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Monday, December 31, 2018

The Writer's Life 12/31 - Pot o'Gold


As the move toward the legalization of marijuana continues to pick up steam, organizations and individuals are lining up to cash in on the expected windfall. Here's a hilarious quote from today's NY Post from Stuart Appelbaum, head of The Retail, Wholesale and Department Store Union: "When people buy marijuana, I hope they look for the union label." Life never ceases to fascinate. Sounds like perfect fodder for the satirical ads SNL used to run.

It's Black Monday in the NFL, the day those coaches on thin ice who haven't been fired get the ax. The head men of the Bengals, Dolphins, Broncos, Jets, Buccaneers and Cardinals got the boot. The only surprise was the last, and a mild one at that. In his lone season at Arizona's helm, Steve Wilks' team went 3-13... To the chagrin of their haters, the Patriots clinched a first round bye yesterday. They only had to beat the Jets. They have the advantage of playing in a division in which they are rarely challenged. It won't be surprising if they make it back to the Super Bowl, to which they'd advanced each time they'd earned the bye in the Belichick era. The track record of their possible opponents, with the exception of the Ravens, is not good. Andy Reid's teams almost always fade down the stretch, and the Chiefs don't seem to be any different. Only die-hards believe the Chargers will finally rise to the occasion. The Colts are unproven, despite their impressive late season run. The Texans seem the team most likely to be routed. How refreshing that the Steelers are on the outside looking in. Experts are saying they wouldn't want to be playing Baltimore right now. We'll see. As for the NFC, I'll be surprised if the Saints don't make it to the big show, although they screwed up monumentally in last year's post season. They seem to have the most balance, both sides of the ball. The Rams' defense has been very vulnerable lately. The Eagles are not nearly as good as they were in 2017. Are the Bears ready after their terrific season? I'd be very surprised. The Cowboys have had woeful luck in the playoffs under Jason Garrett. The Seahawks continue to be a tough out despite the loss of so many stars from their back to back Super Bowl years. I don't care who wins - as long as it's not Patriots. I wouldn't bet against them.

I tallied up the floating book shop's 2018 results. For the second straight year, I sold 41 copies of my own books on the street. I sense it will be less in 2019, as it's unlikely anyone will buy all nine at once - soon ten - as Gonzo did. I'm $808 in the red on my books, but if sales of the other wares are put in the mix I'm way ahead. Even when I buy copies of Inside Out, and five of Close to the Edge, which has been sold out for months, the deficit will remain wiped out and then some. In the years I've been doing the floating book shop, I'm more than 15 grand ahead.

My thanks to the woman who bought I Heart New York, chick lit by Lindsey Kelk, the only sale on this raw day.


 

Sunday, December 30, 2018

The Writer's Life 12/30 - Surprise, Surprise

The following were gleaned from today's NY Post: President Trump has frozen the pay of federal workers. Given the deficit and debt, there should be no raises until it returns to a reasonable level, and those serving in congress should get a big reduction in pay. Of course, none of that will ever happen... I'd thought the unintended consequences of the legalization of marijuana had been fairly benign until I read about this: In Colorado, those who tested positive for pot in car crashes that resulted in fatalities rose 145% in the period from 2013-'16... From the Weird But True column: A London woman concerned about her dad's weight gave him an unusual Christmas present. Given his love of the ping-pong-ball shaped Ferrero Rocher chocolates, she used their gold wrapping to surprise him. She sure did. Inside were brussel sprouts. No word on whether she's been disinherited.


Here's an lol from an article at foxnews.com: "Organizers of a Women’s March rally slated for Northern California next month have canceled the event, saying they were concerned that participants would have been 'overwhelmingly white.'" No truth to the rumor that casting has begun for a new sitcom titled Leave It Liberals.  "Gee, dad..."


I've completed work on the first proof copy of Inside Out. I made 42 changes in its 264 pages. I converted the file from Word to PDF, which KDP prefers. As I was scanning it for line and paragraph breaks, I spotted an error. I've left the apostrophe off comin. If that's the only mistake, I'll be very happy and approve the book for publication. I've ordered the second proof copy.

My thanks to the woman who bought two books in Russian, and to the gentleman who purchased a compilation of bios entitled American Singers that features artists from the pre-rock-n-roll era.

Saturday, December 29, 2018

The Writer's Life 12/29 - Heroes & Other Folks

Yesterday the NY Post's Sara Stewart included The 15:17 to Paris on her list of the worst films of the year. And what arrived in the mail from Netflix in the afternoon? You guessed it. Well, it's always better to go into something with tempered expectations. If 15:17 is one of the worst movies, 2018 will go down as one of the best years ever for cinema. I wonder if perhaps Stewart allowed her politics to affect her judgment. Whatever. I reacted to the flick as I do to almost all of Clint Eastwood's directorial work. It's solid but does not soar. It's the story of the three young Americans who stopped a terrorist from inflicting mass casualties on a train traveling from Amsterdam to Paris. Told in non-linear form, the majority of the narrative highlights where the men's origins, their youth, which was average, normal, despite difficulties at school. I thought the scenario stayed way too long with the happenings on their European vacation. It seemed filler to pad the running time past 90 minutes. The confrontation, of course, is intense and viscerally satisfying. Eastwood boldly cast the three young men, Spencer Stone, Alek Skarlatos and Anthony Sadler, as themselves. Stewart cited this as the film's major drawback. Poppycock. I enjoyed their work, and I believe most movie fans would too. 18,000+ users at IMDb have rated it, forging to a consensus of 5.2 on a scale of ten, a bit low perhaps. It was a modest success at the box office, returning $56 million on a budget of $30 million. Dorothy Blyskal adapted the screenplay from the book co-authored by the heroes and Jeffrey E. Stone. I doubt anyone would find anything offense in the film, although there is bloodletting during the foiled attack. Here are, left to right, Skarlatos, Sadler and Stone: 

 
It was another gorgeous December day. My thanks to the woman who bought Zero Footprint: The True Story of a Private Military Contractor's Covert Assignments in Syria, Libya, And the World's Most Dangerous Places by Simon Chase and Ralph Pezzullo, and to the 71-year-old Asian gentleman who purchased a poetry collection and The Graduate by Charles Webb. Having seen the film, he was curious about the novel. Although he was born in China, his English is very good. In describing his love of printed books, he used the word "intrinsic." When I said Kindles have an impressive advantage in the user being able to enlarge the print, he said: "Why not just use a microscope?" I laughed out loud.


