Book Expo Blues - BEA Day 1

A few months ago I got an email from a publicist at Sleeping Bear Press asking me if I would like to attend BEA in Chicago to help promote a book I illustrated called Santa's Underwear.

"Ahhh," I coolly replied. "Let me check my schedule. Hmmmm. Yes. Yes, I think I could squeeze that in."

"Excellent. I'll send along details soon."

I raced off to tell Kerri the joyous news. "Wow! Sleeping Bear is flying me out to Chicago to go to BEA!" I cried.

"What's BEA?" Kerri asked.

"I have absolutely no idea, BUT I'M GOING!!"

I soon discovered that BEA is Book Expo America; an annual conference where book publishers unveil their upcoming titles and conference attendees stagger around, collecting as many free copies of as many books as they can carry.

I've been writing and illustrating books for over 18 years and up until this point, no publisher has ever flown me anywhere to promote a book. A few years ago, I did get sent on a book tour to a local chain of seafood restaurants to promote one book, but that idea didn't work out as well as anyone hoped it might and I still can't eat clam chowder.

In preparation for the trip, I did a lot of research about blues clubs near my hotel and places that served authentic Chicago deep dish pizza.

In retrospect, my time might have been better spent doing some research about BEA, but I stand by my decision and have no regrets.

My flight to Chicago which, if actual humans ran airlines, would have been about about an hour and a half, turned into a scenic tour of the Eastern Seaboard, including, for some inexplicable reason, a layover in Atlanta.

New Hampshire to Georgia to Illinois.

Chicago, here I come.

I'm sure that Atlanta is lovely. It's just a bit smoggy this morning.

Once in Atlanta, I had a few leisurely minutes to travel from one terminal to another, conveniently located about 150 miles away. Atlanta's airport has a train that can bring you from one terminal to another. This train car even provided some lively in-transit entertainment.

I know. I feel so sleazy for having taken this picture, but this couple was really going at it. Yikes, guys.

The Love Train arrived at my stop and I was able to escape before things got overly heated. I raced to catch my connecting flight and soon, I was in Chicago. O'Hare Airport is located 17 miles from the hotel I was staying at, but I was assured that those 17 miles would take at least an hour to drive. The hotel suggested that I use a local airport shuttle service.

The slow traffic afforded me a leisurely, scenic view of the outskirts of Chicago.

Very scenic.

As we rolled slowly along the highway, the exhaust fumes settling my jangled nerves and lulling millions of brain cells into permanent hibernation, I realized that I was running out of time. I was supposed to be signing books at the Sleeping Bear booth and I couldn't get to the hotel and then get BEA on time.

I headed directly to the convention center which, I estimate, was about the size of New England. It was a sprawling complex of buildings and after the shuttle dropped me off, I realized that I had absolutely no idea where I was supposed to be going.

One of the many, many buildings I had to choose from. Not the correct one, I soon discovered.

 I saw people wearing badges - always a good sign when seeking a conference. I followed them and soon located some signs directing me to the conference.

The signage did leave something to be desired, however. Specifically, "usefulness".

Thank you, completely useless and contradictory signs.

Eventually, by following a trail of name-badged individuals, I found the convention center! It was HUGE!

I got my own name-badge and, by virtue of some special magic it possessed, I was able to skip the line of hundreds and hundreds of attendees camped out, waiting for the gates to open. I was ushered past the line and into the glittering world of BEA.

It's so shiny!

I looked for the banners with my name on them, but didn't see them for some reason.

I also never got to meet Harry Potter. Disappointing.

Once inside, I was handed a map and spent - I am not kidding - at least 20 minutes trying to find the Sleeping Bear booth. In my dazed wanderings, I did bump into a few fun folks that I knew.

Shari, the big boss at Flashlight Press was there. We had a great chat. Then I pleaded with her to help me find the Sleeping Bear booth. She sent me off on my own into the cold, empty void of BEA.

I also ran into my buddy Ryan Higgins, who was at the Disney booth signing copies of his book, Mother Bruce. I cut to the front of the line and dropped to my knees. "Please, Ryan. I'm lost and cold and tired and hungry. WHERE IS THE SLEEPING BEAR BOOTH?!?" He pretended he didn't know me and kept signing books.

