I have very few goals in life. To get the pit stains out of my 2(x)ist t-shirts, to separate my giant bag of batteries into Still Useful or Dead; to get David Sedaris to autograph my first edition of Barrel Fever. He's in town to promote his new book, When You Are Engulfed in Flames, so I get to the bookstore eighteen hours early to snag a seat in the very first row.

I sit and read for maybe twelve hours. I'm next to the Pet Care section, and unwilling to stray more than five feet from my chair, I can now safely deworm a Shih Tzu. The place is just about full, and a Barnes & Noble employee takes the stage to explain the rules. No flash photos, since eight thousand going off at once can permanently blind somebody. For autographs, they'll take one row at a time, starting with the front. Mr. Sedaris will sign just about anything except drawings we've done of him.

This hits me like an arrow to the heart. Here I've assumed I'm his biggest fan, buying Barrel Fever the second it hit the stores. I've never tried to draw him, though. I thought his crinkly eyes and cautious nose were simply uncapturable.

I continue reading -- did you know that every morning you have to clear the glands of boxers, squeezing their buttocks like Spanish limes? -- and she takes the stage again. "David's turned up early," she declares. "He's going to start signing things now." We all shriek with delight as he takes his seat behind the desk and she heads to the front row.

She asks the first person who he wants the book dedicated to. "Lurene," he replies. She writes it in big letters on a Post-It, sticks it on the title page, and sends him up to get the autograph. She moves down the row, repeating this at every seat, and by the time she gets to me she's written names on thirteen Post-Its. Mike, Kevin, Walter, Shoshanna. "Who do you want this dedicated to?" she asks me.

I've never understood this. Why would somebody want an author to personally address them in a book? He isn't giving it to them. He didn't sit there while he was writing and think, "You know, Lurene's really going to love this book. It seems pretty stupid, and even close to pitiful to pretend that you and the author are on a first-name basis. "Actually," I say, "could I get him to write something funny in it?"

She glares at me, like I've run into Gordon Ramsay on a street corner and asked him to whip me up Steak Diane. "You know, he's a writer," I say. "He should be able to come up with something."

"Why don't you think of something and he'll write it?"

"I don't want to put words in his mouth."

We stare at each other for five or ten minutes before I snap. "Okay, how about this," I say. "'Every story a classic.'" She scowls like she's swallowed a bad clam. "You know, it's kind of flattering," I continue. "I'm not asking him to write, 'I get sailors drunk and then suck on their jockstraps.' And it's only four freakin' words."

Reluctantly she writes it on a Post-It and sends me up to the stage. Mr. Sedaris sees the Post-It and I immediately backtrack. "I just wanted you to write something funny," I say.

He smiles. "Do you mind if I edit it?" he asks. I say that's fine. And as he signs it, I think, you know, I'll bet I could capture those eyes.