(And it didn’t even say “Jew” on my passport.)
Oh, but I’m getting ahead of myself. (I’ll never mention this again.)
Robin Ince’s show was an enjoyably ramshackle reimagination of music hall wherein jugglers shared the bill with scientists of every stripe, even horizontal ones. (I was jealous, my highest compliment.) Thank Godlessness, I’d gotten in, as a ticket had not been waiting for me when I got there. It was 5 minutes before showtime and if anyone bothered me that close to a show, it would, um, bother me. So, I considered leaving and listening through a glass pressed against the wall of the apartment I was crashing in behind the theater.
Instead, I decided to send a tweet. If Robin was checking, great, if not, the drinking vessel at home.
He was checking.
And so was my father — checking his e-mail.
And so was I, checking on my missed call, which was from my e-mail-checking Pop.
Thus I learned, in the lobby or thereabouts, between halves, that dear, old Dad had loaned me the money to buy the ticket. The kind of loan where he had, like, already bought it.