Sold a “Best Ride.”
The buyer, Marcel, an ex-insurance broker who has seen better days, is a three-peat customer, so I let him have it for half price. In return, he told me about the time he almost got to Philadelphia, stopping in South Jersey in some place “with an Indian (sic) name.” It was ‘87, and he had driven his ‘71 fuel-injected VW fast-back cross country, stopping outside big cities to avoid the traffic and taking busses or trains in. “I felt good about the country then.”
Why this approach didn’t work with Philly, I never learned, but I did hear about his mother, a Christian Scientist, who lived until 95. “All her friends were the same. She walked every day. Never drove a car. Filled out a health questionnaire for UC for 30 years. Thirty years! ‘How do you do that?’ ‘Eat right.’ And it wasn’t an easy life. Raising three kids. A single mom.”

In other news…
1.) A nice Reader’s Reaction to “Best Ride” from Irving, who was moved by the scene where Tisa takes out her tiara – a scene I had forgotten about. (It reminded him of a popsicle stick on which he had written a girl friend’s name in 1947,) And Wendy had nice things to say about IWKYA which she saw as “a love story,” which it is, as well as a book about an illness, which George P. kept harping on. “It is both,” Wendy said.
2.) My friend Michal (not to be confused with my friend Michael) has suggested I work out a deal with the café where it buys a stock of books from me, signed, and gives one to a customer who buys 10 drinks. And my friend Budd (not to be confused with my friend Bud) has suggested I sell naming rights to my usual table. “Clorox presents Bob Levin.”
3.) Truckers blockade, be damned! “Lollipop” has crossed the border from Montreal. Delivery expected Wednesday. Less than 100 copies remain unspoken for. Get your $15 to POB 9492, Berkeley 94709 or order via PayPal at www.theboblevin.com.
I should say, planets seem to be aligning, in some odd fashion, to promote it. Just yesterday, the NYT noted the passing of the writer of the song of the same title, which, in point of fact, has nothing to do with my book; and the week before, on the wall behind him in the photo accompanying the obit of a noted historian of the ‘60s was the poster which served as the basis for my cover.

Sold a “Goshkin.”
Which ended my longest non-cash register ringing streak since these accounts began.
The buyer, an 80-year-old novelist’painter/musician, a café regular and prior customer (whose books I have also bought), was attracted by my seemingly just-noticed J.T. Dockery sign. “He did this too.” I pointed to the customer.
Leafing through the illustrations sealed the deal. “For me, my daughter (another novelist), and grandson (a cartoonist-in-development).”
“Only one copy?” Adele said, when I reported post-game. “You could have had a bonanza.”

In other news…
1.) My table had not been entirely without foot traffic. One fellow, of the all-possessions-in-a-backpack phylum, twice stopped by to inquire, “Are you Bob?”, his recollective vessels as undeveloped as his wallet.
2.) Someone else … That visit was even less consequential, and I’ve forgotten it completely.
3.) Had learned, via the Authors’ Guild Message Board, of a reputable publisher of spiritual/health books which would re-issue previously self-published books. Figuring Ram Dass’s testimonial would give it a leg up, I pitched it. “Unfortunately,” I learned “(it did) not fit (their) current publishing needs.” Alas, the couple weeks of pleasant fantasies until this judgment reached me succembed to reality’s scorpion sting.

ALL OF BOB’S BOOKS ARE AVAILABLE FROM: www.theboblevin.com. (Less than one week till “Lollipop” ships from its printer in Montreal. Only a limited number are available, so, assuming the borders have been opened by then, it would be wise to get your orders in.)

My latest piece is up at https://www.tcj.com/charlie-dear/ Here’s a sample:

Let’s get the crabbiness out of the way, Goshkin thought.
He sat at the front of the café, a clear sight line through the Covid-necessitated open front-doors, his lap top before him, his books and “For Sale” sign. He wore PETA-defying anaconda boots – perhaps Berkeley’s only pair – a steel-and-gemstone bracelet, handmade by Austin, who sold from the parking lot. A black beret covered white hair, an Archie Moore t-shirt surgical scars.
The object of his immediate attention, Dear Charlie (Water Row Books. 2021), collected correspondence from the esteemed – in some circles – cartoonist/artist S. Clay Wilson (1941-2021) to the esteemed – in smaller circles – poet/novelist Charles Plymell (1935–present). It went for $99, 68-pages of – maybe – quality paper but nothing-special cover, a real what-the-fuck. He could understand gussied-up, limited editions for the collectors’ market, but how about something for the man-in-the-street or – perhaps more suiting the consciousness involved – gutter? His copy came, numbered, with glued-in-place card of a (reproduced) drawing of Wilson’s iconic Checkered Demon chugging (“SCHLORK!”) a beer, and marginally value-enhanced by Plymell’s signature (and Wilson’s “facsimile”). Ordered several days after launch, it clocked in at #15 of 100, so product hadn’t exactly leapt off shelves.

