I have the whole day off, starting now and ending Wednesday morning when the alarm clock detonates. No plays, no deadlines, no appointments, no performances, no dates, no nothing.
I was discussing my upcoming day off with the Bass Player, my fellow workaholic, and we agreed that whatever the phrase “a day off” may mean, it definitely does not mean thinking of useful stuff to do today that I could in point of fact do tomorrow.
Instead, it means:
– Sleeping late.
– Sitting in my small but elegantly appointed living room, listening to CDs I’m never going to review and/or reading a book purely for my pleasure.
– Not writing anything.
– Taking an unscheduled stroll to nowhere (but only if I feel like it).
– Looking at and meditating on the Teachout Museum, asking myself which piece I like best right this minute.
– Not writing anything.
– Dining at Good Enough to Eat and hoping my favorite waitress is on duty.
In light of all these caveats, allow me to repeat my recent set of instructions to the readers of “About Last Night”: if I post anything more today, don’t read it.
You may, however, send me a testy e-mail telling me to log off at once (or words to that effect).
Later. I’ve got a rendezvous with the sandman.
P.S. Did I mention not writing anything?