Tod Golberg, one of my favorite smart-asses (and not just because he too has consonant trouble with his first name) posted the following on his blog about an event he and I did. His account genuinely made me laugh out loud and I post it for your consumption.
Every author has an odd story about things they've done for money or places they've signed or read that seem to, uh, compromise their artistic merits. (I once encountered Western writer Matt Braun -- and another gentleman whose name escapes me -- signing their novels in the frozen food section at a Smith's grocery in Las Vegas. It would have seemed tragic had they not been moving product at a fairly high clip.) Not to long ago, my brother Lee, Gregg Hurwitz and I did a talk inside the cramped living space of some people. I say "some people" because I can't remember who they were, why we were there or what confluence of events necessitated that the home in question, which was actually an apartment, be filled floor to ceiling with -- literally, to the ceiling -- bookcases crammed front and back and sideways with rotting paperback books, manifestos of different kinds, hardback books that smelled vaguely like my Poppa Cy's guest bedroom and, oddly, half-written film scripts...all of which tilted forward in such a way that I felt like I was continually being scolded by some other-worldly Book Beast. There were about 15 people in attendance, along with a rather delectable lemon bundt cake, and I kept thinking that at any moment the Feds were going to bust in and arrest us all for being Commie sympathizers. We spent an hour or so talking about ourselves and then another 15 minutes helping Gregg answer questions about his physique ("Why are you so well built and the Goldbergs are so...Jewish looking?") and then another 10 minutes extricating ourselves from our host, who wanted us to know he was also an "independent book editor" and that he could help us should we need it.
Before we all got into our respective cars, Gregg said, "We never speak of this night. Ever."