i'm a snob.

Sometimes John and I will be out somewhere and overhear people talking about something, like a movie, and they say something that we know is wrong. Like, for example, I don't know, they get the plot a little wrong or a character's name. It always makes me feel weird. Because I sort of want to tell them the character's name or the way the plot really goes. But I don't. Not necessarily because I think it'd be rude to say something (because sometimes it wouldn't be awkward, like, if we were all in line together at Disneyland and they can't remember Eeyore's name or something), but because I'm pretty shy.

And that feeling, that that's not quite right, but not wrong enough, nor important enough, for me to correct a total stranger feeling, was how I felt while sitting on a plastic folding chair in the very crowded Vroman's Bookstore in Pasadena waiting for Nick Hornby.

I think I may have crossed the line into "weird fan."

I got there early, but not as early as I would've liked because I came from work. And most of the chairs were already taken. (At this point I happened to notice a woman who comes into the store where I work all the time...but she didn't recognize me. That was a little disappointing.) So I sat on the floor. Then this woman motioned to me that there was a free seat next to her.

The girls on my left were talking about How to be Good. And...they just didn't sound like they remembered the book...at all. I couldn't say anything though. Because they were the kind of girls that wear those flip-flops with huge flowers over the toes. And I'm the kind of girl that goes to a book signing alone and silently judges people for not knowing the...well...plot of a book they say they've read. Do you hear my judgmental tone? I'm so ashamed.

And then there was the woman behind me. She'd seen Fever Pitch, based on the book of the same name, and wondered how the ending of the book was different. Namely, whether Nick Hornby was married. And I know that he isn't. And I felt a little creepy for knowing.

The woman who told me about the empty seat was really nice. She comes to signings there all the time and lives in Pasadena.

It was a little strange. Being there alone. I mean, the three things I enjoy doing the most--reading, writing, and thinking--are things I pretty much have to do alone. But when I do things, like go to concerts or book siginings or whatever, being alone is just depressing. (For example, in May of 2002, I saw No Doubt all by myself at Riverstages. I ended up leaving early and waiting on the curb for Sara, who saw Ani DiFranco. All around bad evening.)

He was late. And when he came he had make-up on because he'd just come from filming the Late Late Show. The woman that introduced him said Fever Pitch (a memoir) was a novel. And why, why, do I care? It's not my book. And I haven't even read it.

So Mr. Hornby read from A Long Way Down, which was really funny read aloud. His voice is nothing like I thought it would be.

I got my books signed. And when he noticed I'd brought The Polysyllabic Spree, he asked if I'd read it. I said yes, and that I was surprised he asked... And he sort of laughed and put his head down. Because I made him blush.

He was really sweet and rather timid. And I made him blush.

I drove back through Pasadena, the same road I've been on every time I've ever gone to Pasadena. Because I've only ever been there to eat at the Cheesecake Factory or watch the Rose Parade. The view from the 134 heading back west was gorgeous. All those lights, stretched out for miles. And I was just coming back from a book signing of a world-famous author that I just heard about yesterday...and I just sort of remembered that I live in Los Angeles. California. As in Los Angeles.