My oh-so-lovely weekend started off at CJ's Landing, in Buckhead, a neighborhood in Atlanta where beautiful young men and women gather to drink. It happens to be owned by my nephews, Jack and Stephen Hudnall, two of the best-read, most enlightened, and did-I-mention-they-look-like-Brad-Pitt? Just taller, and maybe not quite so involved with Angelina.
Stef Dorfman started off the ceremonies with an amazing Rock 'n Soul, piece, called "Weak" which, if it wasn't written as a tribute to Diana Lively is Falling Down, should have been (listen to it here). The rest of the evening was a blur of book signings and the amazing experience of meeting readers who loved my book, who said they hadn't enjoyed a book like that in years. I kept thinking, could my parents really have bribed all these people to lie? After the party we went on to a private Atlanta club where I ordered steak, despite my constant intention to give it up, and looked up and down the table of revelers. It felt like my wedding, except then, none of us had money, and now, some of my siblings (alright, everyone but me) does. We had a glorious time and rolled home in a limosine way past my bedtime.
The next night, my fairy godbrother, Larry rented a fancy bus, not unlike the Magic Bus -- except in leatherette with TVs and coolers -- that we drove down to Phillips Arena to see the Boss. If you know me at all, you know I'm crazy for that man, always have been. No wedding is complete without a pre-nuptial agreement, a dispensation for the one person (the more unlikely the better) with whom one is allowed to have a one-night fling. My loophole in 1976 was Springsteen and it still is. As I said to my sister Cathy, from the second row seats Larry gave up, the man is WAY cuter when you're ten feet away. Having heard he likes redheads, I was hoping the lights might glint on Cathy's hair, which is a way prettier red than mine, but whatever it was, I swear he was looking right at us as he sang "I'm On Fire."
You aren't the only one, Brucie.
Now I'm in D.C. and looking forward to party in which I'll be reading Diana Lively is Falling Down to a visiting group of Ukrainian psychologists, doctors and social workers, as well as about fifty of my friend Barbara's clearing-house-of-friends, many of whom I know from the years I spent weekending here when we lived in Charlottesville.
Tonight I'm collecting a playlist of songs on my IPOD, which the well-regarded Happy Booker has kindly agreed to feature tomorrow on her site. Check it out to see just how stuck-in-the-eighties I really am.
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