I haven’t been inside my novel for a while. Today, when I opened up the Word doc to see if I could follow some breadcrumbs back in, I got the “Welcome back!” banner. Even though the message is probably meant to merely be the wordsmithery version of a wave & smile, a friendly HiYa, I landed in a “where ya been?” guilt puddle that agitated like a Whirlpool on spin cycle. Words and how we receive them. Sheesh. Every person on the planet has no doubt had the experience of words landing sideways from how they were meant to be delivered. Not to mention the vigorous debates around their intentions when it comes to ideology and the like. We’re smack dab in the middle of that kind of crisis right now regarding how one country is (mis)representing their actions by way of the words they use.

Being a person who loves words out of all proportion, I know without doubt the feeling of putting more meaning into a collection of consonants and vowels than is necessary, helpful, or sometimes wise. How those little squiggles, when committed to a piece of paper, can represent something. Even more, how the way in which they’re delivered can often add more meaning to the words as written. Think of notes passed in class during school, love letters struck through the slats of lockers, slips of paper tucked under pillows. The person who delivers them infuses the thing with that extra dose of meaning.

Back in October 1992, SPIN magazine handed the February issue over to the cast and crew of Saturday Night Live to guest edit and write. Each of the editors was in charge of one person to shepherd through the process. I was given Adam Sandler. He would be writing a couple of pieces, interviewing Prince, and generally contributing whatever the hell he wanted within reason for the issue. Mainly, I was to make sure he turned in his articles on time and then go over them with him to make sure the piece fit the word count and like that. As far as deadlines, it was clear he understood them. He worked on a weekly show that had a hard deadline of LIVE, 11.30, every Saturday, so that seemed doable. As for article length, editing, and such, I came to find out he didn’t really have a problem with his words being tweaked or cut, which, again, considering his day job in a comedy writing room, where the pace was fast and cuts to jokes and the like were brutal, this also made sense. What I didn’t figure on was how challenging it would be to put him at ease as Adam the guy rather than Adam the professional. It wasn’t as if he was required to step away from his pro-comedian self given the SPIN gig was a job, but I was caught off guard when we had our first meeting in his dressing room at the NBC studio. He was very very quiet, a bit mumbly, little-to-no eye contact. Awkward. (I’ve come to understand that comedians are often so much different when their public switch is flipped off.)

As mentioned in this space a few weeks ago, I have a thing about the challenge of getting someone to like me, confide in me, talk to me. That can obviously come in very handy as a journalist, but it can also be exhausting and sometimes completely unnecessary. In the case of Adam Sandler, some determination set in as I sat explaining to him when his articles would be due and how we could take off some pressure time-wise (for instance, the Prince interview will require you to only walk in a room, push record, gab away, push stop, leave, give me tape, I’ll transcribe, you tell us what you want to use from it). But I was also determined that this would be the best experience he’d ever have. Ever. Site set unnaturally high. Naturally, that required me to turn my personality up to eleven.

And all went fine, despite the fact I felt I was constantly facing into the kind of industrial fan you’d see at photoshoots to make you think Cindy Crawford’s hair always blew like that. Exhausting. My cheeks aching from grinning or emotional wind chill. As we were putting the finishing touches on the issue, there was a celebratory dinner planned at an Italian restaurant downtown. DaSilvano. It was one of Bob Guccione Jr.’s favorites. We had a long table set up outside for about twenty people and the vibe was to make merry. Over the past weeks, I felt A.Sandler and I had forged a bit of a bond and, truthfully, I had developed a crush, so my flirt reflex was on. Somewhere before the appetizer, after turning back to my place setting from a conversation between one of the other magazine writers and Hal Willner, (RIP) the brilliant sketch music producer for the show, I noticed a slip of paper under my bread plate.

I recognized the handwriting and looked over toward msr. Sandler, who was two down to my right and was looking in the other direction. I tore off a piece of the paper tablecloth, wrote OK, then made whoever was on my right (memory fails) stick it under his plate. A couple of minutes later another note arrived.

I flipped it over and wrote something back. Then another note, apropos of nothing that I can remember, landed.

And on it went, notes back and forth about ridiculous nonsequiturs until the person to my right got annoyed and demanded to switch seats, but Bob had other ideas. He asked A.Sandler to sit next to him so they could pow-wow about some-such-stuff.

Earlier in the week, A.Sandler had mentioned how much he liked Pearl Jam and said he hoped Eddie wasn’t angry at him for the impression he’d done of him as Operaman. I doubted it, but knowing as I did that Eddie and guitarist Mike McCready were in town that night to soundcheck for a Bob Dylan tribute show at Madison Square Garden, I thought it would be nice(!?) to invite Eddie to stop by after. (SIdeNote: they were performing Dylan’s “Masters of War,” which watching it now, is as timely as ever. Speaking of words.) So just about the time the Panna Cotta arrived, a black car pulled up outside the restaurant. We were on the same side of the table facing out toward Sixth Avenue and as the door opened, Eddie got out. Mr. A.Sandler saw him and froze. Eddie was scowling. For a second I thought maybe he was for-real angry about Operaman. I flipped my attention back and forth between them as Eddie made straight for Adam, the scowl hardcore. And just when it looked like Adam might dive under the table, Eddie reached him, came around the table, put out his hand and pulled him up. The table had stopped breathing and in that instant before Eddie’s face cracked happy-smile and he pulled Adam in for a hug, I thought “Oh, shit, was this a mistake?” But then it wasn’t. The moment came, there was brief conversation, back slapping, laughter, then the singer left.

I got one more note that night:

And that was all. Truly. In mid-January there was a party at Two Boots Pizza on Avenue A (where my friend Mary was manager. Maybe she arranged this party for us?). I was nervous, still working a distant sense of Sandler crush even though there had been no actual communication since the DaSIlvano dinner. When Adam showed up with his girlfriend, because of course he did, I had a moment thinking how dumb I’d been to put so much weight into those little missives passed back and forth. It took a while for me (like years) to understand how words can float around in a moment, be happy-making and all, or just be taken in whatever way strikes in the moment. They’re powerful little buggers loaded with things that preserve moments in time. And that is all. And that is good.

Welcome back.