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.

I was preparing to forego any “Adventures” this week since Sunday, the day I usually post one, had arrived without my selling a single book – and then I sold TWO!
Marcel (See, most recently, “Adventure 313″) bought an IWKYA. I am not sure why since he’s given no indication he’s read the last couple he’s bought, but maybe he wants to remain on my good side, so I will continue to give him my “Chronicle” when I finish. Maybe he simply enjoys talking with me about the old days in SF, which are triggered by whomever’s obit has just appeared. (One of the downsides to selling books in cafes, I’ve found, is that some people assume that a purchase automatically gives them the right to sit down whenever they want and begin chatting.) He said he intended to give this one to a grande dame at his Christian Scientist church, an organization with which he has an ambivalent relationship.
Then a fortyish woman (long dark hair, grey jacket-sweater), accompanied by a boyfriend/husband (greying goatee, baseball cap) bought a “Schiz.” The Crumb quote on the back cover sold her, not my standard pitch: “Six murders, kinky sex, intricately plotted, lavishly illustrated.” When I asked – also standard – if she was a writer or artist, she replied, without ruling either out, that she was “reinventing” herself. Unspecified “trauma… (had) shattered”) her family and she was finding her way forward.
I gave her my card.

In other news…
1.) A book entitled “Best American Comic Criticism of the 21st Century” has appeared with nothing by me in it. (Maybe I got an Honorable Mention – if it awarded Honorable Mentions.) This was a blow to – as well as a boost for – my self-esteem. It’s like Charles Bukowski said. Writers who sell a lot of books know they are great because their sales figures confirm the appeal of their vision. And writers who sell few books know they are great because those figure confirm the singularity of theirs.
2.) Coincidentally – and solely a boost – the out-going and in-coming editors of “The Comics Journal” greeted my most recent submission as “amazing” and “terrific.” (Now if they could just land an anthology contract.)
3.) Finally, some weeks ago I received an email from a young man in Colorado Springs, who had read an article of mine about the “disappeared” horror comic illustrator Graham “Ghastly” Ingels and wanted to buy my books. I’d referred him to my website but heard nothing from him. Now he wanted to talk. Was he ready to buy?, I wondered. Had he bought a book and wanted to option it for a movie? You know how it goes.
Nope. He wanted tips on investigative journalism. Specifically, he wanted to investigate the family of the wife who was divorcing him. They, it seemed, were affiliated with a Sinaloan drug cartel, which was trying to commit him to a psychiatric hospital in order to destroy his right to the Iowa farmland to which he had title so they could convert it to opium fields to be farmed by Afghans they were illegally smuggling into the heartland.
See where writing can get you.

Sold a “Lollipop” and a “”Cheesesteak.”
The former went to a café pal who intended it as a gift for his daughter’s father-in-law, a semi-well-known East Bay political figure with an interest in urban violence. The latter went to a fellow I’ve been talking with in cafes for 30 or 40 years. He is a great talker. Like yesterday, in 20 minutes, at a table of eight, he discoursed on guitars, the Miami-Boston series, recliners, and brussel sprouts. (He is also good on the music of North Africa, eastern religions, and life in Laurel Canyon.)
Recently, he has been arriving at the café with a notebook. A few days before, I had asked what he was writing. He went on for 20 minutes about his poetry, its content and history, and I sat there nodding and thinking, Gee, he’s never asked me one thing about my writing, when it seemed to dawn on him that I had books on my able for sale. “I’ve never read anything of yours,” he said. “Which one would you recommend?”
So he’s off my Top 10 – maybe Top 3 – Non-Customers list.

In other news…
1.) Had two promising conversations with strangers. One was a 50-ish woman, a splash of Bonnie Raite white hair in a field of brown. As a two-year-old, she had been in a coma, so the back cover of IWKYA spoke to her. She was a psychoanalyst and knew several people Adele who had gone through the DMH program with. She was in a rush, so I gave her my card.
No sooner had she left, then up stepped a UC undergraduate of East Asian heritage. He was in computer science. He asked what I wrote, and I told him, but, though nothing I said seemed to register with any more impact than dew on granite. I invested a card in him too.
I have heard from neither of these people since.
2. The passing of Ray Liotta moved a couple of my correspondents to recall favorite moments in his films and one to repeat stories told by a son who had acted with him. I reply-all-ed that when efforts were being made to make a film of “Best Ride” 30-some years ago, the producers tried to get the script to Liotta, who had played basketball in high school, without success, a yarn which seemed to interest no one.
In fact, my telling it – indeed, this entire recounting of “Adventures” – may strike outsiders of evidence of my being self-absorbed.
This would seem a fair assessment.

