THIRTEEN
I arose from my secret crypt this evening
grateful and angry; grateful that there is less than
a week until the first preview of Pretty Lady. This
will allow me to see Danny’s handiwork without the
burden of a curtain time that coincides with the last
few minutes of daylight. Daylight Savings Time, the
scourge of my existence, begins in two weeks. Don’t
even get me started on summer evenings, when
sunset signals the onset of intermissions throughout
the theater district.