Sold two books.
A visibly pregnant, mid-thirtyish, African-American developer, after picking up and putting down “The Schiz,” selected “Cheesesteak.” Her carpenter-turned-substance-abuse-counselor husband went for “IWKYA.” They assured me they would get back to me with their responses but so far…
I am still surprised by how often this is the case.

In other news…
A fun thing is where this writing/selling takes me, roads beginning in the past, twisting and turning, finding their way to a present.
1.) Because of his newly revealed interest in “Last Exit to Brooklyn,” I connected the editor of an on-line magazine to which I regularly contribute, having been led there by a writer/musician whom I met playing tennis in the ‘70s, to a cartoonist/writer whom I knew had once interviewed Hubert Selby, Jr. This fellow and I had connected on-line 30 years ago, due to my having tipped a hat to Nick Tosches, whom he also knew. (Tosches is of interest to the editor too.) I don’t claim to be Ezra Pound, but this is at least the seventh person I have sent this editor’s way.
2.) I also put together a woman who is involved with a forthcoming anthology of stories about Atlantic City (one of which is by me) and a co-author of a just-published history of boxing there, thinking they may do some mutually beneficial signing/promotion.
3.) Then the fellow from my neighborhood to whom I recently sent “Cheesesteak” (See “Adventure” 289) responded with a lengthy, rich response of his own recollections/experiences.
He was several years younger than me, and the sense I’d had of him as a kid would not have expected him to respond to the portions of my book which he didd. (Just goes to show you. That’s the lesson for today.) He also recalled me as “remote,” which I prefer to “introverted,” which is how another of our contemporaries – a Jungian – insists on describing me.

Gave a “Cheesesteak” to a cafe regular, who wanted it for a friend who’d owned a guitar store in Philly, downtown, north of Market. The cafe guy had bought books from me before, so I figured… Gratitude. Good will.

“Sold” a “Cheesesteak” to a cousin, who also wanted it for a friend. (The quotes are because the cousin is temporarily in Spain, and I don’t take pesos.) Her friend I knew as a young kid in the neighborhood. He went on to become more eminent in his field — rare books — than anyone else I knew in this stage of my life did in theirs. (He’s also the only person I know to be quoted in “The New Yorker.” On two separate occasions, decades apart.)

Finally, just under the wire for this “Adventure,” I sold a “Goshkin” and a “Most Outrageous,” via my web site, to a fellow FOM reader/
writer. He had said such nice things about “Goshkin/Gorey,” I’d offered him a copy of the book gratis, but he sprang for both.

In other news…

1.) A couple months ago, I submitted my first “real” short story in 10 or 15 years to a magazine. It turned it down. Will I send it some place else? I donno. It seems such a mug’s game sometimes.

2.) In recent “Adventures,” I’ve recounted a couple cafe customers who’ve reacted like meeting me was one of their days’ highlights. Neither of them has been seen or heard from since. Isn’t that odd? Or did actually reading my work dissuade them? A scary thought.

I reviewed this book a couple years ago but its publication was Covid-delayed, so I adapted it into a chapter in “Goshkin at Large,” but now the book is coming out, so I re-adapted it:

http://www.firstofthemonth.org/things-seldom-turn-out-for-the-best-three-rounds-with-edward-gorey/

It begins:
man in feathered fedora, mirrored shades
shopping cart of empty bottles and dreams.

pieces of morning punctuate each look’s
recognition/incorporation/ingestion
chemicals for better living.

great grey beard, great grey coat dripping,
to mid-calf, above which, incidentally, cut-off shorts.
Yeah, I know. Strange, right?

A nicely dressed, young Chinese woman stopped at my table. She read the back cover of IWKYA and said, “Your wife is a gem.”
“Yes,” I said. “I’m very lucky.”
She didn’t buy.

But within an hour a PhD student (Educational Psychology) stopped. “Where you from?” I asked.
“Canada,” she said, nicely. “But my ethnicity is Indian.” That’s the second time you’ve made that mistake, I thought. Ethnicity, not “Whereyizfrom?” That’s West Philly speaking.
“You must be Bob,” she went on.
“Yup,” I said.
“You wrote these?”
“Wrote and published.”
She wanted a SCHIZ and an IWKYA. She didn’t have cash and I couldn’t get Square to work, so I offered to let her take them and drop the money off with the barrista. She said she’d meet me the next time I was at the café and buy the books then – and she did.
She was about the most excited customer I have run into since I started this business.

