By the time the lights went down, the Housing Works Bookstore Cafe was packed to the rafters with 350 listeners and aspiring “tellers.” In post Station Nightclub Fire Rhode Island, they never would have been allowed to put even half that number into the space.
Forty people had signed up to tell. Only ten would be picked.
It was nail biting for me. Just before they called the next name, I pushed the “record” button on my iPhone, hoping to hear my name….
Next up… “Marrrr..” (me?) “..go Lightman.”
It was excruciating. Fortunately for me, I was able to put my massive jealousy aside, once I got over the disappointment and just listen to the stories.
I’m not going to go into a pathological dissection at this point, largely because it would seem (and be) self-serving and a bit on the catty side. I realize that’s some of what blog posting is all about, but the storytellers did their best. The woman who won deserved it, as did a few of the others.
The story I wanted to tell was, “The Boy Who Hated Potato Latkes” off my upcoming album, “A Holiday Present“. I was going to start it off with a different beginning, because the audience was all adults and not kids:
“It was Hanukkah, and we were eating potato latkes. The room was thick with the mouth-watering smell of frying potato pancakes, because when God commands Jews to eat fried food, they do it with gusto. Everybody’s plate was full, except for my son Max. He doesn’t like food with flavor…”
It would’ve worked. It would have killed.
They never called my name. (SOB! WAAAH. BOO!)
In the words of Kurt Vonnegut, so it goes.
Anyway, at the end, they allow everyone who didn’t get a chance to tell their story to tell their first line.
I did. I changed the line to make sure it would work. I killed.
You can listen in…