Moments To, At & From The Theatre

What’s great about sitting on the second level of a Union Pacific / North Line train is looking down at all the heavenly cleavage.

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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.”

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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.

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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 panhandler’s cup. But he was dozing off — or, at least, I HOPE he was dozing off. And, as he slowly bent over to rest his cheek upon his knee, the cup in his hand tilted in such a way that made it impossible for me to make a deposit. Really, did I not want to wake him? Or did I simply not want to part with my quarters?

I scribble all this, what’s above, down shortly after consuming a Subway Roasted Turkey Breast & Bacon Wrap washed down with a strawberry-melon Clearly Canadian sparkling water beverage. And I WANT to feel guilt. But I just feel full.

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Happy Birthday, Denise. Wherever you are.

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