So. It’s now a full day and a half after my big book launch party, and my feet are finally approaching reentry into the Earth’s atmosphere. I’ve had a house full of guests to attend so I’ve been unable to attend to business and tell you about the party. I’m sneaking some time now while the others are eating breakfast, so I don’t have much time.
Which reminds me. Last Saturday I watched as Squatlo’s Vols kicked Florida’s ass in men’s basketball. I’m not planning to watch today’s game with his ugly orange and white-jerseyed team takes on Kentucky. My own burnt orange and white Texas team is on TV, so I’ll be tuned in there.
The party was a huge success. It was well attended, the guests were interesting and interested, the food and beverage was tasty and flowed freely, and the entertainment was top notch. Typically at book launch parties the author will read passages from their book—the book getting launched at said party. Not this time. See, I have ADHD and my variety of the ADD part prevents me from reading aloud.
I’m not shy, as many of you can attest, and I’m not completely illiterate. I simply cannot make my eyes follow the words written on a page for the time required to read an entire sentence. Unless, of course, the sentence is, “Fuck you,” or maybe, “Oh,” or something like, “My, what a lovely camel toe you have.”
Wait. Is illiterate an affliction of degrees? Can you be somewhat illiterate or all-the-way illiterate—can you be somewhat illiterate? Or is it a case where you either are, or are not, illiterate? Then, after concluding the answers to that, you would also know about the nuances of being literate.
My personal out-loud readings are burdensome as I skip words and rewrite as I read. When I write, I self edit each sentence dozens of times to insure that my words are as well crafted as I can make them. But I’m the Butcher of Seville when I read those same words aloud. Listening to me read aloud is painful and frustrating. Wait—Barber of Damascus?
The party was attended by some very neat people. My friends and family, of course, who are quite neat personages in their own rights, were all there. But here I’m speaking of the guests not directly-connected to me. The Badgerdog Literary folks and the writers and psycho therapists and such, each attending for their own reasons, are the interesting people I speak of here. And of course Justine and David with WriteByNight who hosted our shin dig.
OK, wait. All of my family attended except for Mother. I didn’t expect mother to attend and took no exception at her absence. My mother has not approved of my actions for long enough now that I can still remember the sting of her disapproval, but I don’t feel it. I admire my Mother for the force of her convictions and I find the steadfastness of her believing inspiring.
I would, however, be happy to state that my mother is a mostly Baptist and stogy woman with the closed-off mind and damaged intellect predominant in her type. I love you Mother, but you need to pull your head out your ass and think. You missed a hell of a good time because you worried what your fucking friends would think.
Nobody was arrested, nobody got TOO drunk or TOO wasted, and nobody had sex out in the open. So it was a great party but not a stupendous party. As I was saying, I chose not to torture my guests by reading my own shit and instead hired a reader. I chose to hire a young, professional reader and I chose a young, professional female reader.
And I chose to have her read Chapter 15 from Full Rising Mooner. Chapter 15 is the story from when I was over to the Sprouts Market there to the Arboretum. The time I saw the woman smuggling a fully-grown camel in her tight Lycra workout suit. I know some of you thought that was a bad idea—you know, having a woman read a man’s writings about a female pocket deli tray.
But you’d be wrong, Bosco, her reading was the hit of the night. And she wasn’t just a hit because of her incredibly near-perfect ass—displayed at the full moon stage as she stood atop a chair. She was a hit because she’s a professional, had spent enough time with me to get the jest of my temperaments, and because she had practiced both the reading and the moon show.
I say “near-perfect ass” not because there were any imperfections therein, or thereon. The only reason it wasn’t perfect is because I wanted to snuggle-up close to it and could not, would not if I could. Her name is Rachel Wiese and there is a Mr. Wiese. I never make married ladies the focus of my amorous attentions. And maybe her husband has a different last name. When Rachel introduced him to me, his name went in one ear and out the other. If it even went in the one ear. I was so distracted early in the evening with ADHD chatter inside my skull I could hardly think.
“Did I buy enough food… is the beer cold… will people come… will they donate to Badgerdog… will they like the reading… will there be a fistfight… will I fuck things up… will I get arrested… will I get tazered (a wish, as SAC Ellen was present)… am I being a good host… how do I write a smart book dedication to another writer who buys my book… what do I write in the book of the sexy lady writer who asked to see my moon show in the privacy of her studio apartment located two doors down from the party… other than the nice, large man standing at the food table, how many homeless people will wander in off the street?”
In the end, I said, “Fuck it, I’m having myself a good time.” So, I swallowed my concerns and washed them down with a giant swig of icy-cold Carta Blanca beer, told the nice lady I’d need to pass on the chance to have her slather my ass with ginger-scented edible body lotion, and autographed the books as they sold.
Actually, the books were not sold. If a person made a donation to Badgerdog Literary Publishing, they got a book as a gift. I was signing gift books, and quite happy to do so. As I have said before, if I can sell half as many books as I’ve given away, I’ll be three-quarters of the way to being a best-selling author!
OK, stop the presses. If I could sell AS many books as I give away, I WOULD be a best-selling author.
But I need to go now and attend to the crowd congregated in my kitchen. Mr. Dave is making omelets this morning and agreed to customize each to it’s eater. Mother was getting all prissy and pissy at some of the ladies’ requests. I thought my mother would feint when Gram said, “I want ya ta make mine an I’ll stand next ta ya an hold yer pecker fer ya. I hate when some of tha pecker gits in tha eggies.”
Gram laughed and clucked like an old hen at her own chicken/egg joke, and Mother almost passed out from the vapors. If I’m right on the timing of things, the Squirt is nearing her turn at Mr. Dave. If Squirt vocalizes her interests about Mr. Dave in front of my mother, I’ll need an ambulance.
Look, I’ll have dozens of photos from the party, I hired Nathan Black to take photos and he’s a good photographer—has this big digital camera like Squattie’s—and he spent the entire evening snapping-off shots. So I’ll write a bunch more and share everything I have with you.