After what seemed like a few more hours of wandering, I FOUND THE BOOTH!!

HOME AT LAST!

They were raffling off a piece of my art, too.

I finally got to meet Heather Hughes, the publisher and Grand Poobah of Sleeping Bear Press. She is delightful and has much better hair than I do.

Sleeping Bear even made a huge 5 foot by 5 foot stand-up of Santa from one of my illustrations for the book.

Heather forced me to stand in it for hours on end as a way to attract people to the booth. My pitiful moans and whimpering may have had the reverse effect, however and she eventually released me.

I had a few minutes to wander around before it was time for my signing. I had a signing scheduled at 3:00 and another tomorrow at 10:00  am.

The signings at BEA are free. So people wander up, chat with you, and get a free signed book. It was very cool. I had a chance to chat with a LOT of people and to sign a LOT of books.

Signing this many books would prove problematic, but we didn't know that yet.

After we ran out of books, the crowds moved away to collect other free things. I spent a bit more time wandering around and eventually decided that it was time to go to the hotel and rest a bit.

It only took me two and a half hours of aimless wandering to find the hotel shuttles and then, I was off.

My first stop after the hotel was dinner. I asked at the front desk where I might get some delicious, authentic deep-dish pizza and was directed to a wonderful place that was only about a half mile away. I took the scenic route, because I had to check something on the way.

The blues club.

I had found a place called Blue Chicago and it looked like it was very close to the hotel.

It was.

I found it more easily than I found the Sleeping Bear booth.

The doors didn't open until 8:00, so I had plenty of time to get a pizza, then head back for some live blues.

At the pizza place, I ran into Gwen and Terye, who I had met at BEA. They offered to buy me a beer so we are now best friends forever.

This is what a $23 pizza looks like in Chicago. It was delicious.

After dinner, I bade my new bestest buddies farewell and headed off to Blue Chicago to hear some blues.

I sidled up to the bar and got a whiskey on ice to sip.

And then the band started playing and I was in heaven.

The table of Japanese guys was more interested in their phones than the music, however.

This lady must have been 70 years old. She got up there with the band and she totally killed it. She was amazing.

I spent a few hours hanging out and enjoying myself. I even bought myself a commemorative tourist-type hat.

 Soon, my eyes started to get heavy and I knew that it was time to walk back to the hotel and get some sleep.

I had another big signing scheduled for tomorrow morning.

If only there were some books left to sign.

Masked Candy Thieves, Huge Walking Apples, & Life Altering Humiliation for a Bag of Cheetos

 So, you know how sometimes, you're at a huge author event in another state and you're with your friend, and you're just trying to get your picture taken with a 100% real, magical, huge, walking apple that happens to be wandering through the place and PEOPLE WON'T LEAVE YOU ALONE?

It happened to me once again on Saturday, when I had the good fortune to be asked to attend the first annual Author Fest in Cape Elizabeth, Maine. It was certainly a special occasion for me. Generally, I am not technically "invited" to events like this. I usually have to slip in through any unlocked door, clutching a box of my posters and bookmarks and stuff, and make my way to an empty seat behind a table.

People will wander up to me as I sit there and look at the name tag on the table where I have seated myself.
"So, you're J.K. Rowling?" they will ask.
"Yes," I answer. "Yes I am. Only I have a few books out under my new pen-name, Marty Kelley. Would you like o buy a few cases of them?"

Sometimes I can even grab a few cookies off the refreshment table as security drags me to the door.

But I was actually invited to this event because my good friend, the wicked talented story-teller/author, Becky Rule suggested to the organizers that I might be a good person to contact.

When pressed for details, Becky admitted that she had recommended me simply because I was the only person she knew who might be willing to drive over 100 miles each way for a free bag of Cheetos and a chance to get my picture taken with a 100% real, magical, huge, walking apple.

And I was planning on taking full advantage of that opportunity. When that apple strolled into the room, all shiny and bright and delicious looking, I vaulted over my table, ready to tackle it and take a bite.

