Kentucky
This weekend I went to Kentucky for the third time in my life, but the first two times don't really count. The first time I was in college and drove down with a group of people to the Kentucky Derby. It rained, I didn't see a horse the entire time, and if I never see a mint julep again it will be too soon. The second time I went to Paducah with the guy I was dating at the time, who tricked me into going by saying it would just be a short drive to his friend's lake house. Eight hours later we arrived at the house. The next morning I jumped off a 30-foot cliff into a water-filled quary, and just being able to say that I took the jump of the insane (on multiple occaisons over the course of the next ten years) made the trip worth it, even though I broke up with the guy shortly after when I realized that his idea of a vacation included going to his parents' trailer in southern Indiana.
This time I was in Bowling Green for the Southern Kentucky Book Fest, which I'd been imagining would be sort of like Word Fest in Michael Chabon's Wonderboys, and it kind of was, minus the pediophilia and the dead dog. Which is to say, there were lots of writers, and lots of complaining about publishers and the publishing world ensued. Also there were weird people and a few Famous Authors who huddled with their groupies in the far corners of rooms and some guy playing a fiddle and men in mint green sports coats.
And there were people who backed away from me when I said I was from New York (Steven said I should just have worn a sign that said "Yes, I am judging you but it's okay, I judge everyone."), there was barbecue, and there were gaggles of teenagers in bathing suits runing through the lobby on Saturday night because apparently the Holiday Inn off I65 is the place to be.
There was much oggling of Kentucky real estate prices, some guy in a penguin suit who scared Milo, aspiring writers just wishing they could be published, writers with two-book-deals who were miserable, and a nice local couple at the playground who cited their reading of the New York Times as an example of how intellectual they were. I wanted to tell them it's okay, Steven wouldn't read the New York Times if you paid him.
And then we came back home. Last night as I lay awake thinking about the trip I counted the number of states Milo has been to in his short life: 13 states so far, which is almost one state for every month he's been in existence.
This time I was in Bowling Green for the Southern Kentucky Book Fest, which I'd been imagining would be sort of like Word Fest in Michael Chabon's Wonderboys, and it kind of was, minus the pediophilia and the dead dog. Which is to say, there were lots of writers, and lots of complaining about publishers and the publishing world ensued. Also there were weird people and a few Famous Authors who huddled with their groupies in the far corners of rooms and some guy playing a fiddle and men in mint green sports coats.
And there were people who backed away from me when I said I was from New York (Steven said I should just have worn a sign that said "Yes, I am judging you but it's okay, I judge everyone."), there was barbecue, and there were gaggles of teenagers in bathing suits runing through the lobby on Saturday night because apparently the Holiday Inn off I65 is the place to be.
There was much oggling of Kentucky real estate prices, some guy in a penguin suit who scared Milo, aspiring writers just wishing they could be published, writers with two-book-deals who were miserable, and a nice local couple at the playground who cited their reading of the New York Times as an example of how intellectual they were. I wanted to tell them it's okay, Steven wouldn't read the New York Times if you paid him.
And then we came back home. Last night as I lay awake thinking about the trip I counted the number of states Milo has been to in his short life: 13 states so far, which is almost one state for every month he's been in existence.
posted by Hana @ 1:58 PM
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