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.

Last 10 Books Read (XXII)
(In Order of Completion)

1. Bird & Sherwin. “American Prometheus.” I had read this when it came out, but after the Oppenheimer movie was released, I decided to do it again. It’s terrific, and I doubt the movie can tell me more.

2. Gene Clements. “Train 6 Party Mix.” My café pal Gene’s latest effort of light-hearted (not-just-for-seniors-this-time) erotica. Entertaining – and educational.

3. Louis Menand. “The Metaphysical Club.” Fine book, but at times too dense for me, and the connections often eluded. Menand sure is smart but his “New Yorker” articles are a lot more clearly written

4. Griffin Dix. “Who Killed Kenzu?” When our friend Griff’s teenage son died as a result of an accidental shooting, the tragedy launched him into devoting his life’s work to gun-control. This is his wrenching, powerful account of this loss and this struggle.

5. William Maxwell. “The Chateau.” The last remaining novel in the trilogy I picked up from a Free Little Library. Nice account of a young American couple vacationing in France in 1948, with an engaging, entertaining postscript.

6. Hank Rosenfeld. “The Jive 95.” Met Hank at the café. We connected because another regular had laid “Best Ride” on him, which he’d loved. His book is an oral history of KSAN, the landmark Bay Area UG radio station. What characters!! What drugs!! Those were the days – and nights.

7. Autumn Stephens. “Wild Women.” Met Autumn at an Authors’ Guild get-together, and we swapped some books. This one of hers is a series of spiritedly written mini- (two or three page) bios of, well, “wild” women. Each would be a fit subject for a full length bio – and most, if not all, have received at least one if your interest is whetted.

8. William Gaddis. “Carpenter’s Gothic.” Recommended by my friend Cary. It’s started me on a Gaddis-kick (See lists-to-come) and seems the most accessible of his novels. He’s certainly a major 20th century novelist – and damned funny – but not for the faint of heart or easily daunted.

9. Michael Dowers, ed. “Newave,” an anthology of UG mini-comix of the 1970s and ‘80s. It partially filled a major gap in my knowledge, and the interviews were informative, but the comix.. Well, there were maybe two I would show to strangers.

10. Dan Clowes. “Monica.” Clowes is a creator who is greatly respected by greatly respected authorities (enough to merit a front page in the NYTBR), but he is not the only one so respected whose greatness eludes me. I spent most of this thinking fondly of “Ghost World.” But the last half-dozen pages really kicked it into gear. Someone posted at FB, this book needs reading two or three times, and that might be so.

Sold three books.
My friend Budd (not to be confused with my friend Bud), a great champion of IWKYA, bought a copy to give a physician in charge of a program for first year medical students at Harvard. Budd, an HMS graduate himself, believes all doctors-to-be should read it because of the importance of the physician-patient relationship at its core.
Who am I to disagree?

Then a “Cheesesteak” and a “Lollipop” went to a 30-ish woman from India, a self-described “nomad,” who came to the US for college in Indiana, dropped out, lived in New York, Virginia, Berkeley, and was presently in Mexico teaching yoga at an orphanage and planning to return in time for the Day of the Dead when she will be working to repair the destruction from a recent hurricane.
Easily among the most interesting people my books have brought me into contact with.

And in a related transaction, faithful readers will recall the father and son visiting from Hawaii to whom I’d sold a “Cheesesteak.” A few days later, the café owner told me the father had called from Honolulu. He had lost the book and wanted another copy. Since I usually never hear from people I have given my card, I was so impressed by his interest, when I called back, I said I would send a replacement gratis.
When I checked on-line for his Zip Code, I saw he had paid a million-three for his house, so I guess I could have asked for postage.

In other news…
1.) Interest in my books was expressed by (a) a PhD in AI from India, with horn-rimmed glasses and green sweater, who thought the graphics “very cool”; (b) an English Lit major, with a Jason Bateman-look, in white t-shirt and shorts, who is a fan of Iris Murdoch and Cormac McCarthy, and © an eight-year-old boy, who asked if I had drawn my “Meet the Author” poster myself. No sales have resulted, though I gave everyone but the eight-year-old my card.
2.) Only about one-third of Messiahs remains to be proofread, so it could be hands of the publisher by Thanksgiving, or soon thereafter. And two printers who made the final cut for Bob on Bob have sent samples of their work (and one has promised some), so I expect to make a decision this week on that.
Five more people have said they want copies so less than 70 remain (and I have not yet sent out a group email of availability). So, if you want to assure receipt of one, $10 to me in person or $15 to Spruce Hill Press, POB 9492, Berkeley 94709.

Sold a “Schiz.”
This was the third purchase by my new electrician/artist/musician friend “Stan.” Then he showed interest in “Cheesesteak,” so I gave it to him.
“Buy three, get one free,” I said.

