I love sleep. I love sleep so much I want to marry it. I want sleep and me to be together forever.
But sleep toys with me because sleep is a godless whore that only exists to hurt people.
I feel like I want to track down everyone who is sleeping and shake them. And tell them it's not worth it. Because soon enough you're going to be awake. And alone.
Please stop showing that commercial with the creepy digitally animated Paul McCartney. Thank you.
It's been a few consecutive weekdays in which I haven't posted anything, but four straight days does in fact constitute "a while" according to me.
So, my original hook for this blog was to write about my production of Lysistrata 3000 and also my small involvement in what was then a relatively obscure phenomenon, Barack Obama. He's running for president now and I've always thought, and continue to think, that it's too soon. The media's trying to destroy him now, which is how it always goes, they build you up to knock you down.
Right now, it looks like Hillary Clinton will win the nomination and then go on to heroically lead the Democratic Party to its accustomed glorious defeat, especially if that twerp Michael Bloomberg spends a few billion dollars handing it to the GOP.
Still, if I could do anything right now, other than put up my current play, I'd follow the Obama presidential campaign around the country and write a book about it. Anyone who wants to give me the fifty thousand dollars or so it would take to fund such a venture, and reap the whirlwind of riches to come is advised to email me.
I am patiently waiting.
I am not broken. In my dream I win...
Dogs and cats don't live long enough.
They really deserve to.
I promised to write something every weekday for a while and this surely qualifies as something no?
I scored some free raisins from Whole Foods today. I'm like a pirate.
Maybe I was only half serious about returning to blogging. The truth is, if anything was going to get me back into it, it was the death of one Kurt Vonnegut Jr. a couple of months back. Much ink was spilled at the time, by better writers than me, and it was kind of sad to realize I didn't have much too add.
My father gave me a copy of his novel Hocus Pocus for Christmas when I was just about thirteen. He figured I would like it. I did. From then on, it was pretty much love.
I knew he was near the end of his physical life, and ready for that end, as he himself had been saying for years, but when I read it on yahoo news it hit me like a punch in the gut.
"Oh, Jesus..." I said, invoking the name of a man whose ideals Vonnegut greatly admired but whose godhood he did not believe in. That's a standard construction for us humanist types, like Kurt and I, and well, most blue state Americans, we say we like Jesus but we don't acknowledge his godhood. Which is an odd thing to have to note really, you know? Because really that's how we feel about most people that we like. I mean I admire my friend Eamon but I don't acknowledge his godhood. On most days.
My mate Marc and I poured a chocolate milkshake out on the hallowed ground outside what was once the Evanston Barnes and Noble where he and I had our first (of many) conversations about Vonnegut. I don't know if Vonnegut liked milkshakes, but Marc and I do.
The casual fans say so it goes, the hardcore ones* say:
Kurt Vonnegut is up in Heaven now.
*Hardcore fans of anything are a granfalloon...
Well, this is probably the longest hiatus I've taken from blogging since I started doing it. There has been enough roaring demand from the masses that I've finally been able to bring myself to resume.
The reasons for my absence: other writing projects, stress over not having a permanent job, which I finally do have, for the first time in over a year, and a general sense of blogging ennui that seems to affect everyone practicing the art form at some point. I think I actually saw an article in Chicago's always incisive Red Eye newspaper that asked the question "Is blogging dead?" Like most questions posed by the print media in regards to the Internet since it's inception, the appropriate answer is "That's a stupid question." but there is something to it.
I think every form of writing requires certain muscles that need to be exersised. And exercise is painful and unpleasant for everyone. It just is. Blogging has its particular demands, just as playwrighting or essay writing or grocery list writing does. Right now, by writing, I am exercising. It is painful and I want to stop.
So I will. However, I'm now promising to write something every weekday for...a while.