So I’m standing at the bathroom sink last night getting ready for bed and, for no reason I can fathom, the name “Kurt Vonnegut” pops into my head. I have not thought about him, nor had his name pop into my head, in years — probably a decade or more — nor would I have any reason to.
And I think, what must he be up to? Seriously, I spent about ten minutes thinking about this guy and what his daily routine must be as what I assumed is a “retired” or “elderly” writer. How does he spend his days? What does he think about? And so on…
It was a curous set of thoughts; I waded through them, and then, just as quickly as they came, I let them pass.
Then, this morning when I got to the office, this:
I may have some set of undefined special powers. I must explore this further…
Anyway, I met him once, a little over 20 years ago. He spoke at my university, and agreed to do a “meet-and-greet” immediately afterward. For some reason, I was the first one to show up, and we had a few minutes of inconsequential chitchat (and an autograph) before the horde found the room. It was special to me.
So it goes.