In other news…
1.) I’ve been reading “New Wave,” an anthology of UG mini-comix of the 1970s/’80s. The artists, often high school kids, would write, draw, fold, trim, staple, photocopy their books, often 4-, 8-, 12-pages themselves. Then they’d give them away or sell them for a nickle or swap them. I figured that’s sorta what I’m doing, except I’m investing more capital and charging higher prices. The whole self-publishing is an extension of that ethos. In it for the pleasure, not the bucks.
2.) No progress on the collection of my comix-writings. My proofreader has been swamped by the demands of his day job, and the new proofreader to come aboard has been slugged by Covid. But the specs of my collection of my Dylan-writings went to printers and received about 15 bids. I’ve asked the low bidders for samples of their work and expect to make a choice this week, do the paperwork, and submit the pdfs.
This will be a small (64 pp.), limited edition (100 copies) of a dozen pieces, most of which appeared somewhere or other. About 20 copies have already been spoken for, so you may want to reserve yours now. They are available for $10 from me at the café during my regular business hours (or by special arrangement) or for $15 from Spruce Hill Press, POB 9492, Berkeley 94709.

https://www.firstofthemonth.org/found-poem/

Actually, this was a twice-“found” poem. While purging a file cabinet I recently found it, having forgotten it completely. And it was originally “found,” probably in the ’70s when plucked from an actual conversation of ours.

Sold a “Cheesesteak.”
A father and son came into the café wearing STOKE ALOHA t-shirts. They were on the mainland checking out colleges. “Rex” is from Hawaii too, so I invited them to join us. Richard Sr. was from Long Island and had gone to a summer camp in the Poconos, where he had been “the only uncircumcised camper,” but Richard, Jr. was island-born. They and Rex had a nice chat about high school rivalries, and Richard, Sr. and I had a nice chat about how we ended up where we did.
Which led me to push “Cheesesteak” on him since that had my answer in full

And I gave away a café journal.
It went to a fellow I had met at a summer camp in the Poconos (where everyone was circumcised). Then I had been the waiter for his bunk’s table. When he arrived here, he had a pigtail to his asshole and sold soft pretzels from a cart near Sproul Plaza. Later he became one of the Bay Area’s hippie plutocrats, selling guitars to rock stores and establishing extensive holdings in collectible comic books, rare wood, and classic automobile parts. He owns property in Sonoma, Berkeley and Santa Cruz.
Yeah, I shoulda charged him.

In other news:
1.) Both books are seeing lights at ends of tunnels. “Bob on Bob” is only four-days past when its final tweaks were promised. And the highly sought after Rebecca B. has signed on to lend a hand with the proofreading of “Messiahs, Meshugganahs…” as her schedule permits, so that should shorten the end date there.
2.) Was phone-interviewed by a fellow who is writing a book about a cartoonist I profiled 30-years ago. And phone-interviewed by a guy who’s writing a book about a fellow I interviewed when I wrote about the Air Pirates. It’s making me feel a bit like a natural resource, one of the last surviving members of some tribe or other. I half-expect Alan Lomax to show up and tape me singing the blues.
3.) Finally, as the sole proprietor of Spruce Hill Press, I have resolutely been conducting myself as an (idiosyncratic) small businessman as part of the performance art I see myself engaged in. I have a registered Fictitious Business Name. I pay my sales tax.
This year I submitted my check ($77) when due. For the next couple months, I received notices that my tax remained unpaid. Each time I called, I was told not to worry. It would be straightened out soon. Forms were handled in one department and payments in another and things needed to be reconciled. Or something like that. Finally, my bank statement showed my check had been cashed, and I figured I was in the clear.
Last week, I received a new notice. I owed a tax of $95.74, interest of $0.32, and a penalty of $9.57. (It was unclear if the $95.74 was in addition to the $77 I had already paid.) I called the Customer Service Center and was told my $77 payment was not reflected. I said I would be happy to send the money claimed but filling out the form was a pain in the ass. Maybe I would write a check and return it along with the state’s letter. The rep said they “are working on it in the accounts analysis unit. Give it two more business days.” I suggested, since with what I had already paid subtracted, we were talking about a penalty and interest on $18.74, that the state’s customer service persons and account analysts might be more profitably employed.
The second business day is now.

I sold one book and one I… We’ll get to that.
The sale, “Outlaws, Rebels…,” was to a 70-something therapist at the café. She wanted it for a “young cartoonist” of her acquaintance. “How young?” I asked. “Ninth grade,” she said. I was not sure ninth graders were ready for S. Clay Wilson, Dori Seda, Rory Hayes. I had barely managed “Man With the Golden Arm” myself. “I’ll look forward to hearing what he thinks,” I said.