Becky grabbed my ankle as I lunged. "No, Marty!" she wailed.
I kicked at her hand, still clutching my ankle. "Let go! The apple is here!" I cried. "And I'm hungry!"
Becky began sobbing. "I'm sorry, Marty," she wailed. "I lied."
I stopped struggling against her iron grip. "What?" I gasped.
"The apple," Becky managed between shuddering sobs. "It's... it's not a 100% real, magical, huge walking apple like I told you. It's just a child in an apple costume."

The news hit me hard.

"So I can't eat it?" I whimpered.
Becky shook her head. "I'm sorry," she murmured.

"Well," I groaned, standing and brushing myself off. "I guess I don't need to eat it. I've got some Cheetos, after all. Let's go get our pictures taken with the apple."

The apple tried to run, but Becky grabbed its stem and forced it to pose with us for nearly 250 pictures.

But, as happens so frequently when famous authors try to have our pictures taken with non-magical, huge, walking apples, the crowds of paparazzi gathered around, yelling and snapping pictures.

Can we get no peace?

"Don't worry, Becky. I'll handle this," I said, heading for the unruly crowd.

Becky kept a firm hold of the apple's stem while I stalked over to attend to the paparazzi.

The last photo on that paparazzi's camera.

I dusted myself off and returned to the apple for a few thousand more pictures.

You cannot hear the child weeping helplessly inside the apple costume. "Please... enough pictures... set me free..."

After the extensive photo sessions were over, I went back to my table and met Doreen Tango Hampton, my table-mate and new best friend. Obviously someone with this much gum is someone you want to befriend. I threw myself in her lap and instantly proposed marriage. Her husband was, for some reason, somewhat opposed to the idea.

Doreen is trying to hold back the tears when she discovers that I am not actually Dr. Suess, as I claimed I was.

Please notice all the gum Doreen has spread out in an enticing fashion across the front of the table.

Note to self: Gum attracts children.

Throughout the day, due to Doreen's appallingly short-sighted decision to spill gum all over the place, our table was besieged by roving hoards of children, all desperately seeking gum. Some children asked if she had any other kind of candy.

"No," she explained politely. "My book is called, I Like Gum. So, you see, I have gum."
The kids would shrug, slightly disgusted by Doreen's poor assortment of candy, and grab a few hundred pieces of gum to cram in their pockets.

Some children wandered by six or seven thousand times, pausing just long enough to fill their pockets at each pass.

These two girls–I am not joking–actually donned masks to grab more gum after Doreen politely suggested that the 15 pounds they had each already taken might be enough. They should probably be considered armed and dangerous.

Thwarting gum thieves is hungry work, and having been denied my chance to eat a 100% real magical, huge, walking apple (thanks, Becky), I rooted through the goodie bag that had thoughtfully been supplied by the event organizers.

And I feel that at this point, I must point out that the people who organized this Author Fest did an absolutely AMAZING job. It was their first Author Fest and they totally nailed everything. There were even personalized signs on each table with hand-drawn pictures depicting scenes from each person's book. The event was very well attended, things ran perfectly and all the authors and illustrators had a great time.

And the goodie bags! The goodie bag was filled with what I must call the greatest collection of goodies in the entire history of goodie bags:

Candy and a bag of Cheetos.

And, although I was facing starvation from spending the afternoon fending off gangs of children in search of gum, I carefully weighed the options, trying to decide in which way a bag of Cheetos might deliver the most pleasure.

Sure, I could eat them. And I'm sure they would have brought me a few blissful moments of Cheezey Delite™.

But could I not find some way to turn those few minutes of gustatory delight into a memory that will haunt some poor child for a lifetime?

Why, yes, I could.

I hobbled together a makeshift poster and offered my bag of Cheetos to anyone who would sing a song for me.

Then I began accosting everyone who passed by, begging them to sing in exchange for a cheesy treat.

Nobody was coming up to sing to me, however, because they were all in line to see Scott Nash, the wonderfully talented creator of Flat Stanley and many other great books. Obviously, all the other authors and illustrators were incredibly jealous of the line he had all day long. Naturally, we plotted to have him eliminated, but not a single author in the place had had the foresight to bring along something so basic as a surface to surface thermonuclear warhead.

Get away from Scott Nash! I have CHEETOS!!

But try as I might, I could not get anyone to sing.

And then, to my horror, I discovered that Becky Rule–not content with having cheated me out of my chance to eat a 100% real, magical, huge, walking apple–was undermining my attempt to make someone sing by making a different, and much easier offer.