China, India…
Growing up, two Puerto Rican-born brothers came into my elementary school. In junior high, the nephew of a Central American dictator showed up for a year. (He and I had a fist fight. Not on political grounds.) In high school, we had exchange students from Germany.
I like the world better now.

Sold a “Cheesesteak” to another of the café’s literatti. (She had bought an IWKYA previously and I had bought two of her books.) She had been eying my display, and, after I came back from taking a phone call (or peeing), she said, “I’ll take this.” She had asked one of her tablemates, a well-regarded folk musician, and he’d touted it because he’d found my youth in Philly had paralleled his, a few years earlier, in Detroit. (I was flattered by the comparison but I should say our tracks diverged our senior years of college. He had spent his in the Bay Area, returning to Ann Arbor only for exams. I didn’t go to class either, but I never made it out of Waltham.) “See what it takes,” she said. “Word of mouth from someone you respect” – and snapped here fingers.
Sold an IWKYA to Irving (See “Adventure” 275). Before he’d even finished it, he invited me and Adele to dinner. I thanked him but said, truthfully, we didn’t go out much. Like one dinner out with a friend in, I don’t know, the last decade, minimum.

In other news…
1.) A writer pal picked up the lunch check and said, “That’s for your VISTA book when it comes out.”
2.) Speaking of which, M sent the edited/formatted m.s., which I’ve reviewed/revised and returned to him for finalization. So it should be at the printer’s soon. If you want a copy in return for a SASE (or a lunch), get it (or the invitation) to POB postmarked by the end of this week. Otherwise, it’s cash only.
[ALL BOB’S BOOKS ARE AVAILABLE FROM www.theboblevin.com.]

In reverse order…
1. Anne Seirstad. One of Us: The Story of a Massacre in Norway. I had forgotten I wanted to read this until I saw it on the desk of a policeman in a Scande-noir TV series and recognized that as a sign. An immaculately precise recounting – though few people might want to put themselves through it.
2. Lord Kilbracken. Van Meergren: Master Forger. Spotted it in a Free Box on the sidewalk and thought, Why not?
3. Neil Bascomb. Winter Fortress. Had seen a BBC series on this and wondered how much was true. As I suspected, there was no beautiful woman as second-in-command at the British commandos’ training sight. And I was left wondering what role they found for Kirk Douglas in the movie.
4. Tove Ditlevsen. Depending. Last volume in The Copenhagen Trilogy. (See prior Last Ten.) Thoroughly good.
5. Thom Jones. Night Train. Collects the best of his stories. He’d been recommended to me multiple times over the years, and some of these were excellent. Plus, his life was several stories in itself. Should make quite a bio.
6. T. Ditlevsen. The Faces. Adele wanted to read one of her actual novels and chose this one, about a young woman in a mental hospital, one of her favorite genres. Harrowing.
7. Harriet Doerr, Stones for Ibarra. Adele had re-read this and prevailed upon me to try it. I wanted something straightforward, uncomplicated and good. This fit the bill.
8. Howard Dolnick. The Forger’s Spell. I’d wanted more on Van Meergren. This didn’t satisfy me. But I’m done with him for now.
9. Fernando Pessoa. The Book of Disquiet. Reviews of his newly released 1000-pp. bio drew me. It begins with “nothing,” “depression,” “absurdity,” and questions of “identity.” No plot, no characters.. “The Father of Portugese Modernism” he may be, but, at my age, if I haven’t got a handle on this stuff… After a while I stopped even writing “???” in the margin.
10. Perchuk & Singh, eds. Harry Smith: The Avant-Garde in the American Vernacular. A fellow at the café who’d known Smith tipped me off to this. The stuff on his films was beyond me, but I liked the pieces about the “Anthology” – and Smith’s own writings were a hoot.

A new mini- by me is up at:
http://www.firstofthemonth.org/meetings-with-remarkable-men/

It begins:

“1. He was at least two parties in Powelton Village (1964-67) with future Hippie Guru/Trunk Murderer Ira Einhorn.”

I am sure you will agree that is a good lead.

