I'm not sure about the insurance situation. I know his dad had insurance on the house and property (it would have been foolish not to have insurance coverage on a place like that). In fact, the insurance company already supplied them with an RV so that they can stay on the property. It may sound strange to do a thing like that, but last Wednesday night, hours after it happened, they stayed with someone else in town, and looters got onto the property! Hearing that made me sick, because for goodness' sake, the place was still smouldering!

Anyway, his dad already said that the insurance coverage would never cover the true value of what it would take to rebuild a place like that, so we have to make peace with the fact that it is permanently gone. Thank goodness that nothing or no one could ever erase their memories.

In other news, life goes on as it tends to do. Before the fire last week, we were at the awards ceremony for the play I was in. Yes, remember how I auditioned for a play during the five seconds between my coffee refills (in other words, while I was at my most vulnerable and weak)? Anyway, that play was part of a playwright's festival, so of course, there was an awards ceremony to determine who won. And that momentous occasion occurred last Monday night.

I had more than half a mind to blow it off, but my curiosity got the best of me so at the very last minute, I decided to go. Man, did I live to regret that choice!

Okay, so it wasn't all bad. I mean, all the local drama queens (and kings... ah, okay, right. Who are we kidding?) were there, decked out in the signature theatrical black. And there was food. And food's always good. Especially when it's free. And there was alcohol in close proximity at a cash bar (which proved to be our life-saver).

ONE AWARD. They're supposed to hand out ONE, SINGLE AWARD.

It went on for... Three... Hours...

Three endless hours.

That's almost the same duration as the friggin' Academy Awards!

Luckily the playwright who was finally announced as the winner (and no, sadly it was not my playwright) provided some much needed comic relief. No, not because his speech was so witty, but merely because he could hardly speak at all! Honestly, it was so clear that the poor guy hadn't been in the company of humans for quite some time before that night, and he stood there and gaped at the audience, looking utterly perplexed at the fact that a) he was actually away from his keyboard and b) that we were all sitting there, staring at him in anticipation.

When he finally did get his bearings together to speak, very inaudibly and with a nervous stutter, he thanked ALL THE WRONG PEOPLE! You see, two of his plays were part of the festival, and he apparently decided that the other play and cast were far more deserving of the honour.

It was quite sweet, actually.

Our playwright placed 4th out of nearly thirty. To soften the blow (writers are a fragile bunch), a local newspaper gave him the Best Playwright of 2004 title. In an e-mail to congratulate him, I wrote: "Aren't you glad that your very esteemed actors ended up improvising, changing the whole play to consist solely out of our own lines? See how good we made you look?"

But since I'm so kind, I added a "ha ha" at the end.

Then I also told him that since he clearly doesn't plan on coming clean and giving credit where credit is due (like Shakespeare and Sir Francis Bacon), I'll be willing to keep our little secret for suitable payment.

So, what do you guys think? What type of payment should I blackmail him for? (Keep in mind that I'll sell my soul for a coffee bean and that I really don't shop a lot, except if you count frenzied trips to the bookstore to snatch up another how-to book for my rapidly expanding collection.)