Dennis Leary Called Me Again.

Dennis Leary woke me up with a late night phone call; 4:37am by the clock on my cell phone. I had long since abandoned night side time pieces in a futile attempt to combat insomnia and it hadn’t worked since Clinton’s second term, but it was a habit I never could shake.

Dennis was desperate, and it disgusted me. He wouldn’t be specific, but he said he was in Chicago, and that the charges were 'Cocaine related'. I had already been calculating how far down his Friends and Peers list I was on to have gotten this call, and this explained a great deal. The mathematics didn’t necessarily stop, but their relevance was definitely cast aside.

“Jesus man, I wouldn’t be calling you if it weren’t important. I’m totally fucked, and you're giving me shit.”

“I know”, I said, “but what can I do from here?”

“Do you have a thousand bucks?” he replied.

“Of course not. I’m a cop, you tit. Besides, I’m on probation at work. Are you bent or something? What the fuck have you gotten yourself into?!”

He fell silent. Shame; such a brutal, basal emotion.


We had become friends in my last dream after striking up a conversation after a local gig at the Comedy Catch, and I see now that he was no better than a dozen other celebrity acquaintances I had made in the last few years. What a shit-bag.

I told him I’d make a few calls, and hung up the phone so I could decide what I’d really do, and that was about the time I’d woken up. My left shoulder was as numb as a divorce attorney, and I had to reposition. What the hell was today’s date?