The Rantings of A Middling Poet and Essayist...

Just up the road from the Starbucks where I am composing, at a Barnes & Noble in the Carrollwood section of Tampa, FL., the actor Tori Spelling held a book signing this past Tuesday. According to the St. Petersburg Times, the session started at 7:45PM and, because Ms. Spelling has a reported reputation for greeting all of her fans, it ended at 2:20AM the following morning. 1, 400 fans had to purchase Ms. Spelling's newest book, titled uncharted terriTORI, in order to procure an armband and be shepherded in groups of 50 up to the table where she was holding court.

I have no doubt of Ms. Spelling's professionalism, her ability (or lack of it) to write a good, profitable book, or her devotion to her two children. But something bothers me about the whole enterprise: Casting aside Ms. Spelling's pedigree and her role in Beverly Hills, 90210, do you really think that those 1, 400 people would have waited into the wee small hours of the muggy Tampa night to secure the autograph of the star of Awake to Danger, Mother May I Sleep with Danger, Co-ed Call Girl, and other delightful fare? And what about them, anyway? You would think that J.K. Rowling herself had just walked in, nodded her head and given the cue for the boxes to be opened, the final Harry Potter book to come out and for everyone to crack it open in unison, jaws agape in wonderment.

In other words, for the author of Carrie and Needful Things, I would understand the clamor. For my Facebook friends Jacquelyn Mitchard, Marty Appel and others, I would hope to be part of the throng. If Oliver Stone wrote one more book and came here to sign and promote it, wild horses would not only not keep me away, they'd be spiriting me there like Secretariat at the Belmont. For Tori Spelling, I dunno. I sure wouldn't be bringing her raw rhubarb, as one fan did. In Tampa, Ms. Spelling must be like Marc Antony eulogizing Julius Caesar. In, say, Philadelphia, she might just be another violinist on the steps of the Art Museum, playing for change. Which I suppose we all do, in a way.

I also admit to being rather jealous. If I were the child of a famous teevee impresario and I were out there in the public eye, raising small children and being a "perfect" husband, no one would flinch at wanting to publish my memoirs. But I admit my life is far more boring and far less glamorous than that of Tori Spelling.