
Shhhh, be vewy, vewy quiet. It's job huntin' season.
It’s two a.m. and I’m awakened from a dream in which I take home the Oscar for Best Original Screenplay by my cat, meowing to be let out. I am tempted to throw a shoe, roll over and ignore him (as is my usual custom), when a solitary word suddenly projects itself on the movie screen of my mind and sends me to the side of the bed in a cold sweat: Rent.
I search frantically for my Oscar, but...