6/15/2009
Kathi and Sam were so funny, and the wedding was warm and full of laughter and love.
But here's where you get fooled by all the joy and cake. We were both so tired we were thinking only of home. Dragging through the last event. Delighted that all reviews (barring Kirkus and a few bloggers) had been amazingly positive. So. I had a mid-day interview with the books editor at the SF Chronicle.
Wandered down there to the Yerba Buena Gardens. He set up his tape recoredr and told me he'd seen the reviw of my book. I smiled and went into my prepared pre-paid Humble Author mode, when he stopped me. "It's not good news for you," he said. Zim-zam and bam! Tour ends on an uncomfortable note--his reviewer hates my book because I "trivialize" the border. ha ha! Joke's on me, y'all! So I thanked him (?) and staggered off.
San Francisco tried to ameliorate the let-down as only SF can. The next day, we were treated to a 40 person totally nude bicycle parade. Yes, indeed. Purdy nude, my friends. Like, shaved nude. And, as I pointed out to my next audience, a few of the gents were rising to the occasion.
OK. Here's how love wins out, though. My last gig in SF and for the tour was the loegendary Writers With Drinks. At the Make-Out Lounge in the Mission District. Perhaps not the perfect fit for me, since I barely drink. But I thought it would at least be joyous.
Yes. Yes. Joy. Yes.
Our hostess was the hilarious and brilliant trans-gendered Charlie. When people wanted pictures of us together, we told them they were our senior prom pix. I did the greatest reading in the long history of readings. Ever. Nobody can tell me different. And, when I told the audience about my forthcoming drubbing in the paper, they raised their glasses in a very loud toast: "Fuck you, San Francisco Chronicle!"
How can you not be thankful?
Wow. I can't even tell you more. It was like that. Up and down. Terrible, then exploding with light and love in ways I would only sound silly or pompous to share with you. Now, coffee. Poems. Gardening. Exercise.
And into the sacred Rockies for some peace and...oh yeah, more autographs.
Thank you from both of us. We love you all. We love you, Charlie.
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX, L & C
How I Spent My Summer Vacation
But here's where you get fooled by all the joy and cake. We were both so tired we were thinking only of home. Dragging through the last event. Delighted that all reviews (barring Kirkus and a few bloggers) had been amazingly positive. So. I had a mid-day interview with the books editor at the SF Chronicle.
Wandered down there to the Yerba Buena Gardens. He set up his tape recoredr and told me he'd seen the reviw of my book. I smiled and went into my prepared pre-paid Humble Author mode, when he stopped me. "It's not good news for you," he said. Zim-zam and bam! Tour ends on an uncomfortable note--his reviewer hates my book because I "trivialize" the border. ha ha! Joke's on me, y'all! So I thanked him (?) and staggered off.
San Francisco tried to ameliorate the let-down as only SF can. The next day, we were treated to a 40 person totally nude bicycle parade. Yes, indeed. Purdy nude, my friends. Like, shaved nude. And, as I pointed out to my next audience, a few of the gents were rising to the occasion.
OK. Here's how love wins out, though. My last gig in SF and for the tour was the loegendary Writers With Drinks. At the Make-Out Lounge in the Mission District. Perhaps not the perfect fit for me, since I barely drink. But I thought it would at least be joyous.
Yes. Yes. Joy. Yes.
Our hostess was the hilarious and brilliant trans-gendered Charlie. When people wanted pictures of us together, we told them they were our senior prom pix. I did the greatest reading in the long history of readings. Ever. Nobody can tell me different. And, when I told the audience about my forthcoming drubbing in the paper, they raised their glasses in a very loud toast: "Fuck you, San Francisco Chronicle!"
How can you not be thankful?
Wow. I can't even tell you more. It was like that. Up and down. Terrible, then exploding with light and love in ways I would only sound silly or pompous to share with you. Now, coffee. Poems. Gardening. Exercise.
And into the sacred Rockies for some peace and...oh yeah, more autographs.
Thank you from both of us. We love you all. We love you, Charlie.
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX, L & C
"I retire at the end of every tour. When I'm on the road, I'm gritting my teeth and putting up with hotels and sleep deprivation and upset tummy. But when I'm off the road, the road suddenly sounds like a magical idea again...It's just the nature of the beast." Eric Clapton
Not that I'm Eric Clapton. No. I am Atomiko.
