My new book, Tin Lizzy signing & a euphoric fan

 

The sentimentalist and the crass self-promoter within me were at war as we drove to meet the 80-year-old widow who’d written me a gushy fan letter.

My friend Mark is her financial advisor. He usually buys 30 copies of my latest book and gives them to clients at Christmas.

This year he gave Charlotte a signed copy of my Fred Rogers book. Well, she just loved it and in her thank you note — how endearing — said my stories were hysterical, that I was her new favorite writer and included other compliments that in a bygone era would have lead me to conclude impure thoughts were justified.

So I sent her a “Crayons!” book and she just loved i, too. We began to correspond by mail — again, endearing!

I thought with the new book out it’d be a good time to surprise her. Mark agreed and yesterday we drove to her Greensburg home.

It occurred to me the surprise visit might yield some good video I could use for promotional purposes. But, as I told Mark, it might also ruin what had the potential to be a very sweet moment.

I believe pointing a camera at anything changes everything.

What if Charlotte was shy about her looks? She knew Mark, but she didn’t know me, a stranger in a mask. What if she had a heart condition? The video could become evidence in my manslaughter trial.

So I left the phone in my pocket and today I’m I awoke with the belittling and now-familiar taunt, “You’re such an idiot!”

Because the encounter with Charlotte was euphoric.

It was like we’d told her she’d won the Publisher’s Clearinghouse Sweepstakes. 

She hugged me and burst into tears. 

I don’t think I could have gotten a better reaction if I’d with one touch healed her infirmities and freed her from her walker.

I guarantee John Grisham has never seen a reaction like that. I understand  Grisham’s books are intended to entertain and mine, particularly “Crayons!,” have self-improvement elements, but my point persists.

In order for Grisham to see a reaction like the one I got from Charlotte, he’d have to endorse one of his royalty checks over to me.

And yet again I’m left to ponder the vast gulf between reader adulation and my dismal finances.

Will this new book finally bridge the divide? I’m hopeful yet realistic.

I’m losing significant income thanks to Coronavirus restrictions that rule out lucrative speaking engagements.

Should I give up? Take a second job? Maybe become a plumber?

I think I’ll keep doing what I’ve been doing.

Getting reactions like the one I got from Charlotte convince me I must be doing something right.

Sure, it would’ve been nice to have it filmed, but I didn’t feel right blindsiding a sweet old widow.

Now, you, that’s a different story!

I’ll be signing my new book all day (and part of the night at Flappers) at the grand re-re-re-Opening of the feisty and resilient Tin Lizzy.

You’re welcome to stop by and say in 30 seconds or less why people should buy my books.

Sure you can do all that any day. You’re always welcome here. What makes Friday so special?

I’ll today be wearing the same outfit as the one I’m wearing on the ballyhooed cover of “Undaunted Optimist.”

Right down to the neon yellow socks.

Charlotte’s not the only one capable of being endearing.

Friend asks, "Life, is that all there is?"

(535 words)

My friend could no longer conceal his melancholy. He set down his craft beer, looked at me plaintively and asked, “I wake up everyday, wonder about the world and ask myself, ‘Is this all there is?’”

The sentiment is baffling to me because I have one of those indestructible egos that has me thinking having Friday afternoon porch drinks with me should be plenty.

Sure, there’s pandemic mayhem, racial unrest and the prospect that soon Trump and Biden will at a combined age of 151 years soon begin pandering to 18 year olds over things like the new Taylor Swift album, but being defiantly alive is still pretty cool.

Is this all there is?

Baseball’s back, there’s encouraging vaccine news and somewhere crowded with shiny supermodels Mick Jagger just turned 77.

Is this all there is?

Yes! So let’s be thankful for every hug, giggle, sunset, friendship, cuddle and moment of the day when we deliberately choose to listen to music instead of watch the news.

I don’t remember the instigation, but I once challenged myself to compose the most depressing summation of life there’s ever been.

Why there have been days when I challenge myself to think of things like that instead of challenging myself to earn actual income is a philosophical puzzler for another day.

But here it is:

“Life is a series of disappointments, each one greater than the last, leading inexorable to the grave.”

Now, that’s morose.

I have to say, it was fun to write something so out of character, like Adam Sandler must feel when he plays someone with a brain.

