I live on a big blue ball
I never do dream I may fall
but even the day that I do
I'll jump off and smile back at you.

                                              See you down the road.

I figured she was yanking my chain.

Later in the day, I swung by a bookstore.  Pulled a copy of Reflections: Life After the White House from the shelf.  Checked the index.   Specifically, the Ps.  Sure enough, there it is: Perry, Michael.   Turns out Mrs. Bush mentions a review of Population 485.  She doesn't give it a thumbs up or thumbs down, just quotes it briefly on her way to making a larger point.

I have never lunched or otherwise hung with Barbara Bush.  This is one of those off-kilter tangent incidents to which you don't quite know how to react.  It's kind of like hearing you were the answer to a question on "Jeopardy."  I am most tickled that I found out from a neighbor while standing at the local gas station.

Might get my old pickup running this week.  My well-worn 1951 International.  My brother-in-law is helping me get it roadworthy.  Among other things, we installed racing seats.  That is not to say it can race.  But for the first time in years, I may once again be a country boy with a truck.  The joy...

Also got an email from my editor this morning.  Population 485 is #1 on the Midwest Independent Booksellers paperback nonfiction list.   Jeepers.  The main thing is, thank you.

Folks who see me stand up and do a reading find it hard to believe that I am pathologically shy, but it’s true, and I proved it today while trying to fly to Kansas City.  While waiting to board, I took a phone call on my cell phone.  When the call ended, I clipped the phone to the wrong side of my shoulder bag, violating the obsessive-compulsive ritual of consistent object placement to which I adhere while traveling as it is the only way I seem to be able to avoid losing everything.  After boarding the plane, I was about to stow my bag under the seat when I realized I couldn’t find my phone.  I clearly remembered clipping the phone somewhere, but because I had broken the ritual, couldn’t remember where.  I went into manic pat-down mode, checking my wardrobe fore and aft.  Then I dug through every pocket and crevice of my bag and carry-on luggage.   I looked up and down the aisle of the plane.   There are only three things I absolutely must have on book tour: the notes from my publicists telling me exactly where to go and when; a credit card; and my cell phone.  Anything else is a luxury, including the book itself.  Anyone can get me a book.

So now I’m getting that low-level gut tickle the first caveman felt when he caught a warm breeze and smelled sabertooth breath.  I got back off the plane, trotted to the waiting area, searched in vain for the phone.  A stranger said they had just announced over the PA that a phone had been found.  I checked it out.   Wasn’t mine.  Got back on the plane.  Asked the flight attendants if they had seen a phone in the aisle.  They hadn’t.  The pilot overheard.   “Why not call the number and see if we can hear a ring?” he said.  That’s why he’s the pilot.

Now we troop back to row 16, where I’m to sit.  People have begun to look at me.  Sweat pops out on my brow.  I recognize this sweat.  It’s the same one I get when the checkout lady at the grocery store decides to do a play-by-play of my groceries.  “Oh-ho!  Somebody likes rutabagas!” she warbles.  Heads turn, and I feel my forehead and the nape of my neck go moist.  It’s always been this way.  Just the thought of people looking at me makes my gut go squishy, my heart start tripping, and my sweat glands spasm.  One flight attendant pulls out his cell phone and dials my number, which I have now recited aloud before a jetful of strangers.  But Eureka, we hear a ring.  Trouble is, while I was waiting for the flight, I turned my ringer to the lowest setting – so as not to attract attention to myself, natch.  The ring is so faint the attendant has to call me four times.  His partner and two passengers help out, doing play-by-play the whole time…pulling up seat cushions, checking the overhead bins, asking me if I looked in my pants pockets, and so on.  Finally, on the fourth call, the woman in the seat behind me spots the phone, which has fallen down between the struts that hold the seats in place.  There is general celebration.  It is cold on the plane (the first snow of the season is due) and yet the sweat is dripping – I use the verb literally – from my forehead and running streaks down the back of my neck and along my lats.  A guy tries to be Mr. Sensitivo Essayist and he winds up being Mr. Sweaty Doofus.  So it goes.

By way of addendum, let me say that I have made it to the fourth week of paperback tour and my readings have been interrupted three times by ringing cell phones.  Two of those three times, the phone was my own.

It is a wonder I manage to clothe and feed myself.

Also just found out that Population 485 made it to #13 on the Pacific Northwest Booksellers Association list.  The book tour continues, one day after another, a lot of miles, a lot of nights of 3-4 hours sleep, but it's worth it everytime I meet another friendly bookseller or sign a book for someone who has taken the time to stop by.  The readings are fun...we laugh some, think some, and shoot the breeze some.  Thanks to everyone I meet along the way.

