Well, dear readers, I am happy to report the queasiness has left the building, the building being a euphemism for ME. I fell right asleep after posting the notes, but was up two-and-a-half hours later and unable to sleep until four-thirty, at which point I slept until nine, so I think I got seven hours of sleep. I hate feeling queasy and it got quite bad as I was writing the notes, but happily by the time I was up at two-thirty it was pretty much gone, although because I’d been coughing and phleghm-y my voice was pretty trashed by morning.
Once up, I had to get ready and get on my way to be coifed by Teddy. We had a great time gabbing – he’d loved my story about Lauren Bacall, and we talked about Liza and Raquel and others. He did his customary great job and I was on my way home at eleven. Once home, I answered e-mails and then decided I was feeling okay enough to chance some poached eggs, toast and a bit of white rice. So, that is what I had for lunch and it was just right. In fact, I felt so much better that I put on my toe shoes and spent some time en pointe.
After that, I picked up a couple of packages, came home, then walked over to the bank to do some banking, which is what I like to do when I go to the bank. I had a nice telephonic conversation about a potential project for next year, and then I just wanted to relax and do nothing, so I sat on my couch like so much fish.
I began a motion picture on Netflix, which I knew would put me to sleep immediately and that it did. I was out for about forty-five minutes, then I began the film at the beginning. It was entitled The Night of the Running Man, starring Andrew McCarthy and Scott Glenn, with a short appearance by none other than Wayne Newton (much of the film was shot in Las Vegas). This was one of those cheeseball low-budget mid-1990s things, directed by the king of such fare, Mark L. Lester. It was quite a bad movie. It was based on a book, and since the author of the book was also the screenwriter, I have to imagine that the book was also quite bad. It was published by St. Martin’s Press, which, back then, was a repository for terrible books in the mystery genre, truly some of the most insipid fiction I’ve ever read. The film had the requisite blood, the requisite cheesy score, but Mr. McCarthy and Mr. Glenn are good actors so I stayed with it until the end. Mr. Newton has about seven lines all told.
After that, I just relaxed and played on the Internet.
Today, I really must try to just stay around the house and rest my voice, which is still kind of trashed due to having to constantly clear it. I’ll eat, I’ll hopefully pick up some packages, I’ll do at least one edit road map for an upcoming project and I’ve begun starting to plan our October show, just to get a tiny head start on it. I’m sure I’ll watch a movie or two, too, which will be too too.
Tomorrow, I have a work session for the Kritzerland show, and then a rehearsal with Juliana. Saturday I have a lunch and Sunday I really need to have off. The following week is all devoted to Sandy Bainum, culminating in our recording our third album together, which, for me, is exciting on any number of levels – big orchestra, recording at Capitol for the very first time, hearing Lanny’s orchestrations, working with beautiful Sandy and the icing on the cake that all the songs are by ME.
Well, dear readers, I must take the day, I must do the things I do, I must, for example, rest, eat, hopefully pick up packages, and keep my trap shut as much as possible. Today’s topic of discussion: What are your favorite films about gambling and Las Vegas? Let’s have loads of lovely postings, shall we, whilst I hit the road to dreamland, after which I shall arise, put on my toe shoes and spend the entire day en pointe, whatever the HELL that means.