My latest piece has gone up at http://www.tcj.com/ming-ming-ming/

It begins:

Pythons didn’t seem to come in Goshkin’s size, so he clicked “Eel Skin.”
“Vintage,” the ad said. “Pre-owned.”
He liked the idea of stepping out shod like a Mexican drug lord. A 77-year-old Jewish one with a bad heart at that. He wondered how someone came up with the idea of making cowboy boots from eels. He only thought of eel at Party Sushi. Weren’t they too skinny to stick feet in?

Sold one “I Will Keep You Alive.”
The buyer was my former associate, one of the attendees at my boontz-lunch a few weeks before. (See previous “Adventure.”) She paid a surprise visit to the café, and we had a nice chat, involving Colorful Clients We Had Known, going back 40 years to the People’s Temple cases, which we’d worked on together. Then her husband’s two M.I.s came up and then Adele and my book.
The week’s other notable encounter came about because of my new sign. I’ve subbed out the S. Clay Wilson Checkered Demon’s “Buy Bob’s Books!” for a commissioned J.T. Dockery, based on an old “New Yorker” cartoon. A down-and-out wino, unshaven, frazzled cuffs, holes in his shoes, sits crumpled on the sidewalk, upturned hat between his legs, books beside him, a sign on the wall he leans against: MEET THE AUTHOR!
It has drawn its share of looks and smiles. “Wanna buy a book?” I asked one of these gawkers. “No,” the gentleman said. “But I can help you out with a couple bucks.”
“He must not have appreciated your eel skin boots,” Adele said, when I told her.

Sold one “I Will Keep You Alive.”
The buyer was a woman from India, who worked in I.T. We had noticed each other at the café but had not spoken until we met at the salad bar at Whole Foods. (“Romaine is back!” I’d said.) She said she read Wayne Dyer and Wayne Dyer often mentioned Ram Dass and Ram Dass had written a cover blurb for our book, so the next time she saw me at the café…
When she did, it turned out she wanted a book as a gift for a friend. “He likes science-fiction.”
“Not too long ago,” I said, “this would have been just that.”

I also gave a “Schiz” to a Croatian woman who lives in Slovenia. (You know what it costs to send a book to Slovenia? $24, that’s what.)
She had sent me a “Friend” request at FB. When I messaged her “Why?”, she said it was because we both loved comics, and, if I would give me my address, she would send me some of hers. They turned out to be three minis and a full-size anthology she’d edited, all of which she’d also published. (That cost her 6.90 euros.) I was so struck by them, I said I would like to write about them – and she said she would send me two more.

I may have said – but will say again – among the great and gratifying experiences of this writing thing, especially in this internet age, are the connections it brings and the odd conjunctions of which they often consist.
And I’m a kid who, when growing up in West Philadelphia, the only non-Americans he knew were two brothers from Puerto Rico.
Oh yeah, there was also Chinatown.

In other news…
1.) A political consultant acquaintance on “Cheesesteak”: “Delightful… witty and well-written.”
2.) A basketball buddy on the same: “Really good. A 40-foot three-pointer.”
3.) A woman from the health club on IWKYA: “Wonderful. The only book I leave out on my coffee table for visitors to pick up.”
ALL BOOKS AVAILABLE FROM THIS VERY WEB SITE.

