In general, I am opposed to readings. Not reading, mind—I'm reading right now!—but readings, where a roomful of literates sit quietly and endure what may be the least interesting possible spectacle: an author murmuring aloud from his latest book. Readings go on too long, they happen in places I do not want to be, and they require me to drink more white wine than I like. For this, they are to be avoided.
However, there are occasional exceptions. My friend Robert Norman has solved the problem of the all-too-boring reading by instituting a few informal guidelines. His readings are funny. They are always shorter than a half an hour. They tend to include beer and liquor. And there is one happening tonight in Bushwick, at the Pleasure Jail at Silent Barn. (Silly Bushwick—in my part of Brooklyn, our arts spaces have sensible names.) For what it's worth, I'll be among those reading—recounting the two times in high school that I fielded inquiries from secret admirers, without managing to ever get laid.
This is all part of one of Rob's new projects, a gorgeous little chapbook (I think that's the word for it) called Notes To Girls. He made 300 of these little beauties—an envelope filled with notes, some real and some fake, written by people...to girls. It is a charming project, and totally typical of the kinds of things he makes so well. Come on out, drink some booze, hear a few minutes of reading, and then drink some more.