Thursday, May 01, 2003
Copyright © Las Vegas Mercury

Goldberg: Festival of sick

By Tod Goldberg

Have you ever had a dream in which you're standing in front of a huge group of people--people, it should be noted, who have waited in line to specifically see you--and you suddenly realize you're about to projectile vomit pineapple fried rice onto them?

No?

I haven't had that specific dream either, but I've had derivations thereon. They always end with my alarm clock going off and the happy intrusion of real life that waking gives. Sadly, just a few days ago I had the real McCoy experience of the veritable naked-at-school nightmare that puking on an audience of Goldberg fans might provide.

Let me explain. As I wrote in this space last week, I was up for a prestigious literary award (that I correctly predicted I'd lose) this past weekend in Los Angeles during the annual L.A. Times Festival of Books. Part of my duties for the weekend were to attend panel discussions about writing and what it's like to be a writer and the magic tricks involved with creating novels. During the first day of the weekend, everything went swimmingly. I spoke, I signed books, I filled every room with good cheer and abundant charm and basically awaited the evening ceremony where I'd either be crowned a literary superstar or literary also-ran-with-a-promising-future-so-don't-look-a-gift-horse-in-the-mug-bucko.

During the course of the ceremony, I admit that a few times I felt a little sick wondering about the above choices of career paths, but never once did I think I was actually gonna hurl. Alas, I lost the award and spent the rest of the evening talking up the joys of losing ("It's such an honor to be nominated") and generally basking in the coolness of hanging out with half of the literary world ("Well, yes, Mr. Plimpton, I was nominated for an award"). Afterward, my wife and I and another couple retired to a Thai restaurant to gorge. It was a fine evening all around and when I finally climbed into bed just after 1 in the morning, I felt free in both body and spirit.

Six hours later, when I awoke with screaming abdominal pains and a distinct burning in my stool, I knew I was in for a far more difficult day.

Perhaps I haven't accurately described the Festival of Books, which adds to the overall picture of my despair: At any given time, upwards of 100,000 people are roaming several acres of bookstores, stages, signing areas and panel spaces. During this event, word travels like a lynch mob through the crowd and a literal buzz can grow from an interesting author appearance or a surprising comment made by the media. If you make an impression at the Festival of Books, people hear. Oh, man, people hear.

When I arrived at the festival an hour after my burning stool, I met up with the other three authors who'd be sharing my panel--a Pulitzer Prize winner and two Edgar Award winners--and tried to make small talk. The problem was that while making small talk I determined two things:

1. I was going to vomit and it was going to happen very soon.

2. I was going to vomit and I probably was going to do it all over either a Pulitzer Prize winner or two Edgar Award winners.

"Excuse me," I said and ran out of the room, gagging and spewing. I made it to a bathroom just in time to gag some more, have a touch of the runs and at least one powerful prayer session with Jesus, Buddha, Mark McGwire and anyone else who would listen. I declared myself healed and returned to the Green Room to be herded to my panel.

"Are you okay?" my wife asked.

"Fine."

"Your color is off," she said and she touched my face. As anyone who is an experienced vomit-monkey knows, being touched when nauseated is like a welcome mat for the sickness to return.

"I'm gonna be sick," I said and ran off to vomit in a garbage can.

My wife went into full action mode, shoving the various award winners away, stripping my shirt from my body and promptly pressing me into a bathroom filled with people clutching my book. I spent the next 10 minutes vomiting pineapple fried rice until I'd made peace for all my sins and felt ready to move on to the afterlife.

Then, quite oddly, I started to feel better. I went outside the bathroom, naked from the waist up, and found my wife.

"Are you okay?"

"Maybe."

I took a deep breath, put my shirt on, and made the long walk to the stage where I immediately felt terribly sick. I looked out over the people and decided I was not going to be the guy remembered for throwing up onstage and losing a book prize on the same weekend.

And I didn't. Oh, I coughed and gagged and nearly passed out once, but I stayed upright and loquacious. By the end of the day, though, it didn't matter: At every event thereafter people I'd never seen asked me if I was feeling better.

Much.