As for the other…
Attentive readers will recall the artist/electrician who bought an “Outlaws…” last week. (Incidentally, the recent run on this title has caused me to go on-line to replenish my stock. Only three are currently available.) He loved it and read it straight through. He most admired my participation in the pieces. (“Autocritography,” an academic friend once termed what I was doing.) He wondered if I had anything else like it. I said “Goshkin” was the closest thing, and I would bring a copy the next day.
Then we started talking novels. Twice in my life, six years and 3000 miles apart, the hippest person at the party told me his favorite book was William Gaddis’s “The Recognitions.” After the second time, I read it – and did again a decade later. Not only had the electrician read “The Recognitions,” he had read everything Gaddis had ever written. (He had also read Flann O’Brien, Italo Calvino, Raymond Queneau, Gilbert Sorrentino, and several French Surrealists I had never heard of.) He had another Gaddis I had to read (“A Frolic of His Own”), which he would lend me.
The next day he didn’t come. He did the day after that – but had forgotten the Gaddis. He said he would go home to get it. I said it wasn’t necessary but he said, “It will help me be a conscious person.” When he returned, he said the book was a gift, so I made a gift of “Goshkin.”

Oh yeah…
Readers will also recall the landlord to whom I gave an “Outlaws…” to deliver to his tenant for which he was to return $15, which he had failed to do. After a couple reminders, the landlord honorably gave me the cash and said he would take over the risk of collection himself.
In other news…
1.) No word has reached me as to (a) if or when my next article will be up at TCJ or (b) how the formatting of my Dylan book is progressing. Not have I received any newly proofread chapters of my next comix collection. However, an additional proofreader may be stepping in to help. It is a question of the number of pages to be checked and the time within which to do it fit her own schedule.
2.) A fellow who is writing a book about a cartoonist I wrote about over 30 years ago has contacted me for I am apparently the greatest living expert on her life. At least I mention things about her in my article no one else does has mentioned anywhere. He wondered about my sources. However, some years ago, I told him, I had concluded that no university would be requesting my papers and, feeling embittered toward scholars, had cleared my files of drafts and notes. He said that was likely a mistake. “Academics have become increasingly interested in the study of comics (and…) some young upstarts (may want) to do an in-depth history of comics criticism.”
I did find a cassette tape of an interview with the cartoonist’s boyfriend but (a) the last time I listened to one of these tapes, time’s degradations had made the voice unrecognizable; (b) I no longer had a working device on which to listen to this one; and © the odds are I was interviewing the boy friend about something else entirely. I offered the fellow the tape and the chance to have his own Geraldo-Opens-Al-Capone’s-Vault moment.
Stay tuned.

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.

Sold a “Lollipop.”
The buyer, a Hispanic woman in a SHE sweatshirt and short shorts, works as a researcher in public health. The notable thing about this transaction was that since I’d last used Square it had changed its sign-in requirements as if to prevent a flood of patrons from receiving unearned money in their accounts. I was baffled, but the researcher stepped in, swiped, swiped again, and… Voila! I had made $9.64 and Square its 36-cents.
Also Hank Rosenfeld and I finalized our deal. I received “Jive 95,” his rib-tickling, eye-rolling oral history of KSAN (Boy, were those people nuts – but good talkers), and he received an “Outlaws, Rebels…” and a “Most Outrageous” – and I threw in a “Cheesesteak.”
Finally, a fellow with white hair in a short pony tail and shades stopped by. “Wanna buy a book?” I said.
“I’ll have a look,” he said.
He picked up “Goshkin.” “That’s interesting,” he said.
And left.
My opening may need work.

In other news…
1.) I’m reading a book by a friend about a civil trial in which he was a plaintiff. When he got to voir dire, he designated the race of every prospective juror, including Caucasians, which caused me to note that, while I designate when people are African-Americans and Hispanics and Asians, I leave whites alone (See above), and I wondered if this reflected racism on my part, as if I am operating on an assumption “Of course, people are white,” even though, world-wide , most aren’t, and, in fact, at this very moment. in this very café, it is eight-to-one against.
I feared some memo had gone out on which I had not been copied, but when I asked my friend, he had no explanation – nor why he had not designated the race of the judge or the lawyers or other principals in the case.
This, I figured, was between him and his editor.

https://www.firstofthemonth.org/meetings-with-remarkable-men-2/

I fleshed out a post I’d put up at FB. A representational portion of the new piece follows:

(W)hile at Brandeis I never took a course from Herbert Marcuse or Abraham Maslow or Maurice Stein or “Tuesdays With” Morrie Schwartz, all of whose thinking would have great influence on members of my generation. Nor did I hear Marcel Duchamp, whose thinking would have great influence on me, when he spoke at the Rose Art Museum my junior year. (In fact, I never entered the Rose Art Museum. In fact, I knew nothing about Marcel Duchamp except “Nude Descending a Staircase” and, as nudes went, I preferred “Playboy.”