CALL ME LAZY AND SHIFTLESS, but on the heels of being chased by a gang of bloodthirsty, trigger-happy militiamen, leaping from a speeding Jeep, and flying a gazillion miles for a career-making interview that didn’t happen, I decided to play hooky the next day. I didn’t trek into my office at Citizen magazine nor did I plan to work out of my apartment, something I do from time to time with decent results.

Instead I spent the morning in bed relaxing with some coffee (cream, no sugar), the New York Times (Sports section first, then Arts, then News in Review), and one of my favorite Elvis Costello albums (My Aim Is True).

And by records I mean, literally, the record. Nothing against CDs and MP3s, but I’ve yet to hear anything that quite captures the pure sound of a needle against vinyl. So yeah, I’m afraid I’m one of those people, a purist who still swears by his LP collection.

Anyway, at a little past noon I finally ventured out to my go-to neighborhood eatery, the Sunrise Diner, a few blocks south of my apartment. I was just being served my lunch (cheese omelet, sausage, black coffee) when Courtney called.

“Where are you?” she asked in a near panic.

“About to bite into a delish-looking omelet at the Sunrise.”

“Don’t!” she said. “Step away from those eggs!”

“Why would I do that?”

“Because you’re already late.”