I also had a visit from Bad News Billy, who selected three books for his grandson, and delivered double-good tidings. He recently had a pacemaker installed and feels and looks much better, and his patent has been accepted. He has a picture on his iphone of the booklet the company created to explain his work. He came up with an idea for a device that helps roofers. May it attract a big buyer.

Friday, December 28, 2018

The Writer's Life 12/28 - Postings

There are interesting two-page spreads in today's NY Post. Christopher F. Rufo writes about the insane homeless problem in Seattle, which is spending nearly $100,000 per vagrant in its county... An article by Yoav Gonen, Cedar Attansio & Bruce Golding tackles NYC's solution to abandoned needles in Bronx parks - receptacles. Of the 66,656 discarded syringes, 7300, 11%, were put into the bins. Is anyone surprised?


There are a couple of chuckles today in Phil Mushnick's sports media column in the Post. Commenting on the sad state of college football and its see-no-evil TV coverage, he writes: "Reminds me of the news report: 'A large sinkhole formed on a Queens street today. Police are looking into it.'" And: "Three Alabama players are suspended from the Orange Bowl for 'unspecified violations of team rules.' Must be serious. My guess is that Nick Saban caught them in the library." Kudos.

Guess which ex-president's new property in DC will have a ten-foot wall around it.

Through 223 pages of the first proof of Inside Out, I've made 35 corrections. 40 pages to go.

The floating book shop was rained out today. At least it's not snow. Since I had a $50 Macy's gift card, I visited King's Plaza for the first time in more than a year. It looks good, clean. It seems the world famous store is selling only designer brands these days, which eliminated any possibility of buying sunglasses there. Like ZZ Top, I like mine cheap, and will probably get a pair at CVS or Stop n Shop. So I concentrated on need. I bought grossly overpriced underwear and a belt on sale for $22. There was two bucks left on the card, which I handed to the next person in line.

Thursday, December 27, 2018

The Writer's Life 12/27 - Short Takes

52 law enforcement officers have been shot to death in the line of duty this year, up from 46 in 2017.


CNN cited the following as a possible breech of guidelines that forbids active members of the military from participating in “political activities."


There's Carpal Tunnel Syndrome. Now there's Selfie Wrist. Let the bogus lawsuits begin.


A gentleman told me today that Will Ferrel is a son of one of the Righteous Brothers. Since I was sure I would have heard it before, I looked it up at IMDb. Lee Ferrell was actually a longtime keyboardist and saxophonist for the group. Here are father & son back in the day:


Through 187 pages of the first proof copy of Inside Out, I've made 32 corrections. Many involve paragraph breaks.

Despite the gorgeous day, business was terrible at the floating book shop. There were plenty of browsers but only one buyer. My thanks to the gentleman who purchased a DVD of Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull (2008), which I found very disappointing, by far the weakest of the four entries in the series. I wonder if my opinion would change if I gave it a second look.

Wednesday, December 26, 2018

The Writer's Life 12/26 - Face to Face

My thanks to Bek, today's sole customer, who bought three books on business.

Here's an excerpt from Rising Star, my most disappointing book in terms of sales. Although it is profitable, I was sure it would attract more readers than it has. Oh, well, c'est la vie. The clip is about a ten-minute read and involves the band's leader asking a woman to manage them:

