Selling My Books on the Streets of Brooklyn 7/7

I was hoping 7/7/11 would prove lucky for the floating bookshop, but that was not the case, although I did sell Titania's Magical Compendium, a large, beautiful coffee table book that details and illustrates spells and rituals for those who wish to improve a love life. Thanks to the lovely young Asian woman who bought it.
It was hot out there today. Yesterday it was only humid with plenty of cloud cover and a nice breeze to negate the heat. I stayed in the shade the entire shift. My friend Bob has asked me a couple of times what I think about out there. "Pleasant thoughts," I say. Now that 99% of the writing I'll ever do is done, I don't think about it much. When I first began in 1975, it would not have been an exaggeration to say I thought of it every waking minute. As the years progressed I gained greater control of it and thought of it only occasionally while away from my desk. So I have to ponder other things to while away a slow shift. I often quip that the second best thing about being out there is girl watching, especially in summer when dress is more revealing and colorful. If I see a goth or punked-out girl, I sing an Iggy Pop lyric to myself: "I love you, Tuff Baby." When I see a teenager arguing with her mom in a foreign language, I'm reminded of Tom Petty's: "She was an American girl."
There's a nice Russian fellow, whose name I don't know, who lives in my building and greets me enthusiastically every time he passes. Sometimes he stops to chat. Today he warned of thunderstorms after six. "Who cares," he said - "I'll be drunk by then."
Rest in peace NFL Hall of Famer John Mackey, 69. He was the first modern tight end. He would latch onto a pass from Baltimore Colts great Johnny Unitas and literally run over the opposition. He succumbed to the effects of dementia. Pro football is a lucrative profession, but a hard one. I remember how devastated I was when I was cut from my college team in the spring of my freshman year. It may have been one of the best things that ever happened to me. It saved me from a lot of blows to the head. I suffered plenty outside of football and sometimes worry they will catch up with me, especially given what my mom went through the last 16 years of her life. I think about that sometimes, too, while operating the floating bookshop.
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Selling My Books on the Streets of Brooklyn 7/6

Thanks to my buddy Herbie, who purchased Barbara Taylor Bradford's Being Elizabeth. I had the feeling he wasn't really interested in the novel. I think he was simply doing a mitzvah.
I was just listening to conservative talk show host Steve Malzberg, heard in NYC on WOR weekdays between four and six. As if customers of the airlines don't have enough to worry about - intelligence has discovered that the enemy is working on ways of surgically implanting bombs into terrorists. Everyone may now have to go through the x-ray machines. Let's hope the devices are detectable.
So what are we to make of the Casey Anthony trial? I did not follow it closely. I have low tolerance for sordidness that is real. I'm perfectly willing to accept what juries decide in such cases. Civil matters are another story. I think the payouts are insane, particularly in states such as New York that allow additional payment for pain and suffering. Anyway, anyone who commented to me on the matter seemed convinced of the mother's guilt, as did the hosts on WOR. Of course, it is perfectly conceivable that little Caylee was killed accidentally - but why the cover-up? I have no expertise in law - one does not earn a degree by watching Law and Order - but why wasn't there a conspiracy charge of some sort? It certainly seems someone was guilty of something. I don't fault the jury. The easiest thing the members could have done was render a verdict of guilty. Maybe the prosecution over-reached. Who knows? I wasn't that surprised, given the O.J. decision. I remember standing at the podium of the Gold Futures market that day in October 1995. We were located at 4 World Trade Center then. It was less than two years after the first terrorist attack on the place. Trading on the entire floor came to a virtual halt as we waited for the news to hit the screens. I was stunned.
Now, I suppose, there will come the inevitable cashing in on the event, that unfortunate aspect of a free society. How long will it be before there is a Casey Anthony "tell-all" on the market? Meanwhile, a beautiful little girl is dead. What a sin.
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Selling My Books on the Streets of Brooklyn 7/5

