I blinked and it was October. I blinked again and I couldn’t walk. One of my knees had a gash so deep and gnarly in it, I needed seven stitches. (Which I didn’t get.) What happened was this.
Last Tuesday night started off very maturely and responsibly. I began the evening by popping into my literal office—also known as Air Mail HQ, or the publication’s newsstand on Hudson Street—and wow! I was working so backbreakingly hard in the media coal mines, eating canapés and chitchatting with my colleagues, when I ran into John Maher of The New York Times Book Review. He’s sort of like the Alex Vadukul of downtown books in the sense that he’s sceney, but also has the kind of presence that makes your shoulders relax and your eyes light up. Not always a guarantee with witty, accomplished white men on the socialite circuit! And thank God John was there that night because I’ve been a bit of an iCal delinquent lately, what with my move and my trip to Italy and could you believe it? The Granta party was starting in an hour down the block! We were off.