible for everything funny, poignant, or sexy that happens in it.
Except that I am not yet Famous.
5) I could miss the boat on being in Boston today and settle for turning (f)ame to (F)ame the long way.
This idea is the most ridiculous of the five ideas, but I'm going to have to give it a shot. After all, I'm sure there's some precedent for a years-long process that began in Boston (perhaps with "giving it a shot") and spread through the world. Maybe something involving T?
It's not worth trying to think of one right now. I have a time machine to repair.
. . .
*Ring*
. . .
*Ring*
. . .
*Ring*
. . .
*Ring*
. . .
Me: Hello?
. . .
The Internet: Hello?
Me: Hello?
The Internet: Uh, hi.
Me: What's wrong?
The Internet: I didn't expect you to answer.
Me: . . .
The Internet: Hello?
Me: Sorry. The oven was on. Why didn't you expect me to answer?
The Internet: . . . Well . . . it's been a while.
Me: Oh. That. Yeah, well, I took June off.
The Internet: Off?
Me: Yeah. You know, I went on a trip. All the way across the country.
The Internet: Did you.
Me: Yes. Well, it's a long story, but I really don't live anywhere now. I mean, I have a residence in Chicago, but my roommate there will tell you, it's basically a mailing address. I'm in California.
The Internet: California? Wow. Then I guess it's okay to call you this late at night.
Me: If you need to, yes. But it’s not that late here.
The Internet: Right. Time zones.
Me: Right.
. . .
The Internet: . . . well . . .
Me: What?
The Internet: So, I've been checking your blog every day, and I pretty much gave up because . . . well . . .
Me: Stop saying “well” and just say what's on your mind.
The Internet: I hate you. I hate you because I love you. That is, I hate you because I need your e-followers busily scooting along on my e-highways, and for more than a month, you’ve given them nothing. Nothing! I'm so angry I could curl up and die. Where have you been! You can't just go away and take a trip! YOU HAVE NO PERSONAL LIFE! YOUR ROLE IS TO SERVE ME!
. . .
Me: . . .
. . .
The Internet: Hello?
. . .
Me: Sorry, the oven was off. Hey, look, I think this will all make sense to you one day, but if it makes you feel a little better for now, the trip across the country was for a book.
The Internet: A book? What the hell is that?
Me: It's what we had before blogs.
The Internet: Oh.
Me: You have to pay for them. Or else borrow them from your library.
The Internet: Libra-what?
Me: It's not important. What matters is that all of this silence had a purpose. I went without social media for a month, and also without box stores, gasoline, bottled water, name brands, food chains, and major highways. I accidentally went without a cell phone.
The Internet: Why would you do all of that to yourself?
Me: I was as happy as I’ve ever been in my life.
. . .
The Internet: . . .
. . .
Me: Hello?
. . .
The Internet: Sorry. I was growing by .01%.
. . .
Me: Look, if you miss me that much, and you can’t wait for the new book to get written, you should go see T: An MBTA Musical, which opens at ImprovBoston in less than 24 hours. How’s that for instant gratification?
The Internet: We’ll see. It doesn’t sound instant enough for me.
Me: Well, if you don't get tickets now, you might not get tickets at all. So maybe it’s time to live up to your reputation and get on the working end of fast.
. . .
The Internet: I have to go.
Me: Me, too.
*Click*
. . .
. . .
. . .
. . .
. . .
*Ring*
. . .
*Ring*
. . .
Me: Hello?
. . .
The Internet: I just called to say “Welcome back.”
Me: Thanks.
The Internet: I missed you.
Me: Eh, you’re everywhere. Thanks for being everywhere.
The Internet: No problem.
Me: Next time, don’t call. Email.
The Internet: That’s what I do.
. . .
*Ring*
. . .
*Ring*
. . .
*Ring*
. . .
Me: Hello?
. . .
The Internet: Hello?
Me: Hello?
The Internet: Uh, hi.
Me: What's wrong?
The Internet: I didn't expect you to answer.
Me: . . .
The Internet: Hello?
Me: Sorry. The oven was on. Why didn't you expect me to answer?
The Internet: . . . Well . . . it's been a while.
Me: Oh. That. Yeah, well, I took June off.
The Internet: Off?
Me: Yeah. You know, I went on a trip. All the way across the country.
The Internet: Did you.
Me: Yes. Well, it's a long story, but I really don't live anywhere now. I mean, I have a residence in Chicago, but my roommate there will tell you, it's basically a mailing address. I'm in California.
The Internet: California? Wow. Then I guess it's okay to call you this late at night.
Me: If you need to, yes. But it’s not that late here.
The Internet: Right. Time zones.
Me: Right.
. . .
The Internet: . . . well . . .
Me: What?
The Internet: So, I've been checking your blog every day, and I pretty much gave up because . . . well . . .
Me: Stop saying “well” and just say what's on your mind.
The Internet: I hate you. I hate you because I love you. That is, I hate you because I need your e-followers busily scooting along on my e-highways, and for more than a month, you’ve given them nothing. Nothing! I'm so angry I could curl up and die. Where have you been! You can't just go away and take a trip! YOU HAVE NO PERSONAL LIFE! YOUR ROLE IS TO SERVE ME!
. . .
Me: . . .
. . .
The Internet: Hello?
. . .
Me: Sorry, the oven was off. Hey, look, I think this will all make sense to you one day, but if it makes you feel a little better for now, the trip across the country was for a book.
The Internet: A book? What the hell is that?
Me: It's what we had before blogs.
The Internet: Oh.
Me: You have to pay for them. Or else borrow them from your library.
The Internet: Libra-what?
Me: It's not important. What matters is that all of this silence had a purpose. I went without social media for a month, and also without box stores, gasoline, bottled water, name brands, food chains, and major highways. I accidentally went without a cell phone.
The Internet: Why would you do all of that to yourself?
Me: I was as happy as I’ve ever been in my life.
. . .
The Internet: . . .
. . .
Me: Hello?
. . .
The Internet: Sorry. I was growing by .01%.
. . .
Me: Look, if you miss me that much, and you can’t wait for the new book to get written, you should go see T: An MBTA Musical, which opens at ImprovBoston in less than 24 hours. How’s that for instant gratification?
The Internet: We’ll see. It doesn’t sound instant enough for me.
Me: Well, if you don't get tickets now, you might not get tickets at all. So maybe it’s time to live up to your reputation and get on the working end of fast.
. . .
The Internet: I have to go.
Me: Me, too.
*Click*
. . .
. . .
. . .
. . .
. . .
*Ring*
. . .
*Ring*
. . .
Me: Hello?
. . .
The Internet: I just called to say “Welcome back.”
Me: Thanks.
The Internet: I missed you.
Me: Eh, you’re everywhere. Thanks for being everywhere.
The Internet: No problem.
Me: Next time, don’t call. Email.
The Internet: That’s what I do.
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