This morning I am watching the sun rise over the clouds somewhere between Portland, Oregon, and Denver, Colorado.  I am not real keen on flying.  Palms get a little sweaty with every takeoff and bump.  I have read the driving vs. flying statistics, but feel no better as a result.  Something about having that steering wheel in your paws.  I’m enjoying the view this morning, though, looking at clouds from the topside, the sun turning them from gray to pale orange and rosy.  While packing in the hotel I caught a couple minutes of a documentary on the downing of Germany’s Red Baron.  It struck me that they’ll never run that one as in-flight entertainment.  A few years ago, while waiting to take off at some airport, I opened my magazine and found a detailed article on the ValuJet crash.  I figured that one could wait.  Then I looked up and the guy in the seat ahead of me was holding a newspaper open to a two-page spread recounting the SwissAir crash.  I am not a superstitious fellow, but jiminy, there’s a limit.

The tour rolls on.  I caught a taxi to the airport at 4:30 a.m this morning, which was an improvement on yesterday, when I had to head out at 3:30 a.m.  Somewhere my Dad, who did the morning milking alone, is smiling.   I continue to meet more people than I can properly thank.  You snatch little moments where you can.  In Seattle I went for a run along the waterfront and stopped on the wharf for five minutes to watch the wind kick up a sparkle on the waves.  Sea harbors always fascinate me, probably because I am a swamp-raised john-boat flatlander who only ever read about such places in books.  A big trawler was coming in and it must have had fish aboard, because the seagulls were swarming it.  Being from Wisconsin, I was reminded of my head surrounded by deer flies.  Then it was back to the hotel, shower, dress, fire up the rental car, and head for the next bookstore… 

It's tough to describe book tour.  It's intense, not in a heavy-lifting sort of way, but in a sort of nonstop way.  You're always driving or talking or trying to find a radio station or a television station or a hotel or a departure gate.  Your life boils down to showing up and talking.  Showing up and talking.  Over and over.  But every stop, people listen and smile, and then say gracious things.  I've spoken with several other authors during the course of the year, and they all confirmed what I feel: Writing is a mostly solitary existence and we prefer it that way, but when we see someone in a chair at a reading, it reminds us that a reader is someone who gives us their time, and this leaves us frightened and deeply grateful.  So to everyone in the chairs, thank you so much.

I did have one little moment that amused me, if no one else.  I was hammering down Highway 101 on my way to read in San Mateo, I was overtired, undernourished, running late and a little unclear on my direction of travel, when I hit "seek" on the radio and wound up with Bon Scott screeching "It's a Long Way to the Top (If You Wanna Rock and Roll)."  Goofily perfect.  Lovely to think of the pursuit of the literate life in terms set by AC/DC.  When the delirious metal bagpipe solo cut loose, I kicked that Hertz Mazda up another ten miles an hour.

Jamboree Days always has the feel of a family reunion to me, but when it comes to capturing the ineffable essence of the thing, a member of one of the large local families may have put it best.  Referring to the subtitle of Population 485 - Meeting Your Neighbors One Siren at a Time, he raised a glass to the hubbub, and declared, "Here I am, meeting my neighbors one beer at a time."

When I made the reservation, I requested the simplest and cheapest vehicle, which in most cases is a plain black Lincoln Town Car.  I was in the lobby the next morning when a driver appeared and asked for me.  Grabbing my shoulder bag and carry-on, I followed him through the lobby and out the doors.  A gigantic white stretch limousine was blocking the street.  I looked ahead of it and behind it -- no plain black Town Car.  The driver popped the limo trunk and waved me over.  I looked at him with some confusion, but like the country sheep I am, handed over my luggage.  As he drew open the passenger door, I looked over my shoulder.  A small crowd of tourists was watching from the lobby.  As per usual, I was unshaven and dressed like a country music roadie.  I wanted to tell them, "Hey, I didn't ask for this..."

I've never been in a limo, not even for prom.  I once wrote an essay about how pretentious limousines are.  And now here I was, being whisked away in who-knows-how-many-feet of white fiberglass and chrome.  How much am I paying for this?  I wondered.  From his seat one football field distant, the driver must have seen the look on my face.  "Same price," he said.   "Same price."  My understanding of his English was somewhat inconsistent, but from what he said, it seemed that the driver of my original car had become ill and the car company hadn't found a replacement in time.  The limo was available, and so they sent it.  By this time I had made the forty-acre hike to the connecting window in order to better hear the driver.  What the heck, I thought, looking out the smoked glass at Manhattan traffic in the rain.  Might as well enjoy the ride.  The driver's cell phone rang, and while he answered, I settled into the leather.

Now the driver was speaking to me again.  Telling me we had to go back to the hotel.  As before, I couldn't quite percept all the details, but he was saying something about another group calling to rent the limo "for ten hours."  He was beaming.  He took a left, and then another left at Columbus Circle.  A standard black Lincoln waited at the hotel curb.  Eight blocks and maybe three minutes after my grand departure, the white limo pulled up before the same group of tourists, and they watched as the driver ushered the scruff-ball and his luggage from the limo and directly into the plain, black -- short -- Lincoln.  A real-time downgrade, right before their eyes.  "Well that was a quick trip," said the bellhop, raising one eyebrow.

Me, I was feeling like it was Memphis and the ducks, all over again.

Squirrels dug up my cilantro.  They don't even eat it.  Vandals, that's what they are.   I'm thinking a little cream of cilantro squirrel soup might be just the thing...

