Sold two books.
The first buyer, Pat, was from Ireland. Husky; white hair; short, full white beard. He took a “Schiz.” Reading, no doubt, for the long flight home – and opening up a new country of readers to me, I believe.
The second, Dobie, black t-shirt, green skull cap, tattoos up both forearms, went with “Cheesesteak.” He’d lived in Philly for a year, on 46th Street actually, but across Market from where I grew up. He was from Stockton, lived in San Francisco, but came to Berkeley to see his therapist. He worked “in bars,” doing what left unspecified. He was a published “Meat Poet,” a term he didn’t care for, but had no chapbooks with him so we couldn’t swap. Next time. First, he was going on a three-book-store reading tour of New Jersey. (He’d like to write and teach but the bar money was to good to give up.) We had a nice chat about “The Writing Life.”

In other news…
1.) Two other people showed interest. A young woman – blond pony tail, back pack, nice smile behind her mask – self-described as “More an artist than a writer, mostly poetry” and a middle-aged man – accent either Scandenavian or German – who asked if “Best Ride” was “a travelogue.” I gave each a card – and neither has been heard from since. (That’s 1,412 in a row.)
2.) Annals of Research: I have been engrossed in writing about a graphic “true crime-ish” account of a fatal single-vehicle accident, which occurred in a small Connecticut town in 1956. Near the end, the author reproduces the first three paragraphs of a newspaper story that appeared the following day. Wouldn’t it be nice to see the rest?
I Googled and found the paper, which I’d never heard of, still existed. It even had “archives.” I was stymied, however, because I couldn’t navigate my way through them. Then I saw the town library had the paper in its archives. I called, explained what I wanted, and said, of course, I’d be happy to pay if they sent me a copy. “Oh that’s not necessary,” the clerk said. “You have e-mail? I’ll send it to you.”
Zip. Zap. There it was. (You know how many rolls of microfilm I could have seen myself spooling through? Amazing!

I was so excited I thought, What about the police report?
“Oh, I don’t think there’s much chance we’d still have that,” I was told.
“I didn’t think so. But I just got a copy of the story from the Call, so…
“You did? I’d love to see it.”
So I e-mailed it to him. A couple days later, I got an e-mail. “Send us $2 and…”

Sold four books – none at the café. (Not even a notable book-related conversation there.)
On a morning walk, my philosopher emeritus neighbor, who was on his way out when I passed, said “I’ve got something for you” and ducked back inside to emerge with an already made-out check for a “Fully Armed” and a “Lollipop.”
The very next day, Pay Pal notified me that a fellow in Toronto had purchased a “Lollipop” and a “Schiz.” (Attempts to learn more about him – including his mailing address – have, so far, proved unsuccessful.)

In other news…
1.) The publication of “The Ship of Theseus” in FOM (See blog of a couple days ago) has produced shock and awe. The “shock” was the absence of my name from the list of those who had authored pieces in it. (The editor has apologized for this oversight but not before I had worried some system of analytics had identified “Bob Levin” as generating a reduction – rather than an addition – of “clicks.”)
The “awe” came from the splendiferousness of a couple of reader reactions, especially since my FB “friends” had only managed two “Like”s and my blog readers one “beautiful” – and that from a close relative. The first FOM reader, a musician with whom I have developed an ongoing correspondence, wrote 35 lines of praise, ending with “Great…” The second, an eminent writer-about-rock/blues with whom I have no relationship whatsoever, praised the piece as “straightforward, eloquent, casual and honest.” Nice stuff – and a tonic for my always shaky self-esteem – even though, due to my name’s absence, he directed his praise to someone else.
2.) I’ve been casting about for what to do next. Here are some possibilities:
a.) Trying to interest my former publisher in a second collection of my comix-related pieces. It took a decade, but my first one seems to have sold out, and since graphic works appear to warrant more attention now than back in my day, it may be, like an agent said to me 20-years ago, “What’d you say your name was again? Bob, your time has come.”
b.) An editor – two actually (but at the same company) – has asked me to write about a new book by a cartoonist of whom I know only slightly more than I did about the last cartoonist I wrote about. Lack of knowledge does not seem to be a bar and what they say about this book wraps it in controversy sufficiently for me to spring for a copy ($25/used).
c.) After “Theseus,” I wondered how much I’d written about Dylan. The answer was nine articles, four blogs, 20,000 words. Now assembled into a file, it has a title: “ Bob on Bob.” I’m lining up a cover. My editor/formatter guy is on board. Now if I can bring it in so I lose less than $500…

Two café sales.
The first was to a stranger, a critical care nurse, who picked up a Schiz for her son, an aspiring writer of edgy stuff. She thought it might inspire him.
The second was to a “regular” – a politically-engaged attorney from Sacramento, who comes down to Berkeley with his wife for a couple weeks each summer to babysit their grandkids while their parents take a vacation. He bought a “Lollipop, which was new since he’d been here last.
And gave a Cheesesteak to a recently retired workers’ comp attorney I’d known since the ‘70s. She was from Philly – actually Elkins Park – and only a couple years younger than me, so it should resonate.

