I'm currently on a little break between the first and second halves of my book tour for
Candy Everybody Wants. I like to think of as an actual half-time, like in a baseball game... or, um, basketball game... or, well, whatever game it is that has a halftime.
This is when I get a chance to go over what worked in the the first half of the tour, and what didn't work, and what I'd like to completely forget about during this Memorial Day break before I head out again.
Now, I've only been on one tour before, for I Am Not Myself These Days. But when I say that this latest tour has got to go down in history as one of the strangest weeks ever, I'm not just comparing it to other tours ? I'm comparing it to the recent history of mankind.
Months ago, it was decided that I would tour with James Frey, who (for those of you who live in remote rainforest villages and have never come in contact with modern man or Oprah) is the author of A Million Little Pieces. He's touring for his new novel, Bright Shiny Morning, a tour de force about which the New York Times and most everyone else raved. He is, quite simply, the comeback literary bad-boy of the decade.
He's also a long time pal of mine, and the father of my God-daughter. And if there is anything in James's life that might call his judgment into question, it's naming an ex-drunk drag queen as his daughter's spiritual guide. But whatever you might feel about him, he's one helluva writer, so when I realized that our new books were launching at the same time I jumped at the chance to tour with my friend.
We started in our home in New York City, with a jam-packed event at the Blender Theater. We shared the stage with an awesome jazz group, the Eric Lewis Trio. The reading went well, we sold a lot of books, and had a lot of fun. It was an auspicious start to what I was sure would be an auspicious tour.
Next stop: L.A.
James and I were booked at Whiskey A Go-Go, the legendary L.A. nightspot that has featured everyone from Jim Morrison to the Monkees.
If I could grant one wish for everyone, it would be to see their name on a marquee. What a terrific feeling. Even if it was followed by the words: "free and open to the public" ? which sort of reminded me of my promiscuous reputation during my days in the club scene.
Instead of a jazz band like in New York, we shared the Whiskey stage with a heavy metal band named Black Tide. The median age of the band members was roughly fourteen. As was their fans'. As I watched them file into the club, it occurred to me that the novel I was reading from took place almost fifteen years before they were born. These kids weren't going to understand the plethora of 1980s pop culture references that pepper Candy Everybody Wants.
I'd invited one of those 1980s pop culture references included in my book to attend the reading ? Charlene Tilton, star of TV's Dallas. Ms. Tilton had done me a huge favor a couple of months ago. I'd written her to ask if she'd star in a humorous video promo for Candy, and she immediately said, "Sure, hon!" You can see it here.
I hadn't been able to attend the filming of the video, so I was looking forward to meeting Charlene face-to-face for the first time at the Whiskey. Sure enough, she didn't look that much different than she did back on Dallas. I had a huge crush on her. I'm convinced that I'm gay because she never answered my fan letters. Of course, I'm thankful for that now. Maybe she knew what she was ignoring.
When I finally stood on stage to begin the reading, I realized that all was not well. I could see my little group of readers who'd come out to support me huddled at the tables nearest the stage. They looked frightened. I don't blame them. I was too. I stepped up to the microphone. The crowd of mostly fifteen-year-old metal heads was raucous. I could barely hear myself think. Or talk. Was I talking? Yes, I was. I was reading to a room full of yelling, screaming, angry, drunk teenagers who had no intention of listening to me read at my own reading. I was staring down at my cadre of readers who were staring up at me. We each looked like deer caught in headlights.
I edited my reading on the spot... trimming down what was normally about a twenty-minute reading to less than ten. (My editor is smiling somewhere, vindicated.) I fled the stage, followed by my readers, trying to push our way to the exits through the moshing crowd. Charlene stood at the back of the room motioning me over. "Thank God you were a drag queen, honey," she said, "Because no mere mortal could have made it off that stage alive."
But it wasn't over.
Charlene and I body-blocked for each other as we pushed toward the exit. A Goth-looking teen girl came up to me holding my book and a pen. An autograph. Sure, no problem. I took the pen. No-no, the girl gestured before handing my book and her pen to Charlene for an autograph. She didn't want my signature on my book, she wanted Charlene's.
Just as it looked like we might reach freedom, a five foot tall man dressed like a Buddhist monk, but with geisha make-up, blocked our way. He gestured excitedly towards me while holding a camera. He wanted a picture with me, Charlene and I deduced. Charlene took his camera, and the geisha-monk pulled a bouquet of plastic flowers from his shopping bag and gave them to me. I put my arm around him to pose for the picture, and he made some sort of gesture about m