I drove to the Westside last night to pick up my poetry books. “The Nick Poems." They look good. I’m happy with them. My publisher and I drank some wine and celebrated a little bit. I drove over to the Dresden from there. Berry the produce guy was there. He’s always funny and entertaining. I sat with him and we talked about Robbie Knievel. Robbie shows up to Barry’s house from time to time. He likes to knock back a few. He drives a big motor home on the tiny streets of the Hollywood hills.
At the end of the night Liz the cocktail waitress came up to me. “Guess who's here?” she asked.
“Who’?
“Bill Burr.”
She knows I like him. He’s a funny man.
“Do want his autograph.”
“Yeah, have him sign my book,” I had brought two books into the bar.
I’m not normally a celebrity hound, but for Bill I made an exception. Liz came back with the book that Bill signed and I wasn’t sure what to do after that. I was pacing around.
“What am I suppose to do now?” I asked Liz.
“Go talk to him, he’s nice guy.”
I felt funny about it, but I wanted to thank him for the autograph. He was sitting at a booth with his girlfriend and a few young fellows. I finally approached him and broke into his conversation mid sentence. My timing couldn’t have been any worse.
“Hi Bill I wanted to thank you for signing my book.”
We shook hands. It didn’t go much further then that. I sensed he was somewhat uncomfortable with the interruption so I got up and left. But not before telling him that he was my favorite comedian. I felt like a dork. I left the bar shortly after that. I took the side streets back to my shack. The cabin I built for myself to entertain my writing habit. I slept it off. It was a cold night, but I felt alive because of it.
