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Overall, a Barry Good Day
Because my credit card remained below its limit,
I was lucky enough to grab a spot at the Erma Bombeck Writers’ Conference, in
Dayton, Ohio. (The family will only need to cancel Christmas for one year.)
Excitedly, I
told the other women in my writers’ group that I was going to meet Dave
Barry—THE Dave Barry, the famous syndicated humor columnist and author of more
than 25 books. My fellow writers stared at me blankly before two members asked,
“Dave who?”
Obviously, my peers were simply not as cultured as I. While they’d been reading
the classics (written by a bunch of old, now dead, white guys) and Oprah’s Book
Club selections, I’d undertaken a scholarly study of social threats, such as
stupid store signage, irritating junk mail, and drivers who hog passing lanes.
Along with
the late Erma Bombeck, Dave Barry greatly influenced my decision to enter the
humor profession. I figured if he could get away with publishing drivel for
thirty years, I could surely eek out a few columns about nothing. So that’s
pretty much what I’ve been doing for the past decade. Well, that and avoiding
federal taxes, which, by the way, is the main point of this article. (The I.R.S.
has some pretty strict guidelines for business trip deductions.)
In his key
note address, Dave discussed why he retired from his newspaper humor gig.
Despite the fact that he hasn’t written his column in more than a year, he says
people still tell him how much they love reading it every day.
Frankly, I’d
be thrilled if anyone remembered my face a year and a half after I quit writing.
Nonetheless, I could understand why Dave wanted to know his admirers were
readers and not just celebrity chasers. I, of course, am a bona fide fan. And I
carefully calculated how I might establish this when I met him during his book
signing.
While
standing in a line with more than 300 others vying for Dave’s attentions, I
rehearsed my pending introduction. “Dave, you taught me everything I know about
writing booger humor,” I planned to say. “You inspired me to think deeply about
critical issues—like potato gun control and U.S. currency symbols—so I’d be
deeply honored if you’d lend your endorsement for my first humor book.”
I imagined
Dave would be so touched by my remarks that he’d whip out his business card,
press it into my palm, and provide me with his FedEx account number.
As I inched
closer to the signing table where His Highness of Humor drooped over stacks of
books, I noticed his assistants were directing traffic more efficiently than
Miami flight controllers (not that this is saying much).
“How would
you like your books personalized,” one of the ladies asked?
“Huh?” I
said, still rehearsing my spiel. “Oh, to Diana, I guess.”
From my purse
I grabbed my digital camera and tossed it to the woman standing behind me.
“Quick. Will you snap a picture of me and Dave, if I can get him to stand up?”
“Sure,” she
said.
It all
happened so fast that I forgot my plan. The crowd shoved closer from behind. The
flight controllers ushered guests at jet speed. But I’d thought ahead. To slow
this process, I’d purchased three books for Dave to autograph.
When my turn
arrived, I blurted something incomprehensible to Mr. Barry. I think I might have
said, “Dave you’re the greatest booger writer I know.” Then, clinging to one
table corner and pleading with the most pathetic expression I could manage, I
begged, “Could I please have a quick photo?”
Recognizing
me as an authentic reader, Dave graciously posed for my snapshot.
Unfortunately, he forgot to give me his business card and FedEx number.
(To see Dave's photo, click here
images\Erma Bombeck
Conference.jpg)
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