Got in last night at the end of the most tiring, vexing, horrible, wonderful successful book tour I've ever experienced. Readers who come here or follow Cinderella and me on Twitter know the story. I am, frankly, too tired and too charred to tell you everything. And I developed vertigo somewhere on the road, so this keyboard is lazily spinning through space as I try to write to you. But I'll give it a bit of a go. Won't have much time--going down to Chi tomorrow for my 10,000th NPR show in the morning; doctor on Wed. to make sure I have thwarted diabetes with my superhuman physique and workout regimen; then, to make sure the life extends for another week, we go to our trainer on Thursday. Not the optimum week as far a peace and quiet go, especially because we have to drive out of here for Aspen on Friday. Poor Cinderella. After all that, she will have to return to Seattle to continue to deal with the ghastly mom-death details.
Didn't Joe Walsh sing, "I can't complain but sometimes I still do"?
Life's been good to me so far...
All right. Let's see here. One terrible sad death. One funeral. Two weddings. Two receptions. Eight (?) radio shows. Chicago, Kankakee, Naperville, Phoenix/Tempe, Philadelphia, NYC, POrtland, Seattle, San Diego, Pasadena, San Francisco, Berkeley, Menlo Park, Capitola, Napa. Sorry, Washington, DC. Sorry, Printers Row, Chicago. And sorry, Elliott Bay Books in Seattle. We did what we could. Most days had three to four events--interviews, book signings, radio shows, readings at night. By the end of the month, we were down to our last bath-tub washed clean underpants. For sale on E-Bay! No, no. Gad. Just kidding.
For fans who get mad when I mention famous types, I will say that we met a lot of really wonderful writers. Heroes and new friends. Michael Connelly was a true gent. Saw lots of beloved old pals, too. Sherman Alexie and his wife Diane were bright lights at BEA for us--big hugs and love in da house. Spied on James Patterson and James Ellroy. And that "View" lady. It's like bird-watching. Saw China Mieville across the room because he's seven feet tall and rises like an alabaster tower of awesomeness. Were lucky enough to see Amanda Palmer sing, and Neil Gaiman lurking like Lestat in the shadows. Etc. Just so you know. Much fun available to you on book tour.
F'r example, let us examine the end of tour--San Fran Effin' Cisco. We were in rought, sad shapr, I'll admit. The funeral for grandma had been devastating, but sweet. I know Cinderella is going to piost a guest-blog here to try to answer the meny, many, many of you who wrote and tweeted us with such kindness and soul. It made us cry. Often.
What you don't always get in this career is a sense of family from your publishing house. Little, Brown and Hachette were, in every way, unfailingly generous and loving with us. From helping us with travel, to arranginmg for flowers to be delivered to us, to picking up our funeral hotel bill. They kept in contact with us all through that bad epoch. And Geoff Shandler offered me an out at any point in the tour. But WE REFUSED TO QUIT! No way, man. No. Not stopping. Tour discipline dictates that we finish. Besdies, poor grandma was so excited about Into the Beautiful North. Imagine how sad she would have been to destroy the tour. So we marched on. March or Die!
But Geoff offered to let me come home right to the last.
We got to SF after a brutal morning. Had to get up at 4:00 to catch a 6:30 flight. Uh-huh. You who know me know that was the time I used to go to bed. You don't go on book tour to sleep. Our charming escort, Alexandra (Alex! we love you!) picked us up in her 100 foot long Benz and started the Urrea marathon, going for hours anbd hours and miles and miles, from book store to radio station to book store to church hall to0 radio station to book store in every imaginable direction. I can't tell you where we went because I don't remember.
We stayed at my beloved Hotel Monaco. I have mentioned the Monaco in past blogs. I always stay there. You find The Kings of Leon or Chrissie Hynde in the lobby. But the staff knows your name, the rooms are really sweet, they have leopard-spot robes and naughty lingerie in the closets. A chihuahua mans the night desk and wags at you. And, if you're lonesome, they bring you a bowl with a goldfish. Stay there! The French restaurant next door is also excellent, and when the Mexican waiters figured out I was from Tijuana, they kept giving us extra goodies. We damaged ourselves with the food there. (Oh no--more treadmill, more sit-ups.)
In the middle of the occupation, we attended the delightful wedding of our pals Kathi Kamen Goldmark and Sam Barry. You lit fans might recognize them from The Rock Bottom Remainders.
6/02/2009
I'm checking in with you, Dear Reader and Friend, from the middle of book tour. It has been a magnificent run so far, many cities and many hundreds of new amigos. But the tour is broken right now, and so are we.
