Good morning from LaGuardia Airport. I’m on my way to Boston for a future story. I was thinking of writing a post about the space shuttle, (they’re having trouble with heat-shield tile inspection) but it seemed too obvious.
So there I am, crowded among a lot of bleary-eyed travelers, when my cell phone rings.
It’s my wife. “You’re the answer to 35 Down in the New York Times crossword puzzle,” she says. A friend had just called to tell her.
(If you live in the New York area, or get the Times, this is the place where I’ll pause if you want to look it up. It’s in the back of the Arts section. I don’t think it’s online unless you pay extra.)
Truth be known, this is the third time in five years that I’ve learned I was a crossword puzzle clue. I think it has less to do with being on TV than with having a short first name. (Note to Mom and Dad: that was your idea. I still love you.)
The first time this happened, people at ABC were finding me in the hall, cackling over my new status as a trivia clue. “You know you’ve arrived in life when you’re the answer to 17 Across,” laughed a producer.
No, no, said another friend. “I think it’s just a sign that Ned Rorem’s time has passed.”