It usually takes about 2 hours to get to San Diego, so Anne and I left at 10, leaving ample time to arrive for my 1:30 signing at Mysterious Galaxy.
We hit our first traffic jam in Norwalk, on the 5, where it took thirty minutes to go ten miles. No wreck, no construction, just congestion. Not a good sign.
We hit our second traffic jam — in the carpool lane, no less — in Santa Ana. I growled and snarled, and felt my shoulders tighten as we sat motionless while the cars on the regular freeway streamed past us at 80 miles per hour.
Ten minutes later, when we’d moved the quarter-mile past the merge that created the carpool jam, we stayed at normal freeway speeds right until about Irvine, where we stopped, and didn’t move more than a few miles in close to twenty minutes. If the traffic was this bad, this far north of our destination, I knew that there was no way we’d get there on time, and we were already too far down the 5 to try an alternate route.

“Argh! This is like the fucking 101 freeway at 5 PM on a Friday afternoon!” I said.
“We’re going to be fine,” Anne said. “We’ve still got a lot of time to make it there, and the traffic can’t stay this bad the entire way.”
Well, it turns out that the traffic could stay that bad the entire way. For the next three hours, we crept along at 30, or occasionally 45 miles per hour. It was the most infuriating drive of my life, made worse by the knowledge that I was not just going to be a little late, but I would be extremely late.
“Goddammit! This is such bullshit!” I said, as I hit the steering wheel for what seemed like the hundredth time. “I am so fucking unprofessional, and inconsiderate, and just –” I hit the dashboard this time “STUPID!”
Longtime readers of this blog are probably aware of how patient and understanding my wife is. When I freak out like this, she knows that it’s not about the traffic.
“We can’t make the freeway move any faster,” she said, calmly, “and all you’re doing is stressing yourself out worse and worse.”

As usual, she was right. As usual, I was too furious to listen.
“There are lots of people waiting at Mysterious Galaxy, right now, for me to show up, and I’m currently letting every single one of them down!” I shouted. “Hey! My blinker means that I want to get out of this lane, you stupid fuck!”
I looked at Anne. “Apparently, turn indicators now mean, ‘Please speed up so I can’t change lanes.'”
“Look,” she said, “I don’t want to listen to you freak out any more. So you need to stop now. We’ll get there when we get there.”
I fumed for a few minutes. It was one thing to be angry with myself for the poor planning that put me in this position, and it was one thing to be worried that I was screwing up a very important appearance . . . but it was another thing entirely to be upsetting my wife, who was just along for the ride.
We rode in silence for the next several minutes, as we crawled through San Juan Capistrano, and I calmed myself down.
“I’m really sorry,” I said. “The traffic isn’t your fault.”
“I know,” she said.
“I’m just upset that I was so wrong on the planning,” I said.
“I know.”
“We should have just taken the train,” I said.
“I know.”
“I’m never making this drive again,” I said.
“I know.”
The traffic remained heavily congested all the way down to San Clemente, where it suddenly and miraculously opened up until somewhere around Encinitas, where we slowed back to a crawl again. I called the bookstore a few times to give them updates, and tried to remain positive, even though I was pissed. Maryelizabeth, from Mysterious Galaxy, was very supportive and encouraging on the phone, and assured me that the crowd wasn’t as upset as I was, and told me to just get there as soon as I could . . . which ended up being an hour late.
When I got to the store, I felt embarrassed, and had a hard time holding my head up when I walked in, even though the crowd applauded. It was even worse that I had to go straight to the bathroom, at the back of the store, before I could do anything.
After seeing a man about a mule, I took the podium, and started my reading. I was genuinely surprised that so many people had waited so long to see me.
“I’m really happy that you all waited so long to see me,” I said, “I wouldn’t wait an hour for me, that’s for sure!” Then I promised that I wouldn’t suck, and I began to read.
There is a fantastic account of the event in a weblog called “brianstorms,” that actually captures the essence of the whole thing, and has some nifty pictures of me and The Shirt, and since I’m on a deadline for Dungeon right now, I encourage everyone to go read it (and you’ll probably end up bookmarking the blog just like I did. It’s incredibly well written and very interesting.)
When all was said and done, the event was a lot of fun, and I think I did a good job with my material. This was only the third stop on the Geek Tour, but I’m already enjoying performing the material even more than I enjoyed writing it. Each reading (which I actually approach as a performance) is different, as I discover nuances in the material that I didn’t even know were there, and I’m keeping notes in my reading copy, so if O’Reilly ever does a second printing, or a paperback version, I can make some changes to improve it.
Before I left, I signed a ton of stock, so if you’re hoping for a signed first edition of Just A Geek, or a signed first O’Reilly edition of Dancing Barefoot, you can get them from Mysterious Galaxy.
And if you’re able to actually get into the store, you can see the best thing of all: I’m on the shelf right next to Ray Bradbury, and that, my friends, is truly the Cat’s Pajamas.