Chapter Eleven

Radio!

It turned out that my radio publicists, Audrey and Dave at Advocacy Ink, were awesome. My Google gmail box flooded with radio interviews, and in short order I was a gmail calendar wizard. They booked me from sea to shining sea, sometimes as many as five interviews in a day.

Conducting an interview on a book like mine is not rocket science, because the host can tell what the listeners will want to know once they hear the title.

The obvious questions include: What inspired this? What jobs did you do? Which was the worst job? Which was the best? Did you learn anything? In a radio interview, the host is everything. If the host ain’t paying attention, the listeners aren’t paying attention, and if the host ain’t a fan, the listeners won’t be fans.

Very quickly, I was able to identify the three varieties of hosts:

1) The they-read-the-book and can’t-wait-to-ask-questions host. For a humorist, these interviews are a blast, because you are talking to a new friend. They ask very specific questions, and laugh at everything you say-- this is good because being funny is a hell of a lot easier when the audience thinks you’re going to be funny. If the host has read the book, the interview is usually peppered with comments like, “People, go get this book.”

2) The their-producer-read-the-book, then-told-them-with-amazement “It was actually good, this guy is cool” host. These interviews are pretty fun, because the host is actually interested in the book and semi-plans to read it; as a result, they ask off-the-cuff questions they want answered prior to beginning the book. These interviews tended to be a little more serious, because they want to know things like, “Did you make fun of your co-workers?”

3) The didn’t-know-who-was-on-the-phone-until-the-producer-handed-them-a-postit-with-your-name-and-book host. These interviews are fine, because my weird name and self-explanatory book title made for easy, instant conversation. The vast majority of the interviews fall under this category.

4) The Mancow Host. Damn, I say, damn-- this one was painful, because (in case you haven’t heard of him) Mancow has a huge audience in Chicago, and syndicates in some other big cities. So… you know that feeling when you are on the phone trying to talk to a friend about an important topic and they are on the other end reading through their email? And about ten seconds into the call you tell them you gotta run, because they aren’t paying attention to you? Yeah, that was Mancow. For the four longest minutes of my life.

Anyway, the average Category Three interview pretty much revolved around the questions you would expect:

Host: Well, Pree-o-lak, this sounds like a funny book. What inspired it?

Me: I’d been in advertising for about 13 years, and I reached the burnout point where I was day dreaming about other jobs. I went online and took one of those Professional Personality Profiles that tells you what you should do. When I got through with my likes and dislikes, the only jobs it could find for me were “Sniper” and “Beer Taster.” Then, by the time I got to year 14, it was pretty much quit, or take a hostage.

(Insert a few minutes of talking about finances, wife’s income, lack of kids, the hosts desire to quit sometimes, too)

Host: What was the best job?

Me: Well, they were all tortuous in their own ways, but I’d have to say the best was construction, because the money was decent and you got paid in cash. Money aside, the bennies of being an ice cream scooper were pretty good.

Host: Do you get tired of ice cream?

Me: Unfortunately, no.

Host: So what was the worst job?

Me: Easy. The ER. You know that TV show Cops? It’s like watching Cops in 3-D Smell-o-vision. The ER is where those people go when they are too sick to beat their wives.

(Insert several minutes of discussion about the other jobs I worked, and the lousy jobs the host worked between firings. Note: Radio people get fired a lot.)

Host: So, Pry-O-Lee-A-You, what did you learn out of all this.

Me: Several things. If you want to avoid going to hell, tip the pizza guy at least a fiver. Never ride a horse in boxer underwear. The words please and thank you will get you a bigger ice cream cone. And most importantly, sitting in pointless-but-air-conditioned meetings is a pretty sweet way to pay the bills. No one truly misses air-conditioning and money until they don’t have them anymore.

Host: Anything else you’d like to add?

Me: You bet. Please, please, for the love of everything holy, go buy my stupid book. Your listeners are the thin, thin line between me and working at Home Depot, and I beg you to spare me of that. In fact-- You owe it to me, because ya’ll are some of the few people in the world who actually read-- get out there and buy! Buy TEN freakin’ copies, and give ‘em as gifts—use ‘em to level tables, I don’t give a crap. Buy the book, or I’ll triangulate your location like Jack Bauer, hunt you down, and put a shank in your ass. Do you hear me, you mouth-breathing cheapskates? Do you??!!

Host: Well, thanks for being with us today, Prioleau Alexander, author of You Want Fries With That? Now, traffic and weather together—

Me: Buy or die, you penny-pinching morons! Buy! Or! Die!

Book tour!

For a struggling author, the idea of being on “book tour” is analogous to what a sixteen year-old male thinks about being a hot tub with Jessica Simpson: The thought of achieving the goal sounds like more fun than being a Viking, and you have no idea what you’ll do when you get there, but you know in your heart that the experience is going to make you very, very, very happy.

This harkens back to my original explanation about the quest to be published, because folks who self-publish don’t go on book tours.