   He was waiting in front of the theater, dressed neatly in a beige polo shirt, clean jeans and sneakers. His fingers were drumming on a manila envelope tucked to his chest. She wasn't sure it was the same guy. He was more attractive and masculine than she recalled, although still light years from star-quality lead guitarist.
   She flicked her cigarette into the street. "Sorry I'm late. I was tied up with somebody else."
   "Five minutes is not late, especially for a woman." He was surprised at her rasp, which he hadn't detected in the noise of the club. He assumed she was a heavy smoker.
   "It is for me. I hate to be late."
   "Are you okay?" He was concerned, appalled by her paleness. She'd seemed so attractive in the club, when he hadn't been wearing his glasses. Apparently, he'd overrated her appearance considerably. "You look so different than you did the other night. Would you rather meet some other time?"
   She realized she hadn't applied makeup and wanted to die. "I had so much on my mind this morning I forgot to put on my face." She tried to laugh it off, hoped she wasn't red with embarrassment.
   "As long as you're okay."
   They entered a nearby restaurant.
   "Are you sure you'll have the time to represent us?"
   "If you're good I'll find the time."
   When they'd ordered their meals, Susan excused herself.
   "I'm a chauvinist when it comes to women and makeup," said Paul, deadpan, wondering why her looks should matter to him.
   She stared, smiled, then turned away. He was relieved, having feared she would be offended. Unlike most women, she'd understood his sense of humor immediately. He moved her ashtray, as the smoke was curling toward his face. He smiled upon her return, although he was disappointed she hadn't been as attractive without makeup. Gina was beautiful without it. Bitch, he thought. Suddenly he found himself fantasizing about Susan, a prospective associate, and he admonished himself.
   "You don't talk like a native New Yorker. Where're you from?"
   "Connecticut."
   He was relieved she wasn't from the Upper West Side or another rich Manhattan enclave he considered the un-New York.
   "Is that a point against me?"
   "That remains to be seen. How old're you, if I may ask?"
   "You already have. Twenty-five. Why?"
   He checked himself, having been about to say she seemed older. "I was wonderin' how much experience you had."
   "More than three years worth, with no major successes. I've yet to run across a band with the potential for major success. Do you realize what it takes to make it in the business?"
   "We know what it's like to fail, if that's what you mean. We've been together eight years, even though we haven't had much work. We just love to play. The gigs we've had've been in dives. We made a pact last night -- one more year. And we want you to represent us."
   "To what do I owe this honor?"
   "You're the only one who's asked." He loved her quiet smile. "I have a feeling about you. I think you'd work as hard as we do. With you and John, we have a shot."
   "I have reservations. My biggest is the bassist. He has 'choke' written all over him."
   "I grew up with him and Richie, the drummer. We met Mitchell in high school. That's when we started the band."
   "Sentimentality will get you nowhere."
   "He's okay. He just needs his confidence boosted once in a while. From what I've read that's not uncommon in show business. I'll take care of that."
   "He's also married."
   "His wife's behind us a hundred-percent. She's no problem. We even practice in their garage. What else?"
   "The music. Not many clubs feature metal any more.”
   “Is that what we play?”
   “That’s how it will be perceived.”
   He shrugged. “So be it.”
   “Try getting airplay on the radio. I get a lot of work for pop-rock or alternative bands."
   "We play what we like. If we tried to do what was in, we'd be miserable, and it'd show in our performance."
   "I just want you to know what you're up against."
   "We know that already."
   The food was served. They paused to satisfy hunger.
   "About the name," said Susan, picking at her salad. "I hate it. It's so pretentious."
   Paul waited until he'd swallowed the bite he'd taken from his burger, then said: "We like it. If we're gonna make it, it won't be because of a name."
   She was surprised at his resolve, which was in stark contrast to his reticence and politeness, and at his intelligence. "You're not cooperating."
   "If you expect me to roll over and kiss up, forget it. Nobody knows the band better than I do. What we need is your know-how in gettin' dates. It's not my nature to break down doors. That's probably why we get so little work. We're as good as any band I've seen out there."
   "To tell you the truth, I think John's the spiritual leader of the group, even if you're the leader in name."
   "John's great. We'd be nowhere without him, but the band wouldn't survive without me."
   "Are you sure about that? This business -- money, has a way of alienating the best of friends."
   "Let me put it this way -- I don't mind John bein' the focal point, but any decisions are gonna be made by me and you. I'll consult the guys and you'll consult your people."
   "John'll probably outgrow you and be flooded with offers to front bands with more potential, or go solo."
   He smiled, shaking his head. "I admire your honesty, but isn't it a silly way to conduct business? I bet a lotta guys woulda walked away from you after a crack like that."
   "Then why don't you?"
   "Two reasons. One: 'cause it's true and there's nothin' I can do about it, and two: you're all we have. Even if he leaves us eventually he might get us noticed, which might make our next incarnation easier. I always had the feelin' we'd lose him as easily as we found him, anyway."
   "I have an idea for fliers and bumper stickers. Something like: 'Meet John Doe' or 'Who’s John Doe?'"
   "I like it, especially if you add: 'Follow a Rising Star.'"
   She was surprised she hadn't thought of that herself. She wondered if he would be of use after all. "That's one compromise I might be willing to make." She leaned forward and looked him in the eye. "You see, I know I'm more intelligent than ninety-nine percent of the people I meet. I graduated from Yale with honors. I don't take advice well, unless I value the person's opinion highly. I don't even know you."
   "I went to Brooklyn College. I couldn't've got into Yale with the President's recommendation. Mitchell's the intellectual of the group. He went to Brooklyn too, but don't let that fool you. I bet he's as literate as you are. Richie and Mike're blue-collar. I don't know anything about John except that he can sing and command an audience. You don't b.s.. I like that. I'll try to earn your respect."
   "Lying is beneath me." Somehow she maintained a straight face, although she was appalled at having told such a lie. She didn't understand -- how had she sunk so low?
   "I like you. You're not a nice person and you're really too full of yourself, but you say exactly what's on your mind. I'll know exactly where we stand with you."
   "Being nice will get you nowhere in this business. It's not for the timid. You have to be good and you have to work very hard and have a tough skin."
   "You can't be good and nice?"
   "You have to be so focused nothing else matters except success, and that doesn't go over too well with most people, especially girlfriends."
   "Maybe I'll be able to change your opinion on that. Anything else on your mind?"
   "Physical appearance. John's perfect and the drummer fits the image of his instrument. The bassist is hopeless, but you and the keyboardist can be reworked. You're too thin. You have to have presence to hold a live audience, to pull off a video, if you get that far. You need to build up yours."
   "Get this straight now -- no costumes, makeup, leather or spandex."
   She rolled her eyes. "That stuff's so played out. I don't want you looking like anybody else. I want a unique identity. You two should get into bodybuilding, bulk up a little, not a lot."
   "Funny you should bring that up. I was wrestlin' with my brother the other day and I realized how atta shape I was. I've been concentratin' on the band so much I've neglected myself. Have any exercise tapes I can borrow?"
   "I'm serious and you should be too."
   "You're gonna hafta get useta my sense of humor. Half the time people don't realize I'm jokin'. I was jokin' when I said you weren't a nice person."
   She looked into his eyes. "Were you?"
   "Not really." He was unable to maintain a cold stare, and chuckled. "You disarmed me. I can't remember the last time that happened. I know what you mean by buildin' up, though. It's gonna be hard to convince Mitchell. In high school he always had phony doctors' notes to get atta gym. He was too embarrassed to play sports. It's the only thing he's not good at. He throws like a girl."
   She rolled her eyes heavenward, clearly miffed. "Do the best you can. I think it's more important for you. The lead guitarist is so visible."
   "Don't underestimate Mitchell. He's the most talented of any of us by far, includin' John. And he's handsome. Nobody'll care how thin he is."
   "How many songs do you have?"
   "Fifteen."
   "You've been playing together eight years and you only have fifteen songs?"
   "We did covers exclusively for a long time. We phased 'em out one by one. I don't see the point of writin' any more right now. There's not a whole lot of incentive."
   "Good thing the great novelists didn't have that attitude."
   She was right, he knew. "By the way, I brought you a tape." He opened the manila envelope.
   "Good. If I like it I'll have copies made."
   "We're playin' a local dive tomorrow and Saturday night. We'd like you to come. I'll even have John pick you up, if you want. He lives in the city, at least I think he does. I'd come for you myself, but I have to haul the equipment."
   "Do you have any theatrics planned?"
   "Not anything more than what John comes up with, and he just improvises. I think people'd laugh us off the stage if we came out with visuals before we established ourselves."
   "Those visuals might get you noticed."
   "I won't be reluctant to add stuff if things start rollin'."
   "Okay, so I'll see you tomorrow night." She was about to rise.
   "Isn't there somethin' we're supposta do?"
   She stared, puzzled.
   "When two parties enter an agreement...."
   "There's no need to do that until substantial money is involved. A verbal agreement is good enough."
   "I thought you were against bein' nice."
   She looked into his dark eyes. "You don't trust me, is that it? You were only pretending to be nice yourself."
   He withdrew a sheet of paper from the envelope, which she scanned quickly. She was relieved to know his name and was amazed he hadn't noticed the fault. She was a little uncomfortable with her talent for deception.
   "This isn't worth the paper it's written on."
   He smiled. "Indulge me. It'll make me feel like we're takin' a big step."
   "You want me to indulge your illusions? This's a waste of time. Even legitimate contracts are these days. Lawyers can get around anything."
   "Do it for your own protection. What's to prevent us from runnin' out on you if somebody makes us a better offer."
   "Nothing. Right now I'm virtually powerless in the business." She regretted the admission. She did not know what she could have been thinking.
   "You're in the same position we are. We're all hungry. Maybe we'll go up together. If you're fair to us, we'll be fair to you. I give you my word on that."
   "That's easy when you're poor. We'll see if money starts rolling in."
   His cheerfulness fled. "The only thing that worries me about you is your cynicism. You're young, beautiful and intelligent. You shouldn't be this negative."
   She didn't like the assessment, accurate though it was. "Funny how you put youth and beauty before intelligence."
   His shoulders sagged. "We're gonna be managed by a feminist."
   "I'm beyond feminism. I don't need a group to succeed. I'll do it on my own. I'm an uber-feminist."
   He chuckled. "You have me convinced. I hope it works with people in the business."
   "Look, I've had some bands run out on me lately. Fortunately, none've made it, at least not yet. I might kill somebody if one of them did."
   "My word's good. And I'll vouch for the guys. I'll have 'em sign the thing an’ give you your copy tomorrow night."
   "Won't we need a witness?" she said ironically.
   "How 'bout the waitress?"
   "Sure. I have a soft spot for waitresses. I used to be one in college."
   The attractive young woman complied when Paul added a waiver at the bottom of the contract. She smiled. "Let me know when you're playing. I'll come see you."
   He watched her intently as she walked away.
   "What would your girlfriend say about that, man of your word?"
   His look became grave. "We broke up the other night. She's goin’ away to law school. Why'd you hafta remind me? I actually forgot it for a while."
   "Ask for her number."
   "I don't recover that fast."
   "You could've fooled me, the way you were staring at her."
   "I may be down, but I'm not dead. Besides, I'm hopin' Gina changes her mind."
   "Right -- she'll forego law school to be a rock 'n roll bride."
   The way his eyes went dead, she almost regretted the blow. She was glad to have a girlfriend out of the way. She snatched the bill, refusing even to allow him to pay his share. She cursed herself, however, for having extended appearances so far. She left a generous tip.
   "Maybe you're nicer than you think," said Paul, holding the door for her as they left.
   Her eyes constricted. "If you knew what you had to put up from customers, not to mention cooks and managers, you'd understand why you have to tip."
   "Can I give you a lift?"
   "No." She backed away. "I'm within walking distance. I have to hurry. I have another appointment."
   "Order another salad. You don't want to ruin that gorgeous figure."
   He was pleased to see her smile. "There you go. I knew you had it in you. See you tomorrow night."
   She halted, took a step toward him. "By the way, do you wear your glasses on stage? I didn't notice the other night. It doesn't jive with the metal image."
   "I don't need 'em to play. I'm gettin' contacts as soon as I can afford 'em, as soon as we're famous."
   "Get them soon. I want you to be able to see me in the audience in case I have something to tell you."
   He nodded. "I hope I didn't hurt your feelings with anything I said. I really like you. I can see you're honorable."
   "I'm loyal to people I think can earn me money. Understand that right now."
   "I wouldn't expect you to stay with us if we don't go anywhere."
   As she moved further and further from him, tears welled in her eyes. She was sure Rising Star was another dead end. Even should she manage to lure Doe away she believed she would lose him to someone with clout. She was amazed at the arrogance of so common a man as Paul. She sensed he would be extremely difficult and doubted it would be worth the effort.