In other news…
1.) I was interviewed by a fellow who is writing about a cartoonist featured in The Pirates and the Mouse. The cartoonist thought he would benefit from reading the book, so he bought him a copy on-line. The writer told me it came autographed to a couple and asked about them.
I had known the husband since childhood but we hadn’t become friendly until we both were in Chicago at the same time. Within a year or two of that, we were both here and would have lunch or coffee once or twice a year. He passed several years ago and his wife must have de-acquisitioned my book along with his ties and old hiking boots.
I wondered what it went for, so I checked A Libris. You can pick up a used copy for $25 and a new one for $76.38. I’ve been selling them for $30, signed, so maybe I ought to raise my prices.

All of Bob’s books are available at www.theboblevin.com.

Sold a Cheesesteak, Goshkin, Best Ride.
The buyer, a boy-ish 50-something fellow in a “New York” sweatshirt, had punctuated his presence by dropping his latte and croissant on the floor when turning from the counter. When “order” – his and the café’s – had been restored, attracted by my “Buy Bob’s Books!” sign, he joined me. “I’m bi-polar,” he said by way of introduction. “Or manic-depressive.”
“Some of my best customers are manic,” I said, recalling the woman who had given everyone in the café a Meyer lemon from her backyard tree, bought four of my books, scooped up six more from the “Free” shelves – and had not been seen since.
Jackson, my new fan’s name, was originally from South Bend, a city (and state) he hated. He had lived in Chicago, Austin and NYC and was staying at an airbnb around the corner, while settling his daughter who was starting UC. He said he was a photographer, but I don’t believe that was how he made his living. (He showed me photos on his phone – cities at night, often photo-shopped. Bright lights against darkness. Very nice.) He also hoped to write.
I gave him a card so we could keep in touch. (This made, oh, 323 straight people to whom I have given my card who have not made use of it.)

In other news…
1.) Make that 324. Nathalie, a middle aged woman who, having registered my last name, quickly informed me she was Jewish too. She had emigrated from Russia not too long ago, worked in patents on the East Coast, and was here for a conference. She promised to get back to me and, in fact, has stuck her head into the café a second time, smiled, and waved.
2.) Swapped a “Goshkin” to an artist/cartoonist/editor in Seattle. He had issued a limited edition portfolio of ten drawings. I wanted to buy one, but he said he would give it to me, so I said he could have one of my books; and that was what he chose. An off-beat selection, I thought. (“Lotsa laffs,” I said. “Also lotsa penises,” I said. “Penises?” he said. “I have no idea what you mean.”)

Adventures in Marketing – Week 322
Sold a “Schiz.”
The buyer was a post-doc in physics from Bangladesh, working on a project at UC. You might expect this would have presented me with a challenge small talk-wise; but, luckily, only the other day, Adele had sent me a link (“A New Wrinkle in Metaphysics”) about “entangled time” which I adeptly worked into the conversation. “Not my field,” he said, “but I expect they’ll have it untangled in 20 or 30 years.”

In other news…
1.) Perhaps to comfort me for the slight of my omission from that collection of “Best” comics criticism (See “Adventure 321″), a Serbian artist, whose comic I had reviewed five years ago, “Messaged” that he had translated my review into Serbian. He also wanted to let me know I was the favorite of a noted Slovenian cartoonist/art historian of his acquaintance.)
2.) A friend, who is extremely knowledgeable – and a fine writer – about basketball let me know he was re-reading “Best Ride,” praising my ability to describe the play and insights into “what big men see, feel, and do.” He had been a guard – and far better at his position than I at mine, so I expressed my thanks. I also pointed out, as I used to repeatedly tell Filipino nurses who commented on my height when helping me from my hospital bed, that I was just as tall as Steph Curry. “I used to be an uncoordinated center,” I’d say. “Now I’m a point guard.” )
3.) The most interesting café conversation of the week – easily worth the price of admission – was with a student of early Christian history. Over 15 years ago, he had written a 20-page pamphlet espousing a controversial theory about the religion’s origins, which, at the suggestion of a Berkeley publisher, he had developed into a book. The book became the subject as a documentary film and is now in development at HBO Max. We had a rollicking conversation, touching on Allende, Buddhism, Camus, Cuba, and Hemingway.
No money changed hands, but I gave him my card, and he said he’d be in touch.
That was a week ago.