A book tour has it all—the “publicist” working behind the scenes, the publisher paying the freight, the booksellers preparing for your arrival, travel to cities where you won’t be related by blood to your “fans,” all of whom are in attendance out of admiration for your wordsmithing acumen… very heady stuff, indeed.

Needless to say, I was ready to light this particular candle. There were readers out there to be charmed and introduced to America’s newest humorist, and I certainly wasn’t going to become the next P.J. O’Rourke by emailing friends and family.

Allison put together a three-legged tour for me: First, I would journey to Pittsboro, NC (Shout out to their founding fathers for that great name), then Durham, NC, then Charlotte. The following week would be Columbia, SC, then Asheville, NC, then Greenville, SC, then Atlanta, GA, then Birmingham, AL. Finally, I’d be Florida bound.

It was interesting to me that the bookstores were all smaller, independent outfits. Allison explained that the Big Box Bookstores move a ton of books, but they don’t have a “regular crowd.” The smaller Indy’s develop real relationships with hundreds of customers, many of whom come to the store and ask, “What’s new? What’s good?” Going to the stores for a signing enables you to introduce yourself to the staff, be friendly, and get them to tell folks, “Hey, I met this author. He was a nice guy.”

As you’ve no doubt discovered by now, details bore me, and my writing doesn’t include descriptions of oak-lined roads, the smell of jasmine and honeysuckle, or the sounds of bullfrogs as the sun sets over the expanses of yellow-green marsh.

I don’t object to this style of writing, it’s just that it’s available from so many writers far more talented than I. Because of this, I’ll take you on a bird’s eye view of my book tour, and highlight the experiences that made me want to laugh, and weep, and gnash my teeth and throw rocks at the stain-glass windows of humanity.

A Book Tour in General—

Going on a “book tour” as an unknown author can best be envisioned as arcade game—let’s call it Whack-A-Dream. In each new city you and your dreams pop up into a bookstore-- fresh-faced and naïve-- only to be quickly whacked back down to the fourth circle of hell.

Most of the folks who attend your event you will be someone you personally invited, or will say, “Hi, (your name)! I’m a friend of (insert mutual friend’s name), and he/she told me I just had to come meet you!” Whack!

“He/she said something about you writing a book!” Whack!

“I’m not much of a reader myself, but how can I pass up a book signed by a real, live, famous author?” Whack!

“Make it out to my sister, she reads a lot. She read every one of the Harry Potter books!” Whack!

“Great. Now let me get a picture with you so I can prove to (insert mutual friend’s name) that I bought a book. He/she would never forgive me if I didn’t!” Whack! Whack! Whack!

Bookstore Owners—

If there’s a shining light within the getting-published solar system, it is the opportunity to meet the folks who own America’s independent bookstores. It is a well-agreed-upon fact that making money as an independent bookstore owner is damn near impossible, but they do it anyway.

As I pressed for the back story with each of the owners I met, none of them hinted of any sort of bitterness or animosity concerning this business reality—in fact, all the folks I met came into the profession with their eyes wide open. The money-seekers, for the most part, ran screaming from the industry when the monster know as Amazon burst onto the scene, and revealed the ugly Wal-Mareality of the American consumer: Many have no interest in the environment or experience that comes with a book purchase, and simply want to know the price.

Ernest Hemingway wrote a short story entitled A Clean Well-Lighted Place, and although many scholars have analyzed it as a story of hopelessness, I find there to be an undercurrent within it—a theme that says, “The place matters,” even to a dying old man filled with despair.

There are intangible details within a place that give it a tangible feel, and I believe it’s possible the old man in the story is there to absorb the bar’s mysterious ambiance. Do such places exist? I think they do— They absorb the energy and dreams and thoughts of those who’ve been there before you, and breathe them onto you in the time you spend there.

In my experience, these places are usually public, yet intimate… some are finely appointed, some are the proverbial dive… some loud, some are quiet. This is the realm of cafes, and bars, and restaurants, and ballparks, marinas, and front porches, and bed and breakfast homes-- and independent bookstores. You enter the right one and the word “perfect” comes to mind, and yet you don’t know why.

These special places have this aura because they are this aura— like a piece of art that truly captures the artist’s soul, the place is a reflection of the owner-- one of those rare souls who has the gift of putting this here, and that there, and providing an exacting ambiance of realness. Perhaps the parlance of our times would be a “feng shui of authenticity.”

This, I believe, is the goal of the men and women who own our country’s “Indys.” At some point in their life, they entered a perfect bookstore environment, and the sentiment of the place seeped into their soul, never to leave. The feeling, the design, the smell of books, the clientele, the curiosity in the air… together these intangibles orchestrated an irresistible Siren’s Song, and drew these special people into the bookstore owner fold.

For this reason, they care about their store—and every detail within it. They seek to provide book buyers with not just a place to buy books, but a clean well-lighted place, where the burdens of life seem far away.

If you have an Indy in your town, visit it. If nothing else, you will meet some lovely, lovely people.

Bookstore Employees—

If you don’t know me, and my breathtaking catalog of human failings, I can make a good first impression. That’s because:

a) I think I am many things, but “a big deal” is not one of them.

b) Telling other people about myself is the single most boring topic I can think of, so I’d much rather ask about you.

c) I tend to smile a lot, which leads you to believe I’m listening to your response.

