You may recall that last spring I awoke with the realization that I needed to buy a Sprinter van, convert it into a camper, then tour the nation to promote my new book, From Animal House to Our House: A Love Story. The van is nearing completion. And my publisher and I are working feverishly to book a 66-city tour. That’s what you can do if you are barn-storming a book tour in a camper van: go anywhere and stop anywhere. There are limits, of course. I mean, I’ve got to get back home eventually because I do have a wife, a job, and responsibilities. As it is, I’ll be on the road for 4 months straight. It’s kind of daunting. And the set-up for this thing is mind-boggling. The publisher has given me a dedicated media liaison who does all of the groundwork. Her work and mine combined amount to 8 hours a day, every day. This will go on for months.

You might wonder why it’s so time-consuming. Here’s our strategy: 1) we target the best-bet indie book store in a particular town, then we query the local historic and preservaiton socieites in that town to co-sponsor the reading. The historic/preservation socieites have been really enthusiastic about my visit because, as a licensed home-inspector and a hard-core Do-it-yourselfer, I am offering a lot of value for free: workshops, talks, slide-shows about my experience restoring our big old house and other stuff relating to restoration etc. Jill and I have been building our expertise on YouTube through how-to videos. And we run the Houselove website, which has a national readership. In other words, the book represents a convergence of other efforts and interests, which now all come into play.

2) Once we enlist the partnership of the local historic/preservation society in a particular town, we tell the targeted book store that we have local support. You’d be surprised how many book stores don’t think this is enough. Some want to know if I have family or friends in that town and ask for even more guarantees. You’d think it’d be a no-brainer to book me — and my general-readership book — in a small store when we’re offering so much (see items that follow). We enlisted the partnership of TWO historic societies for a proposed reading at Powell’s in Portland, Oregon, and still Powell’s rejected us. They said we would not draw enough.

I know times are hard. But short of signing an affidavit swearing that we’ll bring a tour-bus load of supporters, what more can we do? And what are the skittish book stores doing on that particular night if they’re not bringing in, say, David Sedaris? All we’re asking is that they give us some space, put the event on their calendar, and send the word around. We’ll do the rest. In the case of Portland, we are going to create an event for the two historic societies and, chances are, we’ll get more press than we would for a book store reading. But my preference is to anchor these in indie book stores because I believe in indie book stores. We writers can help — or try to help — indie book stores, but the indie stores have to be willing to give us a chance.

3) Once we have the historic/preservation societies partnered with the book store, we go to the local press to see if we can get a book review. Then we go to local radio and TV to set up an interview the day-of or the day before. Believe it or not, getting on local morning TV talk shows is not difficult because they’re always scrambling for material, especially if the topic — like old house restoration — has local appeal. Next, we search out the local book clubs and see if we can get them interested.

4) Then we post the event in the local media outlets and calendars. All told, this booking/PR process takes at least a month to work through for each city. And this has to be done at least 3 months in advance for every city. And we’re doing 66 cities. It begs the question: who has time for this? The answer is simple: NOBODY! I certainly couldn’t do it without my dedicated media liaison. And this kind of effort really doesn’t make sense for every book. It will work best for the general-readership book. From Animal House to Our House is a good fit because it has a love story and an HGTV/TOH angle and a David Vs. Goliath inspirational angle and an Animal House angle. I don’t know that I’ll ever have another book that hits as many targets. And, frankly, that’s a relief because it makes my head swim to think of doing this again.

5) Other promotional gambits involve my writing articles for old house magazines like Victorian Homes, present at DIY shows, and give talks at preservation conferences. Further, it helps to get home-town press interestedin the story with interviews and photoshoots. We have a magazine photographer coming over tomorrow for an all-day shoot. Local interest has worked well in my case: look for articles in the Urbanite, Baltimore magazine, and maybe an excerpt in Style. Then an appearance on Dan Roderick’s mid-day talk show on Feb. 2 (from 1-2:00 PM). And more, I hope.

In sum, the idea is to bring all of these forces together so that word-of-mouth carries the name of your book far and wide. Notice that I haven’t mentioned book reviews? Book reviews are the wild card in this game. For an indie-press book, you can never tell who will consider it worth a review. And that’s the primary advantage of having a big-press book: the big magazines and newspapers are much more likey to pick it up.

As for the 66-city tour, mine may be the last of its kind. The world is transitioning to something else when it comes to book promotion, although none of us knows quite that that something might be. I’ve heard people tout the podcast or the video-cast or the guest blog as the way to go, but can any of these virtual efforts truly replace the power and gratification of a face-to-face meeting with readers in a town you’ve traveled to for the express purpose of making something good happen when a writer meeds curious strangers?

