5.27.98

sometimes i think it would be nice to dine with dead writers. they would be wonderful dinner guests, even if their personalities didn't agree. i'd invite steinbeck as my official date, since truman capote was gay and i'd feel like he would be my date only as a pity-date.

camus would be in the corner. "albert," i'd ask, "would you like sparkling grape juice or water with your meal?"

"it doesn't matter, it doesn't matter," he'd reply.

most of the guests would stay away from hemingway, growling in a corner as the alcohol turned him increasingly morbid. "stop waving that thing around," he'd snap at kafka, who was squawking, "i have antennae! i have antennae!" while hitting himself with a flyswatter.

oblivious to the this absurdity, fitzgerald would flirtatiously offer his napkin to willa cather, whose eyes rolled upward and then over to wink at virginia woolf. "hey, where's jd salinger?" everyone would ask, feeling foolish when someone reminded us that mr. salinger, though reclusive, was still very much alive.

faulkner would crash the party, attempting (and failing) to win popularity by bringing a coffin as a gag. and allen ginsberg, still bitter over my faux pas of confusing him with alan GREENSPAN, would throw stink bombs at the house, cackling at his tomfoolery.

we would dine, then perhaps sit around and nibble on madelines that proustie had brought as a housewarming gift. hemingway'd begin to drunkenly whip madelines at everybody's noses. and we'd all laugh. oh, that crazy ernie, we'd say, laughing because his suicidal impulses were for naught since he was already dead.