Reading: Iris Murdoch, Under the Net and Nick Hornby, About a Boy

Moving: nope

20 July 2001: Nick Hornby

I've been insulted by Nick Hornby. I'm so proud.

I prowled my way to the third floor of the Tattered Cover where readings are. Jenn caught my eye on the steps where she and Hadden were waiting. I am pleased to report that Hadden has safely passed the iguana stage of neonatalhood. He has amazingly long eyelashes and his thighs are fat in that way that is only adorable, let alone tolerable, in babies, with the dimples and rolls and everything. Also he was extremely well-behaved, a plus.

Jenn had a serape thingie that put me in mind of the convertible dress an infomercial for which I once stared at in horrorstruck fascination. It reminded me of that not because of any inherent, excessive tackiness (it had none) but because she kept on pulling this and adjusting that and spinning Hadden around in different positions for sleeping, nursing, napping, snuggling, and dozing.

We talked about journals, of course, and I didn't restrain myself from talking some smack (which I hereby publicly apologize for, Jenn), about Hadden, about Nick Hornby. Also about her family, members of whom were not as present as they had intended to be because of scary things like car accidents. Mostly about journaling. A greater proportion of men in the audience looked like Moby than could be justified, I thought, by an author who was not also bald. I wouldn't've known Hornby is bald if I hadn't happened by him on "Jeff Greenfield at Large" a few weeks ago on CNN.

Hornby appeared, was introduced, and read a chapter from How to Be Good that had more lists. I love lists, which is why I'm enjoying High Fidelity so much. Then there were questions. The first was a man asking what Conan O'Brien is like. Hornby said that their entire relationship was televised, so the questioner knew as much as he did, and that everyone was very nice. So I piped up with, "What about Jeff Greenfield?" I believe he nearly snorted; he didn't but he did say, "You don't get out much here in Denver do you?" to much laughter, including my own. I own my own pathe-ness.

Earlier Jenn and I had talked about how our lives don't lend themselves to trainwreckitis. "I do live a very quiet life," I reflected, "except when I laugh."

We hung around the store for hours after the reading because no one was answering his phone. If neither Kevin nor her father-in-law answered by the time the store closed, I was ready to drive her wherever, but luckily everyone showed just around 10. Her mother-in-law, who had been in the accident, was fine; both of her parents-in-law were charming; and Kevin excused his leaving his wife and me in the dark with the fact that we were, in fact, at a bookstore. "Please don't put me in the briar patch!"