If you’re interested in camper van conversions, here’s a video link to my latest installment on that project.

If you want to see the shape of the 66-city tour thus far, click here.

If you still haven’t seen the FROM ANIMAL HOUSE TO OUR HOUSE video trailer, you really must.

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Last week, Jill and I adopted a cat that was supposedly seven years old. Abandoned or lost, he had been out-of-doors for as long as a year. He was very underweight, his coat dull and matted. But he was in good spirits and very sociable. We didn’t want a kitten because we didn’t feel like dealing with kitten antics. And kittens are something of a gamble. With an older cat, you can see what you’re getting. Or so it seems.


This cat — we’ve named him Newton — was so calm and affectionate, we took him home that day. He didn’t mind the car ride and calmly watched the traffic. He seemed copasetic with everything — our dogs, our other cat, our routine. He found the litter box right away and later when he couldn’t make it to the basement, where the box is, he did his business in the bath tub. He slept with us from the first night. None of that I’m-in-hiding-for-five-days-in-a-closet-till-the-coast-seems-clear stuff for him. When he’s hungry, he paws at our knees. The minute we pick him up, he purrs.



As soon we got him home, however, we realized that he wasn’t simply underfed. He was, he is, an old cat. Much older than seven. After a couple of days, we realized something else: he’s ailing. So we took him to the vet. And, sure enough, Newton’s kidneys are going. This is common in old cats.


The vet praised us for taking on such an old cat. She estimates that Newton is ten. We grant that he may even be twelve. After she got the test results, the vet said, “You could take him back,” suggesting we’d gotten a bad bargain. True, we did not want an old cat, and especially one that needed hospice care. But, no, we’re not taking Newton back. He’s a great cat. Besides, he’s got nowhere to go.


Every day, Jill and I look at Newton sleeping nearby, then we exchange a sad smile and exclaim, “Poor Newton — he’s so old!” Then we think, Isn’t that just like life, to sneak in a sucker punch when you’re not looking?



Newton still has his appetite and now he’s on a special diet. When he stops eating, we’ll know that his time has come. That could be another month or a another year. We dread the day we’ll have to take Newton in, but we can’t regret giving him a home. Every evening, he sits between Jill and me when we watch TV. To look as us together, you’d think he’s been our cat for all these years. He’s adapted so quickly and easily, tolerating even the dogs’ nosy tail-end sniffs, it’s as though he knows he’s got to make the most of his time. We’re falling in love with him, of course. I tell Jill that this is not an occasion for sadness. We cannot let this break our hearts — because we’re giving Newton a grand time and enjoying his company immensely. And, in showing him all the good that love can do, why shouldn’t we celebrate?

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We’ve just finished restoring Jill’s office. You may remember that our house was a fraternity for ten notorious years. Jill’s office was one of the less-destroyed rooms. It was notable, though, for its wall-sized painting of a rebel flag. It’s also the only room with a big arch, which was crumbling. We had stabilized the room but weren’t sure what we’d do to make it the showcase room that Jill wanted. I wasn’t eager to work on her room because one of the things she wanted was to rehang the door to the porch so that the door would swing from right to left instead of left to right. Have you ever tried to re-hang an old door? Oh my. Our renovation work on this room took six months — three times longer than we had planned. But that’s the way old-house rehab goes. If we didn’t think we could get such work done quickly, we might not be so quick to start it. So, always we dream of things being fast and easy, even though — deep down — we know it won’t be so.


It’s the same kind of hope that keeps people buying lotto tickets. You might get lucky! If our species didn’t believe in luck, there would be too many things we’d never try. So we moved Jill out of her office and into the TV room way back in March. Then I stripped the woodwork in her office. I’ve said this before, and I’ll say it again any time the topic comes up: I’d rather do sit ups, hundreds of them, than strip paint from old wood. That said, I’ve gotten really good at it. And we’ve arrived at a method that works well at restoring wood — which you can learn by watching our very popular Youtube video: “How to Strip Paint From Wood.” Stripping wood is like long-distance running. You’ve got to hang in there.


After stripping, then refinishing the woodwork, including the room’s original oak mantel (Jill’s not allowed to do paint-stripping any more for health reasons), we went after the wallpaper. Victorians loved their wallpaper — and they wall-papered everything, including their ceilings. We’ve got the stuff all over the house. We advise that you don’t go after old wall paper until you absolutely have to. Life is complicated enough.


