Three Lives

So David Mitchell seems like a really nice bloke. Not that you could have seen that coming, what with his novels being so brilliant, sensitive and profound.
Krissa and I went to a reading of his new book, Black Swan Green at Three Lives book shop in Greenwich Village last night, and it was bloody hot in there. There was quite a crowd for such a small shop, and he'd just come from the pub, which of course as a fellow Englishman instantly endeared him to me. Also use of the words like 'flid', 'spaz' and 'twat' liberally sprinkled throughout the reading (from the book) cheered me up no end in a childishly nostalgic non-PC sort of way, but I didn't pass the "Let's see if there are any Brits in the audience" test by not recognizing the name of a Blue Peter personality from the very early 80s. But hey. I'd never been to a reading before, and I have a history of making an arsehole of myself in front of famous people, so when Krissa and I got out of the shop without insulting or defaming the author I considered it a resounding success.

After reading Cloud Atlas I was of the opinion that David Mitchell was an emotionally mature, intelligent man of the world, wise and sage in matters international, probably gleaned from about forty years' experience of the sort of career where being wise and sage in matters international is a bonus. He's actually thirty seven, and he doesn't look it or act like it. His booksleeve photos made me think of the grim silent groundskeeper from the TV show Monarch of The Glen, when in fact he's closer to being a man born thirty seven years ago but nevertheless the experimental offspring of Mark and Pete. If you can conscience such a thing.

After leaving the bookshop Krissa and I grabbed a hasty quesadilla and margarita and had a stroll around the Village, taking in the blindingly brilliant buskers in Washington Square. There was one guy on semi-acoustic guitar, another on bass, two saxophonists, a few drums players and a wide-eyed and swaying crowd gathered in a niche, with the Empire State Building shining white through the arch against the sky. It was warm, there was a calm breeze in the trees and the music was out of this world. The players bounced solos back and forth and played off of each other and struggled to be the first to get up on the harmony while everyone else freestyled, and Krissa and I stood and swayed with the rest, clapped and threw change and smiled at each other and kissed and strolled away while they took requests and we had one hell of an evening.

Springtime in New York...is pretty wonderful.