I’m just going to start this post with – I’m a fucktard.
Yup. That’s me.
See, as many of you know, I’ve had a big fat date with Christopher Moore (and his gazillion other Colorado based fans) planned for a couple of months now. In fact, as soon as I found out he was not only releasing his newest novel Sacre Bleu, but also coming here, to Tattered Cover Lodo, I wrote him a quick email, begged for an interview, scored it and collapsed in sheer bliss.
(As my friend Rocky says, Christopher Moore IS literary crack.)
The good news about Saturday night’s date with Moore – I saw at least 20 people who had gotten the Christopher Moore memo and had taken my advice and shown up early to get their place in line and their precious, precious numbered ticket to the event and to their place in the signing line.
The bad news is – I didn’t.
Take my own advice that is.
I mean, I thought I did. I showed up a full hour and a half before the big event. Surely, even for someone so awesome as Christopher Moore that was early enough. I mean, literary crack though he may sell, we’re not talking camp out all night for a chance to glimpse his greatness. Are we? He does not write for teen girls, we’re not talking Pottermania, or Twilight… whatever twilight maniacs are called. We’re talking fucktards and fuck-bubbles. Not exactly an elite sub-set of humanity, but certainly not a mob either.
Alas, I was wrong.
As I stood at the top of the stairs and eyed the crowd winding its collective way through the stacks and racks of Tattered Cover Lodo a kind woman approached and let us know how it was all going to go down.
“In a couple of minutes we’re going to start handing out numbered tickets. These are for your place in the signing line only. Seating will happen as people file in. We have 240 seats available, so if your number is larger than 240, which yours all will be, then there won’t be a seat for you, so don’t even try to get into the room. We’ll be blasting the event on the loud speakers at the back of the store so you can all hear it. After the event we’ll line everyone up to get their books signed.” She said some other stuff about how Christopher would sign as many books as we wanted, but could only personalize two of them, and about how if we wanted pictures we better make it snappy, and… I stopped listening.
All my planning, all my promoting, and I wasn’t even going to get to meet The Man.
Then, my husband nudged me. There he was, walking the line, signing books for the people at the front of the mob, chit-chatting and making nice.
Maybe those people would just swoon and have to be carried away, maybe we’d get a seat after all.
My ticket was number 248.
It was close, oh, so close.
I prayed for some sort of heinous fuckery to strike down the lucky bastards at the front of the line who’d already had their chance with Moore.
Then I felt bad and decided to accept my fate regardless. After all there was a very nice looking corner on the stairs near the room. I could just sit there until numbers 225-250 were called to stand and be signed.
As people filed into the room we were told that we could squeeze along the back wall if we wanted to see The Man in action.
I did. My husband said he loved me, and he’d be outside. You know, where there was air. And it wasn’t 449 degrees Fahrenheit.
I watched him go and consoled myself that in just a few short hours I’d have signed books by Christopher Moore and I’d be able to resume my actual date, with my husband.
Then, I looked at my watch. It was only 7pm. Moore wasn’t scheduled to come on until 7:30. My number wouldn’t be called until, well, until I’d completely dehydrated and passed out from heat exhaustion.
So, I did the only thing I could think of. I grabbed my new friend Brandon who I had met at the signing and who had ticket number 247 and said, “I’m going to go finish my date with my husband. Want to join us for drinks? We can come back at 9 and see what the line looks like.”
And we left, just like that.
On the way out I ran into a friend who had gotten the Moore Memo, but not the “Get there early” part and I swapped tickets with her, taking her 289th place in exchange for my 248th. I knew I wasn’t coming back. As much as I want to meet Christopher Moore, I’m really, really not good with crowds. Especially 449 degree crowds packed in like sardines in preparation for a good smoking.
And… I’m also super selfish. I know this about myself. I wanted 60 seconds with Moore, not “Yes, ma’am, move along, there are people waiting.” from the TC handlers. I actually wanted to be at the back of the line, to have the last books signed, to be unpressured by the masses behind me. And so… And so… I gave up my Big Fat Date with Christopher Moore (and 500 of his most rabid Colorado fans).
I traded in my unsigned copy of Sacre Bleu for a generically autographed copy and went to dinner with my husband and Brandon to talk books, writing, and of course, fracking. The new “F-bomb”.
Next time Christopher Moore comes to town, I will know to get there at least 3 hours in advance. Or… maybe I’ll just camp out the night before with 500 of my closest pals like a good little Moore-Minion.