A Fast-Talking Ego-a-Thon

I don’t like to talk about the work I do for the children. But I do an awful lot. So when an organization called First Book asked me to help raise money for books for illiterate kids, of course I said yes. Though, to me, sending books to the illiterate sounded like rubbing their faces in it.

The group’s officials insisted, however, that books are an excellent tool for teaching reading. Personally, I think sophomoric musings about the entertainment industry are the way to go. I met a Korean woman at a party whose teacher was using my columns to teach her American idioms. She mumbled about wanting to hook up and make sure she wasn’t coming off as gay.

Doug Green, a vice president of First Book, claimed that he was a fan of mine and asked me to speed-read for 15 seconds from Dr. Seuss’ “Ten Apples Up on Top!” to a group of children at the Edendale branch of the L.A. Public Library. The number of words I read, he said, would somehow cause books to be sent to needy children. I was starting to understand why there are so many inefficiencies in the nonprofit sector.

Green told me that I’d be reading with Eric Close from “Without a Trace,” Rhea Perlman from “Cheers” and Michaela Pereira, a local anchor on a morning show on KTLA. When I got to the perfectly kept library, it struck me how long it must have been since anyone went to a library. I mean, the place had a “periodical section” full of “newspapers.” I felt like Indiana Jones.

The First Book emcee welcomed the classroom of obviously sedated third- and fourth-graders, then she introduced the celebrity readers: Close, Perlman and Pereira. I pretended that I expected not to be included, that this was just another weekday morning when I drove to libraries to listen to other people read children’s books. So I slunk to the back of the room and kept my head low as cameras shot the three of them reading. The sting only got worse when I found that Pereira is on a WB affiliate.

After the actors and the newscaster read from “When Pigasso Met Mootisse,” which because of my shock and embarrassment I wasn’t completely able to follow, the emcee said there would be a speed-reading contest, which I figured I must have brought in to star in.

Instead, she announced that Speed Read 2005 would be a contest between the police, the Fire Department, the Coast Guard, workers from Verizon and three female undergraduates from Pepperdine. I was starting to notice how untouched that periodical section looked.

Just as they were about to start, however, the firefighters got a call and had to leave. I figured a few well-placed calls about handsome, swarthy terrorists in shipping containers outside Malibu would get rid of the police, the coast guardsmen and the Pepperdine women. And my job had to impress the kids more than the Verizon workers, as long as none of them were in wireless.

Not knowing what to do during the contest I wasn’t invited to participate in, I whipped out my reporter’s notebook and pretended I was covering the event. I took the most scrupulous notes of my life. I wrote that Close read 87 words in 15 seconds; Perlman read 96; Pereira read 98; Diana, who wore a “Homeland Security” shirt, did a scary 75; the Coast Guard commander knocked in 107; Laura from Verizon did 85; and a child named Jesus did 75.

I wrote a frightening amount about how the whole idea of “a-thons” -- bowl-a-thons, grow-a-mustache-a-thons, speed-read-a-thons -- had morphed into charitable ways for your friends to feel good about themselves for doing something they wanted to do anyway. If I want to give money to stop AIDS, should my friends’ ability to cycle far affect how much I give? I could see if we were paying people to really humiliate themselves -- pickle-juice-drink-a-thons or run-for-mayor-of-L.A.-athons -- but we’re one step away from sleep-a-thons. Seriously, I had a lot of time to kill.

Then, all of a sudden, they called me up for my 15 seconds of fame in front of the children. The kids frantically waved their checkered flags and stopwatches and I read 95 words, which was better than one-third of the actual celebrities.

And as I got a pat on the back from Close, I realized that in New York, where there are no famous people, all of us in the media are able to pretend we’re famous. But in L.A., where there are actual good-looking people, I found out where I stand.

The only people to read after me were the kids’ teachers.