Sold one book, swapped one book, gave one away.
The sale (“Best Ride to New York”) was to a large, soft fellow, with unkempt brown hair extending to his shoulders from beneath a blue baseball cap and bare feet in rubber flip-flops. He described himself as a maximalist poet (“Do you know Charles Olson?”), an assemblage artist, and an associate of the Merry Pranksters (“I once met Ken Babbs”).
The swap (“The Schiz”) was to an 83-year-old retired architect who wore a straw hat, a multi-colored vest and shirt, and walked with the assistance of a glittery cane. Since retiring, he had become a photographer, self-publishing 20-or-so books. The one I received was a collection of photos of “found” or purchased items, like blocks, or dolls, or miniature animals (My favorite were his rhinoceroses), all brightly colored and arranged in towers or within boxes or other dioramas of his creation.
The gift (“Cheesesteak”) was to a retired pediatrician, a friend-of-a-friend. We’ve never met but he’s a valuable contributor to a mini (five-man)-basketball-discussion group we have going. He’s read a couple of my books and when I heard he was unaware I’d ushered at the Palestra, I thought I’d fill him in.

In other news…
1.) I discussed – but made no sale – to a woman who had commandeered my usual table before I got to the café. This has happened before but the interlopers usually depart before too long. This woman, however, had ensconced herself with a tablet, a large glass with one drink, a to-go cup with another drink, two small bags, a plastic container with foodstuffs, and a small roll of toilet paper. (“For my sniffles,” she explained when she saw me looking.) “People always tell me I should write,” she said. “I have such interesting stories. But I don’t like to sit in one place.”
“You could stand,” I offered. “Like Hemingway.”
She was still there when I left. She had cheery discussions with several people she seemed to have just bet . She had such a good time I feared I would never sit at my table again.
But she has not been back yet.
2.) I also had conversations with a woman who had a copy of Clausewitz “On War” on her table and who turned out to be a retired research chemist. “Chemistry is a lot like war,” she explained, but I didn’t quite follow why. And I had a conversation with a woman who said she had acquired her former business from “an elderly Jewish gentleman,” which, being an elderly Jewish gentleman myself, was a turn of phrase that piqued my interest. But neither of these conversations had anything to do with my selling books, so they really shouldn’t be here.

Sold two books.
The first, a “Most Outrageous,” went to a math professor who had just returned from a conference in Poland. I realized I had lived 70 years without knowing a single math professor. Now I knew four. What does this say about the direction in which my life is headed?
The second was a “Cheesesteak” to a young Vietnamese-American fellow who was working in his family landscape design business while waiting to see what path his life would take. (He has recently broken an addiction to video games and begun visiting the Zen Center.) We discussed meditation and was I Jewish and how you found what you wanted to do.
“Why did you recommend ‘Cheesesteak to him?’” someone asked me.
“Well,” I said, “he wasn’t interested in basketball and he was too young for major illnesses and he didn’t seem to care about social service programs, which was all else I had on the table to pick from; and everyone has had an adolescence.”

In other news…
1.) The café, as you may know, is on the ground floor of a boutique hotel, and one of the other regulars, a Latin American history PhD turned legislative assistant (ret’d) wondered what Trip Advisor had to say about it. This was from Dec. 21: “The best part is the café, a real hot spot for old men in deep discussion of semi-neo-democratic society and hawking their latest books and an ex-professor who pulled out his computer and showed my wife a slide show on the loss of great buildings in Paris.” Now the creator of the slide show never attended college, and no one hawks books but me; all we “old men” did feel like, since we had become a recognized tourist attraction, the damn café ought to spot us a free cappuccino now and then. After all Joe Gould was comp’ed in Greenwich Village bars after Joe Mitchell profiled him in “The New Yorker.”
2.) I was at the point of my spiel where I hand the prospective customer (30-something soil engineer, with back pack and quilted jacket, down from Sacramento) my card when Monroe entered and handed her his card and brokered his own chain of conversation. (Monroe’s card has his name on one side and a diamond exchange’s on the other, the relationship between whom I have never understood since all the time I’ve known him he’s resided in subsidized housing on SSA.) It turned out he and she had attended both Humboldt State, albeit forty years apart, and the discussion quickly focused on lumber companies they have known.
“You stepped on my sale,” I said, after she had left.
“I saw them first,” Monroe said, which was technically since she had to pass his outside table with his shopping bags and shopping carter to enter.

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.