Perusing my deck of editorial contacts and outstanding submissions, I expect to soon receive feedback from a copious number of Manhattanites. Most of these, of course, will be from voices telling me to shove off, or get lost, or to go drown myself in the East River. But still, I'm holding out the hope that a few of these editors (some books, some magazines) will give me the nod to either begin writing or give me the gracious nod that accompanies the acceptance of an essay or story.
However, I won't stop there.
I've also had a few invitations to travel east this spring (or summer) and to meet some folks who, for whatever reason, deem me worthy of an interview or a listen. Okay . . . but what am I gonna say? I've got a few subjects I can talk about with some expertise (cracking walnuts, The Andy Griffith Show, sexual exploits with the wife some ten years ago . . . ) but when it comes to the manufacturing of talk-show fodder, I wilt. I've been watching more Seinfeld, trying to pick up ideas, and I've memorized a great line from Jerry McGuire ("You had me at hello!"), but these can only take me so far.
No, if I get to New York, I'm going to have to be at the top of my game . . . and I might have to buy a new suit and a fresh pack of boxer shorts. I hear New Yorkers expect fresh.
Becky has her opinions, too . . . but she's so busy with school and night classes four nights a week, we only see each other now as we drift past each other around midnight or at five a.m. and say, "How 'ya doin?" Naturally, if I do go to New York, she wants me to book a flight when she can tag along. "I hear they have Broadway shows there," she tells me. "Yes, and Al Roker!" I remind her.
I will, of course, stay at the Algonquin Hotel. Got the prices and everything.
Now it's all up to the editors.
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