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.
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…”
Adventures in Marketing — Week 422
Sold a café journal and an “Outlaws, Rebels…” and discussed the swap of a “Bob on Bob” and did swap another and… Let’s take these seriatim.
1.) The journal sale, the least noteworthy – no offense, R_ – of the above was to a café regular (and repeat customer). He wanted a copy to replace one he had given to a friend.
2.) Two days later, a man in his early 70s, who had been sitting across the room, walked up, smiled, and asked, “May I take your picture with the Checkered Demon?” I go months without anyone recognizing my sign. W_ turned out to be a fan of Wilson’s, so I touted my article.
W_ and his wife were in town from Hudson, NY, for a wedding. He is an architect – an award-winning one, subsequent research revealed, and important figure in the New Urbanism movement. (Their son, a RISD graduate now in industrial design, had submitted a comic of his creation in his portfolio to gain admission.) We had a pleasant chat, which concluded when they asked for Berkeley’s best bookstore and I said Moe’s. They took my card and said they would read my book, visit my web site, and get back to me.
But so far nothing.
3.) The very next day, when I arrived, an ArtCar, festooned with sea shells and ceramic animals and plants, was parked in the space ahead of mine. M_, a retired book store manager, who was seated outside, opened a discussion of it, but before we got far, S_____, a young woman seated to his right, asked if we liked it. She, it turned out, was the owner/creator. I mentioned H_ B_, a major figure in the ArtCar movement, who used to come frequently (now occasionally) to the café, but she had not heard of him. M_ mentioned the annual San Francisco ArtCar parade, but she did not know that either. (She was new to Berkeley and hoping to find a place to live.)
S_ is primarily a painter of abstracts, which she showed us on her phone. I proposed a swap of one (or more) of my books for a print. When I pulled “Bob” from my bag, she said he has fathered two children of a friend of hers. I hoped to learn more, and she took my card and said she would get back to me.
But so far nothing.
4.) That same morning, as I was about to leave, in came R_, an 81-year-old fellow in a Joshua Tree baseball cap. He had come to the Bay Area in 1966 from Pomona, where he had studied poetry and philosophy. He lives in Oakland and had often heard about the café but never been before. For over 30 years, he has publishing a professional-looking magazine (32 issues so far) of photographs, interviews and essays, modeled on “The Sun.” It dips into art, the eternal, life’s meaning, and defining moments. Gertrude Stein, Heidegger and Wittgenstein are mentioned on p. 1 and Gurdjieff and Needleman later.
R_ asked about my writing and daily presence in the café and, after we’d swapped my book for his magazine, said he might like to interview me. I gave him my card.
But so far…
1.) The journal sale, the least noteworthy – no offense, R_ – of the above was to a café regular (and repeat customer). He wanted a copy to replace one he had given to a friend.
2.) Two days later, a man in his early 70s, who had been sitting across the room, walked up, smiled, and asked, “May I take your picture with the Checkered Demon?” I go months without anyone recognizing my sign. W_ turned out to be a fan of Wilson’s, so I touted my article.
W_ and his wife were in town from Hudson, NY, for a wedding. He is an architect – an award-winning one, subsequent research revealed, and important figure in the New Urbanism movement. (Their son, a RISD graduate now in industrial design, had submitted a comic of his creation in his portfolio to gain admission.) We had a pleasant chat, which concluded when they asked for Berkeley’s best bookstore and I said Moe’s. They took my card and said they would read my book, visit my web site, and get back to me.
But so far nothing.
3.) The very next day, when I arrived, an ArtCar, festooned with sea shells and ceramic animals and plants, was parked in the space ahead of mine. M_, a retired book store manager, who was seated outside, opened a discussion of it, but before we got far, S_____, a young woman seated to his right, asked if we liked it. She, it turned out, was the owner/creator. I mentioned H_ B_, a major figure in the ArtCar movement, who used to come frequently (now occasionally) to the café, but she had not heard of him. M_ mentioned the annual San Francisco ArtCar parade, but she did not know that either. (She was new to Berkeley and hoping to find a place to live.)
S_ is primarily a painter of abstracts, which she showed us on her phone. I proposed a swap of one (or more) of my books for a print. When I pulled “Bob” from my bag, she said he has fathered two children of a friend of hers. I hoped to learn more, and she took my card and said she would get back to me.
But so far nothing.
4.) That same morning, as I was about to leave, in came R_, an 81-year-old fellow in a Joshua Tree baseball cap. He had come to the Bay Area in 1966 from Pomona, where he had studied poetry and philosophy. He lives in Oakland and had often heard about the café but never been before. For over 30 years, he has publishing a professional-looking magazine (32 issues so far) of photographs, interviews and essays, modeled on “The Sun.” It dips into art, the eternal, life’s meaning, and defining moments. Gertrude Stein, Heidegger and Wittgenstein are mentioned on p. 1 and Gurdjieff and Needleman later.
R_ asked about my writing and daily presence in the café and, after we’d swapped my book for his magazine, said he might like to interview me. I gave him my card.
But so far…
Adventures in Marketing — Week 421
Sold a café journal. The buyer was a hotel guest, a white-bearded gent with horn-rimmed glasses. He picked up “Outlaws, Rebels…” but when I asked if he was interested in comics, he only smiled. I described the journal as containing poetry, and he went for that. He said he was a poet, and Googled revealed a poet with his name, the author of an E-book in 2012, with work “written from (the)… heart” but said nothing else allowing for confirmation.
Then I sold a “Best Ride” to a septuagenarian PhD candidate in nuclear physicist. A café semi-regular, she comes dressed in scarves and shawls and earrings the size and shape of dreidels. She has looked over my books in the past, sometimes taking one or more to her table for perusal without every effecting a purchase, tempting to channel the inner drug store owner of my comic book reading youth and exclaim, “I am not a fucking library.” She has also developed a progressively deteriorating condition impairing her brain’s ability to express her thoughts. Even when she writes down what she is trying to say, coherence can elude her. Words repeat; pronouns do not suit; sentences do not appear. But the next morning, she looked up from my book to compliment the clarity of my style, and I gave her a “Cheesesteak” so she might see from where and how it derived.
In other news…
The big event was my Zoom at the NY Comics and Picture Story Symposium.
I had hoped to outdraw “Hollywood Squares” and succeeded. About a dozen people tuned in, and while a majority may have been there at my invitation, the rest were not. It lasted over an hour and, even though I forgot some good lines I had planned to deliver and failed to answer some questions as well as I would have liked, I had a wonderful time. (The You Tube link – “Adults Only” – available upon request – has had 62 views, with 7 “Thumbs-up.”)
My two favorite post-event exchanges have been with friends. One asked if it was true I had been a C+/B- student in college, as if I had falsely claimed that to give me some non-egghead cred. The other e-mailed “After all these years it helped me understand you better.” When I asked what veils had been lifted, he said from my “fascination with the obscene, perverse and tasteless.”
Which is not how I would have put it.
Then I sold a “Best Ride” to a septuagenarian PhD candidate in nuclear physicist. A café semi-regular, she comes dressed in scarves and shawls and earrings the size and shape of dreidels. She has looked over my books in the past, sometimes taking one or more to her table for perusal without every effecting a purchase, tempting to channel the inner drug store owner of my comic book reading youth and exclaim, “I am not a fucking library.” She has also developed a progressively deteriorating condition impairing her brain’s ability to express her thoughts. Even when she writes down what she is trying to say, coherence can elude her. Words repeat; pronouns do not suit; sentences do not appear. But the next morning, she looked up from my book to compliment the clarity of my style, and I gave her a “Cheesesteak” so she might see from where and how it derived.
In other news…
The big event was my Zoom at the NY Comics and Picture Story Symposium.
I had hoped to outdraw “Hollywood Squares” and succeeded. About a dozen people tuned in, and while a majority may have been there at my invitation, the rest were not. It lasted over an hour and, even though I forgot some good lines I had planned to deliver and failed to answer some questions as well as I would have liked, I had a wonderful time. (The You Tube link – “Adults Only” – available upon request – has had 62 views, with 7 “Thumbs-up.”)
My two favorite post-event exchanges have been with friends. One asked if it was true I had been a C+/B- student in college, as if I had falsely claimed that to give me some non-egghead cred. The other e-mailed “After all these years it helped me understand you better.” When I asked what veils had been lifted, he said from my “fascination with the obscene, perverse and tasteless.”
Which is not how I would have put it.
Adventures in Marketing — Week 420
Gave away a “Pirates and the Mouse.” A bit of cosmic coincidence was involved.
It was a slow week. I drew a couple potential customers’ interest. A young woman from Germany who works for the university in tech sales (or something equally foreign to me) and a middle-aged man who seemed skeptical of me at best. They both asked when I would be at the café again. They both took my card. I have neither seen or heard from either.
Things picked up when the contract for the film option on my Air Pirates book arrived. It was entirely pleasing until I reached the Warranty and Hold Harmless/Indemnification clauses. I have seen such clauses in contracts before, though not in all contracts. But then I have been talking solely about material I have authored. Here I would to have no say in or control of the contents of the film but was still being asked to take financial liability for it. Since I was only receiving a small amount of money, I was being asked to gamble that limited sum against an open-ended damages claim.
I put the question “Sign or Not” to the Authors Guild Members Forum. A half-dozen authors posted fervent “No”s. The only dissent came from an IP attorney. He said these clauses were standard; authors always squawked about them; but they were rarely of consequence and could, in fact, prove helpful to authors. He made several suggestions, all of which I passed along to the producer, and all of which he accepted, so I signed. (He also gave me three “points” in the net. I have been around long enough to know that, when we are talking films, you can be pretty damn sure there is no net; but I appreciated the gesture.)
Now, here’s the cosmic part. The IP lawyer had an unusual name, which I recalled of being that of the fellow who had married the younger sister of Adele’s college roommate with whom, I believe, Adele has had no in contact for more tha half a century. I put this connection to the lawyer and he confirmed it with his sister-in-law and passed along to Adele her best refards.
And I sent the book.
It was a slow week. I drew a couple potential customers’ interest. A young woman from Germany who works for the university in tech sales (or something equally foreign to me) and a middle-aged man who seemed skeptical of me at best. They both asked when I would be at the café again. They both took my card. I have neither seen or heard from either.
Things picked up when the contract for the film option on my Air Pirates book arrived. It was entirely pleasing until I reached the Warranty and Hold Harmless/Indemnification clauses. I have seen such clauses in contracts before, though not in all contracts. But then I have been talking solely about material I have authored. Here I would to have no say in or control of the contents of the film but was still being asked to take financial liability for it. Since I was only receiving a small amount of money, I was being asked to gamble that limited sum against an open-ended damages claim.
I put the question “Sign or Not” to the Authors Guild Members Forum. A half-dozen authors posted fervent “No”s. The only dissent came from an IP attorney. He said these clauses were standard; authors always squawked about them; but they were rarely of consequence and could, in fact, prove helpful to authors. He made several suggestions, all of which I passed along to the producer, and all of which he accepted, so I signed. (He also gave me three “points” in the net. I have been around long enough to know that, when we are talking films, you can be pretty damn sure there is no net; but I appreciated the gesture.)
Now, here’s the cosmic part. The IP lawyer had an unusual name, which I recalled of being that of the fellow who had married the younger sister of Adele’s college roommate with whom, I believe, Adele has had no in contact for more tha half a century. I put this connection to the lawyer and he confirmed it with his sister-in-law and passed along to Adele her best refards.
And I sent the book.
Adventures in Marketing — Week 419
Gave away a “Cheesesteak” and a café journal to the daughter of a college friend and her transgender son who were in town from Seattle checking out UCB as a potential college. (He has also been accepted at USF, UC San Diego, Occidental, and a couple schools in DC.) I related how I ended up in Berkeley and recounted a drunken, rowdy night 60-plus years ago, when the father/grandfather and I bonded, and I heard of the son’s political and artistic interests. It was a rich morning.
In other news…
1.) This same friend and I have been exchanging noteworthy birthday presents for years. Most recently, I gave him a coyote skull and he gave me a custom made bowling league t-shirt. The front showed a large, lavishly and gruesomely depicted skull in handsome black-and-white. On the back, above a ball scattering pins are the words “AUTHORS STRIKE.” One sleeve bears an American flag (perhaps more provocative in Berkeley than the skull). Where the breast pocket would be is a smaller skull and cross bones (or, rather, cross pins) and, above them, my name. Now some back story.
One of the café regulars is a 94-year-old, old lefty originally from NYC, a former fitness instructor and dancer, who was left a widow a year or two ago. She is very sweet and very chatty but hard of hearing and slipping a little. Recently, whenever Bob Dylan comes up in conversation (or when she notices my book), she will say, “I knew his first girlfriend,” which really means she was friendly with the parents of Suze Rotolo, the girl on the cover of “Freewheelin’ Bob Dylan,” and she will add, “Her mother told her he wouldn’t amount to anything.” I will then reply, “You knew his second girl friend. His first girl friend was Echo Holmstrom from Hibbing, Minnesota.” She will not hear me or she will hear me but not absorb what I have said, and we will have this same exchange again and again and again.
The other day, I wore my new shirt to the café. When she saw my name, she said, “I knew him. Bob Lev-en,” giving it the New York pronunciation.
“Li-vin,” I said, making it, like me, from Philadelphia.
“I knew his first girl friend,” she said.
Sweet – but sad.
In other news…
1.) This same friend and I have been exchanging noteworthy birthday presents for years. Most recently, I gave him a coyote skull and he gave me a custom made bowling league t-shirt. The front showed a large, lavishly and gruesomely depicted skull in handsome black-and-white. On the back, above a ball scattering pins are the words “AUTHORS STRIKE.” One sleeve bears an American flag (perhaps more provocative in Berkeley than the skull). Where the breast pocket would be is a smaller skull and cross bones (or, rather, cross pins) and, above them, my name. Now some back story.
One of the café regulars is a 94-year-old, old lefty originally from NYC, a former fitness instructor and dancer, who was left a widow a year or two ago. She is very sweet and very chatty but hard of hearing and slipping a little. Recently, whenever Bob Dylan comes up in conversation (or when she notices my book), she will say, “I knew his first girlfriend,” which really means she was friendly with the parents of Suze Rotolo, the girl on the cover of “Freewheelin’ Bob Dylan,” and she will add, “Her mother told her he wouldn’t amount to anything.” I will then reply, “You knew his second girl friend. His first girl friend was Echo Holmstrom from Hibbing, Minnesota.” She will not hear me or she will hear me but not absorb what I have said, and we will have this same exchange again and again and again.
The other day, I wore my new shirt to the café. When she saw my name, she said, “I knew him. Bob Lev-en,” giving it the New York pronunciation.
“Li-vin,” I said, making it, like me, from Philadelphia.
“I knew his first girl friend,” she said.
Sweet – but sad.
Adventures in Marketing — Week 418
Sold one “Bob on Bob.”
The buyer was my former secretary. She was passing the café and saw me and stopped by. Commerce resulted.
In other news…
1.) Things have been moving along in a variety on non-writing-but-writing-related fronts.
(A) The option agreement for “The Pirates and the Mouse” is supposedly en route. What, if anything, is on the table me remains undiscussed. I wonder how I will respond: money grubber or fool? (B) Have prepped for my upcoming symposium talk. Wrote it out (12 pp.); condensed it onto 3X5 cards (12) as I learned in 9th grade public speaking; tightened the contents of the cards, then considered tightening all 12 onto one but recalled the joke of the fellow who condensed his speech to a key word – and forgot the word. (C) Have been invited to discuss the Air Pirates on the podcast of a young fellow who, from the looks of his prior broadcasts, is interested in (i) the counter-culture and (ii) a multitude of conspiracy theories. I disclosed I thought Lee Harvey Oswald did it, and he agreed to keep away from that subject. (D) A woman compiling an anthology in tribute to Trina Robbins for UMiss Press has asked permission to reprint my CJ interview. That interview is slated for inclusion in my new collection from FU Press, and the editor/publisher says granting her request may reduce sales of my book by diminishing its exclusivity or increase sales by broadening my name recognition. Since I figure we are talking low single digits either way, I said she should go ahead.
2.) This isn’t writing-related at all, but since readers like hearing about my café encounters… On recent Sundays, my favored table has been occupied upon my arrival by a fellow who used to sit against the back wall near the rest room. He is in his 70s, with close-cropped hair and bad teeth. He is usually on his iPad and keeps his belongings in a small cardboard Domno’s Pizza box. He usually leaves by the time I have finished the Chronicle (5-10 minutes), and once I see him packing, I prepare to shift.
We had begun exchanging a few words and last week he asked if I was a registered Berkeley voter. I said I was, and he asked if I would sign some petitions for which, I assume, he collected compensation for each signature he snagged. So this week I asked if he had any new petitions. He did, so I signed them. “What’s new?” he said.
“You don’t know anything about me,” I said, “but since you ask, I’ve got a new defibrilator.”
Then we discussed it and my heart history, and when we were through, he asked if could add me to his prayer list. Adele and I are already on the prayer list of a woman in NYC I went to high school with, so I said “Sure.”
Can’t hurt, right?
The buyer was my former secretary. She was passing the café and saw me and stopped by. Commerce resulted.
In other news…
1.) Things have been moving along in a variety on non-writing-but-writing-related fronts.
(A) The option agreement for “The Pirates and the Mouse” is supposedly en route. What, if anything, is on the table me remains undiscussed. I wonder how I will respond: money grubber or fool? (B) Have prepped for my upcoming symposium talk. Wrote it out (12 pp.); condensed it onto 3X5 cards (12) as I learned in 9th grade public speaking; tightened the contents of the cards, then considered tightening all 12 onto one but recalled the joke of the fellow who condensed his speech to a key word – and forgot the word. (C) Have been invited to discuss the Air Pirates on the podcast of a young fellow who, from the looks of his prior broadcasts, is interested in (i) the counter-culture and (ii) a multitude of conspiracy theories. I disclosed I thought Lee Harvey Oswald did it, and he agreed to keep away from that subject. (D) A woman compiling an anthology in tribute to Trina Robbins for UMiss Press has asked permission to reprint my CJ interview. That interview is slated for inclusion in my new collection from FU Press, and the editor/publisher says granting her request may reduce sales of my book by diminishing its exclusivity or increase sales by broadening my name recognition. Since I figure we are talking low single digits either way, I said she should go ahead.
2.) This isn’t writing-related at all, but since readers like hearing about my café encounters… On recent Sundays, my favored table has been occupied upon my arrival by a fellow who used to sit against the back wall near the rest room. He is in his 70s, with close-cropped hair and bad teeth. He is usually on his iPad and keeps his belongings in a small cardboard Domno’s Pizza box. He usually leaves by the time I have finished the Chronicle (5-10 minutes), and once I see him packing, I prepare to shift.
We had begun exchanging a few words and last week he asked if I was a registered Berkeley voter. I said I was, and he asked if I would sign some petitions for which, I assume, he collected compensation for each signature he snagged. So this week I asked if he had any new petitions. He did, so I signed them. “What’s new?” he said.
“You don’t know anything about me,” I said, “but since you ask, I’ve got a new defibrilator.”
Then we discussed it and my heart history, and when we were through, he asked if could add me to his prayer list. Adele and I are already on the prayer list of a woman in NYC I went to high school with, so I said “Sure.”
Can’t hurt, right?