I've seen a few blogs flying about describing various peoples meetings with him while he was here. None of them were like mine. Where Andrew's books make me have feelings and go all gooey and romantic and love-filled, the man himself became one of those brilliant pals who remind you that it is alright to be a bitter, hate-filled husk.
On the Friday afternoon I got him to myself. We went to The Rain Room exhibition at The Barbican. I have never seen anyone so excited to see anything. As we stepped into the rain he made a noise of such pure joy that I laughed so much that I cried.
We had coffee and cake and talked a lot. He said some things to me and I said some things back. I like things that are out of context, so for your reading pleasure, below are some things that Andrew Kaufman said to me. Make of them what you will.
- Fuck 'em, man, just fuck 'em.
- This place is a coffin.
- You are so strong, you are stronger than you know.
- Oh man, I want one of those.
- I spent $150 bucks on this. Fuck.
- You'd probably make out a bit and it would just be weird.
- You're right. She's not dirty.
We went to The British Library and looked at some old books and shit. I tried to convince him to tell strangers that he was an author, but he wouldn't. He tried to convince me to stop be anonymous, and I wouldn't.
I gave him some advice (just write four 100 page books this year; don't ever tell anyone what you just said to me or you'll ruin everything) and then shouted at him when he asked for help with my ideas. And he laughed.
If you didn't get to see him this time, then get on it next time. A properly lovely man, who writes beautiful books, but is a bastard like the rest of us.
I fucking adore him.