Typing this from deep inside the lap of luxury, holed up at the Embassy Suites in downtown Chicago. And when they say Suites, they get all literal on it. We slide the little key card thing into the slot, the door makes a bizarre whirring sound and we step into a suite. Living room, little hallway, bathroom to the right and a bedroom. Nancy informs me gleefully that there are three sinks in the place. I don't even care if the show is any good at this point, I'll be at the pool.
So thank you, Guy and Kristen and all the fine folks at A Red Orchid.
Hearing good things about the production. Apparently a blood pack went flying a few nights back, drenched a critic in the second row. I'm thinking:
"Blood pack? Really? All right."
My folks are flying up from St. Louis this afternoon to see the show, so we should have a great afternoon. We're old traveling companions, the four of us; been to the wilds of Australia and the finest restaurants in Buenos Aires and even stood at the foot of a glacier in Patagonia together. They know Chicago well, so they'll be our guides.
May try to hook up with my old buddy Greg Allen, he of the Neo-Futurists. Known Greg about twenty years and I've never seen his theater. That's what happens when you live in a bunker, I guess.
Times endorsed Clinton. Makes sense.
More later on the inanity of key cards, the hilarity and genius of Antonin Artaud and the tragic figure of Dr. Freeman, the Lobotomist. Right now, I'm jumping into that pool.