a few observations on a shitty reading:

1. If I ever do a book tour (and I think I shall, yo, right after I, um... write the book...), I'm cutting the 92nd St. Y right out of the agenda. Sure, the Kaufmann Concert Hall (which I've come to think of as the Blah Blah Auditorium) is swanky and boasts a glowy blue curtain and charmingly random name-dropping along the crown of the room (Ex.: David Moses Einstein), but it's really not the scene I'm going for. If I'm planning a thoroughly degrading kiss-up to this bitch of a city and know that my patrons are coughing up the dough for my "evening with the author," I'm heading straight for either a) Cooper Union's Great Hall (in which case I'd arrange for an accompanying art exhibit prepared entirely by engineering students, but that's really a whole other dream I can tell you about later), b) the auditorium at Washington Irving High School, c) the Beacon Theater, or d) the Metropolitan Museum of Art roof garden. Got it? See you there.

2. When I get there, there's clearly no better choice for Author Introducer (although I suppose it's of dubious necessity since shouldn't a "writer" be able to come up with something clever along the lines of self-introduction?) than the soon-to-be esteemed American novelist, Tony. This became increasingly obvious as we both stifled giggles during the weak back-of-the-book introduction by some graying head of a department from, you guessed it, Princeton University. Incidentally, everything Tony mentioned -- also true.

3. Not only is it not uncool to bring multiple books for the author to sign, it seems to be imperative. I brought two and handed one off to Marc, figuring I wouldn't mind if my copy of The Red Notebook was signed with something clever like, "To Marc, who actually carries a red notebook everywhere he goes, including to my signing, although he refuses to take it out of his bag (you silly boy): It's brilliant to witness this kind of zest for life emanating from a true New Yorker. From one city boy to another. I'll always cherish this moment. Yours, Paul Auster," while my copy of The Book of Illusions would be signed with something along the lines of, "Kate, oh Kate, thank you for bringing your own pencil. That was clever in the most indulgent way. Please don't steal my legions of fans. Couldn't we share? Remember me when we are old... Fondly, Paul Auster." Luckily for the two-hundred people in front of us in line, who seemed to be carrying at least six books each, all anyone seemed to get was a hasty "Paul Auster," incidentally signed with a pen he told me was (I'm paraphrasing) "just fine... I found it on the floor," when I offered up my pencil. I was planning to give him a bookmark I made with the word integrity scrawled across the top, but I suddenly second-guessed myself and hid it in my palm as I reclaimed the book he proffered. I say luckily, of course, because I've heard that an undesignated autograph is more valuable on ebay than a personalized message. Well, Mr. Auster, you've selected your storefront carefully.

4. How can an entire Burritoville just disappear? My first reaction before last night would have been: Does the fact that Burritoville is gone mean that it was never there to begin with? But now I just think the building was torn down. Do you see, Mr. Auster? You're ruining tomorrow's literati.