When we last visited our intrepid hero, he was about to complete his summer-long journey of endurance athleticism. Against larger-than-anticipated odds (SPOILER ALERT), he survived – even thrived – in completing said journey (more on that later). He was riding a high. He was very proud. Justifiably, even.
His summer project over, his 38th birthday behind him, and a new/recently revised, thoroughly optimistic outlook for how to proceed pushing him forward, he was ready for the pending growing flurry of the work ahead, both the kind that paid him a regular salary and the other personal and professional projects to which he looked forward.
And then … for some reason … he started describing himself in the third person. And not just on Facebook where it was actually grammatically correct.
Let’s put an end to that for this post, at least.
On Oct. 2, like nearly a million of my fellow New York City inhabitants, I found myself a member of that club to which I really didn’t want to belong. (And I say that lacking all Groucho-style irony.) After eight years of involvement, working my way up from a volunteer to seasonal staff to permanent year-round employee, from audience usher to logistical and operational director, from pre-screener to programmer and panels producer, my association with Tribeca came to an end.
