don't call it a comeback

As birds were beginning to chirp this morning, I was enjoying a rather intense sexual rendezvous when I was disrespectfully interrupted by my iPhone, imitating church bells, fullfilling its daily 5:45 a.m. duty of waking me from golden slumbers knowing I have no plan to clear the sheets a second before 7:15. No day should start out this disappointing before making a complete exit out of slumbersville. Naturally, I wished upon the dream fairies to teleport me back to the euphoric entaglement but instead found myself reunited with odd acquanitnances and long lost friends together as a group in my high school gymnasium for no particular event. Double wammie. Lost sex dream faced with memories of the dorks of my youth I fought so hard to forget.

It…it…it t’was…SOAP POISONING….!!!

taking a break, blog for 'ole times sake, clearing my thoughts, connecting the dots...

[eat your hearts out rapper wannabes....don't hate the magic]

I've got an idea...take a look at this devil...



Folks, I would like you to meet my roommate, and dear family friend, Jerry Oscar Seinfeld. Don’t be fooled, Jerry is not a full blooded canine of the Jack Russell Terrier family. Jerry's blood runs half rodent/half dinosaur. Clever kid that one - struggles with ambition. After his bout with Seasonal Affective Disorder the die hard started putting in 14 hour days at The Weekend Theatre working directly under Frits Milchowsky, Director of Events and Sr. Casting Exec. These days when Jerry comes home at night, correction if Jerry comes home at night, he demands a double scotch and water, hops on the couch where he inevitably passes out, and tests my sanity with ceaseless snoring. When he can't sleep at night Jerry escapes the demands of art by means of a phony myspace account posing as "Chino", a Vegas promotions manager at The Mandalay Bay Casino and Resort who was born and raised with his 2 brothers, 1 sister, and 1 half brother in a little town called Moapa Valley. Jerry doesn't think I notice the light shining through the door crack at 3 am but I do. Half the time I don’t know whether he’s coming or going. True story: two nights ago Jerry walked through the front door at 9 pm, puked on the hardwoods, then proceeded to clean up the brown concoction half single malt scotch whisky half dead bird with the tongue of his very own mouth. Jerry means well, he does. This is the first month Jerry has been able to make rent, on time and in full, and I am really trying to give the little guy a second chance. Having dabbled with depression last month I feel its necessary to keep the boat steady if ya know what I mean.

I promised Jerry a plug: If you are looking to get out this weekend please keep in mind The Weekend Theatre's rendition of "Sailor's Do Cry" debuts Saturday evening, curtain call at 8:15.