But my college roommate e-mailed he “loved The Schiz.”
Your college roommate, you may say.
But his taste does not run to mashed potatoes. The last novel he recommended to me was by David Mitchell. And I bet he was the only athletic director in America with a collection of first edition Nabokovs in his office.
True, it was a Div III university, but still…
In other news, a friend in Manhattan has offered to copyedit Cheesesteak before its second edition for a less-than-nominal fee. She has professional credits in this field and, as befits a credited copyeditor, is a tad obsessive, as witnessed by its taking about 40 e-mails and two days to get past p. 1.
But now we are cooking, and have reached 12.
Finally, O, the artist who had been impressed enough by my promotional activities in the café to ask me for tips, invited me to the opening of his show. He gave the address and date.
“What time?” I said.
“9:30,” he said.
“Can’t make it. Too late”
“Don’t you go out at night?”
“We go to Bob Dylan concerts.”
He nodded. He could see that.
“Sometimes we go to house concerts at a friend’s, but we leave by 9:00, after the first set.”
“What time do you go to bed?”
“8:00. Get up at 5:00.”
“Even if I offer inducements. There will be cookies.”
I imagined how that would play with Adele. My expression must not have been encouraging.
“I guess it won’t work. But can you be there in spirit?”
“I can be there in spirit. Sure.”
“That is the important thing.”
I had the date. I had the address. If I woke up around 9:30 to urinate, which was not out of the question, I would give my spirit directions.