The Grand Ballroom - New York City Book Festival - Part III

June 22, 2013 - 02:30 p.m.

"I'm not quite sure you know how funny you are," the filmmaker standing in the ballroom said to me as I exited the stage after being a part of the panel discussion about writing on your life.

"I was the quiet one in the Fazzolari family," I said.

The man howled.

"I'm serious," I said. "I told a few Jeff stories up there, but if I told you stories about Corinne, John, Jim, or Carrie you'd be pissing yourself too. And forget about my Mom and Dad!"

The man wanted my contact information.

"The Fuzzy's!" He howled. "There should be a movie!"

"There should be," I said.

But truth be known, I couldn't get out of there fast enough.

The photo above shows a good friend, Dr. Neal Hall, the Philadelphia-based doctor who'd also won a number of awards. The good Doc is brilliant, funny, and more brilliant.

He also thinks I'm funny.

And I had two goals as a member of the panel.

I was going to hear laughter every time I finished speaking and the gathering was going to say "Happy Birthday" to Jeff.

Both things happened.

Yet as I sat up there on the stage and answered questions about writing something else happened to:

I became distracted.

The driver's question was rattling around in my mind.

Are you famous?

And while I sipped from the water glass and listened to one of the panel members drone on about 'his process' it occurred to me:

I really don't care much for any of this.

Yet there had been that moment.

I told the story of Jeff calling in when I'd been on television to tell me about being able to see my nipples.

The laughter was strong.

"And today is his birthday!"

There was a groan.

I waved the groan away.

"Let's say 'Happy Birthday,'" I said.

And they did.

All of 'em.

The editors, the publishers, the event coordinators, the authors, the aspiring authors, the people gathered to look at the authors.

Happy Birthday.

One of the audience members asked me if I was ever frustrated when I saw the best-selling, rich authors.

"I write only to touch people's hearts. If I do that for one person it was worth all the hours."

15 minutes after I left that stage I was in the bathroom changing out of the clothes and back into the clothes that I could get shitted-up.

I had one more thing to do in NYC.

Get a big Italian meal.