With that said, there are two types of bookstore employees, both of which a traveling author must strive to make a good impression with.

First, there is the CUKE Employee… and I hasten to add that 90% of Indy employees are Cukes. Cuke stands for Cheerful-Upbeat-Kind-Employee, and it’s obvious they share the store owner’s vision about the stores sense of place: When you introduce yourself, they make immediate eye contact, smile broadly, and give you a tiny feeling of celebrity. It is clear they enjoy having authors visit, and they are at least mildly impressed that the human in front of them made it through the horrifying submission-process-to-publishing gauntlet.

Every single time—and I mean every time—Cukes take the time to come around from behind the counter, lead you to your spot, and ask, “Can I get you something? Water?” One hundred percent, without fail. This must be because history has taught them that authors are either really health conscious and hydration focused, or perhaps hungover. I don’t know which.

Cukes are wonderful about hovering, and you can bet that if that water disappears into your stomach, another will reappear in a jiff.

On the other end of the spectrum is the YAW Employees, named thus because of their “You Are Who?” approach to hospitality. When you encounter a YAW, it goes without saying the owner is not present, and is thus counting on the YAW to make the author feel welcome. They get an F.

The initial meeting with the YAW will follow a very specific, scripted choreography, the picture of which is difficult for a writer of my minimal skills to paint, so bear with me. I’ll try.

So, envision: YAW is doing something very important on the store computer. You approach, and stand silently for between thirty and forty seconds. Eventually, the YAW ever-so-fleetingly cuts their eyes to you, granting permission for you to interrupt the vital updating of their Facebook profile.

You say, “Hi! My name is (insert your name), and I have an event with you today. Just wanted to let you know I’m here, and to see if there’s anything specific you’d like me to do.”

The YAW’s face will remain expressionless, making sure you think they don’t know who you are, even though you both know that they know exactly who you are. Said YAW will type one last thing into computer, and-- avoiding eye contact-- scan behind the counter for the micro-scrap of paper bearing your name.

Upon locating the scrap, which is right where they put it, the YAW will study the scrap, look up at you, offer a smile detectable only by a Sicilian pantomime expert, and says, “Hi, I’m YAW. You’ll be sitting at the desk over there-- let me know if I can get you anything.”


Television interviews—

Very exciting, indeed. Casey set me up with a couple morning TV shows, and my experience on the Fox News affiliate in one of the cities said it all. I arrived early, and was directed to “the green room,” where the show’s producer would come and fetch me.

Now, perhaps you are a high-rolling celebrity and spend lots of time in “green rooms,” but this was a first for me. Striding the hallway on my collision course with this famous symbolic-room-of-the-famous caused me a few butterflies, but I swallowed them down. Good thing, too, because the experience wasn’t worthy of so much as a gut-flopping caterpillar-- this green room was neither green nor lavish, and the only buffet available was behind a plexi-glass window at seventy-five cents a throw. In fact, it was pretty much a Doc-in-a-Box waiting room, but instead of Norman Rockwell prints it had prints for Fox TV shows.

I scored a package of Oreos, thinking it would get my teeth looking their whitest, and settle in for the wait. About ten minutes later, the show’s producer/director arrived, and sat down next to me:

Producer: You’re first name is pronounced Pro-Lowe?

Me: That’s close enough.

Producer: Okay. I’m just going to lead you out to the set, and Mike Dovey will interview you. The general rule is two minutes, three minutes if you’re great.

Me: I’m shooting for four minutes!

Producer: I like the way you think.

On the set:

Mike the Host: Okay, and coming back after the break we have Pro-Lowe Alexander, author of You Want Fries With That? A White-Collar Burnout Experiences Life at Minimum Wage!

Director: And, we’re off the air! Ninety seconds, people.

Host: You know, Pro-Lowe, I gotta say, this sounds like a great book. I know how you feel. Man, I hated this job for years. Got to the point where I was angry driving into work. I thought about quitting, but—damn, man. House, wife, kids, health insurance, what a nightmare. I went to the station manager and had a sit-down, and he said, “You need to get your mind right.” It took awhile, but I worked through it. You know?

Me: Sure, I—

Director: Ten seconds!

Mike the Host: I got a million questions. Hang on a sec’.

Director: And four…three…

Mike the Host: We’re back with Pro-Lowe Alexander, author of You Want Fries With That? A White-Collar Burnout Experiences Life at Minimum Wage. Pro-Lowe, I hear you have an event in our fair city today.

Me: Yes, Sir. I’ll be at the Alabama Booksmith from 6 to 8pm.

Mike the Host: Great. Just great. That’s an event no one will want to miss. And speaking of miss, here’s Miss Katie Phillips with today’s weather. (Pause and a smile for the toss…) Hey, Pro-Lowe, you did great, just great. Thanks for coming by. I really appreciate it.

Me: Thanks.

Mike the Host: The exit is just to your left, over there. You bet. Hey, thanks for coming by. Come back any time.

