And apparently the feeling is mutual. At a signing of his new book yesterday, "Dave" wrote in my book that he was so happy that I am alive. This, of course, was based on nothing. Or was it? Maybe he could tell that we were meant to be great friends, just like I think every time I read his books. I picture us laughing together at coffee shops, making fun of people as they pass or exchanging stories of the bizarre occurrences in our lives, "Dave, you think that snake you found is weird, let me tell you about the squirrel bones I saw...". Stuff like that. Odds are, however, that's what he writes for everyone.