Notes from the Post-it Wall |Week of November 1, 2020
I look forward to knowing the indisputable results of the presidential election so that we can enjoy our holiday season debating whether “Baby It’s Cold Outside” is a rape song or not. (It is. That’s how shit got done in President Truman’s America.)
By morning, he had decided he needed somewhere nobody cared about theater, someplace where the name Chekhov was more likely to be mistaken for a rifle than a playwright.