Selling My Books on the Streets of Brooklyn 4/6

Rest in peace Chief Jay Strongbow, WWF fan favorite from the '60's through the 80's. Of course, being a pro wrestler, his age is a mystery. Obits list it as anywhere from 79-83. By the way, if you don't already know, he wasn't really an Indian. He was a goombah out of Jersey, real name Joe Scarpa. And contrary to popular belief, he's not related to actor Frank DeKova, who frequently played a redskin in films and on TV, most notably as the Chief of the Heckowee on the sitcom F Troop. Of course, you know how the tribe got its name. After traveling hundreds of miles, the Medicine Man looked out over the plain and said: "Where the Heckowee?" Here are those icons, Jay second.


Shocking news out of college basketball - no, not that a player has actually graduated. Isiah Thomas has been fired after three seasons as head coach at Florida International. This despite a record of 26-65. Knicks fans are stunned.
My experiment with the cover of Killing, which features the street sign of 18th Av./Cristoforo Columbo Blvd., had its first test today, and I was disappointed with the result. I set up shop outside Garibaldi Park and was virtually ignored. Fortunately, Loretta, whose family has been in Brooklyn since the 1890's, saved the day, purchasing a copy. She is half Sicilian, half Neapolitan. Her ancestors landed at Ellis Island. My mom and dad emigrated at mid century. By then, the famous landing spot had long closed. Grazie asai, Loretta, and thanks to the folks at mysurvey.com for the $20 deposit into my paypal account, which is over a hundred again. That should be enough to buy 15 copies when I need them. 17 left.
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Selling My Books on the Streets of Brooklyn 4/5

It's been another bad week for the green movement. A123 Systems, makers of batteries, has filed for bankruptcy, taking 279 billion taxpayer dollars with it. I guess it's time to fire up the government printing press once again. Hey, it's only money. And the bad news wasn't restricted to the U.S.. A fourth solar energy manufacturer has gone belly up in Germany. Drilll and frack, frack and drill - they are the only way to energy independence at present. And they would create thousands of jobs.
The floating book shop had competition today. I gazed across the street and saw Svetlana/Vivian setting up her wares in front of our apartment complex. She hawks a liquid fat burner, five bucks a can. She claims to have lost 30 pounds using it, although I don't recall her having ever been overweight. The other day she took the stand to the Sheepshead Bay train station, and sold 40. Unfortunately, today she was chased from the grounds by management, which prohibits soliciting. I'm so fortunate that Roberto, the super of the building where I set up, is in my corner. Vivian, the name she adopted for her business persona, moved to the little island between Ave Z and the service road leading to East 13th, a nice sunny spot directly across the street from me. I approached after I'd closed up shop. She asked for advice. I told her to move to the other side of the street, where significantly more people passed. She has what seems a baby bump. It's not likely a belly, given the access she has to the fat burner. I've seen her with a man who seems of Indian origin. Her mom is embarrassed that she has taken her business to the street. It doesn't surprise me. I once spotted my godmother crossing the street before she reached me and sensed she was embarrassed for me. I've sensed the same about other passersby. Some people put a lot of stock in appearances. Heck, I've questioned my sanity a thousand times since I first brought my books to the sidewalk. I recall my mom's ironic comment whenever someone, including me, did something untoward in public: Bella figura. Translation: you're making an ass of yourself. Well, I refuse to sit around and wait for readers to discover my books on the web. One day in Park Slope, Susan, a guitar teacher, stopped and mentioned that Wayne Dyer, the wildly successful self-help guru, started out selling his books from the trunk of a car. I don't hope to be as successful as that, but I do want people to read my work, and I don't see any other way to do it at present, so I'll just have to deal with the feeling of having egg on my face.
I thank the people who bought books on what was a slow business day.
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Selling My Books on the Streets of Brooklyn 4/4