There’s two reasons I didn’t share that with my melancholy friend.

First, we were on the second floor porch overlooking the Tin Lizzy parking lot. I thought the devastating line may have caused him to jump and I didn’t want him denting my car.

Second, it’s utter nonsense. Hoo-ha. A life without any light or laughter? Has that ever happened  even once?

We’re all right now understandably spending time on the front pages. It’s all crisis, death, disruption, tumult and lots of cross words.

But we still live our whole lives back deeper in the paper, clear back on the pages where they print the comics, birth announcements, and the benign kind of crosswords.

Our daughters are 19 and 14. I spend a lot of time trying to conjure the words that will let them still pursue big dreams in a world that momentarily seems godforsaken.

Is finding happiness even possible anymore?

I’d say yes, but it’s wise to seek it in smaller increments.

I tell them to do something they love to do each and every day just because it’s something they love to do each and every day. 

It can be playing with the dog, spending time laughing with friends, learning a musical instrument or writing in a journal. 

You’ll be amazed, I say, at the things those kinds of recreational devotions can lead to.

Because life is a series of unrelated giggles with people you care about leading inexorably to simple human happiness.

It may not be all there is, but it can be enough and that’s all that matters.

A mishmash of catch-up items

I let an important “professional” anniversary pass without comment the week before last. June 30 marked the 28th year since I walked out on the last job I’ll likely ever have. Thus, I’ve only had three jobs since I began sprouting chest hairs — and one of them was at the Pizza Hut. I quit working for the man because I was convinced I had a bright and lucrative future as an author/freelance writer/bon vivant.

A bon vivant is someone who enjoys a sociable and luxurious life.

So I guess I’m one out of three.

• I remember coming home in those early years and Val would ask how my day went, if I’d achieved anything productive. “I won’t know for six months.” I I was lying. Twenty-eight years later and I still don’t know.

• I’ve had people ask me what’s the longest I’ve ever gone without blogging. “That’d be from 1963 through 2008.”

• I am an incorrigible smart ass

• This is my first blog post since June 15 when I wrote about being a white guy and getting out of a traffic citation. I apologize for not blogging more frequently as of late. And why I feel compelled to apologize for not doing something that pays squat is something I can’t explain.

• As of late I was busy putting together this video about how my new book got its new title. The book is a collection of essays taken mostly from this deadbeat blog. I wanted to call the book, “A New York Times Best Seller (by a small town BSer).” ’twas a tantrum of a title by yet another writer who’ll do anything for attention.

• So the new book is called, “Undaunted Optimist: Essays on Life, Laughter & Cheerful Perseverance.” How do I think it’s going to do? I’m, duh, optimistic it’ll do well, but fearful I won’t really know for 28 years. My publisher is encouraging me to stack up pre-orders, as robust interest at this stage will boost launch/marketing budgets. Interested in helping? You can pre-order right here.

• The cover is already scoring a lot of flattering attention. Taken by Brian Henry, it’s one of those pictures that looks so good I’m surprised they let me in it.

• A friend just said I’m “lookin’ fine” in the picture. In fact, that picture was taken in, gulp, 2015. She asked how I’m feeling. I feel good, but not like I felt in ’15. The difference? Today I have Parkinson’s, but in ’15 I was likely hungover so I guess you could call it what the bookies say is a push

• In hindsight, I feel like I lived four straight decades like I was a lit stick of dynamite, ever ready to detonate. Lately, I feel more like a candle, one that gives off a steadier, more illuminating burn. But a prank candle, one that keeps reigniting just when you think you have the damn thing blown out.

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• In an effort to preserve the remaining tatters of blog tastefulness I’ll resist seeking the perfect “blow me” punch line to that tempting set up.

• Another milestone surfaces on Wednesday, this one too momentous to ignore. The 15th marks the 5th year since I moved my office from The Pond — incredibly, I was evicted — and into the fabulous Tin Lizzy. I think how I got here and how being here has influenced my writing deserves a stand-along blog post on Wednesday …

Any volunteers?

• I’m not going to call it a party and I don’t want to encourage anyone to violate prudent social distancing protocols, but I’ll have a half-assed open house from 4 to 8 if anyone wants to stop by and say hello. More on Wednesday.

• Thanks for all your cheer and support!