Bad readings are absolutely unendurable. I should know; I’ve just endured one.

At  Vroman’s—a great bookstore, by the way, in Pasadena—I read to four people. One was an ex-student of mine. Another was his girlfriend. The other two may have been apparitions, poised holograms.

That unmistakable vibe of futile enterprise, of haphazard ostracism from all the best that the world will never reveal to you; also, the vibe of eternal repetition, the utter futility of trying to make your way an uncaring cosmos: It’s a little known fact, but Kafka wrote The Trial in Lawrence, Kansas, on the second night of his “Metamorphosis” tour.

But I had expected a lot from this event, from this town. Los Angeles. The very thought of an event in Hollywood, as I cooled my heels in gray LaGuardia, got me wishing I’d gone in for a year of push-ups and crunches, of tanning-bed time and supersonic colonic sessions. You’ve got to look posh for Tinseltown. Or so I thought.

I’ve done bad events before, of course. The hailstorm in Chicago, when one of a total of two audience members stood angrily as I began to speak, all the time glaring—he thought I’d been some nutjob who’d just begun addressing the room uninvited; the guy seemed angry that I’d disturbed his assignation with that month’s Omni. And there was the time I’d been flown to Denver, Co., and then driven out to Boulder -- only to find that the two local papers had pushed back their reviews of my book; nobody showed up. Not a single person. The bookstore kicked me out, and I flew home the next morning, having sold zero books. Very Spinal Tap.

But this was glittering LA now. Where I have a movie agent. Where I have a number of  celebrity friends (two).

My first celebrity friend is Carrie Fisher.  She’d been kind enough to send an email after my first book came out. A friendly note, signed simply: “Carrie Fisher.” I’d thought it was my friends playing a joke.  After I’d verified it was indeed the real her, I spent a lovely evening in 2002 at Carrie’s guest house, from which hung a placard that read “Men’s prison.” Her mom, Debbie Reynolds, came over and gave us—me, Carrie, and two other guys in their early thirties whom I never really got introduced to—a box of leftover Chinese. A memorable night.  Carrie’s very kind and almost too charming for mere humans; her conversation takes corners very quickly, and I often find myself skidding off into the weeds.  She signed a recent email to me “P. Leia.” How can you not love someone who does that?

My second celebrity friend is Gary Oldman. Don’t believe the hype: Gary Oldman is as sweet a person as you’ll ever meet; when my wife was pregnant with our twins, Gary Oldman was the only person—including me—to give her a Mother’s Day card. When my sons were born, Gary had his own nonagenarian mother knit two baby-size sweaters for them, along with matching hats. He and I have worked together for the last few years on adapting my first book into a script. It’s been fun, but the option is soon running out. (Get on the stick, Gary!)

Anyway, they both had intimated that they’d come to my LA reading, but they both stood me up. Each had a legit reason for missing it (giving a speech in Orange county; a medical condition I probably shouldn’t reveal here…) I was bummed at first, but when I saw the size of the “crowd,” I was relieved they hadn’t come. Imagine how awkward: four civilians, and then Gary Oldman and Carrie Fisher, sitting in the first of many rows of empty chairs. Would they have talked? Gary and Carrie don’t know each other. But maybe the GOFP (Guild of Famous People) rules dictate that they have to converse.

I should have known it’d be a bust. The LA Times hasn’t reviewed the book yet, the LA Daily News interviewed me at the book store five minutes before the event, the great Michael Silverblatt postponed our NPR interview because his father took suddenly sick (good luck, Mr. Silverblatt). That’s why it’s stupid to start book tours before the reviews all come out. Why not wait a few weeks? I guess the publisher wants to make sure the book does well in the first few days after publication—but how can that happen, with unattended readings? Sigh.

Anyway, I didn’t even read; I talked to the assembled few a little while, telling some jokes, sweating my flopsweat, eventually stammering and twittering to some kind of ending. Nothing is sadder than four people clapping softly.

So, come on, Bay Area! I’m counting on you. Thursday, June 26, at 7, I’ll be at A Great Good Place for Books, on 6120 LaSalle Ave., in Oakland. Friday, June 27, at 7:30 I’ll be at Books Inc, at 2251 Chestnut Street, in San Francisco. I don’t think the book will have been reviewed in the Chronicle yet, either. So help a brother out.