Crazy Crap Item #29: The part where I understand how Lana Turner felt at Schwab's

It's been a full week since I posted any crazy crap because, I felt, nothing truly crazy had happened in my life. Ah, the dullness.

Then it struck me that something fairly crazy had happened, and I had merely overlooked it. Forgive me, I've been very busy, so perhaps my crazy meter is off.

Here is the jist: A little over the week ago, I was sent to review a little show at a little theater. It had a fairly small crazy-ness factor: the son of Jim Belushi was in the cast. Clearly, I'm not so starstruck as to think that mere fact warrants a crazy crap entry.

I was attending solo that night, and being it was a small house, it was -- ugh -- general admission. I loathe general admission. I'm small, and so I need a good seat in order to see. Really. Besides, I'm selfish. And I hate having to jostle to secure my place.

At this particular performance, however, I did not need to jostle, as the producers had thoughtfully set aside primo seats for reviewers and representatives of the Jeff committee (Chicago's version of the Oscars). Being as Eamon was not in tow, I was shown to a single reviewer's seat, located directly next to a Jeff committee seat. And up until about 5 minutes before curtain, the seat next to me remained open.

At the very last moment, a fellow was shown in by an usher, who directed him to the seat next to me. I'm a polite sort, so I got up to let him in (my seat was on the aisle). While doing so, it registered with me that he was, oh my, the top critic at one of Chicago's most renowned newspapers (for discretion's sake, I shan't name names).

Well, again, I am not starstruck, so I in no way acknowledged his stature, thinking that I'd demonstrate my consummate professionalism by leaving him to his work unmolested.

And that's where it gets crazy.

Unbidden, he asks, "Who do you write for?" I tell him, and he asks my name. I say, "I'm sorry?" thinking I must have misheard. He asks again, and I tell him. He nods, and indicates that (a.) he's seen my work, and (b.) he's liked my work.

As given as I am to flights of egotistical fancy, this seemed altogether untenable. I mean really. I'm a third-string reviewer at best. And I'm a newbie. I assumed, therefore, that he was just being polite.

So we chat a bit more, and I explain how I met my editor and that I'm a full-time freelancer. He asks about that, and I explain what kind of work I do, and who else I've written for. Then he asks, "Have you written for us?"

I admit no, I have not.

Then he says that I should send him some clips, as they are in need of feature writers. Very great need, he adds, with just a hint of despair.

Wha? I think. He's serious. He wants me to send him some stuff, and indicates that he'll forward it on to other members of the organization.

Well, my my my.

By the end of the show, I have convinced myself that he was just being curteous, that he couldn't possibly mean it, but I intend to check in with my editor to clear that I can continue writing review for TimeOut while taking on assignments for this competing (and dominant) publication.

Well, to close out a long story as briefly as possible, my editor assures me that the professional proposition I received is, indeed, a big deal and a big compliment. And that I should go for it.

And that's just crazy.