Hyping Away in L.A.

The reason I am sitting here in emotional anguish is that I have just viewed a tape of myself on television and it was not a proud moment. I have a double chin, my eyebrows vanish in strong light and I mumble.

Even my effort at being pleasant was a failure. Smiling gives me a slightly demented appearance and the kind of humor I write seems simple-minded when spoken.

I’m beginning to wonder if it doesn’t also seem simple-minded when written.

Fortunately, I was not on “Good Morning America” but on a Century Cable public access show, which probably has only about 87 viewers.

Equally fortunate, it is run by an L.A. character named Joe Seide who appears similarly demented, thereby detracting from my own peculiarities.

“You’re being too hard on yourself,” my wife said afterward. “You’re not homely. You’re . . . well . . . a very clean-appearing person.”

Cinelli was on the show too and was witty and beautiful while I mumbled and grinned and swung through the trees with my tongue hanging out.

The reason for all this is St. Martin’s Press has just published a collection of my columns called “Dancing Under the Moon.”

Though unlikely to be recalled as a literary milestone, it is nonetheless a pert and inoffensive little book I am willing to call my own.

But I sure as hell didn’t count on selling it myself.

I am doing a modest version of a book tour. It has involved only L.A. up to now because St. Martin’s Press is not about to spend money sending me to places like Honolulu until we can determine whether or not Honolulans are going to buy the book.

So I shuffle through town like a door-to-door salesman in a threadbare suit with a shirt frayed at the collar saying, “Buddy, will ya buy m’ book?”

I have mumbled my way through both the “Michael Jackson Show” on KABC and the “Paul Wallach Show” on KIEV and the aforementioned “Joe Seide Show,” which is syndicated on several public access channels in between static test patterns and stock shots of sea gulls soaring over Malibu.

The Crusade of Hype was kicked off by a party at the Hunan Cafe, a lovely restaurant in Beverly Hills whose owner never dreamed it would someday house the likes of Gloria Allred and the outrageous Angelyne in close proximity.

Characters I have written about paraded into the place like ghosts of my past, including Allred, the queen of feminists, and Angelyne.

She is famous only for buying pink billboards all over town featuring a giant likeness of herself, with her fuchsia lips forming baby-doll kisses and her mountainous bust line cascading into the smoggy sunlight.

I have not always presented people in a positive light, but they showed up anyhow because they expected media coverage. When no media appeared, Angelyne stood in front of the restaurant in scanty attire and blew wet kisses at passing cars. Gloria Allred left early.

The other characters from my nightmare didn’t seem to give a hot damn, but ate and drank like they were at the devil’s own ball.

A man who entered the restaurant by mistake wanted to know what was going on and I said, “I think someone died.” He said, “God, I hope so.”

A few days later I signed copies of “Dancing” at Dutton’s Bookstore in Brentwood, a haven for writers looking for a free appearance.

There were hors d’oeuvres from the Casablanca restaurant in Venice and music by flutist Miriam Clarke. Book-lovers perched about waiting for authors to feed on. The minute I arrived, they began circling overhead.

“Go on,” Cinelli said, pushing me ahead of her, “they won’t hurt you.”

“They’ll hate me,” I said. “I’ve got a big nose.”

“You’re not signing books with your nose,” she said, a tower of logic at difficult moments.

“What’s this all about?” I heard someone ask. He almost looked like the guy at the Hunan party.

“Al Martinez is here,” a Dutton’s employee said.

“Who’s that?” the man asked.

“Shhhhh,” she said, looking around to see if I had heard.

I signed more books than I ever thought would sell. Perhaps they thought they were buying something equal to “The Brothers Karamazov” or “A Brief History of Time.” Well, they weren’t.

I mumbled aloud through a few columns just to prove they weren’t. During the reading, a homeless man walked up, grabbed some food, listened for a moment, grabbed more food and left.

“How was it?” I asked Cinelli later.

“Very nice,” she said proudly. “Your tie was straight and your fly was zippered.”

It’s the little things that count.