Where's My Chair?
One of the difficult things that I’m dealing with during the coronavirus pandemic is the impossibility of being close to my fans. People love it when I travel the country and read my blog posts live, while they eat cheese and drink wine. And, yes, smoke pre-rolled marijuana cigarettes.
Then I come on stage and people start to giggle. They laugh and laugh as I try to find my chair. It’s like I’m Charlie Chaplin.
But it’s not a set up: no one left me a chair. What the heck? Where is my fucking chair? Everyone is howling because I can’t find my chair and because they are full of cannabinoids, but I’m genuinely ticked off because I can’t find anyone who is willing to acknowledge that the talent (me) needs a chair to read these highly influential blog posts. Plus, my contract demands that I be given a swivel barstool, a unidirectional microphone, a little high table, and some pumpernickel toast buttered to my exacting standards.
And a glass of local homebrew as well, you ask? Yep.
Someone is playing steamy jazz on a piano while I read a post about how much I’m looking forward to hugging you and the rest of the world when we all wake from this nightmare.
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