Becky is a mad, evil genius who bears constant supervision. Her daughter, Adi, is lurking in the shadows on the left and may have had some part in this sinister scheme.

I attempted to rally support to have Becky eliminated, but all the other authors were still mopey and despondent about the whole Scott Nash thing.

And then, something amazing happened.

Eva came shyly up to me and asked if she could sing for the Cheetos.

Please note the amazing treasure trove of goodness I heaped upon this brave and amazing young lady.

And sing she did. After a stirring rendition of Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star, I heaped everything from my goodie bag unto her. She was amazing.

And then, as I sat back, satisfied with a job well done, several more children came up to sing to me.

I explained that I had no more Cheetos to offer, but they offered to sing in exchange for a poster. I didn't have the heart to tell them that I was giving posters away to everyone, so I let them sing.

Teagan sang the entire theme song to the Brady Bunch and brought nostalgic tears to my eyes.

Watch out Delaney and Teagan! The gum thief is behind you!

These two amazing ladies sang a duet of Call Me Maybe that wold have left Katy Perry breathless with awe.

Naturally, I gloated about my success loudly enough for Becky to hear.

She did manage to give away her chips to a young lady who told this joke:

Marty was talking to a squirrel. 

He told the squirrel, "You are what you eat." 

The squirrel ran away yelling, "I'm nuts!"

I had no idea that there was that much talent in the lovely, quiet town of Cape Elizabeth.

It was a wonderful event and I certainly hope to return next year.
I'll be sure to bring a lot of Cheetos.
But no gum.

And, I'll be wearing this:

And Bears. Oh, My.

You'd think that a sign like that would be enough to scare most people away, so they'd go back to their houses, drop onto the couch with a bag of chips and a quart of dip and say, "Well, I made an honest effort to climb that mountain, but I just didn't wish to be listed as a Bear Related Incident."

Because "Bear Related Incidents" are not often written up in the papers like, "In the fourth Bear Related Incident reported this summer, a small group of local hikers was given a rare treat yesterday along Galehead Trail. A trio of friendly, bow-tie wearing bears rolled out of the woods on unicycles just 20 feet away from where the hikers were taking a granola break. The bears juggled, played instruments, and made balloon animals for the hikers before heading back into the forest."

No.

Bear Related Incidents are generally a bit more grim and contain fewer balloon animals and more carnage.

I saw this sign for what it was. A sign. A sign to abandon this silly notion of hiking along bear-infested trails. Julie–who is giddy with the prospect of completing her quest to summit all of NH 4,000 foot mountains within the next millennium–did not listen to my plaintive wails. She forged onward and upward toward the craggy summit, a scant 5 miles directly above our heads.

And she made me hike it twice.

I don't want to sound bitter about this, but I want to be very clear about the fact that I AM BITTER ABOUT THIS.

We climbed that bear-crusted mountain twice and it's all Julie's fault. Then, she had the temerity to berate me for not writing about the first time we hiked it.

Actually, she had the temerity to berate me for not writing about two other hikes, as well. So to get her off my back, I will cram 3 hikes and 4 mountains into this one, bear-filled post.

Long ago, we dragged my son, Alex along with us to hike North and South Kinsman Mountains. I had just purchased my very first pair of hiking boots and was delighted with their shiny awesomeness to the point that I included them in almost every photograph that I took on that hike. I didn't want the boots to get upset and give me blisters.

Scenic View of My Boot.

Lonesome Lake. And my Boot.

This gentle 10 mile stroll took us past Lonesome Lake and the Lonesome Lake Hut. While approaching the hut, if you listen carefully, you can hear the haunting sounds of a bunch of hippies sitting on the roof, singing a Grateful Dead song.

Arriving at the hut, you are greeted with a stairway to nowhere.

Complete with Doorknob.

My suspicion is that this is how the hippies who run the hut get rid of unwanted hikers.

"Sure, man," they'll say. "You can stay here for free. Just head up the back stairs and the first room you come to is all yours."

Then they climb back up on the roof for another 3 hour rendition of Truckin'.

