July 7 - Neanderthal Humidity

Couldn't sleep.

We wet bed.

Humid.

Too hot to fuck.

Too fuck.

No A/C.

5am.

Shitty trucks.

Now?

Gave up.

Jogged.

Grogged.

Ran from heat.

Drove!

No A/C.

Red left arm.

Red left knee.

Red left neck.

Cranky by noon.

Crazy by two.

Poor Lauren.

Blisters on arms.

On couch.

Wilted.

Defeated conversations.

On floor.

Braindead.

Water again.

Escape to rehearsal.

A/C!

Beatles good.

After.

Reid, Chris, Mick, Jen, Jean, Brian, I.

Green Mill.

Sextet!

Fiddlers dueled.

Diddlers fueled.

(I got drunk).

Rode home in rain.

Beautiful cocksucking rain.

Moist, moist rain gave me pro blowjob.

Thanked religion for sacred mother-fucking gift.

Ugh.

Why still worthlessly hot in apartment?

Verdict: Loss

July 6 - Beatlemagica Meets

In March, I fell into yet another Beatles k-hole.

During this one, I got the idea to create a comedy show about a Beatles tribute band.

Today was the first rehearsal for what is being called Beatlemagica.

Beatlemagica is about four factory workers from a small town in Iowa, and they have problems.

They decide to form a Beatles tribute band to lift their spirits.

But no one in the band knows how to play a musical instrument.

Despite this, they achieve minor local success at a battle of Beatles tribute bands.

And then there's a twist!

You'll have to see to believe it!!

The show will have two performances: July 28 and August 4 at The Annoyance.

It will be twenty minutes long.

A little about the cast:

Ben Kobold was in the Annoyance class I taught last summer. He will play the guy that pretends to be John Lennon.

David Blum was in the class I taught last autumn. He will play the guy that pretends to be Paul McCartney.

Carly Mandel and Stephanie Jones are two kooks that were in my spring term. They will play women who pretend to be Ringo Starr and George Harrison respectively.

Erik Johnson was also in that class. Erik will play a factory worker.

Reid Coker and I just spent a month together in Europe with The Bitter Tears. He will play the factory boss, and a few other characters.

I am directing it.

We are creating it using improvisation, working with beats from a plot outline.

First rehearsals are like first days of a new class.

Everyone's a little shy and feels a little stupid acting ridiculous in front of each other (except Carly and Stephanie).

It's necessary to feel this and get it over with.

So we just improvised straight scenes, followed by scenes with the show characters.

We were in silos and at Casey's and around other famous Iowa locales.

I mixed and matched them in pairs.

The John guy with the Paul guy.

The Ringo lady with the boss.

A factory worker with the George chick.

Originally, Stephanie ("George") was cast as the factory kitty cat.

It looked good on paper: a Beatles tribute band with a cat disinterestedly pawing at a sitar.

But after a few scenes with Stephanie crawling around and not being able to say much, I thought her talents could probably be put to better use.

So now she's a dyke-tongued Boston transplanted "mutha".

This will be a smart-stupid, silly, dark show about the Fab Four.

Verdict: Win

July 5 - Flintstone Asshole

I decided to treat myself to a cheering up.

The silly bleakness I'd expressed on this blooog had some friends concerned.

Over on the internet, episodes of The Flintstones are available for casual viewing.

I grew up on The Flintstones.

I spent most of my childhood indoors in front of a television.

Between 1st and 3rd grade I never saw my friends during the summer.

I remained inside the apartment, curtains drawn, lying down on the living room floor with the air conditioning unit turned up loud and high.

Since both of my parents worked, I didn't have to.

So I lazed about in my Underoos with the WFLD Channel 32 programming schedule branded onto my frontal lobe.

I loved it.

I had my own apartment.

Every day was Home Alone.

My parents did attempt some sort of adult supervision.

They paid the Indian lady across the hall to periodically check up on me.

One late afternoon in 1981 I was engrossed in an episode of The Flintstones when the front door creaked open.

The lady across the hall poked her head in.

It was not during a commercial break.

"What do you want?"

Wow.

Even at six I could be a complete asshole.

I wonder where I got it from.

Then I watched the "Hot Lips Hannigan" episode of The Flintstones.