i.
I had once remarked to Richard, a wine merchant, that he was fortunate to have a ready-made niche audience about his books. “Not so ‘niche,’” he said. Each book sold in six figures. Now he stood beside my table adding that he had landed a column in a trade magazine which gave him more readers than that. He also worked in the marathon he’d run and property he was developing in Oakland before noticing my books and sign.
He said he’d like to read one but he already had so much on his plate.
I said I understood.
Oh well, he said, and handed me two fives.
The next day he e-mailed that his wife was half-way through and enjoying “Cheesesteak.”
ii.
One woman wore a navy blue hijab above a black aba. Her face was expressionless, her eyelids low. Maybe from sub-Sahara Africa, I thought. The other woman was Caucasian. Her hijab was red. They may have been classmates or members of the same community or sect, or the second woman may have been an attendant accompanying the first, and her red hijab may have been a hoodie.
This thought was suggested after the first woman picked up a “Cheesesteak,” thumbed through it, laughing loud enough to be heard through the café, and then picked up a “Schiz,” thumbed through it, and flung it down forcefully and angrily.
“Elizabeth,” the second woman said, “the man is trying to sell his books.”
Before they left, Elizabeth set her fortunately-empty coffee cup upside down on the table.
iii.
I had known two Leons and one Venezualan and a couple financial planners but never anyone who was all three until the plump fellow in the multi-colored, horizontally-striped wool sweater slumped like he had no spine into a chair at the next table. I’d seen him around since his silver hair and been glossy black. He began the conversation by asking if I had written my books. When I said I had, he said he had written one of poetry himself.
When he picked me up “Cheesesteak,” he told me about visiting his brother in Philly who’d lived there before moving to Florida. When he picked up “Most Outrageous,” he asked if he was supposed to know who Chester the Molester was. When he picked up “The Schiz,” he asked if “Pulp Fiction” was a black comedy too.
I tried to remember “Pulp Fiction.”
“Two guys shoot these people,” he said.
“I shoot some people,” I said. “So mayber.” Then I asked if he wanted to read his poetry at the café where I run a series.
“They’re in Spanish,” he said.
“Hmmm. Might work.”
“I read once San Francisco. It brought me girlfriends. You know, poetry, Spanish, romance.”
“Pablo Neruda,” I said.
“Neruda had girlfriends all over the world. I only need one or two.”
He told me read John Grisham and David Balducci but only remainders. “I am always one behind, but I always have a new one. And if they write 30 books, att $30 each, and I pay $5, think what I can do with the money I saved. That’s the financial planning speaking.”
I told him if he brought a copy of his poetry, I would trade him.
“Okay,” he said. “I’ve been coming here from time to time for 25 years, and this is the first time I’ve talked to anyone.”

In other news…
Since I was paid partly in copies for my contribution to “Comic Aht?” I display them on my table too. A repeat customer was the first to pick one up, so I gave it to her. I’m still awaiting a reaction.
My mini-essay “Why” was declared “charming” by a reader of “FOM.”
A psychologist/friend in San Francisco wrote of “I Will Keep You Alive,” “Glows and enlightens… shining with wit, intellect, love, and insigjt.”
He has recommended it to patients.

I have a new mini-essay up at First of the Month: http://www.firstofthemonth.org/why-reason-and-revolution/
The editor added the words within the parenthesis to its title. Probably he thought they provided ideological comfort. I don’t mind.

Here’s the portion he selected as the hook:
A few years ago, a Rolls showed up three blocks from our house. It was the only one I’d seen in Berkeley in 40-years. I kept hoping someone would fire bomb it. The fucker’s license plate was MYDOCRX.
I have no problem with that either.

No sales.
I’d had high hopes for a “reunion” lunch at a deli with my former associate, our suitemate (now an ALJ), and the lawyer whose office had been next door. None, so far as I knew, had bought “I Will Keep You Alive,” so I’d stashed copies in my car trunk (four, in case someone wanted two.) Lunch was fun, lots of talk of children (theirs), other lawyers, judges, former clients, and, briefly, a digression into dementiua (parental). But a desire for Adele and my book was never expressed. (Nor was notice taken of my new cowboy boots, faux snakeskin jeans, or bling, all of which had accreted upon me since our last meeting.)
Our friend Marilyn has a term “boontz,” which covers a situation where one’s entirely self-inflated expectations have been punctured, though remaining unknown to anyone but the person affected. Anyone, I had been “boontzed,” probably in four-star fashion.
[I would add the next day I returned to the deli for take-out, and a bus boy said, “Cool bracelts, dude.” You just have to know your audience.]

In other news…
Word has reached us from Manhattan of the first Book Group to devote a meeting to IWKYA. The audience, all women, all Caucasian, all elderly, all of whom had experienced something analagous, was knocked out. They were taken by Adele and my love story, her ability to convey the intensity of her feelings with such clarity, my ability to convey my experience with such control and humor, and the symbiosis of our different voices working together.
Even if you don’t fit this demographic, the book is worth a look.

I.
“Which one’s free?”
John’d been around the café a decade. Hungarian. Tile Setter. Lived in a van, so he was entitled to his question.
“‘Best Ride’‘s $5. That’s almost free.”
I told him what it was about.
He picked up “The Schiz.” “And this one?”
“A black comedy about lawyers and doctors.”
“I like the cover.”
The Bode Broad.
“That’s nothing.” I showed him Shary Flenniken’s illo.
He gave me a twenty. I gave him change and threw in “Best Ride.”
II.
I was leaving a message on David’s voice mail when Adele called, so I cut my message short to talk to her, and David called back. I finished talking to Adele and called David. I had begun talking to him when the fellow at the next table asked if I had written all these books. I told David I had a customer and would call him back, but by that time the fellow had taken a call from a cousin which went on for 15-minutes.
“What part of New York are you from?” he asked me.
“West Philadelphia,” I said.
“I was in Philly once,” he said.
“Me too,” I said. “For 25-years.
[No, I didn’t, but I’ve just seen “Chinatown” and wanted to give myself a good line.]
Russ was 72, white-haired, plump, patterned grey sweater, bag to catch his urine below. “That’s life,” he said about the bag. He said that too about his older brother dying at 57. He’d been in Berkeley, from Yonkers, since 1970. Real estate. If he hadn’t sold the houses he’d owned in San Francisco, he’d have a penthouse on Central park West. That was life again. We agreed we liked the café before the chandeliers and with the bare brick walls.
But he bought no books.
C’est la vie.

Two swaps.
A “Cheesesteak” to a fellow in town from Modesto for a Zen book he co-edited on “loving the world as it is.” What better time for that?
And a “Schiz” to a 76-year-old retired in-house corporate writer for his first published book, a three-novella collection in development his entire adult life.

In other news…
The high was that Z (See earlier “Adventures”) finally gave me my book sale numbers.
The low was that Z gave me my book sale numbers.
The solace is that I had read that the averaged self-published book sells 250 copies and I’ve already beaten that, three-for-three.
And I’ve proved I haven’t sold out my artistic vision.

Sold an “I Will Keep You Alive.” The buyer, a late 50-ish mathematician (I told you I was big with mathematicians), had bought a book from me months ago. “Cheesesteak,” I think.

In other news…
1.) Recent words-of-mouth include (a) “Fascinating. Brutal and painful but fascinating.” [Those, for IWKYA, from a fellow I’ve known on a first-name-but-nothing-more basis since the early ‘70s]; (b) “Literally, on every page there is something I identified with.” [These, for “Cheesesteak,” from a newly connected-to, 75-year-old author from Philadelphia, which is a nice reaction, but, really, if not from him, whom?]; and (c) “Perfect… a thrill.” [This, on “What About Johnny Craig?”, from the editor of “Comic Aht,” in which it will appear next month. Stay tuned.]
2.) After a couple decades hiatus, I’d decided to resume banging my head against the wall of short story submission. I’d hold out my best unpublished (and most rejected) story and Googled a list of where to send it. Two journals found it “not right” for them within two days of each other. Not an auspicious beginning.
3.) A 76-year-old who is having his first book, a short story collection (and who is also the utterer of the butter-him-up words of 1 (a) above) was referred to me by his publisher, another frequenter of the café, for tips about promotion (“Bob knows everything). Talk about blind-leading-blind. Dogs barking up wrong trees.”Nothing works,” is the message. “All effort is futile.” “Despair, despair, despair.” “Keep your day job.”
On the other hand, as my accountant said to me almost 50-years ago, when asked if I should be shopping for savings funds with higher interests rates, “If it’s fun.” Soon after that, he became a carpenter – then moved to L.A. to write sitcoms.