Then there was lots of plastering, then new electricity, including a pair of antique schones over teh fireplace (don’t forget, the Victorians had very little use for electricity). Then refinishing the floor and the radiator, then hanging the porch door so that it opens from left to right instead of right to left (so that Jill can get a breeze at her desk), and then reinishing and installing antique crown molding (a pile of which we found incredibly cheap at a salvage warehouse). And installation of Jill’s cool library ladder (which she found on Craig’s list, of all places). Then, at last, the fun part: building stuff.




I built two window seats, which Jill helped design. Her designs always demand much more time than I want to take. In this instance, she insisted on having faux doors to make the seats look more antique. I built it to her specifications and, as usual, I must admit that she was right. After that, finally, I got to put together the ten-foot-long, eight-foot-high Victorian display cabinet that Jill had found at a local auction. This is something Jill does to make my life more exciting: she finds interesting architectural artifacts at local auctions, then comes home and says, with much excitement: “Guess what I got today!” At which point, I draw a deep breath, grip the nearest solid object, and utter: “What?”


Once, when Jill and I were at a big outdoor auction, I turned my back for a minute and the next thing I knew she had bought a big, iron-frame Victorian fish tank. It now lies in pieces in our basement. She can’t bring herself to sell it and suggests that we could use it as a terrarium. The Victorians loved terrariums.


The display case is cool but, like the acquarium, it was in pieces. I’ve never been a fan of puzzles but, in the case of furniture, I kind of like trying to figure out how the pieces go together. The display case came together nicely. Jill uses it to show off her considerable Steiff toy animal collection. Seems to me you could display anything in a cabinet like that — old socks, say — and it’d look good.


Now, Jill has a showcase office. And she’s feeling a little pressure because she says she’s got to keep it neat to do it justice. This makes me laugh because we’re not neat people and my little cubby hole of an office, on the third floor, demands nothing of me. Which is why it’s always a mess.

To see more of JIll’s way cool office, click here: Jill’s Victorian Office!

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Our big brazen tabby, Simon, got out of the house last week, ran into the street, and got hit by a car. He was 12 and in great health. I love a cat that knows what he wants – the kind that’s wholly comfortable anywhere with anybody and unapologetic about his needs. Simon was all that.

He came to us through a consignment store, left among the furniture an old woman had to surrender when she was committed to a nursing home. He had been thoroughly spoiled and, as a result, he knew no fear.  At the consignment store, he lay wherever he pleased – sometimes on the floor in the middle of an aisle during the busiest times. Jill feared somebody would step on him because, who expects to see a cat laid out, napping on his back, where everybody walks?

Jill, who was working at the consignment store then, brought Simon home to meet me because she thought him exceptional. If he liked you (and he liked just about everybody), Simon would — upon being picked up — put one paw on each of your shoulders and then nibble your earlobe. It was as close as any cat might get to hugging. After he spent one night with us, I said, “We’re keeping him.”  He was four at the time.

He became my cat and spent much of his time shadowing me. Every morning, he’d stretch with me as I did my yoga. I’d give him a good massage. He’d stay up late into the night while I worked in my office. If he wasn’t on my lap, he was nearby.  One of the many things I liked about him was that he wasn’t a needy cat. He wouldn’t stay on my lap long, for instance, but he always came back for more. He wasn’t importuning in any way — never a complainer. But he could be a pushy little shit.

Always his tail was flicking. It seemed he could never relax fully unless he was sound asleep. His flick-flick-flicking tail was a sign of his inner restlessness: there was always something to do. He loved to escape to the out-of-doors. Usually we caught him on his way out, but, one time, he got out and stayed out for three days. We resorted to leaving the front door open (with only the security gate closed) and, finally, he came in, waking us at two in the morning as he padded over our bed.

We installed the iron cresting on our brick garden walls in part to keep Simon in. We discovered that he would leap to the sidewalk from the top of the brick wall – a five-foot jump. Then he’d take off. Usually, he’d sneak through the bushes in front of the row houses on our block and end up in a fenced garden halfway down the block. We never imagined he’d cross the street. We’d get him back by clanging an empty cat food can with the flat of a kitchen knife. It almost always worked. But sometimes we’d have to go out a few times before he’d answer.

We were dismayed to discover, just this year, that — as formidable as the iron cresting may be — it didn’t keep Simon from getting to the top of the garden’s brick wall and then, in an impressive leap, hurling himself over the top of the garden gate. We re-doubled our efforts to watch him. But this last time, he bested us again. Apparently, while I was working on the front doors, he sneaked out, maybe when I turned my back for a moment to grab my paint brush.  We noticed him missing within 30 minutes. And we did our usual search of the block. When he didn’t answer after our third round, I worried — as I always worried. I knew that he could tempt fate only so many times. Cats do not belong outside, especially in the city. They are no match for the hard world.

