I got out of Sweet Charity late Sunday afternoon, caught a cab going north, went straight home, threw off my clothes, and made ready to climb into the loft and grab a little shut-eye preliminary to spending the evening at my desk, working on all the stuff I’ve got to write and deliver to various editors between now and Thursday, when I fly the coop to read a Shakespeare sonnet at an upstate wedding (about which more next week).
Fortunately, I decided to check my e-mailbox before crashing, and the first piece of mail I opened was from a friend who wrote, “Are we still on for tonight?” I uttered a well-known monosyllable three or four times in a row, having remembered in a sudden flash of prospective horror that I was supposed to be at the Jazz Standard in forty-five minutes to hear Dena DeRose. I threw my clothes back on, ran downstairs, and caught yet another cab, this one headed south. Somewhat to my surprise, I got to the club on time, and even managed to remain upright and conscious throughout the whole set. (Dena was hot, of course–it was my fault, not hers, that I was a little fuzzy.)
I’m still somewhat shaken by the closeness of my shave. It’s true that my itinerary for the week is pretty alarming, but it’s been at least a decade since I’ve flat-out forgotten a show I was scheduled to see. That’s the critic’s nightmare–especially when his schedule is so tightly packed that he can’t work in a repeat performance before filing his review.
I’m not going to try to tell you I’ve learned my lesson, but I do think it might possibly be a smart idea for me to take my phone off the hook, go straight to bed, and remain horizontal for an absolute minimum of eight hours.
You can wait to hear about the rest of my weekend, right? Good.
P.S. If you still long for fresh copy, I’ve updated the “Teachout in Commentary,” “Second City,” and “Teachout Elsewhere” modules in the right-hand column with links to my latest print-media pieces. Read ’em and weep. Or whatever.