The Urbane Urbanite

I don't offend easily. With close to ten years of rejection under my belt auditioning and working as an actor, I've grown quite the thick skin. But I'm still an artist and very sensitive about my shit! About a month ago, a friend and loyal reader of this blog made a comment about the post: My Upstairs Neighbor's Bed . He went on about how good he thought the post was and how much he enjoyed reading it. And then - like a rusty dagger to my heart - he asked: You made that up, right? Listen. Del don't make up blog posts. EVER! No disrespect to the bloggers out there on that James Frey flow; the ones who concoct misadventures and stretch the truths of their lives to entertain their readers. If that's your thing, fine! But it ain't mine. Everything you read over here on my little slice of the interwebs is 100% true. Period. Besides, I'm a writer. If I wanted to hit you with a piece of fiction, not only would I do it, but I'd say point blank: C...

Photo: S. James  Del don't do road trips. Usually. I have terrible childhood memories of being sandwiched in the back seat of an unairconditioned hooptie, riding down south in the middle of the summer. *Shudders*  So naturally, when talk of a road trip comes up, I'm the first one on the computer looking up a flight to said destination and making plans to meet my travel mates there. In my mind, by the time they get to the hotel completely aggravated, cranky and smelling of automobile, I'm already checked into my room, curled up with a Kindle and enthralled in a good book. Such was the case this past summer when my homies decided that a road trip from northern New Jersey to Toronto was in order for the 4th of July weekend.