Fred Flintstone is an asshole.

He has no sense of humor, treats his friends like shit, and has a horrible relationship with his wife.

In the first three minutes, an angry Fred berated Barney Rubble for being a "no talent", and closed the scene by saying, "I don't know why I stay friends with that guy."

At home, his off key bellow shattered four mugs, the television screen, and a pitcher Wilma was holding.

Pissed off on a hammock, he mused "Ah, women. No musical appreciation at all."

Then he forced Barney to lend him his trampoline.

Back at home he continued to destroy household items. This time, his magic tablecloth trick failed and the Flintstones lost an entire set of China.

Soon after, Fred made Wilma and Betty Rubble vanish in a disappearing cabinet.

Delighted, he and Barney went scatting off to a jazz club, leaving the girls trapped in the unknown.

This pissed off the girls, who were hiding in another room.

So they dressed up like beatniks to catch them red-handed and "hospitalize" them.

Fred reconnected with his old pal Hot Lips Hooligan at the Rockland Dancehall.

Barney, confused about Fred's retirement from music, asked him what happened.

"Wilma happened."

Sitting in with Hot Lips Hannigan, Freddie "The Golden Smog" Flintstone sang "When The Saints Go Marching In".

He sang with the bravado of a drunk blowhard at a wedding who thinks he's Sinatra.

It went on a little too long, "man."

After the set, Hot Lips tried to flirt with Wilma and Betty.

"Scoodle-eee wah wah wah," he slithered, and held out his hand. "Con-tact!"

Wilma immediately cracked him in the head with her prehistoric purse.

"There's some contact for ya, you old goatface!"

Somehow they all went home and kind of worked it out, although they left a lot unresolved.

The men never told the women about the jazz club.

The women never told the men about the disguises.

But Wilma did spook Fred into a coma, which lasted for a whole day it seems.

"Wilma. I'm hungry. Why don't make me something?"

How did she live with this man?

To be fair, over the course of the day Wilma did throw a flowerpot into Fred's mouth and smashed the egg he was holding.

Also, she repeatedly bludgeoned him with a frying pan she had brought to the dressmaker.

But I loved The Flintstones.

No wonder I'm such an asshole.

Verdict: Win

July 4 - What Are You Up To? Bits!

Susan's barbeque.

She does it every year.

It's made up mostly of improv folks.

Improv people do things called bits.

They're like conversations, but they aren't.

Often they start as real conversations, but get rerouted into comedic one-upmanship.

This is because comedians are insecure and afraid of their own emotions.

So they overcompensate with silliness in the form of meaninglessness.

Sometimes a bit can go something like this:

2: Did you ride your bike here?

1: Actually, I rode my dog here.

2: Oh, was that you I saw on a golden doodle?

1: Yeah, that's why I'm wearing this kerchief.

(1 points to a kerchief around his neck that is not actually there)

2: I have a kerchief for my penis when I engage in sexual activity.

1: Me, too. Mine is the color azure.

2: Mine folds out to become a backgammon board.

1: So when you play backgammon on your penis kerchief, how do you know what's a backgammon piece and what's a piece of dried cum?

5: And scene!

If you're in the mood and with the right people, these weird anti-conversations can be fun.

But often times you get burned out on bits, and end up going through the motions of doing air comedy, not wanting to be the one that kills it.

And then you notice the sun isn't where it was a minute ago.

Luckily, there weren't too many bits at the party.

But there was a lot of "what are you up to?".

I guess that's at every party.

My friend Eric approached me on the backyard steps.

I tried to rephrase "what are you up to?" for the sake of variety.

"So what are.. In your life... Are things...-"

"Shut the fuck up!"

He said it straight and fast.

It didn't even sound like a bit.

"Fair enough," I surrendered.

An awkward pause took the spotlight and then Eric crouched down to my face.

"What were you going to say?"

"What are you up tooo?" I challenged with big eyes, not really wanting to know the answer.

He answered anyway, but I don't think he wanted to know the answer, either.

Then he crouched down to me again.

"What about yooo?" he aped.

God, what a terrible interaction we were having.

What's weird is that I like Eric. And Eric likes me. We like each other.

What's going on?