I tried to send Alex into the hut this way, but that kid is way too smart for those kinds of shenanigans.
Plus, he could smell free food from about a mile down the trail. I tried to convince him that it was just the aroma of hippies, baking in the sun, but being a 13 year old boy, he can sniff out food scents at 1 part per bajillion in the atmosphere.

Who can resist the siren call of a free, cold, leftover pancake? Not Alex. He ate them all. Not true. Julie and I both had one, too. Don't judge us. It was a long hike.
They also tease you with the idea that there may be clean spoons on the premises, but there are none.

Heavy with pancakes and redolent of hippie stink, we headed onward toward the summit where we found a guy enjoying the splendor of nature by checking his email. 

If it's not on Facebook, it didn't happen. Better let everyone know where I am.

His friend, who sadly does not appear in any of my photos because my boot was getting jealous, was hiking with an ingenious contraption that allowed him to broadcast Metallica from his backpack for everyone within a half mile to enjoy. It was the first hike I have experienced with a soundtrack, if you don't include the hippies singing the Dead.

Which I don't.

I was visited again by the strange and terrifying Sweat Bunny.

As we sat, perched on the ledge, overlooking miles of stunning landscape, awash in the soothing strains of Metallica, I told Alex that if he made binoculars with his hands, they would actually work because of the odd properties of light at higher elevations.

That kid is so gullible.

Someday he will appreciate how hilarious I am. That day has yet to come, however.

Julie taking a picture of herself behind Alex and my boot. Metallica was still playing in the background.

A delightful feature of the mountains we were on is the fact that they have more than one lake on them. Lonesome Lake, as I mentioned, is home to the rare and elusive Mountain Hippie.  Much farther up the mountain is a tiny lake whose name I cannot remember and do not care to look up right now.

Bonus, Hippie-Free Lake.

It was thither that we hiked next, as it was on our way home and seemed far enough away from the Metallica guy. And if not, we figured we could drown him in the lake.

Once there, Julie–perhaps addled by the thin mountain air–attempted to walk across the lake.

Even the classic hand position did little to help Julie walk on water.

She almost made it, too. She only had about 1,000 yards to go before she sank.

On the shores of Hippie-Free lake was a delightful little campground where you would be guaranteed not to find any obnoxious people "camping" in RVs with 72" flat screen TVs mounted to the outside.

The campground amenities included one water spigot, one pit toilet with the delicate suggestion that the toilet is available for "solid waste" and that "liquid waste" might be more effectively disposed of in the woods.

There was also a giant house-like structure on the shore of the lake where you could seek shelter from hippies should the need arise.

My boot at the log cabin where President Lincoln was probably not born.

It was a very cool place, although Alex was reluctant to take up permanent residence there, despite my claims that he could play his lousy music all the time and it wouldn't bother me any more.

The rest of the hike was a simple glide across several hundred miles of hellish terrain, followed by ice cream, as is the custom.

Julie, perhaps still suffering the effects of the oxygen-deprived atmosphere of the mountain, actually got Cappuccino Crunch and Play-Doh ice cream.

Together.

I'm sure that you will all join me in wishing her a speedy recovery.

Let us never speak of this ice cream abomination again.

Instead, let's talk about the bear-filled mountain that Julie made me climb.

Twice.

Remember that?

Yeah. Me too. We went on this hike, originally planning to summit Galehead and South Twin in one spectacular, thrilling climb. It was a long climb to Galehead Hut, then the trail split into a Y. We planned on going up one way, then back down and up the other way.

But we didn't and I'm not one to cast blame, but IT'S ALL JULIE'S FAULT!

We hiked up and summited South Twin and then went home. So we had to go back to hike Galehead a second time. The next time, we tricked Alex into coming along again by telling him that there would be more free pancakes.

There were not. Instead, there were bear warning signs and suicidal mushrooms and mud that looked like delicious chocolate cake.

Rather than write about two more hikes that were essentially the same hike, WHICH IS ALL JULIE'S FAULT, I'm going to combine them into one dizzying and confusing post.

Our hike started off with Alex, or without, depending on which one you're talking about. And I don't know which one I'm talking about yet, so we'll have to see how it all goes.

Was Alex there?

Or not?

 The hike started out as a gentle stroll

Nice and easy.

Before banking slightly upwards toward the sky.

Less easy.