It was a gorgeous day, not a cloud anywhere, the temperature mild, negating the effects of the breeze. Political Man stopped by the floating bookshop, telling me about his trip to the dentist. It wasn't long before he went into full campaign mode, telling each person passing: "Four more years, tax the rich, keep women's rights." He attracted a Russian gentleman, and they fell into a lengthy discussion which, inevitably, turned to PM's favorite subject, marijuana. PM claims legalization will lead to four billion dollars of tax revenue and solve all government shortfalls. If only. The Russian gentleman, who has never taken an illegal drug, was baffled and asked about the effects. Soon a crabby elderly woman, who has frequently told me of her hatred of Russians, joined the fray. I was getting it from three sides. Help! I wanted to shout. All I wanted to do was sell some books, hopefully one or more of mine, and there I was in the middle of a squall. I had to step away and wait until it had subsided. Oy vay!
Herbie visited and bought J S Foer's Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close, whose film adaption flopped, despite Oscar nominations. Several critics denounced it as exploitation of 9/11. 9/11 is another theme I avoid, along with slavery and the Holocaust. I walked past Ground Zero every work day for seven years, smelled the smoldering fire while working the trading floor of the Commodity Exchange for many months after the attack. I am still pissed off about it and wish every terrorist dead.
I had two unusual sales today. A large black man who usually opts for spiritual works chose Karen Harper's Dark Angel, a thriller, and an elderly female fan of fantasy and sci-fi picked a Ruth Rendell mystery whose title escapes me. And a young woman, a local home attendant with a wonderful smile, made a big score, landing Stephenie Meyer's Twilight and New Moon, which she'd had to pass on yesterday because of a lack of funds.
Susan, one of my best customers, has returned from her winter in Thailand, where her sons have settled. I wondered if she too had chosen to settle there, near her grandkids. She said she is considering it but still feels Brooklyn is home. She wasted no time, buying a collection of short stories by Margaret Atwood, Wilderness Tips. I promised to make a list of all the obscure novels I have on hand. When her husband goes book shopping for her, he selects "something that nobody else would read."
Here is my one baseball prediction for the coming season: the Yankees will make the playoffs. Oh, how I hope I'm wrong!
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Selling My Books on the Streets of Brooklyn 4/4

It was a gorgeous day, not a cloud anywhere, the temperature mild, negating the effects of the breeze. Political Man stopped by the floating bookshop, telling me about his trip to the dentist. It wasn't long before he went into full campaign mode, telling each person passing: "Four more years, tax the rich, keep women's rights." He attracted a Russian gentleman, and they fell into a lengthy discussion which, inevitably, turned to PM's favorite subject, marijuana. PM claims legalization will lead to four billion dollars of tax revenue and solve all government shortfalls. If only. The Russian gentleman, who has never taken an illegal drug, was baffled and asked about the effects. Soon a crabby elderly woman, who has frequently told me of her hatred of Russians, joined the fray. I was getting it from three sides. Help! I wanted to shout. All I wanted to do was sell some books, hopefully one or more of mine, and there I was in the middle of a squall. I had to step away and wait until it had subsided. Oy vay!
Herbie visited and bought J S Foer's Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close, whose film adaption flopped, despite Oscar nominations. Several critics denounced it as exploitation of 9/11. 9/11 is another theme I avoid, along with slavery and the Holocaust. I walked past Ground Zero every work day for seven years, smelled the smoldering fire while working the trading floor of the Commodity Exchange for many months after the attack. I am still pissed off about it and wish every terrorist dead.
I had two unusual sales today. A large black man who usually opts for spiritual works chose Karen Harper's Dark Angel, a thriller, and an elderly female fan of fantasy and sci-fi picked a Ruth Rendell mystery whose title escapes me. And a young woman, a local home attendant with a wonderful smile, made a big score, landing Stephenie Meyer's Twilight and New Moon, which she'd had to pass on yesterday because of a lack of funds.
Susan, one of my best customers, has returned from her winter in Thailand, where her sons have settled. I wondered if she too had chosen to settle there, near her grandkids. She said she is considering it but still feels Brooklyn is home. She wasted no time, buying a collection of short stories by Margaret Atwood, Wilderness Tips. I promised to make a list of all the obscure novels I have on hand. When her husband goes book shopping for her, he selects "something that nobody else would read."
Here is my one baseball prediction for the coming season: the Yankees will make the playoffs. Oh, how I hope I'm wrong!
Read Vic's stories, free: http://members.tripod.com/vic_fortezza/Literature/

