Chapter Nineteen.

Hey you guys. I had something really witty, and kind of urbane, and downright memorable to set up this week's chapter. But it's fucking beautiful outside, and there are shiny objects that need my attention. So, here you go!

Chapter Nineteen

On The Road (Not Kerouac Style)

   

 The dog rode in First Class. I rode in Coach.

     Those were always the travel arrangements during the press junkets for Wishbone. Honestly, I was never bothered by it. I’ve ridden in cattle cars. That’s not a euphemism. I have travelled in some very uncomfortable ways, over very long distances. Coach doesn’t bother me. Everybody who bitches about flying Economy should try it on an airline in the developing world, where the larger questions are Will we even make it into the sky?, or Are we about to fall out of the sky?, or Is the goat in the next aisle giving me the stink-eye? A little perspective might make for some kinder, gentler travelers.

     I loved the press trips, because I love to travel. The armchair psychologist in me believes this is firmly tied to my wanting desperately to escape Conroe during the Bad Old Days. I love to fly, to take the train, and I love road trips. I love staying in hotels, and I absolutely love new places, new cultures, and new people. In a perfect world, Anthony Bourdain would be my older brother, and we would trot the globe together and have adventures, and maybe solve mysteries.

     I remember the first time I went to New York City. We had been invited to appear on the Today show (back in the era of the unspeakably perky Katie Couric). The first thing I remember was landing at LaGuardia airport. I thought we were going to die. I felt the landing gear go down, and looked out the window – and saw nothing but fucking water. We were crash landing in the drink, and the captain had not had the courtesy to even warn us about it. We kept descending, and it kept being water outside my window. The only thing that kept me from going bat-shit crazy was that everybody else seemed calm enough. Assuming there were at least a few people on our flight who had landed here before, I decided not to start screaming, and grabbing everybody else’s seat cushions and oxygen masks. When we touched down on an actual runway, I was genuinely surprised.

     Every stereotyped thing you have ever heard about New York City cabs is probably true. Not from this country, barely speaks English, drives like a fucking maniac. Which is not necessarily a bad thing. I’ll wager that if you could travel with your New York cabbie back to his country of origin, get in a car with him and let him drive you around, what you’d discover is that he drives that way in self-defense. Things like traffic lights, and stop signs and right-of-way are mere suggestions in most parts of the world, and you heed them at your peril. You might get jostled around in a New York cab, but you won’t get hit by another car.

     We never got to be on the Today show. We weren’t even out of Texas before we found that out. We were literally sitting on the plane when our press person got a call that a fire had just swept through the GE building at 30 Rockefeller Plaza, the home of NBC studios where the Today show is still taped. She hung up the phone and started to cry. I thought press people were supposed to be hard-nosed, and thick-skinned, or some other adjective with a hyphen in it. I had no idea what to do, so I grabbed a passing flight attendant and said, “Could you please bring her some liquor? Right away?”

    Flight attendant: “Oh. Sure. What kind?”

     Me: “All of it.”

     Even though we didn’t get to be on the Today show, we still went to New York, because we were doing a couple of in-store appearances for The Store of Knowledge. Basically they would set up a space in the store for the dog and trainer to be (behind velvet ropes and a contingent of bodyguards, for real), and families would file past, and ohh and ahh, and take pictures. And try to pet the dog. They always tried to pet the dog. There were signs everywhere that asked people to please not pet the dog. Store employees would walk up and down the long line of fans, yelling like carnival barkers, “Please do not try to pet the dog!” There were stanchions, and bodyguards, and still people would try to reach across and pet the dog.

Seriously, though. How could you NOT try to pet this dog?

     Nobody ever tried to pet me – though I did get my ass grabbed from a soccer mom once in San Diego, as I was walking up and down the line of people waiting to get in the store. That was my job during these in-store appearances – entertain the army of kids and parents who were waiting outside (some for several hours) to get just a glimpse of their favorite TV dog. The closest I ever came to feeling like a politician was working the line at these gigs. I would shake hands and kiss babies, get my picture taken with kids, and do “the voice.” I did my very best in every city. There’s an old adage in the restaurant business. My ex-wife, who still works in the restaurant business, used to remind me of it before every trip I’d take in support of the show:  if people have a great experience, they MIGHT tell one person. But if they have a shitty experience, you can bet they will tell at least TEN other people. I figured working the line, shaking hands, doing photo ops and telling jokes would ultimately be good for the show. And it was. We came off the road more popular than when we were before we left. I’m not taking credit for that, mind you. But, a soccer mom grabbing your ass may be one way of expressing: Hey, I like your show.

     Next Week, Chapter Twenty: Commercials and Shit.


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