Sooooooooo... I think I just realized today that I have a play opening tomorrow. Not sure how I forgot that. I guess I won't turn on the nerves until I get there, as that is my way. Once there, I hope to be seized by fright and slip nonchalantly underneath my seat and plug my ears. Call it my pre-game ritual, everybody's got one. Or, if they have free beverages, which I highly doubt, I hope to be four or five glasses of wine in before any of this happens, so I be both nervous and drunk.

If this sounds like I have no faith in the Unartistically Frustrated crew, then let me assauge your fears. Assauge, assauge, how's that? I go through this all the time, trust me. Until I actually here people start laughing, I can't even begin to relax. Perhaps that's why, for the most part, I tend to stick with comedies. I'd be an absolute mess if I had one of my few dramas produced.

Me: "Oh, sweet Jesus, NO ONE'S LAUGHING!"

Concerned citizen: "Dude. It's a drama."

Me: "Ah, yes. Thank you, concerned citizen."

Concerned citizen: "Idiot."

Me: "What?"

And so on... thanks again to concerned citizen for his input.

Just sort of wondering why there's a warning on top of my page for "Femenique Breast Enhancement Formula."

I'm a fuzzy pickle!

And... that's about it.

Sheesh. From whence comes such a drought? I am without thought pertaining to journeys towards self-expression. Or even self-indulgence, my absolute FAVORITE INDULGENCE! WHEEEEEE! SEE? THAT WAS JUST FOR MY ENJOYMENT! AND YET SO SHORT-LIVED!

I'd take up kite-flying if I wasn't so scared of moths.

(what?)

It's true. I am a man without miles of mirth to molest the masses with once again, even if my powers of alliteration are still up to speed. Oh, morbid moose. Oh, melacholy monkey. Oh, murky moo-moo. Oh... m. And m again.

Dinkel dabby doo-doo dinkel.

All right, lost it again.

I have no explanation for you as to why all of a sudden nothing seems to be worth writing. Maybe I'm in the incubating process and once I steer myself back on course, after hours of refelction and possibly finding some fancy drug to become addicted too, then I will create something... pretty. Until then, dear friends, I must wait for my film contract, my play to go up, Zoetrope to get back to me about my latest submission, in order to stroke the vanity that so becomes me, like a wide-brimmed hat or an oily moustache.

In the meantime, find time to boogie, embrace that which is far away, and eat bran. Lots of it. And don't enjoy Coke. No matter what they tell you.

PS: Melancholy has a "n" in it, in case you were interested in checking my spelling. I type fast, I'm not an idiot. Today.

The premiere of END CALIGULA will be an slightly edited version. In order to insure that we will not go over the ninety-minute time limit, I've had to shave off some stuff. And... no togas. THAT'S OKAY! NO PROBLEM! TOGAS ARE EXPENSIVE!

I've met with half the cast now, as they allowed me to be at a rehearsal. The two leads are phenoms. Just perfect for the kind of stuff I do. And Claudius actually bears resemblence to the Claudius that appeared in the original, and unfinished, film version of "I, Claudius," which one can only see if you have access to the "I, Claudius" box set. The energy is good, they are having a lot of fun in rehearsals, which is all I ever ask for. If the actors are enjoying themselves, then the audience is more able to experience the joy with them. There's nothing worse than seeing a bunch of performers not having fun with something they're involved in. I mean, look at what you're doing. You're on a stage, pretending to be someone else. You're returning to the joy you felt as a child, playing the hero or the villain. You're eight years old. Even when you say the big words and discuss the big ideas, you're just a kid. Let those other people be adults. And then wag your tongues at them vigorously.

Still going through writer's block, but have found a nice distraction, which I have no intention in revealing to you, as I still like to think of myself as "mysterious" or "enigmatic" or, the more oft used "retarded." I think for the moment, I'll just wait for the film contract, the performance of END CALIGULA, and see how I feel after that. And I think POMPEY was a good end note for the time being.

Suddenly NYC doesn't seem so bad.

SIGH. Not writing is booooooooring. Nothing's coming, nothing's getting to me, everything I come up with seems like I'm egging myself on to return to an unfinished project, which for whatever reason, I'm avoiding like Coca-Cola. I come home, I check my inboxes, and tool through done scripts as if trying to force myself into the creative arc once more. But it ain't happening. Thankfully I have a strange Florida connection who allows me to write expansive emails about nothing in particular, so I don't suddenly forget how to type. Peace unto you, little sister, and all your good tidings.

I will be flying to Germany in September to visit my parents and to visit a proper beerhall, the kind you really only get in Milwaukee. And The Keller Theatre has graciously (under duress) agreed to perform to of my shorter works, CHARLESTON'S FINGER and TRY NOT TO STEP ON THE ANTHROPOLOGIST. Oldies but goodies. Thanks once again to David Turner.