This time, when I got the phone call, I was ready for it. "Good afternoon, Mr. Alleycat . . . I'm your publicist and I'll be marketing your book from Timbuktu to the shores of Tripoli. Are you ready to do some radio and TV?"
Yeah. Yeah. Yeah. Heard it all before, buddy.
"I'll need your contact information," the voice said. "You'll be getting calls in the middle of the night, doing radio shows at three a.m., and we might even be able to fly you to some exotic places, like New Jersey or the Gobi desert, for some TV shows."
Yeah. Yeah. Yeah.
"I'll be sending you a list of questions that producers will most likely ask about your new book, Mr. Alleycat, so you be ready for an interview all hours of the day and night."
Oh, I'll be ready, buckaroo!
"Have a got a nice suit?"
Oh, man, got me a real humdinger hanging in the basement closet. I was married in that suit. And my son is, even as we speak, making me another suit out of white duct tape.
"Well, that's the berries, Mr. Alleycat. You can bet the calls will be coming in very soon. Reviewers, producers, talk show hosts . . . get your game face on."
Sure, I'll even shave in the morning, buckaroo. I'll buy me some of that manly face cream that removes wrinkles and makes me look like Ricardo Montelban. Heck, I might even shoot for George Clooney!
"That's the spirit, Mr. Alleycat. I'll be in touch very soon. You get some beauty sleep. You've got to look good on radio."
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