Monday, December 24, 2018

The Writer's Life 12/24 - Gifts

From Foxnews.com, edited by yours truly: An Army veteran and Purple Heart recipient received a new house for Christmas that was built to accommodate his wartime injuries. Former combat medic Travis Worrell received the mortgage-free home thanks to the Tunnel to Towers Foundation, founded by Frank Siller. Worrell is a quadriplegic who was paralyzed after sustaining injuries in Afghanistan. The foundation was started after Siller's brother, Stephen, who died while trying to save others during the terror attack on 9/11. Here's a pic:


Anyone who thought the Patriots would not earn a first round bye must be mighty disappointed, as the Chiefs and Chargers did them a big favor by losing yesterday. For now, the Saints look like the class of the NFL. The biggest surprise is that the Steelers might not make the playoffs. Meanwhile, in things that really matter, former NFL linebacker, television analyst and front office exec Matt Millen has received a wonderful Christmas gift - a new heart. He is out of surgery and in recovery.


I'm about one-third through the first proof copy of Inside Out. I've found 20 errors in 110 pages.

The rain moved out by late morning, allowing the floating book shop to operate. Since it's Christmas Eve, I didn't expect much business, and that proved correct, although I was blessed with two surprises. My thanks to the gentleman who bought two books in Russian, and to the young woman who donated about 20 books in that language, almost all paperbacks; and to the woman who purchased The Jews, a novel which seems to have been forgotten. It's not listed at any of the sites I visited, hence the omission of the author's name. Special thanks to Monsie, who passed and later returned with a card for me. When I opened it later I found $20 inside. She's been a regular customer for years.  Her family has been plagued with early deaths. Here's what she wrote inside:


Sunday, December 23, 2018

The Writer's Life 12/23 - Angels & More

Angels do walk the earth. Meet the Hawthorn family of Arkansas. All the children were adopted. The seven white kids' birth parents were abusive drug addicts.


Today's NY Post is filled with interesting items. Here's a summary: 25.2% of NYC cell phone bills go to taxes... In the early '70's, NYC's middle class ($30-$60,000) comprised 61% of the population. These days it's 48%. Take a bow, politicians... A chart lists the top earners among plumbers on NYC's payroll. After OT, salaries range from $219-$315,000. And nine of ten work in NYCHA, which has gotten so much negative publicity lately for its deficiencies... I always perceived Brazil as a liberal society, so the following bit of info was shocking: Officials have granted a license to kill to marksmen assigned to patrol parts of Rio de Janeiro. They will work in pairs, one shooter, one videographer. In an effort to wipe out the rampant criminal effort, the gunmen have permission to kill any private citizen who is armed. Imagine if that were done in Chicago. Geez... Peggy Noonan devotes her op-ed piece to Winston Churchill, one of the greats of the 20th century. The quotes attributable to him are legendary. Here's another example: "The Socialism of the Christian era was based on the idea of 'All mine is yours.' The socialism of the Labour Party is based on the idea that 'All yours is mine.'"

The effect Trump has on the left never ceases to fascinate. His decision to withdraw troops from Syria and Afghanistan has turned many from doves to hawks. He is truly transformative.

Here are the hands of pro golfer Alex Noren, a practice fanatic:


For the first time in a month I took the show to Park Slope and had modest success. My thanks to the woman who bought Gerald's Game by Stephen King, and to the gentleman who purchased The Girl Who Loved Tom Gordon by Stephen King; and to the young man who bought a DVD from the Spiderman series; and to the man who sells book once a week at 6th Av. & 9th St., two blocks up from where I set up shop. He selected Brooklyn Girls by Gemma Burgess, a screenplay of John Milton's Paradise Lost by John Collier, and a work of non-fiction whose title escapes me. The main reason I went to that location was to leave behind the cache of 20 or so remaining DVD's, all copies, for anyone interested. Why take a chance on getting a ticket? More than half are chop-socky epics.