One other thing. TCJ now has given contributers an “Author’s Page,” I saw mine this morning and, like Adele said, it’s like walking through a museum of my mind. Here’s the link to it:

https://www.tcj.com/author/bob-levin/

I hope you can get in. If not, consider coup-pasting into your browser.

I’ve picked up a few new “Friends” who may need grounding. So, every morning, I sit in a café with a selection of my books and a “Buy Bob’s Books” sign. I keep a record of my sales and of interactions of significance with the public. Then I write about them.
Like this.

One sale.
An I Will Keep You Alive went to a fellow, via my web site, with whom I’ve been corresponding since he began commenting on pieces of mine at First of the Month. I think it’s his third book.
Café business has been slow. Covid. Cold weather. University on vacation. (One business that’s booming is the tattoo/piercing parlor on Telegraph, across from Moe’s. We were up there, trading in books at Moe’s, and it must have had 40 young people lined-up outside. Ben & Jerry’s did about that when it was giving out free ice cream.) But I had a couple conversations stood out, and some readers enjoy those more than my business ups and downs.
The first was with “Albert.” It didn’t really come about because of my books. We’d already introduced ourselves some weeks before when I’d passed along a Chronicle I was done with. Albert is about 60, white-beard, well-groomed and well-spoken for a guy with most of his belongings strapped to a grocery cart. But on this morning, he was dripping wet, and I asked how he was doing. “Not so well,” he said.
“You sleep outside?” I said.
“Not always, I stayed inside libraries for about 20 years, until the university shut them down. Now they’re closed. Cafes are closed. And last week, somebody stole my cart.”
“Jesus,” I said. I had a $20 I planned to give another fellow and I offered it to him.
“Oh, no.” He waved it away with a smile. “I get a pension, $950 every month. I’m fine.”
There’s more to his story, I figure.

The other conversation was a couple days later.
“Cleve” was a big, blonde surfer from Santa Monica, now living in Indonesia. An illustrator, pen-and-ink from what he showed me, he had been drawn to my table by my sign (art by J.T. Dockery). He knew Rick Griffin’s work (“Rad”), and Robert Williams’s (“The master”), and Crumb (“The greatest.”). He didn’t know Wilson, and when I showed him my Checkered Demon sign, he marveled at the easy flow of the line. “Like graffitti art,” he said.. Then I brought Vaughn Bode into the conversation. He said he would check him out and I said I would check out Craig Stecyk, whom he recommended.
Then he became the 122nd person in a row who took my card and said he’d be in touch and wasn’t.

In order of completion:
1. Benjamin Labatut. When We Cease to Understand the World. A brain-banger of a novel, built upon the genius and madness of post-quantum physics scientists and mathematicians, fact and fiction and you can’t be sure which when where.
2. Jeffrey Toobin. A Vast Conspiracy. (Second time.) Begun while watching the FX series on the Clinton impeachment. No matter his behavioral problems, Toobin is a smart guy and a good journalist, not afraid to make his judgments known: Ex: “(A) prodigious egomaniac, even by Washington standards.”
3. John DiSanto & Matthew Ward eds. Boxing in Atlantic City. Treasure-trove of photos.
4. Danny Lyons. American Blood. Known primarily as a photographer, Lyons turns out to have been writing strong, clear, gutsy, committed prose for decades.
5. Albert Camus. The First Man. Okay, I guess, if you have interest in a boy growing up in post-WW I Algiers.
6. Dan Clowes. Patience. Not for me. I’ll be trading this one in at Moe’s.
7. William Mattews. The Poetry Blues. Ditto. Essays – too many on poetry, too few on the blues.
8. Bob Ingram. Sun Songs. Simple, direct, moving tales of growing up on the Jersey Shore. Wildwood, to be specific.
9. Ernst Pawel. The Poet Dying. Neither bio, nor criticism but some of both in lively, happy-to-pass-judgment prose.
10. Sigrid Nunez. A Friend. Terrific. A must read for striving writers, teachers of writing, those concerned with mortality – and lovers of dogs. Her, I want to read more of.

As I stepped from my car, a young woman in rainbow sneaks and a skateboard on her back complimented my boots. (The diamondback rattlers for those keeping up on my fashionista status.) I gave her my usual cowboy boots spiel and then she complimented my bracelets and I gave my usual bracelets spiel and then she complimented my total look. “Those boots will last a lifetime,” she said. “Don’t know how long that’ll be,” I said, “but I plan to enjoy every minute of it.”
When I had established myself in the café, the first visitor to my table was a small, shy India-accented fellow, whose thick black beard equaled in dimension his entire head. “What are your books?” he inquired. I gave him a brief rundown at which he nodded. “Do you write?” I said. “Books and poetry about the spiritual,” he said and scurried off, but not before saying over his shoulder, “Enjoy your writing.”
“Enjoy,” I had said. “Enjoy,” he had said. Something, I figured, was going on. (It took me until the next morning, after the small fellow’s repeated exits and entrances, having to be reminded each time by staff and customers alike to put on a mask, to wonder about cognitive diminishment. At least on his part.)
But before that happened I sold two books.