Only one sale. But it raised the prestige-quotient of my audience.
A café pal, a classically trained musician, was in rehearsal with the Oakland Symphony when the visiting conductor, who had previously led the Chicago orchestra, remarked, “I had thought 1968 was bad, but today may be worse.”
Now, nothing says “Chicago,” “1968″ like “Lollipop,” and, fortunately, my pal had his copy with him, which he showed the maestro.
“Is this by Bob Levin, the pianist?” he said.
“Not unless ‘Chopsticks’ qualifies,” my pal said. (Not really.)
So he bought a second copy to give the man.

In other news…
1.) “A perfect blend of humor, cynicism and reality,” my café author-of-seniors’-erotica pal said of “Lollipop” – and he arrived in Chicago the month after I left, so he should know whereof he speaks.
2.) Unlike, say, the journal to which I’d shopped a copy. Its reviewer “was unable to find little that warranted a positive review (sic)),” it reported. Did I wish to see his “commentary”?
Absolutely not, I said.
Did I wish to try a second reviewer?
Sure.
3.) Other words-of-mouth included (a) “I read that! It’s a wonderful book.” A woman joining my table outside the café said of IWKYA; and (b) “(T)he best little book on copyright I have ever read,” said the philosophy professor mentioned an “Adventure” or two ago of “The Pirates and the Mouse.”
4.) This week’s basement-cleaning dumped a storage box with 20-pounds of notes and drafts that went into the 140-pages of “Lollipop.” Is it any wonder when someone asks me to look at something they’ve written which reads like they’ve given it the care of the product of a Hindu shmashana my ass is burnt?

ALL OF BOB”S BOOKS ARE AVAILABLE FROM www.theboblevin.com

Sold a “Lollipop” to a legal aid lawyer with whom I’d worked in Chicago. (He’d come to Berkeley a few months after I did and, sticking to his roots more avidly, devoted his career to tenants’ rights.) I’d intended the book as a gift, but he’d sent a check with a note saying he’d like to discuss our different post-Chicago experiences (and have me identify who was who). I offered lunch or coffee, my treat, since, of the five former colleagues I’d sent a book, he’d been the only one to respond, and I’d wondered how they’d react to my unflattering account.

Then I sold a “Fully Armed,” “Most Outrageous,” “Schiz,” and “Goshkin,” in what had to have been the most idiosyncratic selection of my work to date, as well as the largest cash purchase since the woman in the grip of a manic episode walked into the café.
The sale began with an e-mail from a man who said he’d bought a “Cheesesteak” from me a few years ago. It was all that he could afford then, but now he was set for more. He wanted “funny.” He wanted “recent.” As further clues to his tastes, he had liked “the jewish (sic) stuff” and could “talk LA boxing, 1949-1950.” (Had I heard of Keeny Teran, a flyweight, whose career had been derailed by heroin?)
I was intrigued even before his order arrived accompanied by a check written on the account of a woman whose identity was undisclosed. Can you tell me something about yourself? I asked. “Google me and find out a lot,” he said.

The first hit on his name brought a six “WOW111″ article in a Santa Cruz newspaper – and then I had to read it Adele. My customer had passed though San Francisco’s beat and hippie eras. He had played drums behind big name musicians, rock and jazz. He had 65-years of gallery-worthy paintings sitting in a Marin County warehouse he refused to publicly show. He had walked away from a critically acclaimed exhibit of his photographs at SF MOMA to find a guru in India. For a life of “artistic freedom,” he had chosen “purity and obscurity (over)… business and critics and fame.”
To have him connect with my writing was cool.

In other news…
1.) My favorite non-remunerative conversation was with two grandmothers, one Anglo, one Hispanic, one writing a book about humming birds, one teaching elementary school, who’d sat down at the next table and noticed my display. We talked writing and the cost of housing. They complimented my bracelets and boots – a good way to incline me favorably – and asked if my tri-partite wedding ring meant I had been married three times. (No, I did not feel hit-upon.)
2.) My philosopher-neighbor (See: “Adventure 317″ referred a colleague-of-sorts to me. He is writing about the significance of reprint comics, and while I was honored to be considered an authority on the subject – as I would on any subject, come to think of it – unfortunately, in my days of comic-immersion, reprints weren’t even a glimmer in Stan Lee’s eye.
3.) My “In Box” also brought me H. Harris Healy, iII (sic), who asked (a) how I was; (b) if I’d been “fully jabbed”; and © if there was a grocery store nearby. I replied (d) who are you; (e) who do you think you are taking to; and (f) there was a supermarket next door to the café. He said (g) he was the one who had agreed to handle my books on consignment (of whom I had no recollection); (h) he had a niece with liver cancer; and (i) if I’d send her a gift card, he’d reimburse me. I said (j) how about he paid postage and 1/3rd of the cover price upfront and kept all proceeds; (k) too bad about your niece; and (l) I had a blank Holocause Museum Memorial card lying around on which I could inscribe a message of his choice if he’d provide her name and address.
The payment and information have not arrived.

