As a rule, my life is such a yawn I have trouble finding stuff to write about. I’ve settled for socks, dial tones, just about anything. Today was unusual, I had a variety: our recent F4 tornado and the National Book Awards and the ramifications of– da-da-da-dum — a bad omen. Decisions, decisions, right? How could I pick one? I couldn’t, I dithered.
Back and forth and round and round I went, until it dawned on me: they’re all disasters. One fashion, one natural, and one pending, soon to be released.
Let’s start with the posh, fancy-pants National Book Awards. The ceremony itself was held Wednesday night in downtown Manhattan at Cipriani Wall Street and featured a formal dinner of loin of lamb and tiramisu. More than 700 famous authors and big time publishers and hoity-toity agent types were in attendance. We’ll call them the literary glitterati (say that 3…
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