“Actors have short attention spans.”

This was an observation related to me by the son of the producer of my last show.

Hello! Over here! Still typing!

Good. Now that I still have your attention, may I comment on this observation? No? Hello? Hello?! Please stop playing with your phone. Is the text message that urgent? Oh, it’s from your friend. I see. Go ahead. I’ll wait.

…

Done? Good. Anyway, continuing on where I left… no, put the remote down. Yes, I realize my TV system is cool. I built it. It required focus and determination. And attention. Oh, I’m sorry, was I being sarcastic? … Oh, ok. I’m sorry. No, I really am.

Speak not of Sultry Spring lest Father Frost return, his icy fingers outstretched, blanketing us once more in his crystalliferous call.

It’s snowing. In Denver. Right now.

A lot has happened since my last post. Nothing momentous, just the tedium of an everyday life. I’ve been in two shows, I Hate Hamlet and I’m writing this before the second weekend of Thoroughly Modern Millie.

But I do not write this blog for a regular update. I’m sad. I’m depressed. I’m angry at the Universe. Or whatever name I choose to call my situational fate. Call it situational depression, if you will. I get down when I think of what I have not. Yes, I try to count my blessings: I have food, shelter, and quite importantly my health. But survival is not enough. It is not enough to simply live on this planet, to breathe and to eat and to deficate and to use up resources and contribute to global warming and then to die. I need more. I need to be needed.

http://icasualties.org/oif/

I thought that being busier would make me feel less lonely.

It hasn’t.

Just because you think you’re sane doesn’t mean everybody else is.

Also, remind me to publish a blog ranting about stupid sappy love songs. Been there, done that. No thanks. What got me off on this kick is the Millie auditions and listening to those stupid sappy love songs that all the characters sing. I mean, come on, people! Get a grip! What would popular entertainment be without playing on the adolescent hormonal thing we think is love but is really lust? Oh yeah, that’s right: better.

Call me jaded. That’s only because I’m a romantic. Or at least was. Until I hear all these folks singing about their happy endings. Yeah right. Show me.