Ada Books is, first of all, an exquisitely curated little bookstore with a pleasing and simple aesthetic. Also, I stole a very cushy chair while everyone else sat on wooden ones because I am apparently a real princess. I say apparently like this is news.
William Walsh read some new work, and it was great. He wanted to read Boothgirl, but the crowd was very small and very attractive, and who knows what kind of blushing might have happened. He wrote the documentary novel Without Wax that I really like. I think you’ll like it, too.
Then Brian Foley, whose hair looked just like Bill Callahan’s, read some of his stuff. I hadn’t been familiar beforehand, and it was nice to hear the way it should be read before you read it yourself. Afterwards, I sat down outside with nice beer and some steamed mussels and frites and his chapbook, “The Tornado Is Not A Surrealist,” which I don’t think I said thank you for, but am indeed thankful for. (via blog, his girlfriend also has really gorgeous illustrations which are dreamy, and like if Darger and Beatrix Potter were lab partners in high school chem who had a really awesome, explosive mix-up.)
I realized a few minutes ago that Foley is only two years older than me and I did a lot of self-flagellating. I should switch that to the present tense: I am doing a lot of self-flagellating. I’m really into this age thing lately.
