This is the last morning for the next eight days that I can do this, my morning routine. Wake up next to Nan, the Fat Bunny curled at the foot of the bed, stagger to the kitchen, make the coffee, smoke a cigarette in the stairwell, turn on the old laptop, check the email and the Times, type something up for the blog. We're on the whirlwind tour starting this afternoon, three cities on two continents in eight days. Philly tonight, off to Edinburgh tomorrow, home briefly late Tuesday and Chicago on Thursday. Technically home on Wednesday, but we'll be all jet-lagged and weird.
Checking the paper today, Bobby Fischer dead. One of the last rebels. Up there check-mating God, let's hope. Also, more Cheney craziness. The guy's like Stalin, sometimes.
Want to take the time to publicly name, thank and praise the actors we didn't cast for the Overlord workshop. Nancy and I truly had such a good time seeing and working with these people on Wednesday. Anyone looking for some attractive young talent in this city, you could do a lot worse than:
Emily Loeb, Amanda Sayles, Jessica Chandlee Smith, Kate Fabel and Jenny Zerke.
And Brandon Woolcot, Matt Schock, Kyle Fabel, Scott Price and Patrick Taylor.
Some seriously good actors, those.
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6 comments:
thanks, man.
best of luck on your trip. if you start to feel reality slipping away, just hold on to some of those real precious thoughts... the ones that make waking up what waking up should be. thoughts like hey - dick cheney shot a guy. in the face. and he's not in contention for the presidency. thoughts like hey - if i'm within a 100-mile radius of her, lindsay lohan might vehicularly manslaughter me. but if she does, the judicial authorities in the great state of california will make her touch a dead body. thoughts like hey - the stock market might look a little like a penny dropped off the observation deck on the empire state building, but at least the federal reserve chairman has a funny name.
and thoughts like hey - the sun is shining, the water's flowing, my coffee's hot and my paper's crisp, and dammit, i'm not doing half bad for a guy with a goal or two. fly safe, major tom.
Dude, you have to start your own blog. Or just keep free-riding on mine, actually.
This is Schock, yes? Am I spelling that right?
Packing for Philly, the great adventure begins.
one of these days. in the meantime, as long as you're okay with an occasional passenger, i'll just keep doing this.
spelled like a scripps national scholar, sir. and yes, it is me... or in a world where it's possible, it's another guy with some kind of existing identity-based schizophrenia. - i guarantee you asimov wrote half a book about something like that and then trashed it. LOGIC NIGHTMARE.
Hurting my head, man. Home for two hours or so between Philly and Edinburgh. Unpacking one bag, loving the cat, packing another. Philly rocked. Why do I even bother going to plays anymore when dance is such better theater?
well... why do people go see the philadephia philharmonic instead of cirque du soleil? because the thing that's better theater isn't always the better thing.
Hmmm...
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