Life gets weird on the road sometimes.

Writers tend, as everyone knows, toward the introverted, even the claustrophobic. That’s why readings make for such odd performance art.Whereas a half-hour listening even to, say, Bobcat Goldthwait would have its certain appeal--and I’m thinking of the entertainers I’d really least like to see--a novelist isn’t that kind of funambulist; we come by our work through continual and restless alone time. This does wonders for our social skills, lemme tell you: as a breed we get kind of inert,and are most relaxed--even maybe most ourselves --sitting in a room with no one else. And then, to hawk our wares, we’re sent out;we stand before (we hope) a crowded room and perform. (That’s why I mix my “shows” up by bringing audience members to read with me--it gives it a theatrical feel, and is more, I hope, fun. Because--to be honest--most readings are anything but fun…..)

Anyway, back to the weird, the unexpected twists of the road.

In Portland, the gifted writer PaulsToutonghi stopped me on the street before my reading.