1.) Sigrid Nunez. Sempre Susan. I’d read and enjoyed three or four books by Nunez. If you want to know about Susan Sontag, this short memoir may be all you need. It was for me.
2.) Timothy Snyder. Bloodland. I understand there was some criticism from historians but the horror-upon-horrors committed by Stalin and Hitler — 1500 murdered in one paragraph, 1250 in the next – landed like blows to my head.
3.) Rachel Cusk. The Last Supper. Three or four books by Cusk too. This was about a family trip to Italy. I usually don’t read travel books but I found this for free somewhere, so the price was right, and, given Cusk’s prose style and intelligence, anything she writes is worthwhile.
4.) Renata Adler. Irreparable Harm. And speaking of style and intelligence. A magazine article I’d read previously in an anthology, but reprinted in book form, so I’m counting it.
5.) Paul Buhle & Dave Wagner. Hide in Plain Sight. Another “free” shelf acquisition., A few interesting observations about post-Blacklist careers in Hollywood and NYC and the influence of Popular Front thinking on pop culture, but I’m tossing this one back.
6.) Jim LeCuyer. Stories for Clever Children. A slim volume by a pal. Witty, wise; smiles resulted.
7.) Frank Conroy. Dogs Bark…. A collection of magazine pieces culled from my philosopher neighbor’s cast-offs. (See “Adventures in Marketing 316″). Conroy is excellent on musicians, jazz and classical, but I could take or leave the rest.
8. Timothy Snyder. On Tyranny. After Bloodlands, I wanted to see what he thought. Also, since there’s an illustrated edition, I thought I’d review it; but tcj had already run one (negative) and didn’t want me.
9.) Tobias Wolff. Old School. The second pick-up from my neighbor. Adele loved it too – and recommended it to her brother, who’s enjoying it on last report.
10.) Bill James. Popular Crime. Pick-up #3. James uses his knowledge of analytics to score a couple points early, but once he blamed the Supreme Court for the increase in crime in the ‘70s (and the creation of mega-prisons) he proved he ought to stick to batting orders and when to bunt.

https://www.firstofthemonth.org/false-memory/

That’s the link to my latest piece at FOM. It’s a trifle — but my own.

Sold an “Outlaws, Rebels…” to Marcel, my Christian Scientist café buddy, who plans to give it to a friend from college days (Humboldt State). Marcel, in recent days, has given me an article from “Barron’s” on genetic screening for cancer and photo-copied newspaper articles about his family history (mother’s side) as cattlemen in Texas. He also invited me to lunch. I accepted but said he would be my guest since, in light of his purchases, I can write it of as a business expense.

In other news…
A more conventional citizen, a classical pianist/composer (atonal works, I’m guessing), paid much attention to my books’ art and paged through “Cheesesteak” and “The Schiz,” reading snatches, but bought zero. If he’s got a CD, maybe I’ll offer a swap.
I did give a “Lollipop” to a 90-plus, recently retired exercise instructor who, upon hearing of my recently bummed back, brought me (and Adele) rubber stretch bands to aid our fitness. She was not my only barter of the week. But the other deserves more back story. (No pun intended.)

The route of my thrice-weekly cardio-walk takes me up Spruce Street to the reservoir and then down. Recently, a couple blocks from home, someone began leaving out books in a carton on the sidewalk. As “free books” go, these were better conditioned and more appealing than the usual.
Three trips in a row, I took one (Tobias Wolfe, Frank Conroy, Bill James). Once, the apparent owner, a gentleman in his late 80s, while working in his garden, made a recommendation. Thereafter, I would pass along my thoughts about my selections. Finally, I asked, “Are you a writer or academic.
He said he was a retired professor of philosophy. “Are you an academic?”
“I’m a retired attorney – and a writer.”
“What have your written?”
“Well,” I said, somewhat sheepishly, “I write about comics and cartoonists.”
“Oh,” he said, “I write about comics and cartoonists too.”
He sent me links to reviews he had written of books about Fredric Wertham and superheroes in “The Journal of American Culture” and to his analysis of “what makes a
superhero, philosophically speaking” in “Philosophy Now.” This led me to give him an “Outlaws, Rebels…,” which led him to offer me a hardcover of his “Myth of the American Superhero” to which I responded with a “Pirates and the Mouse.”
This falls deservedly under “You Never Know…,” don’t you think?