For the I-can't-work-under-these-conditions file.

Tonight, the Orchestra of St. Luke's performed at the New York Public Library's Tenth Annual Literary Lions Awards. A tony affair, stars of every stripe, draped in ermine and pearls, filled the decked out (and already splendid) reading room. Before the event, a young man had been assigned to walk through the whole place spritzing pine cone scented air perfume. Armed with a two-way radio head set like a manager at Banana Republic and a spritzer, methodically he minced, spritzing with every foot fall. Right mince spritz, left mince spritz, right mince spritz, left mince spritz . . . "oops, sorry, did I spritz ya'?" . . . for an hour, at least! (I don't know when he started, he was in full-spritz when I arrived, and I was early.) Well, I have come to learn that I am powerfully allergic to artificially-flavored pine cone scented spritz. Now home from the event, everything inside my head is inflamed. I feel like I've been drinking perfume.

"What and give up show biz?" (Some of you know the joke from which the punch line comes.)