Good morning.

I've bought more cake mix. I'm going through a Cake Phase.

I won't be vigorously defending my position on my production of baked goods this time. No need. I will ask you to consider this, however: What could possibly be better than wanting cake, and then walking into the kitchen to find that cake is available?

Hard question to answer, eh?

I'll get over it soon.

So, Saturday night, Sally and I had the plan to go see one of the Improvolympic's more popular shows, Baby Wants Candy. We soon decided against this, however, when I reported that the concentration of green revelers in Wrigleyville neighborhood was almost too much to bear when I got out of class, and would surely be even more obnoxious a few hours later. To that end, we went to the local dive movie theater to see Gosford Park.

The dialogue was difficult to catch, and I'm still unsure of some of the major plot points, but the movie did make me renew my vows to one day become part of the leisure class. Call me unsophisticated if you must, but my favorite part was the hunt. It looked like a lot of fun, that duck hunt. I'd like to give it a try.

See, though, it's not so much the killing the ducks for me, as it is shooting them, hitting them, and making them fall to the ground. I mean, it's not as if I'd like them to die. I'd be perfectly content if I shot the duck, and it were to come crashing down, and then get up a moment later, saying "Good show, old bean!" before it flew off again.

Only genetic engineering can make my dreams come true, as usual.

So. My improv class: I was up on stage, and in a lot of scenes this week, because we happened to do a million of them. Therefore my goodness, my improv mojo powers, seemed to be spread out, redistributed. Not everything turned out great this time. In one scene, I was a pompous art critic, complimenting an artist who was painting a simple landscape in front of me.

Painter: Here's a happy little tree.

Me: That tree clearly represents your inner child, striving to... (long, pompous monologue follows)

Painter: And here's a happy little stream.

Me: That's your voice, babbling to be heard and... (more pompous artsy talking)

Painter: Here's a happy little deer, taking a drink from the stream.

Me: (pause) That looks like Bambi.

Yeah, I know. Wokka fucking Wokka. Not hilarious, but it happens. I'm not perfect, I admit it. My accent, though, was brilliant for that scene.

Elsewhere that day, I told a monologue about the time I accidentally murdered a chicken I found when I was a kid.

Later, I was a naked old man hitting on a naked old woman in a steam room. I swear that I was so into it that the audience could see my wrinkly old schlong swaying as I poured water on the rocks.

What else? Well, I was a person who took a gay guy to a sports bar in order to teach him how to be straight. I demonstarted proper standing, woman ogling, and how to hold the beer bottle. He came away with the best line of the scene, though, which ended it. All of a sudden, his cell phone rang, and he answered it.

Gay Guy: Oh, hiiiiii Jaaaaaake. Yeah. Yeah. Hey, I'm taking a class right now, so...

Yeah. So it was a good class. I think the Monday Improv report is probably going to be a regular feature for the next few weeks. Bearing that in mind, I will attempt to rock all the harder for you during my next class.

I love you.

Midge doesn't know it, but I'm listening to her radio show at this very moment, and she just pleased me by playing the Cat Stevens song from 'The Royal Tennenbaums,' the Ramones, and the Pixies all within about ten minutes of one another. Thanks Midge!

I've been forgetting to point out this thing I found for quite a while. Ladies, get in there and show your skivvies to represent diaryland! Those livejournal whores think they own the place!

Ah, and now the last thing: A bit of news concerning my pilot script.

Like I said before: BIG grain of salt, not getting my hopes up and all that, but my script has been "passed upwards." The literary agent who did the initial read thought it had enough merit to be passed along to his superiors, who are going to consider it.

A note to those superiors: Sirs/Ma'ams, please buy it. Or option it. I don't even care if you make it, as it's not my best idea ever. Just toss me some cash and make me a pro. I'm running out of time to be a wunderkind. Thanks.

Yeah, so. Passed upwards is better than passed back. It's exciting, but I'm trying not to think about it. Amazingly, I'm doing fairly well. I would appreciate it, though, if you said little prayers for me to your respective deities.

Oh, wait: If you see this banner I made for 12%, give it a little clickety, won't you?