I’m sick and every inch of me hurts.
But…I haven’t really updated in a while. My room is still a work in progress (sorting through years of stuff that piled in here when Nick and I went to college…so that I can make room for stuff now). But…there are now even more strange light sources (so I don’t have to rely on harsh, conventional illumination) than I had in Springfield…not to mention a mist spitting gargoyle.
A second exotic pet is on the way…Lenore will just have to understand.
I went to the overpriced Q101 party in the downtown Chicago Hyatt. It had a few lavish touches, yes, but no imagination and not enough fun. It pretty much took the worst aspects of going to a club and magnified them with money. Live and learn. One problem is that people didn’t really mingle and pretty much kept to their groups…and I had only come with my bro and his friend. At least we got to drink a lot and, having a room, didn’t have to drive.
When the ball dropped…I caught air.
My luck improved after midnight, when my hat and pin caught a few comments, and earned me a few dances.
Every black guy that I interacted with (the ones working at the party anyway) made a similar comment (hat check guy, bartender, and others) that I either looked like I should have a sax in my hands, looked like I belonged in a jazz band, looked like I had soul, or…well…I didn’t quite understand the last one…but it seemed to be some amalgam of the other three. After that, they all said, “But I bet you hear that a lot.”
And…well…I’m really aching so I think I’m going to quit and collapse.
But…all you artist/actor types reading this (particularly the ones I’ve worked with in the past) remind me to talk about something I don’t feel well enough to talk about now…a proposition of sorts…no…more like an idea.
Now I’m too sick and need to rest.
Or maybe I concocted this sickness to build suspense.
Or maybe I’m sick and a showman.
Say goodnight Josh.