Here is a thing. 

I can't be with Ted every night this week. He's on his own, in his apartment. He usually prefers to be with my mom at night. He likes being independent, but in touch with others, like how a family usually rolls, as they wind down for the night. 

When the storm tonight was bad, I called him to check in. He was ok: he had power and cable and snacks, but he sounded a little scared and lonely. We talked about summer rain and barometric pressure. I assured him he would be fine, and I'd call him in an hour to check in. 

I posted on Facebook, an open thread, asking people to send him kind wishes, to help him get through the storm.

The storm of goodness that came through, boy, let me tell you. Big hearts bigger than the Grinch's in Whoville on Christmas Day. 

I called him at the requested check-in time, and told him what happened.

"Oh, good." 

I know that when his phone rings, it drives him crazy, so I don't want to call him again tonight. 

I am so lucky to have a front seat to goodness. 

I devoured this book in two nights.

That link might be showing the wrong cover picture.  Whatever. Jane Steele is an orphan's tale, rags to riches, sexy murderous poignant poetic socio-political mysterious Gothic fun. 

"...we are doers of deeds...and as such lose parts of our flesh along the way, and can only pray to meet friends and lovers who can help to stitch us back again, and that we can make them whole in turn." 

For a few years now, I've wanted to submit Traveling Light to this theatre company: 

LOOK how CUTE it is! Don't you just want to hug it?

It even has a pub!

Here's their script criteria:

We encourage script submissions on all subjects and themes, but we are particularly interested in:
• New writing by writers of all ages.
• Plays that are politically and socially engaged.
• Works for music theatre.
• Plays about the Kensington and Chelsea area, local history and personalities.
• Adaptations of obscure books written after 1800.
• Plays that are artistically ambitious and thematically expansive.
• Plays with large casts.
• We welcome scripts from international writers, but can only accept plays written in English, Scots or Scots Gaelic.

They want me! They don't even know it! Okay, except for the "music theatre," "obscure books written after 1800," "large casts" and "Scots or Scots Gaelic" business. Brian Epstein lived (and died) two miles from their building! It's a perfect fit. 

And, finally, after years of dithering, I sat down in the back yard with my laptop, some bug spray, and a six-pack of Strongbow, and I re-formatted the script, made it look super purty, wrote them a nice cover letter and sent it. 

The last line of my cover letter, I hope, was not too purple. 

"The summer of 2017 would mark the 50th anniversary of the deaths of Joe Orton and Brian Epstein, as well as the day homosexuality was decriminalized in England. Let's use this play as a way to explore, celebrate and memorialize."

Oh, how my fingers hovered over the "send" button. I took a huge deep breath, looked up into the indigo sky, breathed into the Universe, and clicked. 

Here's hoping.

I did not get into a physical fight with the lady at the burger place who said that 

A) the problem with Wildwood is "the blacks, Mexicans and Chinese"

B) Trump is Great

C) ARGH I DON'T EVEN REMEMBER I'M SO PISSED OFF. 

I did tell her she was wrong, but I'm so angry that I can't remember what I said. 

Today my glasses fell off my face while I was turning around to flush the toilet. I saved them before they fell in. 

WINNING! 

So, here's Sausage Mahoney.

I just pitched Jarnsaxa Rising ("pitch"="you should listen") to Kathy O'Connell.

You know you want it. 

This morning my co-worker, Joe, and I were talking about people with odd names. I told him how I went to kindergarten with a kid named Clark Kent (first, middle), whose younger brother was named Bruce Wayne (also first, middle). 

Clark has embraced his name fully. He's now a top-flight landscaper, and all the branding for his business uses the colors red, blue, and gold. He's a super landscaper. 

"What about Bruce?" Joe asked. 

"I don't know," I said, "but now I want to write a play about that (hypothetical, imaginary) younger brother Bruce, living in a basement, listening to Morrisey, wrapped in a black comforter and tying tools to his belt."