Seems I’m a freak magnet. I headed to Summerstage in Central Park awhile back to behold the linguistic majesty that is Junot Diaz, the New Jersey dude who bagged this year’s Pulitzer Prize and who did I sit next to? Rather, who sat next to me?
The craziest harpy who ever set foot in a library, that’s who.
This wild-eyed woman surely held a graduate degree and might even have an esteemed position in academia. That’s the way the world works sometimes. I love crazy people as much as the next person, I really do. But she muttered the entire time that Diaz was addressed and anytime he spoke. As far as I know, she is not a brilliant writer anyone camped out to see.
“He’s such a piece of shit. Why does he talk about women like that? Is he married?” she frantically asked as she swiveled in her seat. She tried to make eye contact with me; I didn’t return it. The girl next to her briefly turned and got her ear chewed off with the ballbreaking schtick that gives feminists a bad rap, the same kind that might prompt some stupid women to vote for McCain because he clearly supports women’s rights, what with asking someone with ovaries to run with him. Because labels make politics so easy.
The Brief, Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao portrays the lives of men and women of various ages. Adolescence is involved. Sexuality is involved. A portrayal does not necessarily mean an author agrees with each character’s actions or beliefs. This is something most people understand, but it’s not something to be taken for granted, I guess.
The woman next to me started poking at the man in front of her, asking him if Diaz is divorced and snorting, “I’ll bet he is! He makes me sick!” The guy said he wasn’t sure, maybe she should ask when questions were turned over to the audience.
Right. And maybe the child predator should lead the local Cub Scout group on a trip to the mountains.
Eventually, the moderators asked anyone with questions to come forward. The woman next to me scrambled to the line that formed, scribbling a tirade onto a scrap of paper. When it was her turn to speak, everyone in my row and the one in front of it cringed. We could only make out a few words, because she was screeching incoherently away from the microphone at a pace that would impress Twista.
Diaz thanked her for her comments, looking like the very explication of WTF. Everyone else booed. Crazycakes headed back to her seat all aglow. It was like she’d just been crowned President of Assholes. The bitch was incumbent.
Tomorrow night, I’m headed to another reading and signing by Junot Diaz. It will be wondrous, and I hope not too brief. And I’m hoping that one outraged critic will be unable to attend. Honestly, I’d love to see her raising hell at the Republican National Convention or Zabar’s or any other place where I won’t be anytime soon.
I wondered who that crazy lady was, thanks for solving the mystery!
Lily