Monday, March 14, 2005
not so glad , bitches
You learn things being around famous and sometimes-famous and oh-my-god you recognized me famous people.
This was one of those weekends.
In the middle of Xiu Xiu's pop surrealism and old man pants, I learned that being 33 does not mean you can wake up and not have to do push-ups (he does too many to count, daily). It also means that you are fully capable of educating the young white youth through foosball (man has a mean slapshot). My Yay Area wallet-sized Morrissey, Jamie Stewart, is a paperbag full of disturbing humor, genuine humanity and prickly intelligence: in short, a good friend. Plus, the man knows his literature.
Yesterday, I also found out that writing for the New Yorker and having a book little kids will be reading for years to come (thank you No Child Left Behind As Long As There Is Oil In the Ground Act) will make you a prick. Malcolm Gladwell is one of these people. Today, while signing his pricey hardback copies of his Neuroscience for Oprah Watchers book, Blink, the man did not crack a smile for the tens of people gawking at the skinny, out-there haired Gladwell. Granted, the guy could have been having a bad day but there is no excuse for disregarding basic civic codes such as "hello" and "thankyou" in favor of a snobbish shyness. It was inriguing to say the least.
Then, minutes later I accidentally ran into Elvis Mitchell. He wins the Affable Critic of the Year award. After inviting me and my lady to drop by his Four Seasons hotel so he could see her film he was nice enough to chat a bit. "What are you doing here, Elvis?" I impishly asked. "Watching movies, hanging out", the good-natured man replied. And then, the former New York Times film critic and backdoor academic at Harvard joyously walked into the warm Austin sunlight with his snaky dreads in tow.
Authors are inherently hermetic and today I realized the polarities of both sides: one didn't want to be fucked with and the other was giddy to be recognized.
This week can only get stranger...