Maybe it's coming to the same old barbeque year after year and seeing the same people over and over again, and everything is still the same, and bits. But this person is now fucking this person, and this person moved to LA, and did you hear about this person, and bits, and...

And now what?

Now you're old.

So I met with Sad On Vacation and Annoyance friends and we watched fireworks on a rooftop. I like those people.

After Lauren got off work, we met for a drink and had a really good talk.

I see some focus coming into focus.

Slowly.

Verdict: Win

July 3 - Paper I'm Shitty

I thought I would be a wallflower at The Paper Machete, as I'm interested in being a part of this live weekly magazine.

Interest + Hanging Around = Possibility of Fulfillment

Nursing a beer along the wall of Ricochet's I spotted Steve from The Chicago Reader/ Chicago AV Club/Time Out Chicago. Years ago he interviewed me for 58, the show I wrote about bike messengering. Since then, I say hi to him socially, whether it's at The Annoyance or in line at Hot Doug's.

I said hey.

"Hey," he countered curtly.

Maybe being curt is his pre-show ritual.

Then Jesse from The Absolute Best Friggin' Time Of Your Life arrived, followed by Boaz, musical director for last year's Blago musical. They hauled a guitar, an upright bass, a bongo, and some hand percussion.

"Are you doing something here, too?" they asked individually, not in unison.

Next, Katie and Lindsay from Sirens arrived with a written piece hot off the press.

"Wow, I didn't even recognize you," observed Lindsay.

I guess I haven't been around the improv scene with my new grunge conquistador look.

"Are you doing something for the show?" Katie asked.

Cast members from Second City's e.t.c. stage added themselves to the dart-throwing area of the bar. Michael, an understudy that night, extended his hand for an introduction.

"Hi, I'm Michael - oh, hey Tony! I didn't recognize you. Wow...". And he laughed a bit.

Hm.

I wonder if Steve just didn't recognize me, and that's why he looked at me like I was a complete asshole for saying hello.

At the bar I tried a less expensive beer. Christina from e.t.c. asked if I would like to play the bongo on her songs with Jesse and Boaz.

It looked as if would be a part of The Paper Machete after all.

This week's edition was tight.

Abe from Baby Teeth wrung the butter out of his electric piano with humor.

Ali Weiss spat a biting ode to Mayor Daley ala "Casey at the Bat."

Steve's history of fireworks read well aloud, especially when punctuated with crisp handfuls of happy snappers.

Katie and Lindsay's piece on Brits 'n' squaws tickled us from Lake Wobegon.

I achieved more beer as the afternoon wore on.

John Paul Davis read a knockout about shades of the color white. It was both genuinely funny and actually moving. Fuck, man. If I want to be a part of this thing, I'm going to have to step it up.

More quality pieces were read, but pre-show jitters prevented them from penetrating my stagefright.

More beer helped calm my nerves.

I didn't know what we would be playing, but soon I found myself "onstage" with Christina, Jesse and Boaz, squeezing a bongo with my knees. We played two songs, one of them being Warrant's "Cherry Pie". The pie that Warrant made famous.

And then the show was over!

I drank enough cheap beer to think I could socialize.

Milling about, I praised my friends, introduced myself to the host and John Paul Davis, and reintroduced myself to Ali.

Christina thanked me for sitting in on the songs.

Christina is African American.

"That was our debut playing music together," she said.

I decided to disagree.

"Didn't we do a Bizco gig a few years ago?"

"You're thinking of Claudia or Amber."

Claudia and Amber are also African American women.

Christina, Claudia and Amber have all worked with Second City.

I decided to press the issue, because I like to think that I don't do ignorant things like lump all African American women at Second City together.

"What about the variety show with Eddie and Zulevic? Didn't I play drums on your song?"

"That was probably Naomi."

And humiliation.

Actually, I was thinking of a woman named Dionna. That's who I was thinking of.

Dionna is African American.

My stupid white face turned red.

My stupid red face turned back to white.

With terror.

I did my best to clean up the mess, but it felt like I drove a car into a 7-Eleven, and all I had was a Dustbuster.

Well.

Now what.

More beer.

Right?

From the bar, I saw Steve about to leave.

I turned my neck and got him in my sites.

"SteveIlikedyourpiece."

It was a wobbly, clumsy arrow, but it pierced him.

