Quickest Book Tour--Everrrrrrrr!
A few notes from my extremely quick book tour (one stop, at Murder by the Book in Houston, TX):
Woke up at 3:30 Monday morning to call a taxi to take me to the train that would take me to the airport that would take me to the other airport that would take me to the rental car bus that would take me to the rental car that would take me to the hotel. There's got to be an easier way to get to Texas.
I start my trek at Newark Liberty International Airport. And it leads me to wonder: should a place where I can't even carry a bottle of shampoo be named "Liberty?"
Why does every airline pilot think I care at what altitude we're cruising? If the plane drops out of the sky, will I be less dead at 28,000 feet than I would be at 32,000 feet? Is he trying to impress me with how high he can get a plane to fly? Compensating for something, perhaps? Because I figure as long as I'm above the buildings, that's high enough. Unless there's mountains.
For that matter, why does the pilot think I care what his name and that of the co-pilot might be? We're not going out for a drink later. I'm never actually going to lay eyes on the guy, except at the inquest should things go horribly wrong. He doesn't know MY name; why should I care what his is?
Do airlines still truly believe we don't understand the intricate workings of the seat belt? And am I the only one who thinks it's a little suggestive when they say I should wear one "low and tight across your hips"?
Due to the airline scheduling, I need to change planes in Atlanta, home of CNN and Coca-Cola. I have exactly eight minutes between the time I arrive at the gate and the time the plane begins boarding, so I only have time for CNN Headline News and a Diet Coke. But since a Diet Coke is one of the few things they'll give you on a plane for free, I forego that until we take off. But I haven't eaten yet today.
At the end of each flight, the head Flight Attendant (I agree that "steward" and "stewardess" were stupid terms, but Airline Speak gives us things like "Flight Attendant," which means... nothing) will say, "we hope you enjoyed your flight." I try to remember the last time I enjoyed a flight. I think it was in the 1970s. And it was my first flight, when the whole thing had a certain novelty to it. Otherwise, being crammed into a seat, told that I can't stand up without permission, handed a bag of pretzels the size of my thumb and a diet soda in a cup filled 90 percent with ice in lieu of lunch, and sitting next to a man who is snoring loudly is not what I consider the definition of "enjoyment." Call me crazy.
Upon arriving at Houston Hobby Airport (which again is not the name one wants for an airport--I want an airport that's doing this for a living), my overnight bag and I head for the rental car counter (never mind which brand). The man behind it is wearing a John McCain tie clip. I reserve comment. Hey, people can vote any way they want. But is a tie clip really the way to express your political affiliation? (I'm hoping he wasn't wearing John McCain boxer shorts.)
By the way, this is certainly an improvement over the last time I was in Houston (back in the Stone Age) when the rental car woman asked me if I was related to "the guy who wrote Yankee Doodle Dandy." Working a counter in a major city's airport, and she's never met anyone named "Cohen" before? Or is that her usual ice-breaker?
My GPS (which I cleverly brought from New Jersey) tells me exactly how to get to the Hotel Zaza. You read that right. This is definitely the most hilarious hotel in which I've ever stayed, and I recommend it highly. It's trying so hard to be avant garde that you could fall over laughing: TV monitors behind the check-in desk are showing "decadent" films like Chicago and Breakfast At Tiffany's. The rest rooms are marked "Bogart" and "Bacall." Over my bed, there is a "vintage" photograph of a woman considerably less dressed than most women I meet in everyday travels.
It's been a long day, and I haven't done anything yet.
Luckily, the event at Murder by the Book is absolutely worth the entire trip. David Thompson, his fantastic fiancee McKenna, Anne and Les are incredibly supportive, happy to meet authors, happy to discuss books, knowledgeable to a jaw-dropping degree, and able to actually promote an appearance by a relatively unknown author to the point that almost all the seats are filled.
The local Texans, including my pal Shirley Wetzel, whom I'm meeting face-to-face for the first time, are very gracious and laugh a lot, which is really all I ever ask. They ask good questions, answer a few I make up at the last second (we had promised a trivia contest, and I came up with some lame questions), laugh some more because I'm coming up with really lame questions, and buy a bunch of books, which is very nice.
About two hours go by in the blink of an eye. Books are signed for people who couldn't make it. Books are signed for people who don't know they want the books yet. I will have the impulse to sign every piece of paper that crosses in front of me for the next three days. We discuss books, publishing and comedy after the group has left. McKenna doesn't like the Marx Brothers, but I like her anyway. At least she wasn't wearing a Jimmy Kimmel tie clip.
Then it's back to the hotel for a quick (hilarious) dinner, some Olympics watching (ENOUGH ALREADY WITH THE BEACH VOLLEYBALL!!!), and sleep, in time to get up and do the whole thing (alas, minus the book event) in reverse.
On a high from the signing, I decide to treat myself and bump up (for $49) to "business class" on the airline going part of the way home. You meet a better class of people that way.
The guy next to me was--I swear--chewing tobacco the whole way to Atlanta.