On Monday, June 16, Jim Fleming will begin reading Population 485 as part of Wisconsin Public Radio's "Chapter-A-Day" program.  This is a real treat...Fleming's voice has been coming out of my car speakers for a long time now, and the idea that he'll be reading things I typed up here in my little room is a straight-up pleasure and honor.

You can get more information on broadcast times/stations and learn how to listen online at the Chapter-A-Day website located here.

I was in L.A. once before, but it was 3 a.m. and I was on a country music tour bus, hammer down for some county fair who knows where.  Not really the same vibe.

There were many wonderful writerly moments in L.A., but the fact is, everyone wants a celebrity report.  So here's who the country boy spotted: Jamie Lee Curtis (She introduced herself to some bookseller from California by extending her hand and saying "Hi, I'm Jamie."  I thought that was classy, since he was in full goggle-eye, and pretty obviously aware of her identity, probably remembering her legs from A Fish Called Wanda.); Marilu Henner (She bumped into me from behind.  Hello sailor.); Dr. Drew (the MTV sex doctor guy); Traci Lords (umm..porn star/author); Heidi Fleiss (kind of a theme emerging here...coincidentally and appropriately enough, I bumped into Heidi on my way to the men's room); Barry Williams (Greg Brady of The Brady Bunch); Michael Crichton (bajillion-selling author, and I guarantee he is taller than you); Jeff Bridges (signing a book of his photographs); Pat Schroeder (former congressperson); Jane Seymour (beautiful and teensy); and columnist Molly Ivins.

But the celebrity who snapped my head around the quickest?  That hyperactive question-mark suit guy, Matthew Lesko.   He was sitting very quietly in a corner of the convention center.  He looked like he needed a sandwich.

Flew home Sunday night, had been home twenty minutes and was out back watering my tomatoes in the twilight when the pager went off.  Ambulance run out in the county.   Right back in the swing of things.  The siren blew the last of the L.A. smog out of my ears.

It's been a nice stretch on the road.  People have been very kind, and mainly you realize you can't say thank you enough.  But I try, and say so again right here: Thanks.  I'm lucky to do this.

For now though, gonna sit in the swamp for a week.  Makes for soggy drawers but a peaceful mind.

Finally.  I have been ambushed by paparazzi.

Sort of.

Last night the book tour landed me in Memphis.  The publisher put me up on the ninth floor of the historic Peabody Hotel, just a block or two from Beale Street .  The Peabody is a touch swank.  Italian marble doo-dads, pianist in the lobby, doormen in top hats, that sort of thing.  But the Peabody is most famous for its ducks.  The ducks live on top of the hotel, but during the day they hang out downstairs, paddling around in the fountain at the center of the grand lobby.  Every day at 11 a.m. , uniformed hotel staff roll out a red carpet that runs from the bank of elevators to the fountain.  The ducks board the center elevator and ride down to the lobby.  When the doors open, they waddle up the red carpet, which is lined on both sides with tourists and hotel guests who turn out every day to witness the historic procession.

I am under no illusions about the level of my celebrity.  My fame pretty much begins and ends in my own head.  Even when I go into a bookstore to do a reading – where they are expecting me – I usually have to explain who I am.  Outside the bookstore, I am completely anonymous.  It helps, also, that I dress in such a manner that a stranger might rightly assume that I was raised by a wandering pack of country music roadies.  So I was utterly unprepared this morning when, after taking the elevator down from the ninth floor of the Peabody , the doors opened to a storm of flashbulbs.  Somehow I had managed to intercept the elevator intended to collect the ducks.  I froze.  I could see the red carpet stretching before me, lined on either side with a dense row of people, many of them squinting at me through viewfinders.  There I was, framed in the elevator door, shaggy, unshaven and toting my own luggage, and my eyes must have popped a little, because the flashbulbs stopped and then someone laughed, and then the cameras went down and the whole lobby filled with laughter.  I grinned madly and tried to zip out of the way, but the little wheels on my suitcase got hung up in the carpet, and I had to scuttle around for a while until I got everything untangled and smoothed out.  By the time I got away, I was as red as the carpet.

But now I’m grinning.  Because all over the United States – shoot, even in other parts of the world – a few days or months hence, someone will pick up their film from the developer, or pop a tape in the VCR, and there I will be, a startled goofball in baggy shorts and scuffed boots, out on book tour, and for just that one split second, at least as famous as a couple of ducks.

It's all right, they were just doing their job.  But I have this little stubborn streak.  When someone sticks a hand in my face, it rankles me a tad.  They could have just asked me politely, and jeepers, I would have hung back.  So I did a little surveilling of my own.  Picked up a couple clues.  Noticed things while I was waiting for the elevator.  Heard some talk coming from a cracked door.  I am now ready to report that unless I miss my guess, I was sharing the 12th floor of a certain hotel with Arthur N.R. Robinson, President of Trinidad and Tobago.

I hope his stay in New York was safe and peaceful.  Mine was.

Coincidentally, when I was doing a reading in Michigan a few weeks ago, I was on the same floor as the Detroit Lions.  They were friendlier.