I didn't make much money selling books today, but Bob Rubenstein, author of Ghost Runners, paid me for editing his second novel, The White Bridge, although I haven't finished working on it yet. I didn't want to accept the money. I only wanted to be paid if he believed I helped him, even though it's been a lot of work. I consider it an exercise. Who knows, I may have to work on a publisher's proof of one of my novels some day, so I may as well stay sharp. It's a first draft. Few authors get it right the initial time through. I usually do five drafts and any number of proofs until I think a work is ready. It's a madman's endeavor. The first draft, which is 100% creation, is the most fun, of course. Thereon, the ratio of creation to work begins to reverse until the process becomes tedious.
Without giving too much away, Bob's book is historical fiction about dark secrets from America and Britain's past, pre-WWII. Familiar names such as Margaret Sanger, Al Capone, Carl Sandburg and Groucho Marx figure prominently. The novel has required so much work that I haven't been able to enjoy it. I've been doing five pages at a time, correcting grammatical errors, improving the prose, and making things clearer. Bob has a tendency to get ahead of himself. I'm trying to get him to slow down, which is not easy. Having begun his literary career so late in life - he's about 65 - he feels pressed for time. I hope I will be of help. Only one thing worries me - if I really knew what I was doing, I'd be a lot further along in my own "career." To bolster my confidence, Bob picked up a copy of Adjustments, opened it at random, and started reading, praising the writing. Fortunately, it sounded competent. Thanks, my friend.
And thanks to the nice lady who purchased The Encyclopedia of Art, Volume One.
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Selling My Books on the Streets of Brooklyn 7/4

The master plan produced paltry results today. Early this morning I drove my car to the Sheepshead Bay promenade, hoping to find a favorable parking spot for when I'd set up shop at mid-day. I did, right under a short tree in full bloom. I stood in the shade the entire shift, enjoying the breeze blowing off the water, where jet-skiers frolicked. Unfortunately, I had only one buyer, a gentleman who took Sara Conway's Murder on Good Friday (2001), set in the 13th century, and Charles Todd's A Matter of Justice (2008), set in the early 1900's. Thanks, sir.
I am amazed at how much quieter it is on the 4th of July compared to when I was growing up. Cops started cracking down at least a couple of decades ago. They put the kibosh on John Gotti's annual bash in Queens, and the crackdown seemed to spread from there. Most of us bought fireworks when we were kids. A Mat, 80 packs of firecrackers, 20 to a pack, was the most popular item. Others were Jap Rockets, Pin Wheels, Aerial Bombs, Cherry Bombs and Ash Cans, which somewhere along the line came to be known as M-80's. My favorite was the Silver Jet, which took off from the ground and soared high into the air, leaving a wake similar to a common fireworks display. Nicky Fasano, a Master Sergeant in the Army, stationed at nearby Fort Hamilton, would organize a Big Shoot, wherein we'd set off packs of firecrackers consecutively for as long as possible. The people one block up, "the other Bay 37th," between 86th Street and Benson Avenue, did us one better, throwing entire Mats into a burning barrel. Some of our neighbors hated the racket, which would go on until ten-eleven PM. They would arrange their vacations for that week or go away for the day. Now all of that has been replaced by the Macy's fireworks show, and others. Coney Island has resumed a weekly summer display every Friday night. I can hear it from my apartment. I'll never forget the sight in the 50's and early 60's of crowds lined up all along the corners of Bath Avenue, gazing toward the famed amusement area a mile-and-a-half away, marveling at the colors that filled the sky. That view was lost to a building boom that brought high-rise apartments to the neighborhood. It was something to see. Brooklyn was a helluva place to grow up. We were lower middle class stock, but privileged.
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Selling My Books on the Streets of Brooklyn 7/3

"We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness."

Enjoy the holiday that so many have given their lives to preserve.

