Sold a “Lollipop,” a “Most Outrageous,” and a café journal.
The first two went to my well-read electrician/visual artist/musician buddy. (Let’s give him a name: “Stan.” He is 60 and a graduate of one of the Little Three.) He’s become good for 30 minutes of conversation daily, which is welcome since I’m not deeply engaged in any writing at the moment. I think he’s got his sites on “The Pirates and the Mouse” next.
The journal went to an elderly Chinese woman who, once we’d spoken, turned out to be an elderly Korean woman. (She works at UC in the Engineering Department,) What was unusual was we had been seeing each other in the café for months without so much as a nod between us when she stopped at my table and was struck by that book among the others on dispaly. I think she saw it as a glimpse into Berkeley history.
Also picked up two verbal pre-orders for a “Bob on Bob,” one from a high school classmate and one from a lawyer pal (and Dylan fan).
In other news…
1.) Interest in my work from (a) a Chinese-American woman, a student of astro-physics, and (b) an 84-year-old Caucasian woman, happily retired from work with computers went nowhere.
2.) No news on “Messiahs…” but signed up with a printer for “Bob.” Now we have to get the pdfs to it, and it has to get the books to me. Before December still seems doable.
3.) A question of my centrality to the comix world has arisen, at least in my mind. It seems that a convention was held at the Berkeley Public Library this weekend and not only had the ordinary comings-and-goings of my life not brought word of it to me, but the organizers had not recognized, “Hey, Bob Levin lives amongst us” and extended an invitation. This was both a lesson in humility – and a pride-enhancing affirmation of my iconoclastic positioning in relation to the medium.
4.)Speaking of humility-enhancing, I received an e-mail from a film maker/actress/writer, whose father, an UG cartoonist, I had written about a year-and-a-half ago. I hadn’t heard from her since. Now she wanted to talk. “About what?” I said. “I think you’re a terrific writer,” she said, “and I want to know about your career.” “I wouldn’t exactly call it a ‘career,’” I said, “but…” There is nothing I would rather talk about than my writing. Not the Warriors. Certainly not the Middle East. We set a date and time.
I spent much of the intervening time myself running questions and answers in my head. A few fantasies intruded, which I tried to keep at bay. I jotted down points I wanted to cover in a pocket notebook. I instructed myself on the proper attitude to maintain. I ensured that my phone was both charged and turned on.
The time came. The time went. The phone did not ring.
I e-mailed. Confusion? Mistake?
No response was forthcoming.
So many Bob Levins on the Internet; I'm the Bob Levin who writes.