My book signing was a success. For Sweet Annie

I picked up enough cash at my Saturday book signing to pay the bar tab I ran up later that evening. I didn’t pay it, Sweet Annie did, but I could have. And we had prime rib, so, all in all, I consider the signing a rousing success.

As I mentioned in a previous column, I was scared shirtless (that’s not a typo — this is a family newspaper!) about doing a public event. I needn’t have been.

The folks who showed up were very nice, especially Lois, who said I was “handsome.” That’s not a typo, either, and she said it with a straight face! Yes, really. All I can say is, Lois must be a heckuva poker player.

Since I’m not Stephen King, there was no long line out the bookstore’s front door and I had plenty of time to chat with everyone who stopped by. 

I spoke with snowbirds June and Mike about their upcoming trip to Arizona, where they plan to hide out until the ice melts next April. I offered to accompany them as their houseboy, but apparently, they can do better by way of domestic assistance.

Carla bought a copy of my book for her son, who lives in the U.P. Carla sends my newspaper column to him every week, in part because I remind her of her son. I hope Carla hasn’t mentioned this to the poor kid, since a comment like that can only be interpreted as an insult.

My neighbor, Linda, from across the lake, also attended, even though she could drop by my place any time if she really wanted a copy of my book.

So rather than being the flop-sweat fest I had anticipated, the signing was … well … kinda fun. 

Also, I liked hanging with Kevin, the guy who manages Robbins Book List, where the signing was held. He’s the first person I’ve met who likes beer as much as I do. Plus, he’s a Gove Scrivenor fan. (You would be, too, if you’d ever heard him play, which you haven’t, because almost nobody has. That’s another story.)

The only downside to the whole affair was this: I couldn’t get over the feeling that nobody was really there to see ME. They were there to see my g-friend, Sweet Annie.

Annie stood by my side, like a good woman in a bad country-western song, to lend moral support. But it wasn’t long before I noticed a disturbing trend: Everyone — EVERYone — who showed up, shook my hand, introduced him-or-herself, and then turned to my honey and said, “And YOU must be Sweet Annie!” At which point they would toss me a copy of my book for signing and thereafter ignore me completely.

Annie, more poised than Marie Antoinette prior to her “Let them eat cake” faux pas, engaged each reader with a charm and grace any political candidate would spend millions to replicate. She was definitely the star of the day.

I was the schmendrick sitting next to her.

But I don’t mind. In fact, watching her converse with these folks, genuinely interested in what each had to say, I couldn’t help but feel proud. 

You know that scene in “The American President” in which Annette Bening suddenly begins conversing with the French ambassador in his native tongue and Michael Douglas is duly impressed? It was like that.

I was hoping somebody from France would show up, just so Annie could speak French to them (she does, you know; speak French, I mean).

At any rate, I now have a plan for all future book signings or other public events I’m coerced into doing. From now on, I’ll simply stand by the door, shake hands as folks come in, and then point them to Sweet Annie. She can take it from there.

I’m crazy about that girl. After all, she did pick up the bar tab.

Mike’s book, “Looking at the Pint Half Full” is available at Robbins Book List in Greenville and in ebook format from Amazon.com. Contact Mike at mtaylor325@gmail.com.

C’mon, Mike, don’t fear the Reader…

You are SUCH a chicken, Mike Taylor; a coward; a complete and total wimp! You are pathetic! What are you, a man or a mouse?

(Squeak.)

Nope, it’s not working.  I was hoping that by berating myself I could work up some nerve, in much the same way as did the Cowardly Lion as he approached the throne of The Great and Powerful Oz.

I’ve mentioned before how terrified I am of making public appearances, right?  I know I have. Yet, for reasons I can’t fully explain (greed), I have a book signing coming up Saturday, Oct. 27.  It’s at Robbins Book List in Greenville, just for a couple hours beginning at 1 p.m.

Sounds easy, right?  I mean, I already know how to sit; I know how to sign my name; I know how to smile and say thank you.  One would think this gig had a zero learning curve.

So why am I suddenly beginning to smell like poultry?

Well, first off, there’s the very real possibility nobody will show up.  Maybe, just maybe, I’m not as wonderful as I think I am, nor as universally loved.  

I base this possibility on the fact nobody showed up for my 50th birthday party except my then-wife and kids.  Despite my having mailed out a dozen invites a week earlier, it was just the four of us.  At that party there was tequila and a live band, so whatever embarrassment I felt at being stood up was soon assuaged through the liberal application of Cuervo and classic rock.  

As I understand it, there will be no tequila at the book signing; no live band.  If nobody shows up, I will have to face the humiliation without, um, distilled assistance or rock & roll.

Then again, maybe people WILL show up, people who read my column or have already read my book.  They will expect me to be funny, clever, articulate; all things I can easily fake in print but never seem able to pull off in real life.

I’ll stutter, I’ll mumble, I’ll blurt inappropriate things I will deeply regret later on.  I’ll make a fool of myself.

Regardless of whether anyone actually shows up, I’m doomed.

This is all made so much worse by Helen Simonson. Simonson’s book, “Major Pettigrew’s Last Stand,” was chosen as this year’s One Book One County selection for Montcalm County. Everyone who’s read it says it’s a great novel.

That’s fine.  What’s NOT fine is Simonson herself.  She was in town last night to speak to an audience of about 400 readers (myself included) and she was brilliant.  She was articulate, interesting, entertaining … everything one expects an author to be at a book signing.

I sat in the front row, enthralled — like the rest of those gathered at the high school — with her clever stories, witty observations and wry sagacity.  Her book was a best seller and she’s done a lot of these appearances; she made it look easy.

And maybe for her, it was.  If so, that serves only to make me feel even worse about my own pathetic lack of social graces.

Sure, part of Simonson’s charm came from her British accent. “Put your hand up! This is a robbery!” sounds altogether charming when you say it with an English accent. An English accent is the polar opposite of a German accent, where even a statement such as, “I love you, darling,” tends to sound like wine glasses being cruelly crushed between two large, wet stones.  I’m fairly certain German is the language Klingons revert to when they want to sound scarier than they do in their native tongue.

Anyway, her accent was part of her charm, but not all of it.  She was collected, cool and in complete control.

I hate her.

No, that’s not true.  I thought she was great.  I just hope folks who attended her signing don’t show up at mine.  I can’t follow an act like that.

Sweet Annie has agreed to accompany me to the signing to offer moral support, but I suspect she plans to wear dark glasses and a fake Groucho mustache.  No need for us both to go down in flames, I guess.

Dallas Ford Lincoln, a fellow author, friend, and man with the names of two car companies in his monicker, also will be there signing his latest book. So if nobody shows, at least I’ll have another writer there with me suffering a similar fate.  I don’t know if misery loves company, but I do.

Ah, if I only had da noive.

BUY MY BOOK, YA CHEAPSKATE!  Available in eBook format at Amazon.com and in paperback at Robbins Book List and Greenville and online by clicking the links over on the left, there.  mtaylor@staffordmediasolutions.com (616) 548-8273