I am going to open comments back up to unregistered people. I had kind of forgotten I’d shut them off, which I did after an incident of unpleasantness (spam-related). When I get around to figuring out how to do so in Nucleus, I’ll probably add one of those Turing-test things to help avoid spambot comments. But for now it should be fine.

I got this nice email today, is why I want people to be able to comment.

Hey,

I originally tried to post this as a comment to your blog entry about Sarah Vowell at GW, but since I couldn’t post to your site I’m emailing you instead:

“Actually, it didn’t take that long to get through the line. I was pretty much at the end of the line, and got my book signed at around 10:45.”

The comment wasn’t that exciting, but I also wanted to say that I liked your recap of the event. I particularly liked the part about being “in an auditorium of smart people who thought things I thought were funny were funny.” It’s always kind of affirming and humbling at the same time to experience a shared appreciation for something that you thought was your personal find.

Rob
http://www.sinkingships.net/

“Affirming and humbling” is nice, yes.

I’m a little disappointed that we didn’t stick it out; 10:45 wouldn’t have been so late. I’m amazed she went through that line that fast. Perhaps the line was only half as long as it appeared, like if it was full of couples who had one book between the two of them, for instance.

For anyone who doesn’t know, though, I did go with Lisa, who has two small children at home, and because of the train delay it was already getting awfully late. Plus it was a school/work night for both of us. It was best that we just got out of the city when we did. Sometimes I miss being younger and more carefree, and very occasionally I think it might have been fun to go to school in DC (Lisa thinks this a hundred percent; I’m not really on board). Then I get home to the admittedly distant suburb where I live and where I have scads of space for my books, and I think about the fact I met my best friends and found my life’s work at a university with cows, and I think it’s probably better this way.

…we had broiled salmon, baked potatoes, steamed broccoli, hollandaise sauce, and crème brûlée.

All of which we made from scratch.

The kitchen torch rules.

Lisa and I went to hear Sarah Vowell read at the Lisner last night. It was supposed to start at 8, and our seats were way down in front, row F. We got there in time to have a quick drink in the lobby, then we went in.

And waited.

Around 8:10 or so, an announcement was made that Sarah’s train from New York had been delayed, but that she was on her way. They played a recording of an old NPR interview with her, with readings from The Partly Cloudy Patriot, and we all listened to and laughed at that.

Then (and this was adorable) a staff member brought her cell phone to the microphone, and we could hear Sarah on the phone. She answered a couple of questions and described how her Acela train had been stopped for two or three hours. If I were you I’d expect an essay called “Those Acela People” or “Rescue Train” (as these were phrases she enjoyed using) in her next book. As she was being driven towards us, she told us where she was. The phone call started at 1st and C, or thereabouts, making it clear she’d just gotten off the train, and when she hung up she was at 18th and Virginia. The auditorium is at 21st and H. She came running up to the podium only a few minutes later, with no introduction. I suspect she ran directly from the car to the podium.

She read from Assassination Vacation and from some columns she’s been writing for the New York Times, including the one that’s going to run this coming Sunday. It was all funny, including (or especially) the little asides, and everyone laughed at the right places. It felt nice to be in an auditorium of smart people who thought things I thought were funny were funny. Sometimes with writers like Sarah Vowell I tend to think “not everyone would get this” and feel sort of proud of myself, and while that’s true, I forget that “not everyone” is still a hell of a lot of people.

Of course, one of the longest readings was from the Oneida vegetarian sex cult part of the book, and that’d get laughs from anyone.

She took lots of audience questions. There was a cute story about her nephew going to kindergarten and telling his classmates “My Aunt Sarah was Violet in The Incredibles!” and having no one believe him (“Yeah? Well my dad is Batman!”). There were lots of little, slightly grumbled asides about the vice president shooting people, of course. Stuff like that is liberal comedy gold, you know. Someone asked who she thought the next president and vice president should be, and what may have been the night’s biggest laugh came when she answered, “Well … I’m a Democrat; we don’t really think that way.”

On the way out there was a mess as the staff tried to line up people for book signings back into the exit tunnel from the seats, simultaneously with people who didn’t know that trying to get to the line and people who just wanted to leave trying to get to the door … and at one point someone quietly said “excuse me” and squeezed quickly between me and Lisa … and of course it was Sarah. The staff made her go back into the auditorium and around the back of the line to get through, which was funny. We were all in line to talk to her, after all.

Once the leavers were gone and the herd had thinned, we looked at the book-signing line (I had Assassination Vacation in my hand) and decided, what with the late start (it was about 10:15 at this point) we’d be there until midnight. There were a LOT of people wanting books signed. So I decided (“she totally bumped into me”) what I’d seen was enough, and I didn’t need to be the 200th person to have my book signed, and we went home.

I spent the weekend at David and Lisa’s, being a complete Olympics junkie. I didn’t realize they had this disorder as well, but they do, or else the three of us just brought it out in each other. In force.

Here is something that happens now while watching the Olympics that did not always happen.

Scenario: You’re watching an event on TV. Say, snowboarding. Specifically, half-pipe.

Old way:
Companion 1: “I wonder how deep the pipe is.”
Companion 2: “I don’t know, figure that guy’s about five-ten, maybe, so it looks like maybe thirty feet?”

New way:
Companion 1: “I wonder how deep the pipe is.”
Companion 2: “Let me Google it.” *begins Googling it*
Companion 3: “I wonder how high they get.”
Companion 1: “Look that up too.”
Companion 2: “Okay.” *continues looking for depth of half-pipe*
Companion 3: “Do they have pads, or just helmets?”
Companion 1: “Google that.”
Companion 2: “Wait, what was the second thing?”
Companion 3: “How much air they get? Or the pads?”
Companion 2: “The air. Hold on. Five meters.”
Companion 1: “That’s how high they get?”
Companion 2: “NO, that’s how deep the pipe is.”
Companion 3: “What is that in feet?”
Companion 2: “Hold on, I can Google that. What was the second thing?”

And so on. It’s magical. At one point, after I had repeatedly used Google to calculate luge speeds (which were on the screen in kilometers per hour), David and I were simultaneously looking things up. “How old is that guy?” “Was she in the last Olympics?” “How long are those skates?”

What did we do twelve, eight, even four years ago? Did we just wait for Bob Costas to anticipate our needs?

What Winter Sport Are You?
You Are Curling

What you lack in athleticism, you make up for in concentration.
And while curling isn’t much more of a sport than bowling, you *can* win a gold medal for it!