Gave away one “Cheesesteak.”
The recipient was “Edward,” the aspiring jazz pianist I had met during high school and from whom I had cribbed the title of the concluding chapter, (His out-of-the-blue phone call five decades later – “Is this Spruce Hill Bob?” – had also provided the name for my press.) I had intended to send him a copy, but, by the time of publication, I had no way to reach him. Now, he had found an old address book and called again – which touched me deeply. [Let me add he appears under his actual name in the Teddy Prendergrass documentary I’d posted about earlier this week and to which he’d alerted me.]
My most notable (non-sale) conversation was with a young fellow wearing a straw cap, bill-to-rear, whom the sign on my table at the café attracted.
He was one class from graduation at the Jazz School, played guitar and drums, lived in an Econoline, and repaired wind instruments to make a buck. “It’s pretty chill,” he said.
When he told me his name, I said, “Bet you’re named for the singer, not the poet.”
“What poet?” he said.
“The one Bob named himself after.”
“Guess I’ll have to check him out.”
What are they teaching kids in school these days?
In other news…
1.) The publicist Adele and I hired for “I Will Keep You Alive” explained that the reason her efforts had ended in zilch was that people found it “too personal.”
Well, it was that. But it’s not like a lot of people are going to escape our situation.
Or as Adele’s sister – admittedly not an unbiased reader said – “That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard. What could be more universal?”; and…
2.) Coincidentally, our book’s review in “Women’s Studies” reached us the next day. “It is an understatement,” it concludes, “to say how fortunate we are to have two such superb writers invite us to share vicariously in an experience that teaches… US [emp.supp.] so much.”