" . . . A FREELANCE WRITER; BLOGGER; NOVELIST . . . OCCASIONAL CITYLIFE CONTRIBUTOR, AND A 'VERY' FUNNY GUY -- QUENTIN R. BUFOGLE . . ."

Sweet Jesus! Did he actually just tell all these people I'm a 'VERY' funny guy??? It was like being introduced to the girl of your dreams with the words, "Hey, meet my friend -- he has a REALLY big penis!" The bar had been set too high. I was doomed to go down in flames.

Mind numb, I took the stage to lukewarm applause. Seated next to editor Scott Dickensheets; the man who'd graciously chosen to include me in the new Las Vegas anthology, "WISH YOU WERE HERE," I wondered if I'd made a terrible mistake -- or he had. We'd gathered -- Scott, myself and the other seven Wish You Were Here authors -- at the Clark County Library Theater to discuss writing the volume. We'd talk a bit; read a bit of what we'd written; sign a few books. Easy.

Let me set the record straight. I certainly don't blame Scott, or his introduction, for my lackluster performance -- one in which I displayed all the charm and magnetism of Tom Waits on bath salts.

My feeling about my work is simple: DON'T ASK! If I really wanted to talk about it, I wouldn't have bothered to write it all down! TALK about writing??? It's an oxymoron for fuck's sake! One doesn't talk about writing -- one simply writes. Good lord. What had I gotten myself into?

Oh, I believed I could pull it off. I'd talk about how my story (about a washed-up boxer, a Hollywood starlet and Bugsy Siegel) was inspired by Bernard Malamud's sensational first novel, "The Natural." How I'd hoped my characters, Packy Wyman and Venus Versailles, would have that same wonderfully quirky, almost cartoonish quality, yet still engage the reader's empathy. Anticipating the other stories & essays in the anthology would be sharp, contemporary and edgy, I wanted my contribution to be a Runyonesque throwback to an era of gangsters and pugs -- of beautiful "dames" and colorful '40s slang. Of course, I said none of this.

The other authors on the panel were brilliant: funny, engaging and insightful in fielding the softballs moderator Dickensheets lobbed at them. Then it was my turn . . .

"So, Quentin . . . You wrote what I'd describe as a humorous historical piece . . . Why?"

Did Dickensheets just ask me why I'm funny??? Back to that again? Why not ask why I'm high-strung and Italian . . . Or why the swallows return to Capistrano, or salmon spawn upstream? Had the guy suddenly gone all Zen on me? How 'bout the sound of one hand clapping in the woods?

How could I possibly answer such a question? In my existential angst, I babbled something about Bugsy Siegel's gamble on Las Vegas -- as in the title of my story, "SOMETIMES IT PAYS TO GAMBLE." Mercifully, Scott moved on. I managed to get through the reading with only a minor stumble, then signed some books.

"How'd I do?" I asked my friend Eddie, who spent most of the signing hitting on one of my fellow authors. Eddie was incorrigible. He once tried to pick up Hilary Swank by telling her she looked like a movie star.

"Not bad. You seemed a little agitated -- like you were gonna swallow your microphone. And you drank way too much water."

"Yeah? So I finished my bottle of water."

"You finished everyone's."

Some constructive criticism. Exactly what was needed. I really had to layoff the H2O. The event concluded, I thanked Scott; honored to be included amongst the cream of Vegas's literary crop. On behalf of my fellow authors, I urge you to pick up a copy of, "Wish You Were Here." You won't be disappointed! . . .


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