I went to Disneyland for my birthday. It's the ultimate place to people watch. Calene and I go now and again just to walk around and enjoy the vibe. Ride the roller coasters. It's best in February on a rainy day when all the kids are in school. But even yesterday's sticky-hot, overcrowded Sunday had its moments.
It's been a busy week with Taking Midway publicity. There's been a couple radio call-ins, a zoom or two. I put on my best face and pick up the volume, then answer questions. There's no such thing as bad publicity and I'm enjoying every minute. The book is off to a good start. A lot of five-star Amazon reviews. There's always someone who sneaks in a three-star, or even a one-star, mostly based on issues having nothing to do with the book. Things like Springsteen in Manchester or the final chapters of Confronting the Presidents.
Taking Midway comes out tomorrow. I almost forgot. I mean, not really. I get paid on publication, which makes it worth remembering. It's getting great reviews. Also nice. But almost a year has passed since I finished. That's the nature of this game. You write a book. Make it the best you can. Then wait and wait and wait until it goes into stores.
That's not why May 20 crept up on me…
I was walking through the grocery store parking lot, heading in to pick up a few supplies. Just minding my own business. A middle school kid on an e-bike swerved to miss an approaching car and braked to a sudden halt ten feet in front of me.
"How do you like my bike?" he yelled. Yelled. Like we knew each other.
It was sudden and unexpected, a character in a movie breaking the fourth wall and talking to the audience directly from the screen.
"What's our gate?" I asked Calene. We were connecting through Denver.
"B43."
Wow. I'd waited sixteen years to pass through that gate again. My flight out of New York got delayed by weather back in 2009. I was there to have lunch with my agent and the guy who became my co-author. The flight landed so late during that particular Denver connection that I slept in the airport to make sure I got the very first flight out in the morning. That, and I was too cheap to pay for a hotel room for just four or five hours of sleep. Airport seats are separated into individual sections, making it impossible to lie down, so I slept on the floor behind the counter at Gate B43.
I wonder how the Madagascan Martin Dugard is doing?
There is a British Martin Dugard, a speedway legend from Eastbourne. There is also a Dugard Corporation, which engineers machine tools. Facebook shows a bunch of other Martin Dugards.
But it's been thirty-two years since I was in Madagascar, covering the Raid Gauloises adventure race along the desolate southwest coast. It was my first big journalistic adventure….
Somewhere in a New York City recording studio, a team of professionals is recording the audio version of Taking Midway. I receive periodic updates, mostly about pronunciations, though I'm on the other side of the country. I'm spending the morning doom scrolling in the chemo ward, wondering if I should wander over to the cafeteria for a bold cup of coffee or just drink the ordinary stuff from the machine. The wifi isn't so good, so I use my phone as a hotspot. In typing that last sentence I learned that hot and spot make one word instead of two.
We held a neighborhood St. Patrick's Day party in the cul de sac on Saturday night. Everyone brought an entrée and a dessert. BYOB. It was nice catching up with everyone in person, rather than just waving as they drive by on their way to work. The evening sky was clear but it was California-cold, most of us wearing something down.
