The other day our Super, Lou - he of the strong grip and father of four sons - rang my bell and handed me two books, James Patterson's Lifeguard and a hardcover novel in Russian that has a beautiful girl holding a revolver on its black cover. The shot reminds me of a publicity still of Sean Connery from the '60's, at the height of his James Bond run. No doubt it is some sort of gangster epic. I sold it today to a Russian gentleman who was surprised I asked only two bucks for it. Spasiba, sir.
I also had what will probably be my final meeting with the made man. I returned the treatment and expressed my regrets at not having been of help. He is pissed at the actor in question, who refused a sit down for the signing of a confidentiality agreement, and threatens harm if the idea should be stolen. "These guys have no idea what I'm capable of," he told me. Granted, it is a million dollar story, but so much his own that no one would ever get away with stealing it - at least not without serious financial consequences. It is copy-writed. He claims to have four publishers lined up to bid on the book, which looks like it will be 1500 pages. He is still filling audio tapes with his exploits, which his writer transcribes to paper. He thanked me for my efforts, and we shook hands and parted. I will keep an ear open, but I just don't have the juice to support such a project. Good luck, MM.
It's Lincoln's birthday, and I have this silly refrain in my head that the girls on my block used to chant while skipping rope:
Lincoln, Lincoln, I been thinkin'
What's that stuff you been drinkin'
Looks like water, smells like wine
Oh my gosh it's turpentine!
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