Saturday, December 22, 2018

The Writer's Life 12/22 - Psychos & A Brainy Beauty

Just a day after finishing a novel about a screenwriter's struggles, Starbucks Nation by Chris Ver Weil, I watched a movie on the same subject, Seven Psychopaths (2012), courtesy of Netflix. Since I was so taken with writer/director Martin McDonagh's In Bruges (2008), I sought out his other works. I was mildly disappointed this time, very disappointed when I watched multiple Oscar nominee Three Billboards Outside Ebbing, Missouri (2017). As the title suggests, Seven Psychopaths is one of the more violent films I've seen in a long time. It owes much to Sam Peckinpah in that respect, and to Quentin Tarantino in dialogue. Colin Farrell stars and does his typical stellar work, as do Sam Rockwell, Woody Harrelson, Christopher Walken, the ubiquitous Zeljko Ivanek, Tom Waits and the great Harry Dean Stanton in a part without dialogue. Although I was never bored during its less than two hours running time, I didn't get what it was trying to say. Apparently, most of the folks who rated it at IMDb did. 218,000+ forge to a consensus of 7.2 on a scale of ten. Since I was certain there was more to the story than what Alex in A Clockwork Orange (1971) refers to as "a bit of the
ultra-violence," I googled for interpretation and found these excerpts at moviesandmeaning.com: "... a parable that should resonate with anyone who values scriptural, fictional, and historical investigations of what violence can do to the soul, and the responsibility of storytellers to honor their power for what it is... The line between our culture’s addiction to fake-violence-as-entertainment and its addiction to real-violence-as-a-way-of-solving-problems is so blurred that it’s sometimes difficult to tell when a filmmaker is getting off on the depiction of bloodshed or posing questions about the future of the human race and life on earth." I agree with the first part of the latter statement, but don't agree that our culture is addicted to real violence as a problem solver, although there are a handful that do, which accounts for the term psychopath. Apparently, the film is for folks a lot smarter than me. The not so magnificent seven turned a modest profit at the box office, returning $19 million on a budget of $15 million. I bet word of mouth has led to a big windfall in DVD sales, rentals and streaming. Anyone squeamish about bloodletting should pass.


While researching the flick, I was intrigued by an actress with whom I was unfamiliar, Christine Marzano, who plays a hooker. She's a Brooklyn girl, a graduate of Edward R. Murrow H.S. in Midwood, and she earned a degree in psychology from Princeton. Although the name suggests the brainy beauty is of Italian descent, she has dual citizen with Ireland. Her bio cites her award winning skills as an Irish dancer. She has 14 titles under her name at IMDb. One of her summer jobs was lifeguard at Coney Island. I wonder if any males pretended to be drowning on her watch. Here's a pic:


The proof copy of Inside Out arrived yesterday evening. I already know I will be ordering a second. In the first 44 pages I found 12 errors, including two line breaks. I'm pretty sure they occurred when I reduced the font from 12 point to ten. They were too glaring to have missed.

The floating book shop did well today. Here's what sold: A book on woman's health, one on Alzheimer's; one on Israeli issues; one in Russian; Michael Crichton's Sphere; Stephen King's Eyes of the Dragon; and five DVD's. My thanks to the buyers, and to Boris, who not only bought but donated three books, two in Russian.

Friday, December 21, 2018

The Writer's Life 12/21 - Thoughts on a Rainy Day

Since the proof copy of my next book was caught in the Christmas crunch at Amazon, I needed something to read to fill time during the day. I chose Starbucks Nation, a satiric novel by Chris Ver Weil, who has experience in the film business. It is the story of a successful screenwriter who feels he is a sellout to the pop culture he deplores, and excoriates throughout the narrative. Unable to sleep, he takes a concoction recommended by a bartender, The Secret Handshake, which consists of over-the-counter remedies mixed with alcohol. He has a bizarre dream that includes the cast of a morning show, its studio audience, Starbucks, a big black hole, his mentor resurrected as a chihuahua, elves, the cast of his wife's latest sequel, and others. It lasts for most of the 241 pages. Apparently, he has lost the fast-forward button available to all who wish to screen out what one doesn't like, which, in his case, is almost everything. He's like someone on Facebook who reads every post rather than scrolling past that which might irk or infuriate. Although the prose and dialogue are solid, I found the going tedious. I do not want to stereotype as the author does, but this seems like the rant of someone, the writer himself, not the character, who is angry that he is not more successful and blames it on a society that has embraced mediocrity. Of course, there may be other reasons why Ver Wiel is so jaundiced. The protagonist mentions that his father was murdered, but never says anything beyond that. Who knows if that happened to Ver Wiel? It would certainly explain a person's anger. Starbucks Nation was published in 2008. Hopefully the author has found a measure of happiness since then. He wrote two screenplays and collaborated on two others. He also directed two full length features and has one credit as an actor. According to IMDb, his last credit came in 2001. The novel is his one and only. It is not entirely without merit. I loved this line: "...the cell phone was the twenty-first century's second hand smoke..." Fortunately, politics is only a minuscule part of the equation. Most of those comments blast "rightists": "... pretty on the outside, ugly on the inside - like the Republican Party..." Five readers have rated it at Amazon, forging to a consensus of 4.2 on a scale of five. I rate it 1.5. It is one of the most disappointing books I've ever read, especially since the author's writing is top notch.

How's this for creativity? According to the Weird But True column in today's NY Post, officials of a coal mining town came up with a solution for soot-covered snow - they had it painted white.

Three Post articles reveal interesting info. The profession with the highest rate of suicides is veterinarian. Stress over student loans and the euthanasia of animals is cited... From July 2017-'18, 180,306 folks moved out of NY. 70,000 emigrated. Since 2010, one million have moved away... According to the U.S. Chamber Institute for Legal Reform, nearly half of the world's most ridiculous lawsuits originate in NY.

The floating book shop was rained out today, but it still found some action. My thanks to Eddie, one of our co-op's stellar supers, who led me to a vacated apartment that had a cache of 29 hardcovers in excellent condition by Stephen King, and a bunch of marketable DVD's.