Selling My Books on the Streets of Brooklyn 7/2

I had a nice surprise today. Now that temperature becomes a problem for the floating bookshop, I seek places where there is shade. Today I set up on Bay Parkway and 85th, as I did last Saturday and most Sundays, but further down so that I can stand under a big tree. Of course, this eliminates one problem but introduces another - the potential to get hit with bird poop. Fortunately, that didn't happen today. The surprise was Jack, an employee of Chase bank, who purchased eight books last week, buying five more. Moments later a pregnant woman with three kids in tow, each sucking on a colorful Slurpy, bought two Nora Roberts novels. And soon Joanne showed up with another large donation, both hard and soft cover. Thanks, folks.
My buddy, Bags, has gone on a much needed extended vacation. Before he left, he loaned me a couple of discs of the Rawhide TV series, which ran from '59-'66 on CBS. It has two huge claims to fame: Clint Eastwood as a regular and a fabulous theme song, music by Dimitri Tiomkin, lyrics by Ned Washington, rousing vocal by Frankie Laine. Of course, it has been playing in my head constantly. Bags even had his elementary school students singing it on a field trip.
Frankie Laine, an underrated singer, is a paisan, real name Lo Vecchio. He specialized in movie themes. The one I remember most is the comic Blazing Saddles. Ned Washington is in the Songwriters Hall of Fame. He wrote When You Wish Upon a Star (Pinocchio, 1940), Do Not Forsake Me, Oh, My Darlin' (High Noon, 1952), and Town Without Pity (1961). All were done with Tiomkin, a Hollywood legend. In addition to these and many others, Washington wrote the lyrics to Hoagy Carmichael's beautiful The Nearness of You (1938), which Nora Jones covered so touchingly on her monster debut album, and which brings a glaze to my eyes whenever I hear it. What a legacy. I've always maintained that lyric writing is harder than prose, either fiction or non-fiction. I am amazed at what Cole Porter, Ira Gershwin, Johnny Mercer, Ned Washington and others can accomplish in three minutes.
"Ride 'em in - Rawhide!"
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Selling My Books on the Streets of Brooklyn 7/1

I didn't do much business today, but at least I walked away with something. Thanks to the Russian woman who purchased a Barbara Taylor Bradford novel and the woman who bought some children's books, and the guy who went on for a half hour on religion. Born in Israel, his family came to America when he was five. He now repudiates (he used much stronger terms) Judaism and follows a faith he claims to have learned directly from its founder, with whom he spent a summer. It blends the elements of all the major religions and does not hold any one above another. The guy is either a genius or one skilled B.S. artist. He asked several times if I understood what he was saying. "Vaguely," I said, which is more than I understood what he has told me in the past about the printing technique or language he has developed on the computer, which he has had copyrighted.
I caught up to The Social Network (2010), courtesy of Netflix. When I first heard of it, I wondered how in the world it would measure up to the praise which had been heaped on it. The story of the founding of Facebook, which I love, just didn't sound that interesting, especially coming from screenwriter Aaron Sorkin, whose works often have an extreme liberal bias (A Few Good Men {1992}, The West Wing). Fortunately, party politics and leftists teaching points were completely absent from the scenario. It concentrated on the characters in dispute over who deserved credit and compensation for the idea. Its rapid fire dialogue was reminiscent of the Hollywood screwball comedies of the 30's and 40's, although the humor was far subtler. Its two-hours moved swiftly, the action alternating between the founding years and a hearing in the present to determine the winners and losers. Jesse Eisenberg as Mark Zuckerberg, an obnoxious genius, and Andrew Garfield, as his only friend, were excellent, as was Justin Timberlake as the outrageous hustler who founded Napster and contributed largely to the popularization of Facebook. Rooney Mara shines in a small role as a wonderful girl Zuckerberg loses. Grand-daughter of the owner of The New York Giants, she will be the lead in the forthcoming American version of The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo. It will be interesting to see how she compares to the powerhouse performance of Noomi Repace of the Swedish version. David Fincher will direct, as he did The Social Network. He has a good track record: Se7en (1995), The Fight Club (1999) and The Curious Case of Benjamin Button (2008) among others. On a scale of five, I rate The Social Network three-and-a-half.
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