Hotels--

Being on book tour involves staying in a lot of hotels, with a lot of time to kill. Never having had a job in sales, this hotel life was new to me—99% of the hotels where I’d stayed in my life revolved around a vacation event, and a good vacation involves as little time in a hotel room as humanly possible. I did, however, remember to take notes on the experience, and here are a few of the nuggets of wisdom I raked in:

The $89 Rule-

For some reason, $89 is the exact point at which you transition from “dump” to “decent.” Less than $89 per night, and the person at the front desk will be in civilian clothes, looking like they are on their third straight meth-fueled shift. $89 and up, and you’ll enjoy a pleasant conversation with a uniformed person who seems to care that you are checking in. $89 is the point where straight shower curtain rods give way to those new curved “arc” rods, which enable you to shower without the curtain clinging to your skin every time you reach for the soap.

It is the magical point where vending machines are displayed without gunmetal fencing between you and your healthy dining experience. Wireless internet appears in your room, not just in the lobby. The air-conditioning units have temperature options beyond “off” and “arctic.” Do-not-disturb door hangers are available, and maid service resists the urge to beat on your door like Paul Revere. The lobby smells like a lobby, instead of curry or microwaved popcorn. Towels look like towels, instead of sheets. And accommodations are made for those new-fangled technologies which demand a power source in order to re-charge.

Sadly, I didn’t come to this realization until the end of my book tour, and I’d already stayed in the cheapest places possible to save my publisher money. And if you’re reading this as a published book, rest assured I have negotiated a way to discover what happens at $139 a night.

Hotel Room Television—

If there was bright spot to being on book tour, cable television was it. My wife and I live out in the sticks, and get our TV through rabbit ears and tin foil, so imagine my joy at discovering 50+ channels for my viewing pleasure. Boy, have I fallen out of touch with my beloved country! I learned hundreds of new things, among them:
• Basketball players are no longer required to dribble.

• Parents who allow their under-18 children to go into acting or entertainment
should simply cut to the chase and sell them into child-slavery prostitution rings, thus saving all that time needed for auditions.

• Al Sharpton represents “black people” in the same way Larry the Cable
Guy represents “white people,” yet big media breathlessly reports on his every action as if he were trailed by a white dove and celestial voice announcing, “This is my Son, in whom I am well pleased.”

• The only promise that appears off-limits to people running for President is
“eternal life, through me.” Claiming, however, that “I am the Truth, and the Way, and the Life” is apparently acceptable.
• If a nature-based TV channel is doing a show on the relationship between
“predator” and “prey,” pray for the prey.

• A thing called Ultimate Fighting has revealed that all the movie fight sequences we Americans love so dearly are totally fake. Among true, highly-trained badasses, a fight consists of two punches, then one guy choking the other.

• On TV dramas, we love Cops. On TV news, we don’t love Cops. Translated, we
love Cops as long as they aren’t Cops.

• The rules for parenting are no longer passed along from mother to daughter and father to son. They are doled out in ten second blurbs between sitcoms-- by actors, and sponsored by media conglomerates that “care.”

• Every cell phone carrier believes that the carrier I subscribe to is a call
dropping, over-priced, family-unfriendly, no-network rip off. Which is a pretty good description of every cell phone service I’ve ever subscribed to.

Particularly Memorable Signings—

My wife and I arrived early in St. Elsewhere, because we’d heard it was an important stop. Besides, when a published author such as myself arrives for an event of such import, there may be need for pre-event adoration and asskissery. My public loves me, and I love them, and together we dance lightly across the misty, mystic Never-Never lands of fact and fiction, where time is the only lonely hunter.

The bookstore itself was nestled within an idyllic little village atmosphere, more Yellow Brick Road than reality. We lunched at an outdoor café, and marveled at the lovingly tended flora that draped the scene—the birds chirped, the breeze blew, and I confess I half expected our severer to be a Munchkin. We dined on the body of cow that no doubt volunteered itself for consumption, and together we shared cheerful, pithy commentary on the day, and the scenery, and the rainbows that streaked across the sky and ended at out feet. I think at one point we laughed until we cried.

Following our luncheon, we stepped across the cobbled courtyard to the site of my event, tastefully choosing not to capture a tacky Kodak moment as we whisked past the sign that trumpeted my impending arrival.

The bookstore was perfect in every detail: Just the right size, just the right mix of interesting and eclectic books, just the right mix of a melting pot staff… again I was drawn to a fiction flashback, this time related to Goldilocks. Heidi and I chatted with the all-Cuke staff, and browsed the books, and smiled as my public assembled.

By 2:03 there were twenty-five fans sitting on the collective edge of their seats in the speaking area, and I swept into the room with an aplomb normally reserved for Jane Fonda’s entrance into a moveon.org fundraiser.

For the next forty minutes I wove my tales, and showered my audience with a gentle rain of insights and provocation, throwing out my cast net of wit, and hauling in roars of laughter. My insights inspired bobble-headed agreement, and on a couple of occasions I stammered as my mind drifted to the mathematics associated with all the upcoming sales.