Thursday, December 20, 2018

The Writer's Life 12/20 - Then Again

Did the Fed make the right move in raising interest rates, which miffed President Trump? I have no idea. Time will tell. Has the President made the right call in withdrawing the 2000 troops stationed in Syria? Given what happened in Iraq, I tend to side with the critics, although I always wonder how long our commitments should last. They seem open ended, especially in Afghanistan. Then again, maybe they should be as long as terrorists insist on their lunacy.

Someone has started a gofundme campaign to build the southern border wall. I just donated $6. Critics say a wall won't do any good. Then again, it might - and if enough money is raised it will infuriate the left. In the first three days, more than $7 million is in the till. The goal is a billion.

I probably disagree on political issues with former NYC nanny-mayor Michael Bloomberg at or near 100%, but I'd never say he's dumb. His billions prove otherwise. Then again, yesterday he used private jets to bring ice from Greenland to London for a global warming art exhibit. Is that counter-intuitive, a term I'm not yet comfortable using? How many times have right wing politicians been accused of being out of touch? Geez.


According to an article in today's NY Post, the state of NY is raking in tax revenue from combative enterprises such as boxing, wrestling and MMA, the latter of which was sanctioned fairly recently. $7.6 million found its way into the coffers. Money from legalized gambling and marijuana will also feed the kitty. Prostitution shouldn't be far behind. I have no objection to any of this. My bone is with how the funds are spent, wasted. Then again, I know this is a liberal state, so it's practices simply have to be and are, grudgingly, accepted by a conservative like me.

I worked at the Commodity Exchange for nearly 25 years, 22 of those on the trading floor. Although I didn't like the job, which entailed various forms of data entry, I made a lot of friends, many of whom I'm still in contact with, mostly through Facebook. I learned a lot. It was a fantastic place for a
would-be writer, as the emotions ran the gamut of the human experience. I was let go late in 2007, as the business began converting to electronic trading. Open outcry is now history, the trading floor closed, but I still dream about it. I did last night. It involved a high volume trade by one of the more intelligent brokers in the gold market, someone whose approval I desired, especially since he believed I was slow. When I self-published Close to the Edge in 2000, several employees were impressed. From my perch at the podium, supervising Exchange employees and acting as the middle man in trade disputes, I overheard a female clerk urge him to read my book. He sniffed and said: "He's not qualified ..." I'm sure he was referring to one of the tags I used in the blurb in the original incarnation of the book: "Can a novelist do it better than psychologists?" I regretted using it and eliminated it once I transferred the book to Create Space, which is now KDP. My ambition was to be a modern Dostoevsky. Although the Russian master didn't have a degree in psychology, he had great insight into human beings. I shouldn't have let the man's opinion of my intelligence bother me, but it did and, apparently, still does. Of course, the only qualification a novelist needs is pen and paper and a reasonable grasp of grammar. I fight off the futility of the process and the feeling I sometimes get of being a complete fraud. I keep at it. Whether the body of work is worthwhile or not is up to others. It is strange how the disapproval of a person who has not read any of it can affect my frame of mind. If it were happening to someone else I'd be fascinated rather than annoyed. I suppose the dream was triggered by my anxiety about the delay in the arrival of the proof copy of my latest foray into the psyche. Ordered a week ago, it hasn't even shipped, caught in the Christmas crunch. Then again, maybe that's indicative of a robust economy, a plus for President Trump.

My thanks to the kind folks who bought books today, and to the lovely young woman who donated about ten.

Wednesday, December 19, 2018

The Writer's Life 12/19 - Even Better Than the Real thing

According to a blurb in today's NY Post, it is estimated that there are 530 scripted shows across all TV options. Remember when there were only a few channels? How many jobs has this created? Writers, actors, musicians and folks behind the camera have a lot for which to be thankful.

Here's an excerpt from an op-ed piece by Betsy McCaughey in today's Post: "In Tampa, Fla., a
short-term plan for a family of three costs $1169 a year, less than one-tenth the $12,071 sticker price of an ObamaCare plan... people who live in New York, New Jersey, California and other states dominated by Democrats can’t take advantage of these deals. Blue states are doubling down on ObamaCare, refusing to allow consumers other choices... These plans cost 80% less, on average, according to ehealthinsurance.com. Short-term plans omit maternity coverage and don’t cover
pre-existing conditions. They’re not for everyone, but for many middle-class buyers, they’re a good deal." This is tyranny. It's no surprise, as the ACA would not have passed without the tyranny of the individual mandate, which President Trump led the fight to rescind.

From the Post's website, in my own words: Even better than the real thing: A bakery employee's cunning has solved a 1989 cold case, the rape and murder of 18-year-old Amanda Stavik in the state of Washington. When the woman learned a co-worker was a suspect, she retrieved a can of Coke and a plastic cup he'd used at lunch, and gave them to the police. The recovered DNA matched that of the crime scene. Trial is scheduled for August. Kudos, madam.


My thanks to the woman who bought a packaged headset, never opened. Similar products at Amazon range from $44 - $250. She got it for five. My thanks also to the woman who purchased The Lorax by Dr. Seuss and Old Turtle by Douglas Wood, and to the young man who selected a book on coping with anxiety and a sci-fi short story collection.

Tuesday, December 18, 2018

The Writer's Life 12/18 - Penny & Co.

RIP Bronx born actress/director Penny Marshall, 75. Her dad was Italian, born Masciarelli. She is quoted as having said: "My brother and sister were much older. They were planned. I was not planned for. I was called the mistake, amongst other things." She certainly corrected it in a big way. Although she had help breaking into show business from her highly successful brother Garry, she made her own mark. She had a number of minor roles before landing 27 episodes of The Odd Couple. Soon she won the role that would make her famous, Laverne DeFazio on Laverne and Shirley, which shot 178 episodes over eight seasons, 1976-'83. And it was there that she learned the art of directing. She was at the helm of only seven big screen features, but two were huge commercial successes and one a memorable pairing of Robert DeNiro and Robin Williams. She was the first female to direct a movie that grossed more than $100 million in the USA, Big (1988), and the first with two that surpassed that figure, A League of Their Own (1992). She left her comedy comfort zone to direct the ultra serious Awakenings (1990), doing a fine job. Although she never won an Oscar or Emmy, she did win 15 other awards, several overseas. Well done, madam. (Facts from IMDb)


Each night at nine, PBS affiliate WNDT, channel 14-1 on my over the air antenna, runs European crime dramas. I've really enjoyed two Swedish productions: Beck, whose protagonist is a commissioner, an older gentleman, and which still seems to be going strong; and Johan Falk, which seems to have completed its run. The episodes run about 90 minutes and are frequently violent, which for some reason surprised me, as I think of European societies as passive in terms of law enforcement. Then again, Steig Larsson's wildly popular Millenium novels are hardly tame. Another program is Flemming, which is shot in Berlin and runs about 40 minutes. It too has ended it run. While it's interesting, it seems a bit too pat in the psychology of human beings. The central figure is an obnoxious know-it-all detective, a Freudian Sherlock Holmes, who also hosts a TV show. Oddly, I haven't been able to get into the Italian offering, Anti-Drug Squad, which seems dominated by hip young detectives. I was unfamiliar with all the players in these series, although I've since researched them and found the names of several in fare I'd seen. Although the shows are subtitled, the print is large, easy to read. English is occasionally spoken by bad guys protecting the privacy of their nefarious discussions. Although the station has been around since 1970, it periodically changed its call letters. It began its current incarnation in 2018.

