Last night we drove to Washington, D.C. for a book event without a single book in tow. We brought ourselves, a couple of business cards, and the plexi-glass stand on which we display Ten Thousand Stories when we go to book events. But, as previously stated, we had no copies of Ten Thousand Stories to sell.

Our destination: The National Press Building.

Specifically, the 13th floor of the National Press Building. We got off the elevator and were treated to a carefully curated display of books.

There, nestled in the back, right next to (and respectfully behind) Ray Suarez’s new book Latino Americans, was a book we recognized.

Enthusiasm followed. It was a theme for the night.

We were ushered down stately hallways lined with rooms dedicated to people we had heard of.

And photos of people of some significant in the annals of the Fourth Estate.

We were ushered into a ballroom where, lo! someone else had taken the trouble to deposit a crate full of our books. For the very first time in our seven plus years of standing behind tables with our books, we got to just show up and find the books waiting. It was one of those watershed moments.

Fortunately, we had contrived some signage to remind us of our humble origins.

The room was set up much like other book shows we’ve attended. Other than the crisp white tablecloths.

And the complimentary bottles of water and tea.

“Setup” took all of 90 seconds. Which was the occasion for more enthusiasm.

At its conclusion, we headed to the author’s reception.

Where Robbi nearly left me for an accomplished older gentleman.

Fortunately, before they could get too far along in planning their new nightly news program, a bell rang, signaling to all the authors that it was time to head back to our tables for three hours of commerce.

There was plenty of chatting.

A good amount of signing.

And no shortage of enthusiasm.

We proudly flaunted our Approval Matrix t-shirts, and a few people even got the reference.

All told, it was a triumphant evening for the Idiots.

At the end of the night, I took a moment to contemplate the gravity of the moment. We were, after all, at the National Press Club. Where news happens.

The obvious next step, then, was to defy the gravity of the moment. I asked a few nice ladies to kindly move a few feet to their left.

 

And took to the air.

The other people waiting in the lobby were uncertain what to make of my feat. Jim Lehrer gave a knowing glance. It wouldn’t surprise me if the lead story on News Hour tomorrow night had something to do with my springs.

And then, suddenly, it was over. We headed back to the car.

With no end of enthusiasm in sight.