I took questions, and the answers rolled off my tongue like a mixed-DNA clone of Bill Clinton and Robin Williams. With that, I announced that I would retire to the lobby to sign books.

I thank my Lord in Heaven that neither Heidi nor I were in the path of that thundering herd as they stampeded out the door. The Running of the Bulls in Pamplona, Spain has nothing on what I witnessed—and I know, because I’ve been there. Horrified that all my sales were vanishing before my eyes, I bolted the platform and sprinted at a forty five degree angle towards the front of the store-- in hopes, you know, of taking down a couple of the weaker of the herd-- but a stand-up spinner of self-help books forced me to stutter-step left, and the old bag with the walker used that moment to gather steam. She made the handicap ramp, and vanished from sight like a winged monkey in pursuit of Dorothy.

Shortly thereafter, we were in the car

“Remember what Allison said,” my wife opined. “It’s not about the sales; it’s about meeting the store managers and making a good impression on them. And you did—you were gracious and funny and appreciative, and I guarantee all of the employees are going to recommend your book to their customers. The ones that actually purchase books.”

I didn’t respond, watching the countryside roll past. Up ahead, I saw the remnants of some sort of animal which had clearly finished second in its game of chicken with a tractor-trailer. I hoped it was a winged-monkey.

Vero Beach

On the opposite side of the spectrum was the signing I had in a quaint little beach town named Vero Beach. Here, I was informed, C-SPAN Book-TV would be filming my talk, and there was even a piece in the daily newspaper the day before. As a result, a number of curious book lovers turned out, and I had a crowd of about forty. For a rookie, this is a very big deal.

In a stroke of inspiration, and because I was ten minutes early, I went around and introduced myself individually to each person in the crowd. For some reason, everyone thought this was hilarious—I guess because I kept repeating my name and insisting on shaking everyone’s hand. This played to my advantage in a big way, as it was then that they presupposed my speech would be funny.

Believe me, when people think you are going to be funny, it makes public speaking a lot easier. The event went well, and even the film crew seemed pleased.

“I think you’re going to get some extra airtime out of this,” the cameraman said. “These things are usually pretty boring.”

And thus, I would make my national television debut on a show the crew described as pretty boring. Ka-ching.

Coral Gables

Books & Books in Coral Gables is by any measure one of the greatest places on earth.

This is largely due to the fact that where most bookstores have a foyer, or, well, a front door, Books & Books has a bar. It is impossible to enter their facilities without thinking to yourself, “Hey, I might have myself a cold one.” Upon arrival, I met the Cuke assistant manager, who right on cue asked me, “Can I get you anything? Water? Coffee? A beer?”

Well, hello, Books & Books!

It took the assistant manager a couple of minutes to find me, because he mistook my war whoop and sprinting exit as a signal I needed to make an emergency trip to the bathroom. When he found me, seated on a barstool and using my tongue to tap the bartender on the shoulder, he understood-- and advised the bartender I was drinking on the house. With a full 45 minutes before beginning my talk I tipped the bartender a ten spot, hoping he’d keep quiet about the inevitable damage to the Miller Lite inventory.

Behind me was an open courtyard, where a guitarist played classical guitar, which offered a very nice ambiance to the early evening. The light was going soft and erasing the reality lines of mad dogs and Englishmen, and time reached that evasive flow that comes with being in just the right place at just the right time.

From one end of the bar to the other the patrons all looked like interesting folks— not pompous, not affected, not dull, not boisterous, not ignorant… interesting, like an international arms smuggler who spends his weekends volunteering at church. Thoughtful-yet-conflicted people are usually the most interesting, I think. One of life’s real joys is a conversation with a smart person who isn’t sure they are right all the time is— a person who listens to a new perspective, and thoughtfully considers it. One in ten thousand has that gift.

With no one to chat with—and because my brain works in a helter-skelter, ricochet, moto-cross sort of fashion-- I went from thinking about people to books, to readers, to sorts of readers, to sorts of books, to the sorts of people who choose not to read books.

What do such people think about when they are alone? You know, their usual group of friends has gone home for the evening, so there’s no one around with which to discuss sports, or the kids, or cars, or politics, or music, or who got on the stage and danced with the band the previous weekend. They are alone, sitting on the porch, listening to the spin of their world, and they think about—what?

An issue concerning the Redskins defensive secondary?

A piece of gossip about that political candidate they really hate?

Whether Oshkosh or Levi’s makes better kids’ overalls?

Do they think about deep stuff at all? The deep stuff great authors write about, and their readers will commit dozens of hours to absorb? Surely they do—they simply choose to not read, correct?

Ricochet--

Our world, it seems, is moving away from books as a form of entertainment, and this does not bode well for all of us who dream of a career in the lonely art.

The real truth be known, our world is moving away from words themselves—anyone seeking the truth in that statement need only look to the delightful world of advertising: One of the founding father’s of modern advertising, David Ogilvy, achieved fame and fortune in the way he provided consumers with detailed information in a way that was interesting and fun to read—his famous Rolls Royce “Clock ad” had somewhere in the neighborhood of 700 words of copy.

