Writing a book won’t change your life nearly as much as you think it will. Sure, you’ll see a bit of money as a result, and, if you’re good, you’ll develop something of a fan base, but getting published doesn’t automatically make you any kind of “celebrity.” Trust me on that one.
Not that I thought it would, mind you. The “celebrity” card was one I’d play with my friends when they needed rides to the airport or sofabeds carried up flights of stairs.
I did think some things would change, though. I figured I’d be well out of the bouncing game once the book was released. I had August 14, 2007 marked on my calendar for a long, long time, and I was sure there’d be no way in hell I’d still be standing in a bar, lounge or club checking IDs and throwing people out for spitting on cocktail waitresses by the time my release date rolled around.
The spitting incident happened on Saturday, believe it or not. Seventy-two hours after I stood at a podium in front of a room of lovely people at a Barnes & Noble in Manhattan, I had my hands in some dude’s armpits, walking him to the front door after he’d suffered from a bout of uncontrollable expectoration in the VIP. Un-fucking-believable, but there you go. My life.
When I had him outside, he handed me a ten dollar bill, mumbled something about his brother, demanded I shake hands with him, then staggered down the sidewalk on his way to God-knows-where. I don’t think he’ll read my book, although you never know with people. They’ll surprise you.
In any event, I thought the signing went well. People actually showed up with books they’d purchased, and I signed them. I cracked jokes. I made some innocuous opening remarks, took questions, read a passage from the book, did a Guido imitation, then sat around for a while and gave people my autograph.
Fucking bizarre. Fun, though. Everyone should get to do something like that at least once.