last week, i had dinner with my most excellent professor of all time, stephen booth, and his wife. we ate at eccolo, and had a great time.
i tend to do things that really ought to embarrass me in front of him, but never seem to. i think it's part of what endears me to him. anyway, at dinner, i was telling them about dario, and how there's going to be a chapter about him in bill buford's forthcoming book.
i started the story by asking, "are you familiar with the writer bill buford?"
stephen and his wife looked at one another for a second and then he said, "well, he dedicated his book to me."
i'm sitting there, trying to tell a story about the editor of granta, a man who writes for the new yorker. i want to make a connection for my listeners. i want there to be relevance for them. so i ask if they know who i am talking about, to make sure my story won't bore them to death. and bill buford effing dedicated his book to booth?!?!?!!!
i should have known. this is not the first time this has happened to me with him.
he went on, telling me how on the night that buford found out that he received the marshall scholarship, he came over to their house, and they all went out for chinese to celebrate. he told me how buford was among the many of his graduate and undergraduate students to be in love with the lovely mary booth (his daughter!).
maybe i'm not doing a very good job of telling this story. i feel like i'm not. but it was really funny when it happened.