Today? Hell, a twenty-page brochure wouldn’t have 700 words of copy in it. The biggest beef advertising clients have with their ad agency writers is “my customers don’t want to read all that crap.” And thus was born (shudder), “the brand.”

This is the inane buzzword for “owning a feeling” in the minds of the consumer, and it is supposedly the “essence” of what the product is about—an essence that comes to life in the form of their advertising. I won’t give examples, because every time a company achieves a sustainable brand, they get a new advertising agency, which then spends tens of millions of dollars in “research” to convince them they need to dump the old creative and strike out in search of a new creative.

I won’t bore you with the inner workings of the process, but a few insights that might clue you into the source of the phenomenon are:

a) They are spending shareholder’s money, and who cares about what they think.

b) A new brand means new TV commercials, shot near beaches or ski resorts.

c) All the client bigwigs get free meals and booze and hotel rooms while “supervising” the shoot, because the opinions of people like the CFO are critical to the success of any creative project. Sure, every “client supervisor” ends up costing the shareholders a few hundred thousand dollars, but—hey, please refer to a).

Mental Moto-Cross loop—

If we the people are going to drift away from great books because they are filled with so many words, are we also doomed to lose the “essence” of what the writer was saying?

Would it be possible to somehow boil down brilliant literary achievements like Victor Hugo’s 800-page Les Miserables, and salvage its message for those folks simply too busy to read it?

Could, in fact, entire books be reduced to a text message? After thinking through some of the more famous books in my library, I decided they could-- and went to work on a cocktail napkin. Let’s see…

Catch-22— Bureaucracy sucks
Atlas Shrugged—Government sucks.
The Catcher in the Rye—Phonies suck.
The Screwtape Letters—Satan sucks.
Lord of the Flies—Humans suck.
A Farewell to Arms—Life sucks.
Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance—Beauty is only skin deep.
The Count of Monte Cristo— Payback is a muther.
Don’t Stop the Carnival—No matter where you go, there you are.
Les Miserables— There ain’t no free lunch.
The Great Gatsby—You always want what you can’t have.
The Sound and the Fury—What goes up, must come down.
The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy— 42.
Heart of Darkness—There’s a thin line between Saturday night and Sunday morning.
Lonesome Dove— Actions speak louder than words
Cold Mountain—Life goes on.

And let’s close with a look at the world according to McCarthy:

Blood Meridian—Hell is where you’re headed.
The Border Trilogy— Unless, against all odds, you redeem yourself.
No Country For Old Men— Not that it matters.
The Road— Or does it?

Buoyed my new-found belief that the writer’s art is not doomed to extinction, and in fact may thrive in this new digital age no matter how short the attention span of the public contracts, I drank the exact-correct number of Miller Lites and put on a pretty-dang-good show for those kind enough to attend my event.

Greenville, SC

My book tour event in Greenville was particularly memorable, first and foremost because it is the city my Mum and Step-Dad currently call home. I’d enjoyed a couple of really, really successful bookstore events in my hometown of Charleston, and my Step-Mom had put on a couple of very successful private signing events in her home in Charleston, and I was excited to be arriving in another town where there’d be a for-sure welcoming reception.

As you know, parents can be pretty amazing. My Mom couldn’t attend the event, held at The Open Book, because she was participating in Kairos Ministries, a Christian organization that goes into prisons to hold a weekend-long course in Christianity for prisoners who are interested.

This is no small leap for a woman who graduated from Hollins College, is a past-president of the Junior League, and sits on the Vestry of one of the largest Episcopal churches in the nation. But, that’s where she was.

My Step-Dad Lee, however, was there, and he too is a very cool cat—who just happens to be the headmaster of Christ Church Episcopal School.

The turnout was amazing, and I confess to a feeling a tiny bit of celebrity creeping in… until the signing started.

“Hi, I’m bible study friend of your mom.”
“Hi, I’m a hiking friend of your mom.”
“Hi, I’m a Historic Greenville friend of your mom.”
“Hi, I’m a dog-lover friend of your mom.”
“Hi, I’m on the Vestry with your mom.”
“Hi, I’m a Master Gardener friend of your mom.”
“Hi, I used to work for your mom.”
“Hi, I work for Lee.”
“Hi, I work for Lee.”
“Hi, I work for Lee.”
“Hi, I fly planes with Lee.”
“Hi, I just love your mom.
“Hi, I just love Lee.”

Eventually, we ran out of books. And it got me thinking about a life well-lived.

Chicago Signing—

My wife and I caught a cab out to the store in the suburbs of Chicago, a few miles away from the bustle of the downtown “Loop.” Why we were leaving the place where tens of thousands of tourists were walking, drinking, and looking to spend their souvenir-money I cannot say-- Mongo just pawn in game of life.

The cabbie pulled to the curbside, and like the celebrities we are we exited with much ado. I stopped into the bookstore to scout the staff (YAW vs. Cukes) prior to sitting down for a good luck beer. I did my usual aw-shucks bit:

Me: Hey! My name is Prioleau Alexander, and I have an event here in 45 minutes.

