I could really use a patron. If you're an elderly, senile woman with lots of money, please email me. Those charmed by a sly smile and dry humor encouraged to apply. Insanity preferred.

I have failed to mention an act of kindness perpetrated by my old pal Becks. Looking back over my archives, she read a forlorn passage that moved her sweet heart to action. For the last several weeks, she has been saving print copies of the Onion, unavailable in Los Angeles, and she recently tossed them all into an envelope and had them sent out here for me to read and enjoy.

All should live by her kind example. Greatly I have missed the cheap ink that covers my fingers after an issue, the semi-perverse ads for Milio's beauty salon, and the inscrutable ad copy ("Nice Mustache!") for bars like the Liar's Club.

I'm also homesick for copies of the Reader, nudge nudge, wink wink, knowwhatImean knowwhatImean?

I think I'm going to have to take up Southwest Airlines on the offer of cheap online fares and go home for a recharge soon. It could be just the thing to set me right straight. Unfortunately, between shows, a freelance lighting gig, another upcoming Harold audition, and a possible weekend trip to Palm Springs in October, it may have to wait a while.

I shudder to think how much busier I'd be if I actually had a job.

I called another old pal last night, Kristin Of Chicago. She had just left me a message a few minutes before, which I then returned. Our conversation:

KRIS: (answers the phone) Beep beep beep.

ME: Uh. What? Beep beep beep?

KRIS: ...iuvoueehear...

ME: What? What did you say?

KRIS: I love you, sweetheart.

And then she hung up.

I was a bit perplexed. First of all: Beep beep beep? Had I accidentally caught her in the midst of another conversation, mid-switchover? And, if so, why did she feel the need to vocalize the beeping? And had she decided to take our friendship to an entirely new level? Seeking answers, I called again.

Apparently, she had fallen asleep in the time between her leaving the message and me calling back. She told me that she uses her cell phone as her alarm clock, and for some reason, she has a habit of sleepily saying "beep beep beep" to it when it wakes her. She could not account for the declaration of love.

I told her I understood. I've been known to do a bit of the sleep talking, too. Once, Sally woke me up while I was loudly voicing sleepy concerns for the space shuttle. I can't really hold unconscious talking against anyone, as I do something in my sleep that trumps that easily: I sleep with my eyes half open.

I'm not freaky. I'm ever vigilant.

Seriously. Don't sleep with me if you're easily freaked out or aren't partial to waking up to what may be a corpse. My eyes stay open just enough to make you think I may have died in my sleep.

Sexy.

And speaking of sexy...The Excuses, my team, has itself a little show tonight. It's late-ish, but free. And it looks like the webmaster over there just got around to putting up my picture, the bastard. The good man immediately beneath me is The Cherubic Michael Busch, or TCMB, writer of this here good stuff.

I still haven't forgiven the IO webmaster for comparing me to Steven Soderbergh. I mean, sure, in directing talent, yes. We've both won Oscars! Looks-wise, though? Come on.

Bastard.