Tuesday night, before seeing Marion Bridge (highly recommended, by the way), I picked up a roast beef sandwich, a Coke and a bag of chips, and ate it in a deli on 47th Street. About 20 minutes after the play finished, my stomach began its own two-day-long production of The Eruption Of Mt. Vesuvius, with me in the part of The Broken Gargoyle, not knowing which end to spout from first. I'm tempted to chalk it up to chance or bad luck, but why do that when I have an entire month to blame? Also: never going into that deli again.
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