It hadn't happened in a long time. For the second straight day one of my own books sold. My thanks to the young woman who bought Exchanges, and to the gentleman who purchased four DVD's; and to the lady and gentleman who each selected a thriller in Russian.

Monday, December 17, 2018

The Writer's Life 12/17 - Degrees

We all have a tendency to feel sorry for ourselves to a degree, which is often absurd in this nation of plenty. Occasionally we are brought to our senses by the story of someone who suffered real hardship. In 2006 Sergeant Jay Strobino, serving in Iraq with the 101st Airborne Division, was shot 13 times during combat. Awarded a Silver Star, he was in rehab a year. He just graduated from Middle Tennessee State U., earning a degree in Exercise Science, minoring in Biology. He was able to walk onto the stage to receive his degree, an inspiration to us all.  (From Foxnews.com, edited by yours truly).


NFL players are tough as nails, but they are not heroes to a significant degree. Last season, Eagles' starting QB Carson Wentz was injured. His backup, Nick Foles, led them to the Super Bowl, where he was the MVP. When Wentz was ready to return this year in week three, he was handed the reins. The team struggled. This week he was sidelined by a back injury, and Foles was again at the helm, facing the Rams in L.A., his team a 14-point underdog. The Eagles pulled off the upset, and the question must be asked: Are they better with Foles as the starter?... Two teams that looked like contenders seemed pretenders yesterday - the Seahawks losing to the lowly 49ers, and the Cowboys shutout, drubbed by the Colts... Only diehards thought the Giants were going to make the playoffs... As usual, the Steelers stepped up in a time of desperation. They've been a great franchise since the days of the Steel Curtain in the '70's... In the years that the Patriots have earned a first round playoff bye, they've gone to the Super Bowl. When they haven't, they have not. If the season ended today, there'd be no bye for them. Still, lesser teams - wild cards - have won the championship. 

And to a minute degree, the writer as hero. It looked like zilch for the floating book shop today, then B.S. Bob showed late in the session. I hadn't seen him in months and I wondered if he'd passed away. In his 80's, he's now hooked up to one of those oxygen feeders and, although walking under his own power, he's accompanied by an aide. He does not look well but he's still fighting. He has a meeting with someone at Netflix lined up and asked if I had anything, in case he gets lucky and lands a position as a producer, that might translate to the screen. I showed him A Hitch in Twilight, billed as 20 Tales of Warped Imagination. While he was in the bank, I recalled that I'd sold him a copy when it was published in 2009. I suggested he take Billionths of a Lifetime. Four of its 31 stories fall into the same categories as the aforementioned collection, and there are also two screenplays, a teleplay, and a one-act play. I told him to look for Hitch on his shelves. I know better than to get excited about this, as I've been down this road several times and ended up nowhere. Ditto for Bob, but we both keep at it, dreamers, not heroes like Sgt. Strobino.

Sunday, December 16, 2018

The Writer's Life 12/16 - Mystery Woman


Last night while scanning with the remote control I landed on Cinema 13, which was running Algiers (1938), starring Charles Boyer as a thief and the exquisite Hedy Lamarr as the femme fatale. It's a remake of the innovative French classic Pepe le Moko (1937). The film is best known for a quote that was not used in it: "Come with me to the Casbah." That was a product of comics lampooning Boyer, which the actor hated. According to filmsite.org, it was voiced by Pepe LePew in Looney Tunes cartoons. Anyway, the shunned woman in Algiers was played by someone unfamiliar to me, Sigrid Gurie, who was born in Brooklyn in 1911. Her family moved to Norway the next year, and there she remained until discovered by Samuel Goldwyn, who brought her to the USA in 1936. That's her in character in the above photo. She has only 14 credits under her name at IMDb, some in TV, the last in 1951. There was a big to-do when the press found out she was born in Brooklyn, not Europe. Goldwyn turned on her, which seems silly, as she was in Norway from the age of one to her mid 30's. She had a twin brother who, according to her bio, treated her cruelly. Knut Haukelid was a WWII hero of the Norwegian underground. The Heroes of Telemark (1965), starring Richard Harris, was based on his exploits, although they changed his name to Straud for the movie. Sigrid married and divorced three times. She became a talented artist. In 1969 at the age of 58, she succumbed to an embolism while living in Mexico. When her brother found out, he suffered an embolism himself, but survived and lived until 1994. There are several beautiful landscapes on her google photo page, but there was no attribution to her on any. Here's a painting that had it:


What was playing on the radio in the bagel shop? - Baby It's Cold Outside, which has recently been attacked by leftists. I chuckled. No one complained.

Fortunately, there were no parking spots available near the scaffold, which had me shunning the temptation to open the floating book shop on this rainy day. I tended to chores, read and did a crossword puzzle. I also found some old photographs that may bring smiles to the the faces of the subjects. I will post one every Thursday at Facebook for about two months.