When we got to the vet’s ER, we found Simon in an oxygen tent. He seemed to be doing okay. His hind legs were immobilized. I figured he’d broken his hips. Jill and I were ready to do whatever we had to – it’d probably be a long convalescence, we told each other. When the veterinarian saw us after doing some x-rays, the news was the worst case. Simon was paralyzed, had a broken hip, and ruptured bladder. It was a triple whammy and the best prognosis was that he might be able to drag his legs around with minimal function and feeling.

Our choice was to put him through weeks, even months, of tests and surgery — with little hope that he would be able to go to the bathroom without special help, much less walk again — or we could let him go. Simon was a runner, a restless soul. I wasn’t about to relegate him to the kind of frustration and pain the vet described just to have him by my side for a while longer. So we let him go.

I can’t imagine much that’s harder than holding the animal you love so dearly as the vet is putting him down. We told ourselves the good things: Our neighbor got him out of the street the moment he was hit. He wasn’t in pain at any time because he was immediately paralyzed. He got to see us soon after and we stayed with him during his last minutes.

But, oh, the loss. It took us days to recover our equilibrium. And the emptiness left by his absence echoes loudly. But what is there to say or do afterwards? We go on. We carry his memory close. We try not to flinch when we think we hear his call or see his tail darting in the shadows of our hallways.

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I was trying to extract a plastic produce bag from its dispenser at the grocery store yesterday — and having a hard time of it, since I was holding a basket in one hand and a bag of potatoes in the other. The dispenser pedastal was wobbling like a dizzy stork. And I had three plastic bags unspooling, unable to get leverage to tear one off. But then the wobbling stopped and the pedastal righted itself abruptly, and I was able, at last, to extricate a single bag. That’s when I noticed that another shopper, nearby, had casually but deliberately put her foot on the base of the dispenser’s pedastal. She had seen my trouble and quietly offered assistance while, at the same time, bagging plums for herself. She didn’t even look my way for a nod of thanks. It was an elegant example of inobtrusive, highly effective multi-tasking and the mark, I decided, of the Ultra-competent.

The Ultra-competent (UC) is detail-oriented, thoroughly organized, and good at doing just about everything. She meets her deadlines with such aplomb, she just might have time enough to do your job too. The world could not run without Ultra-competents. About one of every ten people you meet will be a UC. The rest, well, they might try hard and be well-intentioned but you don’t necssarily want them on your team. The UC, on the other hand, is the one you want at your bedside in the ER — she’ll make sure the nurse don’t give you the wrong pill. She’s the one you want looking after your cats while you’re away on holiday. She’s the designated driver. The finder of the house keys. The one who’s got your back.

The UC is not to be confused with the Perfectionist, who often gets little done because he’s overly careful. Nor is the UC to be confused with the know-it-all, who is a wholly different creature and insufferable. What makes the UC so admirable is that he doesn’t flaunt his abilities. He just does what has to be done. On time. And usually better than anyone else. As a teacher, I love to work with a UC — every classroom has one. I look for UCs to run our university’s literary magazine or head the honor society or organize an awards ceremony. UCs make life easier for everybody because they pick up the slack.

It’s not necessarily fair to let the UC work so hard, but that’s their nature. It’s their mission to make things run right, which is amazing considering how many people strive to make things go wrong. Or just don’t care to make much of anything happen one way or the other.

Sometimes I fancy myself a UC becasue I get a lot done. But then I remind myself that being a UC isn’t just about getting lots done. It’s about taking care of business really well all the time. When I get a lot done, I let a lot go too. I’ll forget to pay bills or I’ll forget a doctor’s appointment or I’ll stop going to the gym. Something’s got to give, in other words. That’s not the hallmark of a UC.

I’ve had the pleasure of working with many UCs. I have one in my band. She’s amazing: for every rehearsal, you can count on her to have photocopied music for all the band members and put it into binders — including one in B-flat for the horn players. Once, we went to a gig and couldn’t find parking. The only free spaces were in a lot behind a restaurant that announced parking was for patrons only. So she walked into the restaurant’s kitchen and introduced herself to the chef/owner. He happened to be Italian, so she started talking to him in Italian. Then they had a chummy chat. And, yes, we got free parking.

Everywhere I go, I seek out the UCs and am convinced that there are the primary reason we have civilization as we know it. Look around: there’s a UC nearby. You may be relying on one right now to steady a wobble in your life.

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