No sales.
But I had this encounter. And I don’t mean the one where the street musician – a two-chord banjo player – with the burn-disfigured face asked if the Checkered Demon on my “Buy Bob’s Books!” sign was “The Devil.”
A grey-haired woman in white face mask and designer sweats asked if the Times beside me was anyone’s. I said she could read it, but I wanted it back. “That’s nice of you,” she said. “Are these your books?”
We recognized each other from the health club. I knew she was a painter. She knew about my heart. She picked up each book and looked at the covers, front and back. I didn’t pull the trigger of telling her the prices.
She admired Wilson’s line. She had studied with Crumb. She knew Spain from art projects in the Mission. She and Jay DeFeo had been neighbors. She had worked in Nicaragua with Sandanistas who had known Diego and Frida.
She kept looking at my books. The conversation kept going. She had been one of five members to return to the club the day it re-opened. (Adele and I have not returned yet.) She told me about the wonderful new manager. “He is one of us.” She said I should give a reading there. She photographed me, my books and sign. She said it was “a gift” to meet me. She wanted to hug but we elbow-bumped instead.
And I kept wondering, like any shop-keeper, if she would buy a book. For one thing, I wanted an “Adventure” to write.

In other news…
1.) The Warhol Foundation rejected my application for an Arts Writers Grant. (I didn’t even make it past the first cut.) This is too bad because I would have liked the recognition. But now I won’t be expected to write 10 pieces (1500 words or less) on “art” in the next 12 months. So that’s good.
2.) Two days later, an aspiring film maker asked if I would write a recommendation for a grant for which he is applying to fund a documentary on a cartoonist about whom my magazine article has been the “definitive” study to date. I said I would be happy too – but he might want to tie up the rights to my article first. So we are feeling out negotiating positions.

3.) A writer about/publisher of the comic-related, who has only recently discovered ECs, has learned I was a fan when they first stalked the land. He has asked to interview me about what it was like, I guess, to experience their character-destroying mind-rot as a kid. That should be great fun, though it makes me feel a bit like one of those last surviving witnesses to a global outrage.

He was waiting for a bagel and café au lait and eying my books and smiling – and eying and smiling. Asian-American. Maybe 40. Pony-tail. North Face puffer vest, black.
He picked each book up, one-by-one, took in each front cover, turned each over, took in the back. He smiled and nodded and nodded and smiled.
I smiled, nodded, and gestured, like, you know, “Help yourself.”
He smiled and nodded.
Maybe he is mute, I thought. I handed him my card.
“Oh. You wrote these.”
Like I might be sitting here selling old books I had scooped up from my basement.
“It’s a treat to meet you,” he said.
He added, as if that was not enough, “It’s so nice to meet you. Really nice.”
Then he left.
A minute later, he was back. “I’ll take this one.” I Will Keep You Alive. “I feel lucky to have met you.”
I asked his name. “And what do you do?”
“I build things.”
“Commercial or artistic?”
“Both.”
He left again.
And then he returned and sat against the back wall.

I couldn’t leave it there. I wanted more of his story. Which he was happy to share.
He had been an English major who had gone into investment banking. He made a lot of money – but he hated the people he worked with. So he became a contractor. He built multi-unit apartment buildings and was about to build his first high-rise when the sub-prime crisis wiped out his financing. About that time, a close friend, who had been diagnosed with brain cancer, was told by her neuro-surgeon her best hope was to “smoke a lot of weed.” Then he had his own catastrophic injury, the recovery from which, its own “miracle,” had drawn him to IWKYA – and mine. It also accounted for his present career: constructing grow houses for medical marijuana.
“I feel blessed to have met you,” he said.
We agreed we looked forward to speaking more.
It wasn’t till a couple hours later I wondered how stoned he had been.

In other news…
Two previous customers stopped by my table.
The first (“Cheesesteak.” “Adventure 275″), was excited to learn my new book was coming out soon. He asked for my card so he could order it. When I said an SASE could bring him a free one, he waved his hand and said “No, no, no. I will buy it.
The second (“The Schiz” “Adventure 280″) wanted me to know she hadn’t read it. This time I was excited because I had thought she had – and was avoiding me. It has that effect on some people.

ALL BOB’S BOOKS are available from www.theboblevin.com

http://www.firstofthemonth.org/smoler-on-afghanistan-two-letters-and-a-response/

One of the two mini- pieces, I mentioned in yesterday’s “Adventure” has gone up as part of a three-some at FOM. I hope you can get there from this link.