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.

- - -

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 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.

- - -

Happy Birthday, Denise. Wherever you are.

Popular posts from this blog

Peekaboo?

-
Last night, over the phone, Cindi told me that her Coke was looking at her.    I didn’t ask how an aluminum can might’ve sprouted an eyeball. Instead, like any protective beau, I threatened it. “Quit looking at my girlfriend!” I shouted. “She’s waaaay outta your league! And besides, you don’t exist to… to ogle your consumer! You have one job: Contain!”   The can offered neither appeal nor apology.    So, through clenched teeth, I issued this warning: “Keep it up, buster, and I’ll crush you flat under my shoe!”    In sooth,   I said none of that.   What I actually said was,   “What?”   Cindi told me to “never mind.” But I pressed her and, finally, she disclosed what I thought I heard her say. Was the eyeball, I asked, giving her an inquisitive look? The famed " evil " or " stink " eye, perhaps? Might it be a look of surprise? Or fear? No, she told me. It was merely looking at her, with no particular look.  “Ah. Well. Good !” I said. “Gives me something to jot down
Read more

Potted

-
Where I live, there’s this plant. It’s inside the house. It looks more like a small tree than your garden-variety house plant. But instead of a tree, I’m calling it a plant. Because it’s potted. And it doesn’t really have branches. So it’s more of a tree-wannabe. It “looks” out the window all day long at all the tall trees out there. And it’s envious. Or is it grateful? Whichever, this much is clear: The flora on the flip side of that window has yard-cred. And we all want cred of some kind, don’t we? ‘Cause if we’re not cred, we’re crud.  But this tree-wannabe’s always been right there, where it is, all of my life. Right there, in that pot, in that room. “The library,” Pop calls it. It’s got two shelves of books, so I guess it qualifies. Said tree-wannabe hasn’t gotten any taller; hasn’t gotten any shorter, either. Nobody ever mentions it. Pop walks into the “library” only when he’s looking for a stamp or a paperclip. He’s a paper reader. Newspapers and magazines. Books are too much of
Read more

Use The Hole

-
Nearly everywhere coffee is served in this country you’ll find what we, at Chicago Coffee Cadre #7, call a “mixing station.” I.e., a stand where a patron finds plasticware, wooden stirring rods, a variety of sweetener packets, and creamer carafes. Additionally, our mixing stations (we have two) each feature a hole, six inches in diameter. Said hole exists as the opening above a hidden receptacle. Said receptacle awaits the rubbish that results from the addition of whatever you put into your coffee.  [If this is, indeed, you, have you ever considered just how many white / brown / pink / green / yellow / powder blue paper packets of sweetener you’ve ripped open and discarded in your lifetime? What if you had to keep all of those packets with you for the rest of your days? How on Earth would you ever get by if all idiotic “single-use” things—like sweetener packets and mixing rods—were outlawed?]  Most patrons of CCC #7 understand and appreciate the function of the hole in our respective
Read more