FireVaney's

What I said before? About acting rich? Hogwash. I “clean up” well enough, but if I open my mouth, forgetaboutit. In wealthy settings, as with middle class or impoverished settings, just about everything out of my mouth is mush. This is why I’m always better with a script. Everything I ever say to you is the roughest of drafts. Often, my revisions, while reflecting on our conversation(s) many hours or days later, are much more insightful and amusing. If only you could wait for me to get to the fourth or fifth draft of any given topic. Then, I’d show you some real social intercourse. Fortunately for me, you’ve settled for my mush. And I am eternally grateful. Still, I look sharp in a suit. Even though my preference is always for the 100% cotton-white tattered NYC T-shirt, and the 95% cotton, 5% spandex-black, holes-in-the-pockets-and-one-little-one-in-the-rear shorts you’ll usually find me wearing — should you ever surprise-visit me where I reside. This is my year-round at-home getup. A

The worst part about Thanksgiving the past five years? Putting on a suit. The only suit. The best part about Thanksgiving the past five years? Acting rich. I was born for the part.

Gonna get drunk, high, and deaf tonight. (Not necessarily in that order.)

What’s great about sitting on the second level of a Union Pacific / North Line train is looking down at all the heavenly cleavage. - - - On the way, I every-so-often tear my eyes from the view from above to glance at the Written By in my lap. Harlan Ellison tells the interviewer, “If you’re smart enough to know what the ending is, then the reader will be that smart.” - - - The set for Hughie promises too much. This is a smaller play. In this production (perhaps in every production, save for the one I directed in high school) the choice was made to keep all the Night Clerk’s inner-dialogue O’Neill wrote, inner. Dennehy kicked some dramatic ass, as usual. - - - Every time Metra is my means into Chicago, there’s always a homeless someone perched on a crate or a bucket at one end of the Madison Street bridge, right before (or after) you pass alongside the opera house. Tonight was no exception. On my way back from The Goodman, I dug two quarters out of my pocket to drop into the panhandle

Today, I surrender to the Golden Arches. Today, I start filling the space between my bellybutton and my button-flies. The irony? Tomorrow, I’ll pick up the newly took-in dress pants I let-out five years ago.

See, in my mind, I take the little itty-bitty things people do, or don’t do, and I draw Hindenburg-sized conclusions — which, very often, crash and burn upon closer examination of the facts (assuming I had any to begin with). Did I mention that Three’s Company is one of my all-time favorite shows? Perhaps it’s had a greater (negative) influence than I thought.

HEMPEL […] Writers like Raymond Carver, Barry Hannah, Mary Robison. These were the three who had the most effect on me, when I started. INTERVIEWER What about their work interested you? HEMPEL They didn’t sound like anyone else I had read. For me, they redefined what a story could be — the thing happening off to the side of a story other writers were telling; they would start where someone else would leave off, or stop where someone else would start. As Hannah said later in Boomerang , a lot of people have their overview, whereas he has his “underview,” scouting “under the bleachers, for what life has dropped.” — Excerpted from Paul Winner’s interview with Amy Hempel for the Paris Review. “…the thing happening off to the side of a story…” — that’s where you’ll find me. “…under the bleachers…” — it’s where I grew up.

As he walks by: “Excuse me?” she says. “ Waiter .” He stops. His head turns. The many creases in her brow staring him down; she says, “Yes, um. This salad doesn’t have enough character.” His mouth hangs open a brief moment before saying, “I’m not a waiter.” She nods once; says, “Mm-hm. Would you fetch me one?” He blinks at her once; says, “O… Okay.” And he turns and he walks back the way he came.

Looks like Mr. Wise wants to shoot me dead in Indianapolis (of all places) on Wednesday in front of a bunch of McDonald's employees. Wish me luck, I haven't played a death scene in quite sometime.

Fine. But the bumper sticker stays ON.

Pop’s wearing his silver dollar round “Proud To Vote” sticker with the words and its centered flag upside down. I didn’t ask, if on purpose. And, when handed my sticker, I made it a trend. Or, at least, an instant family tradition.

What I need, is a good drug habit. What I need, is to dive bomb into some serious debt. What I need, for example, is to trade in my Toyota for a Porsche. Or, maybe I will trash my excellent credit on the Balmoral or Sandringham Grand Duplex Apartments aboard the Queen Mary 2. Yes, a voyage to Europe. I’ve already got the fancy seventy-six page catalogue. And I’ve always told Dave, if I’m going transatlantic, I’m going by boat. And then, on the way back, because I’ll be flat broke, I’ll pitch myself into the sea — or something like that, but more original. Yes, my preference is for an original death. Preferably, original and painless. Really, more painless than original. But still somehow original. What I need, is to join the army. I’ve got no wife; no kid. Yes, keep the dads and husbands home. Leave home all the teenagers with potentially productive futures, too. Let all the freaks like me go fight the Iraqi insurgency. This is not about beliefs or politics. It’s about utility. I’m us