Selling My Books on the Streets of Brooklyn 4/3

Last night the NYC PBS station ran back to back documentaries on literary marvels. The first was dedicated to Margaret Mitchell, author of the phenomenon Gone with the Wind (1936). Born in 1900, she was unconventional, the antithesis of the southern belle. She spent one year in college, which was notable only because she protested the presence of a black woman in one of her classes. GWTW would later be criticized for its portrayal of slaves and the KKK. Mitchell evolved later in life, donating money secretly to Morehouse College specifically to train black doctors. She also contributed to Atlanta's first hospital for blacks, also on the QT, wary of backlash.
I've never read GWTW. I've suffered at least two viewings of the film, considered by many a classic, winner of many Oscars. It bored me. Since I know the storyline and don't anticipate any of the surprises that make literature fun, I'm reluctant to give the novel a shot. Tragically, Mitchell died at 48, hit by a car while crossing the street with her husband, who was unharmed.
The second documentary also focused on a southern woman, Harper Lee, author of the ground-breaking To Kill a Mockingbird, which was published at the height of the civil rights movement, 1960. It is set in a small Alabama town similar to the one in which she was raised. I haven't read this one, either, and I've seen only parts of the film, which won Gregory Peck the Oscar for Best Actor. Horton Foote's screenplay was also honored. The work falls into a category, especially now, 50 years later, I find difficult to get excited about. Like Holocaust literature and films, it seems a stacked deck, right and wrong clearly delineated. I think gray is the most interesting area in literature and film. Reasonable people are aware of racism and don't need to be convinced of its evil. Bigots will not be swayed. Still, legions swear and are moved profoundly by it. Lee touched a chord only a fortunate few have. She had an interesting neighbor, Truman Capote, who lived a significant part of his youth with his aunt in the house next door to Lee's. They eventually had a falling out, as Capote was envious of the success of MB, which won a Pulitzer, while In Cold Blood (1966), which also still resonates, did not. Lee actually accompanied Capote to the scene of the murders and helped with his research.
Curiously, Lee and Mitchell did not publish another novel, and both were childless. According to Wiki, their books have sold at least 30 million copies each. The two best selling novels of all time are believed to be Charles Dickens' A Tale of Two Cities (1859) and Antoine de Saint-Exupary's The Little Prince (1943). Each has more than 200 million in sales.
I thank the kind folks who patronized and donated to the floating book shop today, especially Jon, who bought Killing. His novel will be out soon. I look forward to reading it.
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Selling My Books on the Streets of Brooklyn 4/2

