(Disclaimer: The material that follows is bit more personal than my usual dreck, but that’s really why you’re here isn’t it? Anyway, rest assured I am most certainly not curled up in a fetal position in a corner somewhere… I’m fine, really, and thanks for asking!)

Way back in high school I read a fantastic novel called Sister Carrie, and was a bit surprised to hear in a classmate’s book report that its author had led a pretty miserable existence.

Now me, I’ve had a pretty damn good run, both personally and professionally. And yet it seems that personal drama has repeatedly reared its ugly head along with milestones in my career.

Consider that I apparently did my best, Dora-nominated work at The Second City while recovering from a bit of a broken heart. And just today I’ve been offered the director’s chair of their National Touring Company in the midst of my girlfriend of three years walking out on me.

Like I said, I’m not looking for pity here. Rather, I look to the long, not-so-proud lineage of brilliant comedians—and artists for that matter—who’ve ended up dead of a drug overdose in their underwear on some hotel bathroom floor. Not to suggest, of course, that I think of myself as the former or will end up like the latter!

Yet I wonder… Is there some inverse and perverse ratio between personal happiness and artistic success? Or am I just making a big deal out of a coincidence? Come on you showbiz-types, here’s your chance to dish!

A no-brainer or career suicide? Whatever the case may be, I’ve just turned down the chance to spend four months on board this cruise ship performing with The Second City.

I’d be away from November to March of next year, and would miss Christmas with my family and friends. But I’d only have to perform two shows a week, and would have full access to the ship’s many amenities the rest of the time.

The long contract certainly gave me pause, but the deciding factor turned out to be the sleeping arrangements—sharing a tiny cabin with a roommate that I don’t necessarily know is something that this crotchety old SC alum just wasn’t prepared to do. I had no problem sleeping six to a tent in Bosnia, but on a boat-load of American tourists I would absolutely need some kind of guaranteed personal space.

I will, however, get a small taste of the Caribbean when I accompany Ray Deonandan to T&T for his appearance at CARIFESTA at the end of September. We’ll be sharing a room, but for a couple of days I think I can manage…

About the show, click right here and be rewarded with your very own souvenir poster, suitable for mass emailing! It also has all the deets about the time and place of the big show.

… See you Saturday!

Pictured above is six-tenths of my current Conservatory Class, who as you know have their grad show on Saturday, May 27th on The Second City Mainstage.Tonight they will experience a Second City rite of passage as their director (me) produces the running order of scenes for that show.

In an instant, all the work they’ve been doing since last September gets crystallized into two 45-minute acts. There is usually much discussion that follows, along with complaining, gossip and (hopefully) sighs of relief. But it’s still a magical moment, because for the first time we will have a concrete product… On paper, at least!

Though it’s really a sheer coincidence of timing, I’m gonna call the part The Williamson Playboys gave me in their radio pilot yesterday another birthday present.

What a joy it was to muck around in a studio with a bunch of really talented people, all trying to make each other laugh. If even half of the commercial auditions I’ve done over the years were like this I’d still be doing them.

Al Howell, Jack Mosshammer and I were talking just the other day about how we used to try to crack each other up on stage at Second City, more often than not at the expense of our fellow cast-mates.

But don’t be too quick to discount such behaviour—after all, Harvey Korman and Tim Conway weren’t exactly known for their smart writing on The Carol Burnett Show.