Last night: I bought a cell phone and am decidedly fond of the information age now that I'm in it; a few well-timed beers at Cricks (I bought Mike three pitchers and promised to drag him up to New York); when I got home warmly fuzzy from the Harps I'd been imbibing I just lay there in a little puddle of self-satisfaction until I fell asleep.

But this morning is even better- the New York Times Sunday Book Review is featuring a lengthy but pleasant disquisition on Alice Munro by her (only) American partisan, the less-gusty-than-usual Jonathan Franzen.

I like Alice Munro, too, though my reasons aren't quite as bombastic as his. By which I mean they're not really fair. For one thing, as far as Canadian women writers go, a vote for Munro is definitely a vote for the underdog. It's like being a curmudgeonly Mets fan in a year when they get creamed in the playoffs. She doesn't win huge awards all the time (though she does win some), she isn't a boringly predictable social satirist and "formal innovator" who dabbles in science fiction (not naming any names...), and she doesn't write like she's a pompous asshole in person (again, not naming any names...)

Not that you necessarily want to read books by the person you'd most want to have a beer with. But still. I might buy her new book once I've meandered down the road to get my new auto insurance policy.