I am writing this in a bar (Kitty O’Shea’s) in Chicago.  At the table next to me sits a woman and her 7 year-old son, Mark.  Mark has a signature move – throwing bread at people as if they were seagulls.  It’s adorable to everyone in the bar except for me and the busboy – Mark’s primary target – especially after he overheard a request from the mother for a new loaf of bread.

It's been a month since I left my job in search of something (I think is) better.  The good news is that it's not in Cleveland -- I can cross that off the list.  Sometimes, people will send me emails asking to hear more about what happens behind the scenes.  Just like their support for the trip, either they mean it or they don't.

The road has been good to us. I've figured out how to set up my equipment on stage without too much of a delay, when to call bookers to land shows at good clubs and what jokes will work in certain areas of the country.  We've avoided federal prosecution after an incident at the post office and have been greeted in every city by a blizzard.  We’ve established a routine.  Sometimes, though, when I wake up disoriented in a new hotel room or when we're all in the car silently watching a sunset as we drive through some desolate part of the country, I'll think of my ex and all of our secret moments and wonder what the hell I'm doing.  I’m sure Pete and Torio are experiencing something similar. 

And then, something will happen – I’ll hit a pedestrian or someone on the radio will talk about the unrest in Egypt – and we’ll laugh again. 

I like to drink with strangers -- audience members, comics, locals, even hotel groundskeepers -- because they're always polite and eager to share their stories without a fear of judgment.  They're foolish because I do judge them and it's awkward when I laugh at their dreams. Still, it's freeing to spend time with people for a brief amount of time; you can say or do whatever you want without having to worry about apologizing for your actions.

I must go.  I have to craft my latest missive about Rosie O’Donnell (and Mark just received his loaf of bread), but I will keep you posted.

Best,

Joe

P.S. Happy one-month anniversary, readers.  I didn't get you anything.