I'm off this morning to the Erma Bombeck Writers' Workshop in Dayton, Ohio. Dave Barry is the keynote speaker. Dave Barry is my idol. He will be signing books after his talk tomorrow night. I am very afraid.
I am afraid because I imagine that as I step up to the autograph table, amid a sea of 300 other drooling humor writers, I will behave just like everybody else. I will stroll to the table, Dave's book in hand, and laugh nervously, a laugh that is part child molester, part "Beavis and Butthead."
"Huhuh. Huhuhuh."
"Hello Mr. Barry," I will say. "I'm your biggest fan. Huhuhuh. I'm not like all of these other humor writers. They are imposters. I really am your biggest fan. Huhuhhuhuh."
My eyes will twinkle, the twinkle of a high school cheerleader meeting a rock star. Then, overcome with admiration for the man who brags that he has built his career on "booger jokes," (and I don't even like the word "booger;" it makes me squirm), I will reveal my left breast and ask him to sign it.
"Security!" Dave Barry will shout. A group of six goons in trenchcoats and dark glasses will come to take me away. My book deal, a direct result of the 2004 conference, will be revoked. I will spend years festering in the notorious, slug-infested Dayton Penitentiary. I will not get Dave Barry's autograph.
There were celebrity humorists at the 2004 conference, but they weren't so scary. There was a woman who calls herself the Sweet Potato Queen, who has made a living off of ego-driven rants and male bashing. She announced during her lecture that all the good men were either married, gay, or dead. I was too polite to stand up and ask her which of the three categories her husband was in when she met him.
Nancy Cartwright, the voice of Bart Simpson, was there. I met her briefly during her book signing. I told her I was interested in voice acting. She signed my book and told me to eat her shorts, which I did not actually do.
Don Novello, a.k.a. Father Guido Sarducci from "Saturday Night Live" spoke as well. He wandered into the bar after his talk and was promptly molested by a hoard of drunken humor writers. He did not look like he was in the mood to be molested. He looked tired, so I left him alone. But the next afternoon, my book award was announced and he came to congratulate me. We had a nice chat. It turns out he used to be a European tour guide, like me.
Meeting those people at the last conference was cool and all, but this year, we're talkin' Dave Freakin' Barry.
I don't normally get nervous when I meet famous people. A long time ago, I used to interview rock stars -- those who were not so huge that they were willing to be interviewed by an insecure 23-year-old punk for the morning paper in Madison, Wisconsin. In another life I was a radio reporter. I talked to lots of interesting people. So in theory, I should be able to strut over to Dave Barry and say, "Dude, can I buy you a beer?"
In theory, yes. But I will be competing with 300 other drooling fans, all of whom would like to be his surrogate pal for just an hour and have a one-on-one conversation so we can ask him the same questions he gets asked by every other aspiring humorist. Dave's probably a down-to-earth guy. Under other circumstances, he might actually like to have a beer with me. But with such a huge crowd, that seems unlikely, and when my creepy nervous laugh kicks in, I will most certainly be pushed to the back of the line.
I'm not sure if I'll be blogging from Dayton yet. It's a packed weekend, so there's not a lot of time. If you don't hear from me this weekend, assume the Dayton Marriott's Internet rates are too high, but stay tuned for a full report early next week.
And if you don't hear from me next week, please send me bail money, in care of the Dayton Penitentiary.
'Twas an odd feeling printing out all 373 pages and actually holding in my hand a copy of the manuscript that has only existed in my computer before this week. Slowly, friends have started contacting me to inquire as to whether or not I have come out of hiding yet. People have been congratulating me for finishing my crappy rough draft, which feels very strange -- because parts of it really truly are crappy (as a rough draft should be), and I have never been congratulated for crappiness before.
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