Cuke Manager: Well, awesome. Thanks for coming. Can I get you some water? Coffee?

Me: Nah, I’m gonna bop down the street and have a beer.

Cuke Manager: Great. Hey, would you like to speak back in the presentation room? Or out here on the floor.

Me: Out here. I’m pretty easy going about this stuff.

Cuke Manager: Great. Well, I’ll see you back here at six.

Me: Six it is!

5:59pm, returning from bar.

Wife: Uh, Prioleau?

Me: Yeah, Hon—

Wife: The sign on the door says, “Wednesday, June 16th.”

Me: Right. Today is the 16th.

Wife: True. But it’s Monday, June 16th.

6:00pm, at the counter.

Me: Hey, uh, you… you… I’m afraid you got the wrong date on the door.
Cuke Manager: Crap!

To plagiarize Dave Barry—I’M NOT MAKING THIS UP.

Cuke Manager runs to door, scratches out the word Wednesday, and writes in the word Tuesday. He was way too nice of a guy for me to correct him.

6:15pm, inside the store.

Me: Dude! That’s an excellent book!

Poor, innocent book-browser dude: It does look funny. And I’m in the midst of a career change.

Me: If you buy it, I’ll sign it for you.

Poor, innocent book-browser dude: You wrote it?

Me: That I did.

Poor, innocent book-browser dude: Uh, I guess I don’t have much choice, do I?

Me: You do not.

Poor, innocent book-browser dude: Uh, okay.

Me: Ka-ching!

6:20pm

Browser Chick: Did you say you wrote that book?

Me: That I did.

Browser Chick: Um, why are you here?

Me: I’m here for a speaking event.

Browser Chick: When?

Me: Right now.

Pregnant pause as her eyes sweep the bookstore for someone, anyone, who is around to hear me speak. Pause lasts long enough for the birth of her next comment.

Browser Chick: You can tell me about your book.

Me: Ka-ching!


NPR—

You may not know this, but NPR is available no matter where you are on the continental United States, from the deepest depths of Death Valley to the tippy, tippy top of Mount Whitney. It’s always there, always way down in the low number spectrum of the radio wave. As soon as the story about the need for water in insert-African-nation-here starts to fade from 88.9, you hit the scan button and you’ll find it that same pick-me-up journalism at 89.2.

I’ve never really listened much to NPR, as I’ve always been told it is a mouthpiece for the likes of Che Guevara. With the station available everywhere, however, giving it a tumble only made practical sense. And, to my surprise, NPR revealed itself to be not nearly so left-leaning. I mean, compared to Keith Obermann, it’s Fox frickin’ News.

Like all broadcasting forums, it does have its own idiosyncrasies and leanings. And from Team NPR, I learned a few new things. For instance:

* To be an announcer on NPR, you must have voice soothing enough to elicit a cheerful response when hearing the words, “You have brain cancer, heart disease, a collapsed left lung and, oh-- I’m having an affair with your wife.”

* You will never hear a piece of Jazz music that qualifies as “the worst thing you’ve ever heard.” This is because there will always be another one to come after it.

* If a gentleman named Garrison Keiller opens his mouth in front of a live audience—reciting, perhaps, To an Athlete Dying Young—the audience will roar with laughter.

* To be an interviewer on NPR, you must be rock steady in your professional composure, and can never begin laughing and saying “Dude, are you frickin’ high?” no matter what former President Jimmy Carter says.

* By combining soothing voices with relaxing bumper music and honey-lined foreign accents, it is possible to go from a story on an earthquake killing 750, 000 people to a story on ethnic cleansing to a story on the impending extinction of whales and still—still feel pretty damn satisfied about the world.

Conversations with The Voice.

In a dumpy hotel room—

Voice: What are you doing?

Me: I’m writing

Voice: Well, obviously. Why are you writing? Why aren’t you walking the strip drinking beers? You’re in frickin’ Daytona Beach at the beginning of summer. Go have some fun!

Me: I need to write.

Voice: That makes no sense. You’re on book tour.

Me: I still need to write.

Voice: Great writers take huge breaks between books. To, you know, recharge their batteries. Get a new perspective.

Me: Someday I’ll do that.

Voice: Do it now.

Me: I can’t.

Voice: Why? You’re scared?

Me: Say what?

Voice: I said: Are you scared?

Me: Scared of what?

Voice: You are! Ah-ah-ah…you’re scared that you don’t have another book in you—

Me: Don’t be ridiculous. Writing comes easy to me.

Voice: Yes, copywriting does… but you ain’t writing another real estate brochure here, are you? You can knock that crap out with your eyes closed, but this book thing has you spooked. I can smell it on you.

Me: Back off. God opened a door, and I’m walking through it. I’ll keep walking until the door closes.

Voice: Yes, yes—trying to shut me up with the Christian thing. Well, Reverend Alexander, if you’re such a Christian, why are you drinking beer while you write?

Me: Easy, there. Jesus’ first miracle was turning water into wine.

Voice: Right. Wine. At a wedding. It wasn’t turning water into beer so he could drink it alone. In a hotel room.

