I didn’t start to like beer until I was about 35.   When I was growing up, you had pretty clear beer options.  There was Miller, and Budweiser, and Coors, and that was basically it.  I recall the occasional appearance of Heineken in fancy restaurants.  Based on the occasional sip of Mom’s beer, I determined early on that I didn’t like any of them.  I remember the first ads on TV touting Samuel Adams Boston Lager as better beer; something about winning a mess of gold medals at the Great American Beer Festival.  Tried that, eventually.  Miller Lite, but bitterer.

We are all networking these days and The Conversation is no longer in the first instance a Coppola film made in the 1970s – it’s actually an exchange of lucid, super-intellectual commentary on Kim Jong-Il’s cognac collection, Kate Perry’s divorce, the latest news from the Straits of Hormuz and Jonathan Franzen’s views on the eBook.

Please explain what just happened.

My heart skipped a beat and stopped for a brief second. The rain is falling. People are driving by. Life goes on whether you are ready or not, so you better live it.

When uttered by mayors and developers, “urban planning” often has all the integrity of a Kardashian wedding vow. I do. We do. Uh-huh.

Yes, some cities get it right. Portland, Oregon seems to have a plan, and New York City’s conceptual approach is only getting better.

In Gary Hustwit’s Urbanized, a few of the more successful urban plans are celebrated along with their proponents, such as Enrique Penalosa (the former mayor of Bogota) and Alejandro Aravena (of Elemental). The latter has made great strides with ingenious lower-income housing that allows residents to assist in designing their own spaces. The former can trumpet his oversight of initial construction of the Colombian city’s mass transit system (TransMilenio) and the reconceptualizing of road usage, prioritizing pedestrian and pedal traffic.

Jonathan Franzen, author and vaunted protector of the written word, has taken the side of paper in the paper-LCD wars. Fearing that no book will remain pristine when an author (or, god forbid, some authoritarian entity) can go back to edit it, and admiring traditional text-on-paper technology, he fears the e-future and the fading of traditional books.

Please explain what just happened.

I just read your question.  No, wait, I just answered your question.

What is your earliest memory?

My earliest memory is probably watching the film Gandhi in a movie theater and having no idea what was going on but knowing that I thought the whole idea of being at the movies was awesome.

One of the publications I write for with some regularity occasionally throws me the bone of a restaurant review.  The reviews for this particular periodical are only a hundred words at most, so there’s no pay for them; your compensation is that you get to expense the check.  So a few weeks ago I went to Sunday brunch at (the place assigned), and Monday, I submitted this review:

Please explain what just happened.

I was stung by a bee, and I think I’m going into an anaphylactic shock!

What is your earliest memory?

The American flag.

I meant to write a comment on D. R. Haney’s post “When Dinosaurs Ruled the Earth” from the day that I read it nearly three months ago. I wanted to compliment the writing. Praise the unrushed development of the ideas. Express the jealousy I felt as Duke explained what particular movies had meant to his developing sense of identity. There was no repertory theater within a hundred mile radius of where I grew up, and the flicks that hit the two screens in our small town in the 1980s were at very best of dubious merit. Never mind Shampoo and Taxi Driver. Halloween 3 would come and sit in the theater for weeks, without Halloween 1 ever having been there. Duke’s piece made me wish that hadn’t been the case, and that I had developed an interest in film, which I never really did.

Please explain what just happened.

I just spilled a glass of wine.

What is your earliest memory?

My earliest memory would be from when I was age 4 or 5 at Sacred Heart Primary School; I can remember the class singing “We all live in a yellow submarine.”

After my attorney and I ran the Las Vegas Half Marathon, we needed a suitable celebratory dinner.   This meant a steakhouse.  No elaborate French twelve-course, no flown-in-from-the-Sea-of-Japan sushi, no carb replenishment.   Nothing at all would do for the meal observing a thirteen-mile jog other than a couple of big slabs of meat, some serious sides, and a fat red wine.

Both of these statements often occupy me, fanning my flames more than the food I eat or the merriment I make. Shall I bend an eye and singe an ear over Dickinson or Stevens? Hop into bed with Borges or Bishop? Yet when one starts reading essays pointing to other works one should read, one compounds an already compelling problem. A few weeks ago some force intervened with an answer, possibly signaling a caesura to my yen for other books to fondle while carrying three or four masterworks in my bag at a time, daily stealing kisses from each. Sluttish, yes, but also tremulous—I only need wink at Rilke or Valéry in order to gain affection I know will be good for me, a guarantee anything with a heart would scoff at.

Please explain what just happened.

I woke up, put water on for coffee, and changed my son’s diaper while it boiled.

What is your earliest memory?

I’m four years old and lying on a couch at my grandparents’ house with my grandfather in his reclining chair a few feet away. We are kicking it (old school, I suppose).

Unless you’re on a serious media diet, it can be difficult to miss the roar of publicity praise machines churning out promotions and profiles during awards season. We’re currently surviving a stage-one George Clooney avalanche and, while somewhat understandable (it’s just show biz, after all), I confess that I find the gooey adulation of Clooney a bit much to bear.

Some behind-the-scenes advice for attending The National Book Awards, or any literary party: