My latest piece is up at First of the Month
https://www.firstofthemonth.org/the-morning-crowd/
It begins:
The customer who had been coming to Espresso Bongo the longest had been a magician. He had white hair and blue eyes which were alert and bright. He arrived when the café opened and sat at a corner table opposite the rest room and told people if it was occupied and, if they had never known or had but had forgotten the lock’s combination, he clicked the remote he palmed and opened it. If a small child arrived, he bowed, introduced himself to its parent and, with their permission, pulled a quarter from the child’s ear.
Adventures in Marketing: Weeks 434 – 439
Adventures in Marketing (Weeks 434 – 439)
As today’s title indicates, things have been slow at the marketplace. Perhaps when interest rates come down.
I can report two repeat customers. J__, the poet/therapist, bought a second café journal (Only one left) as a gift for her daughter. And K__, the bio/physicist with aphasia, added an IWKYA to her collection of my works. But a couple people who said they would buy books failed to act upon their promises.
I gave two “Lollipop”s away. One went to a former head of California Rural Legal Assistance, whom I met in the hospital through my work for Mended Hearts. He had been at UChi law school the year I had been in VISTA there. The other went to a retired physician who had already bought a couple of my books and who, it turned out, had grown up there.
My table display did draw a number of curious drop-by visitors, but mainly they wanted to know if I had done the illustrations. There was a Hispanic former school teacher who is seeking grants so he can work with underperforming kids. And a hard-hatted guy setting up an IT network in a building under construction. And a fellow in hoodie and jeans who had been spending the last several years on “self-development” and the “inner journey.” (He was a writer himself but of journals.) And Max, who had come to Utah with the goal of becoming a ski bum and was in town for the Billy Strings concert at the Greek. (I forget if he was fan or musician.)
In other news…
1.) No new word on “Meshuganahs…” If the silence holds, I’ll call the publisher in a couple days. But I did hear from the fellow making the documentary on the Air Pirates. He’s added a couple people to the project which may strengthen its appeal to potential funders. (And the guy doing a comic version of the saga asked me for sources of a couple things I wrote in my book and after an hour or so pawing though cartons in my basement, I found one.
2.) My article in “Comic Book Creators” has hit the stands, but one I submitted to tcj.com has hit a snag. It used to be that pretty much everything I submitted was welcomed with open arms, but new editors want writers to query them first. I queried and was told they weren’t looking for anything on those about whom I had written but would look at it anyway, which rocked my sense of where I stood in the universe. But almost simultaneously an editor at the print “Comics Journal,” where I hadn’t submitted in a couple years, told me he liked an article I’d sent him, he’d bump it up and run it an issue early. That re-set me on stable ground but where the path across it goes is uncertain.
3. The first place was a non-comics related story which should be up at First of the Month in about a week.
As today’s title indicates, things have been slow at the marketplace. Perhaps when interest rates come down.
I can report two repeat customers. J__, the poet/therapist, bought a second café journal (Only one left) as a gift for her daughter. And K__, the bio/physicist with aphasia, added an IWKYA to her collection of my works. But a couple people who said they would buy books failed to act upon their promises.
I gave two “Lollipop”s away. One went to a former head of California Rural Legal Assistance, whom I met in the hospital through my work for Mended Hearts. He had been at UChi law school the year I had been in VISTA there. The other went to a retired physician who had already bought a couple of my books and who, it turned out, had grown up there.
My table display did draw a number of curious drop-by visitors, but mainly they wanted to know if I had done the illustrations. There was a Hispanic former school teacher who is seeking grants so he can work with underperforming kids. And a hard-hatted guy setting up an IT network in a building under construction. And a fellow in hoodie and jeans who had been spending the last several years on “self-development” and the “inner journey.” (He was a writer himself but of journals.) And Max, who had come to Utah with the goal of becoming a ski bum and was in town for the Billy Strings concert at the Greek. (I forget if he was fan or musician.)
In other news…
1.) No new word on “Meshuganahs…” If the silence holds, I’ll call the publisher in a couple days. But I did hear from the fellow making the documentary on the Air Pirates. He’s added a couple people to the project which may strengthen its appeal to potential funders. (And the guy doing a comic version of the saga asked me for sources of a couple things I wrote in my book and after an hour or so pawing though cartons in my basement, I found one.
2.) My article in “Comic Book Creators” has hit the stands, but one I submitted to tcj.com has hit a snag. It used to be that pretty much everything I submitted was welcomed with open arms, but new editors want writers to query them first. I queried and was told they weren’t looking for anything on those about whom I had written but would look at it anyway, which rocked my sense of where I stood in the universe. But almost simultaneously an editor at the print “Comics Journal,” where I hadn’t submitted in a couple years, told me he liked an article I’d sent him, he’d bump it up and run it an issue early. That re-set me on stable ground but where the path across it goes is uncertain.
3. The first place was a non-comics related story which should be up at First of the Month in about a week.
Two-short
Incorrect
In July 1995, George Caragonne, the 29-year-old, 450-pound editor and principal writer for “Penthouse Comix,” went to an atrium the top floor of the tallest hotel in Times Square and jumped into the food court 500-feet below. Jon B. Cooke, editor of “Comic Book Creator,” thought that I would be just the guy to tell this story, which I have in the just released Summer 2024 issue (No. 35).
Pick it up and see what the fuss was about.
Pick it up and see what the fuss was about.
Adventures in Marketing: Weeks 430 – 433
Adventures in Marketing – Weeks 430 – 433
My café pal F__ views me as a presence to be visited and taken in as others would a (fully dressed) holy man on a mountain top or a (non-ranting) lunatic in Sproul Plaza. So when his younger brother J__ and his wife E__ were visiting from the east, he brought them by. They were delightful people, artists of multiple modes and media. (In one performance, visible on You Tube, J__ plays a wind instrument of his own design, while suspended upside down with his head in a fish bowl he shares with a Siamese fighting fish, as E__ pedals a stationary bike from which cables extend to the platform on which the bowl sits, enabling her to revolve it and him.) We had such a good time I gave them a “Best Ride.”
A couple days later, my doctor friend B__, who, as faithful readers know, has been a great champion of IWKYA, wanted to buy a copy to give to a former associate who teaches first year med students. (B__ champions humanistic medical practice and believes the book a wonderful example of it at work.) Still feeling generous, and grateful for his past support, I sent it as a gift.
Things picked up balance-sheet-wise when M__, the activist attorney from Sacramento, and his wife arrived for their annual grandkid-sitting while the parents vacation. M__ has been a regular customer, and he picked up a “Bob.” (He also told me that his friend William T. Vollman has finally placed his mammoth novel, which spans from the 1960s to the present. His past publisher had shied away, but Vollman is a great novelist, and I can’t wait to read it.) Then K__, the science PhD with aphasia, bought (at 20% discount) a “Bob” and a “Lollipop,” both of which she’d scouted but passed on before. Finally, a psychotherapist/poet I’d met when she complimented my style (brown beret, black leather jacket, Bennie Briscoe t-shirt, snakeskin boots) purchased a café journal.
Not one of these people have commented as yet.
In other news…
Perhaps dwarfing all of the above in significance, I am pleased to announce “Messiahs, Meshuganahs…” progresses. The precipitating event may have been my submitting a proposed “author’s photo” snapped by H__, another café pal, which, while it will undoubtedly draw attention to the book, may also throttle sales in certain markets. (Maybe we can include strips of black tape to be liberally applied.)
Anyway, my publisher – courageous fellow – loved it and soon thereafter sent me a pdf to proofread to demonstrate the book my been forgotten. I scanned it and didn’t catch much to correct, though some of what I did made me wonder if anyone had looked at it before me. The big plus were photos, one of which opened each chapter. I had been indifferent to whether samples of the work of the creators I wrote about were included, but these were thrilling. Unfortunately, I must temper my excitement because they are simply “place-holders.” It is unknown if the rights-owners can be identified and, if they are, if the rights can be obtained.
My café pal F__ views me as a presence to be visited and taken in as others would a (fully dressed) holy man on a mountain top or a (non-ranting) lunatic in Sproul Plaza. So when his younger brother J__ and his wife E__ were visiting from the east, he brought them by. They were delightful people, artists of multiple modes and media. (In one performance, visible on You Tube, J__ plays a wind instrument of his own design, while suspended upside down with his head in a fish bowl he shares with a Siamese fighting fish, as E__ pedals a stationary bike from which cables extend to the platform on which the bowl sits, enabling her to revolve it and him.) We had such a good time I gave them a “Best Ride.”
A couple days later, my doctor friend B__, who, as faithful readers know, has been a great champion of IWKYA, wanted to buy a copy to give to a former associate who teaches first year med students. (B__ champions humanistic medical practice and believes the book a wonderful example of it at work.) Still feeling generous, and grateful for his past support, I sent it as a gift.
Things picked up balance-sheet-wise when M__, the activist attorney from Sacramento, and his wife arrived for their annual grandkid-sitting while the parents vacation. M__ has been a regular customer, and he picked up a “Bob.” (He also told me that his friend William T. Vollman has finally placed his mammoth novel, which spans from the 1960s to the present. His past publisher had shied away, but Vollman is a great novelist, and I can’t wait to read it.) Then K__, the science PhD with aphasia, bought (at 20% discount) a “Bob” and a “Lollipop,” both of which she’d scouted but passed on before. Finally, a psychotherapist/poet I’d met when she complimented my style (brown beret, black leather jacket, Bennie Briscoe t-shirt, snakeskin boots) purchased a café journal.
Not one of these people have commented as yet.
In other news…
Perhaps dwarfing all of the above in significance, I am pleased to announce “Messiahs, Meshuganahs…” progresses. The precipitating event may have been my submitting a proposed “author’s photo” snapped by H__, another café pal, which, while it will undoubtedly draw attention to the book, may also throttle sales in certain markets. (Maybe we can include strips of black tape to be liberally applied.)
Anyway, my publisher – courageous fellow – loved it and soon thereafter sent me a pdf to proofread to demonstrate the book my been forgotten. I scanned it and didn’t catch much to correct, though some of what I did made me wonder if anyone had looked at it before me. The big plus were photos, one of which opened each chapter. I had been indifferent to whether samples of the work of the creators I wrote about were included, but these were thrilling. Unfortunately, I must temper my excitement because they are simply “place-holders.” It is unknown if the rights-owners can be identified and, if they are, if the rights can be obtained.
Adventures in Marketing — Week 429
Sold one “Best Ride” and four “Bob on Bob”s.
Frequent readers may recall the physics professor who bought a “Best Ride” from me a few weeks ago. Well, she bought another. These readers may also recall the difficulty she has communicating, either in speech or writing. So they may understand why I did not inquire further. I would have sat there smiling while she repeated, “Exactly. Exactly.”
Frequent readers – the three anyway who acknowledged reading my “Adventure” of a few days ago – may recall the Dylan fan to whom I sent a copy of my book. He loved it and ordered four to give to friends who are Dylan fans. These friends, I quickly saw, may have their own friends who are Dylan fans. So since my stock was now depleted, I had better replenish in order to satisfy the demand.
This has led to much brainstorming.
Originally I’d had 100 copies printed. I gave away half and sold the others. Half these sales were to friends and half to strangers. It took about a year and a half to sell that 50, and none of these folk can be expected to buy another copy.
Based on the new price quotes from my printer, if I order 25 copies and sell them all, I will lose $140. If I order 50 copies and sell them all, I will make a $100 profit. (If I sell 40 copies, I break even.) If I order 100 copies, and sell all, I will make $500+. (If I sell 48 copies, I break even.) As my Outside Business Consultant Fran points out, since 100 copies only costs 20% more than the 50 copies, I should go big, because the upside is much larger. On the other hand, I will have a lot more copies sitting on my floor while I wait for the demand to build.
Also, with my friends exhausted as customers, if I sell the strangers at the same rate as in the past, it will take me three years to get into the black with either quantity of stock on hand. At this point in life, I have actuarial tables to consider.
Milo, the IT brains behind my operation, offers one solution. “It will only take a quick black marker sweep, “he says to change the cover price from $10 to $20. I blanch at this suggestion. “Bob” seems a slim (64 pp.) volume to command this price. On the other hand, anyone walking around with cash, which, these days, fewer and fewer people are, is likely to be packing a $20 since that is what the ATMs tend to spit out, and handing over one of those is as easy as handing a $10.
Or maybe I should take a page out of the old comic “collectibles” game and stick each “Bob” in a plastic bag – free from the supermarket – to keep them “pristine mint” as an investment. Meaning the customer would need to buy a second copy if he wants to read it.
On the other hand, my Buddhist lesson of the morning said “No striving.”
And isn’t that what my business model has been?
Sit in the café and let it happen.
Frequent readers may recall the physics professor who bought a “Best Ride” from me a few weeks ago. Well, she bought another. These readers may also recall the difficulty she has communicating, either in speech or writing. So they may understand why I did not inquire further. I would have sat there smiling while she repeated, “Exactly. Exactly.”
Frequent readers – the three anyway who acknowledged reading my “Adventure” of a few days ago – may recall the Dylan fan to whom I sent a copy of my book. He loved it and ordered four to give to friends who are Dylan fans. These friends, I quickly saw, may have their own friends who are Dylan fans. So since my stock was now depleted, I had better replenish in order to satisfy the demand.
This has led to much brainstorming.
Originally I’d had 100 copies printed. I gave away half and sold the others. Half these sales were to friends and half to strangers. It took about a year and a half to sell that 50, and none of these folk can be expected to buy another copy.
Based on the new price quotes from my printer, if I order 25 copies and sell them all, I will lose $140. If I order 50 copies and sell them all, I will make a $100 profit. (If I sell 40 copies, I break even.) If I order 100 copies, and sell all, I will make $500+. (If I sell 48 copies, I break even.) As my Outside Business Consultant Fran points out, since 100 copies only costs 20% more than the 50 copies, I should go big, because the upside is much larger. On the other hand, I will have a lot more copies sitting on my floor while I wait for the demand to build.
Also, with my friends exhausted as customers, if I sell the strangers at the same rate as in the past, it will take me three years to get into the black with either quantity of stock on hand. At this point in life, I have actuarial tables to consider.
Milo, the IT brains behind my operation, offers one solution. “It will only take a quick black marker sweep, “he says to change the cover price from $10 to $20. I blanch at this suggestion. “Bob” seems a slim (64 pp.) volume to command this price. On the other hand, anyone walking around with cash, which, these days, fewer and fewer people are, is likely to be packing a $20 since that is what the ATMs tend to spit out, and handing over one of those is as easy as handing a $10.
Or maybe I should take a page out of the old comic “collectibles” game and stick each “Bob” in a plastic bag – free from the supermarket – to keep them “pristine mint” as an investment. Meaning the customer would need to buy a second copy if he wants to read it.
On the other hand, my Buddhist lesson of the morning said “No striving.”
And isn’t that what my business model has been?
Sit in the café and let it happen.
Adventures in Marketing — Weeks 424 – 428
Gave away a “Bob.” Sold an “Outlaws, Rebels…”
Just when I thought the economy was going to need Trump in order to recover.
The sale was to a thirtyish film maker from LA. He had glasses and a ponytail and was wearing a torn camo t-shirt and shorts. He was originally from Toronto and had come up with a hometown buddy for an A’s – Blue Jays game.
“Bet you didn’t have trouble getting seats,” I said.
“And so cheap we stayed an extra night to see another game.”
I charged him $20, but when I opened it to sign it, I saw the price “$10.95″ penciled in, so I gave him $5 back. Then I figured I had to pay postage, so I explained that and took the $5 back, only to then figure I had probably got this copy from Moe’s with no postage involved.
Still, we parted on good terms.
And the Jays won both.
The gift was to the director of the Alliance Heritage Center, which may require some back story for those of you who aren’t my cousins.
If I have the story right, in the late 19th century, a wealthy German Jew, Baron Hirsch acquired land in America for Jews residing in the Pale of Settlement to emigrate to. My great-
grandparents were among those who took the opportunity. Two choices were offered: Wyoming (or was it Montana? Or Idaho?) and South Jersey. All the Jews knew about the first option was that Indians lived there and eagles swooped down and bore off your children, so they selected New Jersey.
Hirsch’s plan called for the settlers to form farming communities ordered along socialist principles. This was a little difficult to implement since the tsar hadn’t permitted Jews to own land, let alone farm. But they settled in and struggled and thrived. My father’s father ran away while still a teenager and eventually became a doctor in South Philly, but his two brothers remained and owned farms we would visit while I was growing up. In the last half-century, the community has become of interest to historians, and now there is this virtual museum centered at Stockton University.
My oldest first cousin, who was visiting the cemetery where our parents are interred, also visited Stockton and met the director, who turned out to have been to 10 times as many Dylan concerts me. She wanted to buy him my book, but not being as venal as the first half of this “Adventure” makes me seem, I sent him one.
Just when I thought the economy was going to need Trump in order to recover.
The sale was to a thirtyish film maker from LA. He had glasses and a ponytail and was wearing a torn camo t-shirt and shorts. He was originally from Toronto and had come up with a hometown buddy for an A’s – Blue Jays game.
“Bet you didn’t have trouble getting seats,” I said.
“And so cheap we stayed an extra night to see another game.”
I charged him $20, but when I opened it to sign it, I saw the price “$10.95″ penciled in, so I gave him $5 back. Then I figured I had to pay postage, so I explained that and took the $5 back, only to then figure I had probably got this copy from Moe’s with no postage involved.
Still, we parted on good terms.
And the Jays won both.
The gift was to the director of the Alliance Heritage Center, which may require some back story for those of you who aren’t my cousins.
If I have the story right, in the late 19th century, a wealthy German Jew, Baron Hirsch acquired land in America for Jews residing in the Pale of Settlement to emigrate to. My great-
grandparents were among those who took the opportunity. Two choices were offered: Wyoming (or was it Montana? Or Idaho?) and South Jersey. All the Jews knew about the first option was that Indians lived there and eagles swooped down and bore off your children, so they selected New Jersey.
Hirsch’s plan called for the settlers to form farming communities ordered along socialist principles. This was a little difficult to implement since the tsar hadn’t permitted Jews to own land, let alone farm. But they settled in and struggled and thrived. My father’s father ran away while still a teenager and eventually became a doctor in South Philly, but his two brothers remained and owned farms we would visit while I was growing up. In the last half-century, the community has become of interest to historians, and now there is this virtual museum centered at Stockton University.
My oldest first cousin, who was visiting the cemetery where our parents are interred, also visited Stockton and met the director, who turned out to have been to 10 times as many Dylan concerts me. She wanted to buy him my book, but not being as venal as the first half of this “Adventure” makes me seem, I sent him one.
Every Picture Tells a Story
https://www.firstofthemonth.org/every-picture-tells-a-story-2/
That’s the link to my latest piece in FOM. (I also have a mini-poem previously posted at FB.) If the link doesn’t work, which it probably won’t, you can paste it in your browser or Google my name and that title.
It’s opening (non-prefatory) sentence is “There was a time when pornography pushed as many buttons as uni-sex bathrooms do today.”
Enjoy.
That’s the link to my latest piece in FOM. (I also have a mini-poem previously posted at FB.) If the link doesn’t work, which it probably won’t, you can paste it in your browser or Google my name and that title.
It’s opening (non-prefatory) sentence is “There was a time when pornography pushed as many buttons as uni-sex bathrooms do today.”
Enjoy.
Last Ten Books Read (XXV)
(In order of Completion)
1. Gaddis. “Agape, Agape.” That finishes my Gaddis readings, at least temporarily. His last book and an unsatisfying one to go out on. If I re-read him, it’ll be “J.R.” first.
2. Labatut. “Maniac.” Another disappointment. Liked his prior book much better. The opening of this one was in line with it in style and substance and fine. The rest was a departure and not.
3. Greenberg. “Comics, Creativity & the Law.” A waste of time and money. I thought I might learn something useful – but didn’t. Someone might. Want a copy?
4. Miller. “Cashing in on Culture.” Ditto. Since it was about Brandx’s efforts to de-acquisition its art museum, someone thought I would like it. But it was poor journalism and barren of interesting ideas. Destined for a Free Little Library box.
5. Gray. “1982. Claudine.” The morning S. Clay Wilson left me behind in that bar (See: Levin. “Sicken ‘em or Enlighten ‘em”), the bar tender recommended I read Grey’s “Lanark.” I had forgotten what “Lanark” was like, but I liked it enough that when I read “Janine” was Gray’s favorite of his novels, I picked it up. An engaging blend of not-quite porn, political rant, and familiar novelistic stuff.
6. Chast. “Can’t We Talk About Something More Pleasant.” This drew raves when published, so when the Comic Book Legal Defense Fund offered it as a premium for contributees, I selected it. Harrowing and (painfully) funny. I suppose it was Chast’s only way of dealing with her parents, their decline and their passing.
7. Kaplan. “3 Shades of Blue.” An account of the coming together of Miles Davis, John Coltrane, and Bill Evans, their recording of “Kind of Blue,” and lives thereafter. The first portion was familiar to me but the latter new and informative. I would have liked it even better if I understood music
8. Charyn. “Jerzy.” Nah! A novel based on the life of Jerzy Kosinski but neither biographical, gossipy or creative enough to satisfy.
9. Elsa Morante. “Lies & Sorcery.” Morante’s first novel (and the second I’ve read). It’s 750 pages of feverish emotions and unfathomable behavior captured in compelling prose. “Operatic,” I summed up to myself. Takes a commitment but worth it.
10. Chast. “Going Into Town.” Came with #6 above. Compared to it a trifle. Depending on one’s attachment to NYC (Mine is minimal), it could mean more.
1. Gaddis. “Agape, Agape.” That finishes my Gaddis readings, at least temporarily. His last book and an unsatisfying one to go out on. If I re-read him, it’ll be “J.R.” first.
2. Labatut. “Maniac.” Another disappointment. Liked his prior book much better. The opening of this one was in line with it in style and substance and fine. The rest was a departure and not.
3. Greenberg. “Comics, Creativity & the Law.” A waste of time and money. I thought I might learn something useful – but didn’t. Someone might. Want a copy?
4. Miller. “Cashing in on Culture.” Ditto. Since it was about Brandx’s efforts to de-acquisition its art museum, someone thought I would like it. But it was poor journalism and barren of interesting ideas. Destined for a Free Little Library box.
5. Gray. “1982. Claudine.” The morning S. Clay Wilson left me behind in that bar (See: Levin. “Sicken ‘em or Enlighten ‘em”), the bar tender recommended I read Grey’s “Lanark.” I had forgotten what “Lanark” was like, but I liked it enough that when I read “Janine” was Gray’s favorite of his novels, I picked it up. An engaging blend of not-quite porn, political rant, and familiar novelistic stuff.
6. Chast. “Can’t We Talk About Something More Pleasant.” This drew raves when published, so when the Comic Book Legal Defense Fund offered it as a premium for contributees, I selected it. Harrowing and (painfully) funny. I suppose it was Chast’s only way of dealing with her parents, their decline and their passing.
7. Kaplan. “3 Shades of Blue.” An account of the coming together of Miles Davis, John Coltrane, and Bill Evans, their recording of “Kind of Blue,” and lives thereafter. The first portion was familiar to me but the latter new and informative. I would have liked it even better if I understood music
8. Charyn. “Jerzy.” Nah! A novel based on the life of Jerzy Kosinski but neither biographical, gossipy or creative enough to satisfy.
9. Elsa Morante. “Lies & Sorcery.” Morante’s first novel (and the second I’ve read). It’s 750 pages of feverish emotions and unfathomable behavior captured in compelling prose. “Operatic,” I summed up to myself. Takes a commitment but worth it.
10. Chast. “Going Into Town.” Came with #6 above. Compared to it a trifle. Depending on one’s attachment to NYC (Mine is minimal), it could mean more.