I was preparing to forego any “Adventures” this week since Sunday, the day I usually post one, had arrived without my selling a single book – and then I sold TWO!
Marcel (See, most recently, “Adventure 313″) bought an IWKYA. I am not sure why since he’s given no indication he’s read the last couple he’s bought, but maybe he wants to remain on my good side, so I will continue to give him my “Chronicle” when I finish. Maybe he simply enjoys talking with me about the old days in SF, which are triggered by whomever’s obit has just appeared. (One of the downsides to selling books in cafes, I’ve found, is that some people assume that a purchase automatically gives them the right to sit down whenever they want and begin chatting.) He said he intended to give this one to a grande dame at his Christian Scientist church, an organization with which he has an ambivalent relationship.
Then a fortyish woman (long dark hair, grey jacket-sweater), accompanied by a boyfriend/husband (greying goatee, baseball cap) bought a “Schiz.” The Crumb quote on the back cover sold her, not my standard pitch: “Six murders, kinky sex, intricately plotted, lavishly illustrated.” When I asked – also standard – if she was a writer or artist, she replied, without ruling either out, that she was “reinventing” herself. Unspecified “trauma… (had) shattered”) her family and she was finding her way forward.
I gave her my card.

In other news…
1.) A book entitled “Best American Comic Criticism of the 21st Century” has appeared with nothing by me in it. (Maybe I got an Honorable Mention – if it awarded Honorable Mentions.) This was a blow to – as well as a boost for – my self-esteem. It’s like Charles Bukowski said. Writers who sell a lot of books know they are great because their sales figures confirm the appeal of their vision. And writers who sell few books know they are great because those figure confirm the singularity of theirs.
2.) Coincidentally – and solely a boost – the out-going and in-coming editors of “The Comics Journal” greeted my most recent submission as “amazing” and “terrific.” (Now if they could just land an anthology contract.)
3.) Finally, some weeks ago I received an email from a young man in Colorado Springs, who had read an article of mine about the “disappeared” horror comic illustrator Graham “Ghastly” Ingels and wanted to buy my books. I’d referred him to my website but heard nothing from him. Now he wanted to talk. Was he ready to buy?, I wondered. Had he bought a book and wanted to option it for a movie? You know how it goes.
Nope. He wanted tips on investigative journalism. Specifically, he wanted to investigate the family of the wife who was divorcing him. They, it seemed, were affiliated with a Sinaloan drug cartel, which was trying to commit him to a psychiatric hospital in order to destroy his right to the Iowa farmland to which he had title so they could convert it to opium fields to be farmed by Afghans they were illegally smuggling into the heartland.
See where writing can get you.

Sold a “Lollipop” and a “”Cheesesteak.”
The former went to a café pal who intended it as a gift for his daughter’s father-in-law, a semi-well-known East Bay political figure with an interest in urban violence. The latter went to a fellow I’ve been talking with in cafes for 30 or 40 years. He is a great talker. Like yesterday, in 20 minutes, at a table of eight, he discoursed on guitars, the Miami-Boston series, recliners, and brussel sprouts. (He is also good on the music of North Africa, eastern religions, and life in Laurel Canyon.)
Recently, he has been arriving at the café with a notebook. A few days before, I had asked what he was writing. He went on for 20 minutes about his poetry, its content and history, and I sat there nodding and thinking, Gee, he’s never asked me one thing about my writing, when it seemed to dawn on him that I had books on my able for sale. “I’ve never read anything of yours,” he said. “Which one would you recommend?”
So he’s off my Top 10 – maybe Top 3 – Non-Customers list.

In other news…
1.) Had two promising conversations with strangers. One was a 50-ish woman, a splash of Bonnie Raite white hair in a field of brown. As a two-year-old, she had been in a coma, so the back cover of IWKYA spoke to her. She was a psychoanalyst and knew several people Adele who had gone through the DMH program with. She was in a rush, so I gave her my card.
No sooner had she left, then up stepped a UC undergraduate of East Asian heritage. He was in computer science. He asked what I wrote, and I told him, but, though nothing I said seemed to register with any more impact than dew on granite. I invested a card in him too.
I have heard from neither of these people since.
2. The passing of Ray Liotta moved a couple of my correspondents to recall favorite moments in his films and one to repeat stories told by a son who had acted with him. I reply-all-ed that when efforts were being made to make a film of “Best Ride” 30-some years ago, the producers tried to get the script to Liotta, who had played basketball in high school, without success, a yarn which seemed to interest no one.
In fact, my telling it – indeed, this entire recounting of “Adventures” – may strike outsiders of evidence of my being self-absorbed.
This would seem a fair assessment.