Saturday night was a pub night, when a bunch of playwright friends (and an opera director!) got together to catch up outside of the usual “see you at a premiere or on a panel somewhere” thing.
Karma was with us: first of all, we just happened to pick a date when Liz Duffy Adams was in town, so we had an out-of-town guest. Perfect timing.
Even better, we somehow managed to make it to the Valley Tavern right in between two huge crowds. I’d met Liz for dinner beforehand, so the two of us got to the tavern a little early, and the bar was packed with about 80 people, all dressed in some form of plaid, all staring up at a basketball game but not seeming to care who was winning (or playing).
Just when we accepted we were in for a night of screaming “Have you finished your first draft?” across the table, the game ended, one guy yelled “To the bus!” and the bar was immediately deserted — two minutes before playwrights arrived. Perfect timing, again.
Everything went swimmingly from then on. Fun conversations, good beer, lousy wine: just what you want in a pub night. Then, the moment the very last of us stood up to head out, another group of 80 walked in. These folks looked like a bunch of PR interns who’d just attended a wedding in the Financial District. They were loud, but we were done. Perfect timing, again again.