I was caught in an embarrassing situation but it's my fault. A dreamy former classmate met me for a drink at Penn Station and found me reading Seagalogy: A Study of the Ass-kicking Films of Steven Seagal by Vern. I was lost in the brilliance of this text and didn't think to stuff it in my bag before detection. Discussion ensued. Why didn't I bring Proust instead? Because I was in the mood for Seagal and Vern captures how Steven is an enigma wrapped in a riddle. It's fun to wallow in the past and my friend was a blast to spend an hour with. True, he's not so fixated on Naomi Watts' baby bump or how Carla Bruni went from Vincent Perez to Sarkozy, but we shared dating stories and the fact that we're still hung up on our exes but trying to ignore it with a mighty influx of inept substitutes. And, I admit, it's nice to be around beautiful people (though Penn Station has more than its share of uggos!) and I try to do this as much as possible.
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