Saturday Night

God help me, I got to telling stories, at the reception after the show. First though, the other part of the day, I wrote something and shipped it out, so I'd be on record, then Linda called and she was ready to cook. Went over to Sara and Clay's and we decided to go to lunch before we started the actual cooking and spent an hour at the pub. Hearty lunches because of the show tonight. Standard practice in theater (then maybe a light dinner after the show) where times are skewed by performance schedules. We cooked: I chopped, Glenn browned, linda directed. Three great hours, talking and cooking, and Glenn put together a Janitor College file, he'd read a few lines and Linda and I would fall over laughing. I can't believe I wrote some of the things I've written. He read a piece about how almost a generation of janitors were wiped out in WW2, because they were such good spies. The hook being that people assumed janitors could neither see nor hear; they were janitors, after all. It's a very good piece of writing. The show was better, tonight, and the audience was worse. The nuance was palpable, the interludes, so subtle; who would think, in normal conversation, that a word should be allowed space, but Emily demands, and if you have any sense, you listen. The reception, afterwards, went on and on, and I was too tired to join the group that continued the party elsewhere. One drink and I was out like a light.