No sales.
The check from Massachusetts for “Best Ride” did not arrive.
The son of the West Catholic alum did not return to the café.
The camp/high school-connected fellow did not write or call.
But I received a “Thank you” e-mail from the West Philly photographer to whom I’d sent a “Cheesesteak.”

In other news…
When Adele’s brother called, I told him we would self-publish “Heart.” “Spruce Hill Press.”
“Moose Hill?” he said.
“Not ‘Moose Hill.’” I said. “Spruce Hill.”
“Goose Hill?” he said.
“Not ‘Goose Hill.’” He was on speaker phone and Adele was in hysterics. “Spruce Hill.”
I figure our list has not yet made us a household name, like Random House.

Reading three at the Vanne Café seemed, by most measures, a success.
When Adele and I arrived, four customers were on site. Three departed before the event began; one stayed – and fell asleep.
The reading drew a couple dozen people, not counting the late arrival wrapped in a parka, carrying his possessions in a giant Target plastic bag and a carton previously used to ship raspberries, who commandeered a back sofa for himself. Two attendees were café regulars, who’d been to both previous readings; a woman, who’d come to mine, returned with two freinds; one of the readers drew five friends and/or relatives; and the other the rest. The mike was again a problem for we are mechanically challenged to begin with, but the hook-up for viewing illustrations on the café’s flat screen wall TV was a success. Both readers sold copies of their books; the pricey beer and wine moved; and the barrista’s tips were ample.
I guess the sexual content of the readings raised eyebrows – particularly on the adult daughters of Reader One – but I heard plenty laughs and saw many smiles. If I’ve learned one thing from these readings, including my own, it is that writers seem to think more highly of their words than do those hearing them. Audience attention spans are limitied. Less is more.
My co-promoter suggests we have a pianist lightly cue people when to leave the stage.

No sales but…
A reader in Massachusetts writes that he liked “Cheesesteak” so much he is ready to buy a “Best Ride.” To whom should he write his check? (Answer: “Bob Levin” or “Spruce Hill Press” will do.)
And the fellow in Philly, linked to me through high school and summer camp (See: “Adventures in Marketing” supra) was so pleased by the “Cheesesteak” I sent him, he offered to pay for it. I declined, but added, “However, if you care to send a present to friends…”
Finally, just as I was leaving the café yesterday, a guy in his 40s came by my table and picked up a “Cheesesteak.”.
“Are you from Philadelphia?” I said.
Until he was 10. Then his family moved to Ocean City. His father went to West Catholic and his mother to Hallahan.
“You’re a little young,” I said, “but they’ll love it.
He promised he’d be back to buy one.

In other news, the editor in NYC who’d had “Heart,” Adele’s and my jointly written account (care giver and patient) of our adventures in cardiovascular-land, concluded “the close details of event, diagnosis, cure and treatment… didn’t leave enough room for readers to put themselves inside the story.” Her reaction to content was refreshing, since we’d grown accustomed to simply being rejected for our lack of a sufficient “platform. But since the last editor to read the m.s. had felt anything outside the medical detracted from our core story, we didn’t feel helped appreciably.
We will self-publish.

Sold one Schiz.
The buyer was a middle-aged, keeps-to-himself-at-the-cafe mathematician. He said he’d bought a Cheesesteak, but, to tell you the truth, I’d forgotten. I’m still not sure I believe him. Maybe he wanted a cover story to justify picking up something as trigger-jerking as this one. Or maybe I’ve benefited from my recent goodwill networking.
Safeway, next door, is coming to the end of its annual Monopoly game, and, instead of sticking to its one-ticket-per-$10-purchase policy, is handing out entire boxes. Many of these tickets come with tabs entitling the bearer to free (donuts, gravy mix, bottled water, aspirin) or discounted (bacon, paper towels, cookies) stuff, and I’ve been handing them out like Johnny Appleseed. (The game, itself, has prizes up to $1 million. Adele and I, after putting in about, oh, 50 hours, have won $5.)
Actually, my books have been moving so slowly, I’ve taken a more aggressive approach at expanding my name-recognition. For instance, a fellow in Philly e-mailed me because he’d read my blog “Notes on Camp,” from 2014 and was now the director of the one which had taken over mine 60 years ago (He’d also graduated my high school 28 years after me) and wanted to learn more about me. So I sent him a Cheesesteak, fantasizing about the legions of ex-campers he might tout it to.
Then a friend sent me notice of an exhibit of photographs of historic West Philadelphia at a gallery at 40th and Walnut, a half-block from an apartment he and I’d shared 1964-5. I e-mailed the photographer offering a Cheesesteak, imagining he might want to incorporate a stack of them as an installation and/or sell them on consignment at the gift shop. He ignored me, but I sent him a copy anyway.
Stay tuned.

No sales.
No conversations.
No remarks.

In other news…
1.) Word has reached me that a review of “The Schiz” – its first – is in the works. The prospective reviewer, an on-line pal since glory days of the nail-the-butchered-corpse-to-the-wall
TCJ Message Board, knows large chunks of my oeuvre, so his take should be fun. He promises a “Levin-style… digressing all over the maps (and sometimes uncharted waters)…” Stay tuned.
2.) The second monthly reading at the café suffered a 40% drop in attendance (25 to 15), but a good time was had by all. (Our audiences still seem composed of friends of the readers, and these two shared an overlapping pool.) The average age of the assembled was about 75 and the average complexion white. Gender was split.
One woman read from novels she’d written based on time spent living in England and on time spent sailing the South Pacific. The other read about the two years she spent living and working in a Kentucky mining town, with dialogue rendered in dialect and snatches of Appalachian folk songs a capella.
The generally expressed feeling was “What a good idea!” One veteran of the ‘60s Village Folk scene thanked me for restoring a sense of “Bohemia” to the place – a term I hadn’t heard in conversation in a while.
My main thought was, There sure are a lot of deep and interesting people at this little cafe.

Sold two “Cheesesteaks,” one old, one new.
The first, the old, went to a 30-something hard-hatted construction worker from the block-wide, seven-story building UC is putting up across the street from the café. He’d checked me out a couple weeks ago and said he’d be back when he had cash on him. A man of his word. The second book, the new, went to a smiling, white-haired woman, in an unbuttoned orange shirt over a white-tee, who’d stopped by the café while visiting a friend who’d recently moved into the neighborhood.
That was the second day I’d had both “Cheesesteaks” on my table. I’d also added little, propped-up, hand-written price tags by each book to alert passers-by that this was a commercial operation, not just an art installation – and a modestly scaled one.