May 1, 2011
My dad called me and left this message:
Hey Bobby. Just called to wish you a happy birthday. Gosh, how old are you now? Let’s see, you were born in 69. 1969, 79, 89, 99, 2009, 2011. Are you 42 years old? Wow. Gosh you’re older than I am. Sorry I missed you. Talk to you later. Love you. Dad.
On my birthday I bought a belt for myself at American Apparel and it turns out it’s a womens belt (though some would call it Unisex). Sigh.
But had a fun night. Turf club then out with the gang at Whistle Stop bar.
In other news:
I met and had dinner with writer Dorothy Allison last week! She was part of our college’s Literary Arts Festival and she was pretty damn awesome. Funny as hell and oh my, the story she read– 45 minutes long– moving, scary, sharp. She’s such a master of dialogue. I was completely consumed by the reading– wholly taken out of the dingy theater with it’s avocado walls and bright red seats. She is without a doubt one of the great writers of our generation.
It’s hardly pulpy but it is a movie-tie-in. And it satisfies my June Allyson fetish. For now.