I don’t know. I slept so well a few nights ago. Since then, not so much. I get my rest, but there are interruptions. I’ve been going to bed a little bit earlier, and that sets my body clock askew a bit. I open an eye and spy the alarm clock to find I still have 2 hours to go or 5 minutes to go. It’s never the same.

Bill is still in the District of Columbia. He’ll be back next week. Mike is due tonight to come over and hang out in the crib. Of course, there is some apprehension that vanishes once he crosses the threshold. Bill just phoned to check in before his group arrives and they head off somewhere else.

Mike also phoned to let me know his trip with his beloved to Las Vegas has been cancelled. Not by his choice or the beloved’s choice, but rather the parole officer who felt that buying a one way ticket a few months in advance is not allowable. Mike would have bought a round trip ticket, but it was out of his price range, and he planned on buying the return trip next week when his check comes in. But the parole officer’s supervisor said no, that won’t do. The chain of command is rusty and cranky. It’s their house for Mike until April 2027 and it looks like it will be a long year.

March is winding down and April approaches. Not April Hartford. I’m sure I told a story about Aril Hartford. In fact I did in May 2025. No need to rehash, and I hate chewing my cabbage twice.

I have been using the landline on my desk for personal calls and I was just told not to. They seem to be monitoring calls and Marcus let me know. Not that I have been telling state secrets or anything like that but it’s their fruit stand and their rules and if I want to keep working at the fruit stand it’s best that I heed Marcus’ suggestion.

And yes, I had been writing on the fruit stand computer but not anymore. This is being written on the smartphone. Clumsy but it gets the job done.

On my walk home yesterday I ran into Alvin (not his real name). I’ve known Alvin for years. He’s quite a character. He was a handsome guy back in the day and still is, in a different way. In hindsight there were overtures that he put out years ago that I was too far gone to pick up on.

Late nights, early mornings and some powders were involved. Odd but Alvin and the guy they called Bart Simpson lived in the same apartment at different times. The guy that called Bart Simpson and I had a fling a couple of times. I probably could have done the same with Alvin but I was too far gone to recognize the fact. The Bart Simpson guy was a lot of fun and I haven’t seen him since the 20th century and I understand that he lost a leg.

Meanwhile, back at the fruit stand, I try to be clever and use words or phrases that other people rarely use. And I respond to emails and things like that, only to read what I have sent and notice glaring errors. I don’t see them until time has passed and by then it is too late.

Once again it is revealed that I am not as clever as I think and I don’t want to know how other people think if I’m clever or not. Bill seems to think so, but then again he is biased in my favor.

About 30 years ago, I won a contest from Time Out Magazine. It was a semester of improv classes at Chicago City Limits. I never thought about taking an improv class and a few friends thought I would make a good stand-up comedian. I never took them seriously and though I knew I was funny, I did nothing about it. The opportunity fell into my lap though.

After working at 168 West 48th Street, Right Track Recording, I would walk up Sixth Avenue, buy a cigar at De La Concha, and wander through Central Park, eventually winding up at 1105 First Avenue, which is where Chicago City Limits was located. As usual, I would be early, and I would wait on the sidewalk and entertain my classmates.

These classmates paid money for these classes; the first week, there may have been about 30 attendees. The following week, 25, then after that 20. I would guess that there were about 15 people after a few weeks. They paid money and dropped out. I don’t know if they got their money back. I just know that I didn’t pay.

And while I was on the sidewalk before class I would entertain my classmates, just being me. No script, just riffing off the top of my head. I thought I was funny but then I couldn’t be objective. Maybe I was, maybe I wasn’t. I just remember the laughter. When class began, though, I found I could not be funny on stage. I tried, and what came to mind was me being over the top femme, discussing the fact that a musical was about to debut on Broadway about the Titanic. And it was a bit over the top for this mainly hetero class.

My jokes fared as well as the transatlantic crossing of the Titanic. I simply could not be funny on stage, nor on demand. I did not respect the improv teacher either and that attitude helped my decision to end my class attendance after a few weeks. I had nothing to lose since I had won a contest and not invested any money in an improv class.

I have thought about doing stand-up somewhere, an open mike, but I fear the window of opportunity has closed. At some spots in midtown while walking, you might come across a person handing out fliers for a comedy show, which might guarantee that person a slot in that evening. That slot might be at 3 AM, but a slot is a slot. That is something I don’t want to do.

I can be funny on my own with family & friends & coworkers, I suppose. It is what I tell myself, and I do enjoy making family, friends, and coworkers laugh. It’s a young person’s game and I ain’t a young person anymore.

Chicago City Limits has moved downtown and an eight week class is about $395. I am no good at adjusting for inflation but 30 years ago, I am sure it was a wee bit less expensive. Then again, if you’re living in Manhattan, you could probably afford it if one doesn’t eat food for a couple of weeks.