Adventures in Marketing — Week 423
Sold a café journal to a Swedenborgian minister in town for an event on Holy Hill. He’d had a long conversation at the next table with F___ in which the Gospels and Diogenes were discussed, topics on which I did not feel up to sufficient speed to discuss. My books caught his eye on the way out, but I did not get to drop into the conversation that the last Swedenborgians I had run into – literally – were at Bryn Athyn when we played them in football.
And – snapping the streak of people who took my card and from whom I never heard again – the ArtCar owner (see Adventure 422) returned and we completed our swap. I received an abstract of hers and she an “I Will Keep You Alive” and a “Schiz” from me. I told her, based on what she said the price her works commanded, she could visit my web site and, if she wanted more, let me know and I would bring them.
Also had a series of conversations with a family here for a graduation at UC. The grandmother, Marina (“Mary”), with whom I spoke the most, is Chinese. Her father had been in Chiang Kai Shek’s army, fled to Hong Kong when the Communists took control, and then to Seattle. The daughter-in-law and mother of the graduate, is from Tokyo and lives in Santa Ana. Her name is Ai. “A-I?” I said. “Like Artificial Intelligence,” she said. “Fooled me,” I said. “I could have sworn you were real”; and everyone laughed. They admired the “comradeship” on display at the café – but no one bought a book to commemorate their visit.
In other news…
Well, this isn’t true “Adventure in Marketing” material, except people like to read about those I meet so…
Some of you may know that for several years I have participated in a program where people who’ve had heart surgery visit hospital patients who’ve just had one to discuss concerns and anxieties they may have as someone who’s been through it. (“Walking role models,” we call ourselves.) This week I met a jolly, 300-pound, 59-year-old African-American fellow whose first name was “JFK,” but that’s not the story I wanted to tell. It’s about another patient.
Often, someone invites me to sit down, but I rarely do. I was only a few exchanged sentences into my spiel when, this time, I did. The patient with whom I engaged was a 75-year-old retired minister and widower of 14 years. He had been told that, after multiple procedures, nothing more could be done and he would die. He was, he said, unafraid, totally at peace, having lived a fine life, and looking forward to its next stage and seeing his wife again. We talked a long time. As I prepared to leave, I said that if he was still here at my next visit, I hoped to see him again. “I’m sure we’ll see each other, Bob,” he said, “if not here…”
And – snapping the streak of people who took my card and from whom I never heard again – the ArtCar owner (see Adventure 422) returned and we completed our swap. I received an abstract of hers and she an “I Will Keep You Alive” and a “Schiz” from me. I told her, based on what she said the price her works commanded, she could visit my web site and, if she wanted more, let me know and I would bring them.
Also had a series of conversations with a family here for a graduation at UC. The grandmother, Marina (“Mary”), with whom I spoke the most, is Chinese. Her father had been in Chiang Kai Shek’s army, fled to Hong Kong when the Communists took control, and then to Seattle. The daughter-in-law and mother of the graduate, is from Tokyo and lives in Santa Ana. Her name is Ai. “A-I?” I said. “Like Artificial Intelligence,” she said. “Fooled me,” I said. “I could have sworn you were real”; and everyone laughed. They admired the “comradeship” on display at the café – but no one bought a book to commemorate their visit.
In other news…
Well, this isn’t true “Adventure in Marketing” material, except people like to read about those I meet so…
Some of you may know that for several years I have participated in a program where people who’ve had heart surgery visit hospital patients who’ve just had one to discuss concerns and anxieties they may have as someone who’s been through it. (“Walking role models,” we call ourselves.) This week I met a jolly, 300-pound, 59-year-old African-American fellow whose first name was “JFK,” but that’s not the story I wanted to tell. It’s about another patient.
Often, someone invites me to sit down, but I rarely do. I was only a few exchanged sentences into my spiel when, this time, I did. The patient with whom I engaged was a 75-year-old retired minister and widower of 14 years. He had been told that, after multiple procedures, nothing more could be done and he would die. He was, he said, unafraid, totally at peace, having lived a fine life, and looking forward to its next stage and seeing his wife again. We talked a long time. As I prepared to leave, I said that if he was still here at my next visit, I hoped to see him again. “I’m sure we’ll see each other, Bob,” he said, “if not here…”