I heard Nick Hornby read before I ever read him.

It was years ago at Waterstones on Exeter Street. On the third floor. It was a dark and snowy night. I'd only heard of this guy in passing and I thought his book, High Fidelity, sounded interesting.

From the first words out of his mouth, I was utterly charmed.

Since then, I read Nick Hornby (all! of Nick Hornby) like he speaks: slowly to hide the shyness in a voice weighted with disappointment and at times a dash of self-loathing. The antithesis of John Cusak's manic Rob Fleming. Even last night, reading from his new book written from the first person point of view of a woman, the voice was so rightfully his. Sweet. Crisply humorous. Peppered with his trademarked slow dry wit.

And once again, utterly charming.

Tonight I saw an ad on television opposing the Kennedy-McCain Patients' Bill of Rights. The 50-ish woman sat in her kitchen and attempted to gain my support by talking about how the risk of outrageous lawsuits would prevent her from providing health care coverage to the employees of her small business. It just about worked, too, until she asked me to contact my Congressman. Okay. Yes. That's what I'll do, I'll contact--

--Oh wait! That's right. I don't HAVE a Congressman.

Which I guess for a young woman with dark, curly hair living in the District of Columbia with a membership to a Washington Sports Club, is really the safest bet.