The trial itself was littered with dozens of mushrooms that had decided that life as a mushroom was not one worth living.

It appeared that these mushrooms had given up all hope, climbed into the trees and cast themselves downward, littering the trail with their carcasses.


It turns out that we were all wrong in thinking that, however. Seriously. Who ever heard of suicidal mushrooms. That's just crazy talk.


We eventually found out that these mushrooms had been destroyed by the evil Gargamel, who has prowled the woods of New Hampshire for decades in search of Smurfs. We know this because Smurfette herself told us.

She even posed for a picture before Alex grabbed her and ate her.

 Being a constantly starving 13 year old boy, Alex naturally mistook Smurfette for a tasty piece of Nature Candy and ate her. He desperately needed to get the bitter taste of Smurf Tartar out of his mouth, so I directed him to a pancake that someone had helpfully left by the side of the trail.

More Free Pancakes!

He was not amused.

Arriving at Galehead Hut, the taste of Smurf still burning Alex's mouth, he refilled his water bottle.
It may sound like a simple thing, but water is, it appears, such a precious commodity on the mountain that they guard it with an ingenious trap.

Alex is desperate enough to wash the taste of Smurf away that he risks filling up at the Sink of Damocles. Please note the sword dangling precariously over his head

You'd better REALLY want that water.

The hut also provides a wide selection of books. And every single one of them is about hiking. Because after hiking all day, what could be better than reading about more hiking?

The view outside the hut on the first hike was somewhat limited.

The second time, that same view was significantly improved.

On hike number one–did I mention that I had to do this hike twice BECAUSE OF JULIE?– we arrived at the summit of South Twin to find several thru-hikers making their way along the Appalachian Trail. The peculiar, stinging odor of thru-hiker is visible as fog on the summit.

Thru-hiker stink clouding up the view from the summit.

The climb to the summit of South Twin was brutal, something I will never admit to Julie, because then she will know that I actually didn't really want to do that second summit, even though we were this close.

We only had to get to that little hill in the background.

But BECAUSE OF JULIE, NOT ME, we had to come back a second day and do it all over again. The summit of Galehead was actually something of a let-down.

Guidebooks refer to this as an "enclosed summit". I refer to it as a "rip-off".

To keep people from demanding a refund, Mother Nature has thoughtfully provided a scenic lookout, easily recognized by this natural signal.

Once at the lookout, Alex and Julie were overcome with the desire to look like models from an ad for hiking clothes.

Would you buy clothes from these two?

My own modeling attempt is less successful.

Hiking pirate!

Alex, however, kept trying.

Alex attempts to model for an energy drink commercial.

And fails miserably by gagging, an activity that advertising people do not care to associate with their drinks.

Before we descend to the cars and ice cream, Julie assures us that we are not, no matter what it looks like, in any way, lost.

 

No. We are not lost. Julie just wanted something to read. A map was handy. That's all.

And see that knee brace Julie is wearing? Sometimes during a hike, her knee bothers her, so she keeps that brace handy in case she needs it. The problem, of course, is that she failed to read the directions before putting it on. As a result, its usefulness has been compromised somewhat.

Julie tries in vain to slip the knee brace on over her head. Duh, Julie.

Still not working right. Duh, Julie.

If anyone knows how to use that stupid thing, please tell her. It's really annoying listening to her whimper and moan about how much pain she's in during the hikes.

We made our way down the mountain, Julie limping along and adjusting her knee brace every few inches and Alex complaining about how hungry he was. I directed Alex to some delicious, fudgy chocolate cake that some helpful person had left in the middle of the trail.

Mmmm. Tasty.

He was not amused.

We trudged endlessly through the woods, talking exclusively about ice cream until we came to the lair of The Bog Monster from a Scooby Doo cartoon.

We laughed heartily as it rose up from the murky depths and ate Alex.

Nice knowing you, kid.

Back at the car, I took the opportunity to remind Julie that we had to hike that mountain twice BECAUSE OF HER. Plus, I sort of blamed her for my son being eaten by a Bog Monster. We were just packing up to go get some ice cream when Alex staggered out of the woods.

Yay! He didn't get eaten!

I was so happy to see him again that I bought him some Play Doh ice cream.

He was not amused.