Saturday, December 15, 2018

The Writer's Life 12/15 - States of Mind

Mental illness is a tricky subject for writers. I haven't explored it, although I've created a few characters who are nuts. In those instances, the portrayals are not defined by clinical diagnosis. Last night I watched an odd independent film, Aardvark (2017), courtesy of Netflix. It's the story of a schizophrenic, played by Zachary Quinto, Mr. Spock in the current incarnation of big screen Star Trek. He visits a new therapist who has major issues of her own, played by Jenny Slate, who has a solid career going, particularly in lending her voice to animation. Jon Hamm of Mad Men plays the protagonist's successful actor brother. Sheila Vand plays a woman attracted to the disturbed. She also is on a nice career run. Are the three supporting characters real or figments of a misfiring brain? I suspect it's the latter, although I cannot say for sure. I have no idea what the title and shots of an aardvark imply. The tone is subdued for the most part. Is it a good film? I can say only that it's different, although I'm sure most people would bail on it quickly. Fortunately, it runs less than 90 minutes. Brian Shoaf wrote the screenplay and directed it, his first full length big screen work after a couple of shorts and TV movies. I wonder if it went straight to video, as there is no listing of it at Box Office Mojo. I'm sure its production cost was minimal. 300+ users at IMDb have rated it, forging to a consensus of 4.2 on a scale of ten. My guess is that only a small fraction of movie fans would stick with it to the end. Here's a montage of the principals in character:


Life being what it is, I was not surprised when I ran into Andu on my morning walk. In his early 30's, a talented artist, he's in an epic struggle with mental health. He's on meds that limit his sleep, so he's frequently out walking in the wee hours. He was conversing with a homeless man when he spotted me. He feels a kinship with them, especially with a guy I've dubbed Ol' Smoky, whom I haven't seen in a while. Andu accompanied me even to Stop n Shop. The security guard was active, trailing someone. I'm not sure if it was Andu he was watching. We left without incident. He said that when he first arrived from communist Romania he looked at supermarkets as a wonderland. Sadly, he seems to be suffering delusions of being recruited by Navy intelligence, and of a possible affair with Taylor Swift, with whom he is in contact at Instagram. I never know how to address his flights of fancy. I know it's futile to argue with someone in his state of mind, so I accept all he says. Is that worse? Does it encourage even more delusions? All I know is that it is all very sad.

My state of mind is sound after today's session of the floating book shop, even though the mist put the kibosh on setting up on Bay Parkway. Minutes before I was going to close down, I spotted the Latino gentleman approaching on his bike. He bought nine more DVD's and, as usual, paid much more than I asked. Gracias, amigo. My thanks also to the woman who purchased three thrillers in Russian, and to the young man who selected an entry in the Chicken Soup for the Soul series.

Friday, December 14, 2018

The Writer's Life 12/14 - A Passing, An Arrival & A Panacea


RIP Nancy Wilson, 81, consummate artist, personification of class and dignity.  Her career spanned more than five decades, from the mid 1950's to the early 2010's. Although her singles did not chart very high, she won three Grammys, recorded more than 70 albums, and played concerts around the world. She also acted. There are 19 titles under her name at IMDb. She is a member of  the Big Band and Jazz Hall of Fame, and the International Civil Rights Walk of Fame. My favorite track of hers is the gut-wrenching I Can't Make You Love Me, composed by Mike Reid and Allen Shamblin, a hit for Bonnie Raitt. She had a regal presence but came off as completely down to earth. Kudos, madam. Thank you.

Look who dropped in to the California Academy of Sciences:


From Yahoo's Odd News, edited by yours truly: Once a month for the last decade, Pepe Casanas, a 78-year-old Cuban farmer, has hunted down a scorpion with which to sting himself, believing its venom wards off the pain of rheumatism. Researchers believe the stuff does have anti-inflammatory and pain relief properties, and may even be able to delay tumor growth in some cancer patients. A pharmaceutical firm has been using it to manufacture the homeopathic medicine Vidatox. The company sends out workers to capture the critters. It has 6000 at its lab. Once a month they're hit with an 18V electrical jolt that triggers the release of a few drops of venom. In Cuba, a vial costs under a dollar. On the black market abroad it can cost a hundred times that. Retailers at Amazon are selling it for up to $140.


My thanks to the sweet elderly woman who donated a book in Russian, and to Barry, who donated two works of non-fiction on NYC gangsters, one of which, 

Gangster City: The History of the New York Underworld 1900-1935 by Patrick Downey, was scooped up by Candy. Thanks also to the old-timer who selected two thrillers in Russian, and to the woman who chose My Last Breath by radical Mexican filmmaker Luis Bunuel and Book of Angels by Sylvia Browne; and to the gentleman who bought two DVD's.

Thursday, December 13, 2018

The Writer's Life 12/13 - Old & Young

From foxnews.com, edited by yours truly: Irene O’Shea celebrated her 102nd birthday by becoming the oldest person ever to skydive. The stunt raised money for Lou Gehrig’s disease, which took her daughter’s life years ago. Kudos. Here's the intrepid Aussie:


Also from fnc, edited by yt: Caroline and Isabel Bercaw started Da Bomb Bath Fizzers in their parents’ kitchen when they were 10 and 11 years old respectively. Six years later the products can be found in over 15,000 stores nationwide. They are packed mixtures of dry ingredients that bubble and hiss when wet, used to add oils, bubbles, scent or colors to bathwater. Da Bomb had more than $10 million in revenue in 2017 and is expected to hit $20 million this year. Caroline said: "... we wanted to make our own because a lot of times it would stain the tub.” All together: "Now why didn't I think of that?"


I thought getting a book to market this year would be easier than in the past, as everything in the manuscript file seemed in order. Amazon suggests that it be converted to PDF, which is more compatible with their printer. Fortunately, there are sites that allow one to do it for free, and its simple. I us ilovepdf.com. I also add page numbers there, as it is so easy compared to the process in Word. One aspect worried me this time. Amazon's requirements seem stricter than in the past. For some reason, ilovepdf.com places the page number way at the bottom. In the past it wasn't a problem. This year Amazon wouldn't accept the file because the numbers were deemed outside the margin, which meant I had to wrestle with doing the task in Word. I cursed up a storm during the first fall before my morning walk, and the second after I'd read the newspaper. I was so juiced I knew playing the guitar was out of the question this day. After a break, I went back at it. I divided the manuscript into two sections, hoping I'd be able to begin the numbering at the start of the second. It worked to a degree. The numbering would not start with page one. No matter what I did I couldn't make it work. By some fluke, I inadvertently divided the file into three sections - I don't even know how - and that did the trick. To illustrate how silly the Word system is - the first section was three pages, the second one, the third about 260. I've ordered the first proof copy. Now I'll have to guard against mucking up the page numbers if corrections are needed. I'm sure they will be. I don't understand why the eggheads at Microsoft don't look into the PDF method.

My mood really lifted after that, so much so that I decided to open the floating book shop despite the cold and drizzle, the latter of which was kept out by the scaffold. I was hoping to snag someone interested in books in Russian or the impressive inventory of DVD's. None of those sold, but several books did. My thanks to Ira, who bought two Time-Life instructionals on Kitchens and Bathrooms; and to Barry, who purchased Imperial Ambitions: Conversations on the Post-9/11 World by Noam Chomsky & David Barsamian; and to Maria, who selected A Cedar Cove Christmas by Debbie Macomber; and to the young man who settled his tab.