I picked up a slice near NYU at Ben’s Pizzeria for lunch today. Despite the police officer at the counter, who gaped openly at my chest, I sat down to eat instead of taking my food back to work. The mullet-sporting young scenester next to me was talking on his cell phone about the Sexual Firsts reading in which Lindsay Robertson and some other female bloggers are reading tonight. This topic proved to be a launching-pad for the boy’s surprisingly passionate discourse on the relative merits of fictional stories and true ones.
I meant to transcribe his side of the conversation (all I could hear) right away, but I was distracted by
all the contests going on today all the work on my desk. Here’s what he said (line breaks represent pauses during which the person on the other end presumably was speaking):
It’s a reading about the first time they had sex?
Christ, I hope it’s nonfiction.
Because fiction sucks. It’s fake and boring.
No, no, Me Talk Pretty One Day is nonfiction.
Well, of course he had to fill in the gaps.
I didn’t say he could remember everything. But at least he didn’t make up the stories.
Yeah, I know it’s exaggerated.
It’s a memoir, okay? That’s all. And I just hope these chicks are reading nonfiction, too… Are they hot?