Darin Strauss
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Jun 26, 2008 06:52 AM
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.
