Stunned Mullet

Last Thursday, I went to a reading and book signing in LA for big-time writer boy at Book Soup, which is a pretty lousy place for a reading [due to its insanely catacombed floorplan ... what the fire marshall doesn't know won't hurt him, I guess.] So I knew BTWB in college, when I was an undergrad and he was a grad student in the MFA program at a large state-run little-known university in the mid-1980s.

And I keep in touch with other writers from the writing program. And I have been to readings for all of his books. But really he has no reason to remember me, and actually, I hope he doesn't as it would reflect poorly on how he is filling up his idle hours, of which, I am certain, he has none.

So, I waited in line for him to personalize a couple of books for friends, including the couple of writers I do actually keep in touch with. So I introduced myself to him.

Let me interject that he still looks about 30, is thin, has full long hair, and has the same delicate sculpted features that made him such an icon with both sexes back in the 80s.

I, on the other hand, was once referred to in the pages of Fucked Company as looking like an "overstuffed pig." And that was about 6 years ago when I was younger and prettier.

So I hand the two books to him, and introduce myself, and he tilts his head at an awkward angle, like a man who is trying to drain his ear of water ... or a man who is in an uncomfortable situation but has the refinement and equanimity to not stand up and run in spite of his immediate and justifiable instinct. And he regards me, and squints. The squint of "Let me think. Did I go to school with a talking dog?" Inwardly, I was laughing because I am the master of schadenfreude, and he couldn't have been nicer, and I dropped the right names, and he wished me well, but it was really uncomfortable for him.

And he gets lots of stupid questions that he handles gracefully. I know, I witnessed some people asking him really dumb questions. I'd hate to be him, save for the good looks, money and moderate but not uncomfortable level of fame. And talent, and critical acclaim. And the work -- did I mention that? -- he has done some great, memorable work. Work that will last several lifetimes. Other than those things, it must be a bitch to be him. Poor bastard.