Me: Cut me a break, Man. I’m a frickin’ wreck here. I have no idea if my book is selling. No idea if I’m going to make a dime on this whole stupid dream; I’m probably wearing my friends out asking them to help me sell the book. I’ve been away from my wife for two weeks. I thought getting published would be some sort of orgasmic release, and so far it’s just as frustrating as not being published. I want to turn off my brain, get it freakin’ re-wired, and be an accountant.

Voice: Wait here. I’m gonna run out and see if I can find someone in this area code that feels sorry for you.

Defying the Laws of Nature--

As a Christian, I believe that from time to time God defies the laws of nature—physics, time, medicine, what have you. Why He chooses to intercede in our human time and space is not ours to know—and the most painful occasions are not when we witness a miracle, but when we don’t. Childhood cancer, freak accidents, birth defects… the list is long of the things that frustrate us. Why doesn’t he intercede then?

I have worked through those issues, and have come to answers that satisfy my intellect and faith, but I won’t go into them here. They are long and complex, and I doubt seriously my writing will miraculously convert anyone reading this book. The issues of suffering and miracles is intensely abstract, and it’s a walk each person must make on their own.

So, why do I bring it up?

I do so because I am writing this section on battery power, sitting in the passenger seat of my car, mid-way between Greenville and Atlanta. I’m sitting here because my car has a flat, and I’m waiting on AAA; yes, I know how to change a flat, but I prefer not to do so along the side of one of the busiest Interstates in the southeast; the AAA dude will have one of those professional jacks, and will accomplish in two minutes what would take me twenty.

So, the topic of miracles: About thirty minutes ago, I was happily inbound to the event in Atlanta, listening to Skynyrd and smiling inwardly about how well things went in Greenville. I went to pass a cluster of cars that were trudging along at below the speed limit, when suddenly one of them filled my windshield. It was most certainly not a “turned on the blinker and merged into my lane” type encounter, but a “chase scene from Cops where the police officer goes to take down the perp” type encounter.

He wasn’t there, and then he was three-quarters into my lane, with a collision imminent. Since two thousand pound spheres of metal traveling at seventy miles an hour do not play well together, I hit the brakes, and prayed that my deceleration would prevent the crash.

It did. Unfortunately, my car lacks anti-lock brakes, and tends to misbehave when any given driver tries to coax it to stop on a dime—and physics taking over.

There is a saying among pilots that goes, “What’s the first thing you do during an airborne emergency? You fly the frickin’ plane.”

I’m happy to say that that old saying kicked in as I lost control, and I focused hard on containing the situation.

On swerve number three, the wheels found purchase, and took me in the direction the car was headed. I recall very distinctly thinking, “Thank God this interstate has those cables across the median,” because that was where I was headed. I knew the cables would rip the car’s side to shreds, but anything would beat going head-on into the busy Sunday traffic screaming north on I-85.

At this point I struggle for an appropriate analogy, because it’s difficult for me to capture the nuance of the moment. So, for lack of a more creative mind, I tell you that a barrier of Lincoln Logs and dental floss would have done a better job of slowing me down, and re-directing my trajectory.

In fact, I recall thinking “Wow” as I plowed over the steel cables, amazed that they failed to even slow me down, much less re-direct the direction of my flight. I crossed the median into oncoming traffic as easily as one might take an exit ramp in search of a restroom and a Mountain Dew.

This is when the miracle transpired.

I was now traveling south in the northbound lane, still wildly out of control. In front of me was an eighteen wheeler, bearing down like, well, an eighteen wheeler. I did the math in my head, and thought, “We cannot miss each other, so this is how I will die. Wow, I can’t believe this is it. I never thought it would be in a car accident. I wonder if it will hurt?”

I pulled to the right, hoping he would hit me mid-vehicle instead of head-on… he pulled to his right, thinking the same thing… and we missed each other.

Not only did we miss each other, but there was no traffic swimming remora around him. As a result, we missed, and there were no other cars present to cream me. I simply pulled into the median, pointing the wrong way, and said, “God, I don’t know what you have planned for me, but I hope I’m successful in accomplishing it. You just bent the laws of physics on my behalf, and I’m as sure of that as I am that my hands are going to start shaking in a minute.”

I got out and spent several minutes thanking the tractor-trailer driver for being alert, and talking (quite civilly) with the guy who’d cut me off, who had actually stopped to assume responsibility.

The cutter-offer called the South Carolina Highway Patrol to report the incident, and I got back in my car to await the Trooper. As I sat there, I offered some prayers of thanksgiving to God for sparing me, and to let him know I’d try to fulfill whatever mission he had in store for me.

Then I turned on the radio, and the station was playing “In the Arms of an Angel” by Sarah McCloughlin. I wouldn’t believe me either, so there are no hard feelings.

Finally, the Trooper arrived, took the report, and cleared us all to leave. I was two and a half hours late for my event at A Cappella Books in Atlanta, and the bookstore owner was a complete gentleman about it.

To show my appreciation for his understanding and genuine concern, I signed my plastic side bumper and left it as a souvenir.