FYI
The desk and chair in the space previously occupied by the color copier are items we are trying to return.
We won't be using them as they must remain in new condition until this issue is resolved.
Thanks
I'll keep you posted.
I went to the David Sedaris thing last night and this is what I got for an autograph, for so many reasons.
Number one, when I walked into the convention center and saw him sitting there waxing back and forth between not-smiling and smiling contently, my glasses fogged up. I didn't think I could hate this pair of glasses any worse than I already do, but I did.
Since I'm not completely oblivious anymore, I have a problem walking up to a highly observant person and asking them to sign a piece of paper for me.* I don't even know why, except that I really don't understand the concept of autographs anymore. "Here, sign this. You may die one day, and I can eBay it. Or maybe it will bring me nearer to some part of thee in my tiny, possession-filled life." Invariably, I may have asked him to sign it with some embarrassing little phrase I thought to be witty at the time: "Can you please sign it 'To Ron because Bethany is too embarrassed to ask for herself'?" It's the exact opposite of walking up to John Lennon with purpose and handing him your card that says only one word: "Breathe".**
I actually did get in line though. But then I realized I had nothing for him to sign. Again with the fog, and what the hell am I thinking. Maybe I could wing it. What do I have in my purse... nothing but a new $20 bill. Ok, that's really stupid. "Will you sign my American currency? I have no foresight. And I feel like I need to ask you to write your name. For me to take home. Please." I was about three people away from getting his autograph, sans beaujolais or Budweiser, glasses in coat pocket. It's better to have two little dig-marks on the sides of your nose (where the dog accidentally stomped off the only soft parts of your glasses) than to actually see someone instinctively whipping up a good estimation as to why your glasses are fogged.
So I stepped to the next line and fumbled for something, anything to buy. "Do you have his most current book?" The guy looked at me like I just accused his mother of secretly laundering money through a crackhouse down the street. Of course no one has his current book, not even the publisher yet. I can feel things like that coming out of my mouth, and can't stop them, not even after they bellyflop down onto the table and scream for those who missed it the first time. Since I'm used to this, I bought a CD of him live at Carnegie Hall, and here is where creation smiled upon me, and I lost my place in line as the security guard closed it off before I got back. Good.
Because I just wanted to hear his stuff and the way he would have said it. Not to meet him as one of the herd with their blank pieces of paper. And even though on-sight, I knew the girl who sat next to me full of several strong cocktails, was going to sit still as long as she could until she had to call someone on her cellphone, in her extra-long jeans and extra-pointy shoes to announce where she was, and yes, wasn't that just crazy!; and even though she laughed backwards (Ah Ah AHH versus Ha Ha HAAA), she still couldn't have been more obnoxious, only because we had one thing in common.
So I squinted until his face came into focus. As he read through his new stuff, scratched through words that didn't work, stumbled on his own sentence structure three times in a row and said under his breath "I'm sorry", he was exactly the person I had hoped he might be. Sure. I could go on about it for days, and I'm sure I will after I tapdance on that new desk in the hall waiting to be taken away.
The endless autograph line snaked back into the auditorium after the show. I wanted to get back in line and ask him to just sign it "I'm sorry", but I didn't ask. Ron asked, "You sure you don't want to go over there?... Just remember, it doesn't matter what you say, ten times as many people have said something stupider... to him. You sure you don't want to get one? He may never come back." I thought, that's why I'd rather keep what I have now without ruining it by being a well-meaning awkward human.***
*I know. I got John Flansburg's autograph, but that was different. When you know someone only from the sound of his voice and not written words, it's easier to ask him a stupid or completely average question. Plus, it wasn't a nice little single-spaced line formed in front of him like taking communion from a priest. And as always, beer never fails to lend a hand when you're looking for that extra confidence in asking for something tangible.
** I still unrealistically hate Yoko Ono since she did ruin everything, just everything.
***Oh, the irony. Oh well. Scott's right. I am a mushy girl, and unless something puts you in jail or kills you, it's not really a Big Deal.
Camping Van Beethoven.
I'm going camping this weekend and won't be back til Tuesday. So I hope you have a good weekend and if you want, you can go by and break into my house and steal all my good stuff. I'd really like a new plasma screen tv.
