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I met my improv friend Jack for a drink tonight at these seedy place on Houston and Mulberry. He was coming up with wretched names for this blog o' mine, including "Dunnecdotes," "What I've Dunne" and "Dunne'cha Hate It When....," which would be perfect for an Andy-Rooney-esque series on the piccadilloes of things like soup cans and potato chip bags. [For you would-be Internet stalkers, all of these titles are a pun on my last name, "Worthington."]

Jack is balls-in when it comes to trying to make it in the world of comedy. He writes like a fiend and always has many different things going on - shows, open mic nights, contacts with other peoples' agents. On the other hand, I have taken an incredibly passive approach to this whole comedy thing - I think I have tacitly reached the conclusion that this is a fun little hobby but will not amount to anything more, really only because I'm not pursuing it. I mean, I have a lot going on, right? There's the job/hobby which fills most of the daylight hours. There's the whole law school thing. And there's the immense amount of screwing-around time that is just so crucial to my happiness and well-being. How can I be expected to write or perform or take a class when "The Apprentice" is returning for an underwhelming third season, or when there are songs I need to listen to and mimic for the umpteenth time?

That's an example of bitter sarcasm, along with a dash of self-loathing, for all you humor-impaired types. Tomorrow night I should check out Harold night at the theater - it would be good to see the pros at it again and I think it would inspire me too. Writing comedy, though, is challenging for me. I think I can write pretty funny when it comes to essays or letters or emails, but writing in script form kills me. When I'm able to be funny in real life, it's usually in reaction to other things - I don't usually introduce funny ideas, I just respond obnoxiously to things that are already there. This is why initiating scenes in improv is a bit of a challenge, I purport.

On another note, I really enjoyed walking to the bar tonight. It was wretchedly cold out, and dark, with the salt from this morning's abortive snowstorm still dirtying the ground. But I saw some interesting things: a woman sitting at a table by her window, a man in a bar plunking away on an old-fashioned piano, innumerable people sitting in pairs enjoying their dinner in the restaurants. Looking back I see that these are in fact barely interesting, but it gets your attention - everyone has a story, and I wonder what their lives are like. Sometimes I try to take a cinematic view of things, and think about my place as I walk down a street passing people by. Of course the camera's on me, but as I pass someone, I pretend the camera follows them - I recede into the background as someone else gets the focus - someone else with their own cares, fears, passions, questions. I don't know, it's just interesting.

Or is it? That's a dunnecdote for you. Mildly interesting, barely coherent. [BOMP]