Sold a café journal and an “Outlaws, Rebels…”
The journal went to a woman with short grey hair, dark grey shirt-jacket and brown-gold patterned slacks. She usually comes to the café afternoons – and felt slighted no one had asked her to contribute. She has a rich background in journalism – newspaper, magazine, TV and radio – here and in Atlanta – her positions often ending due to a clash between her progressive politics and management’s less progressive ones.
She also has worked and a dog walker and dog boarder, her second in command being a black, 90-pound Belgian shepherd who, as described, seemed both fluent in English and dog. He lived until 16 and was an amazing creature. (I am a dog guy and love dog stories.) Now she has a little white brioche.
A lovely conversation.
The “Outlaws” went to a fellow with white hair in a pony tail, red-and-white checked shirt over a red tee, grey slacks, and red-and-grey hiking sneakers. He is an electrician, guitar-maker, and visual artist, both of whimsical postcards usually sent to his 13-year-old son of whom he has recently lost custody and full-size, abstract grids based on mathematical formulations of his own creation.
We had a fine conversation about how we each got into what it is we are doing. He told me the perhaps apocryphal story of the origin of the phrase “Bob’s your uncle” and I told him the certainly apocryphal story of “If the Creeks don’t rise.”
Another wonderful conversation.
In other news…
1.) A couple months ago this fellow who resembles a giant puffin in hiking shorts and rents a room from a cafe regular wanted an “Outlaws” but not the copy on my table because a cover corner was bent. We arranged to meet the next day, so I brought an unblemished copy, but he did not show. I kept bringing it and he kept not showing, so I stopped bringing it because I didn’t want to risk bending another corner. Then he came and we started this dance again.
Finally I handed a copy in a mailer to his landlord to give him. I said it was $15 and he could keep the mailer. The next morning the landlord told me the tenant was abroad. By the time the tenant had returned the landlord had misplaced the book. By the time he’d found it, the tenant was abroad again. Finally I asked for my book back because I had another buyer. “Oh, I gave it to him,” the landlord said.
“But no one gave me $15,” I said.
Completion of this transaction is pending.
2.) A friend of limited means in NYC inquired about acquiring my forthcoming “Bob on Bob.” I said it would be $10, plus postage ($3.92). She asked if I’d send a pdf. I said I didn’t send pdfs, but if she wanted to pay $10 and avoid postage… She said I had sent her a pdf of IWKYA.
“I sent you a pdf?” I said. “Didn’t I send a (free) copy of IWKYA? Didn’t you keep it in quarantine for weeks? Didn’t you just say you hadn’t read it yet because you had sore hands from all the letters and postcards you are writing in order to save democracy? If you already had a pdf, how did sore hands prevent your reading that? Could you not print a copy and lift one sheet of paper at a time? Could you not read on screen and push “Page Down” one finger at a time?
Believe me, I put this more tactfully. But if she did not read one free book, damned if I will send her another.
So many Bob Levins on the Internet; I'm the Bob Levin who writes.