It is Tuesday as I write this. On Sunday night, Cinderella's mother died. They were shocking her heart at her house as we talked to the terrified siblings on the cell phone. How perverse is life? We were in NYC's Hotel Warwick, Elvis's favorite hotel, and the hiding place of the Beatles. Living large. BEA had ended, and I had met heroes and critics and old friends--got to give big love to Sherman Alexie and his wife Diane. A wild little show at the KGB Bar. Everything you could hope for after five cities, seven or eight signings, four radio shows and even a wedding. With a couple of weeks to go. And...death.
It will never leave my mind that I spoke with "Grandma" on Friday as we trained from Philly to NY. She was giddy with the book and the tour. She had been calling all the book stores in Seattle to order the book so it would be all over town. She even figured out Twitter and this blog. If you look in the last posting's comments section, you'll see her first--and last ever-- comment.
My publisher has been so kind and generous to us. I still can't believe how good they have been to us. They got us home yesterday to get the kids, and they have helped us get airline tickets to Seattle for the awfulness. Ironically, Cinderella and I would have been there by Thursday anyway. Just a few days. But you don't always get a few days.
So events have been cancelled, and I apologize if you were looking for me out there. I know she would have wanted me to keep going, and she wouold have been mortified that her death blew this silly tour apart. So I'm going to still do selected things, in her honor. Believe it or not, we are flying to Portland tomorrow and I will do my appearance at Powell's. The publisher and the store to a lesser extent are counting on me. After the signing, we drive to Seattle. Funeral home details, and sadly no Elliott Bay Books noon appearance. But I will honor the University Bookstore gig at UW. The weekend is for the funeral--they want me to do the eulogy. I guess that's the curse of being the family writer.
We'll send the kids home Sunday and stagger on to California to honor all those events. Won't get home again till the 14th or so of June.
There are no guarantees, it's true.
We have been love-bombed by so many people, I can't even start to thank them all. Bloggers and critics, writers and Twitterers, students and agents--everyone. Thank you. We're doing our best. We're going to get through. But I'm telling you, if you love somebody, tell them now. If you're mad at them, get over it. If you miss them, write them or call them. Tomorrow might not come around in time. Love them now.
Don't squander your love.
L
It is Tuesday as I write this. On Sunday night, Cinderella's mother died. They were shocking her heart at her house as we talked to the terrified siblings on the cell phone. How perverse is life? We were in NYC's Hotel Warwick, Elvis's favorite hotel, and the hiding place of the Beatles. Living large. BEA had ended, and I had met heroes and critics and old friends--got to give big love to Sherman Alexie and his wife Diane. A wild little show at the KGB Bar. Everything you could hope for after five cities, seven or eight signings, four radio shows and even a wedding. With a couple of weeks to go. And...death.
It will never leave my mind that I spoke with "Grandma" on Friday as we trained from Philly to NY. She was giddy with the book and the tour. She had been calling all the book stores in Seattle to order the book so it would be all over town. She even figured out Twitter and this blog. If you look in the last posting's comments section, you'll see her first--and last ever-- comment.
My publisher has been so kind and generous to us. I still can't believe how good they have been to us. They got us home yesterday to get the kids, and they have helped us get airline tickets to Seattle for the awfulness. Ironically, Cinderella and I would have been there by Thursday anyway. Just a few days. But you don't always get a few days.
So events have been cancelled, and I apologize if you were looking for me out there. I know she would have wanted me to keep going, and she wouold have been mortified that her death blew this silly tour apart. So I'm going to still do selected things, in her honor. Believe it or not, we are flying to Portland tomorrow and I will do my appearance at Powell's. The publisher and the store to a lesser extent are counting on me. After the signing, we drive to Seattle. Funeral home details, and sadly no Elliott Bay Books noon appearance. But I will honor the University Bookstore gig at UW. The weekend is for the funeral--they want me to do the eulogy. I guess that's the curse of being the family writer.
We'll send the kids home Sunday and stagger on to California to honor all those events. Won't get home again till the 14th or so of June.
There are no guarantees, it's true.
We have been love-bombed by so many people, I can't even start to thank them all. Bloggers and critics, writers and Twitterers, students and agents--everyone. Thank you. We're doing our best. We're going to get through. But I'm telling you, if you love somebody, tell them now. If you're mad at them, get over it. If you miss them, write them or call them. Tomorrow might not come around in time. Love them now.
Don't squander your love.
L
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