The first was to Yael, a cantankerous Israeli art therapist, whose Burmadoodle, Kasha, is the cutest dog at the café. She began by picking up Most Outrageous, which she looked at and looked at and looked at.
“$15,” I said, extending a hand.
“You have to give people an idea what it’s about,” she said.
“You’ve got an idea,” I said. “As the druggists used to tell us kids who’d sit on the floor reading the comics on the rack, ‘I’m not a fucking library.’”
“Why did you even write this?” she said. Which got us into a semi-heated discussion about transgressive art, child sexual abuse, recovered memories, and her conclusion that there was no way in the world she would read such a book.
By then though she had picked up Fully Armed and had jumped to Jimmy’s experiences in Vietnam. That, with its confirmation of her views about man’s inhumanity to man – especially American men – sold her. “My intuition told me this morning to come to the café,” she said. “I wasn’t intending to, but it said I should. And this is just what I need.”
I was tempted to say something about conclusion-jumping but I wanted to give nothing away.

The second sale was Best Ride to Irving. (See “Adventures” 275, 278 – and yesterdays post.)
“I haven’t read this one,” he said.
“You can have it for free,” I said.
“I want to pay.” He took out a $20.
“It’s definitely worth $15,” said the woman who had bought the two books for her son the cartoonist. (See “Adventures” 295-6.)
“I only ask $5,” I said. “I’ve got boxes full.”
“Okay,” Irving said.
“You drive a hard bargain,” I said.

ALL OF BOB’S BOOKS ARE AVAILABLE – NONE FOR FREE – FROM THIS VERY WEB SITE.

http://www.firstofthemonth.org/the-last-irving/

That’s the link to my latest mini-story. It went up yesterday at First of the Month. I’d do my usual quoting of the first lines, but it’s too “mini” for that.

Sold that Outlaws, Rebels to my café pal who’d expressed interest in it as an Xmas
gift for her son.
And another friend – and prior customer – ordered an IWKYA for a friend of his who’s had his own complicated course of cardio-related problems. (I promised my friend I soud get him in here, so, Budd, this is for you.)
(Two people expressed interest in Fully Armed, but neither put cash on the barrelhead.)

In other news…
1.) By the time you read this, a pdf of Lollipop will have reached my printer in Montreal. I am not expected to have copies in hand for distribution until mid-February at the earliest. Continued patience is appreciated.
2.) Long-time friends will recall Best Ride to New York being optioned for a (non-major) motion picture, which never happened because the director/option-holder demanded a leading man who could play basketball and those with sufficient skills who wanted to play my protagonist were not big enough names to raise financing and those who were big enough didn’t want to play him.We went through two or three generations of potential leading men, had many bitterly funny conversations, and became good friends before he gave up and quit the business.
This week, when we talked, he asked if I still had our contract. His son, a Clio-award winning director of commercials, has been asked by a film production company to pitch it some projects, and guess what is on his list.
I seem to be on my second generation of directors.

Sold a Pirates and the Mouse.
The buyer, a café friend and repeat customer, wanted it as an Xmas present for her son, a cartoonist. She hoped it might give him direction. (She also expressed interest in Outlaws, Rebels but hasn’t sprung for that yet.) Now I am proud of my books and happy about any sales, but I can’t be certain, if I was a mother, I would want my son following in the tracks of cartoonists I tend to write about. Oh well, caveat emptor.

In other news…
1.) It has been a week of noteworthy conversation. There was the fellow who said, “Would you be interested in entering a writing contest, one page, for people from the café?” Sure,” I said, wondering what I’d win. “Do you write?” “No,” he said. “Then you can judge.” He shook his head. “Oh, I wouldn’t want the responsibility.” (He has not been heard from since.)
Then there was the woman who introduced herself as “An-ti-GO-nee.” When I looked puzzled, she explained that was the Greek pronunciation.. “Americans say ‘AN-ti-go-nee.” (Either way, a strange name to give a daughter, I thought.) We had a nice talk about my books and writing and I was sure I would hear from her again; but so far there has only been an exchange of nods as she picked up a black coffee to go.
Finally, there was an even more extensive conversation with a jazz musician (stand-up bass). To be fair, it was not my books but my red snakeskin cowboy boots that caught his eye; but we quickly got into it. It felt good, the whole jazz musician-writer thing.
2.) Lollipop’s cover has been finalized. Final formatting awaits. Then to the printer.
Even into my last proof-reading I had been having doubts about the name I had given the multi-thousand member street game which occupies much of my stand-ins attentions in the course of the book. Through several re-writes, I had called them the “Pariahs,” but, at the end, that seemed a bit pretentious for a street gang. After much brain-storming and Roget’s scanning I had settled on the more mundane “Raiders.”
I still had doubts, until, one morning, coming back from my cardio-walk, I spotted atop a retaining wall, as if placed there for me, a handsome, silver-and-black, wool RAIDERS stocking cap. A sign from God! I thought. That is how he works, right? Adele was not exactly thrilled when I brought it home, but, after I had Woolite-d and dried it, she admitted, “Cute.”