One of my most despised books we've read for the PBR Book Club is Michael Chabon's Telegraph Avenue. I hated this book so much, I refused to give my copy to the Free Book dispensary on campus as to save the torture of another unsuspecting soul who heard that Chabon was a great writer.
Nevertheless, Michael Chabon himself was just feet away from me a few days ago. I had just been on the air at a local NPR studio talking about nudity in art when I saw Chabon waiting to go on the air to promote the worst book he's written, Telegraph Avenue. He was sitting and looked lonely like he wanted to talk to someone friendly from Kansas. If it were any other of our other authors we've poured over for the PBR Book club, I would have shook his hand and said "Wow, I really enjoyed your book" and then describe our beloved book club. In fact, if the author before me was Gary Shteyngart or Haruki Murakami, I probably would have kissed his feet.
To an outsider, it may have appeared that I was simply walking in another direction than where Chabon waited; like a distracted individual looking for the water fountain or the exit. The reality was the engagement of an unsuspecting smooth snub.