Yes, I am still working my way, quite enjoyably, through David Sedaris‘, When You Are Engulfed in Flames. I got a little giddy at the point of the above referenced story when David mentioned relaying this anecdote to a towncar driver on his way to a speaking engagement in New Jersey. Hey! New Jersey, 2006! That’s a show I wanted to go to! (but invariably didn’t for lack of funds…this, of course, was before I was rolling in my copious amounts of BookSwim money…really, I lay it out on the bed at night and roll around in it.)

So it got me thinking about all those times you go to a concert or a public reading or any other engagement where the performer feels somehow obligated to let you know that though they travel all over the country/world, the Rutherford Barnes & Noble or The Saint, in Asbury Park, is actually their favorite place to perform. Do they think we believe them? But in the excitement, just to hear this larger than life person utter the name of our town or watering hole, we cheer incessantly. Woo-hoo! My town!

I would. I absolutely would. In fact, I have. “It’s so great to be here at Monmouth University!” (applause) “So while I was on my way over today to…MONMOUTH UNIVERSITY,” (bigger applause…whooping, even) “I stopped by UNIVERSITY SUBS…” (enormous applause…a guy with a popped collar and no neck yells, “Roast Beef and muenster!”) I have to admit: it’s a thrill. But it’s still pandering.

It is the same principle that led my father, a passionate Classicist, to recommend that I never visit Rome: sometimes, it is best to keep the idealized image of something intact, rather than spoiling it with its reality.

The Clarkes were a pleasant pair, though, cheerfully enduring mine and Eric’s poor attempts to come up with meaningful questions. I often wonder how a person who makes his or her living peddling the written word interacts with daily life, where there is no foreshadowing, people are not built to be foils of each other, and tangents branch from the main plot, never to return again.