Second Post - Soon, I Will Need Titles

I've just returned from Amphora, a surprisingly classy Greek joint at 7545 N Clark Street - just near the Howard stop on the Red Line. (The Red Line was under consideration for blog title, incidentally, possibly with some modifier a la 'The Noisy Red Line' or 'The Smelly Red Line.' Consider that bullet safely dodged.) We are meant to perform improv comedies at this place on this coming Saturday at 10, through a hookup established by a new friend David. So far David and I have managed to avoid addressing the fact that I got a part and he didn't from the audition at which we met, but I know it will get awkward soon when I rub it right in his stupid face.

The place is, frankly, a bit too classy for us, but by tucking ourselves into the darkest corner closest to the bathrooms we hope to find the right 'levels.' It was largely deserted when we were there at 8 on a Sunday, but possibly the marketing campaign, or 'blitzkrieg' envisioned by David, will make the difference.

Who's playing? Myself, my roommates Stephen and John Tell, and three other dudes who went to school with them. They are all proud Aggies, and JT has spent the vast majority of his life in College Station, TX. I wanted to call the group The Yell Leaders after an insane tradition they have at A&M (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Yell_Leader), but evidently the loathing they have for the genuine article precluded even an ironic nod, and so we find ourselves happily named: The Richard Tatorship.
Give it a minute.

I didn't know Stephen or JT when I moved to Chicago (please note the seamlessness of this transition into flashback). My friend Liz knew Stephen from high school - evidently, though she didn't tell me this, they made out a little - and knew that we were both moving to Chicago at the same time with similar intentions at least with regard to comedy. So, while sleeping in her little apartment and upsetting her boyfriend with shirtless living room crunches, I looked for and found a place in Edgewater. When they arrived, the dust of the meth-addled Texas plains still scripted into a WASH ME notice on their rental truck, I held the door for them and shook their hands. And so it began.

Our landlords, Michael and Terry, we call our downstairs gaybors, because we intend to make up jokes professionally and that's how we roll. They own an extremely successful candy store in the Loop downtown (teachable moment: The Loop is the business and financial district of Chicago, so called because of the circuit made by the L lines around the area) and in truth they are the greatest guys ever. Today, we were rehearsing and deeply engaged in a scene involving a trio of Minnesotans loudly marveling over the World's Biggest Dickhole when Terry pops his head in to bring us cake. Well, what a sweet guy. Of course, there has never been a reported incidence of a scene involving the World's Biggest Dickhole without a bubbler and sack of weed on the coffee table, and ours was no exception, but like the classy dude he is, Terry played it cool, handed off the cake, committed to making an appearance at our cocktail party Friday, and made his exit. The landlords are boss.

My folks get into town Thursday. My mom wants my cocktail party to be jumping. Stay tuned for that. Also, probably, my thoughts on season three of Deadwood.