I'm frequently fascinated by the irony that occurs in life. I, a pro-capitalism conservative, edited my friend Bob Rubenstein's The White Bridge, which is in large part an anti-capitalism screed. Now Bob, an ultra-liberal, has written a glowing review of Killing, a novel at the opposite end of the spectrum. Here it is:
I knew Dante the first moment he hugged his son but was skittish about doing it, as men often are. His son, Junior is going off to the Gulf War, and the father is choking on the inside cause he knows about combat. He knows about Nam. We are not told about the killings there. You see, that begins the beauty of Vic Fortezza's novel. Amid all the words, it is Dante's silence that holds us with a fist of menace. We know from the beginning, this man is wound too tight. He is coiled and G-d Forbid Junior does not come back home.
Yes, I know Dante. He was from the other side of the street where I grew up to be safe. I mean, being white was a blessing in our Brooklyn neighborhood. It was always harder to be Black. Dante's son knew the gang that attacked and murdered Yusef Hawkins. We expected and got only belts in the mouth, a whack in the gut, a kick in the ass. But they let us live if we obeyed the law of the streets, the territories staked out between the bowling alleys and the pizza joints.
Killing is Saturday Night Fever on steroids.
By that I mean, it has left me undone. The novel brings back a divisive time and guilt I never thought I owned. You see, I was on the other side of the street, deferred, crazy; seeing spirits, hearing voices during the hearing test. "Hell no, we won't go."
But you know, there were Dantes.Though he says stuff that is repugnant to me, he has a case. He is from the other side and hates our protest as much as we hated the war. It was a soldier's prerogative.
Tonight, I recalled a real soldier who came home from the war, as silent as Dante. He was my childhood friend. Wally came to visit me during a protest rally in Brooklyn. He said nothing, and I said nothing to him. I did not know where or what he had done in Nam. He wasn't telling and I wasn't asking. It was the last time we spoke until tonight.
As Dante tears at my heartstrings, though, I softened my position and felt profound guilt I had not known I carried from that last conversation with my childhood friend. The difference gave him the right to wear Vietnam Veteran caps and does not allow us to wear Vietnam protestor caps. It gives those like him who served the right to have fifty thousand names on the Washington wall. Not one protestor, I believe, is so honored,except in a little place likewise revered:Kent State. There was, you know, a massacre there, but the soldiers finally have the field and the final word.
Still, it is so shocking to hear them mouth their words of derision at us, but the beauty of Vic Fortezza is to make the mundane speak to us in a common voice of humanity.Husbands and wives breathe with eternal, even heroic life.
This is more than a good read. The dialogue is too real, shocking, to be a play. Look, I am not no mammaluke, no sfacheem. I don't know why this extraordinary novel has taken so long to see the light of day. But I am convinced it is so real in its dialogue that resonates such truths as to make Killing a visceral explosion.
Tonight I spoke to my childhood friend, Wally W., whom I did not talk to for fifty years and I said, "I'm sorry," for not understanding his right to be silent. Vic Fortezza has given voice to an era of silence, cowardice and heroism. His amazing gifts bring us a common humanity; the shared affective suffering of our mixed-up generation.
I thank Herbie and Mr. Almost, who braved the stiff Northeast wind to buy books today.
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Selling My Books on the Streets of Brooklyn 4/1

Our postman arrives after 4 PM. I frequently forget about it and don't pick up my mail until the next morning. Logging off the computer at 7:30 last night, I suddenly remembered and went to the lobby hoping there would be a mail order for Killing in the box. There was even better news - a letter from a TV producer interested in purchasing A Hitch in Twilight and any other stories I might have in that vein. The compensation offered was staggering. I've been writing since 1975. All those years have finally paid off. I have a meeting scheduled in midtown Manhattan tomorrow afternoon. The floating book shop's customers will have to do without me for a day. I haven't told any family members yet for fear the deal will fall through. I have no idea what to say. I'm so grateful I don't dare make any demands, even if drastic changes are proposed for the stories. Unlike my novels, which I would not want changed, I intended the stories in Hitch as sheer entertainment, diabolical fun. Wish me luck.
 
April Fools! Maybe some day.

I did have good luck today, though, selling a copy of Killing to an Italian-American woman. She laughed when I bookmarked the Glossary of Brooklyn Sicilian terms at the back of the book. "I probably won't need it," she said. Thank you, Maryann, and thanks also to my buddy Bob, who purchased Primal Fear (1996) on VHS. He can't stop talking about the last tape I sold him: David Lynch's bizarre classic Blue Velvet (1986).
Last night my lovely niece Tanya emailed me. I'd recently sent her a copy of Killing through the mail. The package arrived in Denver in a plastic bag and had a note of apology attached. It had been opened and the book had been replaced with a DVD about Korean orphans. Maybe Newman has transferred to our local post office. I've mailed out a lot of books the past few years, and this is the first time anything bad has happened. I send them Media Mail, which is the least expensive option. It has worked like a charm. I'll chalk the incident up as the cost of doing business, unless the parcel I sent to Joey Fork Tongue a few days ago suffers the same fate.
Newman!
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