"Thanks."

He paused, trapped.

"I liked your..."

Oh no.

My what?

My lazy racism?

My thoughtless thinking?

My blatant disregard for self-editing?

"...drumming."

Back at home I tried to take down my Jimmy the Greek posters, but ended up blaring Kid Rock and passed out in my rebel flag doo rag.

Verdict: Loss

July 2 - It's Toasted

I missed a call last night around 11pm.

Dead asleep.

My friend Holli had left a voicemail offering me an early morning job.

By the time I heard the message, the opportunity had vanished.

It seems this new 6am jogging lifestyle is doing wonders for my mood swings and my finance management.

I delivered some law suit materials to a McDonald's on 95th Street.

Inspirational music filled the conditioned air.

Unfortunately I was not inspired.

Mostly stewing in self-hate continued again today.

The charred nugget that has been my brain lately has melted into bunsen burner sludge.

A half sunburnt mope leaking broiled drool in a hot yoga minivan.

Poor Lauren had to endure my silent, stubborn, self-absorbed sulkery.

All the way to the wedding.

She might as well have ridden the El with a statue of an unpopular shitty baby.

Oh yeah.

We were going to a wedding.

There were going to be other people at the wedding.

This would require interaction and civility.

I was going to have to become a human being again.

Oh no.

Our friends Hans and Josine were married this evening.

It was a loose, non-traditional ceremony.

Humor played a major role, but the integrity of the wedding was never compromised.

Love was expressed, and I found it very inspirational.

Congratulations, Hans and Josine.

The reception afterward was also a loose affair.

Josine is Dutch, and her brother's toast was a work of art.

He unfolded a large sheet of paper, larger than a road map, and spoke in random stabbings about life I think.

In his second sentence he referred to the bride as a "bitch".

This was met with great laughter.

He inverted his speech map a few more times like a Victor Borge gag, and rambled on pie-eyed for five minutes, a slammed poet.

The tables were filled with open mouths and stifled guffaws.

When he said he thought he ought to make a point of this, the room went wild.

He threw in a "fucking" and a "goddamn" and went out on baffled, mind-blown applause.

I will probably never a see a wedding toast like that one ever again.

Lauren and I caught up with improv folks, drank Grolsch and champagne, I had an awkward exchange with my ex-agent, and we danced.

Lauren and I that is.

I came home fathering a smile and some much needed fucking hope.

Thank you, Hans and Josine, and Lauren.

Verdict: Win

July 1 - The Give Up Game

My junior high math teacher, Mrs. Shuman, once told me in a thick but caring Chicago accent "you give up too easy."

She was right.

There's a lull in the action this week.

No shows, no readings, no rehearsals...

Nothing to distract me from the big dumb questions.

Here's how it usually goes:

I use these lulls to get dark, confused, and yellow.

Inside the van I brood about my direction.

It's incredibly boring to write about.

What am I doing?

Am I a musician?

Then I dizzy myself repeating the answer in a cyclone of self-doubt: You don't make a living at it.

Am I a writer?

Well, I pitched some ideas to the paper on Monday.

Haven't heard anything.

You don't make a living at it.

What about comedy?

What about it? You're not doing any of it.

I shouldn't define myself but what I do.

But it's what we do.

So I'm a driver.

The van's getting old now and needs more attention.

They wanted $360 at the mechanic this morning.

I could only afford $200.

Hmm.

It seems I'm failing at the profession that defines me.

NPR did a piece on summer jobs.

A parade of college educated professionals reminiscing about the shitty jobs they endured for a couple of months.

Jobs like the one that I still do and am.

Now the radio is mocking me.

For the rest of the afternoon my stupid brain marinated in sweat and self-loathing.

I stuffed it with tar and salt.

Maybe I should become a teacher.

But you dropped out of college after one semester.

Do you really have the energy to dedicate four full time years of education toward something that doesn't motivate you?

But I would have a steady income, health benefits, and summers off. I could write, travel, tour...

What do you want to teach anyway?

How to give up?

Nevermind, I don't want to teach.

Obviously.

Keep your eyes on the road.

I just googled Mrs. Shuman.

She passed away in 1998 after an 18-year battle with cancer.

She obviously never gave up.

That's a teacher.

Verdict: Loss