Center Stage

I hauled myself up the runner of the living room credenza and walked straight into a miniature proscenium. Someone had left an open pop-up card standing tall, its folded paper arches cut out like a Broadway stage set. Naturally, a performer of my caliber can't ignore an open call. I stepped carefully onto the cardboard apron, testing each fold under my boots—miraculously, the paper structure held all my upper-body tonnage. I squared my stance, cleared my gravelly throat, and gave the quiet room my tightest five minutes on the sheer impossibility of buying shirts off the rack. The standing ovation was dead silent, but you can't rush an encore.